Whisper to Me(11)

I looked up.

“**** off,” I said to Mr. Fortey.





“What the ******** ******** ******* **** were you thinking? Are you ******* insane?”

That was Dad, when he got home that evening. I told you he would fill the page with stars. He was wearing his restaurant apron, stained with pizza sauce. He never actually made pizza; he always sat with the regulars, being the “face of the place,” as he said. But he had some theory that people liked to see him in the apron, like it made the joint unpretentious.

I didn’t say anything. I had no idea what to say.

“You coast at school when you’re smarter than most of the teachers. You won’t work at the restaurant anymore. You think your mother would be proud of you?”

“You think she’d be proud of you?” I asked.

“Get upstairs to your room,” he said. “No dinner for you.”

I did. What else could I do?

In my room, lying on the bed, I listened for the voice. Nothing.

“Are you there?” I asked.

No answer, but I sensed something. A coiled presence.

“Please, whoever you are, don’t do this,” I said. “Don’t make me … don’t make me get hurt.”

Silence, and I was just turning to look out the window, I don’t know why, just for something to do, when it said— “It was necessary to ensure your obedience,” said the voice. “You will be punished when you do not do as you are told.”

“Why? Why are you—”

“You are not worthy even to eat the crumbs that are left after others have dined. You are nothing. Do you understand that?”

I didn’t say anything.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?”

When the voice shouted, I can’t describe it. It was like a demon, right in my ear. Like every horror film you have ever seen, rolled up and squeezed into sound, and piped into your head. I would like to say that I resisted for a few days, that I stood up to it, but I broke straightaway. I thought the devil had possessed me. I really did.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes. But … what do you want from me?”

“Right now,” said the voice, “I want you to clean your room.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Clean it. It’s filthy. Pick up all this ****. These clothes, these books.”

What could I do? I tidied my room. The place was a mess; I will give that to the voice. It was mean, but it wasn’t in that case strictly inaccurate. I cleared the floor, hung up clothes in my closet, put books back on shelves, threw some stuff in the laundry basket.

“Now get the vacuum cleaner.”

“Dad will hear.”

“So? He knows you’re a dirty *****. He’ll be happy you’re cleaning.”

This, actually, might just have been true. I went downstairs quietly all the same and snagged the vacuum cleaner from the space under the stairs. I dragged it back up to my room and sucked up all the dust and dirt, maybe three years’ worth. I found a Tamagotchi under my bed that must have been there for ten years. More, maybe. I wondered for a moment if the little digital creature was still alive, trapped in its little plastic case, desperate for food. For water.

I looked at it: no, the screen was black.

I continued to clean.

The last person to do this, I thought, was probably Mom.

I shook away the thought, like a wasp in my hair.

The voice said something, then, but I couldn’t hear properly over the roar. I pulled the plug on the vacuum cleaner.

“What?” I said.

“Enough,” said the voice. And did I file away even then that the voice hadn’t been able to speak over the noise? I guess maybe I did.

Just then Dad’s voice came from downstairs. “Cassie, what the **** are you doing?”

“Cleaning,” I shouted.

He didn’t seem to have anything to say to that because he went quiet. Later I heard the front door open and close and I guessed he’d gone out to the restaurant. It was weird; he spent so much time in a place I hadn’t even been to since Mom died.

“Now the bathroom,” said the voice. “Scrub your face.”

I went to the bathroom; I scrubbed my face. The voice had me do it with a nail brush.

“Again,” said the voice.

And:

“Again.”

And:

“Again.”

Until my skin was raw and red. I cleaned my teeth—the voice made me do it three times—and then I went back into my room and fell on the bed.

“See?” said the voice. “It’s easier when you obey.”

“Please,” I said. “Please don’t … get me into trouble at school again. My dad … He’ll kill me.” I think, right at that moment, I considered this a real possibility, not just an expression. Things between me and Dad had not been good for a long time. I’ll get to why, later.

“Promise to obey me,” said the voice.

“I promise.”

“Promise again.”

“I promise.”

“You will speak to no one outside school. Only me. And your father.”

I blinked. “I don’t speak to anyone anyway.”

“Good. Then we will see about school.”