The Lonely Ones (9 page)

I am standing

on a mountain made of tongues,

all of them wriggling,

shouting at me

in a thousand different languages.

I am walking

down a street

empty of all but

wistful breezes

sighing stars

creaking doors.

I am being eaten

alive by crows,

their beaks

pecking and poking and tearing.

I am in a grave

with the bell rope

next to my hand,

but I can't move

to ring it.

And then I am being shaken awake,

listening to a low whisper

that tells me everything is all right,

I'm safe.

“Mom?” I whisper,

open my eyes

to her dim outline.

“You were having a bad dream,” she says,

her palm a cool spot

on my skin.

I grab her hand

and hold it tight,

reassure myself

this isn't another dream.

“Don't leave,” I say.

She doesn't speak,

just slides down

into the space beside me,

tucks the covers

around us both.

She reeks

of cheeseburgers and coffee,

but I don't mind one bit.

For a few minutes

we breathe in sync,

Dana still sound asleep

till I feel myself

slipping away.

Then a movement

yanks me back

to the present;

my mother twitches and smiles

as if she's caught

in a thrilling dream.

I wonder

if she's floated amongst

the stars, too.

At breakfast

I find an apple

in the fridge.

Think of the boy

from New Orleans,

hesitate,

put it back.

Take

an orange instead.

Today

the cafeteria is

made of only eyes and whispers.

My tree

seems far away

now that the teachers

have deemed it too cold

to eat outside.

Matthew sits in the corner

with Mary Mosley,

a king on his plastic throne.

I hesitate,

clutch my tray.

He catches my stare.

Even now

the sight of him

makes the birds in my stomach

flutter.

Anna sits beside them,

looks at me,

struggle written plainly

across her face.

We both know

she doesn't belong

with the Mary Mosleys

of the world.

But sometimes it feels impossible

to leave the familiar behind.

I can't help her;

there are some battles

we must fight on our own.

Then,

a voice.

“Fain! Sit with me,” Dana demands.

I settle under

my sister's wing,

tucked around me

warm and safe.

That night

I open my eyes to once again see

my sister's face above me,

a pale moon rising

over the horizon

of our room.

“Get up,” Dana orders.

She won't answer any questions,

but I ask them all the same.

By the time I get to the door,

she and Tyler

are already there.

The three of us

sneak out,

walk the six blocks

to the rink.

Our snow pants swish,

heavy boots clomp.

We creep onto the ice

and our bladeless feet

don't matter:

we fall

and laugh

and glide

and spin.

Every time

I hit the ground,

they reach down

and pull me up.

All my nights

with the monsters

cannot compare to this.

Later that night

the monsters visit me

even though I haven't called them.

Still,

I take hold of their hands

and climb back out

into the cold.

The dongs of the clock

fade fast behind us.

The monsters

are more fearless than usual.

We fly with a flock of honking geese

across the midnight moon.

I think of gliding over ice,

holding tight to Dana and Tyler.

We have a tea party

in the middle of a cloud.

I think of building towers and trick-or-treating

with Peter.

We run into the forest

and hunt with wolves.

I think of tucking my head into the warm curve

of my mother's neck.

We tie a balloon around an elephant's belly,

watch it ascend into the stars.

I think of the constellations,

talking with Anna in the dark.

Our journeys are just as magical

as they have ever been,

but nothing feels the same.

All the while

we fly and chase and run,

my favorite monster is silent.

When I ask him

what has changed,

he gives me a sad smile.

“You.”

In that moment I know

that my little monsters

will never tap on the window again.

I look out the window

toward the street,

and there she is.

We meet

in the spot

where we first met.

Where I saw

her swollen eyes

and she just saw

me for me.

Her scarf flutters

in the breeze.

“It was my fault,” Anna blurts,

her cheeks flushed with shame.

“I told Mary which window was yours.”

Then she apologizes,

asks if she can eat lunch with me

tomorrow.

I consider this

for a moment.

“I want to show you something,” I say.

When we arrive,

Anna looks around with so much curiosity,

it's as though she's examining

my soul.

She picks up a rock,

throws it with all the strength

in her arm.

“What is this place?” she asks.

“Quiet,” I answer,

tracking the progress

of a seagull as it

flies across the sky.

I tell her

I used to come here

when I needed

someplace safe.

We stand silently,

look out over the water

for a while.

“If a bird stops flying,

does that mean

it's no longer a bird?” Anna asks.

I'm not sure

if she expects an answer,

but a ripple

expands over the water

in response.

This doesn't feel

like my haven anymore;

now it just feels empty.

Minutes pass;

Anna and I leave the quarry,

a place of escape and loneliness.

I will not be back.

The sound of my brother's giggle

draws me to his bedroom door.

Unaware of my presence,

Peter looks out the window,

smiling and touching that fragile barrier.

The city we once so painstakingly built

crumbled and forgotten

on the floor.

I ask my brother

what it is

that made him laugh.

“Squirrel,” he says, grinning.

I follow his gaze

but see only quivering branches,

roiling skies.

“Come with me,” I say,

taking his small hand.

When Peter is not looking,

I unlock the window.

Just in case.

A space heater hums

as I walk down the stairs,

step closer,

magazine crinkling

in my hands.

“Are you awake?” I whisper.

“Can I show you something?”

My mother stirs

from her place on the couch,

lifts her head,

squints at me.

“What is it?” she mumbles.

Ignoring the instinct

to turn and run,

I put my story on her lap.

Mom is so silent, so still,

the light inside me

begins to fade.

But then she rubs her eye with one knuckle

and sits up

for a better look.

I know the exact moment

she sees my name

and realizes what it is

she's holding.

“Honey!” she shouts.

“Come look at this!”

There are some stories

without happy endings.

There are some tales

that go on and on.

It happens gradually,

like the seasons changing

bones growing.

Every day I go into the kitchen

and I see the tiny differences

in my family

far from perfect

but still trying

growing taller and stronger

like Peter's tower of blocks.

Tyler kneels down

to pick up

the spoon our brother dropped.

Dana ignores

the ringing phone,

talks about the upcoming dance.

At the stove,

Mom takes a moment

to turn her head

and smile at me.

But all the while

Dad sits at the table

rubbing his head,

staring at the tiny letters

of the classifieds.

I don't know

if he'll stay in that chair

or if one day I'll come home

to find it empty.

For now

all that matters is

it isn't.

Steam rises off the turkey,

condensation rolls down the water pitcher,

forks clink against plates.

My prize-winning story

hangs on the wall

in a brand-new frame.

It's the first meal

our family has had together

since I can remember.

I hope it's not the last.

In the middle of dessert,

the room goes bright

and I realize

it's snowing again.

Normally

I would lose myself

in the magic

outside the window.

But the scene around me

is so beautiful,

I find that

I cannot look away.

Dana has been making plans.

She planned our dresses

our ride

our night.

But I've made plans

of my own.

We're in the gymnasium,

where I once felt so apart

from everything.

Stars dangle from the ceiling,

a band plays,

lights swoop and flash.

It takes me a while

to find the boy

who saw the Fain no one else did.

“Will you dance with me?” I ask Carl.

Smooth my skirt,

wonder if he will notice

that it's as silver

as the armor he drew me in.

Eyes watch from all around

as we dance

with pride

joy

abandon.

Then Anna finds me,

loops her arm

through mine,

white teeth gleaming in laughter.

Dana elbows through,

and moments later

Tyler pushes his way

into our circle.

Suddenly I realize

I no longer feel alone.

Fingers brush my arm,

cold and clammy.

Somehow I know

before I turn around

it's the boy

from New Orleans.

“Hi, Fain.”

He fidgets;

his suit doesn't fit right,

just like us.

Mary Mosley

stands a short distance away,

sour-faced;

I wonder if anyone

has made her drink

lemonade tonight.

“Listen,” Matthew starts.

His words are strange

with their hidden meanings

and murky intentions.

I glance over my shoulder,

see my friends, my siblings

waiting.

“Tell it to the goldfish,” I say.

During a still moment

something draws me

to the woods.

I find the clearing

where I once danced

around a fire

with monsters.

I kneel to the ground

and pick up a stick,

recognize it as

my former queenly scepter.

A few yards away

rests an upturned bucket,

plastic and cracked.

I know it will fit as effortlessly

as the crown I once wore.

I make a pile of it all

in case someone else needs it

someday.

Then I sit against a tree,

write a different kind

of story.

I write about

a girl who is learning

to take things as they come

a girl who is learning

that life is far from perfect.

But she's also learning

that things are constantly

changing

shifting

growing

every moment of every day.

Then I close my notebook,

leave the woods,

run all the way home.

It may seem strange that I worked harder on this book than any other, because there are significantly fewer words involved. But each of those words were examined and agonized over to make The Lonely Ones the best it could possibly be, and that wouldn't have happened without certain people. My thanks and eternal appreciation go to:

Liza Kaplan, not only for her passion during this process but also for being so understanding when I needed extra time to work on Fain's story. She is an incredible editor to work with, and I'm constantly pinching myself to make sure all of this is real. The bruises reassure me that, yes, she really is in my corner and this whole thing happened.

My amazing agent, Beth Miller, for not batting an eyelash when I sent her this manuscript out of the blue. The day before she was leaving on holiday, no less. “I don't know what this is, really, but what do you think?” I wrote. That very same day she replied with, “Okay, so I love this a lot.” Neither of us had explored novels in verse before, but Beth didn't let that stop her for a second. She really does have superpowers.

Talia Benamy and Michael Green, for their time and dedication.

Kristy King, for her excellent feedback on the very, very rough first draft. So much of what she said helped shape what this book has become.

Jordan Kralewski and Emily Neuman, who both spent many long afternoons with me as I worked on this book. Thank you for letting me bounce ideas off you, for closing my Facebook and Pinterest windows when the time called for it, and ultimately
keeping me sane during revisions. And Jordan, thank you for the hot chocolate. It was an essential part of the process.

Larry Swain, for his patience and encouragement during my internship with him. I may have missed a couple deadlines while struggling to meet the one for this manuscript. I'll be eternally grateful for the day when he said, “Okay, Sutton, forget the essay. Your focus for the next couple weeks will be getting this book done.”

Theresa Evangelista and Siobhán Gallagher, for designing such a lovely book to go along with the story.

I wouldn't have been able to do this without any of
you.