John Brandon - Citrus County

“I’ve never been able to understand Shakespeare,” Mrs. Conner said. She whispered, but not like she was hiding anything. “I can follow the plots because it’s right there in the teacher’s edition, but I can’t follow it line to line.”

Mr. Hibma set the Shakespeare on top of the stack he had going near his feet. Mrs. Conner’s face was deeply reflective.

“And those are the first ones you go for,” she said. “The Shakespeare and the poetry. I kind of gloss over that unit every year. I show the movies.”

Mr. Hibma looked at Mrs. Conner and he could imagine her dead without much effort. He didn’t hate her. He didn’t feel anything as strong as hate. That was good; he didn’t want to murder someone because he hated them. He didn’t want to commit a crime of passion. She would be quiet after Mr. Hibma killed her, and she would be a bluish color. Mr. Hibma had even less regard for her, seeing how easily he’d gained her confidence. She had no loyalty, not even to her own grudges. Mr. Hibma was a pet of hers, another of her successes.

“I’m not like you,” Mrs. Conner said. She tapped Mr. Hibma on the forearm. “I’m not smart like you are.” She tipped her face to his and then left the room, trusting Mr. Hibma, giving him time to look her books over in private.

A biography of the author of The Yearling . A biography of Dickens. Mr. Hibma couldn’t concentrate on the titles. He didn’t want any more of these books. He felt he had to take some, though. He felt like a child, alone in Mrs. Conner’s classroom. He felt like a child who was being given too much slack.

Toby was not wandering the wilderness. He was taking a stroll like any reasonable person. He had made up his mind. At the end of the week, on Friday night, the same night of the week he’d taken her, he was going to bind Kaley’s wrists and ankles, tape her mouth, stuff her in his rucksack, and return her to her home. Toby would be a failure, but he would be free. He’d be doing the right thing. Toby remembered when Shelby’s father had spoken to the cameras. He remembered forgetting his thermos, the smell of the Register house. He hadn’t been back inside it. He was afraid of that house. The last thing he wanted to do was bully Kaley again, be forced to physically move her. And this time he’d do it with open eyes, he’d do it without the strange trance he’d fallen into when he’d taken her. This had been the only answer all along, he saw. There was no more room for cowardice. He had to undo what he’d done. He had to cover the same tracks in the opposite direction, lugging Kaley, lighter on his back though older. Whatever he’d done to Kaley would be over. He could end this and she could begin recovering. And then Toby could be with Shelby. He’d been Shelby’s greatest enemy and now he’d be her greatest ally, and she’d never know about any of it. They could start over. They could be themselves. They could find out what their selves were.

Toby wouldn’t have to go in the house; he could leave Kaley on the porch or even the edge of the yard. He would leave her at the edge of the Register yard, and in case she didn’t work her way free of the bag, he would leave an alarm clock resting nearby on the grass. He would get one of those extra-loud alarm clocks meant for old people — steal it from the drugstore, he supposed. He would never have to wear the mask again. He would burn the mask, burn it to get rid of it but also burn it because he hated it. He’d worn it to hide his identity and now he wore it out of shame. Toby kept strolling. Things were coming clear. He felt a little like his old self, resourceful and lean, nothing to worry about but getting caught. He felt simple again; he had an operation to execute and he would either be caught red-handed and take what was coming to him or he would get away with it. But Toby knew no one would catch him. He knew the woods. He knew the night.

Earlier that day, after school, he had carried his mother’s mirror out to the delivery bay. He’d knocked it against a steel corner of one of the dumpsters hard enough to run cracks through the glass, reached his arm into the dumpster, held the mirror as far down as he could, and released it. The mirror couldn’t help him and he didn’t want help. His mother couldn’t help him. Mr. Hibma couldn’t help him. Nothing could. Toby was a shade of gray, like the rest. And maybe now he could be happy like the rest. He could be an idiot punk with just enough poison in his heart to make a fool of himself. He could be another punk with a girlfriend who was too good for him. Toby wasn’t evil and he wasn’t meant to get Bs and pole vault. His real self was the petty vandal who broke bird eggs and made prank phone calls. His real self wanted to flirt with the world like everyone else, flirt with trouble and flirt with Shelby and flirt with whatever else came along. He wasn’t meant for damage, only damage control. Someone else should’ve found the bunker.

Toby halted. It was the spider web with the big beetle in it. The beetle was dried up and dead, its armor still shiny. It wasn’t wrapped. The spider was nowhere to be found, the web in disrepair. The spider had given up and abandoned its web. A breeze that Toby couldn’t feel was swaying the loose filaments about. Toby reached with a stick and destroyed what was left, the beetle carcass dropping to the floor of the woods and getting lost.

Shelby was lying out in the sun. She was on her back patio where she’d spread a few towels and brought out a throw pillow for her head, the telephone, an apple. Very soon, tomorrow maybe, she was going to start eating correctly — healthy foods in decent quantities. Very soon she was going to start reading again, real reading. Not today, but soon. She was going to go on an overseas trip to a strange, cold country. She was going to get a tan first. She would be exotic with her tropical glow. She’d be cupping hot beverages and eating eel and meeting musicians and buying boots that were at once rugged and soft. She’d mingle with faceted Icelandic teenagers, rather than with skateboarders and Baptists. When she returned, she’d gaze upon the burnt yards of Citrus County with forbearance, with neutrality. She’d tell Toby every single thing about her trip, every solitary detail.

It was one in the afternoon. Shelby had left school during her lunch period, cutting psychology and algebra out of her day, and it felt like a sound decision. She felt better off. This was one thing she would make no promises about; she would continue to skip school whenever she felt it would benefit her, whenever she felt school would do her no good. She had her science book on the patio with her, and also an erotic novel, and she planned to switch back and forth chapter for chapter.

Shelby perused the periodic table of elements for fifteen minutes, cooling her mind with rows of letters and numbers, then slid the science book aside and flipped onto her back. She opened The Wild, Warm Winter of Shauna Black . A girl in her twenties, a virgin, went to a bar and picked out a guy and they went to a hotel. The girl was scared, wouldn’t come out of the bathroom. Description of the bathroom. Guy talking his way into the bathroom. Kissing and whispering. Fingers slipping beneath panties. In the space of the next paragraph, the author referred to Shauna’s nether regions a dozen different ways, in painstaking detail, dragging each moment out and piling on the adjectives. And surprisingly, it was effective. It was working on Shelby. At the same time as she felt the tightness and tingle of the sun doing its work on her tummy and thighs, she felt the perk of sex inside her. Shauna was holding herself back, reluctant to give up what she had held dear for so long. Shelby rolled on her side, collecting herself before going further. She was sweating. The man clutched Shauna high on the leg and put her where he wanted her. He unbuttoned her blouse, put his thumb in her mouth. Shelby put her own thumb to her lips. She could hear the sound of bees.