Locked Inside (17 page)

She thought about it and found that she didn’t. She couldn’t. She shrugged again.

“Don’t you like yourself?” demanded the Elf.

Marnie stared at him. It was not a question that had ever occurred to her. She knew that no one—except Skye—had ever liked her.

Of course, you’ve never let anyone close enough to find out
, whispered the Sorceress.

It was as if the Elf read her mind. “I didn’t ask about whether other people liked you. I asked if you liked yourself.”

Marnie’s mouth twisted. “Yes,” she said. “I mean, I’m not perfect, but … yeah.” Her voice strengthened. “Yeah. I like myself. I believe in myself. I don’t care that I’m not the same as everyone else.”

The Elf nodded. “What I actually believe is that everybody is truly strange, unique, if you look closely. But most people are desperate to hide it. Desperate to blend in, to not be noticed. So they play all these games … do what they think other people want them to do and say what they think other people want them to say; don’t even dare
feel
what they really feel. Especially kids our age, you know? God forbid anybody should stick out. You
know what I’m saying?” The Elf’s stubbled head bobbed with intensity.

Almost against her will, Marnie found herself drawn into what the Elf was saying. He was so passionate. She felt as if she were listening to some kind of manifesto. The Elf philosophy. And he wasn’t wrong. Marnie thought of Jenna Lowry and her gaggle of friends. And then of Jenna—a different Jenna—crying. She wondered, unexpectedly, if Jenna felt misunderstood by her friends. If she ever felt alone …

“Yeah,” she said, and heard with surprise that her voice had strength again. “I know what you’re saying.”

“I’m not interested in blending in,” continued the Elf, “and I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t even try, no matter what it cost.” His expression had gone a little defiant. A little proud. A little—shy? Vulnerable? No, that couldn’t be.

“And you,” said the Elf. “You don’t try to blend in either, Marn. Even online, you stuck out. In person …” He made a vague hand motion, and Marnie found her own hand at her cheek. She thought of her makeup, her hair. Blend in? Fat chance.

“I think maybe my reasons were—are—different from yours,” she said.

The Elf leaned forward. “A lot different?”

It was suddenly easy to share. “There was never any hope of my blending in,” Marnie said simply. “Skye, you know. Once I figured that out, I went the other way. Flaunted it. It just seemed like the thing to do.”

Looking thoughtful, the Elf nodded. “I can see that.” Then he said abruptly, “Did you know you’re one of the most popular topics of discussion in the Paliopolis chat rooms? Nobody could figure you out, but they loved trying. Did you ever lurk and listen? Under another name, maybe?”

Marnie stared.

“I guess not,” said the Elf. “You were always playing. Even the Dungeon Master said he didn’t have a clue who you were. And you never chatted with anyone. It was always business with you. It was always the game.”

Marnie’s mind was spinning. Other people weren’t in Paliopolis for the game alone? That was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard! They went there to
chat?
About
what?
They didn’t know each other! And what were they doing talking about
her?
And the Elf …

Finally Marnie said slowly, “You don’t seem like a gamer to me, Elf. You did in Paliopolis, of course. But in person … something’s just not right.”

“I was doing research,” said the Elf. “On online communities. Paliopolis was just one of them.”

“But—you were playing. And you’re not bad … you were actually getting frighteningly good. And you spent a lot of time there this spring….”

“I got interested,” said the Elf. All at once he blushed. Fiercely. And Marnie couldn’t help it: she thought of the fifteen e-mails she would never read. She looked away. Toward the door.

And then,
at
the door.

And at the door frame.

At the way the door fit—or rather, was currently
not
fitting—in the door frame.

The Elf was talking. Marnie reached behind her and seized his arm. Hard.

“Hey!” he said. “Marn—”

Her hand tightened, and she cut her eyes toward him. “Shhh!” she mouthed. With her other hand, she pointed. The Elf stilled as he saw what she did. They had not broken the door, but nevertheless—

It was an inch ajar.

Someone had opened it.

T
he Elf’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Recovering, he mouthed, “Is someone out there?” and Marnie moved her free hand in an I-don’t-know gesture. She supposed, however, that Leah was eavesdropping—most likely accompanied by her gun. She could tell that this was what the Elf thought as well. Together they mouthed, “Leah?”

The air suddenly pulsed with renewed possibilities. And, of course, with immediate danger. Abruptly Marnie felt her heart rate triple. She pulled breath deeply into her lungs. This is it, she thought. The location of the door, and the angle of the opening, meant whoever was out there could not see them. Could not see the cot at all. Could only hear.

This was their chance. Maybe their only chance.

Marnie said aloud, in a voice that sounded nearly normal, “So, what made you interested in researching
online communities?” and saw that for a split second the Elf thought she had finally snapped under the pressure. But then his lashes flickered in comprehension, and he began babbling rather fluently about advanced placement psychology. Marnie couldn’t help wasting a moment on the reflection that it figured: She got treated like a criminal for hanging out online, while the Elf called it independent study and got academic credit.

The Elf was frowning a question at Marnie, and she shrugged. It didn’t need saying. The Elf was disabled. If anybody was going to tiptoe over to the door, slam it fully open, and do … well, whatever next seemed to be the thing to do—it would have to be Marnie. She gestured,
You stay here!
to the Elf and let go of his arm, only then becoming aware that she’d been clutching it the way a child clutches a doll in the dark. She hoped she hadn’t hurt him. She further hoped that between now and the door, inspiration would strike. She eased quietly to her feet—

—And the Elf grabbed her arm, arresting her. “Amazingly, it turns out there are interesting parallels between sites that are organized around chat and gaming communities like Paliopolis,” he expounded wildly. As Marnie turned an incredulous face on him—had he lost it?—he used her for partial leverage to struggle to his feet beside her, all the while continuing to speak.

Then, entirely predictably, he staggered. Marnie used the moment to let him know in no uncertain terms—it was amazing how much you could say in silence, by scowling and baring your teeth—that he
would only get in the way. In
her
way. He snarled right back, flailing his left hand to indicate that nothing and no one was keeping him in this room. Marnie wished ferociously that this was Paliopolis and she could bespell him to freeze where he stood. Or better yet, club him over the head.

They were wasting time. She mouthed, “Trust me, you idiot,” wrenched herself free of him, and launched into a silent, rapid stalk toward the door. Just short of it, she reached out without thinking and grabbed up Yertle by its handle, moving it into position before her. As she did so she heard the Elf’s prattle falter for a second before continuing: “… irrepressible social bonding instinct of nearly all humans in any circumstances …”

She had no idea if he was following her. She hoped he wasn’t. She wished at the very least she had watched more kung fu movies.

She kicked the door hard, with her left foot. It slammed open.

And bounced back. Marnie caught it with her foot before it slammed shut.

There was no other sound. No gasp or hiss from Leah. No crack of wild, spontaneous gunfire. No sound to indicate the direction in which Marnie should aim the contents of the bucket.

Nothing.

Perplexed, Marnie glanced over her shoulder at the Elf. He’d made it halfway across the room. She saw him shrug at the same moment that she felt her own shoulders move identically.

She swiveled her head back, listening hard to the ringing emptiness, and took three seconds to think.
It was probably already too late. Leah was probably out there, holding her gun, aiming it at the door. If Marnie stepped through it … But they couldn’t stay here. Her plan … well. She clutched Yertle. Her plan was to face Leah and win. Somehow.

Marnie kicked the door again and raced through as it slammed open. But at the moment she crossed the threshold, she knew. The skin stretching over her entire body stood at attention and told her. She stopped dead. She stood still and looked around, as if to confirm what she was already certain of.

“Elf,” she said after a moment. She spoke in a whisper, but knew her voice was clear enough to be heard. “Elf, she’s not out here.”

The Elf had already hobbled to the doorway. Marnie cast one last disbelieving look around before putting down Yertle and going to assist him. He shrugged off her hand, however, and leaned against the wall. He too scanned the room in puzzled astonishment. “What the … ?”

“Leah opened it and left?” Marnie asked dubiously. But it seemed the only possible explanation. The door had been firmly locked. Had she come to her senses? Were they expected to leave quietly?

Or was Leah waiting at the top of the stairs with her gun? Marnie could think of no earthly reason why she would do that … but …

The Elf said hoarsely, “Marn, I have no clue anymore. Is she letting us go?”

Marnie’s eyes wandered to the stairs and then back to the Elf.

He too was now looking thoughtfully at the stairs. Then he surveyed the room, his eyes stopping
on the pile of two-by-fours. “I guess it’s time for us to split up,” he said. “You have to be the one to go upstairs.”

“Yeah,” said Marnie. She had come to the same conclusion. It was the logical way to proceed. Still, she blinked once, hard, and then felt her whole body shudder.

“You want a piece of wood?” said the Elf, nodding at the two-by-fours. “In case you need to, uh, defend yourself …”

Marnie remembered attacking Leah with a two-by-four. She said tersely, “No. I’m bringing Yertle.”

Did the Elf grin for a second there? Marnie hoped not. This was not the slightest bit funny.

“All right,” she said. “Why don’t you go stand by the bottom of the stairs, in that alcove there? Take a two-by-four, and if anyone comes down who’s not me, just—just—”

“Whack ’em,” said the Elf. “Okay. Sure. Why not?”

Marnie eyed him suspiciously, but he looked serious enough. She helped him into position. It took less than a minute, but by the end his forehead had picked up a sweaty sheen again, and he definitely wasn’t smiling. Marnie didn’t look down at the makeshift bandage on his leg. She knew it was there. And she knew it was a lot more difficult to whack someone here in the real world than it was in cyberspace. She had already tried it.

“I’ll get help,” she whispered. “I promise. We’re going to make it.”

The Elf nodded. Marnie felt his eyes on her as she picked up the bucket. She held it carefully by the
body, not the handle, and imagined hurling the contents in Leah’s face. She looked at the stairs and took a deep breath. “Bye for now,” she said to the Elf, and put her foot lightly on the first step.

“Marn,” said the Elf suddenly.

Marnie wanted to go
now.
Just go, get whatever was to happen over with. It was all she could do to turn back toward the Elf. “What?”

He was leaning against the wall of the alcove at the foot of the stairs. He opened his mouth to say something and then appeared to change his mind. He frowned. After another moment he said, “I just wanted to point out—this is where we met. Right here, on these stairs. Historic place.”

Marnie swallowed. Half-smiled. “Maybe we can install a plaque someday.”

The Elf nodded. Marnie turned away again. “Good luck, Marn,” said the Elf then, softly. It was a peculiar moment to realize that she didn’t mind her name rhyming with barn, after all. He could call her anything he pleased. Capulet, Montague. What’s in a name—

The realization hit her and she froze on the stairs. Unable to help herself, she whirled back, her lips parting to blurt out the sudden, urgent question.

His eyes … His eyes were so amazing. And he was looking at her as if … as if …

Marnie held his gaze. She swallowed again. She felt as if she were being flayed. At this moment, she could not remind him that she had never bothered to …

Romeo and Juliet had been wrong, of course, that balcony night. A name was more than a collection
of letters; it was a symbol of the core of your identity. Skye had known that. Anyone who wanted to know
you
would want, would need, to know your true name. It mattered; oh, it mattered, and she, Marnie Skyedottir, she …

She had not asked the Elf’s name.

She tore her eyes away.

She felt his on her back all her silent way up the stairs.

W
ith each footstep up the stairs, Marnie felt her pulse increase its speed. It pounded at her throat. She tried to think of a logical plan but was unable to come up with more than a single tenet: be ready to improvise.

Be ready to improvise.

The sentence raced hard through her blood. Her fingers tingled; her muscles tensed. All at once Marnie felt as if the Sorceress were looking out of one eye and she the other; and yet, somehow, they were perfectly coordinated in mind and body. She held Yertle firmly, and heard, shockingly, the Sorceress’s low laughter.

Then her whisper:
We’re ready.

Marnie reached the top of the stairs and entered the living room, where, vividly, she could sense the living presence of Leah Slaight. Could feel her breathing. That presence pulled her, strong and
sure, as a compass point is pulled north. There was no way around this confrontation. She didn’t even think of trying to avoid it. She knew she could not.