Whisper to Me(50)

“Yeah.”

“A bit like you,” she said.

I punched her arm.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s have another brownie.”

Later she looked at her watch. “Your dad gets back at seven, right?”

“Usually.”

“Okay, I’d better split.” She walked to the door, and I opened it for her.

“See you,” I said.

She smiled. “Not if I see you first.”

“What does that mean?”

A frown. “Actually,” she said, “I don’t really know. I just say stuff sometimes.” A pause. “Speaking of. I didn’t see any photos of your mom in the house. What happened to her, Cass?”

(Why does everything you touch have to turn to—) That wasn’t the voice, just to be clear; that was Dad’s voice, in my head.

“Nothing,” I said.

Paris looked at me. “Nothing happened to her.”

“No,” I said.

She raised her hands. “Okay. Okay. Leaving it.” She turned and started across the yard. “Oh, Cass!” she exclaimed. “You lucky girl.”

“Huh?”

“Bare abs. Just lying around.”

I followed her out. She strode to the street, still giggling. Asleep on the lawn, next to a couple of open cans of Bud, was Shane. He had taken his top off—I guess because it was hot and he wanted to sunbathe a little. Then he’d obviously fallen asleep. He was wearing loose red lifeguard shorts. I could see the ridges of his stomach muscles.

Paris was gone; there was just me standing there, and Shane lying on the ground like a Greek statue lain out in the grass.

“Look away,” said the voice.

But I kept looking. I was fascinated—I’d seen boys’ bodies on the beach, but never one this close. I mean, apart from my dad, and he didn’t count. I couldn’t turn away from that hard chest, the V that ran down from his— “You’re enjoying this,” said the voice. “Stop it, or I will punish you.”

“After six p.m.,” I said automatically. “No talking before six p.m.”

“Look away, now. Or you will pay.”

I didn’t look away. I know I should have. Aside from anything else, it felt like a betrayal, of you. That sounds stupid. I mean all we had done was drive on the beach and talk a couple of times. But that’s how it felt. Sometimes the things we feel are not rational.

Often, in fact.

Then Shane stirred. He kind of snuffled and said a name—Linda—I still don’t know why—and rolled to the side a little. I thought, Oh no, he’s going to wake up and see me looking. I couldn’t move; I was stuck there like a woman turned to stone.

But then something worse happened.

As Shane turned, his hand went down and … well … scratched his crotch. Not in any sexual way, just a guy, asleep, shifting stuff around or whatever. And because he was wearing those baggy lifeguard shorts I saw his … junk.

I literally could not look away. I wasn’t titillated or anything, I was horrified.

Oh my God, I thought. I felt sick.

I guess I should have found it funny. But I didn’t find it funny at all. I just felt nauseous and appalled, and one thought went through my mind, the one that didn’t help at all with challenging the voice’s power: The voice did this. It told me to look away or it would punish me, and then when I didn’t look away it made me see … this.

Finally I managed to make my legs work, and I turned and went back into the house. I knew the Doc would say that the voice had nothing to do with it, that it was just coincidence, but I didn’t really believe it. I was remembering how it had made me stab my finger on the compasses at school.

I was still afraid.





But I’m not afraid anymore, I’m not afraid of anything. Not of the voice, not of my dad, nothing.

Come to the pier on Friday, and I’ll show you.





Things were so much better with the voice, but it still had power. It was still the one in control.

I was leaving the house to go hang with Paris at her condo. I went to grab my keys from the monkey butler. He was a wooden monkey in a red jacket with a fez, balancing a platter that would hold my keys, Dad’s, his car keys too. I don’t know why we had a monkey. Mom and Dad got him from an antique store in Cape May when I was little, or something.

Anyway, I reached out for the keys and the voice said: “No.”

“Hi!” I said. “How are you?”

“Leave the keys.”

“I’d really prefer if you only spoke to me aft—”

“It’s six fifteen p.m.,” said the voice.

I looked at my watch. Oh.

“Leave the keys,” the voice repeated.

“It’s a latch bolt,” I said. “It automatically locks when the door closes. I won’t be able to get back in.”

“That’s the point, yes,” said the voice.

“But why?” Something about the voice made me sound like a whining teenager. I hated that.

“You only brushed your teeth once this morning. And you didn’t wash your face. What is it, do you want to be revolting?”

“No.”