Chapter 13 Fuck Me. It Is
FUCK ME. IT IS
ALICE
Alone swing sways in the wind, the hinges squeaking like a metronome, and the yellow plastic slide of the jungle gym has lost its luster, streaked with black from too many sneakers scraping over it. No children hang from the monkey bars, nor are there any kicking up dirt on the baseball diamond.
Meadowbrook has aged, and everyone who would use this place with any sincerity has grown up.
Or left. Like I did.
The big tree is still here though, calling to me from across the field. With its wide trunk marred with lovers’ carvings, it bumps against the nature preserve’s thick brush, where weeds thrive and the tall, tick-filled grass grows.
I remember one summer we were obsessed with playing witches, and we’d pour potions at its base, convinced we could make the tree bloom roses despite the fact that it’s a red oak.
We’d pluck dandelion wishes from the baseball outfield and steal petals from the hydrangea bushes—but only the pink ones, not the blue ones—to mull with parking lot rocks and a splash of water from the drinking fountain.
Our tiny hands would smear the paste on the roots like a salve, staining our palms in the process.
The sprinklers would wash it away daily, a clean slate for the magic of tomorrow.
Sitting underneath the canopy of leaves, I rest my head against the rough trunk. I kick off my shoes and let the blades of grass tickle my toes.
Maybe it was happenstance that we chose this specific tree to anoint with our wonder. Or maybe we had conjured an enchantment with our concoctions.
I close my eyes and breathe in the morning dew. Could it be so easy as simply wishing to go there and—
Oh! She’s back!
Is she sleeping?
I think so?
My eyes pop open, but I’m no longer in the park. A sprawling field of flowers extends around me.
I’m definitely not drugged or in an alcohol-induced hallucination this time. Which means I either fell asleep real fucking fast or this is real.
I pinch my forearm. Pain blooms between my nails. I wince, watching the blood rush back into to the two crescent indents in my flesh.
“Fuck me.”
My gaze scans over the Meadow—it’s the same as in my dream, lush and full. The strong aroma makes my head spin, but not nearly as bad as it did last time.
“Okay. This is real. That’s totally fine.”
Why is she talking to herself?
Is she okay?
She’s been gone so long. Maybe she went cuckoo like the queen.
Oh, I should hope not.
My head whips from side to side, scanning for the source of the feminine voices. I scramble up to standing, brushing dirt off my ass.
“Hello?” I call out.
Is she talking to us?
Last time she didn’t do that.
Just ignore her. If the queen finds out, we could get weeded.
Everyone threatens us with that.
But unlike the rabbit, the queen will do it!
I step forward, but suck in a pained breath as a rock stabs my sole. My shoes are nowhere in sight though, so barefoot it is.
Leaving the safety of the shade, I wander into the Meadow.
The sun brushes my skin in warm waves as I stroll between patches of flowers, studying them with scrutiny.
They don’t look any different than regular flowers.
Unnaturally vibrant, sure, and some of their petal patterns are ones I’ve never seen before, but it’s not as if they have mouths.
I lean forward and whisper at a particularly garish bundle of coneflowers, “Can you hear me?”
What’s she doing?
We’re over here, dummy.
Shhhh. If we’re quiet, she’ll leave.
I pivot towards a patch of creeping phlox, aster, and milkweed. The wildflowers bristle when my attention sets on them, as if rustling in the wind—except there isn’t any breeze to be found.
“How are you talking if you don’t have mouths,” I whisper at the blooms, but I get no response. “Hello?”
A bee buzzes, landing on one of the flowers.
“Can you tell me about this place?” I stare at the bee, who rubs his hands together on the petal’s edge. When he flies away, I frown. “It’s rude to ignore people, you know.”
I straighten, crossing my arms over my chest and puffing out a sigh.
“It also makes me sound fucking crazy, scolding telepathic flowers and bystanding pollinators,” I mutter, turning in a circle to study the tree line.
There are four paths that cut holes in the thicket, splitting the field into equal quadrants, as if the field is the center of a compass and the trails each mark a cardinal direction.
I should run home. It would be the sensible thing to do. But my curious muse screams over my survival instinct.
My fingers twitch with familiar need. Intrigued. Inspired.
How can I not explore a world made of magic?
I pick the wrong path.
Technically, I can’t be wrong, since I’d be lost either way, but fifteen minutes in and there hasn’t been an interesting sight yet. There’s only one line of winding dirt, about two persons wide, that stretches between the trees and wild brush.
It isn’t until I consider turning back that the scent of smoke hits my nose. Not quite campfire, something earthier. It quickens my pace, and the first fork in the trail comes into sight.
I stop, pulling off the hair band that lives on my wrist, and twist it around one of the branches next to my current path; that way I’ll know my way back to the Meadow.
It’s only another minute of walking before the trail breaks, opening to a small garden.
At its edge, on a wrought-iron bench, a gray-haired woman smokes.
The joint is tucked between bony, arthritic knuckles, and she suckles it with practiced ease.
Loose gardening clothes hang off her frame; dirty-kneed cargo pants are tucked into work boots and a weathered T-shirt shows off tanned arms dotted with age-spots.
“Hello?” I ask, peering around the trees.
The woman doesn’t jolt in surprise. She simply turns her wrinkled face my way, thin lips set in a neutral line, and cocks a single brow. “About time you wandered back.”
My head tilts. “I’m sorry?”
She tsks, as if I’ve offended her. She takes a slow drag of her joint, and smoke puffs out her nose before she speaks.
“Would you like a hit?” she offers.
“Um, what is it?” I ask, taking a measured step closer.
She scoots to the far side of the bench, patting the empty space next to her. “It’s got a little bit of this and a little bit of that.”
“Ah, I see,” I say. “No thank you.”
“You sure? Helps to loosen the joints.”
“I’m okay, thank you, though.”
A beat passes between us, one where I shift awkwardly in place and she stares at me with narrowed lids over navy-blue irises. She also doesn’t blink.
Creepy.
I inch backwards. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to explore.
“You look older,” she says.
I pause. “You know who I am?”
“‘Course. Everyone around here knows about the infamous Alice,” she snickers, taking another drag.
“Do they, now?” I deadpan.
“My grandson made sure of that. Bit obsessive, that one.”
“Okay…” I drawl, not quite following. “And where is here, exactly? I seem to have forgotten why I’m so well known in…”
“Arcadia?” The woman’s brows hit her hairline.
A rough laugh floats in the space between us as she shakes her head.
“Of course you wouldn’t remember, that’s what happens when you’re gone too long.
” She flicks ash off her joint and brings it back to her lips.
“Human minds are so fragile,” she mutters.
Smoke unfurls around her in unnatural ways, curling down her frame rather than dissipating.
“And you aren’t? Human, that is.”
“No. Can’t you tell I’m a shifter?”
“You look human. It’s confusing.”
“Less confusing than hopping between worlds?” she snickers. “I’ve been hiding out here, waiting for you to show up instead of passing on. You’re late, like usual. Now, come sit.”
My hands find my hips, and I chew on my lip. This woman is talking in circles. I’m tempted to turn around and abandon my adventure, but what keeps my feet rooted is the thought that this could be my chance to get some real answers.
This woman is the only person I’ve seen in this strange place, and she’s got loose lips, and she knows who I am. That must mean something.
“Do you—can you tell me more about that? About Arcadia, and why I’m here?” I ask.
“I could. But I don’t think the current queen would want that. She’d much rather keep you in the dark. Or better yet, away from here entirely,” the woman mutters. A cruel smirk curls her lips. “Good thing I don’t give a flying fuck about what she thinks.”
“Who’s the queen?” I ask. The woman snorts, and her throat must catch on itself because she starts hacking up a lung.
I rush towards her to help, but she waves me away.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying to understand. But I know absolutely nothing about this place outside of gossiping flowers and the fact that a man I went on a date with might be from here. I just want answers.”
I groan, sitting down on the bench and dropping my forehead into my hands. A swell of emotion rises in me, irrational and overwhelming.
A comforting hand lands on my back, and my muscles tense. It rubs slow circles until I calm down.
“You can call me Memaw, dearie. It’s what my grandkids call me,” the woman says. “Why haven’t you asked that prince of yours for answers, if you’re so in the dark?”
I peek at her from between my fingers, mutter an exasperated, “Who?”
“The man you’re dating. Are you not with my grandson?” It’s her turn to cast me a confused glance. “How long has it been since you were here last?”
“Um… from what I can gather, twentyish years or so?”
Memaw sucks in a concerned breath. Her hand leaves my back, and she settles against the iron bench.
“You’re cutting it down to the wire then, aren’t you?” she murmurs.
“I don’t understand.”