The Accidental Siren

10.7 Olivia

T-minus two days until the Fairytale premiere.

That morning, I glued myself to my chair and attempted to edit the remainder of our summer project, but my conversation with Whit had annihilated my ability to concentrate. What if he was right?

He wasn’t right, but I had to prove him wrong. That afternoon, I crept into Livy's room to inspect the corners of Mara's sheets. They were clean, wrinkle free, and never used for climbing. I rifled the junk beneath her bed. I scoured the colorful depths of the shared closet. I looked anywhere a picnic basket might hide, but came up empty.

Trash bags were taped to the window’s trim as protection against the tree-top perverts. It was a temporary solution, but the bags looked like cancerous membranes and gave the room a dismal, horror-show quality.

Despite a lack of evidence to support Whit’s musings, his dire premonition lodged itself in the coiled crannies of my brain, took root in the tissue, and squeezed.

It got worse at night. My mind digressed every time I pressed “pause,” switched tapes, or spent more than a second considering a shot. I recalled our first night together; Mara's rapid preparation of the crackers and cheese, her intimate knowledge of the ladder's rusty nails, her deft footwork and lack of trepidation when scaling the wall and hurdling the hidden wire.

I recalled my attraction to her playful personality. Was this another example of manipulation by the “It” that created her? Did I view Mara as a free-spirit because that's what my personality needed in order to fall head-over-heels? If she really did visit other boys in the trees, how did she behave for them? If they were sickos, was she bound to their perversions? How far would she go to maintain her personalized, universal appeal?

I re-watched the church scene on the TV. It felt stilted. Uninspired. And the more I imagined cracker crumbs and smeared brie between Mara and some other boy, the uglier my film became.

*  *  *

Sheriff Beeder had left a lawn chair and an empty pack of Camels in the woods beneath Livy's window. I seized the seat, buried the cigs with my toe, and aimed my flashlight casually through the midnight trees.

The movie could wait.

*  *  *

One day until the Fairytale premier.

Ryan’s apology was a formal affair arranged in the castle driveway and supervised by our mothers.

Livy went first. From my perch on Leo’s stone pelt, I watched my sister exit the front door with Mom by her side. They walked hand-in-hand to the hood of Ryan’s own Toyota Tercel; a rusty gas-guzzler that seemed to be assembled from discarded toasters. The large hood doubled as a conference table with Ryan on one side, his victim on the other, and the mothers keeping the peace at the headlights.

Ryan removed a letter from his back pocket, opened it, and read it to Livy.

She didn’t speak, nod, or provide any indication that she cared about Ryan’s apology.

The mothers exchanged a glance, suggesting they were either capable of telecommunication or--as I always suspected--part of a singular mind shared by every other mom on the planet.

Ryan finished the letter. Livy avoided his eyes, grappled for Mom’s arm, kept herself composed for the length of the sidewalk, then collapsed on the inside of the door.

My turn was next. I told Mom I could talk to Ryan alone, but she pinched my neck and ushered me to the presence of my ex-leading man.

The yellow remains of a bruise poked from Ryan’s collar. He didn’t have a girlfriend to powder his sores.

Ryan didn’t write me a note. “I’m sorry I choked you,” he said, less reluctantly than I anticipated. “And I’m sorry for the name I called your sister.”

“Mara doesn’t like you anymore!” I blurted.

“James Parker!” Mom said. “What did we talk about?”

“Anymore?” Ryan asked. “She changed her mind?”

I gouged my fists into the metal hood. “She’s mine now and you stay the hell away!”

“James!” Mom said again, then apologized to Mrs. Brosh.

I groaned. I was happy to parley with my valiant nemesis, but the presence of the moms emasculated my victory and turned our month-long war into nothing but a boys-will-be-boys brawl over a sideways glance. “I’m sorry about how I handled the situation,” I muttered. “I’m sorry I beat you up.”

We were made to shake hands. As Ryan released his grip, he looked through tears in his blue eyes. And for that moment, I actually believed he was sorry.