The Creeping

He jams his hands into his pockets and wades forward through the mucky woods. I slip and slide after him, too tongue-tied to talk, an old sensation sneaking on me. It reminds me of gardenias. For a month before homecoming freshman year, Zoey and I obsessed over getting senior guys to ask us. When Lucas Fitzpatrick, senior class royalty, waved a homecoming flyer in my face and grunted, “You wanna?” I was ecstatic. Believe it or not, the actual night was just as swoon-worthy.

I noticed when Sam showed up because he came stag with a bunch of boys, their adolescent bodies sized all wrong. For all I know, they were younger versions of Sweater-Vest and company. I remember Zoey dragging me to the bathroom to adjust her push-up bra so her boobs looked extra big. Zoey’s all about being desired, especially by those who could never get her. Sam had this little plastic box with him: a single gardenia wrapped in a blue silk ribbon. Once I saw it, I knew it was for me, as much as I knew that my date hadn’t given me one.

You see, there used to be this photo on our mantel of my mom wearing an identical corsage at prom. She looked glamorous in the picture; grown-up for only seventeen. I wanted to be her. I told Sam I wanted a corsage just like it someday. Being Sam—years later—he remembered.

Sam stood with his group of friends most of the night. They danced in a wide circle, laughing and smiling way more than I was, and he never put that box down. He wasn’t staring at me or anything. Nothing stalkerish. But when my Neanderthal date went out to the parking lot for shots with a bunch of jocks, Sam found me. I was standing with Zoey and a trio of junior girls she was trying to impress. They were the kind of popular girls who are cruel because they enjoy it. Zoey’s only nasty as a means to an end. Trust me, there’s a difference. Zoey saw him first and purred, “Hi, Samantha, you hoping to be deflowered tonight?” The juniors burst into mean fits of giggles. He ignored them.

“Hey, Stella. I brought this for you,” he said, opening the container and removing the corsage. “I remembered you always wanted one like in the picture.” I was horrified. I could sense Zoey mentally screaming at me to chuck it; that this was our chance to prove that we belonged.

It was stupid, but the only thing I could think to say was, “Gross. I’m not deflowering you, Samantha.” Lucas walked up right then and slapped the corsage from Sam’s hand. The trio of juniors laughed like hyenas. Sam didn’t say a word. He looked right into my eyes, smiled like he felt bad for me, and walked away. When no one but Zoey was looking, I scooped up the flattened corsage and tucked it in my clutch. A year later, Zoey dethroned those three junior girls—who were seniors then—by seducing each of their boyfriends into dumping them over the course of a month. I’m sure she didn’t remember us trying to impress them at Sam’s expense. Popularity’s just a zero-sum game to her.

There have been a lot of chances since then to prove that Zoey and I belong. And I’ve taken them mostly. This time I don’t want to. I don’t cave to the bazillion what-ifs. What if Janey Bear sees us walking out of the woods together? What if Taylor hears I wore Sam’s shirt? What if Zoey gets pissed that I spent the day with Sam? What if the rumors start and I get more stares than I already do? I bat the what-ifs away. I’m not twelve anymore. I can have both Zoey and Sam in my world.

“Do you want to do some research on past abductions and disappearances?” Sam asks abruptly. “Because of what Mrs. Griever said about there being others. If we could show the police a pattern, they’d have to take her seriously. Right?” His body is angled toward me, the arm nearest to me extending each time we navigate over a log or a stream, in case I need it.

“I think that’s brilliant,” I say. “But I’ll probably be on lockdown after going rogue today.” Without thinking, I pull the collar of his T-shirt to my face and inhale deeply. Oh. My. God. What is happening to me? I veer to allow more space between us. Was I this psycho when we were young playing together? It’s as if I’ve been poisoned by the nostalgia of remembering us as kids and I’m losing brain function.

I manage to control myself for the duration of the walk—not without having to defeat the urge to take one more whiff of the T-shirt to prove that I only imagined that it smelled like childhood. After nearly twice the time it took us to travel to Jeanie’s, we arrive back at the cement loading dock. I follow Sam around the perimeter of the giant building he works in to the parking lot. I can only imagine the holy hell I look, with twigs and leaves sticking from my hair, soiled shoes, and muddy jeans. We probably look like a pair of mountain people setting eyes on civilization for the first time.

The teal station wagon is right where we left it, and to my sublime relief, the police are not. Taped to the passenger-side window is a folded piece of paper. I climb into the dry interior of the wagon and unfold the note to behold Shane’s frantic chicken scratch:

Stella Cambren, call me the INSTANT you get back to this car.