Bad Creek, page 18
And Glory’s killer wasn’t a someone. But a something.
“Unfortunately, in this world, you can’t have your way all the time,” Grandpa continued, before clearing his throat. Gum braced himself for an unsolicited Bible verse. “Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own. That’s from Corinthians.”
“It’s a good one.”
There was a Bible verse to justify anything. Usually Grandpa preferred the ones he could make about family values eroding and the culture taking over. His children and grandchildren would nod and thank him for his unsolicited wisdom. But others fought him on it.
Once, Gum had overhead Rex fighting Grandpa over his impromptu sermons. Glory had been holding Gum hostage on Cabin 4’s porch, having him pose for a portrait. She’d made him take his hat off after she’d started over three times.
“Can you not draw hats?” Gum had teased.
“It’s just ruining the composition,” Glory answered. Serious.
Glory could never admit defeat.
“So you’re just going to sit by?” Grandpa’s voice had bellowed. He was standing over Rex, refilling his pontoon boat with gas at the marina. Gum couldn’t help but glance toward them. He was supposed to keep his eyes on the horizon. Glory always got mad when he fidgeted while she was drawing.
“They’re taking over churches,” Grandpa went on. “I passed one on my drive with a sign that said it was LGBTXYZ friendly. Nothing is sacred!”
“Can’t say it bothers me,” said Rex. “Plenty of real problems in this country. Gas is up five cents from yesterday. It used to be five cents a gallon.”
“I remember that. And you and I both remember when this was the America our Founding Fathers fought to free. There’s a holy war in our nation. What side will our children take if we don’t lead them?”
Rex cranked the motor of his boat. He must have said something to rile Grandpa up, because Grandpa had stormed off, gotten in the Caddy, and left the Landings entirely. When he was gone, Glory said, “I don’t know how you can stand to listen to him say homophobic shit all the time.” She blew on her sketchbook to get rid of pencil shavings. Meaning she was finished. Gum was free to move.
“He doesn’t know he’s talking about me,” he said.
“But you know he is.”
Ouch. That wasn’t something he tried to linger on. He had to compartmentalize himself to survive, while she could be one hundred percent Glory Garren one hundred percent of the time. She didn’t get it. She couldn’t get it, yet Glory was turning this into a sermon of her own. She was always teasing him for not being brave enough. It was so unfair.
“Well, outing myself isn’t gonna change his mind,” he said, in a whisper. But then he got madder as he spoke, and couldn’t help but raise his voice. “It’s not just him. My uncle’s even worse, honestly. And I’m not exactly the representation that’ll de-bigot-ify any of them. What do you expect me to do?”
Glory blinked. Once. Twice. It was rare he fought back on her Big Sister lectures.
“I don’t have an answer,” she had said, finally. “I’m just really sorry. That’s all.”
So Glory Garren, the Girl Who Knew Everything, the Girl Who Could Do Anything, had admitted defeat. It hardly felt like victory. Gum’s throat had tightened and he knew tears were on their way any second.
Because if Glory didn’t have an answer, he was surely fucked.
She had closed the sketchbook and scooted onto the bench beside him. “I’m here for you,” she’d said, putting her arm on his shoulder. “We all are. I know you say you don’t care what they think, but how could you not? No matter what they believe, there’s nothing wrong with you. You don’t have to prove you’ve earned the right to exist.”
* * *
Grandpa parked outside the mansion and headed toward the garden. Gum had to speed-walk to keep up with the older man’s long strides.
The garden was massive; a magazine had even featured it a few years ago. Grandma Betty loved to brag about it. Daylilies were her flowers of choice, all in organized sections, labeled with their scientific names and their nicknames. Frilly yellow Buttered Popcorns, fluffy pink Strawberry Candies, and blood-red Ruby Spiders with spindly petals.
Grandma Betty had died only a few years after they’d built this house, but she’d always been in the background, pouring sweet tea, wearing long dresses and straw hats. If Grandpa missed her, he didn’t show it. Just like he never spoke about his drowned fiancée. That would be tacky.
“Have to trim the dead,” Grandpa said. Two sets of pruning shears rested on a wrought-iron table. Using one, Grandpa clipped off a wilted Ruby Spider by the neck before chucking it into a bucket. It bled a watery purple, staining his hands.
“To help new ones grow back, right?” Gum asked. He had to show that he cared; that he also considered this an engaging bonding activity. That he was super-excited to prune a garden that would never belong to him.
“Yes. The plant is healthier once we remove the dead and the dying.”
Grandpa chucked more flower guts in the bucket.
“So,” he continued. “I heard you had some trouble with Mr. Bowers?”
Gum nearly dropped the pruning shears. He had assumed Grandpa didn’t know about that. By the time he’d hit middle school, Grandpa had stopped monitoring his grades, so he’d thought he was safe to do as he pleased—as long as he didn’t get suspended.
But Grandpa had his hands in everything. Even though he lived in Michigan full-time now, he still had contacts in his home state. He knew all of Gum’s teachers. He’d probably gone golfing with his chemistry teacher, Mr. Bowers. He probably sent him the Clavey Christmas cards every year.
Gum tasted blood in his mouth. He clipped off another flower. Oops. That was a live one.
“I didn’t get in trouble, no,” he finally said. He wasn’t claiming innocence, not really. Causing trouble and getting in trouble were technically two different things.
There had been no formal inquiry because Mr. Bowers couldn’t prove anything. He’d just happened to find a few toilets on his lawn and four of his least favorite students running away from them. He’d given descriptions to the police, and yeah, Gum was the only boy in his school with hair that long, but Mr. Bowers had nothing on camera and the incident had occurred off-campus. Nothing came out of it, and that had made the man more bitter. But honestly, if Mr. Bowers hadn’t wanted to get toilet-bombed, he should have given out bathroom passes like all the other teachers did.
Surprisingly, Grandpa laughed. A big belly laugh that sounded like it hurt. He cleared his throat, pulled a new cigar from his shirt pocket, and lit the end of it. “Of course you didn’t get in trouble. I talked to Mr. Bowers on your behalf.”
Then he handed Gum the cigar. First beer, now tobacco. Was this how Bill Clavey introduced his sons into the men’s club? Was Hudson first because he was a few months older, and now it was Gum’s turn to endure a rite of passage?
Gum took the cigar but didn’t put it to his lips. He wasn’t sure how to smoke it anyway. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to try. “How’d you know I didn’t do it?”
“I assumed you did it. I hoped you did it. Jerry Bowers has earned worse things than a few unwanted commodes on his lawn.”
The prank hadn’t even been Gum’s idea; he’d had no idea what was happening when he got in the car with the senior boys. But Chase Wiley promised they wouldn’t get caught, and Gum had a hopeless crush on him, so he’d gone along with it. He wasn’t sure if taking credit now would do him any favors. This could be another test, just like with archery.
“Yeah, but he’s my teacher . . .” Gum trailed off, still waiting for Grandpa to utter, Gotcha! He couldn’t believe this was the same man who had ranted about respecting authority twenty minutes ago.
Grandpa laughed again. Who knew Bill Clavey could laugh like that? “He ought not to be. Always had a chip on his shoulder. Took it out on your uncles. Not everyone is fit to be in his position. Being a leader is not a right. It’s a privilege that must be earned. Pay careful attention to yourselves and to all the flock, in which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers,” Grandpa added. “Do you know what that means? Only shepherds deserve a flock. And not every man is a shepherd. Mr. Bowers enacts strict policies on his students because he’s a spineless worm of a man. You were right to remind him of that.”
Gum’s jaw hung open. He knew he ought to say something, but he wasn’t sure if he had accidentally slipped into a new hallucination. Grandpa liked tradition, which had to mean liking authority too. He blabbered on and on about respect and family values. But maybe he had more of a rebel in him than Gum assumed. Maybe, with some time, his politics had softened. Maybe, someday, he wouldn’t even mind a gay grandson.
“Thanks,” Gum managed.
“You have good character. Sometimes the right thing to do isn’t obvious. Sometimes it’s unpopular. Sometimes it’s even painful.”
So Gum wasn’t as invisible as he thought. Grandpa was waiting for him to prove himself on his own. And he had done it. Grandpa didn’t suddenly care because Hudson messed up; it was because Gum had risen to the occasion.
As Gum clamped the shears around another Ruby Spider, it wiggled around as if trying to free itself from his grasp. He hadn’t noticed it before, but this flower had no petals. It had fingers. Fingers with chipped nail polish. And Gum’s shears were digging into flesh and a braided green friendship bracelet. Glassy brown eyes looked at him from where the roots should be.
Gum dropped the shears, and the arm flopped lifelessly to the ground. The flower was already dead, but the girl shouldn’t have been. She was the wrong Garren.
Grandpa launched into a monologue while Gum’s heart beat against his rib cage. Why was he seeing Iris now?
“Your generation is so passive,” Grandpa rambled. “They want to sit on their phones and be spoon-fed how to think. They’ll witness. They’ll watch, but they won’t do anything.”
“Yeah,” Gum said. It came out as a quick, hot breath. His hands were shaking, and he had to swallow to keep vomit from escaping.
“Every generation drifts further from the light, but that doesn’t mean all is lost. There’s always hope, as long as you don’t accept defeat.”
Gum couldn’t accept what his eyes were presenting him with. This couldn’t be Iris’s corpse among the flowers.
Yet, those were Iris’s eyes, her Prince T-shirt. Her lips parted in a scream. Skin sapped of color.
“Go ahead,” whispered the horse voice in his ear.
It wasn’t Glory. It never had been. She was too sure of herself and had a habit of steamrolling over people, but she wasn’t vindictive. That self-assuredness meant she didn’t seek revenge. She’d let others’ jealousy eat them alive. She didn’t need to lift a finger to punish her enemies. And Iris wasn’t her enemy. Gum wasn’t either.
Who the fuck are you? Gum asked it.
The thing pretending to be Glory laughed in his head. “And who are you without a shepherd to follow, little lamb?”
His ears rung. His head felt heavy. He knew now that it would force him if he didn’t relent. And Grandpa was staring at the shears in Gum’s hand. Waiting.
There was only one option: Gum imagined Iris was still a flower, grabbed her cold wrist, and snipped it off.
Chapter 26 Iris
They arrived at the Dollhouse at nine because Glory always showed up at least an hour after a party started. Savi Traxler greeted them by the road. She wore a bright purple minidress and huge hoop earrings longer than her hair. She looked oddly modern in front of her Victorian house with its delicate lace trimmings.
“Babe!” Savi hugged Iris. Her breath already hinted of alcohol. “You look so cute!”
Iris looked like an imposter.
She was pretty sure the sleeves of her red top were cutting off circulation in her arms and she had already stepped on the long skirt twice.
The sun was about to set, and it still hadn’t gotten any cooler. But she had to resist the urge to tie up her curls. She would have to deal with her shoulders feeling too hot, the itchy makeup melting off her face.
The night when Glory had died was the hottest night in Bad Creek ever. According to the weathermen on the radio, this year’s third of July would match the record. Another good sign.
“What highlighter are you wearing?” Savi asked. “Your skin is glowing!”
“Um, thanks. It’s sweat.”
“You’re hilarious.” Savi looked past Iris and gave a little wave. “Hello, boys.”
Gum said hello back, and Aidan looked around nervously, waiting for the sky to fall.
Savi deserted them once they were all inside, going off to find out who had control of the speakers. Apparently the lo-fi beats were “too depressing,” as if throwing a party on this night weren’t depressing enough.
Every room inside the Dollhouse had some sort of nautical mascot: glass dolphins in the entryway, lobsters on the pillows in the living room. If Iris remembered correctly, the bathroom downstairs had towels with smiling otters and soap dispensers shaped like seashells. She could imagine Mrs. Traxler picking out the colors for the walls based on their names at the paint store—Salmon, Lemonade, Pearl. All happy pastels, like the clothes the Traxlers wore golfing. A cluster of party guests were gathered around the kitchen counter, adorned with glittering seafoam-colored quartz turtles.
“So, is this about how that night started?” Iris asked Aidan.
“Yeah. It’s creepy, like we’re back in time.”
Good. The more similar, the better. If Iris relived the night like Glory had, the veil between them would be easier to lift. Hopefully, she’d receive a vision while awake, this time. And she wouldn’t run into any danger as long as her friends were around.
Iris had asked Aidan that afternoon to give her a play-by-play of that night, so she could retrace Glory’s steps, but he claimed it was all a blur. He’d blocked out that whole thing. For him, it was too painful to remember. That made sense. Her moms didn’t say Glory’s name. It would have made sense if Iris was also too afraid to look back.
Instead, she felt hungry. Ravenous for the truth.
Gum pulled away from them, headed to a giant clear jug of red liquid on the counter where kids way older than them were pouring the contents into plastic cups. These must have been Savi’s brother’s friends. Iris hardly recognized anyone here. They weren’t regulars, they weren’t even tourists. They were whoever had the cash to travel on short notice because Savi and Graham Traxler snapped their fingers.
The crowd was already sloppy, chugging their drinks and pulling their friends toward the hot tub, the beer pong table, the bathroom to throw up. No one gave Iris a double-take, but she still felt . . . exposed. Just like she had when she lingered near that house in the woods.
“So, what did you guys do first?” Iris had to scream it for Aidan to hear. The music had gotten louder, faster. The bass vibrated in her ears.
Aidan’s eyes darted around as if he were counting all his exit options.
“I don’t know. I kinda need to piss,” he said, then he was gone too, pushing through the sea of college kids.
Iris should wait there, for Gum to come back with the mystery punch, for Aidan to come back with an empty bladder. Clearly, they hadn’t gotten the memo about staying focused. And staying together.
Iris straightened her back. Glory wouldn’t have desperately clung to her friends. She would have found the biggest cluster of strangers, slid in, and regaled them with a story. Or she would have snatched a napkin and doodled until she’d have summoned her own crowd, who would watch as she effortlessly drew portraits of onlookers.
But Iris didn’t possess those powers. And she didn’t know how to begin to fake it.
She started walking aimlessly, so she wouldn’t look stupid standing by herself in the middle of the room. She dodged a vape cloud and smacked directly into someone’s chest.
“Sorry!” She stumbled away and looked up, right into the eyes of Hudson Clavey.
He gazed at her with curiosity, as if she were a hummingbird, something small and quick that he wanted to observe without scaring away. Her heart was beating like a hummingbird’s too. Maybe she should have drunk something to slow it down.
He was one of the only people in the room without a cup in hand and a friend beside him. Just like her.
“Iris.” His Southern accent slipped on her name. Eye-russ. He said it slowly, unsure. Probably because she hardly looked like herself. Her lashes were goopy with mascara, and her mouth was an overwhelming shade of red.
“You don’t strike me as a party person,” Hudson said.
“I’m not.” That wasn’t a very Glory response. Iris should have said something else. She had forgotten her lines, but the show wasn’t stopping.
“Me neither,” Hudson said. “I’m convinced no one actually likes parties. They’re supposed to like them.”
“You don’t like bass so loud your ears bleed?” Iris joked. “God, what a loser.”
Hudson flashed a smile, exposing a dimple on his left cheek that absolutely did not help calm Iris’s racing pulse. “If your lifelong dream isn’t becoming a Beer Pong God, you’re hopeless.”
She looked around. No sign of the boys. “If you hate parties so much” she began, “why are you here?”
“Keeping an eye on things.”
“You mean keeping an eye on me?”
“Well, can’t say you’re hard to look at.” He gave her another dimpled grin. She wondered if he could hear her heart about to explode. But he was probably only saying that because she looked like Glory.
“So if you could be anywhere else right now, where would you be?” he added.
She didn’t have an answer for that. Even when she asked herself WWGD (What would Glory do), nothing came to mind.
“Usually I’d say the only place I want to be is here. Not, like, waiting on the keg stand competition to start; I mean Bad Creek.” The words tumbled out as she thought them. She almost forgot Hudson was the one who’d asked her the question. “The whole year, like every year, I was waiting to come back, like I was on pause until this one week in the summer.”
