Servants of the Storm (8 page)

“Remember when Carly said she was going to make herself disappear?”

My head whips around, and tears sting my eyes. “Baker, don’t.”

“No. I’m going to. I’m sick of not talking about her.” The bucket seat creaks as he leans back hard. “We were what, seven? She told us she was a wizard, and she could disappear. And we thought she did.”

“She was hiding in the goddamn closet, and you know it.”

“Yeah. But for the first couple of minutes, I really thought she’d done it. I thought she was magical.”

“What’s your point?”

His head bounces off the headrest in rhythmic futility. “Every now and then I think,
Maybe she’s just in the closet.
” He sniffles. “I know you’re not ready to talk about it. But I needed to say it. I miss her every single day.” His head rolls, his eyes boring into me. “I missed you, too.”

There’s something tentative about the way he says it. Like it’s a question and not a statement, like he can’t be sure of anything. It’s a feeling I’m familiar with, and I reach out to hold his hand. Maybe he feels as lost and alone as I do. He smiles and squeezes my fingers, and I squeeze back briefly before pulling into the alley behind the Liberty.

“Do you want to get a burger at 616 after rehearsal?” I ask once we’re out of the car and heading to the theater.

As soon as he turns to look at me with his face all lit up like a Christmas tree, confusion washes over me. He’s not looking at me like I’m his childhood friend and companion in sorrow. He’s looking at me the way guys look at girls they like . . . right after they’ve agreed to a date.

“That sounds great, Dovey. I haven’t eaten there in ages. That’ll be great.”

He holds the door open for me, and I try to return his smile. I wanted backup on my mission, not a date, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings. And I don’t want him to know that I think I saw Carly last week and now she’s telling me what to do in my dreams. I have this sense of déjà vu about being downtown. Something about running and a tiny plastic sword. I shake my head and hope the details will come back to me. More holes in my memory are not something I need right now.

We part ways with an awkward half hug, and I walk into the girls’ dressing room. It seems oddly quiet, and I realize that there’s an empty spot in front of the mirror.

“Where’s Tamika?” I ask.

Jasmine tosses her hair and says, “Guess Little Miss Pyromaniac was too scared to come back in a burned bedsheet.”

“She probably just got sick of smelling your perm,” I say, almost without thinking.

She turns those cold, green eyes on me and does her little head shake again.

“Don’t you go messing with me, psycho,” she says. Then she puts on a fake, sugary-sweet smile. “Did we forget to take our crazy pills again, Miss Dovey?”

“No, but I might have accidentally taken one of your bitch pills instead.” I step into her personal space and stare into her eyes, hard.

Finally, that backbone and fire I inherited from my mom and learned from Carly are coming back. Jasmine and I glare at each other for a long time, and I don’t blink. She does.

“Whatever,” she says in a bored voice, rolling her eyes and moving to the makeup bin. “Who’s got the mascara?”

I smile to myself. I won that round. And I’m not even back at full force yet.

In rehearsal Rosewater doesn’t say a word to me. I dance my dance and act fluttery behind my mushroom. When I finally get sick of hearing the awkward pause where her assistant should be reading Tamika’s lines as the main Ariel, I just start filling them in by rote. It’s like that whole time when I was in the numb fuzz, the dramatic part of my brain was soaking it up. Rosewater eyes
me sharply but says nothing, and I don’t stumble a single time.

Back behind my mushroom I stare past the footlights into the musty corners of the Liberty. I don’t see a single soul. Not Old Murph, not the fox-eared girl. The theater is empty and showing its age more than I remember, with cobwebs clinging to the droopy red velvet curtains and springs poking out of some seats. Even more houselights are out today, the constellations dimmer and the floor cloaked in shadow.

The skin between my shoulder blades tickles. Even though I know there’s no one there, I have the sudden sensation that someone is aiming for me, like a gun is pointed right at that spot. Icicles shiver down my spine, and my heart beats so loudly that I know Mrs. Rosewater is going to call “CUT!” any second and yell at me again. I spin around and scan the stage behind me, but all I see is the curtain.

I squint up into what’s left of the catwalk. Lumpy sandbags dangle amid the broken boards and snapped ropes that have hung, unused, for years. The seniors always tell the incoming freshmen this spooky story about how some kid was up there to shake fake snow down for a scene, and a rope snapped, and he fell to his death onstage in a big pile of soap flakes. Later on they’ll find some kid with dandruff on his shoulders and make a big deal about how the Liberty ghost chose him, and then that kid will totally freak out. Even as a freshman I didn’t fall for that line of crap, and Carly just laughed and brought a bottle of Head & Shoulders as a joke offering to the ghost. But crouched
here, watching the skeletal catwalk shift in a breeze that isn’t there, I almost believe the legend is true.

Something moves in the shadows far overhead, and the catwalk creaks. I start to rise from my crouch. Someone’s there. I have to find out who it is. Maybe it’s the fox-eared girl. Maybe it’s Carly. All the strange things I’m seeing and dreaming have to be connected somehow—I just feel it.

“Dovey! You missed your cue!” Mrs. Rosewater shouts.

I apologize and dance out onto the stage, blinded by the lights yet completely at home. Someone feeds me my line, and I zip into my dialogue with Baker. He’s gazing at me, his eyes bright in the spotlights and his every move perfect. I feel like he’s saying something that isn’t actually in the script. He’s captivating and strange, and trading barbs with him brings out the wildness and passion of my Ariel. I finish the scene with a new kind of energy and twirl back behind my mushroom. It feels colder now, in the shadows outside the stage lights. I watch Baker for a few moments, and it’s hard to separate the boy from the character he’s playing.

When he’s finally offstage, I exhale. I guess I was holding my breath, enjoying his performance. I suddenly remember that it felt like there was someone watching me from the catwalk before, someone aiming for me. But I don’t feel a presence there anymore. Everything beyond the stage lights feels cold, dead.

Whoever it was, they’re gone now, and the catwalk sways in the darkness.

After rehearsal I’m careful to wipe off my makeup with baby wipes and pull my unruly hair back into a low ponytail. I was always jealous of Carly’s ’fro, which was just like my mom’s, and she was always jealous of my light skin and eyes and freckles. I tried getting braids like hers once, but my ears stuck out too much.

“It’s so easy for you,” she said one time, watching me pull my hair back in a rubber band. “Your hair behaves, and your skin’s light. This old-timer city’s just as racist as it used to be.”

“It’s not easy for me,” I argued, putting my hands on my hips and sassing her right back. “At least you know who you are. I got the worst of a pasty white nerd and a feisty black bitch. Half the city hates you, but
all
the city hates me.”

And then her eyes turned up at the corners, and she tried not to laugh. But she couldn’t help it. We ended up teasing my hair as high as it would go and putting my mama’s white clay mask all over her face, then taking pictures of ourselves together, acting like fools. Together we could make anything hilarious.

She had the strangest mix of ridiculousness and pride. I remember with a mingled sense of warmth and loss the day Baker was talking about earlier. For just a few moments I really thought Carly had made herself disappear. And when she finally burst out of the closet, Baker and I both screamed bloody murder.

“I told you I was a wizard!” she shouted.

But there were cobwebs in her hair and cracker crumbs on her shirt. She always loved to play pranks like that. No wonder Baker
and I both keep expecting to see her again, like it’s been some elaborate joke. Except that I actually have seen her. The idea is half-hilarious, half-insane. And completely terrifying. I check the dressing room broom closet on a whim, but it’s just full of mops and crap, and I hurry out the door before I freak myself out more.

Baker is waiting for me in the hall, and I stifle a giggle as I hand him a baby wipe.

“I am not going out with a monster,” I say, and his grin tells me he only heard the words “going out.”

“I’m really more of a disenfranchised nature spirit,” he says, mopping his face off. He mucks it all up, and I sigh in exasperation and take the wipe from him to clean up his mess. He enjoys it a little too much and smiles like a dog getting a belly rub, so I throw the wipe at his face when I’m done.

“Smooth your hair, too,” I say. “You look like you slept in a bush.”

“It’s our first date,” he says in mock indignation. “I’ll have you know I’m not that kind of boy.”

I know my smile isn’t a decent reflection of his, but I hope he doesn’t notice. What did I start, squeezing his hand like that in the car? He’s looking at me differently now. I still think of him as a childhood friend. But even though I don’t think I’m in a good place to date anyone, I don’t want to hurt his feelings, so I go along with the “date” idea. And I’m glad to have company on my mission, someone who wants to keep me safe. Even though I can’t remember what happened last night, I’m pretty sure something went deeply wrong.

We lock our stuff in the trunk, but I remember to bring some
cash. Luckily, I didn’t touch my piggy bank the entire time I was in the numb fuzz of the meds. If Baker manages to pay for my dinner, we’ll definitely be in dating territory, whether I want to be or not. As we walk to 616, he stays a little closer than I’m used to, and our wrists brush a few times, but I don’t give him a chance to hold my hand. He walks between me and the street, like good boys in Savannah are taught to do. We chat about the play and make little jokes about the people we see, keeping it light.

At 616 he holds the door open for me, and I slide inside, glad I wore a nicer sweater today. I haven’t shopped in more than a year, since I was out of commission last fall, and my closet is pretty sad. But he’s not dressed up either—just his usual cold-weather costume of baggy jeans, flannel, and peacoat. He’s gotten lanky, and his wrists poke out, just a little. The restaurant is overly warm, and the Pepto-Bismol–pink walls are as campy as ever, glistening in between the posters, junk, and old-fashioned crap that attracts kids and tourists.

The hostess gives us this indulgent smile, like we’re cute or something, and I excuse myself to go to the bathroom before she can ask embarrassing questions that I don’t want to answer, like how long we’ve been going out.

“Want me to order your Dr Pepper?” Baker asks, and I have to smile and thank him. There’s something to be said for having a friend who knows just what you need, especially when you’re not sure what you need yourself.

On the way to the bathroom, I pass the cow table where Carly
and I always sat. It’s painted with black and white cow spots, and a fake udder hangs underneath it, which always cracked us up. The hostess is seating Baker in one of the corner booths, the one decorated with circus memorabilia under a striped awning. It’s the booth they reserve for special occasions like anniversaries and birthdays, and I find that I don’t want to tip the hostess a damn bit for treating us like lovebirds. He catches me watching and grins, and I grin back before I can stop myself.

I pass the photo booth, which is occupied. The curtain is closed, and the flash flickers to the tune of girlish giggling. Photo strips spill from the pocket, waiting to be added to the wall. All you have to do is put in a dollar, and it automatically takes four pictures and spits them out in seconds. I hurry by before I have a chance to think about all the times Carly and I did that very thing, trying to make the silliest pictures possible.

But the photo wall stops me in my tracks. It always does. Thousands upon thousands of photos are tacked up, each successive layer covering the one before it. If you pried them all off the wall, you’d probably get down to women in corsets and men in top hats frowning in sepia. But all the ones on top are modern, if still in black and white. Couples, groups of old ladies in ridiculous hats, little kids. Every single one of them is smiling or making a silly face. Most people rip off one of their photos for the wall and take the other three on the strip, but some people leave them all. Carly and I always did that, figuring we could walk right in and see them whenever we wanted to.

Along the bottom of the wall, below the photos, handmade fliers with “MISSING” printed across the top show another row of faces, along with dates and information. There was one like that for Carly once, but it only lasted a few days—until they found her body in the storm’s wreckage. Some of the fliers go all the way back to Josephine, and some are more recent. Savannah has never been a safe town, but it’s more dangerous than ever now.