Freeze Tag (12 page)

Meghan could not waste much more time worrying over carpet. She went out the front door.

Her father was correct. Lannie was there.

Standing thin and small in her driveway.

Perhaps she was waiting for West to pick her up.

Perhaps West had just dropped her off and she was still thinking about it, staring down at his house, watching him go inside.

Meghan walked slowly across the yard. The last snow had melted and the temperature had dropped even lower. The ground was hard as pavement, and the frozen grass crunched like breakfast cereal under her shoes.

It was difficult to imagine herself and the Trevor children young enough and carefree enough to play yard games here. It seemed decades ago, a topic for history class.

It was me, thought Meghan. There was a time when I did not know what Lannie could do.

She had put on her jacket but not mittens or hat, and the wind chewed on her exposed skin, mocking her for thinking she could come outside and live.

Meghan gathered her courage and looked straight across the street. Straight at Lannie. Firmly, without flinching, because this was not a personal thing, this was a parental order. In the game of Freeze Tag, it didn’t count.

Lannie had no eyes
.

Only sockets.

Meghan stopped dead, gagging, unable to walk closer.

Lannie smiled. The smile rested humanlike under the empty sockets. The smile was full of those baby teeth, small as birdseed. Meghan had a horrible feeling that birds had already been there: feeding on the face, taking the eyes, preparing to peck at the teeth.

Then Lannie was right up next to her, so wispy and unsubstantial that Meghan felt as heavy as a truck. Who had moved? How did Lannie do this — empty herself from one spot and fill another, without Meghan ever seeing her accomplish it?

The sockets were not empty after all.

The same old eyes, bleached out and cruel, stared up at Meghan.

Lannie smirked.

It was the smirk that brought Meghan back. Such a middle-high kind of look. An
I’ve got what you want
taunt. Meghan’s chin lifted. She would not be intimidated. “Hello, Lannie,” said Meghan.

Lannie of course said nothing. Just waited.

“My father is worried,” said Meghan.

Lannie of course said nothing. Just waited.

“About Jason,” said Meghan.

Lannie smiled.

“He hasn’t seen Jason lately,” said Meghan. Talking to Lannie was like being in a track meet. She was winded from four short sentences.

“Well,” said Lannie, linking her arm in Meghan’s as if they were friends. “You haven’t seen Jason lately either, have you?”

Lannie’s arm turned to metal. It might have been a shackle on Meghan’s wrist.

“It’s time you saw Jason,” said Lannie softly. “Come on over to my house, Meggie-Megs.” Lannie had never used the nickname. It sounded somehow evil, as if Lannie had got a hold of some essential depth in Meghan and could control it.

“I just have to tell my father where he is,” said Meghan, trying to resist. But Lannie did not let go. Meghan was going with Lannie Anveill whether she wanted to or not. They walked in lockstep.

I do not want to go into that house, thought Meghan Moore. I do not want to be alone with Lannie!

Lannie, who always knew what you were thinking, knew what she was thinking. “You won’t be alone with me,” said Lannie. Her voice dripped ugliness. Her tiny body shuddered with taunting. “Jason is there.”

Lannie escorted Meghan in her front door.

It was identical to every other front door on Dark Fern Lane. It opened onto a rectangle of fake slate tiles. Four steps led down to the family room and the garage. Nine steps led up to where the kitchen opened straight onto the stairs. The living room was at the left, with only a metal railing to keep you from falling off the couch and into the stairwell. Jason had not replaced his shag carpeting. Layers of avocado green fluff, flattened in the center from years of footsteps, climbed both ways.

Lannie did not take Meghan up to the living room or kitchen.

They went down the four stairs to the fake cork floor that covered all family rooms.

Or had. Meghan’s mother and father had continued the new nubbly champagne wool all the way down and across. They had replaced the plain metal railing at the living room rim with a delicate white wooden bookcase, half solid and half see through, so books were firmly placed and special possessions were beautifully displayed.

I’m thinking so hard about my own house, thought Meghan. I’m so afraid to think about Lannie’s.

They did not go into Lannie’s family room either.

It occurred to Meghan that she had never been in Lannie’s family room. The same rather dark half-basement room with the high windows that let in so little light — the room where most people watched TV and sorted laundry and kept the video games and the board games and the outgrown Fisher-Price toys and the piles of paperbacks and magazines.

Did Lannie have any of those?

Had any family ever gathered in that family room?

When Lannie’s relatives wanted to be happy, they drove away. They got in their cars.

Perhaps it was a room for solitary confinement, instead of family.

Meghan shivered.

Lannie smiled.

They turned right, into the tiny claustrophobic hall with a laundry closet on one side, a half bath on the other, and the garage door at the end. The garage door was flimsy; hollow wood that clunked lightly when closed. Most of these doors had broken and been replaced over the years. Lannie’s had not.

Lannie opened it.

The two-car garage under the bedrooms was completely dark.

Lannie flipped the electric switch and the room was flooded with light from two overhanging fluorescent tubes.

Jason sat in his Corvette.

He had a smile on his face.

One hand on the wheel.

One hand on the gearshift.

The motor was not running. But Jason was driving. The garage had been completely dark. But Jason was driving. The garage was very very cold. But Jason was driving.

Lannie’s arm dropped from Meghan’s.

Meghan walked slowly toward the Corvette. Jason did not look up at her. Jason did not stop smiling. Jason did not stop driving the silent motionless car.

Between the Corvette and the leaf rakes hanging against the side of the garage, Meghan stood trapped. Lannie’s bright glittering eyes pierced her like stabbing icicles. Meghan backed up, pressing herself against the cold wooden studs of the garage. “You froze him.”

Lannie nodded.

“But — but he’s — your only family.”

“No. He was just Jason.”

“He didn’t deserve to — umm — I mean …” Meghan’s voice trailed off. She was having difficulty thinking. “When did you do it?” she said. “Can you undo it?”

Lannie shook her head. “It’s been quite a while. I’m surprised nobody missed him before this, actually.”

Meghan had been in there, in that frozen state, where Jason was now. She well remembered the feeling. She knew every sensation Jason had had — or not had — as the cold took him over.

But she, Meghan, had returned.

How long had Jason sat behind that wheel? How long had he sat there, knowing that the glaze over his eyes was to be permanent? That the cold in his bones would be forever?

“Does West know?” whispered Meghan.

“Oh, yes.” Laughter etched new lines on Lannie’s parchment skin. “I made him sit next to Jason for a while,” she said, smiling. “West behaves very well now.”

Meghan, clutching her stomach, retreated around the Corvette.

“Don’t throw up,” said Lannie. “I’d only make you clean it yourself, Meghan. Jason is fine this way. It’s not that much of a change from his usual personality, you know.”

Lannie came closer and closer. Meghan had nowhere to go. The lawnmower blocked her exit. She had no strength in her bones anyway.

Once again Lannie’s hand closed on Meghan’s arm. But nothing happened. Meghan did not freeze. She did not become an ice statue. Blood still ran in her veins and thoughts still poked through her mind like electric shocks.

Oddly practical thoughts. Groceries and electric bills. How was Lannie going to keep going all winter? All year? All future years?

“I’ll be fine,” said Lannie. “If anybody gives me a hard time, you know what will happen to them.”

Meghan knew.

“I’d prefer you didn’t tell your father,” said Lannie.

Meghan felt thick and hopeless.

“Because,” said Lannie Anveill softly, “you know what I will do if anybody gives me a hard time, Meghan Moore.”

T
HE FRONT SEAT OF
the old truck was warm and toasty. All the short February day, sun had gleamed on yesterday’s snow. The truck cab was momentarily a greenhouse in which orchids could thrive.

Meghan sat far over on her side, and West sat far over on his.

The distance between them could be measured in inches or in hearts. They did not want to touch each other. They had not discussed this. Perhaps they thought that Lannie would know. That she could read the history of this afternoon in West’s eyes.

Or perhaps whatever had once been between Meghan Moore and West Trevor had grown too cold for the sun to soften.

Meghan tugged each finger of her glove forward and bent the tips down, and then tugged each finger back till it fit again. She thought deeply about the pattern knit into the gray wool. She studied the long crack in the windshield.

“There must be something!” said West. His voice was low. Lannie was a hundred miles away and yet West thought she could overhear.

I must think so, too, Meghan realized. I am afraid of what will happen tonight when she comes over here. Some afterglow of me will be lingering on West, and for Lannie it will be as vivid a message as searchlights in the dark, and she will lust to hurt one of us. That terrible desire will be back in her speech and her heart. If she has a heart.

“Some reversal!” said West urgently. “Something we can turn against her.”

Oh, how I want this to end! thought Meghan. But what can be turned against a girl who possesses Lannie’s power?

Yet even Lannie had to follow certain rules. Her history class had gone to the state capitol for the day and would not be back until late. Meghan constantly checked her watch and the lowering sky. What was late? How did the school define that? What if Lannie were to return when Meghan and West were sitting together?

What would she do?

Meghan was irked with herself. Meghan knew perfectly well what Lannie would do.

“Some technique,” said West. And then, with a sort of ferocity in his voice, like a pit bull fastening its jaws, he spat out, “Something to
destroy
her.”

Meghan swerved in the little cozy space to look at him. He was not handsome, spitting his words. He was ugly and mean. He did not see Meghan. He did not see the truck or the snow or the sky. He saw only his neighbor. Lannie Anveill. Being destroyed.

A terrible word. Armies destroy cities. People who don’t want them any longer destroy dogs.

I don’t want to destroy a person, thought Meghan. Even Lannie. Even with her history. I do not wish to destroy. “Can’t we just cure her?” said Meghan.

“Is there a cure for evil?” demanded West.

Meghan did not know. She was new to evil.

“You’re the one Lannie was going to leave frozen! She laughed when she was going to let you die in the snow! You’re the one she hates most, because you have everything!” said West.

To Meghan’s horrified ears, West sounded as full of hate as Lannie. As though West, too, hated Meghan, and hated the world, and all good families. His mouth looked awful. Twisted and biting down. West, her sweet good West. Meghan looked away.

“You should be first in line to wipe her out!” cried West.

But I’m not, thought Meghan. I never want to be in that line at all. I want to be in line to save people. Not the line to destroy them.

She tried to explain this to West, but he could not listen. He huffed out an angry hot lungful of air, full of swearing and cursing. In the small space between the cracked windshield and the torn seats, his words expanded. She was breathing pain and ugliness instead of oxygen.

“You think you can teach Lannie to be sweet and forgiving?” demanded West. His anger was as frightening as Lannie’s.

Meghan flinched.

“We’ve set an example all our lives. Both our families are kind and generous. Lannie hasn’t picked up any of it, believe me. A girl who would freeze her own mother? Freeze the dog? Freeze my sister? Freeze you? Freeze Jason and keep him there like a trophy?”

I never quite believed it, thought Meghan. I was there for all of that. I was one victim, and I saw the rest. Yet even now, in the afternoon sun, I cannot quite believe it.

West changed characters as swiftly and completely as if he’d been changing clothes. He set down anger and put on contemplation. Drumming his fingers on the dashboard, West frowned in an intellectual sort of way. As if he were a professor deciding how to explain a new concept.

He was handsome again, and yet Meghan was suddenly afraid of him, too.
Too?
she thought. Am I bracketing West with Lannie? What am I afraid of?

Now she was afraid of the truck, too. The handle that did not work. The doors she could not open. The bulk of West’s body that blocked the only exit. Meghan laced her ten fingers together and ordered herself to be rational.

“No,” said West meditatively. “I think Lannie has to be ended.”

How little emotion lay in his voice.
Lannie must be ended
.

Meghan fixed her eyes on the swirling sunlight outside the truck. The sun spoke of truth and beauty and goodness. Perhaps it was locked out. Perhaps all she needed to do was open a door.

That day Lannie froze the children.

Girls have perfect conversational recall. Boys can hardly even remember the topic. If she were to quote West to himself, West would draw a blank. I said that? he would say. No, I didn’t, Meghan.

Your heart is not in this
,
West
, Lannie had said.
I want your heart
. And West had said,
You have my heart
.