Kathleen Hale - No One Else Can Have You

“Aye aye, sir.” I salute her back. Knowing that you might never see someone again makes you want to say better good-byes. If I could, I would hug the whole world, and even the rainbows would be my friends!

. . . I guess those cookies really are taking effect.

The door to the laundry chute makes a loud, screeching, metallic sound when I open it. At least I hope this is the laundry chute. Sir Albus didn’t say anything about an incinerator. There’s a steep, downward slide, leading into shadows, and the opening is big enough for a large suitcase. I crawl in quickly before I can change my mind. The door slaps shut behind me, and I’m tumbling into blackness, my knees thumping each other and my shins cracking against metal walls. Despite being buckled in the front, my backpack swings around and the flashlight inside hits me right above the eye. I see stars and taste blood just in time to land crumpled in a knot atop bags and bags of laundry. Lightning flashes through the slits of ground-level windows, illuminating the basement’s concrete pillars.

I scoot onto the wet floor, and my leg gets zapped all the way to the tailbone. The whole place is flooded. I throw myself back on the laundry bags and reach up to touch my hair, which feels frizzy and tangled, and vaguely warm. One of the industrial washers sparks and trembles, then makes a collapsing noise and smokes. I grab a dirty rag off one of the bags and wipe blood from my eye. The cut on my forehead is dripping, and my legs are convulsing. Thunder cracks outside and I crawl across the laundry bags toward a table, pulling myself up on top of it to look out the window.

There’s no latch so I reach into my backpack for the flashlight and bang that against the glass. It doesn’t even crack. I look around for something to break the window with and there’s a shovel leaning against the wall, its tip in the water. I grab it by the wooden handle so I won’t get zapped. It’s heavy, and I’m starting to feel caged, and my legs feel weak. But then I’m reminded of those stories of minivans crashing into water and children using their own tiny fists to break through car windows and save their parents. I think of Davey and swing the shovel like a baseball bat. Glass flies everywhere, and I use the rag to wipe it off the sill. I toss my backpack through then crawl out after it, pulling myself forward through the rain on handfuls of muddy grass.

Lightning zags across the sky again, illuminating the forest and the cow pasture just beyond it. It’s pouring so hard the droplets actually sting. My pajamas are filthy with sludge, and my fingers are curled into these involuntary fists against my chest, probably from getting electrocuted. I feel like that dude from The Shawshank Redemption —covered in crap, free at last, ready to get back at everyone who ever wronged me—except my digital watch says it’s 11:45 p.m. and I’m running through the trees like some kind of hunchback zombie, and who even knows if I’ll get to the meeting point before Mildred leaves without me.

The fence around the pasture is eight feet high, with barbed wire strung in parallel lines between two wooden posts. The lowest rung of wire is less than a foot off the ground, so I dig a depression in the mud underneath it to give myself some wiggle room—crawling through on my belly only to snag my backpack on the tines. Leave it behind , a voice inside me says—and I start to tug it off my shoulders—but I can’t abandon my bag, not with my phone and the bear spray and Ruth’s diary in there. So I untangle the fabric and tear it loose, then drag my one still-buzzing leg across the remainder of the field.

The cows are lowing in their pen. Knowing how cows get during storms, their eyes are probably white and rolling, terrified. The wire fence on this side of the pasture is only about four and a half feet high, and without any barbs, I guess because it’s just for keeping the regular kind of livestock in. I’m thinking I could probably jump over it if I had to. I mean, if I had some sort of springboard, maybe.

That’s when I see what looks like a company truck speeding up the wooded lane. I crouch low behind one of the trees, thinking it’s someone who works at Cloudy Meadows. It slows to a halt and I see it’s actually a FedEx truck. Lightning illuminates the windows: Marion’s at the wheel and Mildred’s in the passenger seat. I wave my claws at them. Familiar faces. I’m smiling so wide my cheeks hurt, and without thinking I run toward the fence, eager to climb over it.

Mildred’s shouting, “No, no, no!” as I reach for the wire, but it’s too late and I’m thrown backward and everything goes black.

Ruth here again. Ralph Johnston is some kind of freak, but his googly eyes and weird clothes kind of make you wonder about his dick. I’m just saying. Someone like that, they could have a really big dick and not even know it. He’s probably a virgin.

I’m not interested in investigating, obviously. The guy dresses like some 1990s mom decked out to go rollerblading. Still, it is kind of fun to say things that might give him a boner and then look for evidence of greatness underneath his track pants. I bat my eyes at him and he turns around and buys me the most awkward stuff. Like those cans of gefilte fish. I’m like, “Oh thanks Ralph, it’s really sweet of you to research my culture and what have you, I’ll totally give this to my mom to use in our next Passover meal!” And then I run the cans over in Kippy’s car, just to feel them explode.

“Are you still mad at me?” I’m asking Davey. The sun is shining and I am lying on my back in the grass, and he is pressed against me, his hair tickling my forehead. I’m trying to move, to pet his hands, to grip the back of his neck and pull him toward me. But I can’t move and he’s being too gentle. “More,” I blurt, startling us both.

Suddenly he’s gone and so is the sun. It’s chilly and there’s something wedged beneath my spine. My cheeks inflate, and I bite down, tasting blood. Someone squawks. Davey? My eyes flutter open and at first I think the white vibrating walls are those of an ambulance—only I’m on a bunch of scattered cardboard boxes in the back of the FedEx truck, the floor rattling under my butt, bouncing my heels in all sorts of directions. Marion’s crouching over me, holding his lip and looking perplexed.

“That CPR working yet?” Mildred calls from the driver’s seat. “I’m getting dagnabbed jealous.”

“Oh no,” I murmur, feeling sick.

Marion leans down and whispers, “Did you just try and smooch me one?”

“No!”

“Your mouth was moving.” He raises his eyebrows, and uses the corner of his Harley-Davidson sweatshirt to dab his bleeding lip. “Romantically, too—it was moving romantically.”

“I was trying to talk!” I roll over and spit, trying to get the taste of his blood out of my mouth. “You know, like, ‘Get off me, I’m alive’?” Can I really not be close to someone’s face without biting? I claw at my eyes, digging out sleep. There are blisters on my palms from grabbing the electric fence. My fingers are shaking. “How long was I out for?” I ask. Marion’s braided ponytail is hanging near my face and I swat it away to scratch my lips.

“’Bout a minute. Enough for us to get you in the car and get moving.”

“Big dreamer,” Mildred yells at me from the front seat. “Luckily I don’t know shit about mouth-to-mouth so Mar and me swapped seats. Finally got to drive this old girl again.” She lets out an evil laugh and smacks the steering wheel. “Later we’ll torch this bitch—”

“Torch this what?” I ask.

“This truck, stupid.” Mildred grins. “And after that Mar and I’ll go home and cuddle.”