Friday, October 19, 2012

Final rewrite and first two chapters of JUDAS

It's been a while since I've written and during this time, I was finally able to finish the last rewrite on my manuscript, JUDAS. So, may I present:


 

Judas

 

Chandra Montemayor-Garza
 
 
 

 

 
 

 

“Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul.”

-W. E. Henley, from INVICTUS

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Prologue

 

   It’s getting harder to breathe now.

   My lungs burn like they are embedded in a vat of smoldering hot coals. My lids are like shutters, heavy and pulling down over my eyes. All around the winds begin to grow still and I know they grow still for me.

   As my heart begins to stutter, I think of the innards of a clock and how each and every lever and wheel works in synchronization to move the hands around and around until the batteries finally fail and it comes to a grinding halt.

   Each of my organs is like the innards of a clock; each means something to the others and as the battery inside my body loses steam, the others begin to jump ship and I know that soon, it will all be over.

   Across the way, a pair of stark blue eyes gazes at me unseeing and I smile as my heart begins its descent into the strangely alluring abyss of blackness.

   I promised I wouldn’t leave her…I’m keeping that promise.

 

  



Forward

 

   I watched the sun dance off the delicate strands of Shanda's hair as she stood with the driver's side door open to her red Toyota Camry. I thought to myself how much it reminded me of sunshine; how each strand shined gold on any given day no matter how opaque or luminous the skies. Her cobalt blue eyes sparkled, her teeth gleamed bright and her small nose wrinkled as she squinted away the light.

   “See you tomorrow, Sally,” she said.

   “Of course you will.”

   I waved goodbye and waited for the bus at the entrance to our school.

 

   Thunder tore through the sky and woke me out of a deep sleep. I was dreaming of my mother again. It had been so long since I'd dreamed of her—so young and vibrant—I knew something was wrong. Momma only visits me when a significant change is forthcoming; a change that usually brings with it pain.

   Lightening pierced the darkness and lit up my entire room. My chest heaved and goose bumps broke over my skin. Behind the eyelet curtains, perched on a branch of the old pine tree just beyond my window, was a crow. I watched its silhouette in the dark and then its eyes when lightening flashed again. They were tiny golden orbs in a small, intelligent face. Those eyes spoke to me; sent shivers down my spine.

   A change is on its way, they said.

   Suddenly, my blood went cold.

 

 

  

One

Day 1:

   The morning was what one might expect of a town that borders the Smoky Mountains in March; cold and wet, though it isn’t the reality of our climate. I find that most believe in winter’s icy touch the closer you live to a crag. The temperatures dropped significantly over night and when I headed out of our old farm house and stepped into the frigid air, my breath was clearly visible in the misty puffs that escaped my mouth. I blew out a lungful of air, played with my lips to try and coax the mist into shapes it was too stubborn to form as I waited for the bus to take me to school.

   A sound broke through the eerie morning chill. It came from the trees just above my head. I followed it to a branch on one of many cottonwoods that filled our farm. Two jeweled eyes peered through the new, sprouting leaves. The familiar gaze was too clever, too aware to be ordinary.

   My skin pimpled.

   If I'd been raised in a world where everything was blissfully normal, the crow might not be so frightening. But, for me, the truth always lay in the multifaceted world of the abnormal.

   The bus pulled up the road and I ran toward it, avoiding the warning that the bird's presence offered.

   Every seat on the yellow school bus is green and torn. Most of the Willow Creek population is made up of families that can afford to buy their children a way to get to and from school so there's no need to spend tax dollars on a new bus or to fix the seats of the old ones.

   My father isn't one of those people.

   Our farm sits on the outskirts of Willow Creek. We come from a long line of farmers and ranchers who lived and died on our North Carolina land. Our farm was once a thriving business with cattle, horses and sheep that, at one time, roamed twelve hundred acres. My grandfather took over after his father died and taught his children how to tend to the barn animals and mend broken fences; how to use their hands to earn what they needed.

   Granddaddy passed six years ago. He left the land to my Nana who then left it to their children. My father, Caleb, took over after she died and all that was left were about two hundred acres of unused land with one broken down old horse, two cows and a handful of chickens.

   We barely made ends meet.

   The bus driver pulled to a stop at the Johnson farm. Nadine Johnson boarded, looked around at all the empty seats. Her eyes meet mine for a moment before she quickly looked away and took the very first seat in front.

   I chuckled quietly to myself, shaking my head, and gazed out the small square window. The crow was still there, watching, flying along the tree line, keeping pace with the bus. I smiled wanly, frustrated. Nadine Johnson wasn't the only one who avoided eye contact. And she was one of the many that used to sing that wretched nursery rhyme when we were children.

   The song goes like this:

Sally Sue Judas prances around town/

Up the street and down the street in her ugly nightgown/

She wraps upon the table and stares up at the clock/

And deals the devil a dollar to rest her head upon.

 

   Everyone knew the rhyme and every day of elementary school was torture. The indecency of the other children came from their parents. Hate breeds hate, simple as that.

   The entire town of Willow Creek thinks there is something different about me. They don't know how right they are.

   Begrudgingly, I turned to the crow again, my eyes narrowed into slits. It is his fault I'm a freak and an outcast and that my life isn’t blissfully normal. I turned and frowned at the fading hunter green vinyl of the empty seat ahead.

   The black-winged aviator wasn't the entire reason people avoided me. He wasn't the only reason people tried not to bump me in the halls or why some were brave enough to taunt me with that despicable rhyme or appalling names. But, if I allowed myself to accept the true reason behind it all, I'd have to accept that in the eyes of many the town’s folk, my grandmother was a witch.

   Of course nothing is ever really that simple.

   During World War II and before heading off to Germany, my grandfather was stationed in Pierre, South Dakota. There, he befriended a man by the name of Jesse Running Bull who came from the Lower Brulé Sioux Reservation. Jesse and my grandfather considered each other brothers and on their first leave he invited him to the reservation to meet his family. That is where he met a beautiful young girl with bronze skin and raven hair named Wakanda Black Elk. He used to say that he took one look at her and he was done. They spent the entire week together. He promised he'd come back from the war and marry her.

   He did.

   What Nana brought to the farm was her pension for healing. Wakanda wasn't a name given to her by accident. On the day she was born, the skies opened up and let down the rain after a long and difficult drought. The moniker means 'one who possesses magic'. And she did.

   But, no matter what she did for the people of Willow Creek, nothing protected her from malicious gossip and ridiculous rumors—the worst being that she used sacrificial animals in her healing rituals.

   Though I hated to admit it, her legend earned me a place on the unwanted list. And though I wanted to blame the whole of their hate on the crow, I couldn't. He was something they knew nothing about.

   The doors squeaked open when the bus came to a stop. I waited for the other three students that boarded after Nadine to get off before I made my exit.

   Just like every other day, I waited at the mouth of the entrance to the school for Shanda.

    My friend is this:

   Once upon a time, there was a family from Georgia who moved into our divided little town. They bore children and raised them to be good people. They had a son, John and a daughter, Shanda. Their son grew up and headed off to the West Coast to attend college.

   Their daughter was some years younger than the boy. She was the girl with golden hair and eyes as deep blue as sapphires. She loved riding horses and hiking the mountains. She was raised a Christian and had no reason at all to hate her life.

   This girl wasn't like the others. She was kind and gentle and couldn’t see behind the veil of goodness her parents used to shroud her eyes.

   Her naiveté only made her all the more special to me. Shanda Malaise didn't start life in this town so she knew nothing about my family. If she had heard rumors, she never mentioned them. That's what made what made me want to get up in the mornings and run out the door to be on time for school.

   My backpack is heavy. I repeatedly swung it from one arm to the other when the weight of it started to kink my shoulder. A car rolled into the parking lot. I couldn't see the make from where I stood until it made a right into one of the small rows and found an empty space to park. It wasn't Shanda.

   I sighed heavily, checking the old watch Nana gave me just before she passed. We had five minutes until the bell rang. I filled my cheeks with air, blew it out noisily and tried to ignore the omnipresent sensation of foreboding. Instead, I turned to the skies, which were dull gray and still. The stratus clouds hung low; promised rain.

   A caw ripped my eyes from the sky and onto an eave of the roof where I locked eyes with the crow. A soft whisper began to take shape. It grew until it was a loud ring in my ears. I wasn't positive it was meant for me, so I waited until someone else walked by to be sure. Teddy Acker pulled into the parking lot in his hand-me-down Ford pick-up and ran headlong up the pathway that led to two glass entrance doors. The voice echoed so loud there was no way he could've missed it. But, he simply passed right by me—nodding once in hello—and came to a screeching halt just before he ran face first into the glass. Then, he threw the door open and scurried inside.

   My stomach twisted. The loud, obnoxious voice sang its warning over and over.

   Change is coming, little one.

    I heard the words and didn't want to believe them. But, I could feel it in my bones as surely as the blood that runs through my veins. It’s a chill, like right before a cold comes on and you ache in places you didn’t know you could ache.

   I tried to tune out the noise, tried to focus on the road. But, a memory began to flicker; a story Nana told me when I was a child. She used to say that once the crow was all white and cousin to the buffalo that their tribe hunted. The white crow warned the buffalo of hunters and their approach. Their cousins were able to escape and for that, the tribe went hungry.

   One day the old chief decided to capture the white crow. He used a buffalo hide with head and horns, placing it onto the back of a young brave and sent him into the pasture. When hunters approached, the white crow squawked and called for their retreat. But one buffalo did not listen and when he came down to warn him again, the young brave grabbed his feet and tied him to a rock with string.

   The council held a meeting and one—flushed with hunger and anger—threw the bird into the council fire, singeing the rope and allowing the crow to go free…but not before charring its feathers black. It swore that it—and the rest of the Crow Nation—would never interfere again.

   But another legend surfaced from those blackened feathers. Nana used to say, Sally Sue, when the black crow is near and it ought not to be, it is a telling of death fast approaching.

   My heart seized and my chest began to burn from the cold air that shot in and out of my lungs with each agonizing pant.

   No, I told myself. It can't be.

   I gazed at his black plumes and small claws, terrified to meet his eyes. I knew what would be there; the end of all things good.

   My feet froze where I stood and my pulse raced beneath my skin. It was fire and ice; the burn of denial and the frigid reality of truth.

   Stubbornly, I stayed planted under the eave, expecting my suspicions to be explained away with a simple answer. Shanda had not set her alarm, she was running late, she had to finish up an assignment before school and lost track of time. There were a hundred and one reasons why she hadn't driven into the parking lot yet.

   But, there was only one reason the crow was brave enough to show himself in a school with more than three hundred registered students.

   Tears smarted from my eyes. It took all the strength I had to keep my knees from buckling. With determination, I walked across the street to J&J's Mini Mart, yanked a couple of quarters from my backpack and dialed her cell phone, keeping an eye on the road the entire time.

   It went straight to voice mail.

   I tried her house and then her cell again, losing a bit more faith with every empty ring.

   I jogged back to the school—missing my first class—and continued to wait.

   I waited in vain.

   The little red car never came.

 

   I waited a whole hour before I finally headed for the principal's office and explained that something was amiss. Mr. Godfrey frowned, shook his head and led me out of the office with a 'she's fine'. I wanted to scream at him to call her parents; tell them she never arrived at school. But, there was no way he was going to listen to me. Not Sally Sue Judas, the crazy girl.

   My desperation led me to find Teddy Acker. Even though I hadn't spoken to him since I was a girl, I knew he was friends with Shanda and I was certain he'd want to know that she was okay. I found him in a huddle of jocks with a grim smile on his face. Though I was sure the conversation was interesting to the rest of the group, Teddy didn't look that satisfied. Maybe I was saving him from having to endure another boring story.

   His eyes widened with my approach. Three of the five stepped out of my way when I made it to the circle; my dark hair covered most of my face.

   “Can I talk to you?”

   “Sure,” he said and excused himself.

   I waited until we were out of earshot. My stomach twisted in odd ways.

   “Do you think you could take me by Shanda's?”

   He stood, dumbfounded, staring at me like I had just got off the short bus. I was desperate to speed things along. That warning kept echoing, reminding me that something was terribly wrong. Besides my father, Shanda was the only person I cared about in the entire world. If something was going to change, it was going to involve her, I was sure of it.

   “What's wrong?” he asked when he found his voice.

   “She didn't come to school.”

   He frowned, just like Mr. Godfrey had. “I'm sure she's just sick, Sally.”

   I glared, my teeth sunk into my lower lip to keep from yelling. “Look, she didn't call and tell me she wasn't coming in today. It’s not like her. There's something wrong. Now, I'd appreciate a ride—mostly because I don't want to hack the three miles it takes to get there. But, if you don't want to help me, then fine. I'll go alone.”

   I turned to walk away. It was the first time I'd ever spoken with that kind of enthusiasm. It made me giddy.

   “Wait!” he called out. I didn't turn around, choosing to head out the doors instead.

   Teddy followed me to the parking lot, grabbed me by the backpack and yanked me to a stop when I continued to ignore him.

   “I'll take you.”

   “Thank you.” It was short and tight and the most I could manage.

   We climbed into his truck and headed for the exit.

   The streets were alive with people, most of them coming in and out of restaurants. It was nearly lunch time and the flow of traffic began to slow.

   “Come on!” Teddy hissed, trying to find another way around.

   The crow was on the wire of the stop light. He peered down at me, cocking his head to the side. I turned my head. I didn't want to look at him.

   Teddy turned left down Washington Avenue and went another half mile before making a right on Brewster Street. The normally cheerful soft white house with light blue shutters sat eerily now on the small hill. Teddy spoke the words before I could register them.

   “Her car is gone.”

   I flew from the truck and ran up the six steps and onto the wrap around porch that ran the entire length of the house. He followed behind me. Suddenly, I was nervous. What was I supposed to say? Besides, what if she was sick and her mom was just using her car to take her to the doctor? I felt like such an idiot. Still, I couldn't rid myself of the feeling something was awry.

   Teddy stood next to me, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

   “Are you going to knock?”

   I shook my head and he sighed.

   His knocks were forceful and nervous. I turned to stare at one of the flower boxes Mrs. Malaise kept on the windowsills until I lost focus and the white peonies were nothing but a blur.

   After a second round of knocks the door finally swung open.

   “Hello, Sally,” Mrs. Malaise said, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. “What brings you here on a school day?”

   “Sorry to bother you, ma'am,” Teddy started when I didn't speak. “We just came by to check on Shanda, since she didn't come to school today.”

   “What?” she asked and my heart sank.

   “Well, we were just wondering if she was alright. We didn't mean to cause her any trouble.”

   Teddy thought she was skipping class. Though he was her friend, he apparently knew nothing about her.

   “We just came home about an hour ago. We were in Raleigh, picking up some new equipment for Henry. Shanda spent last night alone. When we didn't see her car, we figured that's where she was.”

   Small circles of panic flushed her face. It was the look I was dreading.

   “Come in, you two,” she said and opened the door wide enough to let us through. “Let me check her room.”

   We waited in silence, both of us standing in the kitchen, still as statues. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The house, normally bright and colorful, seemed dull and lackluster today. Everything felt wrong, like the entire world had shifted off balance. We heard her footfalls on the stairs.

   “I hadn't had a chance to get to her room yet,” she started, her eyes wide. “Normally, I make her bed. She can be so forgetful,” she chuckled nervously. “It hasn't been slept in.”

   Teddy stiffened. “When was the last time you spoke to her?” he asked.

   “Yesterday, before we left for Raleigh.” She turned to me. “Did you see her yesterday?”

   “Yes, ma'am. I saw her after school. She said 'I'll see you tomorrow'.”

   The room fell silent and seemed to grow darker. “Henry!” she called out, but didn't move.

   “What is it Leila?” Mr. Malaise asked, coming into the kitchen. “Hey, Sally. Theodore.” He turned to his wife whose face had paled. “What's wrong?”

   “Shanda didn't sleep in her bed last night.” Her voice was small, her eyes staring.

   “Did she stay over at your house?” he asked me. I shook my head. He looked at all of us, slowly establishing the crux of the situation without the need for words. “Did she go to school today?”

   “No, sir,” Teddy answered.

   “Henry?” Mrs. Malaise turned to him, tears already collected on her lashes.

   “Call the police,” he said, before grabbing his keys and heading out the door.

 

 

 

 

Two

Day 2

   The day could be summed up in one word: chaos.

   Shanda never came home last night. I waited for word that the police had found her. When her mother didn't call, I reached for the phone and dialed, desperate for some good news. But, she was still gone.

   When the bus pulled to a stop in front of the school this morning, the other four students and I pressed our faces against the windows. Police cars surrounded the building. Students gathered in groups, each separated by class. Principal Godfrey stood tall and lanky in a navy blue suit, speaking to the sheriff.

   My heart twisted. The crow sat on the eave where he had yesterday, looking over the entire school with a wary eye. I was surprised that no one noticed. He stood out like a sore thumb.

   By the time I made it to first period, my hands were shaking. Morning announcements consumed everyone's attention.

   Principal Godfrey's voice echoed through the halls and inside the quiet classroom.

   “Good morning,” he started. “As you may have noticed, the Willow Creek Police Department is at the school today conducting an investigation into the disappearance of Shanda Malaise. Students will be called into the office one at a time. Please answer their questions honestly. They are doing everything they can to bring Shanda home safely.”

   I couldn't swallow. Everyone's eyes were on the brown intercom box above the blackboard. Susan Brink had tears in hers. The sight of them unnerved me. I wanted to jump out of my chair and bring my hand down across her cheek. Susan took pleasure in torturing people like me and constantly berated Shanda for calling me her friend. Each tear she shed only added to my anger. She was completely transparent; made from the same plastic mold used to craft her mother.

   Every one of these girls was made from plastic or rubber. They were perfect reconstructions of the generation before them. They are the reason why there was no room in this town for someone like me. Different isn't a prepackaged product sold in mass markets.

   I gripped the edges of the desk until my fingers were white and numb. I didn't want to be here, but I didn't want to be home either. If I had stayed home, I would only be driving myself insane with worry. At least here, if anyone had word about Shanda, I'd know.

   When the buzz of the intercom went silent, Ms. Rosas, the principal's secretary, came through the door and up to Mr. Jefferies. They spoke in hushed whispers and my stomach knotted when they both turned to me.

   “Sally,” he said and nodded.

   Slowly, I piled my books back into my backpack and followed the portly woman out the door.

   The hall was quiet and barren until we reached the end where we turned left toward the office. We passed her locker. Police officers dressed in khaki, starched uniforms were piling her belongings into a box they had set out on the floor. I glared at them as we passed, feeling violated. Most lockers contained pieces of someone's life. Every picture, every note or mirror stuck to their metal doors proved that someone inhabited the small space and it made me angry to see them rummaging through her things.

   I recognized one of the cops. Timothy Jackson, a former 'client' of Nana's. Tim was in his teens when he took to heroin. His parents were at their wits end when they finally brought him to Judas Farm; strung out and thin as a reed.

    As I passed him, his entire story played out in the empty space between us. Like a movie, small snippets of his memory flashed across my mind; as if those painful reminders of a past he'd rather forget were mine as well.

   Certain attributes make me different, like the fact that I can sometimes hear thoughts or taste flavors of emotion. Only recently has it become more refined. But now, with a pair of eyes gazing at me through a pudgy face, I could see the agony he paid for the price of his freedom. I could see my grandmother taking his arms into her hands and the thick, yellow liquid as it oozed out of old puncture wounds as he screamed for her to stop. He screamed a lot that night. He never touched the stuff again.

   Tim's eyes told me he believed everything the town thought about Nana, even after she saved his life.

   I was the first to break eye contact.

   The principal’s office reeked of coffee, printer ink and paper. The smell twisted the knot in my gut. People were lined up against the walls, sitting on desks with white cups in their hands. Every eye in the room turned to look at me.

   “In here,” Ms. Rosas said and led me into a room made of cinder blocks, covered in beige paint.

   Mr. Godfrey and Sheriff Holcomb both turned to the door as it opened. The sheriff eyed me pensively. The sickly sweet flavor of suspicion filled my mouth. It was thick, almost tangible and turned my stomach.

   “I'll be outside,” Mr. Godfrey said and walked out without a backward glance.

   “Have a seat.”

   The old, blue plastic chair squeaked under my weight. The sheriff walked around the long conference table with a contemptible smirk.

   “Sally Sue Judas,” he said in his thick, North Carolinian accent. “I hear you is friends with Shanda Malaise.” Slowly, he moved closer until he pressed his meaty hands on the table—fingers splayed—and leaned toward me. “That true?”

   I nodded, still trying to dispel the horrid flavor that seemed to get stronger with every passing second.

   “When was the last time ya seen her?” He pulled a chair from under the table. It screeched across the plastic linoleum like fingernails against a chalkboard.

   When he sat, he pressed his ashy elbows into his knees; his black pants so tight they cut the circulation to his thighs.

   I gazed at the floor, focused on a scuff mark to find my courage. The sheriff frightened me more than most. Not because of the badge he wore or the false authority in his voice, but because of what he was capable of. What terrified me most was the man behind the tightly creased beige cotton shirt; the man that lay beneath the polished exterior. He screamed at me through icy blue eyes, gray hair and chubby, pockmarked cheeks.

   “Day before yesterday,” I whispered.

   “What was she doin'?”

   “Going home.” My muscles were as tight as piano wire. I worried he'd read the fear in my posture and misconstrue it for something it wasn't.

   “That what she said?”  

   “Yes, sir.”

   “No stops along the way that ya know of?”

   “No, sir.” I turned to him with sincerity. “Shanda is a good girl. She would never get herself into any kind of trouble. It’s not like her to do anything foolish.”

   He nodded and another burst of flavor slathered my tongue.

   My family was no stranger to the law. My cousins, Billy Joe and Mack, have had their run-ins with the sheriff. So has my father when he takes to the bottle too much in one sitting. But I avoided these suits like the plague.

   Unfortunately, I was cursed by name and by relation.

    The good sheriff's thinking is this: the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

   But, your tree isn't full of apples...it's full of maple syrup, Shanda once told me after I explained my aversion for all things law enforcement.

   Though I couldn't know for certain, I had a feeling most people were frightened of my family. When Nana was alive, she used to hold her healing ceremonies on our land. She'd speak in languages most had never heard before. Sometimes, when the moon was full, her fires would glow blue with magic. And though they wrote her healing powers off as witchcraft, many still ended up at our farm at one time or another. My grandmother used the fruit of the Hawthorn tree to alleviate female troubles and stomach aches. She was known to cure things from addiction to the flu; once, even cancer.

   Sheriff Holcomb knows this. The story goes that his momma used to take him down to the farm when he was a boy. Back when his legs were in braces and Nana helped him walk without them.

   But, afterwards he tried very hard to fit in with the rest of the town and forgot about the good that was done for him.

   Like most of them did.

   The room was cold. Goosebumps broke over my arms. There was nothing to do to alleviate the terrible chill.

   A can of pop sat on the table, along with a half-eaten doughnut. My stomach growled. Suddenly, I realized I hadn't eaten a thing since breakfast yesterday. The day my friend didn't show up for school.

   “Alright, Sally Sue,” he said with a creepy, crooked smile. “That'll be all. But, keep yerself handy, ya hear?”

   “Yes, sir.”

   He hefted himself out of the chair, breathing heavily as he did. I rose, wrapped my arms around my chest to keep myself together.

   I walked out of the room with my head down. For the first time, I hoped that everyone kept to their ritual and avoided looking at me.

   The bell rang and a hundred of my peers filed into the hallways. No one said a word, only stared.

   So much for hoping.

   I walked quickly to my locker, tasting the different emotions that filtered through walls it took years to build; walls that kept every emotion at bay. The walk was long and the flavors continued to burst over my tongue until finally, I headed into the restrooms to rid my mouth of the horrid mixture.

   The small, confining space was full of girls, all checking their make-up; some with streaks of black that ran down their cheeks. I ran into the first empty stall I found and spit into the toilet. I was desperate to rinse my mouth, but I couldn't bring myself to face anyone. Quietly, I peeked through the small opening between my stall door and dividing wall. Girls were reexamining their touch-ups and quickly left the restroom until it was completely empty.

   I opened the door, turned the faucet on and bent my head to take some of the running water, sloshing it around my mouth and spitting it into the sink. I splashed some on my face; the cold of it helped a little. When I looked in the mirror, I started. The circles under my eyes ran deep and my skin had a sallow look to it. It explained why the sheriff was so suspicious. But, what he didn't understand was the bonds of our friendship. Every minute Shanda is gone is like a lifetime to me. Many don't understand it, not that they have to. Shanda and I are opposites in every way. Still, it doesn't change the fact that we are kindred. Nothing can.

   The sound of voices forced me back into the stall. I closed the door quietly, turning the lock to keep the world out.

   “Do you think she knows?” a familiar voice said. Brynn Thompson, another one of the Willow Creek plastics, molded the same as the rest.

   “I don't know.” Olivia Spencer, Brynn's best friend.

   I sat on the toilet seat, lifting my feet so they wouldn't see them.

   “Well, if you ask me, she had something to do with it.”

   “How can you say that, Brynn? I mean, granted the girl is weird, but Shanda's her best friend.”

   “Come on! Obviously, the girl has serious issues. Why do you think Sheriff Holcomb asked her to the office?”

   “Well, she is her friend. He would've called us in, too, if we were close to her.”

   Through the opening, I could see Brynn applying another layer of lip gloss on her already shiny lips. My fingers curled into fists. Of course, she was talking about me.

   “Anyway, she's probably dead.”

   “Brynn!”

   My heart stopped, just for a moment, before kick-starting at full throttle. My nails dug into the red paint until there were long, rust-colored scratches running down the length of both walls.

   I wanted to put my fist through her face, tear her throat out so she couldn't make another sound. But, instead I took a deep, angry breath. Water dripped down my cheeks. I hadn't had a chance to dry my face and the excess stung my eyes. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and realized it wasn't water, but tears.

   “It's true,” Brynn whispered. “I hate to say it, but it's the truth. That's how these things work. They just never end happily.” She sounded sad now...I hated her for it.

   “We'd better go,” Olivia said, her voice tight.

   “Yeah.” They walked out together and I was alone again.

   My anger drained me, left me lethargic. My limbs felt heavy, like they'd filled with lead instead of porous bone and muscle.

   They all think I'm involved. Brynn actually believes that I had it in me to hurt my best friend. The room began to spin. No matter how much they hated me, I didn't deserve that kind of judgment or those kinds of implications. I wanted to scream my innocence, but what good would it do?  I simply held on to what little dignity I had left and walked out of the Girl's room.

   Another period had passed while I sat in that stall, trying to find the courage to face people like Brynn. The halls were full of students talking in hushed voices. Some clung onto each other for support.

   I turned my eyes away from the hypocrisy. The bond Shanda and I shared didn't require public displays of emotion. For them, her absence meant a reason to leave school; a reason to hang out at the local diner and talk about how awful they felt over a basket full of fries.

   For me, her disappearance meant loneliness, bitterness and the feeling of no direction. Worse, was being in this place that reminded me of her. The walls, the floors, the ceilings all held secrets, all held moments when she'd walked through them with her infectious laughter and brilliant smile. Her hellos clung to the paint and her goodbyes to the floors as she strode out of the building.

   It hurt to be here.

   I pushed through the glass double doors and headed out into the cold, March day. The wind bit at my cheeks and my eyes until they watered. I looked up at the sky, still gray and motionless and one thought filtered through all the rest.

   The sun is gone and wouldn't return until Shanda does.

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