B.C. Johnson - Deadgirl

I came through the door with my face put together—calm even. My scan for Tyler didn’t take long—I just had to look for Wanda.

She was leaning against a bookshelf next to the door, one of her hands gripping a shelf at shoulder level with the white-knuckled intensity that only the very angry or the very balance-challenged possess.

“How drunk is she?” I asked.

Daphne made a face I didn’t want to interpret.

“How?”

“Sorry,” she said.

“Daph!”

Daphne scoffed and said, “What? She needs to relax.”

“You’re really going to try to defend what you did, aren’t you?”

“I was but I wish I hadn’t.”

Should I even be surprised that Daphne mickied Wanda? I sighed and rubbed my forehead.

Tyler, wearing what looked like a basketball jersey— seriously? —stood in front of her, his right palm touching the book shelf behind her. Closing her in, blocking her. It looked like the only one who wasn’t thinking Wanda would try to make a break for it and run away from him was Wanda herself. She looked ecstatic—grateful. My stomach turned, and it wasn’t the booze.

“Double team?” Daphne asked from behind me, her voice electric with excitement.

I pushed through a small cluster of boys talking about girls and tapped Tyler lightly on the shoulder.

He turned. Not much taller than me—average-to-above-average guy height—but he looked down a crooked nose at me. It looked like it had been broken many times or just one really good time, and helped with the thuggish exterior he was projecting. Prominent brow, gaping mouth. The only thing that didn’t scream Neanderthal was his eyes. Sharp, alive, and aware. Smart eyes.

I reconsidered, but only for a second.

“Yes?”

“Hey, Luce, how’s it going…?” Wanda whispered, but no one reacted.

I crossed my arms over my chest.

“I don’t think you should be here,” I said, and I hated that my voice trembled. I suddenly had, at least a little, understanding for Wanda. Tyler scared me, too. He knew exactly why I was talking to him. His eyes were confrontational and smug. He wore a sneer to match.

“Oh?” he said, and turned back to Wanda.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m talking to you.”

Tyler sighed—his shoulders flexed with the over-exaggerated movement, and turned back to face me.

“Well,” he said. “You made a statement, and I turned around. You didn’t ask me a question.”

“Ha-you’re-an-idiot-ha,” Daphne said. “Wanda doesn’t like you.”

Tyler smirked. “I don’t know. I think you don’t like me. And believe me…I’m not interested in you. So win-win.”

I put my hand on Daphne’s shoulder. She took a step back, but the burning look in her eyes didn’t die.

“We’re done here, Tyler,” I said. “You got your warning.”

“Oooooh,” he said.

Child .

We both walked away from him through the thickening mass. We emptied out near the back door. I threw the sliding glass slab open and took a step into the orange glow of the back porch. The dark silhouettes of an urban-grown forest leaned toward us. Thankfully, the smokers had dispersed.

Daphne was shaking. She didn’t like to lose, or even stalemate, and our confrontation with Tyler had been at least one of those.

“It’s okay,” I said, and leaned against the stucco wall next to the door. “We’ll head back in when it loosens up a little and watch her. And him.”

“Yeah,” Daphne said, and sat down on a little green garden chair. “Blech. What a little punkass.”

I agreed, and we sat in silence for a while, stewing.

When Daphne went inside to pee, I cupped my cheeks with my hands and leaned forward in my chair, trying to summon my thoughts.

I heard something crunch in the backyard—it sounded like a twelve-foot kid eating a mouthful of giant cornflakes. My heart jumped, but either horror or curiosity made me hold my place and my tongue. The inky blackness of Benny’s backyard jungle stirred, and I saw something moving. My first thoughts ran to werewolf—weird, I know, but inexorable—and then to the man-in-white.

I thought of smoky-black eye-pits, of a face twisted like taffy. I slammed back against the sliding glass door with a whimper that I wasn’t too proud to take credit for, and my fingers dug for the stun gun in my purse.

“Luce?”

I froze…and a wide smile split my face in half when the figure came into the orange-amber light of the back porch.

“Morgan?”

I thought of her phone call. Was this about Benny? I remembered quickly that I was angry at her, even through the light haze of alcohol.

“What’s going on?”

Morgan shook her head. Her arms were tight to her sides, and her hands curled into balls at her hips. Her eyes darted from me to the door behind me.

“What is it? Is this about Benny or something?”

I took a step off the porch and reached for her hand.

“Morgan, what is it?”

“I’m so sorry, Luce,” she said, her blue eyes wide. “I didn’t know what to do.”

The hairs on my neck saluted.

She took a step back, and the leaves crackled beneath her. I took another step forward.

“Morgan,” I said. “What the hell is up?”

She bit her lip, her eyes darting again to the sliding glass door. I looked over my shoulder but saw nothing but oblivious party-goers. I turned back to her.

“He found me…he told me…actually I guess he showed me,” she shook her head. “He had to speak to you.”

The man-in-white. I stared into the black curtain behind her, trying to sort shapes out of the shadows. I had to help Morgan, somehow, but I couldn’t—

“Wait,” Morgan said. “He doesn’t seem dangerous. Just…kind of weird, actually.”

My hand froze. What?

The figure standing behind and to the side of her walked forward. Tall, lanky, old and sprightly. Identically dressed, as before, in his worn tweed coat. He bowed deeply, and his rakish smile turned his wrinkles and dimples into canyons.

“Puck,” I breathed. “You’re alive!”

He held one hand up, sighed, and made a see-saw gesture.

Chapter Twelve

When It All Fell Apart

I leaped down from the back porch and tackled him. He caught me with surprising strength and squeezed me hard in his thin arms. When he set me back down again, he flashed Morgan an apologetic look. When I glanced at her, I watched her tense posture and terrified expression deflate into something more like weary confusion.

“Lucy,” Morgan said, and leaned back against a dead-looking tree. “You owe me a hell of a lot of explanation.”

“I know,” I said, and turned to Puck. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

And I was. Puck had saved me from the monster-in-white, and more importantly, he had convinced me I wasn’t alone and spiraling into madness. The grey beach was real, or realish, and my condition wasn’t…internal.

I looked up at his boyishly old face, but he gave me nothing but an understanding smile. Then I knew.

“You really can’t talk, can you? Not even here?”

Puck shook his head apologetically. I sighed and covered my face with my hands.

“What?” Morgan asked. “What does that mean, not even here?”

I glanced at her, then back at Puck.

“It means…it means we need to talk,” I said. My legs went rubbery. “But first just…listen.”

Morgan frowned.

“I need to ask Puck a few things and I’m gonna sound…well, like a nutjob.”

Puck pointed at me and nodded to Morgan. Her face cracked a smile.

I glanced at Puck and raised an eyebrow, “But, um, how do we do this, exactly?”

Morgan made a face at me, turned to Puck, and made a gesture with her hands. I didn’t catch the quick movement, but Puck did. He made something like a fist, his palm toward Morgan, and bobbed his knuckles.