ANOTHER LITTLE PIECE

Kate Karyus Quinn
ANOTHER
LITTLE
PIECE
Harperteen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
another Little Piece
Copyright © 2013 by Kate Karyus Quinn
all rights reserved. Printed in the united states of america. no part
of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address
HarperCollins Children’s Books, a division of HarperCollins
Publishers, 10 east 53rd street, new york, ny10022.
www.epicreads.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Quinn, Kate Karyus.
 another little piece / Kate Karyus Quinn. — 1st ed.
p.  cm.
 summary: ayear after vanishing from a party, screaming and
drenched in blood, seventeen-year-old annaliese rose Gordon
appears hundreds of miles from home with no memory, but a
haunting certainty that she is actually another girl trapped in
annaliese’s body.
 isBn978-0-06-213595-7 (hardcover bdg.)
[1. identity—Fiction.  2. amnesia—Fiction.  3. Family life—
Fiction.  4. supernatural—Fiction.  5. immortality—Fiction.]
i. title.
PZ7.Q41946ano 2013   2012022161
[Fic]—dc23
typography by torborg Davern
13 14 15 16 17 CG/rrDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
❖
First edition
To Andy, for offering To be my dP . . .
And
for everyThing else ThATcAme AfTer

1
BEGINNINGS
tHe First Person
the field didn’t end so much as trail off, beaten back by the
rusted-out trailer and circle of junked vehicles surrounding it.
as if they had forgotten how to be still, the girl’s bare and bloodied feet tripped and stumbled over each other. slowly, slowly, the
momentum that had brought her through the night and into
the cold gray dawn leeched away. she tugged at the garbage
bag she’d refashioned as a poncho. it was worse than useless at
keeping her dry, but its constant crinkle had been a steady companion, and now that she’d reached her destination it seemed
wrong to let it be lost to the wind.
standing still, she studied the no trespassing sign spraypainted on a weathered chunk of plywood, waiting for something
to happen. Certain that something would. she didn’t know
where she was, or even her own name, but she felt sure of this.
she smelled the smoke only a split second before a girl
2
stepped around the side of the trailer. Perhaps the same age
as herself, this girl divided her attention between bouncing a
baby on her right hip and taking little puffs of the cigarette
pinched between her fingers. Mid-exhale their eyes caught and
held.
they might have let the moment pass, pretended they’d never
seen each other at all, but then the baby released a wild wail that
was instantly answered by the screen door flying open and a
heavy woman with an uneven gait thumping down the stairs.
Her body moved slowly and awkwardly, but her eyes were quick
and took in everything. the hastily dropped cigarette. the
baby’s hand curled tight around a chunk of his own hair. and
the stranger with the bare feet, garbage-bag wrapping, shortcropped hair stuck flat to her head from the rain, and, hovering
over her left eye, the red starburst scar that resembled a crack in
a car windshield.
tHe tHirD Person
“annaliese, let me interrupt you right there,” Dr. Grimace
and Gloom said. His eyes squinted at me in an attempt to
be piercing, but only succeeded in creating the network of
wrinkles across his face that had earned him his nickname.
“now the girl with the scar—you also refer to her as the
3
stranger. you do realize this person is you?”
“yea h.”
Predictably the creases multiplied. the doc hated one-word
answers.
“then why are you referring to yourself in the third person?”
the third person. iliked that. ifelt like a third person in this
new life where they called me annaliese and knew everything
about me. except the one missing piece—where i’d been for the
past year. unfortunately, no matter how many different ways
they asked me, icouldn’t answer this either. My memory only
went back five days. one day made of walking. and the last four
spent within the white-and-green walls of the hospital.
“annaliese? Do you not understand the question? the third
person is when you refer to yourself as sheor her, as opposed to
meor I.” Dr. Grimace and Gloom explained this in an almost
singsong way, like he was breaking down a difficult concept for
a small child or the mentally deficient.
He’d placed me in the latter category before he’d even
examined me in person. several examinations and interviews
later, he could still only see the brain scans showing extreme
damage to the cerebral cortex, and not the girl in front of him
who against all odds could not only breathe, walk, and talk
but had somehow also retained all of her metal faculties . . .
with one small exception: any knowledge of who she was. to
them iwent missing for a year. For myself imight be gone
4
forever. and without myself, how could there be an i? ididn’t
say any of this to Dr. Grimace and Gloom.
“you told me to write my story down. you didn’t say to write
it a certain way.”
Dr. Grimace and Gloom knew more about the human brain
than just about any other person on the planet. everyone said
this, in an awed voice, like he was some kind of rock star doctor.
He was pretty impressed with himself too. “iam a physician
specializing in the field of neuroscience, specifically trauma and
neurocritical care.” that was how he’d introduced himself. not,
“Hey, i’m the brain doctor.”
Maybe he was a genius when it came to brains, but he didn’t
know anything about teenage girls, and my answer nearly killed
him. the wrinkles in his face quavered and burned bright red.
“that is true.” He shifted slightly on the hard chair he’d
dragged across the room and parked beside my hospital bed.
“However, what iam attempting to get at is the reason why you
chose to write it this way, especially when you are now speaking
of yourself in the first person.”
“yeah, well, it’s different when you’re writing something
down and talking out loud, isn’t it?”
His eyes closed, and his nostrils flared as he took several
deep breaths. in. then out. in. then out. “Fine,” he said at
last, as if it pained him to concede this small point. “Let’s move
on to the sheriff arriving. you explained to him that you were
5
searching for something specific.”
ilooked down at the bound pages of the journal. it was a
gift from the parents. they said ihad liked to write. that
i’d even won some sort of poetry prize. they seemed really
impressed by that. When istared at those blank pages, the
only poem that came to mind began, “there once was a girl
from nantucket.”
so iskipped the poems and instead filled seven pages
writing this girl’s—my—story down in painstaking detail.
But now Dr. Grimace and Gloom just went and skipped ahead
to the sheriff coming. He didn’t want to hear about how after
the heavyset woman came flip-flopping out of that trailer,
she—in the same breath—said ilooked like trouble but i’d
best come on in and sit down anyway, turned to her daughter
and told her to stay out of her damn cigarettes if she knew
what was good for her, and ordered the baby to stop crying.
and all three of us had nodded and yes-ma’amed her, because
she was the kind of person to make you do that sort of thing.
even that little baby, who must have been older than i’d first
thought, lisped out a little, “yes’um.”
iclosed the journal. He already knew this story, or the
parts he wanted to hear about anyway. and ididn’t need the
journal to recall what had happened. When your memory only
contains five days, you don’t worry much about forgetting
the little details. My head was like a pantry where all the
6
nonperishable memories got stored. iopened it, and there they
all were—lined up in a neat little row—no need to push things
around, or hunt for anything. easy accessibility was nice,
but at other times iopened that memory pantry hungry for
something that wasn’t there.
“annaliese.” He said the name istill didn’t recognize as
my own as a verbal nudge, prompting me to answer his earlier
question.
“itold him iwas trying to find myself,” ianswered in a flat
voice, annoyed he was making me say it out loud, making me
hear again how stupid it sounded.
BeyonDstranGe
all five of us were in the cramped main room of the trailer. isat
in the middle of the sagging couch, with Deenie, the mom, on
one side, and her two kids, Lacey and baby robby, still tugging
at his own hair, on the other. they’d introduced themselves
when we came inside, and having no name to give in return, i
gave them nice manners instead. “Pleased to meet you.”
When the sheriff arrived, he took the recliner chair and
immediately kicked back in it, apparently not afraid to be seen
lounging on the job. “Well, eMts will be here shortly. Couple
kids ran their cars into each other over near route Fifty-six,
7
and they need to finish sortin’ that out. in the meantime, we
can relax some and get the basic information i’ll be needing for
paperwork and whatnot.”
abit of the tension that had been holding my shoulders stiff
released. the way he spoke, where a car crash was something
that could be sorted out and a girl appearing out of nowhere
caused no more trouble than filling out some forms, took some
of the terror from my situation.
“now,” he said in a low drawl, almost sleepy sounding, “what’s
yer name, sweetheart?”
the name problem. again. My shoulders went tight once
more. “idon’t know.”
Deenie stepped in here. “she looks like the girl from that
Datelinewe saw on tV the other week. remember, Bobby?” it
took me a moment to realize this was the sheriff. “What was
that girl’s name? something kinda funny—like a regular name
that somebody tried to fancy up.”
the sheriff—icouldn’t think of him as Bobby—frowned
at her, not for interrupting but for dropping that detail about
them being together. iwanted to tell him that ialready knew.
When Deenie had gone to refill the plastic thomas the
train cup with more water, Lacey had told me. the sheriff
was Deenie’s steady boyfriend, despite having a wife and a
full-grown boy at home. Lacey didn’t really care about that;
what upset her was that the two of them worked together to
8
scare away the boy she liked. “they got the whole high school
thinking i’m a narc.”
“nobody knows how to have a quiet affair no more,” the sheriff
finally grumbled, but he didn’t seem too upset about it either.
“affair?” Deenie shot back at him. “Hmph. Five years in and
he’s still calling it an affair.”
“Five years in and you still don’t know inever can stay awake
more than ten minutes after you turn one of them news shows
on. By the way, Bethany says hey.”
“that’s his wife,” Lacey informed me, with a roll of her eyes
that seemed to say, Can you believe these people?
iwas so caught up in this back-and-forth that ilet my guard
down. in retrospect it was a fine interrogation technique. When
the sheriff abruptly turned toward me and asked, “so, Dateline
girl, whatcha doin’ way out here anyway?” ianswered truthfully,
without hesitation.
“iwoke up, i’m not really sure where, and ihad this feeling,
and ikind of started following it. ididn’t know where iwas or
who iwas, but ifelt like maybe icould find some answers . . .
could maybe find myself here.”
they all stared at me, and irealized that while they were
strange, being so open about their messy private lives, they were
not a girl with bare feet and a funny scar, wrapped in a garbage
bag, who had followed a feeling to their door.
iwas beyond strange.
“Find yourself, huh?” the sheriff said at last. “ithink
9
that’s what tim Butler’s wife said when she ran off with that
orthopedic-shoes salesman.”
His voice was light and teasing, but there was no missing the
look he exchanged with Deenie. it said she had been right. this
girl was trouble for sure.
KinDoFnorMaL
“and what did you mean by that?” Dr. Grimace and Gloom
asked.
i’d meant exactly what i’d said. the afternoon before i’d
arrived at the trailer, i’d woken up in a one-room wooden cabin
with a dirt floor. the only thing in it other than myself was a
plastic milk jug full of water and a garbage bag beneath my body
acting as a bed. iwore a t-shirt and jeans that despite being
covered in faded stains had the clean smell of soap. iwasn’t
scared. scared would come later. at that moment iwas just
confused. icouldn’t think why iwould be there. or who iwas.
or where ishould be. the whole thing felt unreal.
Pushing aside the sheet of plastic that covered the doorway,
i’d stepped outside. that’s when ifelt it. the pull. something
telling me to walk. Like some internal GPshad been
activated, i’d crossed through a wooded area strung thick with
spiderwebs, waded through some swamplands while the frogs
and crickets croaked and chirped in alarm all around me, and
10
then there was that long field that stretched through most of
the night until ireached the trailer.
ishrugged. “idon’t know. iwas just trying to figure out what
was going on.”
the doctor said nothing, but his eyes turned into the tiniest
little slits and his frown twisted into a sneer. “ihave been a
physician for more years than you have been alive. Do you have
any idea how many brains ihave studied in my career?” His
voice changed with this sudden shift of direction, becoming
more directly challenging. Menacing.
“idon’t know.” ishrugged again.
“Guess.”
“ahundred?”
“seven hundred.” Pause. “and fifty-two.”
“oh.”
“out of those seven hundred and fifty-two brains, only
four have behaved in ways that icould not understand. in all
four of those cases, idetermined after extensive testing that
those brains were aberrations to the point of no longer being
technically human.”
spittle flew from his lips, and he was no longer Dr. Grimace
and Gloom. He was Dr. Crazypants. Dr. nutso and insane. Dr.
iWill Kill you While you sleep. iinched my fingers toward the
call button on my bed rail.
“ihave remained silent concerning these findings,” he
11
continued, “because those brains all came from cadavers. But
yours is the fourth brain. and that makes you my first living
monster.”
My fingers, instead of pressing the button, went to the
indentation on my forehead. What had he seen in my brain
underneath the skin and bone?
He stopped, clearly wanting me to say something. Maybe my
confession. or defense. ihad neither.
the rage seeped away into the silence, leaving him grimmer
than ever. Leaning back, he studied me over steepled fingers.
“People prefer to believe in miracles over monsters. and so
tomorrow iwill give my recommendation that you have survived
some traumatic event through unusual and, yes, perhaps even
miraculous means. you’ll be released to your parental guardians
immediately. But first . . . first iwant you to tell me one thing.
one honest answer from you.”
He leaned forward once more. “iwant to know what it feels
like.”
igulped. ididn’t know if iwanted to go home with my parental guardians—those strangers imet yesterday after the Dna
tests went through and iwas officially declared annaliese rose
Gordon. idid know that ididn’t want to stay here, near Grimace and Gloom and all the other doctors who might not have
said it as directly as him, but with all their questions seemed to
also imply that iwas some kind of monster.
12
Looking directly into his beady little eyes, ianswered as
truthfully as icould.
“idon’t know.” the three-word phrase that had quickly
become my signature exited my mouth before icould recall
it, and Dr. Grimace and Gloom’s brow darkened. Hurriedly,
iadded, “imean, idon’t know anything about myself except
from these last couple days, and iknow what happened to me
is weird and no one can explain it, but somehow ijust, idon’t
know, ifeel normal, iguess.”
“normal,” he repeated.
inodded miserably. “yeah, imean, kind of normal.”
PasseD
He left without another word.
ididn’t sleep that night.
Wondering if ihad passed his test.
Wondering if he was right about me being a monster.
Wondering exactly how he expected a monster to feel.
How he expected me to feel.
istill felt normal.
Whatever normal was.
it wasn’t until the seven a.m. nurse-shift change, when the
night nurse said good-bye and good luck, that irealized iwas
13
leaving. Going home. Whatever and wherever that was.
all of the many doctors i’d seen during my four days at the
hospital made a point of coming by my room and wishing me
well; some even told me to keep in touch. only Grimace and
Gloom stayed away. iguess we’d already said our good-byes.
14
HOMECOMING
Hi, MoM
Hi, Mom.
Hi, Dad.
I know you love me lots.
Of course, I love you lots too.
What else can I say?
School’s fine. I’m fine.
Yeah, the weather’s gray.
I know whatever I need, you’re there.
Of course, I’ ll always come to you.
What else can I say?
Bye, Mom.
Bye, Dad.
I know you trust me.
Of course, I’ ll be good.
HOMECOMING
15
I’ ll be good.
That’s what I told ’em.
What else could I say?
—ARG
16
FaMiLy roaDtriPs
they found me in oklahoma, which was strange, because
annaliese rose Gordon’s home was in the northeastern part
of the country. Western new york to be more specific. Buffalo, if you were looking to stick a pin in a map. according to
the GPsstats, that was a distance of almost thirteen hundred
miles. From the way everyone kept shaking their heads and saying “oklahoma” in the same way they might have said “Mars,”
iguessed this was far beyond the range where anyone had ever
considered looking for annaliese.
Here’s another GPs-derived fact. those thirteen hundred
miles can be traveled by car in about twenty-one hours. alittle
less than a day to get from one part of the country to another
seems reasonable, but that doesn’t include stops. When you
account for stopping early and often, those thirteen hundred
miles start to stretch across several days . . . and they begin to
feel like forever.
My parental guardians explained their reasons for this
mode of transportation very earnestly. Well, sheexplained.
the mom. she is the talker. and the crier. and the hugger.
and the everything else. the dad is there for one thing and
one thing only. Backup. He stands behind her. sometimes
holding her up. sometimes bracing her. sometimes just there.
Waiting. Waiting in case she sticks her hand out, and then he
17
will be there, ready to take it in his own.
they are a good team.
the explanation for the drive went like this:
air travel would be too traumatic after everything ihad gone
through.
traveling by car would give me time to adjust.
We’ve always loved family road trips.
after three hours iadded another possible reason: to quiz me
endlessly.
the mom insisted on calling my memory loss amnesia. as if
iwere a character in a soap opera. she thought ijust needed the
right trigger to snap me out of it. it started with a picture quiz. i
correctly identified the Gerber baby, but couldn’t place my own
baby picture.
it got worse from there.
ronald McDonald—yes. the clown from my fourth birthday
party—no. ieasily named every character from Friends. My
own best friend—“Gwen is such a nice girl,” the mom told me,
as if this detail might jog my memory—no recognition at all.
in the animal-kingdom category igot Kermit the Frog, Lassie,
and Dumbo all correct. But snowball didn’t come close to Here
Kitty Kitty, the rather cumbersome name that iapparently gave
my own dear cat at the age of five.
the game officially ended when iincorrectly identified a
woman with iron-gray curls and a closed-lip smile as Queen
18
elizabeth. turns out that one was my nana.
next we played something called, “What’s your Favorite . . . ?”
the first topic was food.
iwas trying, even though my palms were sweaty and a
headache had formed behind my left eye. it would’ve been easy
to tell the mom where to shove her questions. except the mom
was a really nice lady. and she was trying to be upbeat, chirpy
even. But with every wrong answer, she’d deflate a little bit.
she tried to cover it. she’d pat my hand and tell me it was okay.
she was always touching me—patting, rubbing, squeezing
my hand, arm, or leg. and that’s when she wasn’t hugging
me. that was okay, too, though. she was a good hugger. as
soon as her arms wrapped around me, there was this sensation
like everything was going to be okay. so far this was the one
thing that we had most in common—we both really wanted
everything to be okay.
so favorite foods. iknew she picked this topic first because
iwas so skinny. iknew she thought iwas so skinny because
she said it every time she looked at me. and she’d shown me
annaliese’s school picture from the previous year. it had been
taken only a few days before she’d disappeared, just a few weeks
away from her seventeenth birthday. there was a roundness to
her cheeks, not fat, just a sort of youthful glow. But now, as the
mom made sure to remind me, it was almost exactly a year later,
iwas once again only weeks away from a birthday, but the glow
19
and roundness had been replaced by hollows and eyes too big
for my face.
“Well, idon’t really know about favorite,” isaid at last,
wanting to play along. “the hospital food was pretty bad.”
the mom jumped on this. “it was terrible! Wasn’t it terrible,
John?”
that was the dad’s cue. He knew his part too. “awful.”
For a moment we were a family, united by our shared disgust
for hospital food. Buoyed by my success, iadded, “it was so
bland—that was the problem.”
another hit. “yes! it’s like they have a flavor extractor back
there in the kitchen.”
“Must take out color too, ’cause my green beans last night
were gray,” the dad added, backing the mom up in her comedy
attempts.
We were all smiling at one another. it felt good. no, great. it
felt great. if icould take that moment and plant it in the ground,
iwould wait for a tree to grow from it, and then iwould build a
fort in that tree where iwould live forever. that was how good
it felt.
“ineed something to wake my taste buds up again,” isaid.
“ooh, yeah,” the mom agreed excitedly. “How about Mexican
for lunch?”
“or better yet,” isaid, “curry. that would really hit the spot.”
the smiles dimmed. “Curry?”
20
i’d said something wrong. “yeah, like indian?”
“indian?”
“uh-huh?”
every one of our words had question marks attached, as if we
would recant them in an instant if asked.
“you never liked foreign food. that’s what you always said?”
this was the mom again.
the dad stepped in. “your favorites were spaghetti and tacos,
which we always thought was funny because they are foreign
foods.” this was a statement. at last. He would not rewrite
history for me, just because icouldn’t remember it.
isaid nothing, feeling like i’d been caught playing a part. the
monster trying to disguise herself as someone’s daughter.
the mom suddenly gasped. “annaliese, do you remember
where you had those indian foods? Do you think it’s possible
that a—what’s a person from india called, John?”
“an indian.”
“of course, of course. indian. ialways think cowboys and
indians, but they’re native americans now. except they live
on indian reservations, don’t they? imean, we don’t call them
native american reservations. or should we?”
“sweetheart.” the dad’s voice was soft, a reminder that she
had gone off track.
“oh, right. Do you think it was maybe an . . . an indian that
took annaliese? annaliese, what do you remember?”
21
“nothing,” isaid immediately. except there was something.
Pointing to the word vindalooon a menu. and the taste. ikept a
tissue clutched in my hand to dab at my nose, running from the
heat, but ididn’t stop eating. using pieces of naan, isopped up
every last bit of sauce until the bowl was clean.
“Chocolate,” the mom abruptly broke in. “you love chocolate.
We love chocolate. Do you re—?”
she stopped herself from asking if iremembered, not wanting
to hear that ididn’t. Pulling one of her overflowing bags from
the backseat, she rooted around in it until she found a package
wrapped in brown paper. Carefully, as if it held precious
contents, she unraveled the paper until at last she revealed four
bars of chocolate.
“ibought these before you . . . well, i’ve been holding on to
them. it was—it is—our thing. Monthly chocolate taste tests.
We’d find different places on the internet to buy from, all over
the country, little specialty places and—” Her voice cracked as
she stared down at those chocolate bars. Her hair fell forward,
hiding her face, but icould tell she was struggling against tears.
there was a charged feeling in the car, like the way the air feels
before a thunderstorm.
Wanting to make it better, wanting to bring her daughter
back, isnagged one of the bars off the pile, peeled away the
paper and foil, and took a huge bite. the chocolate was hard
and at first tasteless, and as it melted between my teeth and
22
found its way onto my tongue, it wasn’t sweet, but instead
bitter and salty.
it felt like chewing on my own tongue, like my mouth was
filling with blood. itried to swallow but my throat had closed
up. no, it wasn’t closed, but merely already occupied with my last
hospital meal of orange juice and Cheerios coming up. My hand
flew to my mouth, but it was too late. My insides erupted. even
after everything was out—spattering the backs of the car seats,
the floor, my clothes and shoes—icouldn’t stop gagging. Finally
in desperation isucked on the fabric of my own shirtsleeve until
it absorbed most of the terrible chocolate blood taste from my
mouth.
the dad had pulled onto the side of the road by then, and
they’d both gotten out of the car, throwing all the doors open.
together they stared at me like iwas some kind of wild animal
that had wandered into their car, and they were waiting for me to
realize ididn’t belong here and go back to wherever ihad come
from. isimply sat there, staring at my puke-spattered sneakers.
Finally, the mom handed me a tissue. only then did inotice
my runny nose and the tears leaking down the side of my face.
“ithink imust have gotten carsick,” isaid feebly.
“annaliese was never carsick.”
the mom didn’t seem to notice that she had referred to
annaliese as if she was a different person from me, a person who
now existed only in the past tense.
23
By tHe nuMBers
thirty-four. “she’s our daughter.” the whispered words came
from the dad when he thought iwas asleep, in one of the two
queen beds that filled our tiny motel room. at first ithought
he was talking to the mom, but then he said it again, again, and
again. repeating that phrase. to keep myself still, ibegan to
count each set.
it wasn’t simply a statement, but a mantra. He was trying to
convince himself. eventually the flow of words became a trickle
before stopping entirely, replaced by the sound of his steady
breathing.
ididn’t sleep again for the rest of the night.
one interview on the Todayshow. three with each of the
local news stations. it was necessary to remove the reporters
camped out on the front lawn. annaliese’s disappearance had
been a major news story, but my reappearance was more than
that. annaliese rose Gordon. the name was at the top of
internet search phrases, and that meant that people were talking
about me, and they wanted to know more. the reporters were
there to feed that appetite. the mom and the dad did most of
the talking, and at the end idelivered my one line: “i’m happy to
be home, and just want to get back to normal.”
sixteen.  that was the number of counseling sessions i
attended. some alone, some with the mom and the dad. the
24
mom was behind it. on the ride back to new york she’d read
some book about families in crisis—apparently unable to find
one specifically about having one’s amnesiac daughter returned
after disappearing for almost a year—and this book stressed
the importance of finding the right counselor for you. the
emphasis was theirs.
two. the number of hours ispent touring annaliese’s old
school. she was only a few months into her junior year when
she’d disappeared, and iwould be picking up where she had
left off. the parents trailed behind the principal, and itrailed
behind them as he gave us a guided tour, helpfully pointing
out the classrooms iwould go to on Monday morning. it felt
like another test. one ifailed again and again as they asked,
“remember this?” and then they reached my old locker—
preserved exactly as it had been at the mom’s insistence that i
might return any day.
“Go ahead,” they said. “Give the lock a few spins, maybe the
muscle memory will remember what you don’t.”
so, itried. But my muscles didn’t remember any more than
the rest of me did.
Forty-five to zero. that was the score at the end of the
Homecoming football game. at the school we’d seen the signs
advertising saturday’s game and the dance that would follow.
annaliese’s disappearance came a month before last year’s
Homecoming, but according to the mom, the dress for the
25
dance was hanging in the closet—the tags still on and waiting.
When we returned home ichecked, and there it was. Perfectly
preserved inside a clear plastic bag, a pink dress with spaghetti
straps and matching pale-pink crystals, hanging at the back of
the closet. of course, icouldn’t go to the dance this year. as the
dad quickly pointed out, quelling the gleam in the mom’s eyes,
it was too soon. after a moment to swallow her disappointment
the mom agreed, adding that with all the weight i’d lost, the
dress would’ve hung on me anyway.
the game was another matter. it was the perfect opportunity
for me to get my feet wet, while still having the mom and the
dad at my side.
Five seconds. that was how much time remained on the
game clock when idecided to stop counting, and begin my new
life as annaliese rose Gordon for real. it wasn’t that istarted
feeling like annaliese, but more like it shook me awake. For the
first time iknew for sure that the worst wasn’t behind me.
no, the worst was straight ahead, and iwas headed right at it.
GaMe CHanGer
there were only seconds left on the clock, and the other team,
losing and desperate to put some kind of number on the board,
launched a Hail Mary pass. it wasn’t a game changer, but you
26
could feel how badly the other side wanted it, needed it, to ease
that long ride home. and as if God himself were behind that
ball, it was the first the quarterback threw that didn’t jelly-roll
through the air but flew straight and true, landing right in the
outstretched hands of . . . one of our guys.
number sixteen, the name ricewritten across his back, tore
down half the field and danced into the end zone to score the
final touchdown of the game. rice sixteen ripped his helmet off
and, shaking his head, sent long, shaggy hair flying. the setting
sun flared, gilding him.
and that’s when ifelt the first hunger pang. even from my
spot halfway up the bleachers, icould see the beads of sweat
on his golden-brown skin. except it didn’t resemble sweat so
much as the juices dripping from the crisped and crackling skin
of a roasted chicken. iwanted to sink my teeth into him. My
stomach growled with hunger at the thought. saliva collected in
my mouth. iswallowed loudly.
as if he knew, rice sixteen’s gaze turned toward the stands
and latched on to me. surprise, shock, and something icouldn’t
name rippled across his face—and then the other players surged
around him, hiding him from view.
nausea replaced hunger. Drool turned to dust. Had ireally
wanted to take a bite of another person?
in that moment it became clear: there was something seriously
wrong with me. But was this something new to annaliese or
27
a problem she’d already had? iturned to the mom, already
knowing she wouldn’t react well to the question of whether i’d
had a problem with cannibalism before i’d disappeared, and
trying to think of another way to phrase it. instead, she was the
one who had a question for me.
“annaliese, did you recognize Logan?” Her eyes, even ihad to
admit, looked amazingly similar to my own. acloudy shade of
blue that shifted chameleonlike depending on what other colors
were in close proximity. right now they were twin wishing
wells, begging me to toss a penny in and give her a chance to
make my dreams come true.
“Who’s Logan?” iasked. the light faded away, and the mom’s
eyes sank back into the dark circles beneath them. not for the
first time, iregretted causing this nice lady so much pain.
she wasn’t giving up that easily, though.
“Logan rice? the running back?” she pointed toward the
field, although rice sixteen had, along with the rest of the team,
headed back into the school, leaving the field empty.
“Were we friends?” iasked, trying to remember, trying to
understand my disturbing reaction to him. But ialready knew
the answer. that boy was one of the popular kids—the kind
with the inner spotlight, drawing others closer. i’d already
figured out enough about annaliese to know she couldn’t have
been anything but another mosquito, hovering nearby.
“Well, no, idon’t think so,” the mom admitted hesitantly.
28
“He’s one of those boys who everyone knows, and ithought you
might remember him.”
next to me, the dad snorted. “she doesn’t remember us,
you think she’s gonna remember a boy she probably never even
talked to?”
the mom didn’t say anything in response, just made this soft
little mewing noise that was her response to being hurt. Hearing
it, the dad, as he always did, immediately apologized. and then
we stood, and were carried out with the rest of the crowd.
When we’d arrived at the game halfway through the first
quarter, i’d caught whispers of “that’s her. there she is.
annaliese.” now, though, in the parking lot, my classmates
were braver . . . or drunker. they yelled “Welcome back” at me
in the same rowdy way they did “Go, Panthers,” with a long
“Whoooooo” tacked on to the end of the phrase, as if my return
was something to be celebrated along with their football victory.
With the slightest encouragement, they might have picked me up
onto their shoulders and paraded me through town like a trophy.
icouldn’t think of anything worse. the mom’s fingers
brushed against mine, and igladly grabbed hold of her hand.
When we finally reached the car, she sat in the backseat beside
me and kept the same steady grip the whole way home.
it would have been comforting, except icouldn’t escape the
thought that maybe ishould warn her. there was a chance i
might one day try to bite that same hand off.
29
ANSWERS AND QUEST IO NS
a CouLD-HaVe-Been
A could-have-been destroyed.
Although “might have” only in my mind.
How awful to have mini moments of maybe slain.
A betrayal—the worst kind.
One that exists only in my mind.
How tragic to know
I’m not second best.
I wasn’t even in the running.
How horrific to make such mistakes.
To mourn a fantasy,
and find it meant so much.
How . . .
how pathetic.
—ARG
30
Detonation
By eight thirty that night iwas in bed, staring up at the
ceiling, where star-shaped stickers arranged into smiley-faced
constellations glowed dimly in the darkness. it was early to be
in bed—even iknew this—but icouldn’t stand to sit in front of
the tV watching it while they watched me.
as ilay there, idid what i’d done during every free moment
since i’d woken up in that cabin a few weeks ago. itried to
remember. Dr. Morgan, the hospital psychiatrist, told me not
to try so hard, that the straining could actually make it more
difficult for the memories to resurface. Resurface.  that was
the word he used, and even then, ithought of them as bobbing
beneath murky waters, just out of reach. still, icouldn’t stop
going on my fishing expeditions.
idon’t know what time idrifted off to sleep, but when i
woke, the red numbers on the bedside alarm clock told me it
was ten after two. in the desk chair at the other end of the room,
the mom slept, hunched in on herself, her neck folded so that
her chin rested on her chest. it looked horribly uncomfortable,
but every night she was there, until around eight a.m., when she
tiptoed back out, believing iwas none the wiser. i’d come to
find the sound of her soft, rhythmic snores soothing in their
constancy, like listening to a recording of waves breaking.
tonight, though, the noise grated against my nerves. itossed
31
and turned, trying not to think about the way my stomach had
clenched with that sudden hunger at the football game. istared
into the darkness, wishing for a distraction. and suddenly, there
it was. Whirling blue-and-red lights leaked between the blind’s
slats and splashed across the ceiling.
ilay still for several long moments, gazing at the lights, waiting
to see if they would wake the mom. When they didn’t, islipped
out of bed and down the stairs. For pajamas i’d taken to sleeping
in my hospital gown, feeling now, as idid then, that it was the
only thing that truly belonged to me. reaching into the closet
by the front door, ipulled out the first thing my fingers grabbed
hold of—a gigantic puffy parka that covered me to midthigh.
even though it wasn’t that cold out, ipulled the fur-edged hood
over my head, figuring it would counterbalance my bare feet.
the front door opened soundlessly and islipped into the
night to watch the spectacle taking place across the street. i
didn’t know how i’d slept through so much of it. Music with
a heavy bass beat pounded from the house, and, almost as if
they were running from that punishing beat, the interrupted
partygoers streamed out the front door, taking off in various
directions. of course, the reason they were fleeing wasn’t the
music, but the two cop cars sitting in the driveway. the cops
didn’t pay any attention to the mass exodus of teenagers, except
to pull aside those who were obviously staggering.
in the middle of this a girl cried. Loudly. Histrionically
32
even. Despite the tsunami-size tears sliding down her cheeks,
it was obvious she was faking. it wasn’t that her acting was
all that bad; maybe it’s just impossible to buy the crying of
someone clad in a string bikini, especially when she stands in
a way meant to show off her body to the best possible effect.
and that effect was impressive. she looked like her body had
been made for bikini wearing. or maybe vice versa. either way,
this girl could not simultaneously rock the bikini and look
believably distraught.
idrifted across the lawn, wanting to hear what the girl
was saying—“But itold you, iwas in the hot tub; how was i
supposed to know they’d broken into the liquor cabinet?”—
when irealized the maple tree that grew out of the patch of grass
between the sidewalk and road was staring at me.
When itook a step closer, the tree separated from the person
leaning against it. no, not a person. aboy. the same one from
the football game. rice sixteen.
except this wasn’t the grinning, confident boy from before.
this was a different, stripped-down version. it wasn’t just the
absence of his uniform and pads, which had been exchanged for
a dripping pair of swim trunks. it seemed like something internal
had been removed as well. He didn’t lean against the tree, so much
as sag. the expression on his face was limp, too—his mouth slack,
the staring eyes heavy-lidded. Despite his muscled bare chest and
legs on display, nothing about this boy made me hungry.
33
itook a step closer and the reason for his inertness reached my
nose. He was drunk. iwondered if he even knew who iwas, but
the answer came quickly enough when he whispered my name.
“annaliese? that really you?”
Good question, iwanted to tell him, but ifigured he was
looking for a more direct answer, so pulling back the hood, i
s aid, “yes .”
“ithought you were dead. everyone thought you were dead.”
actually, the first words the mom said to me were “iknew
you were alive. ialways knew.” again, though, ididn’t want to
complicate things. inodded.
“Please, don’t be mad at me,” rice sixteen said, and his voice
cracked. His head dipped into his chest, and it reminded me of
the mom, still sleeping in the chair upstairs, making me wonder
if he’d fallen asleep as well, but he looked back up at me and
there were tears running down his face. these tears were real,
and they flowed faster than he could wipe them away, until
finally he scrubbed at his face in frustration. all the while the
words were coming at me. “i’m sorry, so so sorry. Please believe
me. if i’d known you were alive, i’d have said something, but i
thought you were dead, so why let people talk, why make things
harder, when it wouldn’t change anything. and iknow it’s my
fault. ishouldn’t have left you out there. ishouldn’t have—we
shouldn’t have been together at all—not like that. especially not
out in the woods. ishouldn’t have—ishh-shh-shh—”
34
He stepped away from the tree and lurched toward me,
arms out, still babbling about what shouldn’t have happened—
although it was impossible to say exactly what that was. His
volume increased, his earlier whisper giving way to full-voiced
desperation. then his arms clamped around me, and his big head
flopped onto my shoulder. suddenly, iwas the tree holding him
up, and ifelt similarly rooted to the ground, helpless to shake him.
His words were impossible to decipher now, just sounds mixed in
with syllables. not knowing what else to do, and realizing that we
were starting to attract attention, itold him, “it’s okay.”
it’s easy to grant forgiveness when you don’t know what it is
you’re forgiving, but apparently it’s harder to accept it, because
he stumbled away from me, wildly shaking his head.
“no! you don’t understand. iheard you. ipretended ididn’t,
but idid. you said, ‘ilove you,’ and iwalked away. We’d just
done it and iwalked away and left you alone in the woods. i
walked back to Kayla, and ileft you there, still  .  .  . still lying
there, and ipretended ihadn’t heard you say it.”
His words were a grenade. you could see the shock waves
spreading out from the epicenter, hitting the people who had
quietly gathered around us. there were gasps of shock. ashriek
of anger. More than a few giggles.
But the main detonation was inside of me. Because his words
triggered a memory. My first from the time before iwoke up to
my new life.
35
LoVe anD Lust
iwalk through trees, not a forest, but a dense little copse that
separates two subdivisions of oversized houses, giving the occupants on either side the illusion of privacy and seclusion. the
bass thump of party music pulses in the distance.
at the deepest part of the almost forest, where the motionsensored security lights of the houses can no longer penetrate, i
slow my pace. i’m listening, looking for something. then there
it is, the crunch of dry leaves. not the crisp crackle that even my
softest footsteps produce, but a softer shuska shuskaof the same
leaves being ground into dust. another step and ihear ragged
breaths, interspersed with an occasional low groan. not even
lifting my feet, islip closer, until they come into view.
there really isn’t much to see. His dark hoodie covers his
upper body, while his jeans are only jerked down to his knees,
leaving an inch or two of bare leg exposed before his baggy boxers cover the rest of him. Beneath him she is almost invisible,
her dark hair disappearing into a tangle of dead leaves. only her
pale white legs give her away as being there at all. Jeans bunched
around her ankles force those legs to jut out at awkward angles
on either side of him. Her little silver heels, silly with the jeans,
even sillier here in the dirt, are still firmly fastened to her feet by
their rhinestone-studded straps.
i’d hoped they’d be done by the time iarrived. High school
36
boys can’t be counted on for a lot, but a quick finish is almost
always a guarantee. iwonder what the hell he is waiting for
when he gasps, “i’m gonna . . .”
“yeah, okay.” there is no mistaking the relief in her voice.
Clearly, they’ve been here long enough for all the romance of
this encounter to be as ground into the dirt as shiny silver shoes.
the corner of my mouth kicks up into a half smile, as if i
think it is funny how quickly this girl has been stripped of her
romantic illusions. inside, my gut is twisting. this is the least of
what iplan on stealing from her tonight.
the boy doesn’t notice the relief in her words. He has too
much going on, what with trying to stay quiet and stalling his
imminent orgasm, to worry about subtext. still, he persists in
his questioning.
“But you, you came, right?”
“um . . .”
“you didn’t, did you?” His movements stall completely. “it’s
just idon’t wanna . . . if you didn’t.”
Finally, she grasps the problem. “no, no. idid. really. a . . . a
couple times actually.”
there’s no way he’ll believe that, ithink, at the same instant
he says, “oh, wow. Wo-ow.” overcome by the idea of his own
sexual prowess, he gasps and shudders. and into that moment
she whispers the words “ilove you,” so softly i’m left wondering
if i’ve heard them at all.
37
He heard them though. as much as he must wish he hadn’t.
an inability to orgasm first and catlike hearing are apparently
the double curses of this particular youth. Finished, he keeps his
body held stiffly above hers for what feels like an eternity. Long
enough for her to hope he might say those same words back.
Long enough for her to believe this wasn’t a terrible mistake.
at their feet, his cell phone beeps, announcing an incoming
text. He grabs for it and his pants in one graceful movement,
pulling the jeans to his waist, the phone to his eyes.
she knows then. as she sits up slowly, her long, dark hair
swings forward, hiding her face and the tears threatening to fall.
“it’s Kayla. she’s looking for me.” it’s an apology. of sorts.
and a request.
she grants it. “you should go.”
“yeah.”
But he doesn’t. He hesitates. tilting his head back, he studies the shadowed treetops, then his eyes follow the long lines of
the branches to where they join the trunk and from there sweep
all the way down to the roots in the ground that jut out toward
annaliese. His whole body jerks back, like he’s surprised to see
her there. no, like he’s awakening from a dream. already he can’t
quite remember how he got here, what it was that drew him to
annaliese, a girl he’d never even noticed until two weeks ago.
His hand scrubs through his long hair. “ididn’t mean for this
to happen.”
38
asmall sob shakes annaliese’s body. she chokes most of it
back, only allowing a tiny hiccup of sorrow to escape.
“Don’t cry, please. ididn’t mean . . . i’m not saying it was bad.
it was great, probably the best i’ve ever . . .” He stops. as if hearing the words out loud and realizing how terrible they sound.
“and you had fun too, right? imean, you came, like, how many
times? not like you were counting, but . . .”
His phone beeps with another text message. reading the
message, he curses softly. “Kayla says someone saw me heading
out here. she wants to send a search party.”
these words finally spur annaliese into motion. she reaches
forward, grabbing hold of the jeans still bunched round her
ankles. “you should go.” Without looking, she can sense his
hesitation. “really. Go.”
He takes two shuffling steps backward, but his eyes are still
fixed on annaliese, needing some further dismissal or release.
“But you’re okay, right? imean, iknow you said it wasn’t your
first time or anything but . . .”
of course it was her first time, you idiot. iwant to beat the
words into him, anything to transfer some of the responsibility
away from myself.
annaliese forces a little laugh. “really, i’m fine. it’s no big deal.”
and that’s enough for him. Mumbling, he edges away. “okay,
yeah, okay. see ya around then.”
His words linger behind, even after his body has faded into
the darkness.
39
ishift slightly, but not enough to give myself away. not yet.
usually when it’s this bad, and goes this wrong, they start to cry
right about now. it seems unfair to cheat her of that too.
But annaliese surprises me. she stands up, brushes herself off,
and then pulls out her cell. Flipping it open, she begins tapping
away at the keys. Her hands tremble and a few sniffles escape,
but mostly she manages to hold it in. Probably waiting to cry
until she reaches the safety of her own room, where no drunken
partygoers might accidentally stumble across her.
unfortunately, there will be no safe haven for annaliese
tonight.
or ever again.
istep out of the trees.
“Hey,” isay.
she blinks in surprise, and then recognition.
“oh, it’s you.”
isay nothing. experience has taught me less is more.
“you were right,” annaliese says now. “Love and lust are different.”
“i’m sorry,” ireply, placing a hand on her shoulder. the apology isn’t for the bargain that didn’t go her way. and the hand
isn’t for comfort. it’s a restraint, because this is when many of
them try to run away. “it’s time to pay.”
“now?” she doesn’t know what the payment is; none of them
do up front. some guess. not exactly, but they know it will be
a price higher than they wish to pay. annaliese, though, has no
40
idea. she has been sheltered and thinks that evil is something
you see in movies and on the nightly news. Her reluctance is
because she sees my demand as an inconvenience, rather than
something she should have been dreading and fearing ever since
we made our unnatural deal.
“it has to be now.”
she nods, but ineed a verbal agreement to complete the circle
and take away her will the same way she took his. “‘yes, iwill
pay.’ ineed to hear that.”
“yes, iwill pay,” annaliese immediately repeats, no need for
my fingers on her shoulder to dig into the skin, pressing the
answer out of her. and with those words, irelease her, knowing
she’ll stay.
rolling up the sleeves of my sweater, iblock annaliese out.
there is no reason anymore to reassure her, and right now ihave
to focus on myself. this is always the hardest part. iflick the
straight razor open. it’s from another time and place, and yet
still so familiar, still full of memories of a father long dead. My
hand squeezes the wooden handle tighter.
“Please,” imurmur softly. this isn’t for annaliese, but
directed toward a higher power ino longer believe in. iused to
finish the phrase with “forgive me,” but idropped that decades
ago—along with any hopes for absolution.
then imake two slices through my skin. one for each arm.
starting at the edge of my elbow and tearing straight through
41
the soft flesh until ireach the edge of my palm. the razor falls
from my fingers into the dirt at my feet. My hands hang limp at
my sides, and blood streams from my fingertips, a slow drip that
will quickly turn into a steady red waterfall.
annaliese stares in horror. Her mouth moves, but no sound
comes out. “yes, iwill pay” are the last words that annaliese
will ever say.
“now pick up the razor and cut my heart out,” itell annaliese.
and because she has no other choice, she does exactly as isay.
Heart in Her HanD
the memory stopped abruptly. Like a plug had been pulled.
the world that replaced it felt less real, and somehow not as substantial in comparison.
With a detached sense of horror iwatched the mom slap
rice sixteen across the face repeatedly. He accepted each blow,
not even looking at the mom, his eyes focused on some point
beyond her. Maybe he was reliving the same memory i’d just
witnessed.
the dad finally pulled the mom away, wrapping her in a full
bear hug to do so. after a moment she slumped in his arms and
went silent, at which point irealized that the low keening noise
i’d been hearing was coming from her. the whirling police
42
lights caught her face, twisted in the despair that i’d always
sensed hovering just beneath her skin.
My detachment left me. she looked too much like annaliese. not the one isaw in the mirror, but the one who’d slashed
through skin, and then cracked apart ribs until she held my hot,
wet heart in her hand.
as my eyesight blurred, ifelt sick with fear that iwas returning to that otherworld in the trees and dead leaves once more. it
was almost a relief, as the world went black, to realize that iwas
merely having a good old-fashioned fainting spell. My surroundings faded away, and then quickly returned as the force of my
body hitting the ground jerked me back to consciousness. still, i
kept my eyes firmly shut. i’d seen enough for one night.
two fingers slid across my neck, seeking a pulse, at the same
time a low male voice asked, “are you okay?”
My eyes fluttered open. spots blurred my vision, and icould
feel the darkness rushing back at me. ileaned into it like it was
one of the mom’s hugs. But before my last bits of consciousness
fully released me, isaw two eyes staring down at me. one was
dark and searching, while the other was a blinking red pinpoint
of light, burning straight through me.
43
BEGINNINGS. AGAIN.
LoVe is . . .
Love is flannel pj’s.
Every fall picking
the perfect print
and pattern
at Jo-Ann Fabrics.
Mom sews them
top and bottom
zigging and zagging
through the machine.
The buttons
Mom sews by hand.
they’re better that way,
she says.
Lasts forever that way,
she says.
Even though I always
outgrow them after a year.
44
But this year
I wanted snaps.
Bright shiny silver snaps
that tinkled softly against
my tapping fingertips.
Mom said they were cheap
that they wouldn’t last forever.
idon’t care about forever.
That’s what I said.
So Mom marched them
down the middle of the
once buttonnow snap-front
top.
Bright shiny silver snaps
right where
boring sturdy buttons
would’ve been.
Love is warm flannel pj’s.
On cold nights
Mom throws them in the dryer
while I am in the shower.
When I get out
they’re warm and
soft and ready.
But the snaps are hot.
The first time they leave
45
little red marks.
After that I know
to hold them away
to let them cool.
Love is flannel pj’s
handmade
and warmed.
But love is also snaps
bright with silver shine
that burns.
—ARG
46
BeDrooM
Morning came too soon. iwoke at eight a.m. outside my window birds chirped. Farther off in the distance icould detect the
low roar of an airplane. it was like every other morning since
i’d been returned to this place, except for one thing. the chair
where the mom usually slept was empty. the pillows that she
always arranged so that they sat slightly overlapping one another
in the crook of the chair’s arm lay stranded on the bedroom
floor, two tiny oases of disorder in an otherwise perfectly tidy
room. no doubt they were in the exact spot they had fallen last
night when she’d awoken and realized iwasn’t asleep in my bed.
Funny. she thought she’d found her daughter, but annaliese
was more lost to her than ever.
Was that why she hadn’t returned to the room last night,
realizing the futility of safeguarding the very person who had
caused her daughter to disappear?
ishook my head, forcing the order of events back into place.
no one else knew what ihad seen. no one knew what had happened to annaliese. it was the one thing that had been repeated
during all those tV interviews we’d done. Her disappearance
was still a mystery. there were suspects—persons of interestare
what they called them—but no arrests had been made. and
there had definitely never been any mention of finding another
body or even blood. But then again the mom had been quick
47
to close off any line of questioning that went near that subject.
“the police are still looking into it, and we continue to pray
that the person who did this will be found and brought to justice. right now we are focusing on the future.”
those had been her exact words every time. they had been a
warning. the details of my own disappearance were not for me
to know. and if it was the gruesome scene that ican now imagine all too well, then it makes sense that the mom would want to
protect her daughter from that knowledge.
Protect annaliese. that is always her mission. an unending
one. and that’s what she had been doing last night. attacking
rice sixteen for taking her daughter’s virginity. For leaving her
alone to be attacked and taken . . . and for blurting it all out for
everyone to hear. i’m sure it was a combination of the three.
and that look on her face as the dad pulled her away.
Jumping out of the bed, idecided to find the mom, make sure
she was okay. inow knew—if icould believe the terrible thing
i’d seen last night—that she wasn’t my mom, and that whoever—or whatever—iwas, she had every reason to hate me for
taking away her daughter and bringing an impostor back. and
yet, ialready knew the mom well enough to guess she’d prefer
an impostor to having no daughter at all. and without knowing
myself at all, i, too, preferred to have the mom, not just because
my only other option was to be alone in the world, but because
the stranglehold style of love she practiced was the only real and
48
consistent thing i’d experienced since waking up.
Quickly, ithrew on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved thermal
t-shirt. itucked my hospital gown into the farthest corner of
the closet beneath a pile of shoes, where the mom was least likely
to discover it. the brand-new clothes the mom had purchased
after seeing how annaliese’s old clothes hung on my emaciated
frame were stiff and scratchy against my skin. i’d been mixing
in pieces of annaliese’s wardrobe, shirts worn soft from years
of usage—my favorite a faded t-shirt reading youth poetry
fest—but now it felt like ihad taken too much of hers.
Before leaving the room, igrabbed a fresh pack of Listerine
breath strips and placed two of them on my tongue. after the
chocolate incident in the car, the dad had gone to the nearest gas
station and he must have bought every variety of mint-flavored
anything they carried—including a car air freshener. the breath
strips were the only thing that had been able to make the gagging stop and let me think about the possibility of chewing and
swallowing food again.
although not chocolate. never again chocolate.
since then i’d developed a bit of a habit. iwas up to three
packs a day. Without them, that horrible flavor of chocolate
mixed with death kept coming back, coating my tongue and
closing my throat.
it was always at its worst first thing in the morning, but this
morning was a new high—or low. Popping another breath strip
49
into my mouth, ipocketed the rest of the packet and tiptoed
down the hall to the parents’ room. they always left their door
wide open, ithink as a way of saying that there was no room
iwasn’t welcome in. still i’d never done more than glance in
from the doorway of my own room farther down the hall. it had
never been necessary to go looking for the mom before.
the room was empty, the bed neatly made. no clothes on
the floor, or flung over the backs of chairs. yes, the mom was a
bit of a neat freak, but this room looked, if not unlived in, then
definitely unslept in. and not just from last night. of course,
i’d known the mom had been spending her nights in my room,
but it had never occurred to me to wonder where the dad was
sleeping.
idon’t know why this upset me. there was certainly nothing
sinister about a tidy and empty room. it looked lonely, iguess,
and made me panic again, certain that the mom and the dad
had figured out iwasn’t actually their daughter. Maybe they
were out right now looking for the real annaliese.
How ironic. the replacement, the forgery, afraid of being
replaced by the real thing.
My thoughts chased me down the stairs, through the empty
kitchen, and into the family room. istopped there, frozen by the
sight of the mom, curled up on the couch, asleep.
afew months before iwas found, the mom had taken up
knitting. it hadn’t been her idea, but a solution suggested by one
50
of her doctors to deal with a condition she’d developed after
annaliese had first gone missing. trichotillomania, they called
it. she pulled out her own hair. iguess it started with pulling at
the hair on her head, but then she became numb to that pain, so
she began to pluck out her eyelashes. soon she had almost none
left. the knitting kept her hands busy.
she’d explained this to me matter-of-factly, while she’d
frowned down at the needles in her hands. Watching her, i
could see there was no enjoyment in the task, only frustration. still, she was faithful to the project. the lumpy woolen
blanket, just a series of knots in some places, stretched wide
enough to cover everyone sitting on the couch. But she wasn’t
done with it yet. Maybe the mom thought that if she kept
knitting away, she might yet shape it into something beautiful,
redeemable.
it covered her now. the needles and a ball of yarn were stuck
into a corner near her feet. iwas about to turn away, leave her
to sleep, when inoticed something clutched in the fist she had
curled up over her head. Leave it, itold myself, even as my feet
crept closer and ileaned over, holding my breath so that a blast
of Listerine wouldn’t shake her awake. if ihad been looking
for reassurance, something to say that she was still holding
me tight even if she hadn’t slept by my bed, then perhaps i
found it.
there were two plastic-covered strips in her hand. one aged,
51
yellow, and almost comically tiny. the other much newer. i
recognized it instantly. they were the identifying bracelets
the hospital puts on patients. the first must have come from a
newborn annaliese. icould almost see the mom’s careful concentration as she slipped a sharp pair of scissors between the
plastic and the tender skin of her newborn’s leg.
Holding them together like that, she would be reminding
herself of the happiness she’d felt both times, bringing her precious daughter home. this was what iwanted to believe. and
it fit. the mom was the type to keep hospital iD bracelets as
keepsakes.
But then another thought intervened. What if instead she
was comparing and contrasting? What if she was wondering
what exactly she had brought home this time?
FenCe
islipped out using the sliding glass door that led into the backyard. it whined softly as ipushed it closed behind me, but the
mom still didn’t stir. Deliberately iforced myself to turn away
and contemplate the view instead. it was your typical suburban backyard, isuppose. acement slab for a patio, with a grill
and glass-topped table. Flower beds ran alongside the house on
either side. the rest was grass.
52
another row of houses lined up behind ours. Backyards
flowed into one another, and grass stretched in all directions,
like a gigantic communal backyard. except for the one fence.
not a box, closing in a single backyard, but instead a straight
wooden line, shielding our house from the one directly to the
left. it was so strange, the one-sided fence, and there was no
doubting its meaning. Clearly, there was some kind of bad blood,
a neighborly feud even. it didn’t seem like the type of thing the
mom and the dad would get caught up in.
iwalked beside the wooden divide, lightly trailing my fingers
along. My feet were once again bare, and the grass felt cold and
stiff against my soles, but ikept placing one foot in front of the
other.
at the edge of the yard, the fence stopped, and iwith it. only
a few small steps around would take me to the other side. into
enemy territory. My fingers moved ahead of me, finding the
rough edge—and getting a splinter for my trouble. Jerking my
hand back, ifelt irrationally as if i’d been attacked.
ascream of anguish came drifting across the empty lawns.
although distant and muffled, it pierced me.  iknew that
scream.
it was the mom.
turning, iran toward the house, my own small hurt forgotten. another cry. Picking up speed, ireached the door too
quickly, and my bare feet skidded against the cement slab,
53
stopping me from slamming into the glass door. My hot breath
came too fast, fogging the glass, but even through the haze i
could see the mom.
she was still in the exact same position on the couch.
asleep . . . perhaps even peacefully.
as ibacked away from the door, the splinter in my finger
throbbed and my battered feet ached. iretraced my steps along
the fence line, trying to understand what i’d heard. or had it
been imagined? it would almost be a relief to know my mind
was playing tricks on me; perhaps then icould discount the
memory from last night too.
But only a few steps from the fence edge, iheard it once
more. it still sliced into me, but ibreathed through that and
focused on moving toward the sound. the screams led me
away from the mom sleeping inside, and over to the other side
of the fence.
What had iexpected to see? something threatening, isuppose. or, at the very least, something obviously odd and out of
place. But there was the same cement slab. the requisite grill
was missing and the outdoor table was orange with rust, and
chairless. atangle of weeds and rotting leaves filled the flower
beds, but the grass was the same, if maybe a little longer.
the place was completely inoffensive, except for one small
detail. the storm doors leading into the basement, instead of
being sealed tightly closed, overlapped slightly, just enough
54
for the sounds of the mom’s wail to escape into the sunlit
morning.
it was a recording. From this distance the hiss of background
noise become obvious, giving it away.
and now iunderstood the enmity. What kind of sicko taped
that and then replayed it for their own amusement? and now
ialso remembered the red blinking light that i’d seen before
finally passing out. not just a sound recording then, but video
too. and the cameraman himself had been pretending to check
on me, when really he’d been moving in for a close-up.
anger surged inside me. ibanged a fist against the metal
door, and then lifted it up. the recorded cry cut off abruptly. it
only increased my rage.
ishouted down into the sudden silence, “iknow what you
are!”
of course, ihad no idea who was down there, or anything
about them except the evidence of the recording and a very hazy
memory of a face. the one eye that hadn’t been red had stared
at me in a way that had seemed kind, compassionate even. But
maybe iwas remembering wrong.
“Monster,” iadded, spitting the word down toward the
darkness. ahot potato of a word, itossed it and then ran away—
before whoever was there could pass it back to me.
55
BaseMent
Before opening the sliding glass door, ipopped another three
breath strips to wipe away the sour taste that had risen once
more.
inside everything was the same. icouldn’t stop myself from
being disappointed that the mom hadn’t already woken up,
and hadn’t been anxiously scanning the room for my presence.
uncertain where to go or what to do next, iwas about to wake
her . . . when the basement door swung open and the dad stepped
into view.
He gave a little jump of surprise, obviously not expecting to
see me standing there in the middle of the room. even though i
had yet to make a peep, the dad put his fingers to his lips, signaling that iwas to remain quiet. inodded my understanding. the
dad frowned back at me, so irepeated the same gesture, letting
him know iwas on board. He didn’t notice because now he was
frowning at the mom. His gaze swung to me again and the grimace was gone. resignation had taken its place as he beckoned
me to follow him, and then disappeared down the basement
stairs.
as itiptoed past the mom, igot it. With her out of commission, it fell to the dad to look after me, and this was clearly a task
he’d rather avoid. the feeling was mutual.
after closing the door so softly it was no louder than a sigh,
56
iturned to check out the basement. every wall was lined with
floor-to-ceiling storage shelves. and every shelf was stacked
full. Mostly canned goods, but as islowly came down the stairs
icould make out three units with nothing but jugs of water,
another one full of jarred spaghetti sauce, one dedicated to all
types of boxed macaroni and cheese, and finally one that was
devoted to all things Little Debbie. all together, there was
enough to feed an army.
the organization would have worked for the military too.
except for the spaghetti sauce. on the third shelf down, exactly
three jars were missing. no, not missing. they’d been relocated—with some haste—to the cement floor. the dad must
have been in the middle of cleaning it up. abroom and the shattered glass sat in a pile pushed to the edge of the room. abucket
of pinkish-colored water waited in the middle of the splatters
and streaks of sauce.
the whole thing looked almost bloody. Like a crime scene.
except iknew blood. Blood wasn’t really red; it was black disguised as red. this was reddish orange. it smelled sweet too,
with no hint of blood’s sour metallic tang.
ipopped another three breath strips, while the dad stood
there staring at the mess. taking a step farther into the basement, inoticed another room. of sorts. More of a drywall
border with a doorway cut into it. the light was dimmer on
the other side of the wall, but icould just make out three cots
57
lined up in a row. one was neatly made up with sheets and a
blanket. adigital alarm clock glowed beside it on the floor. it
looked lived in, in a way that their bedroom had not. ihad a
horrible feeling that this was where the dad had been sleeping.
“your mother started this during the whole y2K scare,” he
finally said softly, still not looking at me. “you know what that
was?”
idid. although, like all my memories, it was detached. the
fear that the computers and all the things that helped run everything from banks to electric companies would fail because they
weren’t programmed to change from 1999 to 2000. some people had panicked, but in the end it was all for nothing.
iknew this, but ididn’t remember who told it to me, any
more than icould remember where iwas when that new year
was rung in.
“yeah,” ianswered at last.
“it was only half as much then. she was embarrassed afterward, said it was silly. . . . anni—” He stopped, and quickly
corrected himself. “Youwould bring your little toy grocery cart
down here and pretend to go grocery shopping. and iwould
joke with your mom about it. you know, saying, ‘More cans
of peas, the end is near!’ or something like that. it was funny.
Harmless. But then 9/11 happened, and, well, after that . . .
she never said anything, but every few weeks another shelf
would appear, and food to fill it.” His voice was thick, like 
58
he was crying, or trying not to.
iopened my mouth to say iwas sorry. sorry for making their
worst nightmare come true. if a basement full of nonperishable
items can’t keep your child safe, then what could? and that’s
when iguessed what had happened here. What—or who—had
sent those three jars of spaghetti sauce crashing to the floor.
“Was she upset last night?” My voice shook. ifelt nosy asking,
like it was none of my business.
Maybe he felt that way too, because he hesitated a long time
before finally answering. “yes. after we got you into bed, your
mom was . . .” He shook his head. “i’ve never seen her like that.
not the whole time you were missing.” For the first time since
i’d joined him down here, he looked at me. straight on. actually, it might’ve been the first time the dad really looked me in
the eye at all.
“you have to understand, it was bad. the way you went missing, everything we knew  .  .  . your mom doesn’t want you to
know the details, but suffice to say, no one thought you were
alive. almost from the beginning they were searching for a
body. except your mom. she couldn’t believe it. and ilet her
have that hope, because iwas afraid of what would happen if she
didn’t. it’s because of her that we kept looking. if she hadn’t, we
never would have found you.”
now it was my turn to look away. suddenly shaky, isank
down onto the bottom step and laid my cheek against my knees.
59
the mom had been better when iwas missing. the belief that
she would find her daughter had fueled her. now that she had
me, it was worse. iwas wrong. i’d thought an impostor might be
better than no daughter at all. But the mom had never really lost
annaliese, because she’d refused to let her go.
“she was so angry last night,” the dad continued. “she attacked
that boy, and ihad to hold her to keep her from going after him
again until the cops drove him home. even then, it took a long
time before she calmed down. iwent to make her some tea, and
get her pills, and that’s when iheard her down here. she threw
a few cans first, and then started in on the jars. More satisfying,
isuppose.” He hesitated once more and iwaited for him to tell
me this was all my fault.
it wasall my fault. ishould’ve stayed lost in those endless
fields of oklahoma. or even better—ishould’ve taken that garbage bag and wrapped it around my head instead of my body.
the dad’s hand landed on my hair, gently, as if to comfort
me. His palm half covered my ear and so iwas certain that i
misheard his next words. “We are so sorry, annaliese. We failed
you. We thought we could keep you safe, that all this would protect you somehow.” He laughed, but the sound was hollow. “We
didn’t know you were at a party that night. We didn’t know you
were with that boy. We didn’t know that you were with any boys
at all. iguess . . . iguess we didn’t know you. and we’re sorry for
that. We should have done better. We should’ve known.”
60
iwanted to tell him that annaliese was a typical teenager
who in a moment of rebellion had made a mistake. and that she
wasn’t with that boy. or any other one. she had been the girl
they believed her to be . . . but she wasn’t. not anymore.
ididn’t say any of this though.
Lifting my head, itook his hand in my own. “i’m sorry too.
and i’m gonna do better.” Finally, iforced my eyes to meet his
again. “Dad.”
and with that one word, ihated myself even more, because
he finally smiled at me, as if itruly were his long-lost daughter.
61
T WO BOYS
seVentH season
Winter to spring to summer to fall.
The seasons change
and change nothing at all.
This is my seventh season of loneliness.
I begin to despair it will never end.
—ARG
62
reDHeaDeD Boy
it was decided that my return to school would be delayed
a week. or perhaps more. We were going to “wait and see.”
those were the mom’s words, although she never specified
exactly what we were waiting to see. in the meantime iwas
supposed to rest and relax. this was code for “stay in the house
away from other people.”
ididn’t mind. so far other people hadn’t brought out the best
in me. Plus it made the mom happy.
My fears of the mom turning on me were unfounded. if anything, she clung to me tighter than ever. the only difference
was that iheld her right back. We were a perfect little circle of
neediness, one completing the other. and if there were instances
when ifelt a bit suffocated by it all, well, they were brief and
passed quickly.
each day the mom had a project to keep us busy. the dad,
who had returned to work that Monday, would pretend to look
disappointed because he was missing out, as she announced
at breakfast that we would be scrapbooking baby pictures or
bedazzling t-shirts. there was also baking.
on tuesday we made oatmeal raisin cookies.
on Wednesday we ate the cookies during a Disney-movie
marathon. We took turns picking. the mom chose Dumbo
and Bambi. icouldn’t help noticing that they were two movies
63
where the moms got top billing.
as for me, iwent with Pinocchio. three times. itold the
mom icouldn’t get enough of the song about wishing on a star.
that made her happy. she liked thinking iwas still a girl who
believed in dreams. But it wasn’t true. What ireally couldn’t get
enough of was the end, when Pinocchio became a real boy, and
not just a puppet who’d found a way to move without strings.
thursday iwoke up on the couch. some sort of ringing noise
had woken me, but in my groggy state icouldn’t place it. My
head pounded.
ihadn’t been sleeping well. My nights were filled with nightmares. or memories, maybe.
the first time ihad one, i’d cried out in my sleep. the mom
was instantly out of her chair and at my side, looking for the
injury, wanting to fix it. ilied and told her my stomach hurt. i
didn’t want her to know i’d been having a bad dream. Didn’t
want her wondering what the dream was about.
istarted going to bed early, so icould get a few hours of sleep
before she set up her nightly vigil. then i’d sleep for a few more
hours after she crept out at eight to see the dad off to work. Last
night, though, our movie marathon had run late. i’d been so
exhausted, icouldn’t even remember falling asleep.
But iremembered my nightmare. one clip played over and
over on a constant loop, and ispent the night trying to escape it.
now, as istumbled to my feet, moving toward the ringing
64
noise, the scene played again.
iwas back in the trees. With annaliese. she had a bright
red apple held in her two hands. it glistened slightly. as if she
had plucked it from a dew-drenched tree. Her long fingers, pale
white against the harsh red, seemed to clench the apple tighter
as it came closer to her mouth. snow White ready to bite into
the poisoned apple.
and that’s when iknew. But it was too late.
Her mouth was opening wide to take a bite, and an instant
before her teeth sank in, a drop of juice fell from the apple. not
the juice of overripe fruit, but blood. Blood, still warm from the
heart it had been pumping through. Her mouth snapped shut,
straight white teeth closing over red. and then everything went
red . . . until the clip started once more.
rubbing my eyes, itried to focus and pull away from the
dream. i’d followed the noise into the front entryway, and now,
looking up, isaw a white box stuck to the wall right above my
head. smoke detector, ithought. But no. those were round
and went beep. this was square and the sound was more like
dingdongdingdongdingdong. at the same time my brain finally
identified the doorbell, three loud knocks made the front door
shake.
after an initial backward jump of surprise, irushed forward to open it, then stopped. iwasn’t supposed to answer
the door, or the phone, or do anything that might put me into
65
direct contact with anyone other than the mom or the dad.
and where was the mom? How long had that doorbell been
ringing? ispun around, expecting to see her only a few steps
behind me. nothing.
Whoever it was knocked again.
it occurred to me that maybe it was the mom. if she wasn’t
inside with me, then the only thing that made any sense was
that she was on the other side of the door, trying desperately
to get back in. Maybe she ran to grab the mail, and had locked
the door behind her. an automatic response. Lock me in. Keep
everyone else out. except now she was locked out.
asmile was on my face, ready to make some small joke, as i
pulled the door open. it fell away almost instantly.
it wasn’t the mom leaning on our doorbell, but rather an
overweight boy with a freckle-covered face and a head of curly
red hair. He didn’t seem to notice that my own smile had been
fleeting as he grinned up at me.
“Hello again, my girl.” the words came out in a silky tone
that didn’t quite match the little-boy pitch of his voice.
“Don’t call me that,” isnapped at him without even meaning
to. the words were automatic, the same way iinstantly answered
“fine” to the mom’s constant query of “you okay, hon?”
He laughed; his round cheeks dimpled and shook in a way
that was oddly sinister. “that’s my girl. and they said you’d
forgotten. Brilliant angle. always were clever.” reaching up, he
66
gently flicked a finger against my cheek. ishivered. “now be a
good girl and tell me where you’ve been the last year. Physician
wouldn’t tell me nothing. Fucking typical, right?”
icouldn’t imagine annaliese being friends with this boy.
He had to be at least two or three years younger than her, but
his manner was so familiar. and he’d mentioned a physician.
Maybe they shared a doctor? that seemed unlikely. He didn’t
act as if he simply knew her, but as if they had a long-standing
relationship. the type where you saw things about someone
that they couldn’t even see about themselves.
“i’m sorry,” isaid, uncertain. “ireally don’t remember.  .  .  .
We’re not . . . are we friends?”
now his smile faltered, although he regained it quickly
enough, along with a hard laugh. “shit. you really can’t remember, can you?”
icould no longer miss the malice in him. Hard eyes stared
out of his soft, round face.
“i’m sorry,” isaid again, no longer caring who he was, only
wanting to get away. Closing the door, iadded, “For whatever
idid.”
He slammed against it, pushing both of us into the house. i
stumbled over my own feet and hit the ground, but he didn’t let
up. He was short but round, and he positioned his considerable
bulk over me, planting a dirty sneaker on my chest.
“What you did? What you did!” the pressure against my
67
chest increased. “What you did was fuck everything up.”
His voice cracked on everything, and ilet out a nervous giggle. His foot slid forward, nudging the base of my chin.
“something funny?”
igave only the slightest shake of my head in reply.
“Good.” His foot eased back slightly, just enough that icould
swallow without him detecting the motion through the tips of
his toes. “’Cause ididn’t think it was funny when you disappeared without a trace in the middle of a switch. and ididn’t
think it was funny when igot a note from the Physician telling me to take this fat little fourteen-year-old and wait. Wait.
those were his fucking instructions. Wait. so i’ve waited. and
waited. nearly a whole damn year i’ve waited. and that hasn’t
been funny either. But what’s really not funny is that you left it
till the last minute. you come back with the clock ticking down
to the last few weeks, and then . . .
“KaBLooey!” He leaned down so his face was in mine. i
shook. He laughed.
“yeah, you don’t remember what happens then. now, that is
funny. But you probably wouldn’t think so. Way iremember it,
you sure weren’t laughing the last time you thought you’d found
a way out. so you better get your next stooge lined up, ’cause i’m
more than ready to be finished with this fat suit.” He looked
down at himself with a sneer of disgust and poked at his round
little belly.
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“Please go away.” icould barely get the words past my trembling lips.
at this his eyes flickered away from me, and then back. it
wasn’t guilt that made him look away. rather, he seemed to be
calculating something.
amoment later, his foot finally lifted from my chest. as it
hung in the air above me, iwondered if he’d decided to kick me
in the face. He was capable of it; ihad been able to feel that right
through the sole of his shoe. instead he knelt beside me. instinctively, ileaned away, but there was nowhere to go. His fat fingers
grabbed the back of my head, twisting into my short hair.
“anna, ilove you. Don’t you remember that? and you love
me. We belong together. We’re the same. you know it. even if
you don’t remember. you know it.”
the switch from fiery vengeance to equally fiery lover left me
blinking at him in surprise. and then his lips were on mine.
His tongue too. Forcing its way in when iopened my mouth to
protest.
ibit down, trapping his tongue between my teeth, hard
enough to draw blood. that tiny bit of blood filled my mouth.
Gagging, iunlocked my jaw. He jerked away, but not quick
enough to miss being splattered by the bile my empty stomach
spewed out.
even after there was nothing left, icontinued retching while my
shaky hands fumbled for the pack of breath strips. icould hear the
69
boy cursing in the background and closed my eyes against him as i
crammed a whole handful of the strips into my mouth, not letting
them melt, but chewing them so that they squeaked and crunched
between my teeth. Pressing my forehead against the cold tile floor,
ifocused on the burn, desperate not to think about the way his
tongue had felt in my mouth. or how horribly familiar the taste of
blood had been. and definitely not about my sneaking suspicion
that this boy didn’t know annaliese at all. that maybe he knew
me. Whoever i’d been before ibecame annaliese.
something bounced off my curled spine, before hitting the
floor beside me with a soft thunk. “We belong together, anna.
always have.” His sneakers scuffed across the floor, away from
me, and then the door closed.
iwas alone.
stumbling to my feet, itwisted the dead bolt and then the
smaller lock on the door handle itself. trembling, isank down
once more. Beside me a bulging manila envelope lay on the floor.
He had left it for me.
Picking it up between two fingers, iflung it across the room.
But a few minutes later, iwas crawling after it, needing to know
what was inside. ishook the contents out. apack of cigarettes
fell first, followed by a lighter. something else was still in there,
wrapped in paper towels and wedged into the bottom of the
envelope. ileft it. the cigarettes were already in my hand, the
cellophane crackling as itapped the box against the palm of 
70
my hand. red letters against a faded white background read
Winston.
“Winston tastes good  .  .  . like a cigarette should.” imurmured the words, not sure where they came from. tearing the
cellophane wrapper away, islid one from the pack. it felt right
perched between the V of two fingers, and even better when i
brought it to my lips in perfect coordination with the flickering
lighter and a deep inhalation to start it burning.
isucked the smoke into my lungs. the acrid tang obliterated
everything else, and this felt right too. the entire ritual, like
a form of meditation. so, iwas a smoker. exhaling, ireached
toward the smoke, trying to snatch it from the air.
no, iwasn’t merely a person who smoked. iwas the smoke
itself. asmoke person. it was real, and it wasn’t. there and then
gone. ashes to ashes. Dirt to dirt. smoke to smoke.
already icould feel myself drifting away.
“not smart for a boy made of wood to take up smoking,” the
mom had said, the second time we watched Pinocchio. it was the
part when they were on Pleasure island. ihad laughed.
the red tip of the cigarette glowed in front of me as i
exhaled a long plume of smoke, and at the same time ipressed
the burning tip against my thigh, an inch above my knee. the
thin flannel of my pajamas burned away too quickly, and then
there was skin.
the pain was real. Vicious. even so, ipressed harder, grinding,
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until it went out. With a hiss of agony ipulled it away, and then
brushed the ashes aside, wanting to see the red-blistered skin
below.
itouched the spot gently with the tip of a finger. it was ugly
and angry and already oozing something viscous and clear.
Perfect.
this would leave a scar. apermanent mark to say: iWas Here.
Boy WitHtHe reDeye
istumbled around. up and down, from one end of the house to
the other. imust have been through the kitchen five or six times
before isaw the note on the table.
Annaliese,
Had a doctor’s appointment this morning..
Wanted to let you sleep, you looked so tired. I
left some waffles and bacon warming in the
oven. Please do not leave the house or open the
door to anyone. Will be home soon.
Love and hugs and  kis ses,
Mom
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there was something about the brevity of the note that bothered me. the mom had given me a shoe box stuffed full of letters
that she’d written to annaliese while she was missing. it was
another suggestion from a shrink. the letters didn’t say much.
Mostly that she missed annaliese and thought about her all
the time. still they managed to ramble. none of them were this
short or to the point. the only part of this note that felt like the
mom was the “love and hugs and kisses” at the end.
ididn’t really care. the important thing was that ihadn’t
been abandoned, and soon the mom would be home. she would
keep that horrible boy away from me. or maybe ishould worry
about keeping him away from her, so he wouldn’t tell her about
the real me. the me stowed away inside of her daughter.
isank to the floor with that thought.
But ididn’t stay there long before getting up again. iwas all
business this time.
turning off the oven, itook the plate of waffles and bacon
out. they were toaster waffles, but she had pretoasted them
for me. For some reason this struck me as funny. ilaughed a
little desperately, even as ishoved the food down the whirring
garbage disposal. after it was gone, idirtied a plate with a few
strategically placed crumbs and a few dots of syrup, and then
placed it in the sink.
Getting rid of the cigarette-smoke smell came next. after
checking several times to make sure there was no sign of the boy,
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iflung the front door open. using it like a giant fan, iswung
it back and forth. When iwas done, the sheer drapes covering
the little window next to the door still stank like smoke if you
stuck your nose right into them, but icould only hope the mom
wouldn’t do that.
My last task was disposing of the manila envelope. islipped
out the back door, intending to bury it in the trash can. the
cigarettes had lost their appeal at the same instant i’d gained a
new scar. But there was something else still there at the bottom
of the envelope. ifeared that wrapped lump. the redheaded boy
wanted to hurt me, that much was certain. the cigarettes were
up-front about their dangers, a warning helpfully printed right
on the package. that made them the lesser danger. the other
thing would hurt more.
i’d had enough hurting; iwanted no part of whatever was at
the bottom of that envelope.
ilifted out a few sacks of trash, until ifound the perfect
one, heavy and reeking with rot. Holding my breath, icarefully untied the bag and eased it open just wide enough to reach
inside. With the envelope clutched in my fist, iplunged my
hand into the heart of the assorted waste.
if ihad uncurled my fingers, and left the envelope there, the
whole thing would’ve been lost in a distant landfill within the
week.
Cursing softly, ijerked my hand back out, and the envelope
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with it. it wasn’t the best time to be indulging my curiosity. it
might’ve been the worst. still, icouldn’t let it go without seeing
what was inside.
itore the envelope apart and stuffed it into the trash bag, and
then the cigarettes and lighter went in too. that left me with a
wad of paper towels, sealed with duct tape.
igave it a squeeze. Layers of softness gave way and then
stopped, where something hard and solid sat at their core.
as istared down at the misshapen lump, red began spreading out from my hand, racing across the paper towels, slowly yet
steadily consuming the white.
Blood. My whole hand was sticky with it.
itore the red parts off, like iwas unwrapping a cursed
mummy, but the blood continued its advance. When the last
bit of paper towel fell away, a single-edged blade folded into a
wooden handle sat in my hand.
irecognized it instantly. this was the blade i’d given annaliese. the one she’d used to cut me open.
names were carved into the wooden handle. the blood still
oozing out around the razor had filled the tiny crevices and outlined them in red. eight names in all. anna began the short list;
annaliese ended it.
the razor slid from my hand and fell to the ground.
only then did inotice the deep cut across my palm. it wasn’t
from the blade tucked away inside the handle. instead, the
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culprit was resting at the top of the trash bag i’d opened—the
jagged tin disk from a can of peas. ihadn’t even felt it slicing my
hand.
“are you okay?”
the question came from a boy. or a man. aman-boy.
His face—the stubble on his cheeks, the lines around his
frowning mouth, the bags beneath his gray eyes—all spoke of
age. But his body, long and gangly, made up of limbs leaning this
way and that, was like a foal just born and stumbling around on
his new legs.
imight’ve smiled at him, despite my bleeding hand and everything else going on, if only to see what he looked like without
the frown. it didn’t fit him. But dangling from the flexed fingers
of one of his long arms was a video camera.
this was the boy from next door. the boy with one red eye,
who liked to record and replay people’s screams.
When he noticed the direction of my gaze, his face went red
beneath his darkly stubbled cheeks. “iwasn’t, imean . . . it’s not
what you think.” He shifted the camera behind a jangling leg.
“okay,” isaid. and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe i’d been wrong
about him. then icould maybe be wrong about myself too.
iwanted to ask him questions and find out for sure, but there
was no time. iheard the sound of the garage door opening. the
mom was home.
swiftly, iscooped the razor off the ground. and in that
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same instant imade a decision.
“Do me a favor?”
Before he could answer, itossed the razor in his direction.
the throw went wide and high but the boy’s free hand snapped
out. Quick as a frog’s tongue catching a fly, he gripped it in his
fist.
“Hold on to that for me, please. Don’t tell anyone you have it.
Don’t show it to anyone. Just keep it for me.”
iheaved the open trash bag into the can, and then turned to
the boy for his response.
His eyes, which had been watching me so intently, skittered
away, focusing on the razor instead.
as iawaited his response, ifelt irrationally anxious, like
i’d just gathered my courage to ask him to the prom. stupid. i
clenched my still-bleeding hand into a fist.
after what felt like an eternity, he looked into my eyes. the
hand holding the razor flew out at me, and ithought he was giving it back. But then the razor slid up his sleeve, leaving him free
to simply offer a handshake.
“i’m Dex.”
not wanting to press my bloody palm against his, iinstead
ran for the back door, calling over my shoulder, “i’m anna.”
it was only after i’d sprinted up the stairs toward the bathroom—jumping into the shower before the water was fully
warm—that my words had time to catch up with me.
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“i’m anna.” that’s what i’d said.
anna was what the redheaded boy had called me too.
anna was the first name on the razor handle.
anna was me.
But how had igone from anna to annaliese? and who were
those other six girls in between?
Hot water poured from the shower and over my head, but
ishivered and shook. no matter how hot iturned the water,
the shakes continued. the burn in my thigh ached, and the
cut across my palm stung every time one of my fingers had the
slightest twitch. Clenching my teeth to keep them from clacking together, istood under the burning stream until the water
went cold.
78
EAVESDROPPING
Dear Annaliese,
I mis s you. I wish I had a place to send this
letter so that you could hear that . . . wherever
you are. But wherever you are, I think (and
hope) that you already know this. I also hope you
can soon find a way to come home. I mis s you. Oh.
I already said that. Well, we both know that
you are the talented writer in the f amily. You r
f ather and I were both so proud when you won the
Poets of Tomor row contest. I know you thought
it was embar ras sing, but I still think it was
beautiful. Maybe wherever you are, you have a bit
of paper and you are writing you r poems and they
are helping to get you through. If you don’ t have
paper, maybe you could compose them in you r head,
79
because you need to get through, Annaliese.
You need to get through, because I am here and
waiting f or you.
Love and hugs and kis ses,
Mom
80
Kiss it
the minute iturned off the shower, before icould even reach
for a towel, the mom was tapping at the door.
“you okay in there, annaliese?”
and just like that. BooM.
“Leave me alone!”
the words tore through my throat, leaving it raw in their
wake. icould almost see them as they pierced the door and hit
their target on the other side. and the mom so defenseless, her
arms constantly held open.
as itoweled off, iheard nothing else. iimagined the mom
knocked over by my words. eventually, she would gather herself
enough to crawl away, lick her wounds in private.
ididn’t give the mom enough credit. this was the same
woman who’d attacked rice sixteen, with her hands curled into
claws. iremembered this as iopened the door to find her standing ready and waiting for me. there were no red and teary eyes,
or trembling lips. she wasn’t angry or prepared with a how-dare
you-speak-to-me-that-way lecture either.
What igot instead was more of the steadfast love and concern that flowed from a seemingly bottomless well.
“i’m sorry, sweetie,  ishouldn’t have left a note. But you
were sleeping, and ididn’t want to wake you. and iknew you
wouldn’t want to be dragged along to the doctor’s. . . .”
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it would’ve been easier if she’d yelled at me. Because that soft
tone brought back the fear i’d felt when i’d woken up.
not today, but the first time. in that little wisp of a building.
and iwas alone.
Where had she been then?
and when annaliese lay in the dirt and dead leaves, losing her virginity. Losing her fantasy of love. Had the mom
thought she was safe in bed? Had she even known annaliese
wasn’t home?
or when annaliese held a hot heart in her hands? the mom
should have been charging through the woods, screaming her
name, and ending the nightmare.
Where the fuck had she been then? Where?
“Maybe idid want to go,” isaid. no, ishouted it—right into
the mom’s face. “you didn’t tell me because you don’t want to
let me out of this house. you want to keep me a prisoner here.”
it wasn’t what imeant to say. iwanted to tell her to never
let me go. to let her know she’d allowed the redheaded boy in,
and iwas afraid of him. iwas afraid of everything. except at the
same time that iwanted her to be my shield, ialso wanted to
push her away. it was like when she was there, ihad to breathe
for both of us. or maybe it was her trying to breathe for me.
either way, there wasn’t enough air.
the mom’s hand went to her eyes. not to brush away a tear,
but to pluck at her eyelashes, pulling a few small hairs loose. 
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it seemed to focus her.
“annaliese, you are not a prisoner. if you wanted to leave the
house, why didn’t you say so?”
she was so calm. so reasonable. it was absolutely maddening.
“iam a prisoner. you know iam. you won’t let me go to
school, you won’t even let me check the mail by myself.”
she flinched, caught by this undeniable truth. it wasn’t
enough. not yet. she needed to know that she’d hurt me.
“this isn’t a house. it’s a tomb. you brought me home to bury
me in here. and iwon’t. iwon’t.”
the mom shook like my words were an earthquake. she still
wasn’t running though.
“annaliese, sweetie. that’s not—”
“iwon’t,” isaid again, interrupting her.
she threw her hands up. “you won’t what? What is it you
won’t do?”
ihonestly didn’t know. I won’t and you can’t make me. that
was the whole of it. But ihad to give some answer, and so iheld
up my palm, showing the mom my wounded hand.
she gasped as if my pain was her own. and it was only when
she pulled me to her in a trembling hug, her cheek pressed against
mine so that our tears ran together, that irealized. this was what
ihad wanted the whole time. ihadn’t wanted to hurt the mom.
i’d only been waiting for her to kiss it and make it better.