through the window
with the hanging shutter,
into Boo Radley’s
run-down, lonely house.
And Jem does it,
but a gun goes off
and he loses
his pants.
A gun.
I start to
shiver.
Let’s not, I say, so loud you can hear the shake in it.
Scaredy-cat, says Emma.
Like that long-ago sleepover,
and the words that
stung.
C’mon, Bren. Emma turns to him, laying a hand on his arm.
He laughs.
Hell no. I’m the getaway driver. ’Sides, I’ve gotta answer this.
He has his cell out,
texting.
Emma turns and looks back
at the rest of us again.
Who’s coming? she repeats.
And her will is so strong,
like iron,
unbreakable.
I picture Felix opening his eyes
and following Emma
wherever she beckons,
down the path,
onto the field,
along the railroad tracks,
just like he did
when we were kids.
I pray for his eyes to stay closed.
They do.
And even if it’s just because he’s
too stoned
I’m glad.
I glance back at Anil and Chloe.
She looks glazed.
He’s staring
out the window.
Then she turns to him.
C’mon, Anil, let’s go, she says, voice sweet and low.
He shakes
his head,
definite,
but with
no expression
on his face.
Fine, she says with a frown and lurches past me and Felix.
Her perfume is overlaid
with the scent of
MoonBuzz.
Emma laughs a
happy laugh
and the two girls stand by the car,
swaying slightly and
looking up
at the house.
It’s real dark, I hear Chloe say.
Emma snatches her cell
out of her pocket
and opens it up.
See, just like a flashlight, she says.
Then Chloe opens up her cell, too.
I grab
my camera.
Can’t resist the image of their two faces
lit up by the
glowing
cell phones.
Flash.
But the lighting is wrong
so I try it again without the flash
and it’s
perfect.
The greenish light from their cells
makes their faces glow in an
unearthly way.
Felix opens his eyes
at the second click of
my camera,
then closes them again.
A feeling of dread
suddenly squeezes
my heart
and I lean out the open
car door.
Emma, don’t, I call.
She ignores me.
And the two of them
begin to walk
toward
the house.
FAITH
I love
riding
my bike,
especially
at night.
On
darkened
like a
low-flying
bird
soaring
along
just above
the pavement.
Almost
invisible.
I snuck
out of
the house.
It was
Emma
who taught
me how:
to avoid the
third stair
from the top,
to ease the
screen door
shut.
When
I came
downstairs
I could
hear the TV
on in the
family room.
Polly almost
ruined
everything
with a
plaintive,
drawn-out,
don’t-go
whimper
when she
followed me
down to
the kitchen.
Quietly
I roll
my bike
out the
side door
of the
garage.
On the
sidewalk
in front
of our
house,
my bicycle
wheel
bumps over
something,
something
that makes
a faint
squeaking
sound.
I lean over.
It’s a
black rubber
crow,
with a grimy
yellow beak.
Polly’s
favorite
chew toy,
faded,
gnawed on,
well loved.
Don’t know
how it got
out here
on the front
sidewalk.
I stick it
in the
back pocket
of my shorts,
and it
squeaks,
softly.
I know
the streets
of this town
by heart,
from riding
my bike.
Holding the
handlebars
one-handed,
I flip open
my cell.
After
midnight.
But there’s
still time
to stop
Emma.
To warn
her.
It’s a
sultry night.
Leftover heat
from the day
rises up
from the
sidewalk,
but the
rushing air
on my face
feels good.
There’s a
movie
about a boy
in a small
Midwest town
who loves
to bike.
It’s my
all-time
favorite
movie.
He pretends
he’s Italian,
the way
I pretend
I’m just like
everyone else.
Here is
what I say
every day
when I get
on my bike:
Ciao, bellissimo Midwestern town of Wilmette.
I pretend
I’m off
to Italy,
or London,
or Seattle,
or California.
In just
four years,
I really will
be gone,
so fast
everyone
will choke
on the dust
from my
bicycle wheels
as I ride
out of town.
Off to new
wide-open
worlds
where a girl
can be
who she is
meant
to be.
But for now,
in this place
and this t
ime,
I’m here.
And I can’t
let it all
crumble
beneath me.
WALTER
They’re out there. The bad guys. I can hear them.
Their voices, the sound of the car idling.
Through the trees I can see flickering lights
coming up the path toward our house.
A sheriff has to protect his town,
but he has to protect his home as well.
There is no one but me to do it.
I move toward the closet.
FELIX
we watch emma and chloe go slowly, very slowly, up the crumbling stone steps to the path leading to the house. max is freaked out. i want to tell her not to care so much. to just let things go.
Remember Joey Pigza? I ask softly.
max looks at me, her eyes wild, scared.
Who?
Those books I read over and over, I say. In 5th grade.
Oh yeah, she says after a moment.
brendan is still texting, intent on the keyboard cradled in his hand. i hear chloe’s giggles drifting back as max and i watch the light from the two cell phones bobbing slowly toward the house.
Joey Pigza was always doing stupid shit like this, I say. And he survived.
Joey Pigza, Max murmurs. He was the one with ADHD?
Yeah, like me. Hey, Max, I say, with a big grin, did I ever tell you how someday I’m going to do research and prove that weed is the best medicine for ADHD?
max smiles.
Good luck with that, she says.
Actually, comes Anil’s voice from the back, it’s not a bad idea.
Really? I say
i turn around to look at him, surprised.
Yeah, some doctors in California prescribe medical marijuana for ADHD, but there’s very little research to . . .
another set of chloe giggles. louder.
Be quiet, Chloe, comes Emma’s voice, clear and annoyed. Loud. Too loud.
anil stops talking and max’s smile disappears. her hands are clenched tight on the armrests and i’m suddenly tired of this whole thing. what the hell are we doing here? i should get max home, out of this.
Hey, Brendan, I say, leaning forward, this is lame. Can you get your girlfriend back here so we can all go home.
brendan turns and glares at me. looking at his slack mouth and dilated, glittering eyes, i suddenly realize how out-of-his-mind blitzed he is.
Go back to your weed, dickhead. Emma wants her fun.
Oh, that’s right. I forgot, I say. You do whatever Emma wants, don’t you?
i lock eyes with him. max darts a scared glance at me. like what the hell are you doing? her face says. and she’s right. brendan looks like he’s ready to tear my eyeballs out. but i can’t help it. this i-own-the-planet, gun-toting asshole is seriously messing with EMFAX. god, did i just call us EMFAX again? that’s the third time tonight. i must be more messed up than i thought.
Shut the fuck up, you pathetic slacker loser, Brendan says, or else . . .
and like in a dream i see his hand reaching toward the glove compartment. behind us, anil lets out a sharp exhale. and NO! bursts from max’s throat. brendan looks back at the three of us. he knows we know and his eyes go to slits.
he pops open the glove compartment and in the blink of an eye that shiny black gun is in brendan’s hand.
BRENDAN
I can’t believe those pussies went rooting
around in my glove compartment.
And who does that useless pothead
think he is, mouthing off to me like that.
Like he’s my fucking asshole dad.
I should fucking scare the crap out of them.
Serves them right.
MAXIE
I feel like I’m in a bad movie,
one with a jittery
handheld
camera
recording everything.
Including a monster
lurking in the shadows.
Except
maybe the
monster
is sitting right there
in front of us.
Brendan is grinning,
waving his
gun.
You know what kind of gun this is? he says. A double-action semiautomatic Beretta 92 F.
Put it away, Brendan, says Felix softly.
Hell no. Teach you a lesson, Brendan says, his words slurring.
Suddenly Brendan reaches up
and punches a button
next to the moonroof.
The glass panel
silently
slides
open . . . .
Then he thrusts up his hand,
the one holding the gun,
through the opening
to the night sky.
EMMA
Dare you to touch the door, says Chloe, giggling again.
She’s stopped halfway up the path
to the front door,
blocking my way.
And then suddenly
from the direction of the car
comes a loud popping sound.
What was that? Chloe cries out, turning and stumbling toward me.
I try to catch her, but she trips on
a pot of flowers, knocking it over
with a noisy clattering sound.
She flounders, trying to recover her balance,
(Chloe always was the world’s biggest klutz),
and somehow she kicks over another one.
OW! she says, way too loud, falling sideways onto the grass.
I hear the shattering sound
of a third pot breaking,
Chloe’s breath coming quickly.
I hurt my foot, Chloe bleats.
Go back to the car, I say, helping her up.
I think it’s bleeding, she says.
Go back, I whisper. I’ll be there in a sec.
Chloe limps her way back down the path.
Even though I know it’s reckless, I have to go on.
I have to know if there’s a ghost.
My cell light fades,
so I tap the keypad.
Light blooms.
I can see the broken pots,
pink roses and dirt tumbled out
onto the path.
A lot of the flowers are flattened from
Chloe trampling on them. Then I hear a
soft sighing sound. From the house.
Who’s there? comes a whispery, plaintive voice.
I see a screen door, with jagged tears in the
metal netting. And behind the screen door
a woman is standing. White hair haloing a shadowed face.
My roses. Don’t hurt my roses.
The voice is thin, worried. Unearthly.
She moves toward me, her gnarled hands
reaching through the screen like it’s not there.
For just a moment I believe she is a ghost.
But then I see she is reaching through the rips in the screen.
A real-life old woman in a shapeless nightgown.
I am suddenly ashamed.
This is a person, a living breathing person
whose flowers we’ve ruined.
I’m sorry, I whisper and back away.
She opens the screen door,
goes through, letting it fall shut behind her
with a sharp thunking sound.
I keep moving backward. She follows me
down the path. But she stops abruptly
in front of the first broken pot.
She crouches beside it.
And then I see her face crumple,
her mouth gaping open.
I hear a high-pitched wailing,
so agonized and unearthly that at first
I don’t realize it’s coming from her.
MOTHER! shouts another voice, urgent, coming from inside the house.