Hyacinth Girls (5 page)

Curtis was leaning against the chain-link fence, doubled over laughing. Worse, his girlfriend was there too. Lara grasped at his arm.

I didn't need to look at Joyce to know that she was mortified. I'd frozen when I saw them, my arms still high in the air.

“Damn,” Curtis gasped. “You girls under attack?”

Joyce mumbled something behind me. And I dropped my arms to my sides, kicking at the dirt, ashamed of our child's play. But then Lara seemed to take pity on us, socking Curtis in the arm. She managed to keep a straight face as she asked if we wanted to go to the beach.

Lara let me practice my ESP on her later, and she was the perfect candidate. I pictured her thoughts like fluffy white clouds that I could reach out and grab. “You're hungry…for french fries.” “You want a butterfly tattoo,” I announced. And no matter what I guessed, Lara winked and announced that I'd nailed it.

Lara was fifteen that year, the same as my cousin. She was tall and goddesslike in her black combat boots, with dark red hair that hung past the collar of her T-shirt. Sometimes when you tried talking to her she just shrugged or shook her head, but this, I'd learned, was to hide her stammer. She could get stuck in the middle of a sentence, at the beginning of a word, and instead of trying to finish, she'd just clamp her mouth shut and meet your gaze for a long, unnerving moment. When it happened, Curtis would sometimes step in, and he never looked embarrassed or uncomfortable. If he knew what she was talking about—for instance, the way to make a guitar sound like a motorcycle—he'd finish off what she was saying as though he'd been the one talking all along.

Sometimes, though, if it was just the four of us, he'd try to coax her to finish. He'd stroke her hair and say, “Come on, Lara. Don't rush yourself.” Then she might start again, in a very low voice, and if she got stuck in the same place and gave a small panicked laugh that sounded like “huh,” I could feel her frustration welling up in my own chest. I wanted to jump in and save her, finishing her sentences. But that was Curtis's job. He was always ready. Even when they were in different rooms, I knew he was still listening and monitoring her, so if she needed any help he'd be ready to jump in.

Joyce and I would see Lara walking around in Curtis's huge navy sweatshirt, smelling of his cologne, and it seemed like she carried his wide, warm protection wherever she went. I'd once noticed her sniffing the sleeves and I could almost feel the swoopiness in her stomach, the heat in her chest, and I wished that someday I might have something like that, too.

“Did you see the way he touched her face?” Joyce asked.

“He's getting her a ring. Pre-engagement.”

“Do you think if I had a stutter…” she mused.

“Joyce,” I warned. “Don't.”

I knew exactly what she was thinking, and I didn't want to. Joyce was different around Curtis, especially when Lara wasn't there. She grabbed at his mirrored sunglasses, which nestled in his thick black hair, and I'd caught her staring at his calves when he sat on the ground in shorts. Curtis could be weird around Joyce, too. He teased her until she went crazy. And when Lara went home early, Curtis swung his arm around Joyce's neck.

The three of us ended up at the beach one day without Lara. Joyce and I had been playing a secret game of hyacinth girls when Curtis knocked on my door. We were trying to channel the thoughts of a murdered woman so we could stop her killer. But when Curtis mentioned the beach, Joyce said yes without even checking.

Now I watched Curtis scooping Joyce out of the water, his arms looping easily under her knees. And I watched Joyce let herself be carried by my cousin, her arm circling around his neck. We were the hyacinth girls together, but alone on my beach towel I felt like nothing, and this was complicated in my mind by a sudden prickle of desire. I wanted to be the one who Curtis was saving, his warm, wet skin under my fingers, and I also wanted to be the one cradling Joyce in my arms, defending her from assassins and killers. We were supposed to be closer than anyone, our
minds linked forever, but that would all change if she liked Curtis more than me.

If we had ESP really, now would be the time to use it. I watched Joyce fling sand at my cousin as I sent her an SOS.
I need help—now! Come back to me this second
. And when this didn't work I stared out at the bright blue sea. If I walked out as far as I could, and let myself get swept away by the tide, would Joyce hear me then—would she swim out in time to save me? I pictured her sobbing over my body, carrying armfuls of flowers. She hadn't loved me enough—and now this hyacinth girl would be gone. I was thirteen years old. I thought my life might be over. But at just that moment, Joyce came running across the sand. She placed a cold wet hand on my neck, and it was such a relief. I was flooded with feeling: she was back and she was mine.

“Did you hear me?” I asked.

Joyce smiled as she nodded.

Dallas's dad was lighting tiki torches around the pool, and the music was getting louder, and then everyone started singing “Happy Graduation to You!” Shoes were discarded, and the girls became reckless, dancing loose-limbed beneath the spotlit trees. I watched Callie move fluently among different groups of girls, laughing and joking, and I told myself I didn't mind sitting by myself and listening on the periphery of conversations.

I tried smiling at parents I recognized, some whose teeth I'd worked on. They sported gleaming white smiles as they chattered away. I felt completely unsophisticated as they discussed ways of beating traffic to the Cape. Mandarin lessons. Golf tournaments. I heard a harsh bark of laughter, and when I turned I noticed the man, who stood alone by the grill, clutching a beer in one hand. He stared at the girls as they grasped at the air, chasing fireflies across the lawn. He wasn't anyone I'd seen
before. I would've remembered. He wore tight black jeans, unlike the other fathers, and his attention was razor sharp, completely engrossed. I watched him stare for a little while, to make sure I wasn't just imagining, but from the way my skin crawled I knew it was real. In his eyes, these girls were vulnerable, but nobody seemed to notice. The other parents were rocking with laughter, unaware he was tracking their daughters. He raised the bottle to his mouth, eyes still focused, and I knew exactly what he was thinking and I had to act.

He craned his neck to see around me as I squared my shoulders. I wanted to block his view. Protect our girls. I narrowed my eyes as he smirked, but he was maddeningly unbothered. So I tapped him on the arm. “Whose dad are you?”

He didn't even meet my eyes. I was over thirty, unfuckable. Not like these young girls who were brand-new and soft. I would find out his name, humiliate him if I had to. Make sure that Callie never crossed his path again.

He shook his head. “I'm nobody's dad. I'm just here for Dougie.”

Dallas's dad—Doug Price—was nowhere in sight. The man combed his hand through his wavy hair and didn't offer me his name. I wouldn't introduce myself either. I would just stand here blocking his way. I would follow him around if I had to, making sure he kept his hands to himself. I hated the fact that our girls were now so visible to men like this. That they had to be stared at, drooled over, and considered from all angles. At fourteen they were just coming to grips with themselves, trying to feel comfortable, but a man's gaze could change all that. It could shrivel and sap their power.

“How do you know Doug?” I demanded, as Dallas went galloping past. The man ignored my question, turning his head to watch Dallas. Then he stuck out his hand, swiping the air like he wanted to catch her.

“Excuse you!” I said, but my voice was lost beneath his.

“Oh, your pants are on fiiiiiiiiiire!”

Dallas twirled around and leaned forward, touching the fabric on her chest. And I imagined kicking him in the legs, shouting that he needed to leave right now. What I did instead was strictly impulsive, and easy to misinterpret. One of the people who saw it happen thought she saw us making out. Later, a mom would snarkily comment I'd looked cozy with the rock star, and I'd realize that the man I threatened was actually Doug's celebrity. But I didn't see any other options. Sometimes arrogance needs to be challenged.

I grabbed hold of his shoulder, pulling him down to my level, and then I pressed my mouth to his hair and whispered in his ear. “I know what you're thinking. Leave her alone.” The man jerked his head away from me, and I saw that he was furious, the words of the hyacinth girls hissing in his brain. I watched him turn to leave the party and felt power rushing through me—like a thirteen-year-old girl who's just realized what she can do.

 

All My Interactions with Robyn Doblak, #3

For Rebecca/From Callie

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: You asleep?

Date: Thu, Dec 25 2008, 23:18:02

Heyyyyy Callie!

Guess what—I ordered my pit bull wristband. I was going to IM you but you're NEVER on. So I wanted to see if you had a merry sucky Christmas. My Xmas was sucky and not very merry. I didn't get a dog, everyone was fake jolly, and I was like I COULD KILL CHRISTMAS, I COULD BURN DOWN THE TREENN! It just felt like everyone was pretending in case my dad was watching, like we had to be all sunshine and gumdrops, totally fake! But when I'm messed up I can't even hide it. I'm like how can we be happy when we're all just thinking about Dad?

My friends and stuff don't get it. They think I should be OVER it already, and because I'm not they think I'm doing it for more attention. Miss Baranski said it gets easier but I don't WANT it to get easier. I don't want to be happy and I'm SICK of being sad. Is it the same for you? You always seem happy. Hope your Xmas wasn't as bad as mine.

xoRobyn

—

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

SUBJECT: RE: You asleep?

DATE: Fri, Dec 26 2008, 8:42:47

Robyn sorry your Xmas was sucky—I kinda know what you mean. I used to feel the same way with everyone sitting there watching me. It was like they felt seriously sorry for me, thinking they knew EVERYTHING about me. As if they'd already decided my whole life story and they didn't care if they were wrong. So one year I kind of went crazy. I waited till everyone was opening presents. Then I went into the kitchen and got LOTS of ketchup. I put it all over my hair and face so it was dripping like blood and then I went running around the tree screaming about Satan. I wanted them to think I worshipped devils so I was chanting and singing. I told them my name was Evil McFrenzy and I drew a big pentagram right next to the tree!!!! They were just going bizonkers, so freaked out by what I was doing, and they forgot all about the past and I was like yesssssss! FINALLY!!!!

-C

One afternoon in mid-July when I was picking up Callie, I noticed that her hair was damp and there were wet bathing-suit marks on her T-shirt. “They finally got you in the water!” I exclaimed, patting her moist shoulder. I pictured her paddling around Ella's lake, joyfully overcoming her phobia.

“I wasn't swimming,” Callie corrected me. “I just got splashed.”

Every kid has her own quirks, and Callie's was to claim to hate water. Pools, the ocean, innocent babbling brooks. She swore she didn't know how to swim, even though I remembered when Joyce had taught her. I'd offered her lessons hundreds of times, but she was staunch in her refusals.

“Wouldn't it be cool if you took private lessons?” I asked, as we reversed out of Ella's driveway. “You could surprise your friends with your expert strokes.”

“I'm not swimming.” Callie snapped her gum. “Don't sign me up. I won't go.”

“But you could just learn a few basics. For your own safety. What if you fell out of Ella's canoe? You can't always rely on your friends to save you.”

Callie yanked her seat belt forcefully, like she might leap out of my car. “I don't go out in the canoe. I haven't done that in years.”

“But I want you to be able to. I don't want you missing out.”

“Why do you care so much? It's just—stupid.”

She pressed her head against the passenger window, leaving a web of moisture, and I knew I should just drop it before this turned into a fight. We'd only recently made peace after the incident at Dallas's party. Apparently, I wasn't supposed to talk to the rock star—the kingly VIP. Callie had accused me of overreacting, and I'd tried to convince her I was justified, describing his nauseating leer in lengthy detail. But she still claimed I'd ruined the party—embarrassed her, embarrassed myself.

“Look, I'm not going to force you in the water,” I said. “But for me, summer means swimming. All those days when your mom and I went to the beach, doing handstands in the sea.”

“Well, that's disgusting,” she said, “because you
knew
what was in that water.”

I thought she meant the sewage—the regular overflows in Long Island Sound.

“That girl you thought was kidnapped,” she continued. “What was her name?”

Autumn Sanger was the last person who the hyacinth girls tried to rescue. We were thirteen years old when Lara's friend disappeared.

“Is that why you're scared of the water?” I regretted having told her that story. Callie sometimes absorbed the wrong details, changing the message I'd meant to pass on.

“I'm not scared,” she said. “But I know people die in the water.” I could smell her peppermint gum as she worked it vigorously between her jaws.

“People die everywhere,” I spoke carefully. “You can't avoid everywhere.”

“Just because you loved swimming doesn't mean I have to. Your childhood wasn't so perfect. You forget all the bad stuff.”

“Look, Miss Sass. I didn't forget anything. But even the bad stuff wasn't that bad. We were so carefree, anything seemed possible.”

“So you accused some old guy of kidnapping and broke into his basement.”

I slowed down the car, not bothering to brake smoothly. She really had a bee in her bonnet today. The joys of being fourteen.

“You're remembering that story wrong. I never went in any guy's basement. We were in his house for less than five minutes.”

“Trespassing,” she said. “You probably scared him to death.”

“We were trying to do the right thing. We were only thirteen.”

“You bothered him for no reason,” she said harshly. “Because you were so carefree.”

It had seemed like a good reason at the time. I remembered how Lara couldn't stop crying. Autumn was her friend. Our reasons seemed brave and irreproachable.

I didn't respond to Callie, letting her marinate in frosty silence. But after a few minutes, she tried resuming our conversation.

“Do you still remember her name?” Callie asked quietly. “Even though you didn't know her?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was Autumn Sanger.”

Lara came over crying that day. She didn't even notice what she'd interrupted. Curtis had been tugging Joyce's braid, stroking its soft tendrils, but he dropped her hair so fast, Joyce's head jerked to one side. I saw Joyce trying to hide a small frown as she smoothed her hair back. “Did you hear?” Lara's lips were trembling. “Autumn Sanger disappeared.”

Curtis left the two of us on the couch, where he'd been wedged
between us, and Joyce slid her hand across the cushion, still warm from his butt. They'd been flirting all morning, and I'd been trying to stop them. I'd blinked my thoughts steadily at Joyce, but she'd refused to hear a thing. “What do you mean? She ran away?” Curtis was slipping an arm around Lara, and I'd never even heard of Autumn Sanger, but my heart was starting to race. Something awful had happened—it electrified my blood.

“They think she got kidnapped.” Lara spoke as though she'd run the whole way over. Little gasps in between, trying to catch her breath. The ceiling fan rotated slowly above us, as if life was continuing as normal, but Joyce's knees started bouncing up and down, like she was trying to run away.

“Girls, go to Rebecca's room,” Curtis commanded.

“What? Why?”

When we didn't move, Curtis led Lara away so they could talk in private. But the doors in our house were so thin we were able to listen from the hallway. Curtis thought Autumn had run away. That's what he told Lara. He didn't think she'd been kidnapped at all—Autumn had talked about hitchhiking to California. But Lara said she'd know if she'd run away. And anyway, Autumn hadn't said good-bye.

Then she mentioned Mr. Hort and Curtis said no. No way.

Mr. Hort was an old guy who lived in our neighborhood. We'd all heard rumors about how he hired hookers and made them wear children's clothes. A girl from school once told me she'd seen them dancing in Mr. Hort's backyard. They were sucking on pacifiers, their hair in baby curls.

“He's too old and weak to do anything,” Curtis said. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. Aunt Bea was standing behind us, an amused look on her face. She was still wearing the T-shirt she slept in, which hung halfway
down her bare thighs. I smelled smoke on her breath as she pressed her ear against the door.

“Don't tell me they're knocking boots already.” She banged on Curtis's door. “Hey, you got Peeping Toms out here!”

Joyce's face went beet-red, and I tried to explain about Autumn. But instead of asking me for any details, my aunt told us to go to my room.

“We need to contact her,” Joyce said, as we lay side by side on my bed. I'd already turned off the lights in hopes of encouraging ghosts and spirits. Joyce reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Do you think Mr. Hort took her?”

“Ask her,” I said. “Let's call her right now.”

“Autumn Sanger,” we whispered again and again until the words melted together, and our voices became slow, and the backs of our throats ached.

Then I heard a small clear voice in my head. “Basement,” it said.

All the hairs on my arms stood up. “Basement!” I announced to Joyce.

“Whose basement?”

I thought for a moment. “Mr. Hort's!”

Then I was there, in Autumn's place, locked in his basement. I was shivering in the darkness, rough cement beneath my back. It was cold. My throat burned. I heard footsteps creak above me. Then someone was knocking on my bedroom door.

Lara flipped on the lights and saw us lying there. “Rebecca, can I ask a favor? I need to borrow your sales club stuff.”

Joyce and I had been selling greeting cards door-to-door through a mail-order sales club that summer. We lugged the heavy catalog around most afternoons, ringing doorbells and showing off samples. I jumped
up to retrieve the catalog for Lara, anxious to help her. I thought she wanted to send Autumn's parents a card covered in candles or crosses, but Joyce was suspicious. Why did Lara want it?

Lara ignored her. “How do you guys usually do it? Just ring the doorbell and show them the brochure?”

“It's a catalog, not a brochure,” Joyce said.

“We tell them we're from the Sunshine Sales Club,” I explained. “We ask if they want any cards or gift wrap.” Actually, it was Joyce who did all the talking; she had this whole very persuasive pitch.

“You can't take it unless we get to go with you,” Joyce said.

“I'll bring it right back.”

“You have to take us with you,” Joyce insisted. And that's how we ended up in Mr. Hort's house.

Lara made us promise that we wouldn't tell Curtis, and that we'd let her do all the talking, and no matter what happened we wouldn't go inside. We walked down the street and around the corner, turned left at the intersection, and then crossed over to the neat white house with the blue mailbox in front. There was a freshly painted trellis in the side yard, and clipped hedges growing beneath the windows. The grass was trimmed, and pieces of shingle hadn't fallen off the roof. The three of us strode up to the door, like a miniature posse. Like hyacinth girls, ready to save one of our own.

Lara had started telling us about Autumn, feeding us facts as we'd walked over. Such as: Autumn liked to line her eyes with so much black it looked like she was peering out from deep inside a hole. The two of them had been friends for more than two years, trading tapes in the tank, which was the hallway at the high school where the metalheads
hung out. Lara poked her eyes to stop herself from crying and I felt her distress sinking deep in my bones.

Then we were standing on his doorstep and Lara was ringing the bell. The door opened. Mr. Hort was standing there.

He was small and thin, and he spoke in a wet, fluty murmur. “Yes? Hell-o?” Eyes darting under heavy black brows. Lara was holding the catalog, and Joyce had taught her the entire sales pitch, but Lara didn't say a word. She just stared at him, unsmiling. I touched her arm, tried patting it. I didn't know what to do; I thought she'd been caught out by her stammer. Then Joyce was stepping forward. “Hello,” she said warmly. “We're from the Sunshine Sales Club and we wondered if you—”

Lara gasped suddenly, like someone was choking her. Her wheezy rasp was terrifying, and for a second I thought she was dying.

“Water,” she croaked, grabbing on to my shoulder. “Water.” She bent over and I felt her nails going into my flesh.

Mr. Hort's eyes bulged with alarm, but as soon as he'd gone, Lara stopped choking. He had retreated to get her water, but it was all just a trick. “You stay here,” she hissed at us, dumping the catalog in Joyce's arms. Then she opened the door and disappeared down the hallway, leaving us alone there on the step.

“She didn't tell us,” Joyce said quietly. “What are we supposed to say to him?”

“I don't know. We'll just keep him talking.”

But then neither of them came back. We were sure it was at least two minutes. Our hands had started sweating, and our faces were prickling hot. Joyce put her hand on the metal latch. “No. Don't,” I said. But it was already too late: Joyce was opening the door.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Medicinal, like cough syrup and antifungal spray. The smell of hookers, I thought, and when I looked
around I expected a grown woman to appear, squeezed into the tiny shorts and rainbow shirt of a child. “Joyce,” I hissed, as I followed behind her. “Joyce!”

It felt as though we were under a spell, being lured deeper and deeper inside, and soon it would be too late to escape. We were in the hallway and then the living room, where a dark blue curtain covered the window. Then I heard something rustling. Him. I felt faint.

“Where's the sick one? What are you doing?” he demanded, and the fluty notes in his voice had vanished. He held a cup in one hand and fixed his dark, scary eyes on us.

I looked around the room. There was a glass table lamp, a pointy-headed carved doll that reminded me of voodoo. I stretched my fingers. I could grab something and hit him. I would aim for his head, the side of his temple. Or his eyes.

We heard a door slam, and as Mr. Hort turned to look I took my opportunity. “Autumn! Autumn! Autumn!” I screamed, and then Joyce was joining in with me. And he watched us with horror or hatred or fear—I couldn't tell which.

Mr. Hort didn't chase us out the door, but eventually we turned and ran out on our own.

“Say cheese!” I lifted my camera and zoomed in on Callie. She stretched her arms lazily over her head and didn't smile as I snapped away. We were sitting in Mrs. Romero's garden in the late July sunshine—stalks of lavender thick with honeybees, a sparrow twittering in the bushes. I took seven or eight photos as Callie gazed quietly into the lens, and when I was done she didn't ask how she'd looked; instead, she wanted to talk about Autumn.

“Do you think she did it to get famous? Kind of wanting attention?”

Autumn had come up a few times now, ever since the day I thought
Callie went swimming. I guessed this might be a ploy to keep me from nagging her about lessons.

“I don't think so.” I turned off my camera. “They said she was drunk and it was spur-of-the-moment.”

“But she didn't leave any clues. She must have wanted people to look.”

“There might have been clues. It's just nobody saw them at first.”

Callie tickled her bare feet against the grass, swinging them slowly back and forth. “Not even her friends?”

“Autumn's friends thought she was kidnapped. She didn't tell them anything. That's why they had these big search parties in the woods and everywhere else.”

“But Autumn could swim, right?”

I looked at Callie's summer freckles, her hair gleaming in the sun. The crease of concentration between her pale brows. I didn't want to feed her details she could use in arguments against me, but I started to nod. Autumn knew how to swim.