Something bangs in the garage. I spin around. The garage door is partially open.
My first thought is of a photographer. One of them has jumped the gate and camped out in the yard. But I quickly dismiss the idea. Mrs. Hargrove has carefully orchestrated all our press opportunities, and so far, I haven’t been an object of attention unless I’m with Fred.
My second thought is gas thief. Recently, because of government-mandated restrictions, especially in the poorer parts of the city, there has been a rash of break-ins throughout Portland. It was especially bad during the winter: Furnaces were drained of oil, and cars of gas; houses were raided and vandalized. In February, there were two hundred burglaries alone, the largest number of crimes since the cure was made mandatory forty years ago.
I consider heading inside and waking my dad. But that would mean questions, and explanations.
Instead I cross the yard toward the garage, keeping my eye on the half-open door, checking for signs of movement. The grass is coated with dew, which soaks rapidly into my sneakers. I have a prickly, all-over body feeling. Someone is watching me.
A twig snaps behind me. I whirl around. A ripple of wind again disturbs the holly. I take a deep breath and turn back to the garage. My heart drums high in my throat, an uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling. I have not been afraid—really afraid—since the morning of my cure, when I couldn’t even unknot the hospital gown because my hands were shaking so badly.
“Hello?” I whisper.
Another rustle. Something—or someone—is definitely in the garage. I stand a few feet outside the door, struck rigid with fear. Stupid. This is stupid. I’ll go into the house and wake Dad. I’ll say I heard a noise, and I’ll deal with questions later.
Then, faintly: a mewling sound. A cat’s eyes blink momentarily at me in the open door.
I exhale. A stray cat—nothing more. Portland is lousy with them. Dogs, too. People buy them, and then can’t afford or don’t care to keep them, and dump them in the streets. For years they’ve been breeding. I’ve heard there are whole packs of wild dogs that roam around the Highlands.
I move forward slowly. The cat watches me. I put my hand on the garage door, ease it open a few more inches.
“Come on,” I coo. “Come on out of there.”
The cat bolts back into the garage. It darts past my old bike, knocking against the kickstand. The bike starts to totter, and I spring forward and grab it before it can crash to the ground. The handlebars are dusty; even though it’s practically pitch-dark, I can feel the grime.
I keep one hand on the bike, steadying it, and feel for the switch on the wall. I flick on the overhead lights. Immediately, the normalcy of the garage reasserts itself: the car, the trash cans, the lawn mower in the corner; cans of paint and extra tanks of gas stacked neatly in the corner, in a pyramid formation. The cat is crouched among them. At least the cat looks relatively clean—it’s not frothing at the mouth or covered with scabs. Nothing to be afraid of. One more step toward her, and she bolts again; this time shooting around the car and circling past me, out into the yard.
As I lean the bike up against the garage wall, I notice the faded purple scrunchie still looped around one handle. Lena and I used to have identical bicycles, but she teased me that hers was faster. We were always switching bikes by accident, after dumping them down on the grass or the beach. She would hop up on the seat, barely able to reach the pedals, and I’d climb on her bike all scrunched up like a toddler, and we would ride home together, laughing hysterically. One day she bought two scrunchies from her uncle’s convenience store—purple for me, blue for her—and insisted we keep them fixed around the handles, so we could differentiate them.
The scrunchie is now creased with dirt. I haven’t ridden my bike since last summer. This hobby, like Lena, has faded into the past. Why were Lena and I best friends? What did we talk about? We had nothing in common. We didn’t like the same foods or the same music. We didn’t even believe in the same things.
And then she left, and it broke my heart so completely I could hardly breathe. If I hadn’t been cured, I’m not sure what I would have done.
I can admit, now, that I must have loved Lena. Not in an Unnatural way, but my feelings for her must have been a kind of sickness. How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust—and also to make you feel so whole?
The urge to walk has drained away completely. All I want to do is fall into bed.
I turn off the lights and close the door to the garage, making sure I hear the latch slide shut.
As I turn back to the house, I see a piece of paper lying on the grass, already spotted with moisture. It wasn’t there a minute ago. Someone has obviously pushed it through the gate while I was in the yard.
Someone was watching me—could be watching me even now.