Chapter Seventeen. The Body in The Ritual
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE BODY IN THE RITUAL
My mother once told me that the secret to babysitting little kids is that it isn’t the loud times you have to worry about. The real mischief happens when they get quiet.
Apparently the same rule applies to older people. When Felix and I return to a silent building, we fool ourselves into thinking everything is fine.
“You know what we should do?” From the look in his eye, I’m guessing Felix is about to propose we cannonball into the deep end of the pool. “Search for Bradley’s EpiPen.”
“If it’s even here.”
“Where should we start?” he asks, like I’ve just agreed with him.
“Why don’t we divide and conquer?”
“No way. Have you ever seen a horror movie?”
He makes a valid point. As we approach the closed door of the billiards room, a low hum catches my ear. It’s not quite a ghostly moan, but I stop breathing anyway. Beside me, Felix has gone pale.
We stare at each other, silently debating whether to investigate or flee.
The noise is faint but rhythmic, like the hiss of waves over sand.
I angle my head toward the door; Felix points to himself, a silent question.
It’s tempting to let him go first, but pride makes me reach for the knob, turning it with agonizing slowness so it doesn’t creak.
I take one deep breath before carefully pushing the door open and peeking through the crack.
“Oh shit,” I breathe.
“What?” Felix pushes past me, either to see for himself or save me. I watch his eyes go wide as he takes in the scene. The carpet is covered with bodies. Even more troubling are the white masks, like everyone keeled over at a Phantom of the Opera convention.
“They’re breathing,” Felix points out, after the stunned silence gives way to another round of ahhhhhs.
Obviously I’ve reached the same conclusion, but in light of recent events it wasn’t unreasonable to think I’d stumbled onto more corpses.
“Hi, kids!” Mrs. A’s cheerful voice is recognizable even before she shoves her mask up to smile at us. “You’re just in time.”
“For what?” Felix’s question teeters at the midpoint between curious and cautious.
“We asked Cheryl to come by and lead us in some movement exercises,” Grandma Lainey explains, gesturing at a slight woman in black Lycra with a wavy white bob.
Cheryl lifts a hand in greeting, like we’re being introduced at a dinner party.
“She used to help out at the theater, when we were feeling blocked.”
“I specialize in working with artists,” Cheryl says. “Releasing physical tension can open pathways to creative flow.”
“We thought it might be helpful in the present circumstances,” Mrs. A adds.
Nothing like death to plug up the pathways!
“Would you like to join us?” Cheryl asks.
“We thought you’d never ask,” Felix answers for both of us, hooking his elbow around my arm and tugging me to the last remaining patch of open floor—aside from the area under the billiard table, which everyone is carefully avoiding.
The others wait as we wriggle onto our backs, stretching out side by side like we’re sharing a comforter.
I try to surreptitiously glance around to check whether I’m doing it right, but it’s hard to see without lifting my head.
This is the weirdest slumber party I’ve ever been to, and that includes the VeggieTales–themed lock-in at Sam’s church.
“Right now we’re working on constructive resting,” Cheryl informs us. “Focus on relaxing your muscles, beginning at the top of your head and working slowly down the body.”
That would be easier if my body wasn’t acutely conscious of the inch of carpet separating me from Felix. My nervous system is pretty sure this is a Code Red situation.
“We exhale with an ahhhhh,” Cheryl says before demonstrating the hushed whisper we heard through the door. “And breathe in through the nose.”
As we all ahhhhh and then inhale, not quite in sync, I wonder if Mervyn would classify this as acting normal. Probably not with the masks.
I try to concentrate on my breathing, while also telling my shoulders to unclench. And then I must overcorrect, because I’m starting to get lightheaded.
“Where is the floor?” Cheryl asks.
“Underneath me,” the Castle Claude crew replies, in what is clearly a familiar call and response.
“The floor supports you,” Cheryl continues. “A firm foundation. Know that you are rooted and grounded.”
Felix takes his hands off his stomach and lets them rest at his sides, patting the floor like he’s confirming its solidity.
Or maybe he’s congratulating it on a job well done.
When his pinkie brushes mine, any progress I’ve made on the relaxation front flies out the window.
My muscles are now strung tighter than the colored rubber bands they used to wrap around my braces.
“Do you agree to play?” Cheryl asks the group. “Are you open to experience?”
I sense Felix looking at me and turn my head in time to catch the double eyebrow wiggle before his loud and enthusiastic “Yes!”
Our grandparents and their friends chime in with their own affirmatives. Mine is the quietest, a soft but determined “Yeah.”
“Then let’s play the name game.” Cheryl offers no further explanation, but I get the gist when my grandmother says, “Pool table.”
This is followed by Malia’s confident “Chandelier.”
As people continue to call out the names of various objects, Cheryl’s soothing voice instructs us to anchor ourselves in the material world.
“Be present in your body, in time, and in space,” she continues. “Trust the evidence of your eyes.”
“Virginia,” Felix says.
I shoot him a questioning look, but instead of answering he clears his throat. That’s when it hits me: He’s naming me.
I’m what he sees.
Maybe it’s because our faces are so close together, but my gut is telling me he could have easily said “game cabinet” or “light switch” instead.
It feels like a challenge, or an invitation. At the very least, he’s asking a question: Am I ready to play this game?
Okay, then. Time to be bold. I can totally do this.
“Nostrils,” I say back at him, opting for the joke instead.
Way to rise to the occasion, really put myself out there! I pretty much have a black belt in social skills.
His mouth twitches, like he’s suppressing a grin. “Freckle.”
I want to ask him which one he’s talking about, but I need to save my breath. This time I’ll say something like “eyelashes,” which will obviously be code for “What beautiful eyes you have, Felix.”
On some level I’m aware that we’re not alone in the room, but my focus has narrowed to the two of us.
My lips part—and Bernie chooses that moment to burst in, followed closely by Detective Ortiz.
In the absence of pearls, she settles for clutching the decorative zipper toggle on her pastel track suit as she gasps in horror.
It’s the loudest sound in the room until Mr. Namura points at her and says, “The hostile neighbor.”
“I beg your pardon?” Bernie screeches, like that’s the weirdest part of this scenario.
“We’re playing the name game,” Mrs. A informs her, struggling to a sitting position before shoving her mask back to the top of her head like a visor.
“It’s very centering. Sometimes you just need to be reminded that you have a body.
” She smiles at Bernie, but a second later her expression turns thoughtful.
“Meaning your own body. Not a body body.”
“Only living bodies here,” Mr. Namura adds, on what is clearly meant to be a reassuring note.
“Are you seeing this?” Bernie demands of Detective Ortiz. “They’re running some kind of death cult. That must be what happened to Bradley!”
I’m not sure how she thinks the name game could have turned fatal, but Bernie strikes me as the type to sling accusations first and consider the facts never.
At least Detective Ortiz doesn’t appear to be dancing to her tune. He’s too busy navigating a minefield of limbs on his way to the pool table, where he bends forward with his hands behind his back, inspecting something I can’t see.
“Where did this come from?” the detective asks. He pulls a pencil from his pocket, using it to lift something off the green felt.
Everyone snaps to attention at the serious note in his voice. I scramble to my knees for a closer look, with Felix right beside me. From here it looks like a goth kazoo that someone bedazzled with rhinestones. Mixed messages on the aesthetic front.
“Is that one of those vapes?” Malia looks from me to Felix, seeking our expertise as representatives of The Youth.
“It’s Bradley’s EpiPen,” Bernie gasps.
“Really?” Mrs. A asks. “I’ve never seen one like that. What does it say on the side?”
Now that she mentions it, the rhinestones do seem to form letters.
“It’s B-R-O,” Bernie snaps, as if that should have been obvious.
Felix poses the question on everyone’s mind. “He bedazzled his EpiPen with the word ‘bro’?”
“They’re his initials. Bradley Ryan Odell.” Bernie glares at us as if daring anyone to disagree.
“Well, I’m glad it turned up in the end.” Mrs. A brings her hands together in a that’s-that gesture. “I’m sure his family will be happy to have it back. Maybe it will bring them a sense of closure.”
Bernie rolls her eyes. “Don’t bother with the innocent act! I think we all know what happened here, with your sick games. It’s always poison this and tampering with the evidence that. Murder, murder, murder.”
“It’s not what it sounds like,” I tell the detective. “They only pretend to poison people. Like playing charades but with, you know, murder.”
“And I have never poisoned anyone.” Mr. Namura thumps himself in the chest. “Not on purpose. Or accidentally,” he adds after an unfortunate pause. “The banana pudding was not my fault.”
Detective Ortiz pulls a plastic bag from his pants pocket and slides the spangled EpiPen inside. The silence thickens as he looks around the room. “Which one of you found this?”
“I did.” Cheryl takes a step forward. “When I was meditating in the garden. I thought someone must have dropped it.”
“Can you show me exactly where it was?” the detective asks.
Cheryl inclines her head. Not even a police investigation can disturb her inner peace.
We follow her to the courtyard like a line of ducklings.
The strange procession continues around one side of the pool, passing the wall covered in climbing vines and the raised planters full of cooking herbs.
At last she stops, pointing at a cluster of low bushes bordered by gravel.
“There,” she says, pointing. A lizard streaks out of sight.
“Stay back, please,” Detective Ortiz tells us.
“What do you suppose he was doing over here?” Mrs. A wonders as we watch the detective search the ground.
I try to imagine Bradley wandering through the prickly bushes at the far end of the courtyard. He didn’t strike me as the type to spend a lot of time contemplating nature.
Detective Ortiz hasn’t said a word. After an intensive study of the rocks his gaze tracks up, and up, until it reaches the lone balcony stretching over this exact spot.
“Who lives in that unit?” he asks.
No one speaks. We look at the ground or our hands—anywhere but at the person whose terrace is directly overhead. I’m sure Bernie would be happy to tell him, but she doesn’t know the building well enough.
Grandma Lainey steps forward, ending the stalemate. “I do.”