Astley’s voice is calm but strong, a current all in itself. “I just need you to trust me. We are a team, Zara. You have all our people behind you and—”
“And us,” Issie adds. Her arms cross in front of her parka and she rocks forward on her toes. But does “us” include Nick anymore? I don’t know.
“This is a rather large development. It calls for an emergency meeting,” Astley says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll contact Amelie and Becca. Call Devyn and Cassidy. Please have Devyn research as quickly as possible.”
Issie and I give each other a look.
“He’s already been researching,” she says. “And Nick? Should we tell him?”
“Is he stable?” He looks up from his phone.
The word makes no sense, so I repeat it. “Stable?”
“As in mentally sound?” Astley clarifies.
“I think so. He’s back from the dead. He’s not in need of medication or anything.” Pain wells up inside my stomach, but something else does too. It’s a little knot of willpower or strength or something.
Astley nods. I let Issie text Nick because he obviously doesn’t want me to have anything to do with him anymore. We all agree to meet up at the Maine Grind, this little coffee shop on Main Street that’s all orange and purple funkiness. As soon as Astley leaves, Issie climbs into the truck and puts her hand on my arm.
“It’ll be okay, Issie. Whatever those giant things mean, it’ll be okay,” I say as I turn on the ignition.
“That’s not it. I mean, yeah, I’m freaked, but I wanted to tell you something.” She pulls her hat down a little lower over her ears, but her door is still wide open.
“About Nick?”
She shakes her head. “About Astley.”
I wait for it. People straggle to their cars. The parking lot is so empty.
“He’s in love with you.” She watches my face and says all mock angry, “Do not roll your eyes at me, young lady. He is. And it isn’t some weird I-am-a-pixie-king-and-you’re-my-queen love. It’s like Willow and Tara kind of love, like Spock and Kirk, like Jack and Kate on Lost, like Princess Leia and Han Solo or Olivia and Peter on Fringe.”
I have no clue about half of the characters she is referencing, so I close my eyes and lean my head on the steering wheel. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Because of Nick?”
I shrug. “Not even that. Because everything is insane. Because there are giants in the woods, monsters in closets, the end of the world waiting to happen. Boys do not matter now. Surviving matters.”
She shuts the door, keeping out the cold air. “Zara White, since when has love ever not mattered?”
BEDFORD FIRE DEPARTMENT
Personnel responded to a reported fire in the woods near Bedford High School. Evidence of a fire was apparent, but the state fire warden will have to investigate due to no obvious incendiary devices in area. If you have information, please contact the office.
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I have to drop off Issie at her house so her mom can verify she’s in one piece and force her to do her homework for an hour. Then we all meet at the Maine Grind on Main Street. Main Street in Bedford is two blocks of mostly two-storied brick buildings, half of which are closed down with giant FOR LEASE signs on them. Insurance companies dominate one end. The other end has retail shops, nonfactory stores, a health food store, the Grand Theater, a diner, and the Maine Grind. The coffee shop used to be the Masonic temple and the new owner has tried to liven up the steady squareness of it by painting the pillars by the door purple and orange and funkifying the bricks with gold-foil stuff.
Cassidy and I drive over together and the whole way she keeps her hand on my forearm. I know this is her way of “reading” me, which is basically her psychic energy trying to see things through my energy. This sounds hokey, but it’s actually pretty cool. Cassidy’s whisper-small voice makes me turn the music way down because I don’t want to miss anything she says. Right now it seems like she wants to say something important but can’t gather up enough courage to do so. The cue to knowing this is how she keeps opening and closing her mouth.
It’s not till I’ve made my fifth attempt at parallel parking Betty’s truck that Cass inhales so loudly it makes me look at her. Tears are peeking out the corners of her eyes.
“What is it?” I ask, putting the truck in park and double-checking that there’s enough space behind the hybrid in front of me. “Cassidy?”
She doesn’t answer, just slowly moves her hand off my forearm and clasps it in her other hand, almost like it hurts her or something. “I don’t want to tell you.”
“Cass,” I try again as her braids swing down, obscuring her face. I move them to the side and kind of hold them there so I can see her eyes. “What is it?”
Every motion she makes is tired, slow, like an elderly arthritic woman’s or someone who has the flu. Her eyes meet my gaze and I swallow hard because her eyes are so terribly, terribly sad.
“Death.”
“Mine?”
She nods.
I want to drop her braids. I want to scream in frustration or run or hide or something, but I just sit there and wait despite the fact that it feels like my stomach has transformed itself into a giant glob of mud.
Instead of doing any of that drama-queen stuff, I say, “Do you have any details?”
“They are horrible.”
Snow trucks down out of the sky. Sometimes I forget to notice it—all the coldness, the way it’s like a shroud. I notice it now.
“Tell me anyway, Cass,” I say as the car engine makes a funny clicking noise, which is weird since I turned it off already. I don’t understand cars. “I can take it, Cass. If you saw it, you saw it for a reason, so just tell me, okay? It’ll be okay.”
My reassurance sort of works, I think, because she nods fiercely like she’s summoning up her will for real this time.
“There’s blood. You’re in Astley’s arms and he’s burning too, but just wounded, and you aren’t you anymore. Curtains fall down.” She closes her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you.”
“No,” I offer. “No. You should. We need to know anything we can about what’s happening. Any hints are good, even if it’s a bad hint, you know?”