The Creeping

I will my body to free itself, untangle my ankles, but I can’t make my legs cooperate through the trembling, and I only manage to sit. “Why aren’t you answering me?” I plead.

Blood tie-dyes the white gauze around his revealed leg. “Because I shouldn’t have to defend myself, Stella. Not to you. Not after . . . after everything.” I know he means every time I threw him away; every time he gave me another chance. Sam strides unevenly to the door and pauses at the threshold. He stares at his sneakers. “I was an idiot to think you’re still that little girl who loved more and climbed higher and swam faster and laughed harder.” I slump back onto my pillow. “I kept looking. Trying to find bits of who you used to be, but she doesn’t exist anymore. You’re not her.” He moves soundlessly from the room, down the stairs, and out of the house with barely a rumble as his station wagon accelerates from my driveway. Sam leaving me is the loudest noise I’ve ever heard. You’re not her.

During the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, every time I think of Jeanie or Sam or Zoey or Daniel, my ears ring with Sam’s words. I’m letting them all down because Sam is right; I’m not as fearless as that little girl growling in the Polaroid, gripping a spear on the hunt for monsters. I’m surprised she couldn’t keep Jeanie safe. I’m not as brave as the ten-year-old who pulled Sam in for a kiss. And I’m definitely not as honest. I should have admitted to myself sooner what last night and this morning were actually about. Sam got hurt because of me, and I was scared to death that I’d lose him like I lose everyone else, like I lost my mother, who is the one person in this world you’re not supposed to lose. I guess making him leave by accusing him of something unforgivable was easier than waiting around for it to happen naturally. How could I doubt Sam for even a second? I take refuge in the shower, hoping the water will pound away the aching in my chest.

I can’t stop thinking about how everyone else changed because of Jeanie, her absence, and the mystery around it. Is Jeanie why Zoey is the high school equivalent of a Viking raider when she covets something? Did Zoey learn early on that you lose what you don’t fight to keep? Is Jeanie why Mom left? Did Mom wonder if there was a reason I came back and Jeanie didn’t? Did Mom wonder what it said about me that I survived a monster? I dunk my head under the pounding water.

I won’t stop looking for who or what took Jeanie. I can’t. Everyone else stopped, and she deserves better.

I check my cell after drying off. A text from Zoey:

Come 2 Cole’s bash tonight. We’ve got 2 talk.

That’s it. No Sorry for flaking on watching your back last night. No Did you survive? I throw the cell at my bed; it skids to a stop at my stuffed bunny’s feet.

“Can you effing believe that?” I ask in a tizzy. The bunny doesn’t answer. So this is how it’s going to be. I’ll get whiplash trying to keep up with Zoey’s bipolarness over Sam. I throw myself on my bed. I completely forgot about Cole’s party. Playing host at your first bash is kind of a rite of passage for newbies at school, and now that the whole town thinks the psycho serial killer on the loose has been caught, there’s no reason people wouldn’t show up. Still, I feel burned that Cole didn’t at least try to cancel.

After texting Zoey ten times with no response, I text Cole and Michaela the same message:

Not up for 2night. Soorrryy xoxo

Michaela responds before the screen turns dark from the sent text:

Miss u. Let’s hang 2morrow. Call if u need me.

Cole responds a minute later:

Tried canceling. Z says party must go on.

I blink at the screen as I’m walking to the kitchen to scrounge up a piece of fruit or a yogurt. I’d probably spend most of the afternoon wondering what Zoey’s motivation is for not letting Cole cancel, but a fist pounds on my front door.

I peek through the peephole and see Caleb raking his floppy hair from his eyes.

“Hi, stranger,” I call.

He jumps a little as I swing the door open. “Hey, can I come in?” His voice sounds tight, nervous. He ducks his head and shrugs deeper into his jacket as he slips past me. It occurs to me that he might be upset that I’ve been secretive and absent since we spoke the day at the cove.

“I’m really sorry we haven’t been able to hang out much since you’ve been home,” I say as he hovers in the middle of the living room. He’s shifting by the recliner, as if he can’t make up his mind whether he’s staying long enough to sit. “Are you mad?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine for the first time. They’re caught off guard. “No, sorry. I need a cigarette or something. I’m freaking nervous.” He flashes an apologetic smile and drops into the recliner with a groan.

I settle cross-legged on the end of the couch nearest him. My eyes drift to a muscle pulsing in his jaw. “Why are you nervous?”

“Look, Stella.” He rubs his dry palms together like sandpaper. “I’ve got to be honest with you about something.”