Never Missing, Never Found (12 page)

“Matthew!” I reprimand him, though I can’t deny that the same thought has crossed my mind. “Don’t say things like that.”

His mouth is open again, probably to defend himself with all the murderous thoughts he thinks he’s seen (or, hell, has actually seen) in Melody’s eyes, when I hear her feet tapping their way down the stairs. “Be nice to Jerica, okay?” I say. The babysitter is already parked in the living room, TV on. She doesn’t bother to fake that she cares, unless my dad is here.

“I’m always nice.”

“Dude, last week you put a dead spider in her ice cream.”

“She should’ve let me have some,” Matthew says reasonably.

I sigh. I don’t have time to argue with him; I’m already moving toward the door. “Fine. But no spiders.”

“What about beetles?”

“No beetles.”

“What about caterpillars?”

“No caterpillars.”

“What about…”

The door closes behind me. Godspeed, Jerica.

I can count on my fingers the number of times I’ve been allowed in the passenger seat of Melody’s car; I half expect her to point me to the backseat. But she doesn’t. She even unlocks the door for me. I slide in, my butt pressing reverently against the warm leather. I am on hallowed ground; I can practically hear the angels singing
Hallelujah.

Melody revs the engine, breaking the spell. “Oh yeah,” she says. “You have your Five Banners ID, right?”

“In my wallet,” I say. “Why?”

She twists her neck to look behind her, bending it into such an awkward angle it looks almost like it’s broken. “Because that’s where we’re going.”

“We’re going to the park?”

“Yes,” she says. “That’s what I just said.”

A sick feeling spreads through the pit of my stomach, working its way into every nook and cranny and fold of my intestines. This could all be some awful practical joke. Melody and Katharina could be planning to do something humiliating to me in front of the first people I’ve gotten to know and like in years and years. In front of Connor.

“What are we doing there?” I ask.

“Whatever you do in an amusement park,” she says. “You work there. You should know.”

A night riding roller coasters and eating greasy food and shoving through crowds of tired moms and sweaty children to go to the bathroom? That doesn’t sound like Melody’s idea of fun. “Okay,” I say. I can always run. I’m not that little girl on the sidewalk anymore.

Not that I think Melody would actually dare to harm me in any (physical) way.

It’s just that I never thought I’d join the club, either, and look at me now.

I bet Monica never thought she’d join the club. Nobody ever thinks she’ll join the club. I bet Monica was fully confident she would graduate from high school and move on to TCNJ and earn that degree in special education. She’d down fruity mixed drinks from red Solo cups and go, hungover, to her morning classes and fall in love with a frat guy or a kid in her kinetics class or a girl down the hall in her dorm. Eventually she’d pocket enough credits to graduate in four or five or six years, and she’d move on and make kids’ lives better.

Melody pulls into the employee entrance and commands me to flash my ID at the gate. “I don’t want to pay for parking if I don’t have to,” she says as we pull into the parking lot, and I let myself relax a little, let the muscles in my shoulders unwind. Maybe it is really that simple: she wanted to get free parking, and that was worth bringing me along for.

Walking beside Melody through the gates, I see the park with new eyes, with what I imagine to be hers. The plastic garlands of superhero cutouts aren’t cute, but tacky. All the workers look washed out and pissed off, like they’d rather be doing anything but scooping ice cream or selling hats, which, really, is probably true. The music blaring from the speakers all around clashes with the hawkers at the game stations and the rushing of the roller coasters and the chatter of guests and workers. I’m used to it after working here for the last few weeks, but I suddenly find myself with a headache.

“We’re meeting Katharina at the Canteen,” Melody says. She’s wincing; the headache must be contagious. “Do you know where that is?”

My nose wrinkles in response to both Melody’s words and the smell of cotton candy in the air. Ever since I spent that day in Foods and learned that the Foods guys occupied themselves on slow days by peeling dead flies off their stores’ flytraps and flicking them into the cotton candy machines, where they vaporized into the stuff, I, for some reason, haven’t been able to stomach it. “That’s, like, the employee cafeteria,” I say. “It’s way back behind the scenes. And the food is disgusting. Why does she want to meet there?”

“I don’t know,” Melody says, but that means nothing. “So you do know where it is?”

“Yeah,” I say. My heart skips a beat at the thought of walking through the now-dark, still-twisty secret passage with Melody by my side. We’ll take the long way around. “This way.”

Melody doesn’t move. “Kat said we have to go through a secret-passage kind of thing to get there, but that you wouldn’t want to go that way because you’re afraid of it,” she says. There’s no hint of snark or nastiness to her tone. She just speaks like she’s stating a fact, and somehow that makes me feel worse.

“I’m not afraid,” I say. “I was going to take the secret passage. It’s way faster.”

She knows I’m lying; I can see the skepticism on her face. To her credit, she doesn’t say anything. She just follows as I turn around, pretending I just realized I was walking in the wrong direction, and doesn’t say anything when I pause in the secret passage’s entrance, feeling for a moment like I’m about to step into the great black maw of some enormous beast. I half hope for Connor to turn up, to lope beside me with his easy smile and tease me about being a Sky-fanatic and offer me the pleasure of his company during my trip through the passage. He would have eyes only for me, of course, and wouldn’t so much as look at Melody, even after she cleared her throat two or three times. She would fall for him immediately, of course—who wouldn’t?—but he wouldn’t turn that dazzling smile on her, wouldn’t let her take that freckled elbow, and so for once in her life she’d be jealous of me.

I don’t realize I’m smiling until Melody asks me what’s so funny. “Nothing,” I say, and step into the void.

Connor doesn’t find me. He might not even be working tonight, I tell myself. He might be at home, curled up on the couch, watching a movie. With Cady. Naked. She might be solving the maze of his freckles right now.

I want to throw up.

Katharina finds me instead. Right around that merch storage facility where she accosted me before, she appears. And by
appears,
I mean I don’t see her approach, or hear her footsteps, or smell the floral scent that clings to her hair. She materializes before us like she’s a shadow come to life. “Hey, Melly, Scarlett,” she says. “Glad you could make it.”

Though it’s not at all cold, Melody rubs her arms like she’s pushing down goose bumps. “It’s creepy back here,” she says.

“It’s creepier where we’re going,” Katharina replies.

“The Canteen isn’t really that creepy,” I say. I feel wise, giving information Melody doesn’t have. “Kind of gross, sure, but not creepy.”

“We’re not going to the Canteen,” Katharina says.

Of course we’re not going to the Canteen. I tense, my eyes darting, mentally calculating all the different ways I could run. It would be harder now that there’s two of them. I should never have come.

“We’re pregaming in one of the storage buildings,” Katharina says, like she senses my spike in stress. “Relax, girl.” She trills a silvery laugh. It floats above us, sparkling like a bubble, wavering and threatening to burst at any moment. “Come on. This one’s my favorite.”

Despite my best instincts, I follow. Melody already thinks I’m a coward. I need to prove her wrong, because Melody would never be friends with a coward.

The storage building is dark and dust fills my lungs and I will probably be crushed beneath a tower of boxes before anyone has the chance to hurt me, but then Katharina pulls a string and a light flickers on and I see that the piles of boxes are steady and I blow the dust out of my lungs and I can breathe again.

“There aren’t any cameras in these buildings, or at least none that work,” Katharina says, her voice echoing from somewhere in the back. She’s pushed her way through the boxes and piles of old clothes, opening a narrow, mazelike path to the back of the long room. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow her, but I sneak a glance at Melody and she’s leaning up against the wall, the thin sheet metal warping behind her, her arms crossed over her chest. Good. If Melody’s not following, I don’t have to either. I, too, lean up against the wall and cross my arms. Not because that’s what Melody’s doing. I just feel like crossing my arms.

Katharina continues, “So it’s the perfect place to hide out for a while.” Her voice grows louder as she moves back toward the front, back toward us. “And it’s not like anyone’s going to be looking for anything in here.” She jerks her head at the box of broken snow globes. “I mean, why?”

“What’s that?” I say, declining to answer. She’s carrying something behind her back. A gun. A knife. A garrote. But she swoops her arms around front with a flourish to reveal three red Solo cups, liquid sloshing at the top.

“Drink up, ladies,” she says, handing Melody and me each a cup. Melody uncrosses her arms to take it. I do too. She doesn’t drink. I don’t either.

Katharina shows no such hesitation. She tosses her head back and takes a big gulp, two, three, then brings her cup down with a wince and a sigh. “Good stuff,” she says. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

“What is it?” Melody asks, peering deep into the cup like there’s treasure buried at the bottom.

“A mix,” Katharina says. “Everything I could take without getting caught. It’s good, though. Strong.”

That seems to be all Melody needs. She takes a sip, then grimaces. “Strong is right,” she says, then takes another sip. I half expect her to stick her pinky out.

I’m not going to wait for Katharina to interrogate me. I raise the cup before me, as if I’m toasting them, and drink.

I haven’t drunk much alcohol in the past. I’ve had a few glasses of wine at family events, Christmas dinners and graduations and one memorable evening at six years old when the soon-to-be-fired family babysitter passed out and left her half-empty bottle next to her on the floor. I tried a sip of vodka once, just out of curiosity, from my dad’s rarely used liquor cabinet. But drinking is something that happens mostly in social settings, and to have social settings you have to have friends. A seventeen-year-old drinking alone is possibly the most depressing thing in the world.

All this to explain that I’m not expecting the trail of fire that flows down my throat, or the smoke my burning flesh pushes out through my nose, or the heat that flares up in the pit of my belly. I choke, but most of that first sip is already down; only a trickle of clear liquid dribbles back into my cup. Everything burns for a moment and then zips shut, like a cauterized wound, and I’m left with a scorched aftertaste and a faint sense of being stunned.

“You don’t drink much, do you?” Katharina sounds faintly amused. “Go slow. Or else go fast and just chug. Either way works.”

I need to catch my breath first. “It’s good,” I say, but even I can hear the woodenness of my words.

“Kat’s right,” Melody says. She’s still sipping away, like there’s nothing in her cup but water. “You have to get used to it. You probably shouldn’t drink it all either. You have to build a tolerance.”

There’s no judgment in her voice. That encourages me to take another sip. It still burns going down, but I confine my reaction to a grimace. “I’ll be okay,” I say. It’s true. I’m already feeling okay. Very okay, actually. There’s a lightness tingling in my brain I’ve never felt before, and I somehow don’t feel as conscious of Katharina’s and Melody’s eyes on me as I did earlier. Melody crosses her arms again and leans back against the wall, but I stay standing free, loose, floating.

A few more big sips and I feel like I actually
am
floating. My feet are on the concrete, but my head is hovering several feet above the ground, tethered to my body by ropes of artery and tendon and bone. “So what now?” I ask. I have a feeling it’s the alcohol, but I’m suddenly feeling very daring. I want to rush to Connor’s side and confess my love.

No.
Stop it, alcohol. That’s a terrible idea. I lean over and set the cup on the floor and pray that we won’t run into Connor tonight, because I’m not sure I can rein my new friend alcohol in. “So what now?” I ask again, more subdued this time.

Katharina downs the last of her cup and checks her phone at the same time. Such multitasking. So multitalented. “The park closes in about a half hour,” she says. “It takes an hour or so to get everybody out and close the park. Then the security sweep.” She gestures to my cup, cold and forlorn all by itself on the ground. “Drink up, babe.”

It looks so
sad
all by itself. I lean back over and pick it up. “Liar,” I tell it. It’s not cold and forlorn. It’s lukewarm.

“So we’re going to be in the park after closing?” Melody says. Again, no emotion in her voice—I can’t tell if she’s excited or cautious or repelled. “To do what?”

Katharina shrugs. “It’s exciting to be here when everybody else is gone.” She points at my cup again. “Drink it, or I’m going to dump it on you.”

I obediently take another sip. My head spins. “But what are we going to do?” I echo Melody. “Won’t all the rides be shut down? All the stores and everything will be shut. And…and…” I can’t think of the words. “The attractions,” I finally force out through numbing lips. “The dolphins will be sleeping.”

And then the colors start swirling. The colors take me back to one of my favorite story lines from the Skywoman cartoon.

So many issues and episodes and fan sites have spent hours and hours and hours talking about the similarities between Skywoman and the Blade. They’re both women, of course, which sets them apart from most of the denizens of superhero-land. They both inexplicably tend to choose outfits that maximize cleavage and fit tightly around their butts (thanks to their male artists). They’re both stubborn, and brash, and fully dedicated to their ideals.

There’s one episode where Skywoman and the Blade meet up and talk. In fact, it’s the only canon instance where they’re together and not fighting in that season. Soon after the murder of Skywoman’s first husband at the Blade’s hands, Skywoman corners the Blade against the railing atop the roof of a skyscraper. The Blade’s arms are pinned to her sides by Skywoman’s lasso, and Skywoman’s other hand holds the sword granted to her by Wonderman. The sword’s tip hovers against the Blade’s throat. The Blade’s face is blank, as always, but one of the superb animators made her lips tremble every so often; if you aren’t looking for it, you might miss it.

The viewer naturally expects Skywoman to try to kill the Blade, and for the Blade to escape just in the nick of time. But Skywoman just stares. “How could you do such a thing to me?” Skywoman asks. “Alex was the love of my life. Your fight wasn’t with him. He had nothing to do with this.”

The Blade stares back, her eyes cool and hard. “Because he made you happy,” she says in her typically monotone fashion. “And as long as you’re happy, I can never be happy.”

Just as Skywoman was once Augusta Leigh Sorensen, the Blade was once Emma Leigh Jacobs. They shared more things than their middle name. They grew up on the same street, played together as little kids. They went up through the school system together, were both on the cheerleading squad, fought neck and neck for the title of valedictorian before settling into a tie. They were frenemies, the type who would nod sorrowfully as you spilled your darkest secrets and then turn around and spread them to the world.

That last part isn’t canon. Every flashback—of which there are few—shows them getting along beautifully; Emma even carried a limping Augusta to the finish line of a race in gym class once. Frenemies is just canon in my head and the fan fiction I may or may not have written at the beginning of high school.

But back to the skyscraper roof. Skywoman—once Augusta—pockets her sword and pulls out a poison dart. “This’ll put you out for a while,” she says, and tosses it. It sticks in the Blade’s—Emma’s—throat, where it vibrates from the impact. Skywoman lets her lasso relax as the Blade sags against the railing, her mouth dropping open, a trail of drool sliming her chin. I think the drool was animated for comic effect, but it was always so profound to me—even this great supervillain, the only one to best Skywoman, drools in her sleep.

The cartoon then jumps to the Blade’s point of view for thirty seconds or so, showing what’s going on in her drugged-up head. Blackness, mostly. Swirls of color. Voices murmuring in the background: first Skywoman, telling her that she’d wait to kill her, that it would be more satisfying (plotwise, I can only assume) to kill her later, when she had more to lose; then Augusta, cheering her on during her first back handspring and comforting her after a failed chemistry test and telling her that the scar on her forehead wasn’t so bad, really, it was kind of dashing.

And then more blackness, and more swirls of color, and the camera moves back to reveal a single tear sliding its way down the Blade’s stony cheek.

Unlike the Blade, I don’t cry the moment I realize what’s happening to me; I think the single-tear thing is a myth, anyway. But colors swirl around me in gauzy ribbons, and I sink to the floor, and the blackness envelops me. It all happens too quickly for me to feel anything but shock. The last thing I hear—or that I think I hear—is the whispering of the wolves hovering above me, deciding who will get to devour the thighs, who will feast upon the succulent throat, who wins the head. They won’t eat the head; there’s not enough meat. The head is for the wall, a trophy.

I wake embedded inside a piece of popcorn. White, soft haze fills my vision, but I’m lying against something hard and cold. Everything smells like butter, and my skin is coated with a thin slick of oil.

I move an arm. It flops a bit against the cobblestones, a dying fish.

That’s when I realize I’m on the ground.

Cobblestones. Cobblestones are from, like, the 1800s. I did not travel back in time.

Besides, they didn’t have popcorn in the 1800s. At least not movie theater popcorn, the kind I smell around me, the kind drenched in rivers of butter that tastes like chemicals and salt.