We Told Six Lies(17)

That question presses on me.

And presses.

Until I can’t stand it for a moment longer. Until I can’t stand a moment longer.

Holt gets to his feet and throws his arms around me. Claps me on the back. “It’s all right, man. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

I hug him back so hard I’m afraid I’ll crack his ribs. Because I’m afraid if I lessen my hold by even a fraction, he’ll desert me the way Molly did.

Molly.

My Molly.

Where did you go?

It doesn’t matter, I suppose.

Because I’ll find you.

I will.





PART II

   about a girl





MOLLY


The callous could say Molly Bates made herself a victim the night she stopped for peanut M&Ms.

She parked in the farthest spot from the convenience store doors. The only spot the camera didn’t quite reach. She blocked herself in on one side by pulling in next to the dumpster and didn’t pay any mind when an unmarked white van parked on her opposite side. And then…well, then she walked right by the driver, failing to notice how he slouched in his seat. How he wore sunglasses and a baseball hat pulled low on his head, despite it being dark outside.

Molly was in her own head—thinking about her classes and the hole in her rainbow-colored tights and whether, just for kicks, she shouldn’t get a Sprite to complement the candy. Most importantly, she was thinking about who should have been there with her at that very moment.

She was a thinker, her brain constantly puzzling through problems long before a solution was due. And that evening, she was lost to the delirium of love. And so, when she returned to her Toyota Camry, that first green M&M already popped into her mouth, she didn’t notice him stepping out of his van.

Her key was already in the door when he wrapped an arm around her chest and yanked her against him. A rag went over her mouth, and her heart shotgunned in her chest, and her mind sizzled and cracked with fear. But try as she might, Molly couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think past anything but the sound of the van door opening and the feel of being lifted into the air. Her mind went fuzzy even as her body raged with terror. The last thing she remembered before lying down in that field of poppies was her bag of M&Ms. He had that yellow package in his hand. Tipped his head back and filled his mouth, stealing both her candy and her body with the same amount of consideration.





THEN


You demanded to see my house.

I had seen yours, you reasoned, and it was only fair you see mine, too. And so I strategized. Waited until I knew my dad would be working and my mom would be off helping children that weren’t her own.

When you arrived, you walked straight down the hallway like you’d been there before and found my room. My eyes flicked to my bed, and I thought of how many times I’d lain there thinking of you, my hand slipping beneath the covers. And now you were here, the real Molly Bates.

You seemed to know what I was thinking and sat down on my bed, patted a spot next to you.

“I like your posters,” you said.

I glanced at each one in turn.

An illustration of a beheaded Mickey Mouse.

An illustration of a young girl holding a balloon string made of her own intestines.

An illustration of a crowd of people, their eyes hollowed out, their hands open to a silver sky.

I’d found them at a flea market. The artist was so pleased that I liked them that he gave me the beheaded Mickey Mouse for free. They were signed and numbered, and I felt like an art collector every time I looked at them.

Sometimes, when I allowed myself to be so stupid as to dream, I imagined opening a shop of my own one day. Discovering macabre artists and hanging their work for sale on my walls. I’d have shows for the artists, and instead of champagne and tiny inedible foods, we’d encourage people to wear costumes like it was Halloween. I’d smoke meats on a grill and tap a keg and people would get wildly drunk on beer and wonderfully disturbing art. There is something weightless and freeing in accepting death. That’s what I’d tell them as they shopped. If I believed in dreaming, that is.

Then again, I’d dreamed of you being here, in my bed. And here you were. So who knows?

“Are your parents here?” you asked.

I shook my head. “My mom’s doing some volunteer stuff.”

“And your dad?”

“Working.”

You frowned. “It’s Saturday.”

“Lots of people work on the weekends,” I said.

You glanced around my room and out into the hallway. “Your house is nice.”

I laughed. “We live in a shoebox. An old shoebox.”

“Yeah, but it’s…clean. And cozy.” You nodded toward a bookshelf that used to be in my brother’s room. “What are those?”

“Pictures,” I said, as heat flooded my face.

You looked at me conspiratorially. “I’m gonna have to see this.”

“No way.”

You lunged for them, but I was quicker. I grabbed you around the middle, and we crashed to the carpeted floor. You army-crawled toward the shelves as I grappled for your legs.

“All. Most. There,” you said, reaching, fingers brushing the album.