Page 26 of Play Nice

Tommy’s quiet in the driver’s seat, both hands on the wheel, ten and two.

It was a scene. The book burning. Me screaming at Dad. Saying I’d never forgive him. Leda pursuing me upstairs as I gathered my things, asking me what was happening. I told her. Instead of being sympathetic, she was mad that I broke my promise. That I read Mom’s book.

“No, you’re just jealous because Mom left me a copy and not you,” I said, which didn’t go over too well.

Tommy offered to drive me to the train station, attempting to defuse the tension. I took him up on it. Now Leda’s angry at him, too. She thinks he’s taking my side. To be fair, he is.

“Actually, I don’t want to go back to the city,” I tell him. “I want to go to the house.”

“I think that’s a good idea. We can talk now that everyone’s had a chance to calm down. I’m sure your Dad—”

“Not Dad’s house. Edgewood. It’s a left—here.”

We sit at the stop sign. He doesn’t put on his turn signal.

“A left, Tommy.”

He goes straight. “Clio.”

“Thomas.”

“I don’t know how I feel about bringing you there. Leaving you there. I’m taking you to the train.”

“Then just pull over and let me out. I’ll call a car,” I say, rummaging around my bag for my phone. “No one listens to me. It’s infuriating.”

“I’m listening,” he says. “I’m here.”

“I can’t trust you,” I tell him. I put down the window, let some air in. “You’ll tell Leda anything I tell you. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because no one takes me seriously.”

“Do you think that’s true? Or are you maybe just feeling that way right now because—”

“Don’t. You know it’s true. They love me. They fear me. But they won’t believe me.”

“About what?”

I lean my head out the window, look up at the sky. Someone’s setting off fireworks. “Doesn’t matter.”

He keeps talking, trying to comfort me with platitudes. I’m in no mood. I let him prattle on for a few minutes before I turn on the tears. “Are you going to take me to Edgewood or not?”

Fifteen minutes later, when we pull up the driveway, he says, “This is the place?”

“This is it.”

“It’s not so scary,” he says, putting the car in park. He looks out through the windshield, pushes his glasses up his nose, clears his throat. “Will you be okay here alone tonight? It was a difficult evening.”

“I’ll call my boyfriend,” I say, winking as I open the door.

“I thought you didn’t have one,” he says, popping the trunk for me. He won’t get out of the car. Not because he doesn’t want to help me with my bags, but because of Leda. If he steps foot on the property, she’ll see it as a violation. Already, if she finds out he took me here, she’ll be irate.

“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t,” I say. “Thank you, Tommy.”

“You’re welcome, Clio. I’m here if you need anything. Call me anytime. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say, crossing my heart.

He waits until I’m inside to drive away.

I turn the lights on in the foyer and climb the stairs, then flip the switch in the living room.

Everything is where I left it. Nothing is out of place. No new notes. Though, I didn’t leave out any paper.

“I’m home,” I say. “You wouldn’t believe the day I had.”

I go into the kitchen and get a glass of water. Bring it to the couch. Kick off my shoes.

I could see if Austin is around—back from spending the day at his brother’s.

Or I could sit here and try to communicate with the thing in this house, the thing that everyone in this world who I love and who loves me has told me doesn’t exist, has told me in words or through actions that believing in its existence is a sign of insanity. Is an unforgivable offense.

I pull my legs underneath me, sit propped on my calves.

“Hello,” I say.

Laughter. Low and inauspicious, like the distant rumble of thunder.

Behind me. Coming from the stairs or the hall?

I spin around.

My heart beats with this savage desperation; my eyes are two big fools scanning the room for something they won’t find unless it wants to be found.

They search in vain and go desert dry but will not close, not even to blink.

They won’t give up because they’re too stupid to accept it’s hopeless, to understand that even if they see what they seek, it won’t be a victory.

So this is what the paranormal does to a person. It separates your mind from your body, severs your logic like a gangrenous limb.

It’s a unique suffering. One that inspires more ridicule than empathy.

I think about Roy but am too proud to call him.

And I have a nagging suspicion he would gather the circus to come here. All the psychics and monster hunters with their glorified toys, with their iPhone cameras, with their sad YouTube channels. I can’t trust that he’d deal with it quietly, that he wouldn’t reveal my belief.

I can’t make a joke of myself. My entire life is built around my image.

I wonder if the demon knows that.

I wonder if I’m giving it too much credit.

Now that it’s quiet, I wonder how I know it’s still here. That it’s watching me. That it’s behind me, standing in front of the fireplace. That no matter how fast I turn around, I won’t see it, because it’s faster. Because it’s not in its body right now.

My shoulders roll back, my posture feigning bravery. I turn around.

The entire house shakes. The ceiling fan starts to spin.

The laughter comes again.

Behind me. Always behind me. No matter where I turn.

“Here’s the thing,” I say, slipping my legs out from under me and planting both feet firmly on the carpet. “I can leave anytime I want. I don’t live here. If you want to play with me, you have to play nice.”

I down my glass of water and start toward the kitchen, wondering if I have it in me to stay here alone tonight.

The sound of scraping stops me.

Four long, distinct scrapes.

It’s during the fourth that I cave. That I look over my shoulder.

On the wall beside the fireplace, which I conscientiously primed with white paint weeks ago, are four giant scratches. Deep down into the drywall.

The scratches form a specific shape. An image. Big. About the size of one of those rusty old merry-go-rounds at a playground that guarantees skinned knees and Neosporin.

Yeah, there it is. A response.

—

Austin’s hair is wet. He’s in bed, on top of the sheets, in his boxers and nothing else. He left the garage door open for me and told me to let myself in.

“Hey,” he says.

I slip off my shoes and my dress and crawl over to him. I rest my head on his bare chest.

He puts his arm around me, runs his hand over my back.

There’s a mass in my throat that’s so agonizing I want to scream it out. There’s the smell of smoke in my hair that reminds me of the fire, of my father burning the book, watching flames turn it to ash, to nothing. The words she wrote to me that I will never get to read.

And when I close my eyes, there’s a frowning face. A damaged wall. Something but not proof.

If I cried right now in his arms, Austin would comfort me. I wouldn’t need to tell him why.

But I wield my tears like a weapon. They don’t get to be sincere.

So I won’t cry. I’ll spite the urge.

I grin into Austin’s chest and gently sweep my tongue across his nipple.

—

“I’m gonna be late for work,” Austin says as I kiss his neck. I have no idea what time it is. His alarm went off and woke me up, and yesterday flashed before my eyes in quick cuts. I don’t know what’s more upsetting—the memories or how poorly my mind edited the montage.

I started kissing him to forget the rest, to be in the moment. It’s not really working.

“Clio,” he says.

“Call out,” I say. “They’ll live. And if not, is that your fault or just the cruel march of time?”

“You need to work on your dirty talk,” he says, making me laugh.

I’m always surprised when he gets me to laugh, when he says something genuinely funny. All my friends tell me my standards are too high, but this is confirmation of what I’ve known all along. They’re not high enough.

“Clio,” Austin says, pushing my hair back.

“Austin.”

“I have to go,” he says. “I don’t want to.”

“If you didn’t want to, you wouldn’t,” I say, sliding off him. Frustrated that he’s not giving me what I want. Company. A distraction.

“That right?” he asks, climbing over me and stumbling toward his dresser.

As soon as my feet hit the floor, a memory grabs me by the ankles like a monster under the bed. I had a dream last night. About my parents. Not Dad and Amy. Dad and Mom. One of their fights. The memory, the dream, it drags me in before I can take a breath.

What else am I doing that’s not up to your standards, hmm? Mom yelled. I was on the couch in the living room of our first house, wedged between Daphne and Leda. We held each other, listening to the screaming in the kitchen. Why don’t you write me a list?

Is it so hard to look at a plate to see if it’s clean? This is your job. What else do you do all day? Is it too much to ask?

The sound of a plate smashing. Nothing is ever good enough for you!

I can’t breathe.

“I wish I could stay in bed with you,” Austin says, pulling on a pair of jeans. “Trust me.”

I fold over, the edges of everything going dim. I finally manage to inhale. Exhale.

“Clio? Hey.” He reaches out and touches my face. “You all right?”

“I’m perfect,” I say, brushing him off. I get up and grab my dress off the floor, slip it over my head.

“Okay…” I can tell he’s kind of annoyed, and I respect him more for it. It’s so boring when someone will just put up with me.

I’m struck with this sudden malignant strain of curiosity. How far can I push him? Will he ever speak to me the way my father spoke to my mother? How broken would I have to be to allow it? Am I close? Closer than I’ve ever been?

“Can you drop me at the train station?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll even buy you coffee first.”

“Won’t that make you late?”

He shrugs.

I kiss him and then whisper something in his ear that makes his knees buckle. “How’s that for dirty talk?”