Some Quiet Place (11 page)

Thirteen

Four days without seeing Fear. Four days without his games, his tests, his watchful presence. This is what I’m thinking about as Mrs. Farmer drones on about the different kinds of poetry there are. I keep thinking of Fear. There have been stretches of time over the years he’s stayed away, of course, but recently he’s been a constant presence. The fact that he’s gone pokes at something within me. Speculation fills my head.
He’s up to something
.
He’s found something
. And the most insistent possibility:
something happened to him
. He did break the rules by healing me. Could he be out there somewhere, dying, helpless, alone?

You don’t care
, my little voice reminds me. To affirm this, my numb wall stretches taller.

“There’s free verse, as well, which has become more popular in modern times … ”

Sophia, her head bent down in concentration—the pic-
ture of a model student—is writing a note. Her pencil scribbles across the paper furiously. As I watch, I suddenly recall the piece of paper I found on my windshield.
ARE YOU HER?
Was Sophia the one who put it there? Judging from the tense line of her shoulders, whatever she’s writing right now is intended for me. She looks exhausted again. I know her mom works nights at the clinic and her dad left them when they were small. Besides the babysitter, Sophia has no one to help her watch Morgan during those long hours.

When Mrs. Farmer isn’t looking, Sophia is quick, tossing a crumpled-up ball over her shoulder. It lands on my desk with a soft rustle. I debate whether or not to open it at all, but I figure it’ll appease Sophia for a time if she thinks she’s hurt me.

I unfurl the lined mess.
You’re not normal,
she’s written.
They should lock you up and throw away the key.

Maybe.

The handwriting doesn’t match the other note.

Sophia and one of her friends laugh softly under their breath. They glance back at me, expecting a reaction. I sniffle for effect, and this pleases them. The two girls turn their backs, whispering to each other about nothing that interests me. Humans are cruel. Sometimes worse than the Emotions and the Elements.

It strikes me how I’m thinking like I’m not human, myself. Like I’m not one of them.

“For those of you who’ve forgotten, your portfolios are due this Friday. Make sure you finish, guys. They’re a big part of your grade!” Mrs. Farmer calls. I glance at Joshua, who’s hiding behind his hair.

Joshua. He hasn’t spoken to me since he left my house, so angry and sad and suspicious, but throughout the lecture he’s struggled not to glance over his shoulder. He wants me to think he’s not affected by what happened yesterday, but in truth, he blazes with yearning. He yearns to understand, he yearns to know me. In many ways, Joshua reminds me of Fear.

When the bell rings and it comes time for lunch, he catches up with me in the hall, giving in to his desires. “We need to work on the portfolio,” he says sharply. He’s still irritated. He knows I’m hiding something.

I nod, spinning the combination on my locker. “I know. I don’t have time today; my dad wants me home right after school. But we can start talking about it at lunch tomorrow if you want.”

“What’s wrong with lunch today?” he counters, challenging me. He brushes his hair out of his face. I wonder why he doesn’t just cut it.

We walk again. “I’m going to the library to do research.”

“Research for what?”

He steps in front of me, stopping our progress in the middle of the hall. Kids part around us like a wave, some bumping into us, changing and evolving to the disturbance without thinking about it.

I arch my neck to look up at Joshua, studying his resolute expression. His scent drifts to my nose, a mixture of pine and hay and soap. “My past,” I say.

Joshua absorbs this for a moment, pursing his full lips. “Okay.” He nods. “I’ll go with you. We have to stop at my locker first, though.”

Where’s the timid boy I’ve known most of my life? He disappeared so quickly, and the Emotions that used to always surround him are now absent in this new assurance he’s found. “I never said I wanted company,” I inform him with raised brows.

Now he reddens. So a part of that shy boy is still there, I see. He’s a strange combination of grins and blushes and silent contemplation. “If you want to be alone … ” he begins to say, stopping in relief when I shake my head.

“It’s fine. Let’s go, then. We have twenty minutes.”

Browsing through the papers every day during lunch hasn’t given me any of the answers I’ve been looking for. I’m halfway through the year 2000 and I still haven’t been able to find a copy of the newspaper Fear showed me.

“You know,” Joshua says as we rifle through the yellowed documents, “it seems like I’m always helping you with your projects and we never actually work on the project we’re getting graded on.” His lunch rests by his elbow, and as he turns a page he sinks his teeth into an apple.
Crunch
.

My eyes scan an April edition, the front headline reading,
Child Drowns in River.
“We’ll get to the portfolio,” I mutter. I set the paper aside and reach for the next one. But before I can, Joshua stops me, his palm warm on the back of my hand. My fingers curl on the tabletop, and I absorb the sensation of his skin against mine. No human has ever touched me so willingly …

Fear said the exact same thing, about me.

The thought is jarring, and I lift my eyes to Joshua, gauging his expression. Again, he doesn’t give me time to study the angles of this moment. “I’m sorry about how I acted last week,” he says sincerely. “I was … frustrated. But that doesn’t give me an excuse to call you a liar. If you don’t want to share something, that’s your business.”

I can smell the sweetness of the apple on his breath. I pull my hand out from under his. It reminds me of Fear, and his obsession, and one Fear is enough.
Is that really why you’re pulling away?
my mental voice challenges.
What other reason would there be?
I ask placidly. In answer, an image of Fear’s tender kisses bursts and vanishes like the flash of a camera.

Realizing that Joshua is still waiting for a response, I shrug and say in a neutral tone, “You didn’t call me a liar, exactly. You just said I lie a lot. Which is true.”

Joshua shakes his head, smiling faintly. “You’re so weird, you know that?”

I smile in return, finding for the first time that the pretending isn’t so hard. “I could say the same about you.”

We sit in compatible silence for a time. The only sounds in the room are the papers crinkling in our hands and a pair of girls whispering to each other at the computer desk. I close my ears to it and concentrate on my search, but just as I accomplish complete isolation to the world all around, Worry appears next to the table, a twitching, distracted Emotion with frizzy curls and stick-thin legs. I set a paper down, examining the top of Joshua’s head. He got his red hair from his mother. I don’t know why that random thought pops into my head.

“How are things on the farm?” I ask, my tone gentle. If I’m going to be able to focus, he needs a steadying hand.

My words startle him; his head jerks up. He brushes that wild hair away, frowning at me. “What?” He heard me, though. I just sit, waiting.

Joshua squints at me, resigned but bewildered. “Sometimes you know things you shouldn’t. You say things. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how that is?”

I shake my head. “For now, it’s better you don’t know.”

His gaze sharpens. “But you might tell me one day.” It isn’t a question.

It would be wise to crush his hope. It would be sensible to staunch his questions. “Maybe,” I say.
You will need that boy in the end.

“Dad and I worked for hours yesterday, since we can’t afford to get the new parts our harvester needs,” Joshua answers abruptly. “Of course he’s too proud to ask anyone for help.” He takes a bite of his sandwich. He probably realizes that he won’t get any further in his own quest for truths. “The rotations aren’t doing any good. Planting the crops late didn’t change anything. The land is just tired.”

My stomach growls as he says this, and I realize I haven’t eaten anything today. I forgot to grab breakfast this morning; I slept through the alarm once again—more dreams.

Courage’s words are pressing in, growing louder and louder each day.

Joshua hears my stomach and grins, mindless of my inner struggle. “Want half of my sandwich?”

Oddly enough, his offer gives me that strange sensation again—my nothingness quivering, hardening, fighting against any and all urges to feel something. I wonder what I would be feeling for Joshua at this moment, if I had the ability. Even odder, I don’t have the faintest idea.

I could help you sleep.

His voice comes out of nowhere, but it reminds me that Joshua isn’t the only one who’s offered something to me. Fear … why am I thinking of him so often lately?

As I make an effort not to lose myself in theories, the boy doesn’t wait for me to reply. He bends his head once more, flipping over some newspapers, looking for any stories about me, as I’d instructed him to. He’s genuine in his desire to help me. I’m beginning to realize that Joshua Hayes is a paradox; he’s simple yet complex, direct yet thoughtful, eager yet patient. Just when I believe I have him labeled and put into a box, he says or does something that forces me to reconsider.

For what seems the hundredth time, I study Joshua’s face, the familiar features. It’s a good way to occupy my mind. I’ve never really stared at him before, noted each and every detail. Behind that long, dark-red hair, his lashes are extensive and gold, his eyes a gentle amber. His nose is long, slightly dusted with freckles. His mouth is generous and naturally upturned at the corners, as if he’s always ready to smile.
All in all
, I think,
he’s quite nice to look at
. Beautiful, really. Not in the way the Emotions or the Elements are, but in a real way. I know when I look at him that there’s nothing otherworldly about his loveliness; it’s just him.

If I were normal, if circumstances were entirely different and beings like Fear had no place in my life, Joshua could be someone to me.

He glances up, feeling my eyes. He smiles in question. I look down at the paper in front of me, copying him. The nothingness is harder than it’s ever been. The sensation in my stomach is almost painful now, and I grimace in response.

“Are you all right?” Joshua asks.

I nod quickly, and as if on cue, the bell rings above. I stand, almost tipping over the chair in my haste. Clumsiness is unlike me.

“Elizabeth?” Joshua is worried now. He follows, leaving our mess behind. Mrs. Marble won’t be happy with either of us when she discovers the papers littering the table in the back. I don’t let Joshua catch up; I’m much faster, and it’s all too easy to dart out the door and leave him. But even when I’ve disappeared from his sight, he calls my name.

“I miss you. This place is hell on earth. Have you been busy over in good ol’ Edson?”

I hold the phone close to my ear, straining to catch Maggie’s faint rasp. I put a note of cheer into my voice. “Yeah, busy with all the boring stuff. Chores, homework. You’re not missing out on anything.”

She laughs, but there’s not a drop of mirth in the sound. She’s gotten worse, not just in the sickness but in her spirit. “Wrong, Liz. I’m missing out on life.”

Tim’s loud whistling disturbs the silence, and I lean backward to see out the window. The corn stalks crackle as he shoves them aside. Mom’s making supper and Charles will be home soon. “Maggie, I have to go.”

She doesn’t respond for a few seconds and I stare at the wall, seeing her face drawn on the plaster: thin, pale, hopeless. “I’m going to visit again soon,” I add, knowing the words are empty for her. But I give them to her nonetheless, because besides her parents, I’m all she has.

Finally, she sighs. The sound is broken. “Okay. Goodbye, Liz.”

Her tone is infinitely sad, resigned, like this is the last time we’ll ever speak.

Standing in the middle of my room, hardly noticing the mess of splattered paint and tarps, I study the partially finished mural. The green and the smell permeate everything. These images mean something for me, they have to. But where’s the connection? What is the timeline here, who are all the players?

You ruined everything
.

He’s found you
.

Please come back, please …

The sound of music pierces the silence—it’s coming from Charles’s room. Some kind of rock, the singer screaming rather than attempting something remotely melodious. Outside, the wind howls and pushes at the glass panes of my window. Ignoring it all, I trace one of the tree trunks in the mural with the tip of my finger, thinking, attempting to remember what may have been erased. Around and around like a chaotic carousel.

You will forget everything.

You’re completely human—I’d know if you were anything else. You haven’t been sought out, collected, or studied.

I rocked my daughter to sleep every night, I sang her songs, I dressed her, I fed her, I played with her, I carried her inside of me for nine months. She knew me, and I knew her.

Sometimes you know things you shouldn’t. You say things.

You’re not normal. They should lock you up and throw away the key.

“Liz?” An impatient tap on the door. I turn away from the mural, sensing Emotions on the other side of that door. Emotions and Charles. He’s upset. I open the door a crack and slip out into the hall before he can see the walls of my room. In his present state, I’m not sure how he would react. “What is it?” I ask, acting concerned.