5. Ambrose—age eight – 6 months later
“ D ollie, just wait!” Her new pink coat, nothing like my black one, is the only bright thing in view, surrounded by mist and dark clouds as I look ahead.
Mom likes us to come home from school together, and she likes us to be on the bus that we’d missed because Dollie was crying in a quiet corner in the schoolyard where I’d found her.
Now, we must walk home in the cold weather that is attacking us.
Dollie’s cheeks are the same color as her coat when she spins to me. But it isn’t because she’s cold. Upset is still fresh, and tears are in her eyes. “No, I just want to go home.”
And she’ll be there at least ten minutes before me, at this rate, with her little legs swallowing up the concrete.
I hurry, struggling with every step because even though I no longer need a crutch, my leg still hurts.
Still can’t run.
Still can’t dance.
Can’t catch up to Dollie as she rushes off crying because Little Miss Spoiled Brat Dahlia is having a half-birthday party this evening. Despite knowing her now, we aren’t invited because we are those weird kids who live in that big, weird house on top of a big, weird-ass cave—her brutal words.
I hate that girl.
“Slow down. I can’t keep up! Mom and Dad won’t like you rushing off.”
She veers around and comes to a stop, long hair blowing in the wind as she tells me, “You told me earlier Mom and Dad aren’t home. They won’t know.”
A tear falls from her eye.
My rolling eyes stop me from seeing any more, and when I see her again, Dollie’s already like half a mile in front, at a fork in the road. She veers right when I’m sure the bus goes left to go home.
“Can you just, you know, not cry over that spoilt brat?”
Dollie doesn’t answer, still marching ahead and going the wrong way.
Six months here, and this girl still can’t find her way home. Granted, everything looks the same in this town, including the families and how they dress, all the perfect white homes… except for ours.
I stomp on Dollie’s shadow as I follow her down a long-winding path that feels like it goes on forever. The uneven concrete makes it hard to avoid cracks, and I’m terrified to step on one in case something awful happens. My mind teases that it will.
“Ambrose!” Dollie’s been saying my name right for a few weeks now, but I still call her Dollie. “Look!”
And I do, straight ahead to her, pointing into the distance, and that’s when I feel it, the deep crack below my sneaker and its sinister promise.
Something bad is about to happen.
I gulp down my nerves and hike my heavy school bag up onto my shoulder.
“There’s a playground. I don’t remember this.”
“That’s because you led us the wrong way home.”
“It looked the same.”
“Yeah, sure…” In fairness, it did, but my reply is still heavy with the weight of my nerves—ideas of what dreadful thing is about to happen waltz around in my brain.
“Can we go in?”
Hesitating, thoughts of her falling off something and breaking a bone taunt me. Dad’s voice follows them, ‘You’ll never be happy if you let these false thoughts win.’
A puff of smoke leaves me as I take a deep breath, knowing that a broken bone has ruined my life already, but finally, I say, “Yeah, sure. If it’ll cheer you up.”
Before I know it, we’re both at the swing set. Our backpacks are ditched at the old wooden frame. The unicorn on hers faces the sky, gazing up at the black clouds.
“Let’s see who can go the highest.” There’s a minor lift to her tone…excitement.
“Hold on, I’ll give you a push.” I give Dollie a few pushes into the air, sending her soaring to the clouds, and then I sit at her side, using my good leg to boost myself.
“I’m winning.”
“Yeah, well, I helped you cheat.”
A low and genuine giggle slips through her sadness.
“Do you feel better?”
“Only a little.” Still teary, her big blue eyes find me on her way down. I’m still in the clouds when she adds, “But I am sad that no one likes us.”
“That’s not true.” Now, she’s the one in the clouds, and my gaze is pointing up to her. “What about Annabelle?”
Annabelle—Dollie’s only real-life human friend. I have one, too. His name is Nyx.
“She’s okay, but she’ll be at the party, and if she has to choose, she’ll probably choose the cool kids.”
“Dahlia isn’t cool, Dollie.”
“She thinks she is, and so does everyone else.”
“They’re all wrong.”
Only quiet for a beat, Dollie says, “They’ll have a clown and balloons again.”
She’s told me that probably fourteen times since we left the school, which was only ten minutes ago.
“Clowns and balloons aren’t that great.”
Her gaze flicks away from me.
Scowling, she disagrees.
“Anyway, it’s your birthday soon, and maybe if you ask Dad for something other than a poodle, you can have a party, a clown, and balloons. And you won’t have to invite stupid Dahlia.”
“Mom says I do.”
I shake my head. “I’ll talk to Mom later.”
A raindrop lands on my cheek like a tear.
It’s time for us to go.
Momentum slows around me, the grassy field and trees not moving half as fast as my speed decreases.
“You ready to head home?” Dipping my toes, I position myself to stop, but a pat on my back from what feels like giant hands sends me soaring into the air again.
My sneaker toe scuffs, getting dirty as it catches on the ground. My eyes drop to the blemish for a second, but my focus rushes to the twinge of pain that shoots up my bad leg, and my hands tighten on the chains. I whip around so fast that my neck is now hurting the most.
Was it the wind?
There is nothing but trees behind me, all dark and cast in the shadows of fading daylight. Spring has been rough so far— gloomy every single afternoon. Good, hopefully, justice will be served, and it’ll rain and spoil Dahlia’s party.
“Let’s get moving, Dollie,” I say, unsure if my mind is playing tricks.
My eyes find Dollie in the air, higher than ever. Her head is to the side, and she’s laughing.
And then I see why.
Big, rounded toes come into my view, a weird hobble guiding them.
Baggy blue pants with purple stripes lead up to a white shirt tucked in.
It has yellow dots stretched out over a large stomach—a design, not stains, though it isn’t the cleanest of shirts.
Braces take me to his shoulders, which seem too narrow for his body, and shaggy green hair just about touches them.
His face is pale, aside from the cherry red nose and smile, and the black diamonds painted around his eyes.
Air blows from his mouth into a balloon that lengthens in his hands, and it has Dollie slowing. I do the same, anticipating that she’s willing to accept the gift from this stranger—this clown, the second the balloon starts to resemble a dog.
“For me?” Her tiny voice is low as the wind picks up around us.
“Don’t take that,” I warn, remembering how strict my old Irish grandparents were when it came to accepting things from strangers.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Her attitude comes from how badly she wants the only dog she’s gonna get.
She jumps off the swing, all excited and giddy, with the biggest gappy smile on her face, and the clown bends to her height.
“It’s really for me?”
He nods rapidly, sending his dirty green hair everywhere.
“Thank you. I love it. I always wanted a poodle. A pink one, too.”
Of course, the balloon is pink.
Something awful twists in my stomach—a bad feeling. I can almost feel the crack beneath my sneaker again as I stop entirely.
We shouldn’t be here. Not with a stranger.
Mom would be worried if she knew, but she doesn’t.
She doesn’t even know this playground exists.
She’s not even home. She and Dad had to drive into the next town to speak to an electrician about more issues at the house.
Dad, who would be so angry that I let Dollie get so close to this clown, close enough that she is brushing the hair from his shocking white face.
“Hey!” I grip her around the wrist, my fingers closing and pinching her skin as I drag her back. “Don’t touch him.”
“You’re hurting me.” I let her go as her tiny fist slams into my chest.
She moves away, three tiny steps.
Lucky number three, I tell myself. We’ll be okay.
The clown’s face tells me otherwise. His big red smile pulled down into a sad expression.
“I’m sorry, Dollie. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Tiny fingers rub at her wrist. The blue paint Mom did on her nails last night clashes with her coat. It’s the exact same color as the clown’s pants.
“Right, you have your balloon. Say thank you, and let’s go home.” I pull both backpacks from the dirt, slinging one over each arm. “Come on. Let’s go home.” Waiting for her to agree, I stretch my hand out to her.
“Thank you,” she whispers, squeezing the little knotted nose. “Maybe we’ll just have five more minutes?”
I close my fingers around Dollie’s small hand, and she doesn’t resist because I resort to guilt-tripping. “Duggan will be waiting. Don’t you want to show him your new dog?”
Blonde curls bounce as she nods.
One step, two steps, she moves with me from the creepy fucker in clown makeup. We both come to a standstill, and my gaze drifts back, along with Dollie’s, discovering that the clown has a hold of her wrist.
A gloved finger waves back and forth. A tiny red dot on the tip almost hypnotizes me.
Is that blood?
“Are you going so soon?” His voice is shrill and haunting, it stays thick in my ears and brings a pressure to my throat that can barely be swallowed down.
“Yes, we have to. Can you let my sister go?”
I never call her that.
“But I gave you a balloon. Don’t you like it?” He smiles at Dollie, and yellow teeth appear in his mouth.
“I do. I love it. Do I have to give it back?”
The clown shakes his head, and his teeth are hidden by a new smile. “I gave you that because I want to be your friend. Can we be friends, Dollie?”
“Don’t call her that.” Only I call her that.
“Is that not your name?”
“My name is Dollancie La’Darragh. Ambrose calls me Dollie.”
“I love that. It’s such a pretty name.”
He finally lets her go, and I tug her into me, keeping her close to my chest, our coats crackling against each other.
“My name is Chuckles. Do you want to come to a party with me, Dollancie La’Darragh?”
“No.” Say no, I will to her.
“Will there be more balloons?”
“Yes, and cake and games and all the fun stuff.”
“Like a birthday party?”
Say no, Dollie .
“Yes, that’s exactly what it is!”
“Is it Dahlia’s? Because we weren’t invited.”
“But that’s why I’m here. She felt bad not asking you to come.”
“She did?”
“So bad.”
He’s lying, I can feel it as my skin prickles.
“She asked that if I see you, I’d make sure to bring you with me.”
He’s lying, and he really wants us to believe him with his crouching body and caring, false smile.
“Oh, my gosh, Ambrose! We’ve been invited! To Dahlia’s party. She wants us there!”
I don’t believe it.
“Come on, Dollancie, Ambrose, I’ll give you a ride, but we must hurry. I’m running a little late and have lots of balloons to make for little Dahlia. Oh, she’s so excited.” Chuckles claps, jumping to his full height with excitement.
Taking a step, he encourages us with an arm wave. “Come on, Dollancie, Ambrose!”
I hate that he knows my name.
I hate that he’s using my name.
“Follow me to my car.”
Dollancie is ready to shadow his hop, skip, and jump, and I’m ready to run the other way.
But I can’t run.
Keeping Dollie close as she tries to move, I whisper, “Can we just go home? Let’s just leave. You don’t want to go to a party in your school clothes anyway.”
But, of course, the answer is no. “I want to go to the party.”
With a shrug, Dollie escapes my arms and darts towards the trees where Chuckles waits for her. They disappear together, her tiny hand wrapped in his dirty glove.
The trees blow in my vision as her sound fades away from my ears…
Because she’s getting farther away.
Oh, shit.
“Dollie!” The only thing that responds is my own echo. Then, my own voice, as I repeat her name twice.
I should head the other way and get onto the main street where the school is, where there is traffic, stores, and people. Where I could scream for help because my gut is still churning. In my throat, I taste the frozen yogurt I had at lunch.
But I can’t leave Dollie.
Slowly, I drift into the trees, just about to call her again, when I hear Chuckles over the sound of my feet crunching on twigs. “Is your brother coming?”
“I’m here,” I shout, a little louder than I need to, hoping someone will hear me.
I hope that anyone will hear me.