#23

Sunday.

I hate pancakes. I mean, I do now. Because I had to sit at our freakin dining room table and eat blueberry pancakes with the six people I hate more than anyone else in the world.

That isn’t very nice. But it’s true! So given all the exercise I got on Friday, Saturday was a wash of pain and ice packs. I swear, I only left my room to go to the bathroom. Mom was all fussy and threatening to call the doctor if the swelling didn’t go down and whatnot, but I bet she was really relieved to have an excuse to keep coming upstairs, because James’ dumb friends ended up staying ALL DAY. I asked Mom why and she just shook her head and went to get me a new ice pack. But something’s wrong.

So I laid there on my bed feeling like an idiot while the boys Haloed it up in my brother’s bedroom, and for once I did all the homework I was supposed to. Aspirin does good things for my concentration, surprisingly.

Okay, so pancakes.

I wake up this morning–and it’s Sunday, right?– because Mom’s calling me from downstairs. My leg is feeling infinitely better after a day of rest, and I bound down the stairs with a cheery shriek of approval (I love used to love pancakes a whole lot) and then freeze when I get to the bottom because the BOYS ARE STILL THERE.

They’re all sitting together around my dining room table like a happy little family, and they’re all staring at me like I sprouted a third nipple, and only then do I realize that I’m NOT WEARING A BRA.

So, yeah. Ten minutes later I’m back downstairs, dressed, and breakfast is this totally awkward event where the guys are trying to pretend that they didn’t just see me in my unbuffered tank top while I do my best to eat ROUND pancakes without breaking into tears.

I sat next to James and Dad, and if you thought the pancakes were the worst that could happen, you’re totally wrong. My dad, as usual, is reading the paper. I peek over to avoid eye contact with Van across the table and see a double row of pictures on the front page with the big number FIVE in all caps across the top.

The syrup in my mouth tasted like blood.

“Five?” I couldn’t help it, and the table went dead silent. Even Mom stopped moving around in the kitchen.

“We don’t need to discuss this at the table,” Dad says all reproachfully. But I can’t keep it in.

“But it was only three last week!” I blurt, and I see James look up at Aaron across the table and then at me.

“You’re keeping track, Fleet? Isn’t that kind of creepy?” And I got so mad, so totally blueberry-pancake-tasting mad that I stand up so hard my chair falls down behind me.

“There are girls disappearing, James,” I say, and I swear I scared myself with my voice. “Why aren’t you worried?”

I didn’t wait to get sent to my room. I just laid down on my bed and cried until I fell asleep.

#22

Saturday.

I’m starting to detect a pattern. Friday nights are loco. Abso-positively-frickin-lutely INSANE.

And now so I am. I’m hearing voices. At least, I was last night.

So after I wrote that I put on a sweatshirt and shoes and sat on my bed until the boys went into James’ room. Actually, I waited until I heard the beeps that meant a Halo game was starting, and then I snuck out and went downstairs. Mom was ordering pizza for her beloved boys, and I waved at her and picked up the trash bag as if I was just going to take it outside. She smiles and wanders off into the study with the phone, and I pull up the trash bag and tie off the top, then heft it up and get ready to go outside.

“Let me get that for you.”

A pale, long-fingered hand comes from behind me and wraps around the bag above my hand, and being the nervous freak that I am I squeak and jump backwards– right into the chest of Aaron Kilter. I  hurriedly twisted away from him, but even as I did my hand only tightened on the trash bag. It was my only ticket out!

“I got it, thanks,” I said, staring at our hands, totally failing at trying not to blush. I pulled on the bag, but he didn’t even budge. I look up at his face and he’s just looking at me, not smiling or frowning, just kind of watching me as if I were a creature in a glass cage in his room, like a tarantula or something. Only normal people would be freaked out by tarantulas, and a glance from Aaron’s blues were probably more scary in the long run anyway. I dropped my gaze to his neck. That was fairly safe territory.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, that night at the party,” he finally said.

“You don’t scare me,” I snapped back, all brash and brave and blushing like a ninny.

“Really?” His hand tightened on the bag.

I looked up at him, and all of a sudden I wanted to slash my nails across his face and leave big, long gashes in his pasty skin. I shuddered and let go of the bag, dropping my gaze to the floor. But before I did, I swear I saw him blink in surprise.

“If you want the trash that badly, you can have it,” I said, turning away. I heard a footstep fall behind me and I swear that every nerve in my body jumped on end. If he touched me, if he came close enough for me to smell . . .

“Be careful, all right?”

I wanted to give him the same withering glare that I gave James, but instead I only forced a laugh and kept moving away from him. What is it with guys and being all creepy-brotherly?

But I haven’t gotten to the hearing voices yet.

I went through the laundry room into the garage, and luckily for me, the garage door was open about a foot and a half for our cats. So I slid under (very James Bond; it was impressive) and walked away. Just like that. Nobody called after me, no creepy men rustled the bushes along the driveway . . . it was nice. I just walked, not really paying attention to where I was going (though I’ve lived here so long I could probably ive a tour in my sleep), and only started paying attention to where I was when my bad knee started to twinge.

I was in a neighborhood about three miles away from ours. Van lived somewhere nearby, but I only knew that because I used to babysit his little sisters while he was at summer camp. I don’t think he knows; that’d be creepy. But there I was, walking along this cul-de-sac, and I look ahead and lo, there it was. Not even joking.

Tim’s minivan.

I’ve never hated a car so passionately as I did then. It was parked and empty, so it would be silly to think that they had followed me there, but why am I so unable to escape them? I was filled with this raging energy from the wind, and I started marching forward, following my woman’s intuition (ha ha) on a path that I knew would lead me straight to those little turds. I was planning in my head what I would do when I found them, how I would tear their arms off and gnaw on their scrawny little necks–

Yeah, let’s just say I was angry. And that’s when I heard it. Out of the blue.

Stay away.

I stopped dead in the middle of the road, looking around and seeing no one. But the voice had seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, a female voice that was high-pitched and bossy.

I mean it; stay away from here. Its not safe.

And shivers were running down my spine, and I knew she was right.

“Who are you?” I yelled. All I heard was a giggle.

Call me Insamari.

Sounds Japanese, right? So I went home. Mom had thrown a fit when all the boys left and she realized I wasn’t home, so now I’m grounded for the rest of the weekend. Big whoop, right? It’s better than the loony bin.

#21

Friday.

An hour ago this afternoon my mom and dad sat me down afer school and had a nice little Talk with me about safety rules. They reiterated all the rules that I’ve known since kindergarten: don’t talk to strangers, don’t go anywhere with strangers, don’t let strangers give me candy, don’t let anybody touch me . . . the basic stuff. It felt really dumb and redundant until I saw the newspaper in the recycling bin when I went to throw away a soda can.

The body of the girl who disappeared last weekend, Brittany, was found. Her heart was gone. The police are calling this the work of a serial killer. Three girls in as many weeks, and every one was found with their hearts gone.

I’m a little scared. I’ll say it. Not that I think I’m next; I doubt that anybody really believes that they’ll be “next” when it comes to dying. I just . . . I keep thinking about Hampton Park. About that girl in the nightgown. I didn’t really see her face, did I? I want to see her. I want to see her so badly, maybe a picture or something just so that I can . . . I don’t know. It wouldn’t help anything.

James just came home . . . oh, crap. That’s way too much noise to just be him. That laugh . . . Kyle. My mom’s voice is loud and cheery, her I-love-you-Aaron tone. And nobody but Tim has a voice that deep. Wait . . . oh, crap.

“Mom, is it okay if the guys stay over tonight? We were going to go to Van’s but his plumbing’s blown.”

Of course it’s all right, James. Mother loves your friends. No! No, no, no, no! I can’t have them here. I can’t deal with all those guys here. Wait, is . . . let me check.

They’re all here. All six of them. I went and hid at the top of the stairs and peeked out, and there they all were, tossing all their crap into a pile in the living room that Mom’s going to have to transfer to James’ room if she wants to walk through there. I was dead quiet, I swear, but as I was there Aaron casually glanced straight at me, gave a little nod, and then looked away. A few seconds later Manuel’s head twitched in my direction, but I ducked back before he could see me. I hope. 

I mean, I’m not six years old. I could go out there and say hi.

Hypothetically.

I wish I had a friend whose house I could go to. Safety rules aside, I swear I’ll go crazy if I have to stay here with them. I’m going to . . . I don’t care. Anywhere else. My head hurts just thinking about the boys downstairs. Mom might not remember that I don’t have any friends; I’ll tell her I’m going to Kelly’s house.

#20

Thursday.

James talked to me this morning as I was leaving. I guess he and Aaron were leaving early, because he stops me at the door and looks at me all seriously, with more somberness than I’ve ever seen in my big bro.

“You okay, Fleet?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I answered, totally defensive.

“Look, Tim and Man, they’re . . . they’re doofuses. You know that, right?”

“I don’t care, James,” I said, trying to look nonchalant. “You boys can do whatever you want.”

“Right,” he said, totally not believing my act.

I just left because I wasn’t in the mood to talk to him. I’ve had a huge headache since yesterday; I think I split my own eardrum screaming like a ninny. Why can’t I fall down like a normal person? Sheesh. Either way, school was pretty normal. I was so distracted! I just kept staring out the window without really looking at or thinking about anything, and then I fell asleep for the first time EVER in history. It’s embarrassing. I just need to sleep in this weekend. Hopefully it’ll be a normal one.

I didn’t see any of the boys today, but I heard that Tim got temporarily expelled. Suspended, right? And I overheard someone from Manuel’s neighborhood saying that his mother had had to go pick him up from the hospital last night. It’s too weird. Those guys are best friends. What . . . I dunno. I don’t know what’s going on and I’m too tired to think about it.

#19

Wednesday.

I don’t get it. I think this is some kind of prank. Why the heck are James’ friends acting so weird? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was all some huge elaborate joke that really isn’t funny. First that thing with the girl . . . which I’m starting to wonder if I imagined . . . and now all of this. My door is locked because I don’t want to have to talk to Mom or James or anyone else who might come into my room and ask me what happened today at school.

I don’t even want to write about it. My hands are still shaky.

Halfway during my second class of the day I had to go to the bathroom, and since we were just doing some dorky worksheet I asked Mr. Pate if I could use the restroom. He said yes, so I went outside and headed for the girls’.

At least, I tried to.

I turned the corner outside the door and tripped over a pair of long legs that were stretched out into the empty hallway. Okay, I JUST FELL ON MY FACE on Saturday, and I totally thought I was going to break the rest of my head, so I screamed.

Loudly.

Too loudly.

The person connected to the legs I tripped over moved in a blink, swinging himself away from the wall and inserting himself between me and the floor. He caught me, in a sense, but it’s more accurate to say that I squashed him. It was absolutely the most awkward moment of my life, lying there on top of . . . yeah.

Manuel. AGAIN.

Only this time he isn’t laughing; he’s looking at me with his eyes wide as if I scared the crap the out of him. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and he looked so horrified to see me that I tried to get off him as fast as I could, which involved rolling myself onto the ground beside him, which was utter agony on the sore ribs. I made this groaning noise and he sits up to look down at me, looking all worried and concerned.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t realize you’d . . .”

“What the crap are you doing sitting in the hallway?” I demanded, trying to sit up. He didn’t answer, and when I looked up to follow his line of vision I figured out why. There were heads poking out from classroom doors; mostly frowning teachers, but one or two students as well. More frightening, however, was the tall and glowering young man who marched down the hall in our direction.

It was (Dear God, not again) Tim.

Manuel started scooting away from me as if I had the plague, but apparently he wasn’t going fast enough. Tim acted like he didn’t even see me; he walks right up to Manuel, grabs him by the collar to pull the slightly shorter guy to his feet, and then punches him in the face.

And I don’t mean one of those brotherly knuckle-taps either.

He decked the kid. Manuel was on the ground again in a flash, and if he hadn’t been flinching away I swear I would have thought he was dead. Tim was breathing hard, glaring down at him so malevolently that I started pushing myself away. Teachers were running, but Tim was done. After a few seconds of silent staring, he turned and walked back the way he had come, ignoring the teachers that yelled after him.

I looked over at Manuel, who was getting slowly to his feet. He was facing away from me, but I could still see the blood dripping onto the floor from his gushing nose. Mr. Pate was there with tissues and escorted him to the nurse’s room, and the music teacher was bent over in front of me, asking me what happened, if I was all right.

I didn’t answer her. I remember going to the principle’s office to tell them what happened, and I guess I said something, because they let me go home early. But all I could think about was the way his blood looked, the splattered crimson spots against the beige linoleum floor.

#18

Tuesday.

Cancel that. “That” being the homework I was going to get done this week. They found Angela. The missing girl. Oh man. She’s dead. Her heart’s gone too. But they found her buried in a haystack out at Mulberry Meadows, the horse-boarding place on the upside of town, about a mile away from Fizzer’s neighborhood.

This is big news now, right? So the newspaper was totally up in arms when they found out that the police had been keeping another disappearance secret. Brittany Trike, 16. She went to some party Friday night and never came home.

I saw Manuel in school today, which was unusual only because that’s the only thing I did to him. I mean, he didn’t talk to me. Usually if we pass each other in the hall (and by ‘usually’ I mean in the past few weeks) we’ll kinda smile and wave and say hello.

Not today.

I was going along my merry way and I see him at the other end of the hall. He’s walking kinda preoccupied and busy-ish, but all of a sudden he looks up at me and goes a little pale and ducks into a random classroom. I swear it was Spanish 101, which is funny since he’s been fluent for as long as I’ve known him. I didn’t chase him down; I’m not a freaky stalker.

Tim hasn’t been in school this week. Not that I’ve been looking for him, of course, because I’d probably drop dead of embarrassment if I did see him. I just noticed because Tammy screeches about him class. She’s a moron.

Then again, so am I. Maybe he’s too guilty to face me. Wouldn’t that be ironic.

I’m still on an applesauce & yogurt diet thanks to the possible crackage of my jaw. When I can chew again, I’m going to rip off somebody’s head and eat it.

Sorry, that was gory. I’m going to bed.

#17

Monday.

God, I hate school. Especially when I have a massive my-boyfriend-beats-me bruise on my cheek and stitches across my jaw. And when the girl whom my brother took to the party has made me every popular girl’s official arch-nemesis for stealing her date away when I wasn’t even supposed to be there in the first place. The best part was the sarcastic inquiry into my visit to the Yale estate:

“I thought you said you were going to go to Tim’s house on Friday,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“That’s funny, because he was at the party with Tammy. Quite the party animal, actually.”

“Fancy that,” I say, and pointedly walk to my seat.

James has been positively pissed with me since the hospital. He was really antsy at the hospital and ditched me as soon as Mom showed up in the van. Now he keeps checking on me when I get out of classes, and he even told me to wait for him after school. He hasn’t ridden the bus since Aaron got a car.

“I can handle the bus, James,” I told him.

“Yeah, but I don’t see why you should have to. You can ride with me and Aaron.”

Ha ha, no. Aaron had pelted out of there as soon as James and I were out of the car and I hadn’t seen him since. It was quite nice, actually, and I certainly didn’t want to sacrifice peace of mind just to avoid gumstains on vinyl seats.

“Pass.”

James glared at me a little, then sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll ride with you.”

And here’s the kicker– he did. He rode the schoolbus home, sitting beside me and glowering at anyone who glanced his way. The chump. I expect he’ll be back with Aaron tomorrow. I’m hoping so. He’s a terrible seatmate.

I was on so many drugs (and/or on painkillers) that I didn’t get much homework done over the weekend, so I expect I’m going to have to stay pretty busy in my room to stay caught up. High school so totally sucks.

#16

Sunday.

I still can’t believe it. I stopped writing yesterday because my hand was starting to cramp, but I think I need to get this all out before my memory turns it into something it isn’t. Wasn’t. Won’t be? Whatever. 

So James and the rest are still standing there, but Aaron is heading quickly my way. He strides up, pulling Tim along as if the taller guy is no more than a sack of baseballs, until he’s two feet in front of me, and I swear he had to be that close before I saw that his blue, blue eyes were burning with fury. Had he been mad since he picked me up? I hadn’t looked at him long enough to tell.

Aaron suddenly stops walking and swings the Tim-bearing arm my way, throwing him across the ground to land at my feet, still garbling a roar and swearing like a drunk cheerleader. Or a drunk basketball player, I guess, since that’s what it seemed that he was.

“Go ahead,” Aaron says, obviously not talking to me. “Go ahead and make a fool of yourself.”

And Tim, who’s been struggling to his knees, suddenly stiffens. It’s like he’s smelt something really, really nasty, and I wonder if it’s my shoes since his face is about a foot away. I just stood there, too shocked to move and too scared to offer any kind of help.

Tim’s head lifted slowly, and he sat back on his heels and swayed, his eyes lifting to my face. He opened his mouth and mumbled something.

“Speak up, Tim,” Aaron says, his voice stony. “I don’t think she can hear you.”

“Leave him alone, A,” James says. He and the boys have crossed the lawn, and now we stood in a little circle with Tim at the center, and my stomach twisted. James looked up at me darkly, then looked back at Aaron. ”What is she doing here?”

Thanks, bro. Thanks a ton.

“God, leave her alone,” Manuel said. He was standing beside me and his hand moved to rest on my arm. I swear, every eye in the circle zoomed in on my right shoulder. Tim tried to say something again, making a pretty sad attempt to stand up. Manuel’s hand fell away.

“Look, this’s been . . . tons of fun,” James said, “but I think we need to call it a night. I’m taking Fleet home.”

“You can’t take her home,” Kyle said sullenly. “You brought Anna, remember?”

“I’ll take her,” Aaron said.

James turned to him with a glare. “I said, I’ll take her home.”

Van smiles, his hair falling into his eyes as he looks down a bit bashfully. “Dude, you don’t have a car.”

“Hey, I’m not a broken refrigerator,” I snap. “I can walk home by myself. Thanks for the ride, Aaron.”

I spun on my heel and took about half a step away when my ankle snagged on something– Tim’s grasping hand, I believe– and I fell face-first onto the cement swimming pool patio.

Yeah. Aaron drove me to the hospital with James in the backseat beside me holding a towel to my face. I got blood all over his car, an abrasion to the cheek, recieved a whopping thirteen stitches to the gash that was created when my chin hit the cement, and now have a huge row of bruises along my lower ribs from the edge of the patio.

Yeah. Great party, Fizzer.

#15

Saturday.

To quote the philosopher of our time, “My life is brilliant.”

So. Last night. Aaron told my mother that he was here to pick me up for the party, and since he’s SO polite and good-looking and totally my mother’s son’s friend crush (which is weird), she came charging up the stairs to see if I was ready. I had about ten seconds to find clothes that weren’t covered in paint or bike grease before I whisked out the door and into Aaron’s car.

“I’m not going to the party,” I said to him, which was a little late considering that I was already in his car.

“Neither was I,” he mutters back, and then he backs down the driveway and drives to Fizzer’s house, slamming the gears around with the kind of sullen force that my brother used to wash dishes when Mom made him.

The Fizzer’s house is up on the same side of town as Tim’s house, and it was huge and PACKED with idiot high schoolers. I say that lovingly, of course, because even when drunk and dancing to too-loud music my peers have a way of niggling into the affections of neighbors and policemen.

Aaron escorted me stiffly around the back of the house to the backyard, where the pool area is full of wet and screaming cheerleaders who I know wore cute panties just in case they happened to get thrown in. I dart a dirty look at Aaron, but he doesn’t notice. He’s scanning the actual yard, where a bunch of kids are playing a drunken mix of touch football and full-contact soccer. His eyes stop and narrow, and then he mutters, “Wait here,” and heads for the game.

Now Aaron isn’t the last kid picked at the waltz by any means, but he’s not built like the football players. This doesn’t seem to bother him, because he goes striding into the fray, totally ignoring the fact that twenty HUGE guys are barrelling around drunkenly. I totally felt like that weird tall thin girl watching Popeye fight somebody, because I was waiting for someone to run into him at any point and crush him like a bug.

Thing is, I don’t know if I was worried or hopeful.

He walked right up to a human dogpile that had formed near the middle of the field, reached right in, and yanked somebody out by the collar.

Not “somebody.”

Tim.

Even from far away I can see that the boy is a mess. He’s covered in mud, his clothes are ripped, his nose is bleeding, and he’s bellowing something even as Aaron drags him across the grass.

Towards me. The game has kind of slowed down; some people are trying to focus long enough to see what’s going on. The guys who were in the dogpile are standing up, and I realize that those fellas aren’t in the drunk-as-a-skunk-football-player gang.

It’s James, Van, Kyle, and Manuel. I’m staring at them, all of whom are panting and watching Tim go, and then I remember that Aaron is dragging Tim back to me. He’s still yelling and cursing and struggling against Aaron’s grip, but they come my way, Aaron’s face a set mask of determination.

I really wish I’d had the courage to turn and run away.

#14

Friday.

I have a huge bowl of popcorn, I stole my brother’s TV, and I rented every James Bond movie the video store had. I’m not going ANYWHERE tonight. I managed to dodge most of the boys today, and Tammy McPaterson was positively ecstatic in Lit when she gushed to whoever would listen that (OMG) TIM YALE was taking her to Fizzer’s party! Skank.

So James got all spiffied up . . . actually, he put on clean clothes that Mom made him take off for her to iron. He didn’t seem very stoked about the party in general, and he kept glaring at me and asking me what I was going to do all night if I didn’t go to ‘the biggest party of the year.’

“Enjoy myself,” I replied.

He left at seven, said that he and Tim were going out to dinner with their dates before the party. I can just picture the four of them, James and Skannka, Tim and Skanky McSkankerton all cuddled up in a little booth.

It’s eight-thirty now. I’m having a GREAT time. That’s why I journal, because I’m having a GREAT time. My parents are downstairs watching McGuiver reruns. Sometimes I wish I had more female friends. Or at least, that I had some. Most of the girls on the track team were buds, but without weekend meets and daily practice . . . oh well.

A car just pulled into the driveway. My room is sweet because it overlooks the driveway, so I’m peeking through and see . . .

Oh. My. God.

What the HECK is Aaron Kilter doing here? Why the crap is he ringing the doorbell?! Oh my God. I have to [indecipherable]