“Sometimes the whys aren’t knowable,” Nick says, tossing a tissue into the garbage. “So you just have to ignore the whys, and just focus on what is and move on.”
I wonder if he’s talking about the murder attempt or about us.
WEEKLY REPORT: 12/14 TO 12/21
TROOP/UNIT: Troop J
ITEMS OF INTEREST TO LOCAL AGENCIES:
12/16: Trooper Barnard responded to multiple reports of a tiger seen roaming in the area adjacent to Leonard Lake. Failed to locate.
After the training, even though I’m still sore from saving Astley and feel like total crud, Issie and I do the task that everyone hates. That’s because the worst part of killing pixies isn’t actually the killing, which is what I used to think. Believe it or not, you get used to the sickening feeling of bones breaking or blood spilling onto the snow or onto your nice flats, your favorite flats. You get used to the responsibility of causing death, which seems horrible, and let’s face it: it is horrible. Still, that’s not the worst of it. The worst part of killing pixies is getting rid of the bodies.
We head to the river and pull down the back bumper of Grandma Betty’s truck. Issie holds the legs of a now-dead pixie man. He’s heroin-user skinny and wearing dad jeans, which are pulled up way too high. It’s like a casting director got two parts confused and made a mishmash character called Heroin-Using, Minivan-Driving Dad. Although in the credits it would probably be called Dead Evil Pixie #5.
As she stumbles beneath his weight, Issie’s hair curls out from under her rainbow hat and she is shin deep in snow.
I hold the arms and shoulders and say, “On three. One … two … three!”
We throw him up and into the water. His body splashes into the dark gray river and sinks. Soon he will melt away like a marshmallow that’s been sitting in hot chocolate too long. The water will take him. Astley told us that the bodies will become one with the water and the authorities won’t find them, not ever. I cross my fingers that he’s right about that as we go back to my grandmother’s truck and take another body out from under the tarp, trudging through the snow.
“You know,” Issie says, “I wish they were vampires. In TV shows vampires always explode or disintegrate. It seems so much easier for cleanup.”
“Even the exploding?”
“Yep, just a little vacuuming up the dust, maybe a Clorox bleach wipe, and you’re done.”
“That would be nice,” I admit. “This is a better workout, though. On three. One … two … three!”
We send a pixie girl splashing into the water. I recognize her from an earlier attack at a school dance. Nick killed her this morning, tearing her throat out as she stalked Paul Rasku leaving his house for the Y. I had let her go from the dance with a warning. I’m still soft even now that I’ve turned into one of them.
Issie’s arms shake from the exertion. It’s too much for her muscles. We’ll have to make sure she doesn’t get stuck doing this duty again, but she’s not the best fighter and it seemed safer somehow.
The feeling comes back—cold, deathly, like someone is watching me. I pivot a full three hundred and sixty degrees, scanning the parking lot, the river, the old Community Health and Counseling building off to one side, the harbormaster’s office off to the other. Nothing. I sniff and get only the faintest smell of death mixed with vanilla bean.
We hike back to the truck, secure the tarp with rocks so it won’t blow away, and climb into the cab. I turn the heat on full blast so Issie doesn’t freeze.
“We just threw bodies into a river,” she says.
“I know.” I put the truck in drive and edge it forward. I’m not too comfortable with driving it, so I take it slowly.
She pulls off her hat, revealing crazy hair frizz. Some of it actually sticks to the roof of the cab because of all the static electricity.
“It’s just I know that this whole keep-people-safe-from-evil-pixies thing is of ‘vital importance.’“She actually makes air quotes around the words “vital importance” and then continues, “But I would like to have a conversation without the words ‘death,’ ‘corpses,’ ‘bodies,’ or ‘end of the world’ in it, you know? And I’d like to be able to leave the house without my mom giving me pepper spray and taping knives to my forearm and acting like she’s never going to see me again.”
I pull the truck out onto the main road. “‘End of the world’ is a phrase, Is, it’s not just a word.”
We trundle toward Mike’s, this corner store that’s not actually on a corner. I pull into the parking lot of Mike’s Store.
“Thank you, Miss Nitpicky,” she says, and out of nowhere goes, “Just remember at the end of the day it isn’t boys that matter. It’s your friends that matter.”
“And whether or not you stop the apocalypse.”
“Yeah,” she says, leaning her head back into the headrest and closing her eyes for a second. “That too.”
Mike’s Store is small and sort of claustrophobic. It’s known for having a penny candy section where you scoop candy out of glass jars, which is very retro. The other end of the square store has a little deli, which, according to Betty, is Food Poisoning Central. There are about three rows of wooden shelving with canned goods, dog food, and tampons. That sort of thing. A lot of stuff is covered with a thin layer of dust. Someone once said that’s all people are: dust. But I can’t believe that’s true. I think we have souls and energy and that goes on even after our bodies die. Valhalla sort of proved that, actually, right? Still, the dust gives me a creepy feeling.
“Zare?” Issie nudges me with her hip as I stand there motionless in front of the spaghetti sauce. There are two options squeezed in between diapers and boxes of macaroni and cheese. One is Ragú. Nick loves Ragú.
“Yeah …” The word leaves my mouth super slowly. “I’m fine. Just … just tired of spaghetti, you know? And that whole draining-my-soul-energy thing last night to save Astley. I am fine.”
She studies my face like she knows I’m lying. She throws her arm around my shoulders and gives me a one-armed bro hug since we’re both carrying things. The door to the store opens, making a jingly bell noise. I can smell it’s a pixie. Pushing Issie behind me, I stand up as straight as I can to see over the rows of flour and sugar and Maxwell House coffee. The moment I see him, I relax. I even smile.