Kelsey Sutton: Some Quiet Place

Curious. I dismiss the voice of warning in my head—I haven’t been getting too much sleep lately, what with all the dreams and faceless condemning whispers—and slam my locker shut, planning on using the phone to call Maggie. It’s become more of a habit than anything. But just as I shoulder my bag and aim for the office, I crash into Joshua Hayes. He grunts in surprise as he sprawls onto the floor. I look down at him.

“Sorry.”

He recovers quickly and grins up at me. His red hair is too long for a boy. It hangs in his face and splays over his jacket collar. “If you want to talk to me, you could have just said ‘hey,’” he says. Belying the boy’s cocky façade, Apprehension kneels down beside him, a soundless presence. Again, he doesn’t bother to acknowledge me.

Opening my mouth, I prepare to say a quick goodbye, but Courage’s words echo through my mind: someone believes you will need that boy in the end. I think swiftly and decide to follow the Emotion’s advice—there was something about Courage that assured me he’d spoken the truth when he said he doesn’t play games.

Silently, I extend my hand to Joshua, who hesitates for just an instant before taking it and allowing me to help him to his feet. His palm is damp, and when I let go, Joshua tries to discreetly wipe it dry on his pants.

“So … ” He grins at me some more, shyness overtaking him now. “In a hurry to get somewhere?”

“No,” I answer. “Just going home.” The office is only a few yards down the hall. I start toward it.

Joshua walks beside me without an invitation. He wants to know me, and he’s not about to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. At my words he chews his lip. “Oh.” He hides behind his hair as he thinks. “I’m going home too. Lots of chores,” he adds lamely.

“Yes.” I halt outside the door marked OFFICE . A memory nudges at me, and for some reason I voice it. “I remember my mom taking me to your house once when we were little. She was bringing your father casserole.”

He’s nodding, features tight and shadowed. His current emotions swiftly dissipate and evolve into something darker. Sorrow and Anger. They hound him like merciless spirits and I’m careful to keep my gaze away. “Yeah,” he says with a tightness in his voice. “I remember that, too. A lot of people brought casseroles after Mom died.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” I meet his gaze and picture Courage as I make the words sincere. “Even though you know it’s not her fault, you must struggle not to be angry with her sometimes, for leaving.”

At this Joshua studies my bruises, and he isn’t trying to be subtle. He’s frowning fiercely, like maybe he’s thinking about saying something. But in the end all he says is, “You talk like you’ve lost someone before.”

“I haven’t,” I reply, deliberately curt. I sense the questions hovering on his tongue; I can’t encourage this. Joshua is the kind of person to take action if he thinks he hears a cry for help. But the statement— you talk like you’ve lost someone —brings back images of the girl in the woods, screaming up at the sky . The boy in her arms. That house by the ocean, the woman’s smile.

You killed me .

Knowing now is not the time to think about any of it, I put my hand on the doorknob as a hint that I’m finished with the conversation.

“Wait,” Joshua says quickly. I wait. He hesitates once more, looking down at his shoes. Then he takes a deep breath and lifts his head. “Can I … call you sometime?”

It’s taken him years to ask me, and here it is. Again, the words whisper through my mind: someone believes you will need that boy in the end. What end, I wonder once more.

Joshua is still holding that single breath, preparing himself for my rejection. I force a smile at him, pretending interest. “That sounds great.” I rattle off my number. Before he has a chance to stumble over a response, I duck into the office, already thinking about my phone call to Maggie.

Charles finally tells Dad about college—I was right in thinking he was having problems. He dropped out, in fact. I’m up in my room, listening to Tim shout at my brother about responsibility, money, growing up. It doesn’t escape me that Tim is much more restrained with Charles than he is with me or Mom.

Afterwards, when Tim has stormed out of the house, leaving a menacing stillness in his place, Charles climbs the stairs. He comes into my room without knocking and flops face-down on my bed beside me. The bedsprings squeal from the added weight. Charles groans, but even after all of this, the only Emotion near him is Relief. Charles has had an easy life. Relief is stiff, younger-looking. He takes his purpose seriously; he doesn’t acknowledge me.

“What are you going to do now?” I ask my brother, staring up at the ceiling. The smooth expanse of white makes me think of the dream-girl’s skin in the moonlight.

Charles doesn’t seem to notice my distraction. He also doesn’t answer my question. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he has no idea. I know him. All he has is his job at Fowler’s Grocery, and yet he isn’t afraid of the empty prospects his future holds. Such is my brother’s nature.

“You should decorate this room,” he murmurs after a time. “It’s depressing in here.”

“I didn’t know white was depressing,” I say.

He rolls over to face me, serious for once. He can’t ignore the bruises on my face anymore. “Has it been hard for you, while I was gone?” Relief vanishes at the question.

Mulling over the best response, I ponder the white walls, imagining them covered in posters or paint. It’s strange—they’ve been white for so long, empty, like me, that it’s difficult to picture it. “Nothing is ever hard for me,” I tell Charles, making my tone sincere. “And Mom is tougher than you think.”

Charles sighs, his fingers gentle as they skim the yellow bruise beneath my eye. “I-I’m sorry I haven’t … I’m sorry I never … ” A new Emotion appears—Guilt. She places her hand on my brother’s cheek, in the same place his fingers rest on my own face. Unable to confront these truths and feelings, Charles abruptly switches course. Now he rolls to his back, arm under his head, and gazes up at the ceiling. “College wasn’t for me, Liz,” he murmurs. “You know I’ve never liked school.”

I nudge him with my shoulder, playing the part of the little sister well. “You’ve never liked school as much as you like parties and alcohol, that is.”

“Hey!” he protests, grinning ruefully. “I’m weak, okay? I tried to stay away. Really.”

He’s lying, but I don’t call him on it. With one last grin, Charles leaves me. The floor creaks, and then the door is clicking shut. Silence. Soon I’m closing my eyes, my muscles relaxing. Just as I’m hovering between reality and dreaming, I sense that odd familiar-unfamiliar presence from the road, lurking nearby. Watching, waiting, for what?

Sleep has too firm a hold on me to break. This mysterious visitor isn’t even close to being finished with me, though. Somehow, I’m certain of this. I will find out what it wants one way or another.

For now, I dream.

I’m standing at the edge of a clearing. The grass is knee-high; it ripples in the breeze. The skies above roll with fluffy clouds that make me think of the inside of a cupcake. Not sunrise or sunset, just a space in time that feels frozen, content.

Across the wide space, sitting with his back to a tree, sits the boy from my dreams.

His head is bent. He studies the pages of a book with intensity, his brow furrowed. In the daylight, even from this distance, I can see his features better than ever before. He’s … delicate. His hair falls over his brow in a dark, silk curtain. His face is oval-shaped, his lips a thin line of contemplation. He’s wearing a button-down shirt and jeans. No shoes.