Some Quiet Place

pushing at me again, insistent, loud, demanding. I already have one Sophia making things more complicated. I already have one Maggie to pretend for. I already have one mother who sees how I don’t belong. Don’t encourage the boy, it says. Don’t be friends with him. End this before it’s too late.

And I consider this. But then there is Courage, his dark loveliness before me, solemn and chilling in his truth: You will need that boy in the end.

I draw.

“It’s going to storm,” Joshua murmurs. He stands by my window, staring out at the fields. Gray skies and strong winds frown and swirl on the other side of the glass. The paintbrush drips in Joshua’s hand, green paint staining the floor, but I don’t mention it.

“You should leave soon,” I say, stepping away from the wall to eye it. I’ve drawn trees on two of the walls, a small stone house and the edge of a cliff on a third, and on the fourth …

“What’s that?” Joshua appears beside me, frowning at the scene before us. When I don’t answer, he steps carefully around my bed. The pencil markings hold all his attention. “It’s sad. Beautiful, but I don’t think I’d want to fall asleep every night with that looking over me.”

I reach out to touch the boy at the same time Joshua does. Our hands brush, and he jumps. Neither of us move. I observe the girl’s silent scream for the millionth time.

“Where did you come up with this?” Joshua asks, his voice husky. I don’t answer, preoccupied with the curve of the girl’s cheek, the way her fingers curl over the boy’s shoulder.

Where is she?

You killed me.

Joshua fidgets—his thumb taps his thigh and his foot makes a beat on the floor—proving my theory that he can’t stand still for even a moment. “I didn’t know you could draw so well,” he adds. Again I say nothing. “Elizabeth?” He sounds worried now; I’ve been silent too long.

“I’m not that good. And I made this up,” I reply. I toss my pencil on the bed, glancing out the window, where rain has begun to patter against the pane. “Thank you for helping me. I’ll walk you out to your car.”

He follows me mutely. So strange. I’m used to demanding questions, impossible expectations. I’ve never known anyone like him. But when we’re going down the stairs, his silence suddenly makes sense. Sorrow stands in the shadows, waiting for Joshua. The boy shudders when Sorrow reaches out, as if he can sense the Emotion’s presence. My mural must have spurred it on—I can guess what sprang to Joshua’s mind, to make Sorrow pay a visit.

Mom isn’t in the kitchen on our way out the door. The house is holding its breath. I don’t think Joshua is aware of much else besides his soundless pain. The screen door begins to close, but Joshua turns back quickly, catching it before it slams. Sorrow looks at me while Joshua is distracted, those constant tears streaking down his white, white cheek. His black hair thrashes in the wind and his essence clashes against me. I see death, sobs, emptiness.

“Are you all right?” Joshua’s staring at me. I keep walking, gravel crunching beneath my feet. Pressure pounds on all sides; the storm is approaching fast.

When we reach Joshua’s car, I ask him, “What made you think of your mother?” A leaf blows and tangles in my ponytail. I pull it out and hold it by its stem.

Joshua toys with his keys, flipping them back and forth, pursing his lips. They jangle and the silver flashes. “How did you know I was thinking about her?”

I shrug. “A guess.”

He scowls. Roughly, he shoves those bangs out of the way to glare at me. Sorrow remains close by, but Anger joins us. He says nothing, just grasps Joshua’s shoulder and pointedly ignores me. “You know what I realized?” Joshua snaps. “You lie a lot, Elizabeth. I’m not stupid.”

“What do you think I’m lying about?”

He makes an abrupt gesture toward the house, my room. “You didn’t make that drawing up. No one can make up that kind of pain. It was real, even if I don’t know what it’s all about.”

Clouds gather above us, and thunder rumbles, warning us that it’s coming. There’s just a light sprinkle now, but I know it’ll get worse. The leaf is delicate in my fingers. Joshua doesn’t even notice the drizzle. He keeps glaring at me, waiting for me to speak.

Finally I just shrug again, as hollow inside as ever. “You want the truth? Fine. I don’t know why I drew that. I dream about it. But I’m not like you; I’m not sad, or suffering. I don’t feel anything.”

His eyes become dark shades of disappointment; he thinks I’m still lying. It’s the way humanity is; give them what they want, and it turns out it’s not what they wanted after all.

“Whoever that person is,” Joshua says, his voice thick, “you care about him. I saw it on your face when you touched him. I watch you in class sometimes,” he adds suddenly. My mind scrambles to adapt to the subject change. “I’ve never seen anyone so sad. It’s why I was interested, at first. I thought you were the only person that could understand. But then I saw something more.” The sky opens up and the rain comes down without restraint. Joshua reaches down to unlock the car door, swiping at his nose with his sleeve. He avoids looking at me now and the rain plasters his hair to his head.

“What more did you see?” I prompt, when it’s apparent that he doesn’t intend to say more.

Surrounded by Emotions, Joshua opens the door and plops down into the driver’s seat. The engine starts with a sputter and a cough. “I saw you,” he says simply. Then he slams the door in my face, putting the car in reverse. The Emotions dissipate one by one.

I stand alone and quiet as he leaves. His words play like a record in my head, again and again. They hold no meaning; he can’t be right.

His red taillights turn at the end of the driveway, and then he’s gone. Soaking and cold, I turn to go back into the house. Just before I slip inside, I remember the leaf and let go of it. It flies away, snatched out of my fingers by the greedy wind. I watch it soar over the corn stalks until I can’t see it anymore.

Thirteen

Four days without seeing Fear. Four days without his games, his tests, his watchful presence. This is what I’m thinking about as Mrs. Farmer drones on about the different kinds of poetry there are. I keep thinking of Fear. There have been stretches of time over the years he’s stayed away, of course, but recently he’s been a constant presence. The fact that he’s gone pokes at something within me. Speculation fills my head. He’s up to something. He’s found something. And the most insistent possibility: something happened to him. He did break the rules by healing me. Could he be out there somewhere, dying, helpless, alone?

You don’t care, my little voice reminds me. To affirm this, my numb wall stretches taller.

“There’s free verse, as well, which has become more popular in modern times … ”

Sophia, her head bent down in concentration—the pic-

ture of a model student—is writing a note. Her pencil scribbles across the paper furiously. As I watch, I suddenly recall the piece of paper I found on my windshield. ARE YOU HER? Was Sophia the one who put it there? Judging from the tense line of her shoulders, whatever she’s writing right now is intended for me. She looks exhausted again. I know her mom works nights at the clinic and her dad left them when they were small. Besides the babysitter, Sophia has no one to help her watch Morgan during those long hours.

When Mrs. Farmer isn’t looking, Sophia is quick, tossing a crumpled-up ball over her shoulder. It lands on my desk with a soft rustle. I debate whether or not to open it at all, but I figure it’ll appease Sophia for a time if she thinks she’s hurt me.

I unfurl the lined mess. You’re not normal, she’s written. They should lock you up and throw away the key.