The Accidental Siren

6.6 Fairytale Part Two: The War

1:05 AM.

A key-ring flashlight was my only guide through the soft clutter of Livy's bedroom. I trailed the dull beam across the beds and floor, revealing stuffed creatures with button eyes, a homemade kitten toy made from feathers and elastic string, and a scattered set of curlers like pink toilet paper tubes. I held my breath as I waded through my sister's half of the room, then inhaled fully the essence and smells of Mara; a potpourri of Skittles, fabric softener, and impending rain.

The headset crackled in my ear. “You're all clear, Red Five, but I sense movement upstairs. Find the secret diary and get the hell out.”

“Will do, Millennium One. Over and out.”

My light landed on the statue of Saint Michael on Mara's nightstand shrine. I sat on her bed--mindful of the taut sheets and perfect creases--and slid open the top drawer.

It was too easy. The diary was alone, unlocked, and squared in the center of the drawer. I grazed the sapphire spine with my fingertips, afraid that--if I moved it too quickly--a giant boulder might burst from the closet door.

But then I was holding it. No traps had sprung. No secret force was binding the pages shut. As the book unfurled almost magically in my hands, I became unshakably aware of my youth as if the last two months had been an elaborate game of “house”: while I was writing about monsters and castles and sword fights--while I was reading Goosebumps and Boxcar Children books--Mara was etching her soul into the pristine pages of a diary.

“How we lookin', Red Five? Any sign of that book?”

“Workin' on it, Millennium One,” I whispered. “This room's a mess. Could be anywhere.”

“Make it snappy. Over and out.”

I held the flashlight between my teeth.

The pages smelled like flowers. The outside corners were numbered with sparkly blue ink from a gel-pen. Mara wrote in cursive, never used apostrophes, and dotted her “i”s with hearts only if they appeared in a name. Half scrapbook, half journal, my fingertips traced the pages like braille; the curled corners of magazine articles, the rippled paste beneath each clipping, the lyrical indentations of a ballpoint pen on smooth parchment, and thin trails of backward cursive, raised like mole tunnels from the opposite page. There were notes and lyrics from a hymnal, snippets from Cosmo with tips to act like a lady (”Trim hair every six weeks, drink eight glasses of water per day, absolutely no junk food...”) and highlighted passages from books beyond my reading level. Petals from a yellow rose were pressed between the pages, staining her thoughts with a colorful Rorschach test.

Mara's words were tucked between the collage; ongoing lists of favorite movies on page six, TV shows on nine, books on twelve, and baby names on fourteen.

On page twenty: “Aunty baptized me in the bathtub because she thought I was more interested in the alter boys than Jesus. Submersion again and I thought I would drown. That makes twelve.”

Page twenty-six: “Today I watched Bushy the Squirrel carry nuts to his tree. I bumped the window and he glared at me. When I moved, he ran away.”

Page twenty-nine: “I asked Aunty about my parents again. Big mistake. She said that, if theyre alive, theyre not looking for me. I think theyre alive. And probably nice. I pretend my mom is an actress. I pretend my dad owns a bakery downtown. I try to remember them, but it was so long ago.”

Page thirty-one was missing. I recalled the origami note that sparked the tussle with A.J. beneath Mara's window and felt a privileged connection with the journal.

“Where are you, Red Five? We've got major giggling upstairs.”

“I'm searching the closet, Millennium One. Give me two minutes.”

“Roger.”

I flipped faster through the pages and scanned the longer blocks of text for my name.

“I hate being worried all the time. The feeling in my tummy never goes away.”

“They say they can find my real parents! I pray every night theyre alive. Maybe when they know Im pretty theyll want me back.”

“Today I met a black squirrel outside my new window! I named him Bushy Two. I like animals. They don't seem to care.”

“James asked me to kiss him. I told him he's like my brother. Was that mean? Pretty sure it was... but I dont need more boys trying to kiss me. We all remember what happened with Troy.” Etched in this entry's thin margin was a drawing of a hill with a water tower on top. I ignored the image at first, its banal curve and lack of detail hardly distinguished it from the lovely litter of Mara's doodles. But the hill reappeared again on page thirty-nine, then again on forty-one, then a dozen more times throughout the book, tucked between Mara's words or trapped beneath layers of chicken-scratch hearts and stars. Each rendering was more detailed than the last until pine trees were surrounding the base like angry stalagmites and the water tower cast a penciled shadow that dwarfed a perimeter fence.

I read faster.

“Ryan replied to Livys note today. Says he might like her too. I feel sick.”

“I cried again tonight. The bullies bruised my neck, but I hid it from the Parkers. I know God wants me to forgive anyone who hurts me, but I will never forget what they did.”

“James and Whitney confirmed it: Im anything but normal.”

“I wish Livy knew how pretty she was.”

“Mrs. Parker yelled at me today but it was an accident. I was sucking on a yellow highlighter while marking my lines. She thought it was a cigar.”

“Kimmy kissed me on the lips today. I think she was aiming for my cheek.”

“Life is good. Wanna know why? I got a kitten!!! Her name is Dorothy and she's perfect.”

“I had the dream again last night. The one with the hill and round building. When I woke up, they were calling me from the woods. Tried to tell Livy about it this morning, but she was too interested in my shampoo ingredients to listen.”

Page forty-nine contained a single, expansive entry. The word “James” stood out like spots on a cheetah and my eyes darted across the text.

“Dear Diary... ...busy making a movie with James!... ...having so much fun... ...hope James likes my acting... ...too young for these feelings?... ...said he liked me again today... ...Livys old enough, I should be too!... ...I know one thing for sure, 'like' is not a strong enough word for how I feel about them... ...both so sweet, especially James!”

Ryan's voice was hushed but emphatic. “The girls say they need popcorn and more pillows. They're sending Haley down with a list. You need to get outta there, Red Five.”

My breath quickened. I flipped the page and devoured every word.

“Help! I keep going back and forth! One is SUPER cute, but the other gets cuter every day. One is an amazing director, but the other is an amazing actor... ...so smart and funny... ...They both stare at me like the rest, but I dont think thats ever going to change--”

“She's comin'!” Ryan screamed. “Get out!”

I slammed the book before I could finish, then dropped it in the nightstand drawer. As it fell, a petal slipped from the pages and fluttered to the ground. I picked it up, opened the book, shoved the flower back inside, slammed the drawer, then bolted from the room.