No!
I yank down my hand and grab the hem of her jacket blindly. It is smooth and finished and tailored, and that is good. The buckles are on her jacket, a woman’s jacket, this jacket. Good.
“Julia!”
I wrench myself away and stagger, sweating, plucking at the armpits of my coat and swallowing air.
“You’re not well. I have a granola bar you can eat.” She forces me to sit on a fallen tree, unwraps the bar, and hands it to me. “When you’re feeling better, we’re turning around.”
I devour it, noisy and uncaring. When I’m done, I feel steady enough to look her in the eye. “Liv and me. He was looking for us, that day in the woods.”
She nods solemnly and helps me rise, linking her arm in mine, and we walk, her limping, me with my head down, the mile back to our cars in silence. The sun drops lower. At one point, a biker comes out of nowhere and whooshes past. I let loose a little yelp. Paula swears at him, and we both laugh.
It’s ages before I convince Paula that I’m all right to drive. To do so, I have to give her something, a benign bit of me that I wasn’t wanting to share. I tell her about the notebook, not specifically, but that I like to organize my thoughts in writing, like her, I bet. She is jazzed, says we are connected in so many ways, and that even though she knows I have the bloodline to be a famous scientist one day, she recognizes a future journalist when she sees one.
For the second time, I find myself liking someone I don’t want to like. Someone with capable hands. I wonder if it’s too late to set the boundaries, and if not, what will they look like?
When Paula finally drives away, I lock my car door and prop my notebook up on the steering wheel, wondering how to represent all of Donald Jessup’s missed connections with Liv and me. How a stalker even chooses his next victim. Did he pick us out of the pack running through town that rainy fall? Shouldn’t a sociopath who already killed once be better at stalking his victims such that he doesn’t miss every opportunity to stalk them? I draw a whorl, one line never meeting itself. Eventually my mind moves to easier thoughts.
I write:
Things I Know About Paula Papademetriou:
- Had a best friend
- Isn’t content with what she’s told
- Thinks I’m not content with what I’m told
A blast of music draws my attention back to the woods. I check the rearview mirror in time to see Shane’s ancient matte black GTO pull in across the small lot and park, its windows open halfway. I spin fast to see a head in the passenger seat. Blonde, heart-shaped face: unmistakably Liv. I know why they’re here. The parking lot at the Fells’ fire watchtower entrance is famous for smoking, hooking up, and perverts alone with newspapers in their laps. The cracked window suggests the first. I stash my notebook in the wedge next to my seat and climb over the console to the backseat. If the car looks empty, it will draw less interest, in case Shane gives the lot a stoned-and-paranoid once-over.
“I’m stretching my legs,” Liv says over a rusty creak—the GTO’s door opening.
I slide to the backseat floor and fold into a tight ball, as if my perfect stillness will render my car invisible. I’m not a praying sort, but I mutter a short prayer anyway, that Liv has chosen this one time to partake in what Shane is offering, and her fugue state will cause her to miss my car. I add a quick thank-you prayer, too, that Mom choked when the dealer suggested the SPUNK vanity plate.
A second car door slam. I hitch my breath.
“What you really mean is you want to shake off the smoke so Lady Deborah doesn’t smell it,” says Shane.
“I’m not the one smoking,” Liv replies, her voice thinner, moving away. I scramble to peek through the rear window in time to see Liv heading for the trailhead.
“Fine. You don’t want Mama to know you consort with delinquents. That’s cool. Except you’d think you were the one stoned, all paranoid, ducking down like you got shot when we drove by Paula Pappa-dem-meaty-o’s in that SUV. Do you know she lives in Shiv—?”
“I’m aware,” Liv interrupts.
“Have you ever seen her in person?” Shane says.
“Yes, Shane. She was just at our school,” Liv says.
“Man, she’s tight. Who would think she has a kid our age?”
“My age,” Liv says, reminding me that Shane’s real age is up for debate, a question related to the accuracy of his adoption records that emerged around fourth grade after he grew a full mustache.
Shane walks toward Liv, the cuffs of his thin jacket rising as he twists pale wrists back and forth. He sprawls on the stairs where Paula asked me to sit hours ago.
Liv glances back. “Don’t get too comfortable. You know I hate it here. There are so many other places to smoke.”
“I won’t be but a moment, milady.” He reaches around to his back pocket and pulls out a plastic bag.