Indelible

CHAPTER TWO

JOY GAVE THE same statement for the third time, bundled in a sweatshirt and her tea growing cold. She kept forgetting to drink it. She held the mug in her hands, letting the warmth seep in. She said she’d seen a “monster face” at the window and had thrown the flashlight at it, but decided not to mention the words written in light. She remembered hearing stories of her great-grandmother seeing things, and they’d ended up putting her in an asylum. The idea of being crazy had haunted Joy throughout her childhood.

“Could’ve been a prank,” the officer said. “Someone wearing a Halloween mask. Having any problems at school, Joy?”

“No.”

“Anyone bothering you on the bus? On your way home?”

Joy rotated the #1 Dad mug in her hands. “No,” she said and took a lukewarm sip.

“What happened to your eye?”

Her father glanced up at the question, too.

She set the mug down, not liking to link the two things together. “I got a scratched cornea at the Carousel—a splinter, I think. I was looking up when something fell.” Joy pointed at the patch. “I have to wear this thing for two more days.”

The officer glanced at her, then Dad, forehead crinkled in a what-can-you-do ripple. He dug into his pocket and held out a business card. “Well, we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary outside. We’ve got your statement. If you remember anything else you want to add, my number’s on the card. Feel free to give me a call.” He handed the card to Joy’s father, who nodded.

“Thank you, Officer Castrodad,” he said with a firm handshake. “I appreciate you coming out.”

The policeman nodded. “Just doing my job.” He cast a last look at Joy, who hid her face behind the cheap ceramic cup. “Mr. Malone. Joy.” The officer let himself out.

Her father flipped the card onto the table and took a stroll around the room.

“Well, that was some excitement,” he said, setting his hands on his hips. “You certainly got my attention.”

Joy frowned. “You think I made this up?” She felt more angry than scared, but he was obviously angry, too.

“I don’t know, Joy, did you?” he snapped. “You weren’t particularly truthful with the man when he asked you about school.”

“Dad—”

“No. Don’t ‘Dad’ me,” he said. “Grades slipping, quitting gymnastics and ignoring calls from your mother may be par for the course after something like this....” Mothers leaving their families for younger men in California was apparently considered a something like this. “All the damn books say acting out is normal, and, yes, getting suspended last year for knocking over chairs is a little rough for a zero tolerance–policy school, okay, but lying, Joy? The E.R.? Police? That’s not like you. And you were lying tonight.”

“I wasn’t lying!” she insisted. Joy hated when he threw the suspension in her face. That was forever ago. Just like Mom leaving, or quitting gymnastics and giving up her Olympic dreams, not to mention her entire social life.

Dad threw his keys hard into the couch. “Oh, really? Where’s Monica, Joy?”

Joy gaped. “She ditched me!” she said, but knew the facts were stacked against her. “That wasn’t my fault! I didn’t know she was going to back out last-minute to go dance with some guy!” She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to cry. It was so unfair! She was half inclined to tell him what had really happened yesterday, but he already thought she was a psychopathic liar.

“When I called the Reids to tell them I was on my way, I woke them up, Joy! Monica was asleep in bed after telling her parents that she’d been here all night.”

Joy groaned. “So Monica’s a liar and I get the blame?”

“Were you covering for her?”

“No!”

“Did you make this all up?”

“No.”

He crossed his arms. “Joy, I won’t be any madder than I am right now—”

“No!”

Dad softened a little; he was still mad, but he wanted to believe her. She could tell. They had to trust one another—they were all they had left. It was like he was thinking the same thing. He deflated over his belly.

“I get that you’re angry, Joy. We’re all angry. But there’s defiant, and then there’s reckless. The constant moping and lashing out...” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Did you break the window, Joy?” he asked softly.

“No, Dad.” Joy punctuated her words with a fist on the table. Frustration shivered through her body. Why wouldn’t he believe her? Her voice broke like glass. “I didn’t! The outside pane’s broken and we’re two floors up! There was someone at the window and I was all alone and I was so scared!”

He wrapped her in his arms, rubbing her shoulders through the sleeves as if she were cold. Tears trapped under gauze were suddenly dripping off her chin. She sniffled as he rocked her slowly. Everything felt twisted and wrong.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” she whispered, but she couldn’t say what she was sorry for.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said with a squeeze. “Tomorrow I’m getting an alarm. We’ll both sleep better then.”

She gave his forearms a last bit of hug.

“Did I ruin your date?” she asked. Joy felt her dad pause.

“Do you want me to answer that?”

She thought about it. “Not tonight.”

Her dad sighed and stroked her hair. “Deal.”

* * *

Monica trailed behind Joy in the hall.

“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!”

Joy trusted her hair to provide some cover for her anger and the frayed, peeling patch. It looked hideous, like an old wound, gummy and gross.

“You’re sorry,” Joy muttered. “Dad’s nearly got me under house arrest.” She picked at her patch in irritation, then stopped. Dad had caught her trying to remove it this morning and threatened a serious grounding. Joy hated the way she kept bumping into things and misjudging distance. Plus the nausea. And the stares in the hall. She hadn’t felt this awkward since she’d dropped out of training. “I’ve gone from being invisible to Public Enemy Number One!”

“Sorry to infinity,” Monica begged. “Sorry to infinity plus one!”

Joy thumped her head against her locker.

“Stop it,” she said, working the combination. “Just tell me it was worth it.”

“It was worth it,” Monica said dutifully.

“Really?”

“No,” Monica said. “Not if it got you into trouble.” But a smile crept into her voice and over her lips. “Otherwise, yes. It was totally worth it!”

“Small comfort,” Joy said, but added, “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks.” Monica relaxed against the bank of lockers and poked at the plastic fob on Joy’s key ring. “So, what’s up with this?”

Joy stacked books in her arms. “Dad had a security system installed. Either he doesn’t believe me and he’s locking me in, or he believes me and he’s locking everyone else out.” Neither option sounded too appealing.

“Did you find out who it was?” Monica asked. “At the window?”

Joy felt guilty feeding Monica her cover story, but the truth was just too crazy. “No,” Joy said, but something else slipped out. “It was a message.”

Monica raised her eyebrows. “Mmm-hmm? Somebody whacks your window with a baseball bat and you might take that as some sort of message,” she said. “Before we came to Glendale, my daddy was from Arkansas and he talked about growing up with all kinds of ‘messages’ left burning on the lawn.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Joy said as the locker door squeaked shut.

“What? The burglar left a Post-it?”

Joy shook her head behind her hair. She was momentarily glad she had the excuse not to look at Monica; she felt as if she’d somehow said too much. Joy didn’t know what 48 deer run midnight meant, and she didn’t know how to tell ink, but Joy could still see the glowing words and the giant tongue pressed flat against the glass. She hugged her books to her chest and scrolled through her text messages for a distraction.

Alice June Moorehead, 1550 Hewey, Apt 10C, Strwbry

4 INK: RAZORBILLS SOUTH 40 OVERPASS, 4PM—SEVER STRAIGHT & DON’T BE LATE! THX

Joy had the crazy instinct to smash her phone against the wall. She eyed the mob of students chatting and banging locker doors under a chorus of squeaky shoes and six hundred ringtones. A flash of bright orange in the crowd made Joy’s head turn, but she couldn’t see the source. She curled against her locker and cupped her hand over her phone’s screen. She checked the numbers: both unlisted. She wished she’d programmed Officer Castrodad into her contact list.

How did these people get my number?

Monica glanced at the cell in Joy’s hand. “Mom again?”

“No,” Joy said. She’d been storing the rest of her mother’s messages. Not playing them. Not deleting them. Not even thinking about them. Not yet. “Have you given anyone my number?”

“What? No.”

“Gordon or anybody?” Joy fished. “Did he borrow your phone?”

Monica’s happy face dropped several degrees, her tone dipped into low centigrade. “When I say no, I mean no. Nobody got your number from me.” She frowned. “Is somebody cyber-bothering you?”

Joy killed her screen. “No. Just being paranoid.” She started walking. Fast.

Monica jogged to keep up. “Somebody comes and breaks your window, that’s not paranoid. That’s legitimately scared. And now someone’s texting you?” She sounded worried.

“Wrong number,” Joy lied. “They might not be related.”

“Yeah, but they might,” Monica said. “Seriously, I don’t want to see your name on the news and feel bad that I didn’t say something.” She tapped Joy’s shoulder. “You tell your dad about this? About what really happened at the Carousel?”

“No,” Joy muttered. “You know he’d freak.”

Monica shrugged as they made for the doors. “Let him freak. It’s okay to freak. Especially if things are freaky.” She shook her head, jangling the gold hoops in her ears as she took the stairs. “Just tell him. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Joy said with a wave, but she knew she wouldn’t. Dad was just coming out of that zombie state of post-marital shock and they finally had a delicate peace. Then he’d been out at 2:00 a.m. and called her a liar. She’d told Dad about the thing at the window and look what had happened! Joy wasn’t about to do that again any time soon.

Joy stayed in the stairwell and clicked into Maps. There were highway 40s in Pennsylvania, Oklahoma, New York and Florida. A quick search of Alice Mooreheads turned up hits in Maine, Connecticut, Kentucky.... There were too many to be sure. Something snapped into place as she looked at the White Pages listings. A number plus a street equaled an address!

She hesitated, popping back into Maps, and typed 48 Deer Run with her thumbs. Three hits. One in Glendale, North Carolina.

Joy enlarged the image and smiled at the map. She didn’t even need directions. She could practically walk there from here.

She took the stairs two at a time, determined that no one was going to mess up her life and leave her behind to pick up the pieces. This time, she was going to do something about it first.

* * *

She didn’t walk, she ran. It felt good, even with too-heavy clothes and an underwire bra. Joy’s feet hit the pavement with an even, steady thud thud thud. Her skin tingled with heat and sweat, cooled by a breeze that smelled of dry leaves. It didn’t feel as good as training, but it felt better than sitting still.

She’d tied her hair back with a rubber band, missing half her bangs, and her taped-over eye made her awkwardly blind on one side, but it felt good to move, to be doing something. Joy grinned and added some speed.

Her feet took the corner, pounding the sidewalk squares and squashing the tiny sprigs that had dried in the cracks. She barely realized when she’d turned onto Deer Run Avenue. She slowed to a walk and placed her hands on her hips, inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth, digging a knuckle into her patch as she read mailbox numbers.

Number forty-eight was a gray clapboard house tucked into a wooded lot. Its roof was littered in pine needles and the shutters were painted dark red. Joy hesitated at the mouth of the gravel drive. Now that she was here, she didn’t know what to do. Whatever might or might not have happened would have happened last night. Midnight. But everything here looked normal. Joy wiped her face with her hands. What had she expected to find?

Walking up the driveway, Joy was all too conscious of the sound of her footsteps crunching loudly on loose gravel, reminding her of shattered glass. As she approached the porch steps, she saw the first hints that something was wrong. There was a mess of overturned planters and downed hanging baskets, trampled, half-buried flowers littered the porch, and smears of what looked like mud dripped down the steps. Joy looked up at the door, also splashed with mud. The windows were intact, but there was something about them.... She didn’t want to climb the stairs. She didn’t want to touch the mud or the flowers or the broken pottery. Some instinct told her to back away, and she did. Joy knew that there were answers here, but if there was more to see, it was around the back of the house.

Joy had never considered trespassing before.

She hesitated, then walked quickly around the side of the garage, blood pulsing in her ears. Her steps crushed bits of stone and crispy, dead leaves. Joy kept glancing anxiously toward her blind side, afraid of getting caught.

She stopped. It was as if this was what she’d expected to see.

The back deck was destroyed. Smashed planks, broken fence posts, and wide pieces of fiberglass lay scattered in the grass. Chunks of raw wood had been gouged out of the wall with what looked like a hand rake with four tines. Joy squeezed the straps of her backpack and whirled around. Whatever it was that had been at her window had come here, too.

With one hand on the railing and the other outstretched, Joy sidestepped the splinters and pieces of glass. Easing herself around the corner, she peered into what had been the kitchen. It was demolished; the sink, counter and opposite wall were completely blown through. The floor was nothing but shattered tile and crumbly powder. Even the light fixtures were husks of busted glass, their tiny hanging wires trembling in the wind.

That’s what made her look up.

The ceiling was a thick canopy of green—an enormous mandala of leaves, shoots and thorns spreading out from a decorative center medallion. Climbing ivy hugged the plaster with millipede roots, and clusters of red berries shone ripe in the dark. It was unlike anything Joy had ever seen, beautiful and eerie. It made a picture, almost like writing. She craned her head sideways, trying to make it out.

There was a blur on her blind side.

Joy spun around. The backyard was empty. A cloud moved, casting shadows and bringing a sudden scent of rain. Branches flickered. Twigs creaked. A shower of sound rustled as the wind overturned leaves.

There was a whisper of something....

A crack of wood turned her stomach cold.

Her curiosity vanished. She’d seen enough—she wanted out of here! Joy crept down the stairs, being careful where she placed her feet, and stepped off the path onto the grass.

“Excuse me?”

An old man stood on the edge of the yard wearing a soft felt hat and a long wool coat, clutching a ragged umbrella. His mismatched clothes were all the colors of brown and his face was a raisin of smiles. He hadn’t been there before.

“Excuse me,” he continued. “Did you see the Kodama?”

Joy swallowed her first response. While she wasn’t certain what he meant, it was pretty clear the answer he expected.

“Yes,” she said.

“Ah, good,” he said, visibly relaxing. “It is you.” He shuffled forward, and Joy watched him shake his head. “Bad business,” he clucked and gestured offhandedly to a Japanese maple that had been recently cut down; its smell permeated the air and a large twist of rope lay coiled around the stump. “He tried to warn them, you know—tried asking for help—but do they listen? Hardly ever. Pity that.” He smiled up at Joy. The man was a good deal shorter than her. His eyes were soft and his hair was the color of bone. “If you would be so kind...”

He offered her a wrinkled envelope. It looked as if it had been sat on, left in slush and dried overnight. Joy looked at the envelope and him, not knowing what to do. This didn’t seem like a drug deal, but that was the only thing she could think of that made sense. Maybe this “Ink” was a dealer? Maybe she was under surveillance? Maybe this guy was an undercover cop? She glanced around the yard with her one good eye. The old man waved his envelope with an imploring smile.

“I would’ve waited but, you know, he’s so very busy,” he said almost apologetically. “And with you being here, I thought, well, it never hurts to ask.” Joy still hadn’t moved to take the letter. The man paused and tugged at his many layers of clothes, growing awkward and confused. His eyes suddenly lit up.

“Ah! Of course...” He hooked his umbrella over one elbow and fumbled inside his coat pocket, then tried an inner coat pocket, his jacket pocket, a shirt pocket, a vest pocket and his pants pocket before he found something that made him grin. “Here.” He placed a small white shell in her palm and folded the envelope gently atop it. “With my compliments,” he added, beaming. “If you listen, you can hear the ocean.” He winked and made encouraging gestures. Joy held the conical shell up to her ear. There was a cold tickle of air and a tiny whooshing sound. She flinched. With a satisfied bow, he turned to withdraw.

“Wait!” Joy was uncertain whether she intended to say that this was all a big mistake or demand some sort of explanation, but his next words cut her short.

“If you would be so kind as to deliver that missive to Ink, young lady, I’d very much appreciate it.” Then he pointed to the shell in her hand and winked. “Don’t spend that all in one place!”

“Ink...” Joy began. The man stopped and turned slowly, his eyebrows twitching with a sort of itchy suspicion. “...is really busy,” she amended quickly. “I don’t know when I’ll see him next...to give him this.” She held up the envelope, which quivered in the wind. “And I’d hate for you to have to wait.” He looked at her and then at his envelope in her hand. Joy folded it carefully. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell him? In case he asks?”

The man’s face shifted. “He lets you handle the business, then?”

Joy nodded. “Yes.”

His face relaxed into a gentle smile. “Oh, well, lehman—I’m old. What do I know?” He shook his umbrella at the envelope. “It’s all written down, of course. Always best to keep records. But then, this won’t involve the Bailiwick, so that hardly matters, does it?” It didn’t sound rhetorical and he looked expectantly up at Joy.

“No,” she said.

“Fine, fine,” he said happily. “I don’t mind if you read it, then. Just be sure to let Ink know.” He shuffled off, pausing to pet the tree stump with a gentle hand. “Pity,” he muttered and gave a sad, parting smile. “Well, good day.”

“Good day,” Joy said and watched the little man amble off through the trees, picking his way through the neighbor’s yard and poking at the ground with his umbrella as he continued out into the woods. Joy followed. She kept her eyes on him as she circled the house, one hand outstretched, touching the wall. She squinted across the neighboring property, but between one tree and the next, he disappeared.

She backed up a step and then inched forward. She turned around. There was no one there. Nothing.

That did it.

Joy sprinted across the driveway, half-blind with tape and fear, crossing the open expanse of lawn in a rush and dashing out into the street. Kept running. She ran herself to exhaustion, finally slowing halfway between home and school. Gasping, Joy tore open the envelope and read the shaky script:

Twelve roses on her bier, as promised.

Mary Anne Thomas-Wakely, Thursday, 5:15

Love marks her twice. Let it be done.

Thank you for the honor of your service,

Dennis Thomas

She folded the paper and placed it in her backpack. It didn’t sound like a drug drop. It sounded like a sweet old man ordering flowers for a grave. Joy walked home, regaining her breath. But what did any of this have to do with a gutted house, a woodland monster, a bunch of strange messages and some guy named Ink?

The answer was as elusive as a pair of all-black eyes.

* * *

Joy fumbled with her keys as she punched in the new alarm code. The security system beeped clear. Instead of feeling safer, Joy felt caged. Something was out there and she was locked in here. Alone. Now Dad didn’t even have to come home from late nights at work. He could just log on to the site and check in via remote. It was worse than being invisible—it was a high-tech way of being ignored.

Dropping her backpack, Joy went to get some ice water, gulping it down painfully cold. She ground her teeth against brain freeze and filled the glass again. The kitchen window was taped over, crisscross lines obscuring the view. Dad’s note on the fridge said that a repairman was coming at five. She hurried out of the kitchen to avoid standing too near the glass.

Joy wrapped herself in the afghan. She didn’t know what to think about what she’d seen at the house on Deer Run, or what she’d thought of the old man out in the woods, but whatever had happened there at midnight, she didn’t want it happening here.

She picked up the rumpled envelope and Officer Castrodad’s card. From her corner of the couch, Joy considered both pieces of paper. She should call. She should file a report or make a claim or whatever. But she wasn’t sure what she could say that didn’t involve admitting that she’d both trespassed and withheld evidence that might have prevented a crime. Did that make her an accomplice? She didn’t watch enough police dramas to know for sure and wasn’t eager to find out. The last thing she needed was another reason to get in trouble with the police or, worse, Dad.

She read the two strange texts on her phone again. Maybe she could tell the police to warn everyone named Alice Moorehead or to keep watch over every South 40 overpass at 4:00 p.m. But that made her sound like a terrorist. How would she explain? She didn’t even know what to say, because she didn’t know anything herself and it would just link her to them—whoever “they” were—with no proof that she wasn’t involved. Would the police even believe her? Would anyone?

Joy sat debating what to do when the doorbell rang. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. Monday. Dad’s late day. Frozen dinner in the fridge. She’d forgotten about the repairman.

The bell rang again.

She got up, wincing around an old injury of two broken toes, and dropped the afghan on the way to the door. For the first time ever, Joy looked through the peephole, attempting to see into the hallway with her untaped eye. Colors slid up the sides of the lens, bowing out of focus and bending out of shape. Frustrated, she called through the door.

“Hello?”

She felt the second knock by her ear. Joy flipped on the lights and opened the door.

Five frail women glowed in the hall.

They were identical in that they all had long golden hair, warm, honeyed tans and the same high-cheekboned faces with tiny, button chins. They wore plain sleeveless dresses that hung down to their knees, and all five were barefoot. Their toenails were far too long.

“Ink,” they said together.

Joy shook her head. Their mouths had moved, but the sound hadn’t come from them. The word hadn’t even sounded like a voice, but more like feedback from hidden speakers. It buzzed in her teeth.

“Um...” She felt her fingers on the doorknob. She couldn’t remember how her hands worked.

“Ink,” they repeated.

The world slowed, unfocusing into a fuzzy, muzzy mess. Joy tried to think of what you were supposed to do when something like this happened. Glowing, honey-colored girls appearing on the doorstep did not compute with her version of something like this.

“I think you have the wrong apartment,” she said thickly.

“You bear his mark,” they said. “We have a message for Ink.”

Joy’s hand still wasn’t working. Everything felt slippery.

“We require a witness at Grandview Park by the head of the foot trail at 3:16 post-meridian, tomorrow.” There was a pause. “Can you remember that?”

Could she? Why should she? She couldn’t quite recall. Breath oozed in and out of her lungs, shaping words.

“I think so,” Joy said.

“Tell him,” they chimed.

“Wait,” Joy managed. “Who is Ink?”

While they might be identical, they each had a unique expression of disdain.

“Don’t be coy, lehman.”

And the door swung closed under her hand.

* * *

They were gone when she opened the door a second later.

The fuzzy feeling wore off as she stomped down the hall, slammed the bathroom door and yanked off the patch.

Glue stuck in gobby smears across her cheek and above her eyebrow. Light speared a quick flash into her brain. Shaking the prescription bottle, Joy tipped back her head and dripped several cold drops onto her eyeball, runoff spilling into her ear. She blinked into the mirror, monofilament light splicing her vision. It happened every time she opened her left eye: Flash! Flash!

She scrubbed her face with a washcloth. Her skin burned angry pink.

Swaying on her feet, she grabbed the edge of the sink, trying to focus on her own face. There was an afterimage of something superimposed over her left eye. She blinked, trying to see it clearly—Flash! Flash!—no good. The rush in her ears grew louder and wilder. She felt faint.

This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t. She wouldn’t let it.

Joy slapped off the lights as she stormed into the kitchen. She scooped up the card with Officer Castrodad’s number and snagged one of the handheld phones, dialing on the way back to her room, letting her feet fuel her anger. The phone rang as she paced.

“Castrodad speaking.”

“Hello. This is Joy Malone.”

“Hello, Joy. How can I help you?”

She stopped suddenly, trying to catch her breath. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m the one with the broken window at one-forty Wilkes Road....” She trailed off, wondering where to begin.

“I remember,” he said. “Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

“Forty-eight Deer Run,” Joy said.

“I’m sorry?”

“It was written on the window. Forty-eight Deer Run. Midnight. Tell Ink.” She improvised innocence. “I think it’s an address for someone named Ink.” The spear of light flinched in her eye: Flash! Flash! She thought she saw something move. A shadow danced. She shut her bedroom door with a slam. “And today, there were two weird texts on my phone.” Joy crossed the room, hugging herself with one arm. “And a funny envelope and another message just now—something about a meeting at the foot trail of Grandview Park, tomorrow at 3:16.”

She could hear him scribbling. “Who told you this?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know any of them!” Joy realized, dimly, that she was pacing again. “They just...show up.”

“Would you recognize these people if you saw them again?”

Joy snorted. Like she’d forget? “Yeah.”

Officer Castrodad kept writing and talking. “When did this happen?”

“Right now!” She sounded a little hysterical. Maybe because she was. Joy lowered her voice and locked her door. “Like, a minute ago,” she added. “Maybe two.”

“Are you alone in the house?”

Joy nodded, which was stupid since she was on the phone. “My dad works till ten.” Then it clicked why he was asking. “Wait! Don’t come out here! Please? I don’t want him to...” She knew she should say worry but what she thought was find out. “I just thought you should know.”

“No one’s going to be upset with you, Joy,” Officer Castrodad said. “We just want to be sure you’re safe. I’ll send a car around to check out the neighborhood. Stay in a room with locks and a phone. If anything else happens, I want you to dial 911. Got it?”

Joy rubbed her arm. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good. Call again if you need to—for any reason. I know this is scary, but we’re on it.” Officer Castrodad’s voice shifted from official to empathetic. “You’ve done a brave thing, Joy. Don’t worry. Have you got anything to keep your mind occupied?”

“I’ve got a history test,” she muttered.

“Okay. Go study,” he said. “And good luck on your test.”

Joy sat on her bed, blinking. Flash! Flash! “Yeah...right.”

She hung up and flumped against her bed. Studying was out of the question. Fear quivered under her skin—that jumpy fright-flight adrenaline dump she knew like an old friend, the rush before a competition. It made her want to run laps or do back handsprings, hard and fast, and instead here she sat, trapped in her room, with it percolating in her bloodstream, threatening to explode.

She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t stand sitting still. She couldn’t stand the quiet. It sounded too much like the Dark Days of Dad’s depression when she’d haunt the house on eggshells and hide in her room. The only laughter had been Stef’s. She missed him! His inside-out shirts and dorky glasses and snarky sense of humor. How could he leave her alone like this? How could she be so homesick when she was the one at home?

Joy auto-dialed Stef’s dorm room, hugging her knees to her chest, stretching her legs one at a time, widening slowly into a split. She felt the burn where her muscles strained against denim. Joy bounced her feet impatiently as the phone rang, one yellow sock with smiley faces and one green sock with shamrocks. Joy needed to hear his voice. She needed to know that he was okay. She needed distraction and a little encouragement, like at State when her brother would say, “You can do this,” and she’d say, “I know I can,” as if saying it aloud made it true.

The phone picked up after the fourth ring.