“You haven’t started your period yet, have you?” Regan asked Caroline as she plopped onto her sister’s bed.
“Gross, Regan!”
“That answers that,” Regan replied. “Okay, we can hang out then.”
Caroline scratched her head. “I don’t get it.”
“Look, your entire life will change when you get your period. You’ll become emotional and moody and grouchy and awful to everyone around you. So will all your friends. And that spells drama, sweetheart. Drama with a capital D. I can’t handle the drama. Not anymore. But since you don’t have your period, you’re pretty much drama free. So we can hang.”
Caroline blinked. “You’re weird.”
Regan laughed. “What are you doing?”
“Writing a book.”
“Rad.”
Caroline snickered. “That word is so stupid, Regan. Where’d you hear it?”
“Mom.”
“You wanna sound like Mom?”
“Eh. I like the word. Plus, it goes with this shirt.” She pointed to her T-shirt that featured The Two Coreys. “Now tell me about your book.”
Caroline frowned, confused, then shrugged. “Whatever. So my book’s about a horse who can talk, but he only talks to this one girl . . .”
Regan grinned and listened. What was it about girls and horses? And then she remembered something she read a long time ago during her own horse phase. It was written by a psychologist who suggested the underlying reason girls love horses is because they represent power—the desire for control—whether they’re controlling the horse or vice versa. And then it devolved into some Freudian explanation of repressed sexual urges, and she didn’t understand any of it. She was nine.
“You don’t like any boys in your class, do you?” she asked suddenly, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.
“Gross.”
Whew.
“So it really is just about a horse.”
Caroline looked up from her wide-ruled notebook paper. “I told you it’s about a talking horse.”
Regan nodded. “So what happens?”
“I can’t tell you that. You’ll have to read it when I’m finished,” Caroline said.
“But that’ll take forever,” Regan whined.
“Will not. I’ll have it done by tomorrow.”
“A whole novel finished in two days?”
“I started it Monday.”
“A whole novel finished in a week?”
“Yeah.” Caroline chewed the end of her pencil. “It’s not like writing’s hard. What? You thought it’d take me a year?”
Regan chuckled. “Hey, what do you think about reading some of my work?”
“Your poetry?”
“Uh huh.”
“Already have.”
“What?”
“I’ve read your poetry. I don’t understand it.”
“You went into my room without permission?”
“Never, Regan. I follow the rules.”
“So . . . ?” She waited for an explanation.
“It was sitting on the mantle. You left it there. I thought it was an open invitation.”
“Uh huh. So you didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that,” Caroline replied. “I said I don’t understand it.”
“Well, I don’t understand half of it either,” Regan confessed. She crossed her arms and lay her head in the crook of her elbow.
“In that case, maybe writing isn’t for you,” Caroline said. “Stick to soccer.”
“Noted.”
“Want me to read some to you?” Caroline asked.
“Please.”
Caroline smiled. “Darwin licked Celeste’s cheek. She thought it was his way of saying, ‘I’m sorry’.”
“Darwin is the horse, I presume?”
“Duh.”
“Continue.”
“‘I’m not mad at you, Darwin, but you shouldn’t run away like that. What if something happened to you, and I couldn’t find you? I wouldn’t be able to help you.’ Darwin nodded.”
“I thought he could talk. Why isn’t he giving her an explanation instead of licking and nodding?” Regan interrupted.
“He hasn’t started talking to her yet. This is before he reveals to her that she’s an animal whisperer,” Caroline explained.
“Ohhhh. Gotcha. Carry on.”
Caroline cleared her throat and continued the story.
“Sorry, one more thing,” Regan said.
“Gosh, Regan! You’re the worst listener ever!”
“I’m sorry, but I have to know what an animal whisperer is.”
“Really? You couldn’t figure that out? It’s a person who can hear animals talk. They’re like animal protectors—especially for the animals who can’t stick up for themselves. Animals who are treated badly and need help. You get it?”
She got it, all right—the image of sixth grade Jeremy popping into her mind. He was the wounded stag laying helpless and bleeding in the middle of a pack of hungry cats. They gnashed and pawed and hissed. And she only came to his defense once. Only spoke to him once—a regret that glowed a dull pain from time to time inside her heart until she remembered that he didn’t want her help. He didn’t want her friendship. He told her so, all those many years ago.
***
He slunk soundlessly behind the tree—a large cat whose fluid movements made him imperceptible to even the sharpest ear.
“One, two, three, four,” he counted silently to the beat of the song—“Games Without Frontiers.” It jerked and pulsed inside his ears, headphones muffling the outer world and narrowing his focus on one thing: his objective. “Five.”
He swung around and positioned the rifle against his shoulder, aiming for Brandon’s chest. Much easier target. The head would be more rewarding, but the surface area was much too small, and he didn’t have time to gamble with his chances.
He pulled the trigger. The last of the bullets grazed the left side of the tree trunk, and he cursed under his breath.
“Scenario A,” he said quickly, swinging the gun down and around in front of his chest, and pawing for his ammo. “Brandon—because he’s a crazy fuck—comes at me. I have a few seconds to reload, or I pull my pistol.”