Chapter Twenty-Eight
TWENTY-EIGHT
MY DAYS AND NIGHTS ARE consumed with dread.
Not even the sound and feel of crunchy leaves and the smell of hot chai can drag me out of my funk.
My voice grows hollower by the day. It matches how I feel inside.
Each morning the cardinals wait for me on the fountain.
Shadows trail me. The whispers have only grown more ominous. More malevolent.
Run. Run. Run, they say. They’re after you.
Panic taints everything I do. It cuts through me with the sting of a sharp edge.
On the phone with my mom I force happiness into my tone as I blabber about school and classes and the video I made for Creative Media Club. But afterward I’m a husk.
I’m a husk as I trample through the woods on the south side of campus, and as each snapping twig sends my heart straight into my throat. I agreed to meet Daisy and Sam for the homecoming afterparty, but I’m running late.
Tonight I’m supposed to smile and laugh and pretend that my entire world hasn’t been completely upended. I’m supposed to look my friends in their eyes and not think about everything that separates us. Tonight I’m supposed to be normal.
The homecoming afterparty at Hanging Rock sits at the base of a wide path that opens like the maw of an eldritch beast. Beyond, the clearing is filled with students. The air is tinged with sweat and beer, the vibrating bass floating through the thinning trees.
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Maybe the stupid app is right, and if I don’t let myself have fun for once, I’ll burn out before I get a chance to learn the truth about everything.
“These parties are nothing but trouble,” someone mumbles from the shaded wood. I jump, my power coming easier each day, its burn a growing comfort. It’s the one thing that anchors me. Reminds me that I’m real.
Malachi leans a shoulder against the bark of a towering oak, branches half shed. He lifts a red plastic cup to his lips as he stares at me through the smoke-filled dark. His eyes shine like they’re just on the verge of glowing, already waxy from whatever he’s drinking.
I remember the first time either of us tasted alcohol, huddled together in the greenhouse on the Fourth of July, plastic dollar-store light-up flutes shining in multicolor against the night.
We’d laughed and laughed beneath the crackling boom of fireworks bursting above the mountain, the warmth of cheap stolen champagne spreading inside our chests.
Now Malachi rolls his back against the tree as I pass without saying a word. Falls into step beside me as I enter the crowd.
“Hey,” I finally say, my fingers grazing his elbow.
Maybe I feel emboldened by the party, the flashing lights, the blazing bonfire, but for one night, this one night, I don’t want to think about endless summers and witches and magic and boys with searching eyes and lying lips.
I want to let it all go. I want to be free from the prison of my own mind. “Great game tonight. Congrats.”
He stops walking and eyes me suspiciously. “Thanks?” he mutters quietly. Confused.
I give him a tight smile and jog off toward the electric-blue hair bobbing near a rusty folding table, two kegs flanking either side.
Daisy and Sam turn just in time to see me approaching and they scream, throwing their arms around me.
“I’m so glad you made it!” Daisy squeals.
“I thought you were ditching us,” Sam admonishes, running their hand through their newly dyed hair.
My stomach sinks.
The homecoming game hadn’t gone completely as expected. I’d spent my afternoon with Lucas at the café, our legs pressed together as we sat side by side, him pretending to write a paper for econ, and me sketching plans for my art final.
Every moment since then has been a slog.
I got ready for the game in a daze, so out of it that I swore I saw something pass behind me as I stood nose to nose with the mirror while putting on my mascara. When I turned around, nothing was there.
The sounds of the roaring crowd only made my head pound, and the cold metal bleachers of the Mountain Wolves Stadium bit harshly into my thighs.
I was so sluggish that my eyes could barely track the curved blade of Malachi’s carbon fiber prosthetic as it hit the ground in whizzing slices, the ball soaring higher than I even thought was possible.
He passed it straight into the pocket every time—his secret to being a top-ranked quarterback despite his disability; meanwhile I couldn’t stop myself from keeping tabs on a different player, the Friday night lights illuminating his every move like a beacon.
Lucas was playing his best game of the season so far. He was zooming all over the field, his body fluid, slipping from the arms of his opponents like water.
But something about what Missy said had been nagging at the back of my mind, and I’ve decided that tomorrow I’m going to confront Lucas about Fiona.
I’m going to confirm that he had nothing to do with her disappearance.
That he’s got nothing to do with any of this, despite what we found in his dad’s office.
I know in my heart that if he has intel about what happened to her, he’ll be honest with me.
So I don’t know why I feel nervous about it.
Or maybe it’s just being around him that makes me nervous.
Him and everything that’s changed between us.
Him and his sunshine skin and Carolina blue eyes. His lopsided smile.
I shake off the lingering stress and laugh as I return my friends’ hug. “I know, I’m sorry I’m late! But I’m ready to have some fun for once.”
We link arms, the blaring music beating a pulsating rhythm that vibrates in my chest. I can barely hear myself think, but it’s a surprising relief.
When we finally reach the kegs, there’s a blonde in our way.
I slap my hand down on the table. “Your highness,” I say, angling my head toward her. The homecoming queen is missing her crown.
“Ack!” Missy startles. “What’s wrong with you? Jesus Christ!”
I laugh, but Daisy squeezes herself between us. “Hey, nothing’s wrong with her. Harper’s perfect.”
“Pshh,” Missy snorts. “Perfect at getting on my nerves.”
I pour us all drinks and pass the beers to my friends. And Missy.
“You here with anyone?” I ask her, taking a sip of my beer.
She glances at Daisy. “Nah, just a couple of cheer friends.”
Daisy rolls her eyes.
“You got a problem with cheerleaders?” Missy asks her.
“I’ve got a problem with any sport that upholds the patriarchy.”
“So… you’ve got a problem with all sports.”
Daisy thinks about it. “Not figure skating. I like figure skating. And Roller Derby. Oh, and luge, maybe?”
Missy cocks her head to the side. “You’re weird.”
“Thank you.” Daisy says, smiling into her cup. Across from us Sam meets my eyes, a puzzled look on their face.
“Besides,” Daisy starts. “Cheerleading isn’t really a sport anyway.”
Missy turns slowly, her mouth pinched with barely contained fury. “What did you just say?”
“Oh, uh, well, I—” Daisy stammers.
“Listen here, pip-squeak,” Missy says, bending down to Daisy’s eye level. “I could crush you to dust with my thighs if I wanted to.”
Daisy nods slowly.
“I could fucking bench-press you,” Missy adds for emphasis.
“Good… to know…” Daisy coughs. “Your highness.”
Missy straightens. “Don’t ever say cheerleading isn’t a real sport again.”
“Okay,” I say, finally butting in. “Now that we’ve got that cleared up… what now?”
I look from Daisy to Sam and back again.
The volume of the music increases, and Daisy cups her hands around her mouth to be heard. “Let’s dance!”
Dance? No. I’m not a dancer. At least not a sober one. I’m going to need way more than two sips of this beer if she wants me to go out there and embarrass myself like that.
“You guys go ahead,” I say, gently pushing them forward. I chuck my thumb over my shoulder. “I gotta go see a guy about a… a thing…”
“What? Boo! No way!” Sam says, making a fart noise with their mouth and giving me a double thumbs-down. “You should dance with us!”
I’m a little surprised by Sam’s enthusiasm for dancing. It seems so at odds with their usual careful demeanor. The only physical activity I’ve ever seen them do is jiujitsu practice.
“Yeah, come dance with us!” Daisy chimes in.
“Dance with us! Dance with us! Dance with us!” they chant together, their shoulders already shimmying to the music, their faces illuminated by the lanterns and industrial flashlights that litter the party, casting everyone in a soft white glow beneath the razor-sharp points of a crescent moon.
“Okay, fine!” I laugh, glancing at Missy’s retreating back as she weaves through the crowd. I chug the rest of my beer and slam my cup onto the table.
Sam and Daisy pause, startled looks on their faces.
“What?” I say, shrugging sheepishly.
“You know what? Hell yeah!” Daisy shouts, slamming hers back as well, followed by Sam.
I pour us all new drinks, and we push our way through the mass of bodies. The center of the crowd is a black hole. We face one another, lifting our arms and shaking our hips, melting as the music glides over us.
With each sip, our dancing grows more frantic. We give ourselves over to the tempo. There is a dangerous air to the night. It surges through us. It slithers between our bodies; it coats the back of my throat.
My back is flush against something solid, our hips swaying together, strong, deft hands wrapping around the flesh at my sides.
Their fingertips press not so gently, biting into the softer parts of me.
I rest my head against their firm chest and close my eyes.
The North Carolina humidity clings to every bit of our bodies, and where our bare skin touches, we are slick with the disinhibition of youth.