The Castaways Page 2

  “I know.” I stare ahead as we walk to our next class, cutting through the courtyard, the bizarrely-too-warm, October wind hitting me in the face. What I wouldn’t do for five minutes of cool, Oregon coast sea spray.

  “I mean, sweet Jesus! A used tampon? They can’t get away with this!”

  “T… It was fake blood,” I say, shaking my head, still a bit dazed.

  “It doesn’t matter!” She clamps her lips together, breathing out her nose until she calms down. “Olive. Seriously.”

  “What?” I glance over. Tawny’s curly black hair whips around her head. Part Japanese, more parts Samoan, she’s tall, strong, has a gorgeous, full face, and her skin is warm like sand on a beach. Tawny was teased as much as me growing up, maybe more. But she always held the power; she fought back and won. Somehow, despite my luck, she picked me as a best friend.

  “You. Have. Got. To. Do. Something.” She stares me down with her dark, all-knowing eyes, pulling the emotion from me like my mother does, somehow reaching in and plucking it out thorn by thorn.

  Memories of the girls’ bathroom, the blood I’d thought was so very real, the tampon, my stained sweater…come clawing up my throat. I try choking it back, but several tears escape despite my hold on them.

  “Listen,” Tawny lowers her voice. “It sucks. This sucks. They suck. But you can’t keep letting them walk all over you. It’s not right.” She spits the words out as if Lesley stands inches from her lips. “You have to tell someone.”

  I release a long sigh, then wipe my budding tears with the backside of my hand. “I know, I know. But…” She side-eyes me. “I can’t. Seriously, how could I possibly explain what happened to me today without an epic parental freak-out bomb over it?”

  “But, you—”

  “Like, mushroom cloud epic.”

  “Seriously, though—”

  “You know they’d go to the principal, to the Trio’s parents, the media… It’d be all over the internet—”

  “This is serious. Stop joking.”

  My shoulders fall. “I know. Trust me, I know. Truth is, I’d be in a far deeper crap hole than I already am.”

  “Not necessarily…”

  “But likely.”

  “Yeah, all right, it’s likely. As usual, you…win…” Something catches Tawny’s eyes. “What the? No way they’re still having it after last year!”

  Following her stare, I see a poster plastered on the bulletin board next to the door:

  Castaway Carnival

  This weekend ONLY!

  Come, if ye dare!

  “Oh, ballz no!” she answers the poster with another patented Tawny cuss.

  “They never found that kid last year, eh?” I ask.

  “Nope. Went in the maze and never came out. Vanished. Just like the other two from way back when.”

  Death. Trap.

  Tawny shivers. “The place creeps me out. Something’s not right with that maze. I swear it.”

  “It’s just a carnival. There’s an explanation for it, we just don’t know what it is.” I shake my head, because, beyond all reason, I’m repeating my mother’s words from this morning. But, despite my logic, a shiver runs down the back of my neck, too. Though, it’s not all fear. Oddly, there’s excitement mixed in.

  An idea hits me over the head like an anchor. I skid to a stop, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her away from the door. “I’ve been thinking…”

  “Shits.” There it was. Fave cuss number three.

  I laugh. “Shut up. Listen.”

  She giggles back, her eyes going all crinkly.

  “I need to get my mind off all of this. Do something…uncharacteristic. Fun. A little…rebellious.”

  She raises one eyebrow. “I like it. Go on.”

  I inhale deeply in preparation. “I’m taking Lucky to the carnival tonight. You want to meet me there post eight-year-old bedtime and go through that maze?”

  “Hmm, let me think… HELL NO! Have you lost your mind?” Her voice goes raspy, classic Tawny are you effing kidding me? style.

  “What? Where’s your sense of adventure? It’s just a field of corn. Come on…”

  She sighs heavily, tightening the straps on her backpack and shoves her hands into her pockets.

  “Please? It’ll be fun.”

  I have no idea why this is such a big deal that I’m begging or how a stupid carnival attraction is going to solve anything. But the more I imagine that dark field, the corn, and trying to find my way through it, the more important it feels.

  She narrows her eyes down on me. “Damn it. Only for you would I do this.”

  Chapter Five

  Calm Before the Storm

  The Trio ignores me the rest of the day.

  The few encounters I have in the halls with them are absent the usual eye rolling and smirking. Their silence is worse than the torture because I know… Something is fermenting.

  This year I have the misfortune of schedule. Lesley, Dillon, and Hannah workout—gossip, check themselves in the mirror, flirt with guys, and generally plot my demise—during fifth period. Coincidentally, the same class block I have required PE.

  When I return to the locker room after a thrilling forty-five minutes of yoga—Sinclair Private School, always keeping with the trends—I’ve lagged behind, hoping the Trio has already showered, mascara’d into oblivion, and moved on to sixth period.

  When I enter, I’m welcomed with an empty space, save for a few girls talking in front of the mirrors.

  I exhale.

  I go to my locker, open it, and pull out my boots and my uniform. I fasten my skirt, pull on my knee socks and boots, then tie the—

  Footsteps stomp up behind me, and before I can turn, my locker door slams shut.

  I barely get a glance over my shoulder to confirm what I already know.

  “Bitch!” Lesley yells. Her nose is red and swollen, and the sight fills me with simultaneous pride and dread.

  The primping girls grab what they can salvage and leave in a rush. Thanks a lot. I want to yell at them for taking off. I want to scream at Lesley and Hannah and Dillon for being such supremely horrible human beings. But I can’t. Because the monster is closing my throat in on itself.

  I gasp. Wheeze. I try to cover it up by coughing, but it only makes it worse. I’ve always been able to hold the worst of the monster back until they’ve disappeared.

  When Lesley realizes I’m having an attack, a twinkle glints in her eyes. She laughs. “What the hell?”

  Hannah and Dillon snort-laugh.

  My hands go numb and my head swims and, despite my efforts, I slump to the floor and start making the noise. The one that sounds like I’m totally geeking out with laughter, but it’s really me trying to hold on to each breath mixed with complete and utter anxiety and fear.

  Their eyes go wide in shock—not concerned shock, more like embarrassed-to-be-near-me shock. More like what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-her shock.

  With the hyperventilation peaking, I know it’s about to get its worst, but also, that it’ll be over soon. The “geeking out laugh” turns to more of a barking as I work to slow my breathing. Somehow, I wiggle enough to turn onto my side and try to curl up. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I hear Hannah say. Was that a bit of remorse? “Let’s get out of here. Now.” Guess not.

  I’m able to climb onto my knees and tuck my head down against the linoleum floor. It’s gross and dirty but I’m thankful for the cold.

  My breathing already calming, back to that choppy wheeze I’m so familiar with, I dare a peek up. The three of them are leaving, rushing out the door, when Lesley stops and squints down at me. “You’re such a loser, McGaggy. God, you can’t even breathe without messing it up. Don’t think you can fake not breathing to get out of what’s coming.”

  They leave.

  Everything’s blurry and topsy-turvy.

  Several girls in absurdly short running shorts enter.

  “You all righ
t, Olive?” a girl from my economics class asks in a bizarre and far-off voice. I didn’t know she ran cross country.

  I nod. Or at least, I mean to nod.

  As if I’m watching a movie, I see myself stand, look back at the faces staring at me, then run…

  Out of the locker room.

  Down the hall.

  And out of the heavy double doors.

  The world screams gray, the sun covered by thick clouds.

  Chapter Six

  The Run

  My boots clap against the sidewalk, the laces snapping at the leather. I’m not a runner.

  How I got here, I’m not sure.

  I freaked out.

  Took off from the athletic wing and didn’t look back.

  Now my legs ache and I can’t breathe, but I don’t care. The rain from last night left everything a muddy brown mess. The clouds still hang low in the sky and a brisk breeze reminds me it isn’t always sweltering hot in this hell hole.

  I round a corner, passing through a neighborhood and toward the open field. I don’t know my destination.

  But I know why I’m running. What and who I’m running from…

  For over six years, I’ve endured the taunts and torture orchestrated by three girls.

  “Why me?” I whisper under my breath.

  At those two small words, my chest tightens and my throat closes around a knot. My eyes sting and prickle in the corners.

  I let the tears fall, all hot and salty. Down my cheeks, over my lips, under my chin and neck.

  The concrete beneath my feet morphs from cement to muddy, dry grass and my boots sink in as I enter the open field. I slow my pace, knowing I’ll have to stop soon for fear of a collapsed lung or two. My eyes search the space. The open field isn’t open, but full of trucks and workers setting up tents and rides. To my right, I spot the infamous corn maze, all fenced in to protect it from intruders, but it’ll come down this evening—opening night.

  I slow to a quick walk and stride right up to the fence. When I go to wipe the sweat and tears from my eyes, a bit of red catches my sight. Yet another reminder of earlier and a creepy preview of what, without a doubt, awaits me still. Wiping my hand clean, I shudder. It had been so real. Leaning forward against the portable chain-linked barrier, trying to catch my breath, I see movement in the maze.

  From where I stand, it’s a thick golden wall of leaves and dried corn, but if I squint, I can see several men swerving in and out, clearing the paths of debris and trimming the stalks. Oh, how I’d love to get myself lost in there right now. Just hide in some corner, pull the stalks down over me like a blanket, and curl up where no one would ever find me. I’d stay there for days, weeks, months. Hidden.

  “Hey!” A low voice shouts. I jump at the noise. “You can’t be here!”

  I back away from the fence and turn. A mammoth of a man stands before me. Easily over six feet tall, he’s thick with strength; not muscled like a bodybuilder, but I have no doubt he could uproot a tree. His head is shaved and the side of his neck is an old canvas of blurred tattoos. Half his face is hidden beneath an unruly dark, wiry beard.

  “Well, go on now. Come back tonight when we’re open.” His beard moves along his gruff words as one puff of hair, and he tosses something at me. The gold disc flashes once and lands at my feet. I pick it up. A doubloon.

  Unable to pull my eyes from the mangy creature, I nod. He raises his eyebrows, nods back, and returns to his work, disappearing into the maze.

  I turn, making my way toward the neighborhood, focusing on walking, forcing my legs to move one step at a time.

  I don’t stop until I’m home.

  When I walk through the front door, the house is still, quiet. I stall in the entryway. The stained glass window casts multicolored rays past me and onto the tile floor. Hazel greets me, weaving herself around my legs. I bend down and pet her between the ears.

  I make my way through our living room, the amount of beige suddenly nauseating, then I go down the hall, passing through my room, walking straight to my bathroom.

  I stop.

  I cry. For real this time. My face crumples into a horrible, messed-up version of myself. I wrap my arms around my middle, slide down to the floor, and ball up. The soft turquoise bathmat sticks to my wet cheek, a fake pirate coin still clutched in my hand. I whimper. Whine. Let it all out until I’ve got nothing left. Empty, light as a feather, I take a shower, dry off, and dress.

  Hazel is on my bed in a perfect, furry, ball of warmth. I curl up next to her and shut my eyes. But there are words behind my swollen eyelids. I think they’re written in Lesley’s blood. Or perhaps it’s only stage blood. I lean over to my side table, open my journal, and in drowsy chicken scratch, jot down two words in hot pink ink: Just be.

  It’s all I want. To just be. What did I do to deserve the wrath of Lesley Dawson? Will it ever stop? The name calling and the being held down and the horrible things those girls put me through—it’s wearing on me. Ruining me.

  There’s only so much a person can take.

  Tears flood my eyes as I tighten my arms around my knees.

  Hazel’s rhythmic purrs envelop and soothe me. Eventually, I drop off to sleep.

  Warm breath. Against my face.

  At first, I assume it’s Hazel’s kitty breath, but it smells too much like chocolate. I don’t want to, but I pry my eyes open. Lucky’s blurry face rests on my mattress, his blue eyes bulging back at me, melted chocolate caked at the corner of his mouth.

  “Hey, buddy,” I mumble, allowing my eyes to close again.

  “O-live…” He shakes my shoulder.

  I open my eyes.

  “To-night’s the carn-i-val!” he sings, waving the golden chocolate coin wrapper at me.

  I groan. “I’m not feeling so great. Can we go tomorrow instead?”

  His body falls limp as he dramatically melts to the floor.

  I scoot to the edge of my bed and peer down at him. He’s dressed in full-on pirate gear and rolling back and forth on the carpet, moaning.

  One eye squinting open, he spots me watching him. He stops writhing. “The first night is the best night to go. All the coolest stuff is the first night! You promised!” He digs in his pocket then presents his folded fist before me. “And…” He pops his hand open. “Now I have two coins! Found this one on your bathroom floor. I think the pirate’s left it for us!”

  I flop back onto my bed and stare at the photos aligning my walls: trips, our old home in Oregon, parts of the Texas landscape I’ve found photo-worthy.

  “Argh!” Lucky jumps up.

  I startle.

  “Look, you little sneak—” I’m about to say something mean, but I stop myself. I sigh. “You’re right. I promised. We’ll go tonight.”

  “Yes!” he yells, a huge grin stretched across his rascally face.

  I glance out the window, then to the clock. It’s five thirty and I can smell the faint aroma of lasagna cooking in the oven. My favorite. Though, as much as I love it, everything feels different now. Bland. Things changed this afternoon and nothing, not Lucky’s grin, Hazel’s soft paws, or Mom’s lasagna is quite the same. I look at Lucky, who’s staring at me, counting down the seconds until I say we can leave.

  “We’ll go right after dinner, okay?”

  “Really?” He hops in the air, landing in a scissor-legged stance, and grabs my black slouchy, knit beanie from a basket on my shelf. “You can wear this hat!” He flings it my way. “It looks kinda pirate-y.” And he runs from my room, shouting, “Argh.”

  Pulling the hat over my head so it flops, I can’t deny it’s comforting and cozy. Right now, I need all the comfort I can get. That Lucky. Bless him.

  I switch on the lamp. My journal lays open beneath it. The pink words I scribbled earlier stare back at me.

  Just be.

  Wanting to both appease Lucky and not make a total fool of myself, I settle on a pair of black skinny’s, my brown leather boots, a tunic-style top, a light jacket that fits
me like a perfect hug, and my knit hat courtesy of the shrimpy rascal pirate himself.

  Dad’s working even later than mom had to, so it’s just the three of us at dinner. Mom questions me about leaving school early. She got a message on her cell that I wasn’t in sixth or seventh periods. I tell her my lunch didn’t sit well and I came home early and napped. Anything stomach-related usually cuts her right off. The woman has the gag reflex of an infant.

  It seems I’ve gotten away with it, but as I’m walking out the door, Mom asks, “Olive, what’s with the hat?” It really is too hot to wear, but I feel all smushy and snuggled in. So very cozy. Or, wait. God, am I acclimating?

  I turn my head back and wink. “Pirates.”

  She smiles.

  Chapter Seven

  Pirates

  Lucky and I park and walk across the field, taking the same path I ran this afternoon. What was a barren pasture with a pile of chaos in the middle of it has been transformed into a glowing, flashing, caramel-corn coated, pirate wonderland.

  “Hurry! Let’s go!” Lucky shouts, pulling me along behind him. The kid is freakishly strong and fast for an eight-year-old.

  When we approach the front gates, we both slow, mouths dropping as we stare up at the bright yellow and red light-bulbed sign: Castaway Carnival. The metal around the bulbs is rusted, the paint peeling away.

  “Genuine sign, circa 1962,” the man in the ticket booth calls over to us, his voice scratched with age but with an air of gusto in regard to the old sign.

  “Oh?” I reply, walking to the window. By the sight of him, he’s been sitting in this booth as long, his leather hat worn and weathered, matching his speckled skin. “Two, please.”

  “Ten dollars.”

  “Is that price circa 1962?” I laugh under my breath.

  “Ha-ha!” He guffaws, humoring me as if it’s the first time he’s heard that joke.

  I hand him the money.

  He gives us the tickets, glancing up at me, dark, wrinkled skin hanging under his eyes like a basset hound’s.

  Lucky swipes his ticket out of my hand and sprints to the entrance.