Imagining elsewhere, p.5
Imagining Elsewhere, page 5
“Yeah. I’ve been hanging around in them my whole life,” Marcel said. “I live over by the lake, not far from here. You probably know this, but Elsewhere is bordered by the lake on one side and the mountains on the other. These woods are right smack in the middle.”
“I don’t actually have any clue where we are,” Astrid confessed, embarrassed a bit by her obvious lack of interest in her new neighborhood. “But is it true there’s only one road in and out of town?”
“It is true,” Marcel said. “There used to be another one. But it was . . . blocked off. I guess, you know, things are safer that way.”
Astrid frowned and was about to ask Marcel to elaborate, but at that moment, they came into a clearing. Ruins lay ahead of them; crumbling walls set in a square suggested it was the shell of a stone house.
“Wow,” Astrid said as they approached the fallen structure. “This is cool. What is it?”
Marcel shrugged. “Some people say that’s the house ‘the witches’ used to live in.” She sat on one of the low walls while Astrid walked through the structure, recreating in her mind what it must have once looked like. There seemed to have been four rooms, and a gap in one wall had probably been a front door. “It definitely feels a bit haunted, doesn’t it?”
“Not haunted,” Astrid said. “But there is something here. It’s powerful somehow?”
Marcel nodded.
Astrid noticed a couple of cigarette butts and beer bottles, evidence of a fairly recent juvenile party, but otherwise the structure felt lonely and untouched. The rocks were exceptional—Astrid saw marble and a few other large stones that she didn’t immediately recognize. She’d have to find her way back here—and bring Cecile.
“So, witches?” Astrid asked, raising an eyebrow. She joined Marcel and sat on a low wall. Scooter, freed from his leash, sniffed around.
“It’s just an old story,” Marcel said. “And honestly, it’s possible that they were just some spinsters that the Puritans didn’t like. But basically, three sisters lived out here all by themselves, until one day the people from the local towns decided they needed to be . . . taken care of. There had been some bad luck—an earthquake and a bad crop, a dead cow. The people blamed the witches. So they killed them. All but one.” Astrid waited for Marcel to go on, but Marcel waved a hand dismissively before getting up and walking around. “I really don’t know that much about it. It’s just a local legend.”
“Wow,” Astrid said. “I don’t think I’ve ever lived anywhere that had a local legend before.”
Marcel laughed. “Yeah, well. Elsewhere is pretty unique.”
“Candiland,” Astrid corrected her. “And that’s not actually the word I’d use.” She inhaled the cool, damp air, taking a moment to figure out if she could ask the questions that buzzed around her brain. She liked Marcel. And she even almost trusted her, although she was also afraid to push or press, afraid that, like a skittish animal, Marcel might startle and dart away.
“Were you in the cafeteria at lunchtime yesterday?” Astrid asked tentatively.
Marcel nodded and looked off, into the trees. “Yeah. I might have . . . thrown a hamburger at you. Sorry?”
Astrid frowned. “Why? Why did you do that? You don’t even know me.”
“I did it ’cause Candi said to.”
They sat in silence. The birdsong had died down, and Astrid shivered in the noticeably colder air.
“Do you have to do things that Candi says?” Astrid asked.
“Yes,” Marcel said.
“But how does . . .” Astrid began.
“She’s afraid of you,” Marcel said, before Astrid could continue. “Maybe it’s because you’re not from here. Maybe it’s because you stood up to her. But you’ve got her nervous. And I’m hoping . . . some of us were thinking . . .”
Marcel trailed off. She sat back down on a low wall facing Astrid.
“What?” Astrid prompted.
Marcel looked Astrid in the eye. “People have tried in the past,” Marcel said. “To . . . stand up to her. To . . . get rid of her. But it never works. They always wind up . . .” Marcel broke eye contact. Scooter was standing on his hind legs, getting ready to jump into Marcel’s lap. Astrid shivered.
“Are you asking me to murder Candi?” Astrid asked, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”
“I guess we should head back,” Marcel said. “It’s getting late.” The other girl put Scooter’s leash on him and stood. Astrid remained seated a moment longer, her face still scrunched up in disbelief.
“I don’t even know how to respond.”
“Forget it,” Marcel said quickly. “Or don’t. Maybe . . . consider it. I’m not asking you to assassinate her. I’m just asking you to think about . . . how you might . . . if you might . . .” Marcel trailed off again. “Everyone here has history, you know? We’re all related and entwined in each other’s lives. And we’re so scared of her. But you aren’t. Yet. You’re new. And maybe you can . . . if you could only . . .”
“It was really nice of you to, like, take me on this walk or whatever,” Astrid said, standing. “But just because I’m from downstate doesn’t mean I’m in the mafia or something.”
“I didn’t—” Marcel said. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“I’m less offended than confused, honestly,” Astrid said.
“Let’s head back,” Marcel said.
They walked mostly in silence, Astrid trying to mark her surroundings so that she’d be able to bring Cecile someday. She was surprised, however, that they only walked for a few minutes when she saw the main road in the near distance and some houses she recognized.
They were about to emerge from an outcrop of bushes when Marcel grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the darkness.
Concealed, they watched in silence as a police cruiser slid by on the road. “Sheriff Toomey,” Marcel said. She made a face. “I guess things are wrapping up. You know, he’s Candi’s stepdad.”
“I did not know,” Astrid said.
“He’s not the most . . . ethical officer,” Marcel said, narrowing her eyes. When Astrid waited for her to continue, she added, “Just be careful of him.”
Astrid snorted indignantly. “Is there anyone I don’t have to be careful of in this town?”
“No one else springs to mind actually,” Marcel said lightly. She shrugged. “I mean, I’m pretty nice. But you’ll forgive me if I’m not, like, . . . your BFF2 tomorrow. Or if I neglect to acknowledge you at all. Don’t wig out. It’s nothing personal.”
“Totally,” Astrid said, already smarting.
It seemed so lame to admit it, but she wanted friends. She really had imagined that maybe people in Elsewhere would be impressed with her, would think she was cool. Although not quite so cool that they’d think she was up for assassinating someone.
“I am really sorry about what happened in the cafeteria,” Marcel said when they got closer to Astrid’s house. “And by the way, my mom is Mrs. Monroe—you know, your Earth Science teacher?”
“Oh,” Astrid said. “Weird.”
“Yeah. And you do know, don’t you, that Candi’s in that class too?”
“She’s in my Earth Science class? How do you even know . . .”
“I know because she takes Earth Science every year. And torments my mother.”
“But why?” Astrid asked. “And she wasn’t in class yesterday or today. Does she not have to attend?”
“Does anyone?” Marcel asked vaguely. “It’s a long story. But I thought you should be aware.”
“Thanks, I guess?”
Suddenly, Astrid’s front door flew open. She saw Cecile framed in the doorway.
“Astrid!” she called. Astrid saw, right away, that something was wrong. Cecile looked at Marcel and then gestured to Astrid to come inside.
“Thanks again,” Astrid called over her shoulder to Marcel as she bounded up the porch steps toward her sister, whose face was pale, her eyes wide with shock.
“What is it? Is it mom? What’s wrong?”
“That man,” Cecile said. Inside the door, Cecile put her arms around Astrid and leaned into her.
“What man?”
“The guy in the dunk tank.”
“What about him?”
“He drowned.”
1 In the ’80s, if you wanted to share music with a friend, you had to have a double tape deck.
2 Best Friend Forever
CHAPTER NINE
Astrid calmed her sister down and, sitting and drinking warm milk at the kitchen table, learned what she’d missed when she left the carnival. Cecile said that at first she’d had fun with her friend Roberta, eating cotton candy and going on the Ferris wheel again and even dancing.
She’d noticed the line at the dunk tank and she and Roberta had walked over—they’d actually each taken a shot, too, and dunked the guy, Charles. And then they watched as four guys in particular kept taking turns hitting the target, dunking Charles over and over.
“It was pathetic and scary,” Cecile said. “As soon as Charles would begin to pull himself up, someone would hit the target and the seat would fall, dumping him back into the water. We could see how weak he was getting, how each time it was even harder for him to pull himself up.” Cecile shuddered. “There wasn’t even that much water in the tank. But he was so exhausted and cold and wet . . .” Astrid covered her sister’s hand with her own. “I can’t understand why the guys kept throwing the balls. It was obvious Charles was not okay, that he was in distress. But the guys who were throwing the balls—they’d throw three, hit the target each time, then get back in line. Almost like robots. They didn’t even look like they were happy about it. This one guy’s eyes—it was almost like he was begging us to stop him. It was like they all had to do it,” Cecile said.
Apparently, Roberta’s mother had dragged the girls away, but it was too late—as they left, they heard a woman screaming that Charles was dead.
“They killed him,” Cecile told Astrid. “In front of everyone.”
Astrid shook her head. “Candi?” she asked. “Was Candi . . . there?”
Cecile shook her head. “I didn’t see her. Do you think the police will want to talk to me? Do you think . . . because Roberta and I did it too?”
Astrid, although she’d only lived in Elsewhere a couple of weeks, was pretty sure that the police wouldn’t be talking to anyone.
CHAPTER TEN
Astrid woke the next morning to hear her mother and sister up and moving downstairs.
Although she was immediately flooded with anxiety about going to school, she remembered, with relief, that it was Saturday. And then she remembered, with renewed dread, that she was expected at the “Sweet Shoppe” that day. She couldn’t imagine why; perhaps this was yet another school-sponsored death trap.
She joined her mother in the kitchen, gathered her breakfast, and stood, shoveling cereal into her mouth as she tried to get some reception on the black and white TV they’d set on the Formica countertop.
“I kind of can’t believe this,” Astrid mumbled, mouth full. Her mother scowled in disapproval. Astrid swallowed, watching her mother with what she hoped read as defiance.
“The TV in the living room gets channel 7, I think,” her mother said. “Oh, well. Life in the valley!” She smiled brightly.
“I want my MTV,” Astrid grumbled. She drank some bitter coffee, frowning. Then, she asked, “Can’t we get a satellite dish or something?”
“Those are expensive,” her mother said, not looking at her, bustling about, sticking papers, apples, and pens, into her leather satchel.
“You’re going in to work today? On a Saturday?” Astrid asked.
“Yeah,” her mother said, apologetically, finally stopping and looking at her. “I have some loose ends I need to tie up. You’ll watch Cecile?”
Astrid looked at her mother with an open-mouth to signal just how put-out she was.
“I don’t think she wants to be alone today,” her mother said, more severely. “We’ve spoken about that horrible accident she witnessed last night . . . I think she’s still shaken up.”
Astrid let the word “accident” pass.
“I’m okay,” said Cecile, who’d just entered the kitchen. “And I don’t really need to be watched.”
“Still,” her mother said. “You need to spend time with your sister, Astrid. Unless you had other plans?” she asked sarcastically, her shifting tone a barometer of her waning patience.
“It’s fine,” Astrid said. “We’ll watch TV. Oh, I forgot. That’s impossible.”
“Read a book,” her mother shot back. “It won’t kill you.” Ignoring Astrid’s scowl, she continued. “Take Cecile to the library. And then maybe you can stop at the market—I left a list and some cash—it would help me out if you girls could pick up some food.”
Astrid maintained her stormy glower, but her sister, sitting at the kitchen table, smiled.
“I do actually have plans. I have to go to the Sweet Shoppe,” Astrid told her mother. “Something for school.”
“I’ll go with you,” Cecile offered.
“You have my office number if you need anything,” their mother said, already half-
checked out of the conversation. “I’ll be home for dinner.” She turned to Cecile. “I told Astrid we should go to the movies tonight.”
“Cool!” Cecile exclaimed.
Her mother looked at Astrid expectantly. “That movie—what is it, Eye of the Tiger?—is playing. Didn’t you want to see that?”
“Tiger Warsaw,”1 Astrid said icily.
“That’s right.”
Astrid really wanted to appear above it all and was annoyed at her own excitement to see the latest Patrick Swayze movie.
Her mother circled the kitchen island, kissing each of them on the tops of their heads. “Be good,” she said, before heading to the front door.
“Want to go into the city, do some shopping? Or should we hang out in the park? Or maybe just chill at home and watch Saturday morning cartoons?” Astrid asked. “Oh, that’s right. We can’t do any of those things. This is a Flowers in the Attic type situation. Don’t look at me like that, Cecile. I’m not into you that way.”
“Gross,” Cecile said. “What is wrong with you.”
1 1988. A movie so bad, it’s good.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Astrid made her best attempt to be nicer to Cecile as they walked down the two-lane country road toward town, the sun burning off the dew that had settled overnight and the air filled with the hum of distant lawn mowers. Her sister, who seemed to have mostly recovered from the events at the carnival, stopped every few minutes to pick up a rock. Astrid would remark, “Nice one” or “That’s a keeper,” and try to smile.
Astrid cleared her throat. “So, you know, last night, when I left? I met this girl Marcel and she took me to the ruins of an old stone house. There were definitely some interesting rocks there. I’ll take you sometime if you want. Maybe later?”
“Yeah!” Cecile said, unable to play it cool. Astrid wondered, not for the first time, if it was only their basic natures that set the sisters apart. Cecile’s default mode seemed to be optimistic and upbeat, it was the way she was made. And she herself, Astrid thought, always seemed to default in the other direction: pessimistic and annoyed. She hadn’t always been such a pill, had she? Astrid could remember being happy—although that all seemed so long ago now. To feel like that again seemed impossible.
“Why do you think you have to go to the Sweet Shoppe anyway?” Cecile asked as Main Street came into view. “Is it like, a school assignment?”
“I really don’t know,” Astrid said, the dread settling around her shoulders like an uncomfortable cloak. It was only mid-morning but already oppressively humid. Astrid felt the sweat collecting in her lower back. “Let’s go to the market first,” she said, aware that she was simply postponing the inevitable.
They walked in silence down the empty street. It was so hot that the air above the asphalt appeared wavy, the way it gets over a campfire.
“Do you think everyone’s indoors cause it’s so gross out?” Cecile ventured.
Astrid shrugged. “This place is like the Twilight-freaking-Zone.” She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a tumbleweed blow by.
There were in fact, other people milling about inside Pete’s, the general store/pizza place/video rental center, which was why when Cecile elbowed her and pointed with incredulity at the huge, cheesy glamour shot of Candi that hung in the front of the store, Astrid limited herself to a discreet eye-roll.
“This place is so whack,” she murmured to Cecile.
After collecting the items on their mother’s list, they met up in the far corner of the store next to the metal racks of video rentals.1 After much debate, they selected two: The Lost Boys (which Astrid had been dying to see) and Dirty Dancing (which of course they’d already seen, but which they agreed was worth watching again).2 Only when they were safely on the street did Cecile burst out laughing.
“That portrait of Candi!” she hooted. “Had you ever noticed that before? Was that always there?” Astrid laughed too, although more quietly. She was afraid, somehow, that someone would see them. That the man from the market would come out and scold them.
“What?” Cecile said, looking at her sister. “Is something wrong?” The sisters continued
down Main Street.
Astrid shook her head. “I’m just creeped out.”
“She is pretty scary,” Cecile said, looking at her sister sideways. “Have you, like, talked to her?”
“In a way,” Astrid said. She took the scrunchie from her wrist and put her hair in a messy bun. The back of her neck was damp, in a clammy way that made her shiver, even in the heat. “I kinda feel like . . .” she began. She shook her head, preemptively dismissing her next statement. “I kind of feel like she did something to me.”
“Did something to you?”
