This Might Hurt(17)

He wasn’t there. He was still upstairs.

I exhaled heavily, then tiptoed back to my spot on the tile and rebalanced the platter on my head. Once I was positive it was steady, I refastened the ropes around my wrists.

Thanks, Houdini.

I listened for my father’s footsteps. Half a minute later he marched down the stairs, grumbling.

“That sister of yours is destined for the stage.” He pulled the stopwatch from his pocket and tossed it on the table. “Nothing wrong with that ankle.”

Several minutes later the watch beeped and vibrated. Sir glanced at the screen, then my head. He pressed the stop button.

“I’ll be damned, sweets. See what happens when you put your mind to something?”

I smiled. He took his time making his way over to me. When he lifted the platter, my head felt light enough to float away. I held my breath as he removed the rope from my wrists. If I hadn’t tied it exactly as he’d left it, he didn’t notice.

“Bet that feels good.” He set the rope on the dining table.

I rubbed the reddened skin on my wrists.

“We’ll go to the magic shop after school tomorrow.” He picked up the platter and began spinning it again. “What do you want from there, anyway?”

“Handcuffs.” I kept my eyes on the dish.

He nodded. The platter slowed, wobbling on his finger. My father sighed once like he was bored and, without warning, dropped his arm. Mother’s platter crashed to the floor before I even thought to move.

It shattered into a hundred pieces.

My knees buckled; my chin slumped to my chest. I picked up a few shards as though they might glue themselves back together. I thought of my mother alone upstairs. She must have heard the crash, must be crying her eyes out now, asking God why she hadn’t been given a better family, a stronger daughter. I dug my fingernails into my palms to stop the tears. I couldn’t bear to lose four points right now. I closed my eyes, willed myself to escape like Houdini had.

When I was positive I wouldn’t cry, I peered up from the floor at my father. He was watching me with curiosity, like I was a science experiment.

“Why?” was all I could manage. Did he know I’d cheated?

“Don’t you worry, sweetheart. A deal’s a deal. We’ll still hit the shop tomorrow.”

I nodded, confused, and began to gather the fragments in a pile.

“Leave it. You got your fifteen points. Go on to bed.”

“But . . .” I gestured at the surrounding mess.

He winked. “She’ll clean it up in the morning.”





7





Natalie


JANUARY 8, 2020


WE STAND IN silence, waiting, but hear nothing else from the forest on the other side of the wall. Gordon and Sanderson exchange a glance.

“What the heck was that?” Cheryl clutches her suitcase.

Chloe peers backward, like she’s thinking of making a run for it.

I examine the hedge, the tightly wound leaves an unnaturally perky green. I reach out and finger them. Fake. My eyes climb the eight feet of wall. On the top are small metal spikes.

“For the birds,” Gordon says in my ear. I jump, then picture a bird impaled on every spear, sparrows and warblers and yellowthroats trapped in the land of progress. I let go of the leaves.

Sanderson continues down the narrow path between the house and wall. When he realizes no one’s behind him, that we’re all ashen with fright after that scream, he stops. “Don’t worry about that. Probably a class exercise.”

“Probably?” I ask.

“In the woods?” Chloe says.

Cheryl’s voice quavers. “It sounded like someone was being tortured.”

Sanderson raises his hands in mock surrender. “We never claimed to be ordinary.”

“Isn’t that why you’ve signed up?” Gordon says.

Come for the self-improvement; stay for the waking nightmares.

Sanderson keeps walking. The rest of us hesitate before following. “Have you heard of exposure therapy? Wisewood’s all about conquering fear. To do that, we gotta be vulnerable. Sometimes vulnerability means silly dances, and sometimes it means screaming at the top of your lungs. I’ve done both. You wouldn’t believe how free you feel after.”

I picture Kit deep in the woods, shrieking until her lungs give out, until her throat is raw and ruined. My knees wobble again. The ever-present knot in the pit of my stomach tightens, but Cheryl and Chloe are lightening up. They no longer share my concern. Here is the rationalization they’ve been waiting for: weirdness with a purpose. Eccentricity as medicine.

When we reach the back of the big house, I survey the grounds. Everything is buried under snow. Pewter clouds have infested the morning’s blue sky, and without the sun the cold is brutal. A dense fog creeps our way again, like it’s patiently followed us all the way from Rockland. The wind wails, rattling my teeth. Though footprints are scattered across the grounds, there’s still no sight of human beings besides us. I feel their eyes, though, sense their presence.

The island is big, the size of at least four or five football fields from what I can see. A pole with cream-colored arrows stands before us. One slants left to the cafeteria, a long, dark green building that extends from the big house. Other arrows face right, one to a classroom in a single-wide trailer. Another is labeled GUESTHOUSES, pointing to rings of cabins. I turn a slow circle. In every direction looms the eight-foot wall. The trees beyond the wall dwarf it in size. Together they cut off any ocean view. You can’t even hear the waves from here; the wind overpowers every other sound. I bite my thumbnail.