Down With the Shine (7 page)

W
hen we reach Smith’s house, neither one of us makes a move to get out of the car. “Beep the horn,” I say impulsively.

“What?” Smith gives me a disdainful glance.

“Maybe she’ll hear it and come running out.” It sounds lame when I say it aloud. I was hoping the opposite would be true, since it had also sounded pretty bad when I’d tried it out in my head.

“What, you think she’s inside, like, watching TV or something right now?” This time he twists in his seat and faces me full on so that I cannot possibly miss how monumentally stupid he thinks I am. You’d think a guy with a black eye and busted lip wouldn’t be able to pull that look off, but if anything the bruises enhance it.

“You’re an asshole,” I say, and finally I find the momentum to climb out of the car and slam the door behind
me. Still pissed, I march up to the front door and . . . it’s locked. Luckily, I’ve seen Dylan retrieve the spare key from behind the loose brick enough times to get it in my hands and start fitting it in the lock by the time Smith saunters up behind me.

“You’ll set off the alarm,” he says.

“You don’t have an alarm,” I shoot back as I push the door open. Immediately an alarm begins to shriek. Pushing past me, Smith punches numbers into a keypad beside the door.

“So that’s new,” I say as the alarm goes quiet and Smith turns to face me.

“Actually, we’ve always had it, but Dyl was constantly setting it off accidentally so Teena had the service disconnected. Then after Dyl . . .” Smith shrugs, letting me fill in the blank there. “Teena was freaked out and had it reactivated.”

“Is . . .” I glance around. “Is Teena home?” It’s weird even mentioning her around Smith, but if he is bothered, he doesn’t show it.

Smith shakes his head. “She’s out of town for the weekend.”

“Oh.” I nod, and then realize that neither of us has taken a single step away from the front door. “I guess we should check Dyl’s room, right?” I ask, knowing I’m risking Smith biting my head off again.

But he just looks up at the ceiling, as if searching for some sort of sign. I’m guessing he doesn’t find one, ’cause his gaze returns to me. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, you wished for her sleeping safe in her own bed, right? So that’s where she’d probably be.”

“I don’t think I said sleeping. Did I say sleeping? ’Cause then would that mean that she never wakes up?”

“How the hell should I know? It was your wish.”

“I didn’t know it was a real wish! And I was drunk so I don’t remember what I said!” I close my eyes, knowing if I see Smith smirk at me one more time I’ll punch him in the face. And then I remember the wish with such perfect clarity that I can recall the exact way that the words felt on my lips. “‘Alive and safe in her own bed.’ That’s what I said. Not sleeping. Just alive. And safe.”

“Okay then,” Smith says. “That’s good.” He hesitates a moment longer, then suddenly turns and plants his fist into the wall behind him. Pulling it out of the crumbly drywall, he nods. “I’m ready.” And with his usual long strides, Smith heads farther into the house.

I chase behind him. “Hey, maybe you can give me a warning the next time you’re gonna do that? It’s kinda freaking me out.”

“Can’t,” Smith throws over his shoulder. “It’s an impulse. Just do it. You know?”

I roll my eyes, but don’t respond because we are climbing the stairs and as soon as my foot hits the first step my whole body gets Jell-O shaky. At the top of the stairs, we both walk as softly as possible across the creaky hardwood floors until we come to a stop outside Dyl’s closed bedroom door.

Smith exhales a long, shaky breath before lifting his non-bloodied left hand up and softly tapping his knuckles against the door.

“You’re knocking?” I whisper.

“Yes,” he hisses back. “We always knock. You don’t barge into someone’s room without—”

Ignoring Smith, I turn the knob and walk right in. Dyl’s room is unchanged from the last time I was here. The same mixture of posters and rough charcoal drawings cover the walls. Clothes are strewn everywhere except for the corner where her record player and several messy piles of vinyl take over.

I finally turn my attention to Dyl’s bed. She always tried to be so tough, so hard. Hair dyed in various color streaks, most recently a mixture of white blond and purpley black. Spiked piercings in her lips and brow and ears. Dark red lipstick, heavy black eyeliner, and chipped black and blue nail polish. She sometimes wore the preppy clothes her mom bought, but only after attacking them with bleach
and sandpaper and who knows what else, until they were completely her own right down to the homemade labels she’d sew on that read, Screw You Clothing.

So you’d think Dyl’s bed would be something with leather and nailhead accents or, on the opposite end, a little more boho, like a simple mattress on the floor covered with a heap of mismatched quilts. Instead, it’s this magical white iron canopy bed, covered with a ruffly comforter and about twenty pillows of all shapes and sizes. Once when we were really drunk, Dyl told me the bed made her feel like a princess in a fairy tale, waiting for her prince to wake her with a kiss. I’d started laughing, certain it was a joke, and only realized it wasn’t when she went stomping from the room.

Heart pounding, mouth dry, I take one step closer and then another and another until I am beside the bed and looking down at my best friend, sleeping peacefully beneath the covers.

My eyes fill with tears and Dyl blurs but does not disappear. This horrible choked sound gurgles from somewhere inside me as my legs give out and I flop to the floor.

Smith rushes over from where he’s been hovering in the hallway. “What? What?”

He stumbles to a halt beside me, and I peer up at him. It’s impossible to get a good look at his face from this angle,
but when I hear him choke out her name, his voice cracked and broken and raw, I look away, lowering my gaze to the nail polish stains on the rug. This is way too personal a moment for me to witness. Uncertain if my legs will hold me, I’m ready to crawl out on my hands and knees to give him some privacy, when Smith turns and bolts from the room. I listen to the sound of his feet pounding down the stairs, and then there is only silence.

I pull myself up, just enough to see Dyl again, to confirm I didn’t imagine her. And there she is. Curled up small, face buried deep in her pillow and covers pulled up to her nose.

Dyl in her bed. Alive. Exactly the way I’d wished she would be.

Except why isn’t she waking up? Smith and I haven’t exactly been quiet.

I lean in closer, suddenly afraid that only half the wish was granted. I mean, bringing someone back to life is way bigger than steel balls or an itching need to hold someone’s hand. I stop breathing, listening for one of Dyl’s. No matter how I strain, I can’t detect the slightest sigh or inhalation.

Trembling, I slide my hand beneath the blankets and rest two fingers against the side of Dyl’s neck. Her skin is warm to the touch, which is reassuring, and after shifting
my search slightly up and to the left I find the faint but unmistakable beat of Dyl’s pulse.

I hold my hand there, counting the beats and daring Dyl to wake up. I can imagine the way her eyes would fly open. “What the hell are you doing?” she’d say. “That’s some creepy shit, Len.”

She just lies there, though, so still and silent that even with my fingers tracking the beats of her heart, I still am not sure whether she’s dead or alive.

Something in me snaps. “DYL!” I scream in her face. “Wake up, Dyl! Dylan. Wake up!” I grab her shoulders and give her a good shake. Her head wobbles on her neck, and worried that I might snap it, I snatch my hands away. Limp, Dyl flops back onto the pillow, her striped hair floating outward in a halo around her. And yet, not so much as an eyelid flutters.

“What the hell are you doing?” Smith, using the same words I’d imagined coming from Dylan, grabs my arm and pulls me away. I jerk back, but he grabs me again and this time puts his face only an inch from mine. “Leave her alone, Lennie.”

His breath stinks of alcohol. Whiskey or bourbon or something strong, that’s for sure.

A rush of rage fills me. He ran out of here to get a drink. While I’ve been trying to decide if Dyl is alive or
dead or something weirder and in between, he’s been doing his best to get drunk. From the glassy look in his eyes, he’s been pretty successful.

I bring my hand up and jab two fingers into the blackest part of the bruise below his right eye. Then I push past him to Dyl’s record collection and begin digging into the pile of vinyl, already knowing the exact one I want. It’s the pride of Dyl’s collection, a first pressing of Led Zeppelin’s self-titled debut album. Spotting the distinctive turquoise lettering on the sleeve, I slide the record out.

Despite her haphazard storage methods, Dyl is particular about her collection and never lets me handle them. I’ve seen her do it a million times, though, so I know the ritual. First, she blows across the surface of the record to remove any lint or dust. Then, keeping her fingers carefully on the rounded edge, she gently settles it onto the player. Finally, the needle is lifted and with the softest of touches placed at the edge of the record.

As “Good Times Bad Times” starts to play, I reach down to crank up the volume.

I stand there for a moment watching the record turn, listening to the music, and wishing . . .

No, I don’t make wishes. Not anymore. It’s too dangerous.

So when I slowly turn back toward Dylan, I don’t wish,
but merely hope to see . . . what?

Dyl dancing on her bed while Smith gazes at me with a mixture of gratitude and love in his eyes?

Yeah, that doesn’t happen.

Dyl remains frozen in bed, and Smith is once again nowhere to be seen.

I rub my eyes, suddenly exhausted. I’m tempted to crawl under the covers next to Dyl. When she was alive I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but now it feels too much like sharing a grave.

“Gah, Lennie, mope why don’t ya.” I can hear Dyl saying that so clearly that I almost go over to the bed to shake her again. Dyl believed in action. She dared life to knock her down, just to see how quick she could get up again.

“Get up, Dyl,” I urge in a soft voice. “Get up.”

Still nothing.

“Okay.” I nod. “It is way too early to be up. Excellent point. I’ll go downstairs and have a little breakfast while you sleep in. All righty then?”

I turn away before she can not answer.

Actually, breakfast isn’t such a terrible idea. I’ve been too nauseous to even think about food up to this point, and even though the sick feeling hasn’t gone away, I’m determined to make myself eat something, because whatever
else happens next, I have a feeling I’ll need all my strength to face it.

I clomp down the stairs and head into the kitchen where as usual the cupboards are mostly empty and the fridge is full of old takeout boxes. After digging through various drawers, I end up with a small pile of fortune cookies and three bags of potato chips with nothing left in them but broken shards.

As I crack open two of the fortune cookies, Smith saunters in. I brace myself to be bitched at again, but he simply stands there sheepishly with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Dyl always said Smith’s anger came on fast and melted away almost as quickly, whereas she was the type to hold a grudge. I must be more like Smith than Dyl, ’cause as soon as I notice how wrecked and thoroughly exhausted he looks, I can feel my anger start to fade away. I don’t want him to know that I’m a total pushover, though, so I just stand there and chew on my stupid stale cookies.

Smith falls into a chair and then looks up at me with his gorgeous eyes framed by thick long lashes. “What’s it say?”

“Huh?” I reply as my heart misses a beat.

“Your fortune. Things gonna start looking up?”

“Oh.” I twist around to pluck the two fortunes off the counter, and hold both out to Smith. “Take them. I honestly don’t want to know.”

His hand closes around mine and when I hurriedly snatch it away, Smith gives me a wicked smile. “Lennie, I thought you liked me.”

“Sure I do, Smith. I mean, I’m a girl and not a single one of us can resist you, right?”

The minute the words clear my lips, I know he thinks I’m referring to the whole thing with Teena and the smile goes out like I pulled a plug. For the second time since he walked into the kitchen every muscle in my body tenses, waiting for Smith to strike back. Instead, all he says is, “Well, you got my number.”

“Smith,” I say, an apology on the tip of my tongue, even though I’m not sure he deserves it.

“Let’s see what our fortunes have to say.” Smith talks right over me, and I remember that he doesn’t just refuse to hand out apologies, he also has a policy against receiving them. He holds out two hands curled into fists. “Pick a hand.”

I work hard to resist the urge to touch him. “Left.”

Smith opens his left hand and I watch as he reads the fortune. His lips quirk in a little smile and he looks up to
share it with me.
“You have unusual equipment for success. Use it well.”

“Shut up. It does not say that.” I grab the fortune from his hand. And holy shit, it really does say that. It says that exactly. I look at Smith, expecting to see him laughing at me, but instead he’s reading his own fortune. “What’s yours say?”

Smith gives me a lopsided grin. “You gonna tell me to shut up again?”

“Probably.”

“Never underestimate the power of the human touch.”

“Shit,” I say.

“Yeah.” Smith drags a hand through his hair. “You think the universe is laughing at us, Lennie?”

I scrub my eyes, which feel tired and sticky, even though it’s not even nine a.m. “I’d guess it’s laughing so hard it’s crying by now.”

S
mith and I silently chew our way through the burritos he found at the back of the freezer, stretching out every bean-filled bite as long as possible. Neither of us needs to say that we don’t know what to do next. Or at all.

Okay, I do have one idea. Go home. Tell my uncles everything. Beg them to help. Hope they have answers and a way to fix everything. Only problem there is I’m pretty certain right now they’re crossing my name out of the family bible, changing the locks, and putting all my stuff in boxes on the front lawn.

It’s actually sort of a relief when my phone, still tucked into my back pocket, starts vibrating. As I pull it out, I make sure to curl my hand around the beaten-up old iPhone, not wanting Smith to recognize the grinning
pink skeleton on the plastic cover.

It’s possible he’d freak out.

Dyl gave me this phone the week before she disappeared. She’d gotten an upgrade and knew I’d been dying for something other than my crappy old flip phone. So she gifted me her old one instead of trading it in. Never mind the giant crack running the length of the screen or that the battery couldn’t make it through a whole day. I loved it. I was supposed to wipe the phone of Dyl’s photos and playlists and all that other stuff, but I never got around to it and then Dyl was dead and the phone became a sort of digital memorial to her.

The phone buzzes in my hand and I glance down at the screen. Larry’s picture grins back up at me.

Guilt hits me hard. I haven’t given Larry a single thought since last night when we had our little fight. Knowing him, he’s probably calling to make sure I’m not mad at him. Or . . . a worse possibility occurs to me. Has his life been royally screwed by a wish too?

It takes me a minute to remember what his wish was for, and as soon as I recall it my shoulders sag with relief. He didn’t want his mom to be mad at him. Lame Larry and his lame wishes. If the idiot was standing in front of me right now, I’d hug him.

I quickly pick up the phone call, a little surprised by how happy I am at the prospect of hearing Larry’s dopey normal voice.

“Hey,” I say.

In response, Larry whispers something so quietly that all I can make out is my name and the word
help
.

A shiver of something—I guess you’d call it foreboding—goes through me. I shake it off. “Larry, use your big boy voice and talk louder.”

“I can’t,” he whispers back in a slightly louder whisper. “I’m hiding.” With his volume raised, I can hear the tremble in his voice.

“You grounded or something?”
Please, let that be it.

“I wish,” he squeaks back. “I’m at Michaela’s house. We all are.”

I shove myself away from the table. My chair tips and hits the floor with a bang. “What are you still doing there?” I ask, trying to contain my panic.

“No one can go past the end of the driveway. It’s like there’s a force field or something. And people are acting weird. Everyone’s gone crazy. I’m afraid, Lennie. I’m really afraid.”

I wait for him to connect the craziness to the wishes and say it’s all my fault. But this is loyal-till-the-bitter-end Larry, so of course he doesn’t.

“It’s okay, Larry,” I say, although I feel 99.9 percent certain that it’s not. “I’ll be there in a little bit. Other people can still come in, right?”

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know.”

I press a fist to my churning stomach. “All right. I’m on my way. Do you need me to bring anything?”

“Lennie, no. It’s too dangerous. You should stay away. I only called ’cause I wanted someone to talk to. I tried calling my mom, I thought she’d be worried, but she said I wasn’t a baby anymore and I should learn to take care of myself.” There is a snuffling sound on the other end of the phone and I suddenly realize that Larry is crying. “Lennie, my mom always said I’d be her little baby boy forever.”

Oh, shit. Larry’s wish. Damn it all.

I want to cry with him and beg his forgiveness. Instead, I take a deep breath and try to sound strong and certain when I tell him, “I’m gonna come get you, Larry. It’ll be okay. I promise, everything’s gonna be fine.”

Another loud sniffle before Larry speaks again. “Thanks, Lennie, you’re a great friend. Just be careful, okay?”

“Don’t worry about me,” I respond. “Sit tight and I’ll be there soon.”

I press the end button before he can thank me again and make me feel a million times worse.

Then I turn and come face-to-face with Smith.

“What’s going on?” he demands in this hard “what the hell have you done now” sort of tone.

Pissed off, I spit the words at him. “My friend is still at Michaela’s party and a bunch of other people are too. He says no one can leave and the place is a mess. I told him I’d come get him, ’cause it’s all screwed up and—” I stop before I can add “and it’s all my fault.”

Although, it’s not like that’s some big secret. No one else was granting crazy wishes last night.

“Holy shit.” Smith releases me and takes a step back. “Your friend Larry?”

“Yeah,” I answer, surprised that Smith guessed he’s the one friend who would call me—the two of them don’t exactly run in the same circles.

“And you told him you’d go straight into the shit storm. For him.”

I shrug, a little uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Smith nods. “So what should we expect at Michaela’s?”

“You’re not coming with me.”

“Technically since I’m driving, you’re coming with me.”

I shake my head. “I’m calling my uncles. I gotta ask them what to do about Dyl anyway.”

“What do you mean, ‘Do about Dyl’? No offense, Lennie, but I’m not gonna have your uncles locking Dylan in the basement with W2.”

“They wouldn’t,” I protest, but when Smith gives me a skeptical look, I can’t help but modify my defense of the uncs to, “probably.”

“Right,” Smith says. “So here’s the plan. You’ll stay in the car with Dyl, while I run into Michaela’s and grab big dumb Larry.” I might agree that Larry is big and dumb, but Smith sure as hell hasn’t earned the right to say so.

“Fuck. You.
That’s
why you’re not going.”

Smith scoffs. I’ve never actually heard someone scoff before, but he makes this throat-clearing noise that can’t be described in any other way. “Because I don’t like your boyfriend?”

“No, because—” I stop as I realize what Smith just said. He thinks Larry and I are together? Ugh. The high school attitude of believing that a boy and a girl can’t be friends without sucking face is so stupid, and I should’ve guessed that people would’ve interpreted my relationship with Larry that way. For some reason, though, I thought that Smith of all people would’ve known better. “Whatever. He’s a good guy and you’re—”

“Not?” Smith cuts in finishing my sentence for me. Except that isn’t even what I was going to say. I’d meant
to repeat that he was not going with me to rescue Larry.

I glare at Smith, wondering what is going on in his head. As usual it’s impossible to tell. He looks angry and dark and complicated and not at all like someone I’d describe as a “good guy.” Which is, of course, a big part of the reason I’ve always been so drawn to him. Hot mess—emphasis on the hot—seems to be my type.

And just like that, I give in. Because who am I kidding? If I’m gonna walk through hell, I want Smith at my side, trying to convince me to let him hold my hand.

“Fine.” I throw my hands up in the air, so my complete surrender is clear. “We’ll both go. But forget the whole me sitting in the car with Dyl while you run inside. Actually, I don’t think it’s a great idea to bring her along at all.”

You’d think Smith might meet me halfway on this. But like me, you’d be wrong. “Yeah, well, it’s a worse idea to leave her here. Let me paint you a real quick picture. Teena and her guy of the week have a fight. She storms off. Most likely comes home to get drunk. And when she’s had too many, there’s nothing she likes more than tottering into Dyl’s room and playing up the grieving mother bit. Screaming. Crying. Shaking her fist at the ceiling. All while asking, ‘Why why why . . .’” Smith stops and takes a deep breath. “Half the time she passes out on Dyl’s bed.”

“Okay,” I say. “I get it. But . . . we can’t hide Dyl from her forever.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He sighs. “But for now, at least until we figure out what’s going on with her, I think we should keep Dylan close to us.” Springing to his feet, Smith holds a hand out to me. “Come on.”

I almost put my hand in his. It feels so natural, like an agreement that we are in this together. I even go so far as to stretch my arm out, before I remember and recoil. “Why don’t you lead the way?”

“Damn. I almost had you,” Smith says, flexing his hand so that I can see his torn and bruised knuckles. Then with a shrug, he grabs our plates and tosses them into the sink before heading back upstairs.

We find Dyl in the exact same position as we left her.

“Now what?” I ask, making sure to keep my voice low.

Leaning forward, Smith grabs hold of the comforter and whips it off the bed. “Now we—”

He chokes on whatever he was going to say next and we both stare in horror.

Dylan is wearing the same thing she’d had on when she disappeared: a threadbare Mickey Mouse tank top, paired with short black denim shorts. Curled on her side with her arms crossed over her chest, she looks so vulnerable.

But this isn’t what has Smith and me so shaken. No,
that would be the red streaks slashed through with black, like lines of stitches, encircling her ankles, her knees, her wrists, her elbows, her shoulders, and—worst of all—her neck. There are probably even more we can’t see beneath her clothing. We both know instantly that each of them marks a place where she’d been chopped apart, and the black lines make it look like she’s been crudely sewn back together.

As Smith and I stare, unable to tear our eyes away, I hear this horrible high-pitched whistle, like a distant teakettle coming to a boil.

Smith steps in front of me, blocking my view. His hands curl around my head, gently applying pressure as if he knows that my skull is in danger of exploding. “Breathe in, Lennie. Come on now. Don’t freak out.”

It is only then that I realize the terrible sound is coming from me. I was trying to scream but a shrill whisper is all that can make its way past my closed throat. Shuddering, I make the horrible sound stop and try to take deep, calming breaths, but I choke on the air, unable to remember how to get it into my lungs.

“Breathe.” Removing his hands from my head now that it seems like it’ll stay in one piece, his magic touch moves lower, one hand pressing on my back and the other flat against my lower ribcage. “Come on, Lennie. Don’t do this. Breathe.”

My throat loosens enough for me to sneak a bit of air in and then a little bit more. The world comes back into focus, and that’s when I realize that the fingertips of Smith’s right hand are parked directly beneath my boobs.

“I’m okay,” I say, pushing his hand away and taking a step back. “It was only that . . .” I swipe the back of my arm across my eyes, not wanting Smith to see the tears there. “I saw the picture. The one of Dyl . . . after.”

“No way.” Smith’s response is immediate. “Who would show that to you?”

“A cop. He was asking all these questions. Then he just put the picture in front of me.”

“That’s fucked.”

I make a little squeaking noise that I hope Smith thinks is a sad laugh and not a choked back sob. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, they thought I did it.”

“They didn’t, Lennie.” Again, there is no hesitation. “They thought you knew something. That’s it. You were never on the official suspect list.”

For some reason this makes me feel better. Not weight-lifted-off-my-chest better, but slightly better, which it turns out is enough to keep from falling to the ground and sobbing.

“Okay, thanks,” I say, finally able to meet Smith’s eyes
again. “Okay,” I repeat, trying to regroup. “We need to get her out of here, right?”

“I’ll carry her,” Smith answers. “I need you to scout ahead and make sure the coast is clear.”

I nod. “I can do that. One thing first, though.” I cross the room to Dyl’s closet and then dig through until I find her favorite pair of Pumas, a red-and-black-plaid baseball hat, and a hoodie. After shoving all of the items into a canvas bag and slinging it over my shoulder, I turn back to Smith and give him the thumbs-up sign. “Let’s do this.”

Smith scoops Dyl into his arms so that she is cradled close to his chest. I ease the door open and peer out, feeling paranoid. The hallway and the rest of the house are as silent and empty as before.

“It’s clear,” I whisper, twisting around to where Smith is now directly behind me. “You go first and I’ll cover your back.”

The corner of Smith’s mouth kicks up in a half smile. “No one’s coming after us with an MK16, Lennie.”

If he wasn’t holding Dyl, I’d be tempted to poke his bruise again. I settle for giving his shoulder a shove. “Go already, Smith.”

For a bigger guy, who’s also carrying another person, Smith really nails the quick and quiet combo. We make it to his Jeep Cherokee in record time. Smith gently lays
Dyl across the backseat and tucks a blanket around her. A lump fills my throat so full that I have to turn away and busy myself with getting into the car and buckling my seat belt.

Smith lingers behind me while I stare straight ahead and pretend to not hear the suspicious sniffling sounds coming from behind me.

Or maybe I was imagining them, because when Smith swings into the driver’s seat and begins driving us to Michaela’s, he appears to be as in control as ever.

“Look,” he says. “The day after one of these parties everyone’s tired and hungover. Any craziness is probably fights over the ibuprofen and pizza delivery menus.”

“Sure,” I say, and then I laugh. It sounds fake. And horrible. A stupid lie just like the one Smith’s trying to feed me. It’s still relatively early in the day, but at this point we both know that things are messed up in the kind of way that isn’t gonna go away or get better. . . .

Not today.

And maybe not ever again.