And then words come, words to no one in particular, except to God, who I know can hear me.
“I need out!” I bellow, like a cow being slaughtered. I bellow again. “I need out; get me out of here, now!”
Nothing happens. Nothing comes to whisk me away. No guardian angels, no Good Samaritans. No one comes for me. I am alone. Completely alone.
I hit the steering wheel one more time.
“Please let me out!”
I have been forsaken.
Thirty-Seven Years Ago
IN THE LIBRARY THE YOUNG man hovers over a cluster of open books. Next to him is a girl his own age, but she looks a lot younger. She is delicate, small, with black hair, dark brown eyes, and olive skin. Although she is quite pretty, there is a bookishness about her that hides her looks. The young man is eighteen but could pass for thirty. He is big and broad and has a five-o’clock shadow.
His eyes travel over the girl next to him, coveting her. She doesn’t seem to mind the attention.
She points out a line in a reference book. “This is good. We can use this.”
He writes down the quote and where it came from with enthusiasm. “This is more than good. It’s perfect. Boy howdy, this project is going to save my grade.”
The girl studies him as he diligently records the citation. She says, “It’s nice when you talk, you know. You’re always so quiet in class.”
He turns a few different colors, at a complete loss for words.
“Why don’t you ever talk in class?”
“Most people aren’t nice. Like you.”
It is her turn to change shades, but her tan cheeks give her camouflage. They both return to the books in self-conscious silence. His mouth works nervously. He has something he wants to say, but hardly the courage to say it. The girl sees his struggle.
“What?” she asks.
“I was wondering if you’d want to go to prom with me?”
He can see it’s not an automatic no. Hope rises in the boy.
“But that’s this weekend. I don’t have a dress or anything.”
“Wear that. I don’t care.”
He grins; she grins back.
“I couldn’t wear this! That would be ridiculous.” But she’s still grinning; she’s considering it.
“It would be fun. Afterwards I could take you up to my cabin.”
“What?” There’s a shift in her. Not a good shift. His eagerness blinds him to the change.
“Yeah, I have my own cabin. It belongs to me.”
“How do you have a cabin?”
“I inherited it. When my uncle died.”
“How did he die?” She shifts further away from him, but he doesn’t feel it.
“Hunting accident. But don’t worry about that; it’s a great cabin. Up in the Blue Ridge. It’s so pretty up there, you’d love it.”
“In the Blue Ridge? Jerry, that’s got to be a two-hour drive, at least.”
“I ride up there all the time; it’s no big deal. C’mon, really. You should come with me.”
“No, there’s no way my parents would be okay with that. Let’s just get back to work, okay?” She turns her body away from his, her gaze on the pages before her.
He doesn’t return to studying. He sits, motionless, watching her.
She senses the silence. “Let’s get back to work,” she says. She’s about to say something else, but the words leave her when she looks into his eyes. The moment lasts far too long. The boy observes her expression travel from irritation to confusion to understanding and finally to fear. She has seen into him.
He always knew she was smart, but he didn’t realize just how smart she was. From now on, the boy knows, she will be on guard with him. She will never be alone with him. She will protect herself from what she saw. He wants to tell her there isn’t anything for her to be afraid of; she’s different, special. But maybe she’s not. Maybe she’s right to be scared.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FOR SOME TIME I SIT behind the wheel, hating the truck beyond all reason, trying to will a new reality into being. No matter how hard I curse the truck, or God, or how hard I try to will something new into existence, nothing changes. The old Chevy truck stays the same. The road stays the same. And I stay stuck.
My hate doesn’t leave me, but I choose to leave this place. The fact I’m driving straight back to the Wolfman’s lair is not lost on me. He’s up in those ridges, waiting. Perhaps he knew where I was going before I did; maybe he’s resting, knowing I’d be back. Possibly he knows exactly where I’ll emerge from this firebreak lane.
As I drive, I try to think about my friends and family, about Caleb, about the other girls before me, but then I see the gas light glowing, I see how low the sun is in the sky, and rage kills these thoughts.
All I have now is rage.
But somewhere, hiding underneath it, is fear.
The fear is like a roller coaster, click, click, click ing upward as I drive toward him. My thick layer of camo mud has sloughed off, leaving a filthy residue. Underneath the dirt, my skin has broken out in hives.
I drive and drive and drive.
I’m amazed I haven’t run out of gas.