The Creeping (16 page)

Safely stowed in my bed after showering, I curl beneath my comforter, twining my fingers in the sheets. My insides buzz. I lie awake for a long time with my eyes wide open, too electrified for sleep to find me. I didn't act like me today. I didn't do the things I was supposed to. Nothing happened as it should have. Everything that makes sense is dissolving. And yet, somehow, even with the visions of amputated fingers and missing children on a carousel loop in my head, I feel more me than I have in forever. As if I haven't been
me
in ages, and I'm just remembering how.

W
ake up, my sleeping angel.” There's a Zoey-sized heap straddling me. I try to push her off, worming my head under my pillow, refusing to open my eyes. She wrestles the covers from me and tosses the pillow on the floor. “Get up. I miss you,” she whines, squeezing my ribs with her knees.

It was only yesterday that I hiked into the woods with Sam, but it seems more like a century ago. “What are you doing here?” I whisper, mouth dry and sticky from sleep.

“Open your eyes and look at me, Stella!” She pinches my cheeks until I give up and peer into the light. She throws her head back, laughing, as she slides off me.

I push myself to a sitting position, rubbing the sore spots where her knees dug into my sides. Zoey's turned on the overhead, and it's blinding me. “What is it, Zoey?” She's probably mistaking my glare for squinting at the light, so I cross my arms against my chest to make certain she knows how annoyed I am with her. She didn't call or text
me yesterday. Cole texted a couple of times—granted, the texts were begging me to meet her and Zoey at a house party.

“Haven't you missed my adorable face?” Zoey asks, batting her long lashes and framing her cheeks with her hands.

I roll my half-lidded eyes. “You're the one who hung up on me. You're the one acting pissed.”

“You know how hard it is for me to admit when I'm wrong,” she says. “But . . . I was at least fifty percent wrong in hanging up on you.” Her blue eyes are wide and solemn.

“So you're saying we're both to blame?” I struggle not to laugh at the half-assed apology she's delivering. It is actually half an ass more than she usually gives.

“No, I mean yes. That's what I'm saying. That I'm responsible too. Let's just move on.” She buries her head in my comforter. I sigh loudly.

“Okay, I'm sorry too.”

She pops up, smile bright and victorious. She really is a manipulative heathen. “Get your skinny ass out of bed then, because we're overdue for a cove day.” I let her haul me from the covers and watch patiently as she digs through the closet in search of a swimsuit she approves of, discarding every other article of clothing on the floor.

“What about the police?” I peek through the blind slats but can't see the cruiser on the street. “I don't think they'll want me going out to the middle of nowhere.”

“What cops?” She scowls at a pink floral one-piece like it's mortally offended her. “There wasn't anyone outside when I got here,
and your dad didn't say anything about them.” She drops the suit and smiles angelically at me. “I even told him where we'd be going. He thought that taking your mind off all this dead-people mumbo jumbo was a good idea.” Only Zoey could make something so serious sound sooo insignificant. And what's with my police escort being gone? Is Shane really that furious with me?

Zoey babbles on, “I had the most awetastic night ever. I got totally wasted at Scott's house, and we hooked up.” She tosses her hair and smirks. “Can you effing believe me? And I thought there wasn't enough vodka in the world.” She drops the lavender frumpy number I wore the other day and kicks it across the room. It lands precariously on the seat of my desk chair.

There's a pinch between my eyebrows as I try to catch up with what she's telling me. “Wait, Scott
Townsend
?”

She speaks in a lousy Russian accent. “Yessss, your ex-lover.” Then normally, “That's okay, right? I'd usually classify girls who do other girls' exes as leeches or barnacles, but since it is Scott Townsend and all, I figured you wouldn't mind.”

As she turns back to the closet, I try to decipher what exactly I do think about it. If I'm being honest, I only went out with Scott because I missed having Sam around. Minding isn't the issue; it's just too bizarre for words. “Are you running out of guys? Are you going to have to start recycling?”

“HA! You know it.” She winks over her shoulder. “We're in desperate need of new blood. I think a trip to U of M is in order once school starts.” She tosses me my white halter bikini. “Change and we'll
head out. Michaela and Cole are meeting us there, and we have a surprise for you.”

As I change, Zoey goes on and on about how psycho the whole town is acting. It becomes evident on the drive to the lake that for once she isn't exaggerating. Overnight the crosses, rosaries, vigils, and charms have multiplied. Downtown a crowd of adults wave signs with doomsday slogans like
REPENT
or
BURN IN HELL
,
BEHOLD SATAN
, and
FEAR GOD'S WRATH
inked on them. One displays a blown-up picture of Mr. Talcott from the newspaper, and pasted above it are the words
DEVIL WORSHIPPER
.

“Sheesh. Has everyone lost their mind?” Zoey says, flipping off one of the picketers as he steps into traffic, furiously waving his sign. “Whack-job Jesus thumpers who should be locked up. Leave it to this hick town to go all medieval. Next they'll be burning witches.”

I grip my seat's edge tightly. “Has it been on the news that they took Jeanie's dad into custody?” I ask.

“Yep.” She flips her mirror down at the next stop sign and purses her lips, checking her gloss. “My mom said they were forced to release him because there wasn't any . . . um, what is it called when the perp leaves spit and junk on his victims?” She snaps her fingers.

“Forensic evidence,” I supply.

“Yeah, there wasn't any
forensic evidence
proving he attacked his wife or Jane Doe. The cops had to set him free.”

I watch the mob scene fading in the rearview mirror. “It doesn't seem safe for him with the whole town having already made up their minds that he's guilty,” I say. Unease spreads in my stomach like I've
got a handful of creepy-crawly worms wriggling around down there. I hope that Daniel made it to Sam's last night and that he doesn't see or hear what these people are saying about his dad. I know I'd go nuts if people accused mine of something so horrible. I slide my phone from my pocket and angle it so I can text between my seat and the car door.

“Who ya texting?” Zoey asks. Nothing gets by her.

“Ummm . . . Sam, actually.”

She taps the steering wheel to the pop song turned on low. “Sam who?”

I roll my eyes. She knows who. “Sam Worth.”

She turns to me in mock horror. “I leave you to your own devices for one day and you're texting the King of Loserdom, Sam Worth? Random,” she sings. “What gives?”

I was hoping to avoid this. I hardly know “what gives” myself. “He helped me out yesterday. I wanted you to help me remember Jeanie, but you were giving me the silent treatment, and he was the only other person I could ask. And please don't call him names.”

“Wait . . . you actually went somewhere with him?” Zoey sounds appalled. “Like outside, and people could have
seen
you?” Her eyes are saucers of disbelief as they click to me. “I know you're going through some messy shit right now, but do you have to eff with Sam Worth mere months before senior year? What if Taylor had spotted you guys together?” she laments.

“So what if anyone saw us together? Us being seniors is the point. Aren't we a little old for all this peasant stuff? Isn't being friends with
whoever you want the point of being popular?” I ask, throwing my hands in the air.

Zoey's eyelids drop like hoods, making crescent moons of her eyeballs. That's the surest way to tell that you're in for it with Zoey. She brakes on the side of the road where we usually park to hike to the cove. She twists the keys from the ignition and turns to face me, slow and mechanical. “Please. Stop. Don't ruin our last year of high school. If you want to screw losers in college, it's all you, but can you just give me the senior year we've been working for? This is
our
time.” She leans forward, cupping my face with her hands. “This is our year to be the best at everything. The last year we'll be together before college.
Please
.”

Her pleading makes me doubly guilty. Zoey's been a good friend. No, better than that. The best. “I'm not screwing anyone. He's only helping me figure this whole Jeanie thing out, 'kay? We're friends.”

“That's all? You swear?” she whines. She pouts and makes her eyes wide. I dread this expression of hers almost as much as I do the last. It makes her look like a frightened child. For some reason it works on most people. Especially guys. Kind of pervy, if you think about it.

I open my mouth to answer. I have no idea what I'm going to tell her, but by the grace of a shooting star or a unicorn or whatever saved my butt I never get the chance to say anything, because someone's blaring horn interrupts us. It's like a shade snaps down on Zoey's face. She's sad one second and then all at once has a flirty smirk painted on her mouth. Michaela, Cole, and four guys pile out of Cole's
SUV, whooping and cheering that they've arrived. Taylor is obviously one of them.
My surprise.

“Ste-lor is back on.” Zoey winks at me. “Get it? Stella and Taylor: Ste-lor.” When I don't smile, she rolls her eyes. “Kidding! As if I'd be that stale. Laugh much?” She hops straight from the car into the arms of one of Taylor's lacrosse minions, either Drew or Dean, I can't tell which. It gives me the thirty seconds I need to text Sam, asking him if he's with Daniel and telling him I'll call later.

“Hey, babe,” Taylor says, throwing the car door open so I almost fall out from leaning on it. He's wearing blue board shorts that match his eyes perfectly—definitely no accident—and is shirtless.

“Hey.” I steady myself and grab my things, shoving the cell into the pocket of my jean shorts. Suddenly, I wish I was wearing more than just my white halter bikini top. His gaze flicks over me and he grins, practically licking his lips. Usually, I like this kind of attention; today it makes me queasy.

“I called you last night,” he says.

“Yeah, I saw. You didn't leave a message.”

“We were all headed to Townsend's. His parents are in Chicago. Total rager. We had a sick beer pong tournament. Too bad you missed it.” I shrug in response and try to focus on the gap between his two front teeth rather than his defined abs. I imagine all the spinach or broccoli that could wedge itself in there. His mouth moves to add something else dazzling, when someone pinches the crook of my elbow hard.

I turn, ready to lay into one of the Ds. Caleb, Zoey's brother, stands there, smiling a Cheshire cat's grin at me.

“Oh my God, why didn't you text you were coming home?” I squeal, throwing my arms around his neck.

“I just drove up last night,” he says, squeezing me. “Are you okay?”

He pulls back and studies me. He definitely isn't checking me out; this is
Caleb
. Caleb, who's the closest thing to a brother I have; who taught me how to ride a two-wheeler; who beat up Mike Walt in the sixth grade when he called me an abomination for surviving what I did; and who saved my life in Chicago last winter, by springing me from the mind-sucking awkwardness of Mom giving me the silent treatment and her husband drilling me on Dad details. I slept in Caleb's dorm room from the day after Christmas to New Year's Day, when my flight left for Minneapolis. Mom never even called looking for me or told Dad I was MIA. I guess she felt the unscalable wall between us as much as I did and figured I'd booked it home.

Caleb bobs his head finally. “You could look a lot worse for what you're going through.”

“Gee, thanks,” I laugh, punching his arm softly. “But really, why aren't you in Chicago? You had that internship thingy.”

He claps a hand on my bare shoulder. “Sometimes things don't work out, doll.” He does an old-timey newscaster voice. When they were kids, Zoey and Caleb treated falling into weird accents as an art form. Zoey only relapses when we're alone and she's trying to get out of trouble by being cute. “It fell through, and I had a few weeks to kill. And then I saw the news. I needed to be here with you guys.” Half his mouth smiles sadly. I hear Taylor sniff from over my shoulder.

“Let's go posse!” Zoey yells, waving toward the wood.

With a wink Caleb ducks his head and whispers, “We better listen to her like good little soldiers or else.” Side by side you'd think Caleb and Zoey were twins, they look so much alike—they basically even have the same haircut now.

I fall in step with him and the girls, perfectly aware that I'm ignoring Taylor. Cole jabbers on about how worried she's been since the bonfire, and for one guilty second, I fantasize about holding her mouth shut so I can talk to Caleb. Caleb was always a way better listener than Zo. Zoey would die to know that I told him about my first kiss (the real one) a full hour before I told her. More importantly, Caleb was in the same grade as Daniel. All of us played together, and if anyone can help me remember, it's Caleb. And just like that, there's one more person I can depend on, and he's had my back most of my life.

M
ichaela locks arms with Cole and steers her a few feet ahead, winking at me as she distracts her from Caleb's dimpled smile. I've never had even a fleeting crush on Caleb, since he's really just a much taller, more masculine, more benevolent version of his sister. By the way girls respond to him—by how Cole yanks her beach cover-up over her head and glances at him coyly over her shoulder in one deft move—I know he has largely the same effect on the opposite sex as Zoey does. He tilts his head to mine and whispers, “Watch it, Zoey's in one of her moods. You guys fighting?”