The Creeping (14 page)

Every few houses there's one decorated with symbols and candles. Porch lights illuminate rosaries dangling over front stoops. Bungalows are lit up like birthday cakes in the gray dusk. Eaves are festooned with loops of daisy chains. Wood crosses spear apron lawns and tidy flower beds. We pass a ranch home with a clot of white pillar candles and a framed picture of Jeanie at the center. Orange ribbon knots, like those worn in remembrance of Jeanie for months after her disappearance, are tied around doorknobs and car antennas. Big, clumsy bows are secured around tree trunks; candles, photos, and newspaper clippings are displayed at their bases. Everywhere I look there are vigils for the dead, displayed in front yards like tiny lawn-gnome funerals.

E
veryone's heard about the body in the cemetery and Mrs. Talcott's murder,” Sam says quietly. “It's a small town. This place was messed-up enough over Jeanie's disappearance. Remember how long it was before we were allowed to trick-or-treat? People are bound to lose it again.”

I turn away and burrow through my purse for my cell. Sam's right. I don't like to recall what Zoey refers to as “the lost years,” the three years after Jeanie was taken. Three Halloweens canceled—trick-or-treating actually outlawed. Three years of town curfews, police patrolling, flashing lights seeping through the blinds. Three years of students hustled from classrooms to their parents' idling cars, teachers yapping into walkie-talkies at the sight of a stranger. Three years of mandatory weekly town council meetings in the church's pews—the fire-and-brimstone preacher sharing the pulpit with the mayor to outline safety measures the town was taking. Three is how many years it took Savage to stop being afraid. I can't face what's
happening outside the car window, time reversing its course. I'm not ready to see the stitches on that collective wound torn open. Not yet at least.

I have only two texts. The first is from Shane. And although he uses a few more curse words, it's basically the same as the note he left. The second is from Michaela.

Parents have me on lockdown today, but I will break out if you need me. XO

Poor Michaela. Her parents are always griping about her needing to spend time with “constructive influences.” Ron and Helen don't mind me so much, since they judge all of Michaela's friends by how many As they earn. Me: I get a lot. It helps that Dad plays golf with Michaela's dad. But Michaela's parents condemn Zoey whenever they get the chance. According to them, she's some kind of anarchist. They're probably injecting Michaela with one of those GPS micro-chips as we speak and brainstorming ways Zoey is likely to blame for Mrs. Talcott's demise.

“My dad didn't even call.” My voice is a near whine. “And I thought Zoey would text for sure.” How is it that I'm left with only Sam?

The next five blocks leading to my street are exactly the same. Crucifixes of all sizes, candlelight vigils, framed photos of Jeanie Talcott, rosaries, dream catchers, piles of acorns, tiny mountains of salt. Anything that anyone believes will ward off death has been rounded up and displayed. I hope my neighbors haven't lost it too.
But once we turn onto my street, I can't even see the surrounding homes. The sidewalks are filled with reporters; news vans line the drive; nosy neighbors huddle together; kids circle their parents, kept near with invisible leashes of fear. The lights of cop cars cast a red, white, and blue wash on the carnival. Before I can beg Sam not to stop, he wrenches the wheel and makes a sharp U-turn.

“Thank you.” I exhale, eyeing the glittering mess in the rearview mirror.

“No problem.” He shoots me a sympathetic look. “You don't need to be there for that.” A long pause. “How do you feel about chicken piccata?”

I smile weakly. “I am decidedly pro chicken piccata.”

We navigate the ten blocks that separate our houses. With every block put between us and my house, I breathe easier. Sam's is a brick two-story on a quiet court. No reporters or meddlesome neighbors in sight as he pulls into the driveway. I push out of the car and regard the house for the first time in years. The ivory paint on the shutters is peeling like my nail polish; the waist-high lawn has splotches of brown; the picket fence is sagging and creaking rhythmically. It's not what I remember.

As if reading my mind, Sam says, “Dad's picking up odd jobs whenever he can. I try to keep it up, but between school and BigBox, I don't have much time.”

The outside of the house may look shabby, but once inside it's obvious that Sam still has a family-sitcom kind of home. Sam's mom practically floats from the kitchen, donning a ruffled apron to welcome us.

Mrs. Worth's eyes linger on Sam's bruised cheek and then on me. She doesn't ask, though, and I'm sure she assumes the injury has everything to do with me spontaneously reappearing in her home after a five-year absence. “You've been missed around here,” she whispers close to my ear as I'm wrapped in her soft arms. She avoids mentioning the news and tells us that dinner is in a half hour. I follow Sam up the narrow carpeted staircase; its shag is squishy and familiar under my soles. The dimly lit hall is lined with framed family photos. I'm in a few taken at picnics, field trips, and school plays.

I stop halfway up the stairs, tapping on the glass of one picturing Sam clad in green tights for his role as Peter Pan in the fourth grade. “I wish you still had this outfit. I'd like to see you running around school in those tights,” I tease.

He pauses a few steps above me, leans one hand on the railing and, with the other, points to a scrawny nine-year-old in a blue leotard and fairy wings in the corner of the photo. His voice is soft but serious. “I'd like to see you in this, Tinker Bell.” He holds my gaze with his. The words are light enough, but there's an undercurrent to them that makes heat rise in my cheeks. Who knew that Sam Worth could . . . uhhh, flirt? I catch my breath and jog up the stairs after him.

The second floor is warm with stale air. Sam lifts a hall window up a crack before opening his bedroom door. He stands to the side so I can enter. I hesitate. “We can keep the door open if you're worried about not being able to control yourself so near a bed with me,” he says with a laugh. I brush against him, even though there's plenty of room to avoid touching him. Umm . . . alternate universe much, am I flirting back?

Sam's bedroom brings on a deluge of memories. It's almost exactly as I remember: walls painted in forest green, with the silhouettes of pine trees in brown; his twin bed draped in a navy comforter with white piping along its edges; two nightstands stacked precariously with books; and a giant bulletin board above his desk, covered in photos, pictures of cars from magazines, and band logos. It used to display photos of us; now I'm not in any of them. I inch closer to see who is: a group of boys on a camping trip; a mousy brunette sitting on his lap grinning at the camera; a bunch of girls and boys in matching yellow T-shirts huddled in a pyramid; a perky blonde in a low-cut tank top with her arms wrapped around Sam's waist. I don't recognize a single person in any of them. It makes me feel left out; ridiculous since he's the one who should feel that way.

I prop my hands on my hips and try to imitate Zoey's purr and honeyed smile. “Well, I guess now you wouldn't need me to pull you in for a kiss, since it looks like you've had loads of experience.” Sam fills the doorway, where he's leaning watching me. “Who are these sluts?” Inwardly I cringe at saying “slut.” Zoey says it a lot, but only because she tries to own the word. You know, take it back from all the people who put girls who like sex down? I use it in the bad way. I'm instantly ashamed.

“Who are you talking about?” Sam asks.

I flick my hand toward the bulletin board, completely aware of what a wicked witch I'm being. “Is Anna what's-her-face up here?” I ask. Just thinking it makes me want to rip the pictures down.
Nice to meet you, jealousy.
I seriously need to get a grip. I shouldn't even be
here
. Who am I kidding?
Zoey will lose her shit over today. And how is this fair to Sam? Once this nightmare is over, we'll go back to the way we were. I'm
Stella Cambren
; he's Sam Worth.

Sam's jaw tightens as he stares at me. There's no trace of the glint in his eye or the smirk that guys get when trying to make you jealous. He actually looks . . .
angry
.

“Stella, you've had nothing to do with me for five years. For five years I've tried to show you that I care about you, and you've shot me down every single time. I've made friends. Was I supposed to wait for you just in case you changed your mind?” He shrugs with his hands. “I went out with other girls. Don't call any of them that word. Better yet,” he adds, steady and low, “don't use it at all.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. I'm a monster making Sam explain anything to me after I deserted him. What did I expect? That Sam wouldn't be able to make friends? That there would never be a girl who saw what ten-year-old me saw that day at the cove? And why do I care anyway? Why do I feel like the girls on the bulletin board stole something vital from me, when really, I threw it away?

I drop to the edge of his bed, covering my face with my hands. I wish I could make my awfulness disappear. Why can't Sam just get it?
I didn't choose him.
He was supposed to hate me, not spend the last five years proving that I chose wrong. Proving that even though I threw him away, he would never ever do the same to me. Believe me,
I get it
.

Sam drops to his knees at my feet. “It's okay. It's been an insane couple of days.” He pats me lightly on the knee and then withdraws his hand.

I wallow in the darkness of my palms. “I don't know who any of those people are. I only guessed who your friends were at the bonfire because of how they were dressed. I don't know if you have a girlfriend . . . or if she's the girl you left with the other night.” Jealousy threatens to choke me as I inhale. “I used to know everything about you. With my eyes closed, I could pick your footsteps out during silent reading whenever you got up from your desk, and I'd ask for a bathroom pass and we'd talk out in the halls.” I stare at him. Only Zoey's face is more familiar than Sam's.

Sam knits his brow and rocks back on his heels. “I might not always like you, but I could never hate you.” I try to blink away the tears; they're too fat. Sam jumps to his feet and taps a photo on the bulletin board.

“You see all these losers in the yellow shirts?” His eyes laugh. “We were in a science camp the summer before sophomore year. A few go to Wildwood, but mostly they're from all over Minnesota. They're all at camp this summer, but I couldn't take the time off from work. This girl here”—he points to the blonde—“this is Anna. We met a year ago at BigBox. We dated for four months and are strictly friends now. I gave her a ride home because she was there with another friend of mine—Toby from school with the thick-framed glasses and braces—and she wasn't into it.” He grins like it's a funny story. “This is Harry.” He taps a photo of two boys sitting on the hood of a vintage car painted cherry red. “I helped him rebuild his Dad's '67 Mustang last summer. We're going to take it to a track in a few weeks. This brunette is Sarah. We dated for all of eighth grade. It wasn't serious
and we had nothing in common, but she was my first girlfriend, after you.” He freezes. Did he just call me his girlfriend? Well, maybe that's what we were. We were just kids, but we were every bit as much of a couple as I've ever been with anyone. Obviously minus the sex stuff. When I don't object, he launches into a short bio of every person pictured on his board.

Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Worth shouts from downstairs that dinner is ready. I've been quietly listening, gradually letting my guilt wane as Sam tells me about his life, post–Hella Stella. It's difficult to hear he's been mostly happy without me, but I guess it would be worse if he'd been pining away. I drown the jealousy by picturing every guy I've made out with over the past five years. The only problem is this makes me queasy. Every one of those kisses took me further and further away from my first kiss with Sam. The only kiss that ever
really
meant anything.

“Wait a second, there's one more here.” He shuffles through papers in a desk drawer. “Here we are. This is my oldest friend. She's a raging ass most of the time, but I just can't get rid of her.” He winks at me and tacks up the photo in the center of the board. It's one his mom took while we were swinging in his backyard forever ago. She captured us mid leg pump as we were reaching to grasp hands. Our arms splayed in the air, like once our fingers touched we would take flight. Vaguely, I remember believing we would.

“And you're right”—he nails me with a solemn stare, the sort of stare you fall into—“I wouldn't need you to pull me in for a kiss. All you'd have to do is say the word and I'd be all over you.”

I
think Sam's mom can hear my heart thumping, wildly trying to free itself from the cage of my ribs, during dinner. Sam's words bounce around in my head, and I can't quit being completely turned on by them. Gag me, but somehow it's the hottest thing anyone's ever said to me. Epically random, since I don't even think Sam's hot. I appraise him slyly over a spoonful of rice. Okay, so maybe that little crease between his eyebrows from concentrating too much is adorable, and maybe there's something kissable about those freckles, and maybe the lean muscles corded in his arms are quiver-worthy?

But
hello
? How can I be falling for Sam with all that's going on?
Or at all?
That is what's happening, isn't it? Am I falling for Sam Worth? Falling
back
into Sam Worth?

Sam's dad never comes home, a knowing look exchanged between Sam and his mom, so it's only the three of us at the round kitchen table.