The Creeping

He knew. Twelve-year-old Sam knew that given the choice, I didn’t choose him. I swallow a big gulp of air. It slides down my throat, choking me. If not for it, I’d cry; the sky already is. “Why didn’t you tell me that you knew? That I was horrible for picking Zoey?” I ask, barely louder than the drops pelting the windshield. The car veers off the highway and on to Main Street, cutting through downtown Savage.

“Because you chose Zoey. What was I supposed to say? Should I have begged you not to?” We pull to a stop at a red light. He runs his hands through his hair, heaving a huge sigh, and holds them up, defeated. “You chose Zoey. And she was the one who made you choose. I would never have asked you to give up a friend. Especially right after—”

“Right after my mom left,” I supply. I have to admit that even at twelve the timing of Zoey giving me the ultimatum seemed really cruel, really messed up.

I glare at our reflections in the window. I see a half-naked drenched girl who’s a miserable shadow of who she used to be. I see a boy who’s been burned by her over and over again. But for some bizarro reason he doesn’t leave like everyone else.

“I understand what you meant about there being so little of me left,” I whisper. The light turns green and he accelerates. I wonder when whatever magic elixir that made me me started to dry up. I have an inkling it began with Jeanie. The droplets of water ping against the glass, and I see they’ve morphed into hail. Hail in June. I remember learning that hail forms in clouds, where the air is much cooler, making it possible during summer months. Still. The universe seems off-kilter, addled. The windshield wipers don’t even come close to defeating the ice that rockets down on us. I fantasize that a comet-size chunk will burst through the glass and pummel me out of existence.

We turn down my street. I reach for my shoes in the backseat and struggle to get the wet canvas onto my feet. Sam stares straight ahead; he can’t stomach looking at me. The instant the wagon pulls into my driveway—before we’re even parked—I leap from the car.

“Stella, wait!” Sam shouts. I don’t stop. All I want to do is hide from him. He’s the only evidence of the hurtful choice I made. But he follows. I struggle with the key in the lock and explode through the front door. Moscow’s lounging on the back of the sofa. He raises his head, lackadaisically regards me, and then settles back in for a nap. I kick off my soaked shoes. Their moisture leeches into the carpet as a swelling shadow.

Finally, I turn to Sam, who sloshed through the front yard and stands dripping and muddy in the doorway. His hair is plastered to his head, and his eyelashes are clumping. He slams the door, making the whole house and my insides rattle.

“If there wasn’t any of you left, why would I be here? Why would I be helping you? Why would that ten percent of my brain always be hoping that you’re at the party I am? That we’ll see each other and we’ll talk and you’ll smile because I made you laugh.” He steps closer, and I mirror it with a step back. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “I’ve had it bad for you most of my life. You. The fearless you who stepped in front of Daniel when Griever aimed a shotgun at him. The you who used to do backflips off my diving board. The you who I knew would realize sooner or later that you chose wrong.”

I tug my hair furiously into a knot at the base of my neck. “Zoey’s my best friend. Don’t you get that?” Even now the urge to defend Zoey stomps out everything else. “I didn’t choose wrong.”

I hold my breath, waiting for his response. He leans forward rather than away. “Stella, don’t you get it? I’m not saying you should have chosen me. There was no right choice. You shouldn’t have chosen at all,” he says softly. There are no words. It’s the simplest, most obvious thing, and it never occurred to me. “You did, though, and I don’t care that you did.”

His eyes are so intent I imagine them crackling like embers in a fire. He’s waiting for a response. There’s this humming between us, making the hair on my arms stand on end. I take another hasty step back and try to look unaffected as I gather up stray hairs and tuck them into my knot. “What did you want to show me?” I breeze over everything.