The Creeping

“My dad didn’t even call.” My voice is a near whine. “And I thought Zoey would text for sure.” How is it that I’m left with only Sam?

The next five blocks leading to my street are exactly the same. Crucifixes of all sizes, candlelight vigils, framed photos of Jeanie Talcott, rosaries, dream catchers, piles of acorns, tiny mountains of salt. Anything that anyone believes will ward off death has been rounded up and displayed. I hope my neighbors haven’t lost it too. But once we turn onto my street, I can’t even see the surrounding homes. The sidewalks are filled with reporters; news vans line the drive; nosy neighbors huddle together; kids circle their parents, kept near with invisible leashes of fear. The lights of cop cars cast a red, white, and blue wash on the carnival. Before I can beg Sam not to stop, he wrenches the wheel and makes a sharp U-turn.

“Thank you.” I exhale, eyeing the glittering mess in the rearview mirror.

“No problem.” He shoots me a sympathetic look. “You don’t need to be there for that.” A long pause. “How do you feel about chicken piccata?”

I smile weakly. “I am decidedly pro chicken piccata.”

We navigate the ten blocks that separate our houses. With every block put between us and my house, I breathe easier. Sam’s is a brick two-story on a quiet court. No reporters or meddlesome neighbors in sight as he pulls into the driveway. I push out of the car and regard the house for the first time in years. The ivory paint on the shutters is peeling like my nail polish; the waist-high lawn has splotches of brown; the picket fence is sagging and creaking rhythmically. It’s not what I remember.

As if reading my mind, Sam says, “Dad’s picking up odd jobs whenever he can. I try to keep it up, but between school and BigBox, I don’t have much time.”

The outside of the house may look shabby, but once inside it’s obvious that Sam still has a family-sitcom kind of home. Sam’s mom practically floats from the kitchen, donning a ruffled apron to welcome us.

Mrs. Worth’s eyes linger on Sam’s bruised cheek and then on me. She doesn’t ask, though, and I’m sure she assumes the injury has everything to do with me spontaneously reappearing in her home after a five-year absence. “You’ve been missed around here,” she whispers close to my ear as I’m wrapped in her soft arms. She avoids mentioning the news and tells us that dinner is in a half hour. I follow Sam up the narrow carpeted staircase; its shag is squishy and familiar under my soles. The dimly lit hall is lined with framed family photos. I’m in a few taken at picnics, field trips, and school plays.

I stop halfway up the stairs, tapping on the glass of one picturing Sam clad in green tights for his role as Peter Pan in the fourth grade. “I wish you still had this outfit. I’d like to see you running around school in those tights,” I tease.

He pauses a few steps above me, leans one hand on the railing and, with the other, points to a scrawny nine-year-old in a blue leotard and fairy wings in the corner of the photo. His voice is soft but serious. “I’d like to see you in this, Tinker Bell.” He holds my gaze with his. The words are light enough, but there’s an undercurrent to them that makes heat rise in my cheeks. Who knew that Sam Worth could . . . uhhh, flirt? I catch my breath and jog up the stairs after him.

The second floor is warm with stale air. Sam lifts a hall window up a crack before opening his bedroom door. He stands to the side so I can enter. I hesitate. “We can keep the door open if you’re worried about not being able to control yourself so near a bed with me,” he says with a laugh. I brush against him, even though there’s plenty of room to avoid touching him. Umm . . . alternate universe much, am I flirting back?