The Half Life of Molly Pierce (14 page)

“Not like—you know.”

“Right. Why not?”

“I don’t know. There’s not really a reason.”

“But you’re friends.”

“Of course.”

“And so—”

“So I wasn’t going to text you back,” I say. “I wouldn’t want him to find out. I don’t know if that’s . . . It feels kind of shitty. But I don’t want him to know.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

“And you’re okay with that? You’re okay lying to him?”

“You have to talk to someone to lie to them,” he says. It’s almost sad, the way he says it. But then his face changes again and he’s back to normal and he puts a finger on the rim of my mug. “Want another?”

“No, thanks.”

“So what now?” he says.

“What do you mean,
what now
?”

“I mean—can I see you again?”

“Oh,” I say. “Oh. Sure. When?”

“I don’t know. Whenever.”

“Oh. Sure. Sure, whenever. Yes.“

“So?” Lyle says. We sit together at a picnic table. To our left, the big rock with the weathered green plaque I’ve never bothered to read. We’re at Stage Fort Park. I like this park because there’s ice cream nearby, and there’s a good view of the ocean, dark blue and opening out in front of us like a painting.

There was a hurricane once, the last vestiges of a storm that hit the South hard and then crept up north, limping and spitting out the last of its winds. All the beaches around here were closed, but Molly and Luka and Erie snuck down to this park and stood under the big white gazebo and watched the shore get swallowed up by thick gray waves. Molly was terrified. She and Erie stood on either side of Luka and she flinched as the salt spray blew inland and got in her eyes and her hair and her mouth.

I loved it. The ocean looked like oil paint; it didn’t look real. It looked like a made-up thing, all violent and shadowed and dangerous. I watched through Molly’s eyes and I wanted to come out but I didn’t. Back then, I never came out. Back then, I mostly watched.

“So, what?” I ask. A group of children climb the stairs behind the giant rock and emerge on top. I’ve always thought there should be some kind of railing, some kind of barrier to keep them all from plummeting over, but there isn’t.

On the ground beside us, a father snaps a dozen photos in quick succession. Snap, snap, snap, snap. A mother waves frantically. Her hat blows off and she chases it down toward the beach.

“Sayer,” Lyle says. “What do you think of Sayer, dummy?”

“Oh, Sayer,” I say. “He was fine, right? He seems fine. He seems nice.”

I achieve what I was aiming for—a blasé, whatever attitude. In actuality I have been thinking of Lyle’s brother every day since I met him last week. I have been thinking about his small, neat apartment. I have been thinking about the hot water faucet in the bathroom that doesn’t work. I have been thinking about the twig he pulled out of my hair. I have been thinking about the text message he sent me, the one I haven’t yet responded to, the one the said:

I don’t know how Sayer got my phone number (got Molly’s phone number, if we’re being technical), but I read his message fourteen times in Spanish class and then I deleted it before I let Molly come back out. And then the rest of that day I just repeated it in my head and I thought about his eyes, which are green, almost the same shade as Lyle’s eyes but different—lighter, maybe. Wider. Nicer.

“Huh,” Lyle says, and I realize he’s been staring at me.

“Huh,” I repeat, nudging his shoulder with my shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging.

“How come you aren’t that close?” I ask.

“Who says we’re not close?”

“You said it. You said it multiple times, actually. You said, ‘Mabel, we’re going to meet my brother. We’re not that close, but—’”

“Okay, okay,” he says, laughing. “I get it.” He thinks for a minute. “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

“What about when you were younger?”

“Before my parents died, maybe,” he says.

He’s never told me how his parents died, but I know he was nine when it happened.

“What then?” I say. “I mean—after they died. Why did you stop being close?”

“We grew up in different homes,” Lyle said. “I went to live with my uncle, my mother’s brother. Sayer went with our father’s parents.”

“How come you were split up?”

“Neither of them could afford us. Both of us,” Lyle says. “So we didn’t see that much of each other.”

“What about now that Sayer has his own place?”

Lyle scowls and shrugs and rests his elbows on the picnic table. He squints out over the water.

“I wanted to move in with him. He said he couldn’t afford it. I said—I wanted to drop out of high school and go to work, too. But he said no.”

“You can’t drop out of high school,” I say.

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“What do you know? Your parents are still alive,” Lyle says.

I don’t know what that has to do with anything, but you can’t argue with dead parents and so I don’t say anything. Lyle doesn’t say anything for a long time and then he stands up and looks back at me, suspicious.

“So you think he’s nice?” he says.

“No,” I say. “I take it back. He seems like a jerk.”

Lyle smiles, even though he has to know I’m joking.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “he is.”

Lyle wants to introduce me to his brother, and for some reason I’m nervous.

I know he has a brother of course, he’s mentioned him before, but that doesn’t mean I want to meet him. He’ll just be one more person I have to be careful around. Sometimes, with Lyle, it’s so hard to stay focused. To stay in the moment, to not fade out. But I can’t let that happen. I can’t mess this up. Lyle’s the only friend I have, the only friend I’ve made by myself and kept by myself and I can’t lose him.

So I’ll have to meet his brother because that’s what he wants me to do.

It’s April and the weather’s still cold, still wet and gray and miserable.

Lyle drives me to Sayer’s apartment and I ask the same questions over and over again.

“Have you told him anything about me?”

“I try not to mention you.”

“No, really? What have you said?”

“I said you’re my friend. I haven’t told him anything else.”

“Did you say how we met?”

“I said we met at my job. I served you a cup of coffee and you complained it was too cold. Threw an impressive tantrum and stormed out. Came back the next day to apologize and it was like you were a completely different person.”

A completely different person.

Lyle, the comedian.

I scowl at him and he laughs. He thinks he’s the funniest person in the universe.

“Will you relax?” he says. “He doesn’t know anything. He’s just my brother, Mabel, and I’d really like you to meet him.”

This satisfies me temporarily and I relax a little, pulling my jacket, which I have spread over me like a blanket, closer to my chin. Lyle’s heater barely works, and today his car feels as warm as an icebox. He wanted to take the motorcycle. In hindsight, it might have been warmer.

“Do you think he’ll like me?” I ask.

I mean it as a joke, sort of, but I guess I’m also a little serious. I’ve never had to worry about it before. What if I like him and he doesn’t like me? Will he like me just because Lyle likes me? Is that how brothers work? Will I be accepted by default? I only have Clancy to base my guesses on, and he’s not a good example. He basically hates everyone, friends of mine or not.

“He’ll like you, trust me,” Lyle says.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re pretty, I guess.”

“He’ll like me because I’m pretty?”

“And you’re sort of smart.”

“You guess I’m pretty and I’m sort of smart?”

“If you try not to speak so much, he’ll probably like you,” Lyle finishes, laughing to himself.

“What’s he like?” I say.

“He looks like me,” Lyle says, shrugging. “People always say that. He’s older, you know. Not as funny. Not as clever. Not as . . . What’s this word I’m searching for?”

“Moronic?”

“
Dashing
, Mabel. He’s not as dashing.”

I try and picture an older, less funny, less dashing Lyle, but I come up blank.

“Have you told him about me?”

“Are we doing this again?” Lyle asks, shooting me a look as he puts his blinker on and turns into the driveway of a large Victorian house.

“This is where he lives?” I say, impressed.

“Not in the whole house,” Lyle says quickly. “It’s all apartments now. And it’s small. His apartment is small.”

I feel butterflies in the pit of my stomach that I attribute to the basic nerves of meeting someone new.

But there’s something else.

He does look like Lyle. Only taller and kinder. His face less thin and his eyes more green.

I found a picture in Lyle’s wallet. I don’t know why I never told him, but I have the feeling he would have been angry. There’s a lot of resentment between them, although I guess that’s not saying much. Sometimes I think Lyle resents the whole world.

But the picture was nice. Sayer looked nice. Not anything like the boys in my high school. Not anything like any boy I’ve met before.

“Why do you look so weird?” Lyle asks.

“I’m weird,” I say. “Weird people look weird.”

He parks the car, kills the engine. He looks like he wants to say something, but I get out of the car before he gets the chance.

He’s parked at the back end of the small lot. It’s bordered by a patch of trees and I’m ankle-deep in brush. Great spot, Lyle.

I pick my way out of the mess as carefully as I can and come around the back of the car, where he’s waiting for me with a funny expression on his face.

“Hey,” he says.

“What, Lyle?”

“Can’t I just say hey?”

“Can’t you just find a better spot to park next time?”

He takes a step closer to me.

I sort of always knew we’d come to this, despite my dropping as many hints as possible that I will never share his romantic feelings about us.

“Lyle, hey, wait a second.”

“Just . . . just hold on, Mabel. You can’t tell me there’s nothing—”

“There’s nothing! Okay? I’m sorry. Lyle, there’s nothing.”

He stops for a minute and then his face sets into a strong line of resolve and he takes another step toward me and pushes his face against my face, kissing me with such enthusiasm I forget, for a few seconds, that I’m supposed to be pulling away.

Then I recover and I step back quickly, directly into the brush that immediately catches around my ankle. I’m propelled backward into an impressive batch of brambles that claw eagerly at my skin.

I land hard on my ass.

Lyle, to his credit, doesn’t look particularly sad that I’ve shirked his advances. Rather, he bursts out laughing, making no move to help me up and holding his stomach while tears slide down his face.

I haven’t put my jacket on so my arms are bare and covered in scratches. Beads of blood pop up and I wet a finger with my tongue, dab them away one by one.

Finally Lyle realizes I’m still on the ground and he pulls me up in one jerky motion. Together, we pull briars out of my shirt and he uses his sleeve to dab away the blood and dirt I’ve missed.

“Lyle?” says a new voice, and my stomach drops a mile as I see him striding across the parking lot. He looks like his picture. He looks as nice as his picture. “Lyle, what the hell are you doing? Trying to hide her body? You know you have to kill her first?”

Oh, ha-ha.

“Knew I’d mixed up the order somewhere,” Lyle says, shaking his head.

Sayer pushes past him and sticks his hand out for me to shake, which I do. He smiles and I feel my stomach lift slightly. He has a nice smile.

“Hey,” he says. “You must be Mabel.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

He pulls his hand away and brings it up to my head. I don’t know what he’s doing but then he’s pulled something out of my hair and is holding it out in front of me.

It’s a twig.

So basically, I’ve made a great first impression.

Lyle laughs like an idiot and starts off toward the house.

It’s just Sayer and me alone for a minute in this parking lot, him holding a twig he just pulled out of my hair and me with my arms burning where all the brambles attacked me.

He doesn’t say anything. He smiles. He tosses the twig away and then he puts his arm around my shoulders and we follow Lyle inside.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

O
kay. Just breathe.

Just breathe, just breathe, just breathe.

The world is tilting violently and white spots are dancing in my vision. Sayer has pulled himself up and now sits perched on the edge of the bed. I’m holding my hand out to him, palm away.

Don’t come any closer.

In my head is a thrumming, getting louder and louder with each second. It’s like the feedback on a speaker or the echo of thunder.

I close my eyes but when my eyes are closed the spinning is worse so I open them wide. Sayer is looking at me, concern etched in every line of his face.

Lyle called me Mabel.

I called Alex on the phone and he said my name like a question. Like he was checking to see who I was.

Mabel.

Lyle called me Mabel. Sayer called me Mabel.

“Wait,” I say. Sayer’s off the bed. He takes a step toward me. “Just wait.”

The pieces are beginning to fall into place.

The blackouts. The missing time. The secret. The thing that everybody seems to know.

Hazel, watching me on the couch.

Of course she would be the first to notice.

She notices everything.

“Molly?”

“Wait.”

The twigs in my hair.

The scratches on my arms.

I had been so scared. Did someone hurt me? Was I in danger?

But, no. I had fallen into a patch of brambles. Cut my skin on sticks and stones.

Woken up that night in the middle of a history essay. Almost done with my homework and I remembered nothing of the past four hours.