Whit grinned and jabbed back. “Haven’t you heard the phrase, ‘Date the jocks but marry the geeks?’ You may be a ladies’ man now, Blue Eyes, but come see me in fifteen years.”
“How ‘bout you send me a digitized picture instead?”
“Deal.” The boys nodded their agreement.
It was time. A.J.’s turn was next and I remembered the twenty dollars and Ryan’s instructions. I wanted to end the game now, to pretend like I heard a parent to scatter the players or at least ruin the mood. But Ryan also recalled his deal with A.J. and announced, “It’s the skinny boy’s turn!”
The cavern pipes groaned above me as all eyes turned to Age.
“Ryan,” he said and the ground trembled.
As Ryan pretended to consider either truth or dare, the particleboard walls began to slide inward like the Death Star trash compactor. Was it my anger at Ryan Brosh that pressed sweat from my forehead pores? Or was it empathy for Mara? She didn’t fret the tedious lowering of pipes, the insulation cramming against her back, or the limbs of boys inching bit by bit into her personal space.
“Dare,” Ryan said.
Was A.J. really going to go through with it? Magazines, bins, and other loose artifacts began collecting at the corners of the constricting cavern. A metal duct cut into the back of my neck.
“Hmm...” A.J. said. “Kiss ‘er on the lips.”
Ryan grit his teeth. Wires dropped like nooses around our throats. “Kiss who on the lips?”
A.J. couldn’t say her name, but pointed.
And Mara smiled.
As the girl I loved spanned the orifice separating her from Ryan Brosh, I looked to my best friend to exchange looks of terror and disgust. Instead, Whit was watching the kiss. The world was crumbling around us, but Whit was fine–excited even–by the very thing that was crushing us alive. When I heard Mara’s lips smack against Ryan’s, Whit grinned.
I wanted to bolt from the collapsing tunnel like Indiana Jones from the spike-riddled cave, but time was gaining momentum and Mara was already back in her place, Ryan was lost in a state of Nirvana, and Kimmy was on her knees deciding who to pick. “Ryan!” she declared with obnoxious glee. “I dare you to kiss Livy!”
Oh Livy... I thought. She had propositioned Kimmy just like Ryan propositioned A.J.!
He doesn’t like you! I wanted to scream. He likes Mara! Everyone likes Mara!
Ryan returned from his endless bliss from Mara’s kiss. He basked in the “ooos” and the “ahhs” of his underlings. He crawled with a swagger to my beaming sister, formed his lips into an exaggerated kissy-face, and planted them on hers.
To Ryan, the kiss was a complimentary mint after a steak dinner.
Livy wouldn’t rinse her mouth for a week.
* * *
The walls returned to their static posts and the group disbanded; girls through the library hatch, boys to my bedroom.
A.J. made his twenty bucks. I made a new enemy.
* * *
12:50 AM.
“Double-dog dare ya.”
“Triple-dog.”
“If you do this, little man, I got a five-dollar bill in my pocket with your name on it.”
“Her room’s empty, bro! Your parents are asleep and the chicks are a hundred miles away.”
The high-schoolers surrounded me. I could smell the congested virility like cold broth.
“They’re in the ballroom,” I said. “They could come downstairs any second.”
“They’re asleep!”
I shook my head. “I don’t think Mara even has a diary.” This was a lie. A dozen times I spotted Mara scribbling in a blue journal while pondering its poetry.
“Psht!” Ryan said. “Every girl’s got a diary.”
Whit forced himself between the males. He shook his head and mouthed, “No.”
“It has a lock!” I said.
Ryan pounced. “Ah ha! She does have one!”
“Locks don’t matter,” said another kid. “Jon over there could bust into Fort Knox with a rusty paperclip.”
The ghosts from the end of Raiders couldn’t make me share Mara’s innermost feelings with these grunts (especially the grunt who locked lips with the girl only minutes ago). But if I wanted a chance to read her diary for myself, a group of savage perverts could provide a believable excuse for a broken lock...
“Forget it,” Ryan said. “I’ll do it.”
“No!” I blurted then looked to Whit for reassurance.
Again, he shook his head. But I was out of options.
“There’s a set of walkie-talkies in my closet,” I said. “Ryan, stand guard in the parlor. If you see anybody, warn me.”
* * *
1:05 AM.
A key-ring flashlight was my only guide through the soft clutter of Livy’s bedroom. I trailed the dull beam across the beds and floor, revealing stuffed creatures with button eyes, a homemade kitten toy made from feathers and elastic string, and a scattered set of curlers like pink toilet paper tubes. I held my breath as I waded through my sister’s half of the room, then inhaled fully the essence and smells of Mara; a potpourri of Skittles, fabric softener, and impending rain.
The headset crackled in my ear. “You’re all clear, Red Five, but I sense movement upstairs. Find the secret diary and get the hell out.”
“Will do, Millennium One. Over and out.”
My light landed on the statue of Saint Michael on Mara’s nightstand shrine. I sat on her bed–mindful of the taut sheets and perfect creases–and slid open the top drawer.
It was too easy. The diary was alone, unlocked, and squared in the center of the drawer. I grazed the sapphire spine with my fingertips, afraid that–if I moved it too quickly–a giant boulder might burst from the closet door.
But then I was holding it. No traps had sprung. No secret force was binding the pages shut. As the book unfurled almost magically in my hands, I became unshakably aware of my youth as if the last two months had been an elaborate game of “house”: while I was writing about monsters and castles and sword fights–while I was reading Goosebumps and Boxcar Children books–Mara was etching her soul into the pristine pages of a diary.
“How we lookin’, Red Five? Any sign of that book?”
“Workin’ on it, Millennium One,” I whispered. “This room’s a mess. Could be anywhere.”
“Make it snappy. Over and out.”
I held the flashlight between my teeth.
The pages smelled like flowers. The outside corners were numbered with sparkly blue ink from a gel-pen. Mara wrote in cursive, never used apostrophes, and dotted her “i”s with hearts only if they appeared in a name. Half scrapbook, half journal, my fingertips traced the pages like braille; the curled corners of magazine articles, the rippled paste beneath each clipping, the lyrical indentations of a ballpoint pen on smooth parchment, and thin trails of backward cursive, raised like mole tunnels from the opposite page. There were notes and lyrics from a hymnal, snippets from Cosmo with tips to act like a lady (”Trim hair every six weeks, drink eight glasses of water per day, absolutely no junk food...”) and highlighted passages from books beyond my reading level. Petals from a yellow rose were pressed between the pages, staining her thoughts with a colorful Rorschach test.
Mara’s words were tucked between the collage; ongoing lists of favorite movies on page six, TV shows on nine, books on twelve, and baby names on fourteen.
On page twenty: “Aunty baptized me in the bathtub because she thought I was more interested in the alter boys than Jesus. Submersion again and I thought I would drown. That makes twelve.”
Page twenty-six: “Today I watched Bushy the Squirrel carry nuts to his tree. I bumped the window and he glared at me. When I moved, he ran away.”
Page twenty-nine: “I asked Aunty about my parents again. Big mistake. She said that, if theyre alive, theyre not looking for me. I think theyre alive. And probably nice. I pretend my mom is an actress. I pretend my dad owns a bakery downtown. I try to remember them, but it wa
s so long ago.”
Page thirty-one was missing. I recalled the origami note that sparked the tussle with A.J. beneath Mara’s window and felt a privileged connection with the journal.
“Where are you, Red Five? We’ve got major giggling upstairs.”
“I’m searching the closet, Millennium One. Give me two minutes.”
“Roger.”
I flipped faster through the pages and scanned the longer blocks of text for my name.
“I hate being worried all the time. The feeling in my tummy never goes away.”
“They say they can find my real parents! I pray every night theyre alive. Maybe when they know Im pretty theyll want me back.”
“Today I met a black squirrel outside my new window! I named him Bushy Two. I like animals. They don’t seem to care.”
“James asked me to kiss him. I told him he’s like my brother. Was that mean? Pretty sure it was... but I dont need more boys trying to kiss me. We all remember what happened with Troy.” Etched in this entry’s thin margin was a drawing of a hill with a water tower on top. I ignored the image at first, its banal curve and lack of detail hardly distinguished it from the lovely litter of Mara’s doodles. But the hill reappeared again on page thirty-nine, then again on forty-one, then a dozen more times throughout the book, tucked between Mara’s words or trapped beneath layers of chicken-scratch hearts and stars. Each rendering was more detailed than the last until pine trees were surrounding the base like angry stalagmites and the water tower cast a penciled shadow that dwarfed a perimeter fence.
I read faster.
“Ryan replied to Livys note today. Says he might like her too. I feel sick.”
“I cried again tonight. The bullies bruised my neck, but I hid it from the Parkers. I know God wants me to forgive anyone who hurts me, but I will never forget what they did.”
“James and Whitney confirmed it: Im anything but normal.”
“I think he’s interested, no? Kitty is loving it; Kimmy eats with Haley in there.”
“I wish Livy knew how pretty she was.”
“Mrs. Parker yelled at me today but it was an accident. I was sucking on a yellow highlighter while marking my lines. She thought it was a cigar.”
“Kimmy kissed me on the lips today. I think she was aiming for my cheek.”
“Life is good. Wanna know why? I got a kitten!!! Her name is Dorothy and she’s perfect.”
“I had the dream again last night. The one with the hill and round building. When I woke up, they were calling me from the woods. Tried to tell Livy about it this morning, but she was too interested in my shampoo ingredients to listen.”
Page forty-nine contained a single, expansive entry. The word “James” stood out like spots on a cheetah and my eyes darted across the text.
“Dear Diary... ...busy making a movie with James!... ...having so much fun... ...hope James likes my acting... ...too young for these feelings?... ...said he liked me again today... ...Livys old enough, I should be too!... ...I know one thing for sure, ‘like’ is not a strong enough word for how I feel about them... ...both so sweet, especially James!”
Ryan’s voice was hushed but emphatic. “The girls say they need popcorn and more pillows. They’re sending Haley down with a list. You need to get outta there, Red Five.”
My breath quickened. I flipped the page and devoured every word.
“Help! I keep going back and forth! One is SUPER cute, but the other gets cuter every day. One is an amazing director, but the other is an amazing actor... ...so smart and funny... ...They both stare at me like the rest, but I dont think thats ever going to change–”
“She’s comin’!” Ryan screamed. “Get out!”
I slammed the book before I could finish, then dropped it in the nightstand drawer. As it fell, a petal slipped from the pages and fluttered to the ground. I picked it up, opened the book, shoved the flower back inside, slammed the drawer, then bolted from the room.
* * *
9:05 AM.
I awoke on the floor of an empty room. Pain struck my senses as I sat up; my very first hangover, the consequence of an overindulgence in Mara’s written words. Excerpts from that book intoxicated my thoughts and dreams as I puzzled over a world that I never imagined. Who was the girl with the pretty façade? Who was the girl who smiled so readily after a bully attack? Two months with Mara and I had been oblivious. She never expressed her hatred for bullies or frustration with my family. She never fretted over hygiene, showed concern for her real parents, proclaimed an interest in animals or books or babies...
Or Ryan. I saw the way they looked at each other. I heard their smacking lips. I sensed the ping of resentment every time Livy forced herself on him. But I believed her when she said that boys were gross. I made the stupid assumption that there were no contenders for her affection! Or if there were contenders, that I stood alone. I was the boy who saved her. I was the director who hired her! I listened. I cared. I strived to be different! What was Ryan Brosh but a basketball jersey, pretty face, and smacking lips?
I hoisted myself from the floor with the knobs on my nightstand drawers. I adjusted my shorts, checked the time, then wandered into the parlor. Whit was in his wheelchair at the bottom of the staircase. He was motionless, listening, neck stretched toward the open ballroom like a flower to the sun.
I waddled past him, rubbed my eyes, and looked up the stairs. The boys were arranged shortest to tallest on the top steps, eye-level with the rosy carpet, admiring the pastel pallet of girls on the ballroom floor. For the first time, I understood why Mara called them ‘ferrets.’ They were tenacious weasels, rabbit hunters, slender rodents with paws on the banister preparing to pounce. Zombie-ferrets, I thought. Ryan and Whit and Mrs. Greenfield too. All of them. All of them zombie-ferrets.
Of the nine boys who had spent the night, only one refused to look. Ryan Brosh was sitting on the middle step, face forward, hands together... different.
I locked eyes with my arch-nemesis. I scrutinized his pretty face. I coveted his lips. If Mara was going to chose between us, she was going to chose me.
But then he smiled. It was an unsettling smile; forced, as if fish hooks were pulling the corners of his mouth. He glanced down at his hands, then unclasped them slowly as if he was showing a toddler a captured insect. Trapped between his fingers was the pressed petal of a yellow rose.
* * *
Only minutes after I shooed the peeping toms from the stairs, boredom struck and spurred a second make-believe war. Armed with Nerf guns, pillows, water balloons, invisible bazookas and unlit torches from the night before, we overtook the front yard in a merciless free-for-all. Every boy claimed to fight for the kingdom, as if the tangle of sleeping beauties represented humanity itself. But in truth, we all fought for the same girl.
7. FAIRYTALE, PART III: THE FINAL SCENE
01 EXT. THE CASTLE OF THE EVIL PRINCE - DAY
THE MOVIE OPENS WITH DRAWINGS OF A LITTLE GIRL AND HER DAD. WHILE THE PICTURES FADE IN AND OUT, A NARRATOR WITH A DEEP VOICE TELLS THE STORY.
“Once upon a time, there was a young girl who lived a very happy life.” Dad’s voice had a nasally quality that I never imagine for the narrator, but with a month left until the Lakeshore Celebration Art Show, I was running out of options.
“Try it again,” I said, then slid the camera closer to his lips.
“What would you like me to change?” he asked.
“What do you mean.”
“You’re the director. Should I read it faster, slower–”
“Just... I dunno. Just try it again.”
Dad removed his bifocals, folded them, and placed them neatly on the dining-room table. He rubbed his fingers against his temples, stretching and releasing the creases in his paper skin, then repeated his lines for the eighth time.
The performance was worse, but it wasn’t his fault. I was distracted. My mind was stuck on Ryan’s declaration of war. He read Mara’s diary to get my attention. It worked.
&nbs
p; As if Ryan wasn’t enough to divert brainpower away from my film, Mom, Mrs. Greenfield and Mara were having a “ladies night” in the library. My ears weren’t interested in the nuanced inflections of my father’s narration, they were itching for the seam around the library’s hatch.
“How was that?” Dad asked.
I removed my headphones and sighed. “Perfect.”
“If you want me to do it again–”
“Naw. I think we’re done for the night.” I stood, gathered my equipment and reached for the camcorder.
“James,” he said.
“Really, Dad. You did fine.”
“James,” he said again, calming my fluster with his pensive tone. “Let’s go for a drive.”
* * *
Traffic signals, storefronts and neon signs painted downtown Grand Harbor with primary streaks of light. The Dune Grass Grill was on my left; my father’s go-to joint for romantic dinners with Mom. Out the right window was a series of novelty shops interspersed with a make-your-own-jewelry shop, a music store, and The Grand Harbor Bread Co. In three weeks, Main Street would be overtaken with screaming children, tumbling hunks of colorful metal, and the unquenchable smell of fried batter.
“Son,” Dad said. “We need to talk.”
“What about?” I watched his glasses; the way they lifted when he crinkled his nose, the reflection of taillights in the right lens. Did he know about the game of Truth or Dare? Did he know about the diary?
“Remember the woman that Mara was living with when you found her?”
Was he serious? Ms. Grisham would follow me for the rest of my life. “What about her?”
“She’s been in county jail since the arrest. Nobody’s posted bail. Do you know what bail is?”
“I watch movies, Dad.”
“For two months she refused to talk about Mara; who she is, where her parents might be... but early this morning, Lydia opened up.”
“Lydia?”
“Lydia Grisham.”
Bestowing that witch a name made me queasy.
“They set the date of her trial yesterday; your mom thinks it scared her into a confession.”
I imagined the hag in a confessional, a cop–not a priest–listening through the lattice. “Wha’d she say?” I asked.