Day Zero
Page 42
That loose step seemed to buckle beneath my foot; pain flared in my ankle.
I felt myself falling . . . falling . . . landing on my ass in a puddle. I gasped, spitting mud and rain, too shocked to cry.
Strands of wet hair plastered my face, my shoulders. I tried to rise, but the mud sucked me down. I swiped hair out of my eyes, coating my face with filth.
Blinking against the rain, I shrieked, “You!” I wanted to rail at him, to blame him for my pain, my humiliation. And all I could say over and over was “You!” Finally I managed to yell, “You disgust me!”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Do I? I didn’t last night when you were wettin’ your lips, hoping I’d kiss them, no. You wanted more of me then!”
My face flushed with shame. Then I remembered. “You tricked me so your loser friend could steal our stuff. You acted as if you liked me.”
“You didn’t seem to mind!” He raised his uninjured arm, shoving his fingers through his hair. “I heard your message to Radcliffe. You goan to kiss me? Then let that boy have you just days later?”
“Give me my journal!”
“Or what? What you goan do about it? The little doll got no teeth.”
Frustration surged, because he was right. The Cajun had all the power; I had none.
Unless I could choke someone in vine or slice them to ribbons, like the red witch in my dreams?
As my nails began to transform, I felt something akin to the blissful unity that I’d shared with the cane. I was awash in an awareness of all the plants around me—their locations, their strengths and weaknesses.
Above Jackson’s house, a cypress tree shifted its branches over me. In the distance, I sensed kudzu vines hissing in response, slithering closer to defend me.
And for a brief moment, I experienced an urge to show him who really had the power, to punish him for causing me pain.
Punish him? No, no! At once, I struggled to rein back the fury I’d unleashed.
“You want your drawings?” Jackson stormed inside, returning with my journal. “Have them!” He flung the notebook like a Frisbee. Pages went sailing out, all over the muddy yard.
“Nooo!” I cried out, watching them scatter, about to hyperventilate.
By the time I’d managed to crawl to my hands and knees, I was breathing so hard I choked and coughed on raindrops. I reached for the pages nearest me, but every handful of paper made a vision sear my mind.
Death. The bogeymen. The sun shining at night.
With each page, I jerked again and again, yelling up at him, “I hate you! You disgusting brute!” His handsome face hid seething violence.
Even though he’d been protecting his mother, he’d liked beating that man unconscious. Jackson had just proved how heartless a boy he truly was. Bagasse . . .
“HATE you! Never come near me again!”
He blinked at my face, his expression turning from murderous to disbelieving. He shook his head hard.
What was he seeing?
“Evie!” Mel cried. She’d come for me!
As she looped an arm around my shoulders to help me stand, she yelled at Jackson, “Stay away from her, you lowlife trash!”
With a last dumbstruck look at my face, he turned to stride away.
Just as he slammed inside that shack, my vines reached his porch. Mel was too busy checking me for injuries to see, but I watched them sway upright like cobras, waiting for me to command them.
I whispered, “No.” They raced back into the brush as fast as plucked rubber bands. Then I told Mel, “I-I need these drawings. All of them.”
Without a word, she dropped to her knees beside me.
Both of us in the mud, collecting my crazy.
_______________
“You’re being so quiet,” I said to Mel as she helped me up to my front porch. The rain was receding, the screen door open to the night breeze. We were both still coated with mud. “I hate when you go quiet.”
On the way here, I’d told her about CLC, my visions, my mom, my gran—though not about the plants—finishing just as we’d pulled up.
Now, after my confession, I felt battered, like one of those dolls that always bounces back up when hit. But here was the thing—those silly dolls got hit all the more for it.
When will this day end? My bottom lip trembled as I fought off tears.
“I’m waiting for you to tell me what happened in the Cajun’s shack,” Mel said. “I mean, your expression was unforgettable—you were all like, ‘Pa, I seen something behind the woodshed.’”
“Maybe one day I’ll tell you.” Right now the memory was too raw.
“How come I’m the last to know you have visions? The woman who spawned you knew before me. And that hurts.”
“I didn’t want you to look at me differently.” When we reached the door, I said, “I understand if you don’t want to be friends anymore.” I motioned for my backpack, stuffed full of sodden pages.
With a roll of her eyes, Mel handed over my bag. “And miss my opportunity to sell your disturbed little drawings online? No way, my freaky minx.” She curled her arm around my neck, dragging me down so she could rub her knuckles in my muddy hair. “I’m going to be rich! So get me some more drawings that aren’t soaking wet with Cajun funk all over them.”
“Stop!” But amazingly, I was about to laugh.
“You sure you don’t want me to come in?” Mel asked when she finally released me.
“I’ve got it,” I told her. “I’m probably about to ugly-cry.”
I felt myself falling . . . falling . . . landing on my ass in a puddle. I gasped, spitting mud and rain, too shocked to cry.
Strands of wet hair plastered my face, my shoulders. I tried to rise, but the mud sucked me down. I swiped hair out of my eyes, coating my face with filth.
Blinking against the rain, I shrieked, “You!” I wanted to rail at him, to blame him for my pain, my humiliation. And all I could say over and over was “You!” Finally I managed to yell, “You disgust me!”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Do I? I didn’t last night when you were wettin’ your lips, hoping I’d kiss them, no. You wanted more of me then!”
My face flushed with shame. Then I remembered. “You tricked me so your loser friend could steal our stuff. You acted as if you liked me.”
“You didn’t seem to mind!” He raised his uninjured arm, shoving his fingers through his hair. “I heard your message to Radcliffe. You goan to kiss me? Then let that boy have you just days later?”
“Give me my journal!”
“Or what? What you goan do about it? The little doll got no teeth.”
Frustration surged, because he was right. The Cajun had all the power; I had none.
Unless I could choke someone in vine or slice them to ribbons, like the red witch in my dreams?
As my nails began to transform, I felt something akin to the blissful unity that I’d shared with the cane. I was awash in an awareness of all the plants around me—their locations, their strengths and weaknesses.
Above Jackson’s house, a cypress tree shifted its branches over me. In the distance, I sensed kudzu vines hissing in response, slithering closer to defend me.
And for a brief moment, I experienced an urge to show him who really had the power, to punish him for causing me pain.
Punish him? No, no! At once, I struggled to rein back the fury I’d unleashed.
“You want your drawings?” Jackson stormed inside, returning with my journal. “Have them!” He flung the notebook like a Frisbee. Pages went sailing out, all over the muddy yard.
“Nooo!” I cried out, watching them scatter, about to hyperventilate.
By the time I’d managed to crawl to my hands and knees, I was breathing so hard I choked and coughed on raindrops. I reached for the pages nearest me, but every handful of paper made a vision sear my mind.
Death. The bogeymen. The sun shining at night.
With each page, I jerked again and again, yelling up at him, “I hate you! You disgusting brute!” His handsome face hid seething violence.
Even though he’d been protecting his mother, he’d liked beating that man unconscious. Jackson had just proved how heartless a boy he truly was. Bagasse . . .
“HATE you! Never come near me again!”
He blinked at my face, his expression turning from murderous to disbelieving. He shook his head hard.
What was he seeing?
“Evie!” Mel cried. She’d come for me!
As she looped an arm around my shoulders to help me stand, she yelled at Jackson, “Stay away from her, you lowlife trash!”
With a last dumbstruck look at my face, he turned to stride away.
Just as he slammed inside that shack, my vines reached his porch. Mel was too busy checking me for injuries to see, but I watched them sway upright like cobras, waiting for me to command them.
I whispered, “No.” They raced back into the brush as fast as plucked rubber bands. Then I told Mel, “I-I need these drawings. All of them.”
Without a word, she dropped to her knees beside me.
Both of us in the mud, collecting my crazy.
_______________
“You’re being so quiet,” I said to Mel as she helped me up to my front porch. The rain was receding, the screen door open to the night breeze. We were both still coated with mud. “I hate when you go quiet.”
On the way here, I’d told her about CLC, my visions, my mom, my gran—though not about the plants—finishing just as we’d pulled up.
Now, after my confession, I felt battered, like one of those dolls that always bounces back up when hit. But here was the thing—those silly dolls got hit all the more for it.
When will this day end? My bottom lip trembled as I fought off tears.
“I’m waiting for you to tell me what happened in the Cajun’s shack,” Mel said. “I mean, your expression was unforgettable—you were all like, ‘Pa, I seen something behind the woodshed.’”
“Maybe one day I’ll tell you.” Right now the memory was too raw.
“How come I’m the last to know you have visions? The woman who spawned you knew before me. And that hurts.”
“I didn’t want you to look at me differently.” When we reached the door, I said, “I understand if you don’t want to be friends anymore.” I motioned for my backpack, stuffed full of sodden pages.
With a roll of her eyes, Mel handed over my bag. “And miss my opportunity to sell your disturbed little drawings online? No way, my freaky minx.” She curled her arm around my neck, dragging me down so she could rub her knuckles in my muddy hair. “I’m going to be rich! So get me some more drawings that aren’t soaking wet with Cajun funk all over them.”
“Stop!” But amazingly, I was about to laugh.
“You sure you don’t want me to come in?” Mel asked when she finally released me.
“I’ve got it,” I told her. “I’m probably about to ugly-cry.”
