For Your Heart (Hill Dweller Retellings) (3 page)

    
“Yeah, but isn't he supposed to be a child molester or something?”  Celeste adds.  Her words, dismissive of the fantastic in favor of logic, draw me back to reality – back to the conclusion the police came to.  Timmy was taken by a sick freak.  And this green man is nothing but that.  There’s no need to make up fantasy evils when there are so many real ones in the world already.

    
Amber shakes her head.  “I heard he's a thief.  He likes to steal all your jewelry and then he cuts off your hair like those creepy boys who collect girl’s underwear.”

    
Celeste scoffs and her voice rises, again becoming argumentative.  “No stupid, he's supposed to ask if you'll sleep with him.”

    
I roll my eyes at Celeste.  Does she always have to be right these days?  And why is everything about sex?

    
“I heard that's only if you step on a clover,” Amber argues, her voice rising to match Celeste’s.  “And don’t call me stupid.  I’m smarter that you.”

    
“Get real,” Celeste retorts, unmoved by Amber’s rebuttal. “Who is looking to see if they’ve stepped on a clover?  Besides, clovers grow in meadows, not in the middle of the woods.  He’s a rapist.”

    
“What?” Amber squawks, disbelieving.  “There have been no reports of a rape in Carver Hall Park in the last three years and the last one got caught!”

    
Celeste opens her mouth, but Amber jumps in to defend herself before Celeste puts her down.  “I checked on Google.  The only news about Carver Hall Park is the Holiday Light Show on the manor grounds, that rare pine species near the cliff, and the Green Man sightings.  There have been no reports of rape or sexual harassment, so if he
is
getting some ass, it’s probably consensual.”

    
“Maybe he’s a vampire rapist and erases their memory so they can’t report him,” I tease.

    
Celeste lifts her nose and sniffs, as if she’s beyond this conversation.  I don’t think she likes that her friends are smarter than her now.  She used to get the same grades as us, but that was when she stared more at books than boys.  “Whatever.  He’s not even real.  I don’t know why you bother with this crap.”  She turns and looks at me.  “Right?”

    
I widen my eyes in false shock.  “Don’t look at me.  I’m in love with cartoon characters, remember?”

Tamrin

     When the sky turns grey and the dew is still on the leaves in the forest, I make my rounds.  Because I am a knight and it is my duty to protect those who live in my assigned territory, I visit each of my five neighbors to be certain nothing is amiss. 

    
When Roxel discovered that I do this, she laughed at me.  “You are supposed to keep them out, not protect them as you would the fae in your care,” she had said.

    
I shrugged and replied, “Well, since they are the closest threat, does it not make sense to keep watch over their affairs?”

    
She didn’t have an answer for that.  And I’m glad of it.  I like my morning rounds.

    
Smiling, I reach for another branch and swing to the next tree.

    
“Slow down!  Master!”

    
Branch to branch, light as a feather, agile as a squirrel, faster than a
Dunrhe
– I can circle my territory in less than an hour, though I’m slower today because Enmire insisted he come along today so he may see White Cat.  He has a fascination with White Cat.  White Cat has a fascination with him, though both are aware that cats and fae should not be friends. 

    
“Master!”    

    
I pause, perched on a branch and glance over my shoulder.  “Your little legs do not keep up with mine.”

    
Between the arrows slung over my back, I see his lithe slate-colored form.  Long, triple jointed arms, short legs.  Hardly a neck, hunched and boney back, an unattractive face.  Still, he’s a nice little
Rhumbring
and I like him more than the other fae, so I humor him.  Truly, I can’t complain.  Someone with a handicap like mine should be grateful there is a fae who has a fondness for him at all.  Of all the
Aos Si
traits I thought I would manifest, the attraction of a familiar is the last of them.

    
“Do hurry.”

    
Enmire grumbles at me under his heavy breathing, but he picks up his pace and I continue forward, leaping to the next branch.  A few minutes later, we’ve reached my favorite neighbor’s house.  This is where Lovely lives.

    
I slip down a trunk and crouch in the thick undergrowth, peeking through the leaves.  Lovely is already out with White Cat.

    
I turn and knock my fist lightly against Enmire’s bony skull.  “You’ve made me late.”

    
He reaches up and rubs his head, feigning hurt.  “Not like she’s going to do anything different than any other day.”

    
Still.  I don’t like to miss watching her.  At first, I felt as though doing this was wrong – as if I was spying.  But I’ve watched many humans since then and I’ve come to learn that it’s okay to look at the things that please you.  Women see babies and they smile at them simply because children give pleasure.  People make hobbies out of watching animals or other people do things.  Boys Lovely’s age purposely go out of their way to see pretty girls pass by on the street.  I do not do what some of those boys do.  I would never cross the green lawn and peek into a window.  And I would never follow her about in her daily routine so I may see more of her. 

I make a point of standing at the end of my property to see my neighbor let her cat out every morning.  I see her like I would a peacock or a piece of art, simply because she’s nice to look at and something about her gives me great peace – as if seeing her alive and well every morning lets me know that all is well in the human world.  There’s nothing strange about it.  It’s regular, non-invasive, and pure.

     “When are you going out there to speak to her?”  Enmire asks.

    
I shake my head.  “I could never do that.” 

    
“Why not?”

    
He doesn’t understand.

    
This one visitation is enough.  It is what I give myself.  If there is to be more, then she will have to make the move.  She will have to come to me.  But I know it’s not to be.  Lovely hates my forest.  She glares at it with such deep, haunted eyes.  She will never come, I am as certain of that as I am my own immortality.

    
Lovely is sitting on the back step, petting White Cat and talking to him.  I can’t hear what she is saying.  There is a long distance between me and the back of her house.  I hate that long, green lawn because it makes it so I can never get near enough to see Lovely up close.  But even at a distance, I’d have to be blind not to see she deserves my nickname for her.  She is graceful and pale skinned and her hair is like music, complicated and beckoning.

    
Finally, Lovely stands, wiping fur off her hands and retreats into her little white house. 

    
Enmire shifts beside me.  “Where’s she off to?”

    
She is dressed in the green outfit today, which means she must be going to the big stone building on the other side of the park – not the one that no one lives in, but the one other human girls wearing that outfit go.  “School, I think.”

    
A moment later, White Cat comes bounding across the green lawn and slips through the ferns.  He greets me with a rumbling belly and a back arch to my shin.  I reach down and scratch his shoulder.  Then he’s off running and rolling about with Enmire.  I stand and move on to the next house, leaving the two of them to play.

Jeanette

     I'm running so fast my lungs are on fire and no matter how many gulps of icy air I take, they don’t calm the burn.  The jangling bells and creaking harnesses are so close, I can’t hear my own whimpering breaths.  I feel like I'm going to collapse, but there’s a hand, hard and familiar, pressed between my shoulder-blades, shoving me onward. 

    
I step on an upturned root, my ankle rolls and I stumble off of the path.  I tumble down through the underbrush and smack into a tree.  Everything goes black.  When I wake, I scramble to my feet and look around.  There’s no trace of anyone.  Only the haunting sound of jangling bells in my ears and the phantom warmth of a hand I can no longer hold.

    
I open my eyes and wipe a mascara-stained tear out of my lashes.  I’m back in my room, back in the present.  But even now, I feel the handprint, warm and perfect on my back, like a brand left behind by Timmy.  A brand still burning hot after seven years.

    
Rolling over, I hug my pillow. 
Yeah, something is definitely wrong with me.
  Maybe I didn't grieve correctly when it first happened?  Was I in too much shock?  Sometimes I wonder if the police only exacerbated the problem.  They questioned me – as if a ten year old little girl could lure her friend into the woods, murder him, and hide the body.  Everyone thought the worst: he’d been kidnapped, he’d been murdered, he fell and twisted his neck.  His mom blamed me.  She refused to believe it was his idea to wander through the woods on Halloween night. 

    
Deep down I know these dreams, the haunting daylight flashes, and my inability to let him go are a result of not knowing what happened.  He just disappeared.  I hate myself for falling.  I hate myself for hitting my head.  I hate myself because I’m the one that broke contact.  I’m the one who let go.  And I’m terrified of doing it again.

    
“Oh, TimTam,” I breathe.  Saying my nickname for him after so long, feels strange, like I’m talking to his ghost.  “I miss you.”

    
My door opens and Dad pops his head in.  “Good morning, sunshine.”

    
I don't lift my head. I don't want him to see I've been crying again.  It’s kinda pathetic and embarrassing at my age to wake up crying from a bad dream.

    
“Nett, what's wrong?”  Dad asks in that 'hand in the cookie jar' sort of way.

    
Man, I hate when he uses that tone of voice.  How does he know?
  I sigh.

    
“You're not still mad at me for not letting you sleep over at Celeste's are you?”

    
I can almost imagine his face: stuck somewhere between disappointment at having upset me and a disgruntled fatherly stubbornness.  “No,” I mumble.  “I have a Spanish test today and I'm totally not going to pass it.”

    
“Oh.  Didn't you study?”

    
Yeah, for like five minutes.
  “That's why I went to Celeste's.”  Not that we got any studying done.

    
“Oh.  Then you'll be fine.  Celeste knows best.”

    
“Dad, just because Celeste is Puerto Rican doesn't mean I'm going to pass Spanish,” I mumble.

    
“Well,” Dad flounders, sounding like he realizes he’s being racially insensitive, “I'll make waffles.”  He says this like it can solve any problem.  “Homemade.”  He dangles the descriptive like it's something addictive.

    
When Mom was alive, homemade meant wonderful, edible food, but with Dad as the new occupant of the pink and white apron, that usually means something burned beyond recognition. 

    
Homemade is a word that makes my heart ache like the word Timmy makes my heart ache.  But, I don’t want Dad to know he’s dragged up Mom’s memory, so I playfully moan in protest.

    
“Okay, fine.”  He holds up his hands in surrender and grins.  “Cereal and toast it is.”

    
I smile back.  “I'll be down in a minute.”

    
Winking, he turns toward the door.  “Cheer up, you’ll do fine on your test.  You’re a smart girl.”

    
My smile turns to something more wistful at his back as he walks away.  I should be nicer to Dad.  If it weren’t for this repetitive morning routine, I don’t know how I would have made it through these past seven years. I don’t think he’ll ever know how much I love and appreciate him for that, but the truth is, one day I’m going to have to deal with waking up without him.

Jeanette

    
“And I swear, season four is the best yet,” Emily insists during our lunch period.

    
I poke at my pudding and stare at my Spanish book, hating myself for not going home and studying yesterday.  Grades are important to me, getting into a good college is important to me.  But so is keeping my friends.  Considering how buddy-buddy Celeste and Amber are today it’s a well-founded fear.