Mosquitoland(32)

Lack of subtle nuances and erudite inaccuracies notwithstanding, Jurassic Park was ten times better on the big screen, and by the time it was over, Henry and I vowed never to criticize the film again. On the way home, I sat in the backseat of Steve’s Jetta, and while he navigated the snowy streets of downtown Ashland, I navigated the ripple of muscle at the base of his neck. (Yeah, okay, that’s weird, but I’m being honest here—before I ever knew about sex, it knew about me.) As the car rounded into my driveway, I saw the light in the den turn on, and in that instant, I knew I was in trouble. Steve and Henry wished me luck as I walked inside. My parents were waiting on the couch, cross-legged and tongue-tied. Mom got up and clicked the TV off. No need for conversational details. I had walked right into the thick air of punishment.

Grounded. One week.

On my twelfth birthday, my theatric insubordination paid dividends to the tune of Highlander II: The Quickening. (I have to say, my parents could have saved their punishment on this one, as the movie was punishment enough. Blimey.) Afterward, Sexy Steve drove us home, and as I was a year older, new images sprang to mind: less boxing-ring-chest-pounding, more bedroom-floor-topless-romping. And, upon pulling into my icy driveway, I was not at all surprised to find the den light on. Steve and Henry wished me luck. I went inside, and—another week grounded.

For my thirteenth birthday, we chose The Shining, which messed me up for weeks. Afterward, Steve drove us home, and as I was now thirteen, I saw through the bullshit. Sexually speaking, Steve was dead to me.

As he made the turn onto my street, I geared myself up for a grounding. Sneaking out to a bad movie, having goofy fun with Henry, riding home with Steve, then getting caught—at the time, I wouldn’t have admitted this, but the getting caught was just as much a part of my birthday tradition as anything else.

But on this night, the den lights were off. Climbing out of the Jetta, both Steve and Henry congratulated me on finally getting away with it. I nodded in a daze and walked inside.

The TV was on in the empty den, but muted.

No one was awake.

No one was mad.

No one cared.

My God, Iz . . . I hope you don’t know what that feels like.


Signing off,

Mary Iris Malone,

Friend by Default

P.S.—I wish I hadn’t written this down.





19


The Talismans of Disappointment

I WAKE UP in cutoffs, mud caked to my face, and a roaring stomachache. The moan—which started in my toes, then wriggled its way through my veins and arteries, organs and muscles, all the way to my lungs—almost escapes. But the kinetic power of a moan is nothing compared to the willpower of a Mim.

It’s the kind of middle-of-the-night you feel in your bones. I don’t know what time it is, but my bones tell me it’s somewhere between two and four a.m.

As I sit up, the journal topples off my chest. I stick it back in my bag, slip on my high-tops, and creep off toward the shit pit. (Congrats again, Universe. Yours is a suspiciously acute sense of humor.) Circling the dying embers of the campfire, I notice Caleb’s empty bedding, but in the slipstream of such indigestion, it seems almost trivial. In fact, nothing means much of anything right now, other than the immediacy of my bellowing bowels and a permanent embargo on canned ham.

After the silencing of the bellows—well, things begin to mean things again. And Caleb’s empty bedding is a definite something. Before I have a chance to guess what, I hear a noise just outside the clearing.

I freeze . . . quiet . . . listening.

At some point during my time in New Chicago, my ears acclimated to the echoing cacophony of birds chirping, leaves cracking, twigs snapping—the natural sounds of autumnal nature. I shut my good eye and sift through these noises like a forty-niner panning for gold.

Yes, there—right there—definite whispers.

I creep toward the edge of the clearing. Spidery trees and wispy branches, dead leaves crackling like old parchment, and a moonlight subdued—middle-of-the-night-forest is one creepy-ass place. I follow the soft speech toward an oak. At its base, a single shadow, tall and wiry, turned sideways, talking animatedly to someone just out of sight. I squat down on my hands and knees, sinking my knuckles into the soft dirt, willing the sound of my breath away. There are two distinct voices.

“. . . it, that’s the plan. Get the whole stash, though. None of this half-ass horseshit.”

“What about the girl?” asks Caleb. After our little campfire story time, I’d recognize his voice anywhere.

“Sweetheart’s a liability, ain’t she?”

They’re talking about me.

“She’s kinda cute,” says Caleb. “Even with the mud.”

The moon is just bright enough to see Caleb’s outline, but from this angle, I can’t make out the second person.

“Keep your eyes on the prize, Caleb. That girl gets in our way, we’ll just have to take care of her. You can do that, right?” A brief pause. This second voice has a strange guttural quality, as if the person is eating cake while talking. “Caleb?”

“What?”

The second person makes a noise like he’s spitting or something, then says, “If the girl gets in our way, I need to know you will take care of her.”

My heart is at an Olympic pace.

“Yes,” whispers Caleb. “I will.”