Dangerous Creatures(90)

Scratching the Surface


When I stumbled back onto the well-lit sidewalk, there was no sign of Elvis. A guy with a backpack slung over his shoulder walked by and gave me a strange look when he noticed I was barefoot, and covered in mud up to my ankles. He probably thought I was a pledge.

My hands didn’t stop shaking until I hit O Street, where the shadows of the campus ended and the lights of the DC traffic began. Tonight, even the tourists posing for pictures at the top of The Exorcist stairs were somehow reassuring.

The cemetery suddenly felt miles away, and I started second-guessing myself.

The girl in the graveyard hadn’t been hazy or transparent like the ghosts in movies. She had looked like a regular girl.

Except she was floating.

Wasn’t she?

Maybe the moonlight had only made it appear that way. And maybe the girl’s feet weren’t muddy because the ground where she’d been standing was dry. By the time I reached my block, lined with row houses crushed together like sardines, I convinced myself there were dozens of explanations.

Elvis lounged on our front steps, looking docile and bored. I considered leaving him outside to teach him a lesson, but I loved that stupid cat.

I still remembered the day my mom bought him for me. I came home from school crying because we’d made Father’s Day gifts in class, and I was the only kid without a father. Mine had walked away when I was five and never looked back. My mom had wiped my tears and said, “I bet you’re also the only kid in your class getting a kitten today.”

Elvis had turned one of my worst days into one of my best.

I opened the door, and he darted inside. “You’re lucky I let you in.”

The house smelled like tomatoes and garlic, and my mom’s voice drifted into the hallway. “I’ve got plans this weekend. Next weekend, too. I’m sorry, but I have to run. I think my daughter just came home. Kennedy?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

“Were you at Elle’s? I was about to call you.”

I stepped into the doorway as she hung up the phone. “Not exactly.”

She threw me a quick glance, and the wooden spoon slipped out of her hand and hit the floor, sending a spray of red sauce across the white tile. “What happened?”

“I’m fine. Elvis ran off, and it took forever to catch him.”

Mom rushed over and examined the angry claw marks. “Elvis did this? He’s never scratched anyone before.”

“I guess he freaked out when I grabbed him.”

Her gaze dropped to my mud-caked feet. “Where were you?”

I prepared for the standard lecture Mom issued whenever I went out at night: always carry your cell phone, don’t walk alone, stay in well-lit areas, and her personal favorite—scream first and ask questions later. Tonight, I had violated them all.

“The old Jesuit cemetery?” My answer sounded more like a question—as in, exactly how upset was she going to be?

Mom stiffened and she drew in a sharp breath. “I’d never go into a graveyard at night,” she responded automatically, as though it was something she’d said a thousand times before. Except it wasn’t.

“Suddenly you’re superstitious?”

She shook her head and looked away. “Of course not. You don’t have to be superstitious to know that secluded places are dangerous at night.”

I waited for the lecture.

Instead, she handed me a wet towel. “Wipe off your feet and throw that away. I don’t want dirt from a cemetery in my washing machine.”

Mom rummaged through the junk drawer until she found a giant Band-Aid that looked like a leftover from my Big Wheel days.

“Who were you talking to on the phone?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Just someone from work.”

“Did that someone ask you out?”

She frowned, concentrating on my arm. “I’m not interested in dating. One broken heart is enough for me.” She bit her lip. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant.” My mom had cried herself to sleep for what felt like months after my dad left. I still heard her sometimes.

After she bandaged my arm, I sat on the counter while she finished the marinara sauce. Watching her cook was comforting. It made the cemetery feel even farther away.

She dipped her finger in the pot and tasted the sauce before taking the pan off the stove.

“Mom, you forgot the red pepper flakes.”

“Right.” She shook her head and forced a laugh.

My mom could’ve held her own with Julia Child, and marinara was her signature dish. She was more likely to forget her own name than the secret ingredient. I almost called her on it, but I felt guilty. Maybe she was imagining me in one of those unsolved crime shows.

I hopped down from the counter. “I’m going upstairs to draw.”

She stared out the kitchen window, preoccupied. “Mmm… that’s a good idea. It will probably make you feel better.”

Actually, it wouldn’t make me feel anything.

That was the point.

As long as my hand kept moving over the page, my problems disappeared, and I was somewhere or someone else for a little while. My drawings were fueled by a world only I could see—a boy carrying his nightmares in a sack as bits and pieces spilled out behind him, or a mouthless man banging away at the keys of a broken typewriter in the dark.