Now Im definitely regretting coming. For a second I have this wild fantasy that Juliet comes from a whole family of crazy serial killers, and that at any second Mrs. Sykes is going to go Silence of the Lambs on me. The whole familys wacked, thats what Lindsay had said. The darkness is pressing all around me, stifling, and I almost cry out with gratitude when Mrs. Sykes switches on a light and the hall appears lit up and normal, and not full of dead human trophies or something. Theres a dried flower arrangement on a side table decorated with lace, next to a framed family photo. I wish I could look at it more closely.
Was it important, this assignment? Mrs. Sykes asks, almost in a whisper. She shoots a nervous glance in the direction of the TV room, and I wonder if she thinks shes being too loud.
I justI kind of promised Juliet I would pick up some stuff for our makeup presentation on Monday. I try to lower my voice, but she still winces. I thought Juliet said she would be home tonight.
Juliet went out, she says, and then, as if shes unused to saying the words and is testing them on her tongue, repeats, She went out. But maybe she left it for you?
I could look for it, I say. I want to see her room, I realize: thats why Im here. I need to see it. She probably just dumped it on her bed or something. I try to sound casual, like Juliet and I are on really good terms with each otherlike its not weird for me to waltz into her house at ten thirty on a Friday night and try to weasel my way into her bedroom.
Mrs. Sykes hesitates. Maybe I can call her cell phone, she says, and then adds apologetically, Juliet hates to have anyone in her room.
You dont have to call her, I say quickly. Juliet will probably tell her mom to sic the cops on me. Its not that important. Ill pick it up tomorrow.
No, no. Ill call her. It will just take a second. Juliets mom is already disappearing into the kitchen. Its amazing how quickly and soundlessly she moves, like an animal slipping in and out of the shadows.
I consider jetting out while shes in the kitchen. I think about going home, crawling into bed, watching old movies on my computer. Maybe Ill make a pot of coffee and sit up all night long. If I never go to sleep, maybe today will have to turn into tomorrow. I wonder idly how long I can go without sleep before I flip my shit and start running down the street in my underwear, hallucinating purple spiders.
But instead I just stand there, waiting. Theres nothing else to do, so I take a few steps forward and bend down to look at the photograph on the table. For a second Im confused: its a picture of an unfamiliar woman, probably twenty-five or thirty, with her arms wrapped around a good-looking guy in a flannel shirt. The colors are all saturated and Technicolor-bright, and the couple looks perfect, sparkling, all white teeth and dazzling smiles and beautiful brown hair. Then I see the words printed in the lower bottom corner of the pictureShadowCast Images, Inc.and realize that this isnt even a real family photo. Its one of the generic pictures that gets sold along with the picture frame, a shiny, happy advertisement for all the shiny, happy moments you can capture forever inside the 5" 7" sterling silver frame with butterfly detail. No one has bothered to replace it.
Or maybe the Sykes family doesnt have too many shiny, happy moments to remember.
I pull away quickly, wishing I hadnt looked. Even though its just a picture of two models, I feel, weirdly, like Ive seen something way too personal, like Ive accidentally caught a glimpse of someones inner thigh or nose hairs or something.
Mrs. Sykes still isnt back so I wander out of the hall into the living room on the right. It is mostly dark, and its all plaids and lace and dried flowers. It looks as though it hasnt been redecorated since the fifties.
Theres a single, dull light shining near the window, casting a circular reflection on the black pane of glass, a version of the room appearing in miniature there.
And a face.
A screaming face pressed up against the window.
I let out a squeak of fear before I realize that this, too, is a reflection. Theres a mask mounted on a table just in front of the window, facing outward. I go over to it and lift it carefully from its perch. Its a womans face crafted from newspaper and red stitching, which is crisscrossed over the skin like horrible scars. Words run up the bridge of the nose and across the forehead, certain headlines visible or halfway visible, like BEAUTY REMEDY and TRAGEDY STRIKES, and little scraps of paper are unfurling from various places on her face, like shes molting. The mouth and the eyes are cut completely away, and when I lift the mask to my face, it fits well. The reflection in the window is awful; I look like something diseased, or a monster from a horror movie. I cant look away.
Juliet made that.
The voice behind me makes me jump. Mrs. Sykes has reappeared and is leaning against the door, frowning at me.
I pop the mask off, return it quickly to its perch. Im so sorry. I saw it andI just wanted to try it on, I finish lamely.
Mrs. Sykes comes over and rearranges the mask, straightening it, making sure its aligned correctly. When Juliet was younger she was always drawing, always sketching or painting something or sewing her own dresses. Mrs. Sykes shrugs, flutters a hand. I dont think shes very interested in that stuff now.
Did you talk to Juliet? I ask nervously, waiting for her to kick me out.
Mrs. Sykes blinks at me several times, as though trying to squeeze me into focus. Juliet she repeats, and then shakes her head. I called her phone a couple of times. She didnt answer. She doesnt usually go out on the weekends. Mrs. Sykes looks at me helplessly.
Im sure shes fine, I say as cheerfully as I can, feeling like each word is a knife going down into my stomach. She probably didnt hear her phone.
Suddenly the thing I want most of all is to get out of there. I cant stand to lie to Mrs. Sykes. She looks so sad, standing in her nightgown, ready for bedas though shes already asleep, sort of. Thats what the whole house feels like, as though its wrapped up in a heavy sleep, the kind that stifles you, wont let you wake, drags you back into the sheets, drowning, even when you fight it.
I imagine Juliet sneaking up to her room in the dark, and the silence, through the atmosphere of sleep so thick it feels solid, the lullaby of creaking floorboards and quietly hissing radiators, the slow revolutions of people orbiting wordlessly around one another. And then
Bang.
Mrs. Sykes walks me back to the front hall. You can come by tomorrow, she says. Im sure Juliet will have everything ready by then. Shes usually very responsible. A good girl.
Sure. Tomorrow. I dont even like to say the word, and I wave a quick good-bye before dashing once again through the dark to my car.
Its even colder than it was earlier. The rain, half ice, pings off the hood of my car as I sit there waiting for the engine to warm up, blowing on my hands and shivering, grateful to be out of there. As soon as Im out of the house, a weight eases up off my chest, like the atmosphere and pressure inside is different, heavier. My first impression was right: it really is a desperate house. I see Juliets mom silhouetted by the window. I wonder if shes waiting for me to leave or for her daughter to come home.
Thats when I make a decision. I know what Ill do. Ill go to Kents house and Ill catch Juliet, and if I have to, I will hit her in the face. Ill make her see how stupid the whole death idea is. (Its certainly no picnic for me.) If it comes down to it, Ill tie her up in the back of my car so she cant get her hands on the gun.
I realize Ive never really done something good for someone else, at least not for a while. I volunteer sometimes for Meals on Wheels, but thats because colleges like that kind of thing; BU especially mentioned charity on the application portion of their website. And obviously Im nice to my friends, and I give great birthday gifts (I once spent a month and a half collecting cow-shaped saltshakers to give to Ally, because she loves cows and salt). But I dont usually do good things just for the hell of it. This will be my good thing.
Then I have a glimmer of an idea. I remember when we were studying Dante in English, and Ben Gowan kept asking if the souls in purgatory ever got cast down into hell (Ben Gowan once got suspended for three days for drawing a picture of a bomb blowing up our cafeteria and all of these decapitated heads flying everywhere, so for him the question was normal), and Mrs. Harbor went off on one of her tangents and said that no, that wasnt possible, but that some modern Christian thinkers believed you could go up from purgatory into heaven once youd done enough time there. Ive never really believed in heaven. It always sounded like a crazy idea: everybody happy and reunited, Fred Astaire and Einstein doing a tango on the clouds, that kind of stuff.
But then again, I never really believed Id have to relive one day forever, either. Its no crazier than whats already happened to me. Maybe the whole point is I have to prove that Im a good person. Maybe I have to prove that I deserve to move on.
Maybe Juliet Sykes is the only thing between me and an eternity of chocolate fountains and perfect love and guys who always call when they say they will and banana sundaes that actually help you burn calories.
Maybe shes my ticket out.
UNFASHIONABLY LATE
I dont even bother pulling into Kents driveway. Im not planning on being here long, and I dont want to get blocked in. Besides, something about tramping through the woods in the rain appeals to me. Its a trial, another way I can sacrifice myself. And from my very limited memories of Sunday school (my mom gave up the fight after I threw a tremendous tantrum when I was seven and threatened to convert to voodoo, even though I wasnt sure exactly what that was), I know that thats how it works: you have to sacrifice something.
I pull over onto the shoulder of Route 9, grabbing Izzys sweatshirt again, which is now soaking wet. Still, its better than nothing. I drape it over my head and get out of the car, pausing for just a second. The road is empty, stretches of black interspersed with weak pools of yellow light from the streetlamps. I try to locate the exact spot where Lindsays car went spiraling off the road that first night, but it all looks the same. It could have been anywhere. I reach back once more for some memory of life beyond the collision, beyond the blackness, but I get nothing.
I grab a flashlight from the trunk and set off through the woods.
Its a longer walk than I would have thought, and the ground alternates between a thin coat of hard ice and slurpy gloop that sucks at my purple New Balances like quicksand. After a few minutes I can hear the faint throb of music from the party, pulsing through the darkness like it belongs there, like its rhythm is part of the night. Its another ten minutes before I see the faint twinkle of lights flashing sporadically beyond the treesthank God, since I was beginning to think I was walking in circlesand another five before the woods thin out and I can see the house, a big pile of ice-cream cake sitting on that lawn, shimmering in and out as the rain bends and splits the lights from the porch. Im totally freezing, and 100 percent regretting my decision to come on foot. Thats the whole problem with sacrifice. Its a pain, literally.