My Soul To Take

Soundtrack: "Don't Dream It's Over" by Crowded House

DAY 27

I lost my friends. I lost my home, my goals in life and most of my motivation. But hey, despite all this, I met a new friend, a mute kid and a biker gang that gives me the creeps. Yeah, only I would be so lucky.

With the brown leather journal propped against my knees, I look up at the sound of a car door shutting in the driveway, hand pausing in mid scribble. It's been almost three whole weeks since the Ralph and Jennifer revelation and they haven't spoken a word to me about it. Or about anything for that matter. Ralph doesn't even hang around that much anymore and attempt to make half hearted communication. Either he realized his efforts are fruitless or Jennifer wants them both to act like I never came here in the first place. Both reasons are fine with me. Whatever makes them sleep easy at night and my final days spent here go quicker.

I flip the diary closed, set it on the empty space next to me and climb off my bed to peek out the window. Pulling into the street in her recently washed Buick, is Jennifer. Ralph still leaves for his job early in the morning before I'm awake, but since Jennifer's business has been dwindling, her hours have been cut as a result. So now, she doesn't leave the house until mid morning or early afternoon. I wouldn't have spent nearly all day in my room if it wasn't for that. But she's always been more trickier to ignore than Ralph.

I turn back to face my unkempt bedroom, wondering if I should finally make that trip to the local library to return all the books I thought I would need for college or tidy up the various CDs scattered around. There's always the journal to settle back into. I've been cooped up in this room for so long, I almost forgot what fresh outdoor air smells like and how the warm the sun feels on my face. Being under this roof makes reality feel weirdly altered, like diners in the middle of the night or empty hospital wings. Not exactly something you want for a place you should call 'home'.

Fishing my white Keds from under the bed skirt, I tie them on, grab my house key from the dresser and walk out the door.

At two pm in the afternoon, the Boardwalk is mild with paying customers as most people are either at work or busy in different parts of town. The ones who are out are mothers with their young kids and the typical teen group enjoying the peak of summer. Even the Surf Nazis haven't reared their drunken heads yet. They usually come out when the more civilized crowd break through rush hour traffic - around sun set. They're probably busy sleeping off the hangovers from all the previous nights of binge drinking.

I trudge down the spacious aisles of the Boardwalk, sauntering past the kids playing at the water gun booth and head for the comic book shop right in the center strip. It miraculously still manages to stay open after so many customers being driven off by the two rambunctious twirps who run the place. There's hardly anyone when I walk in except for an older grimy looking couple slouching by the Tv. The two younger boys amble through the aisles, a comic in their hands as they occasionally glance up from their lashes to staredown whoever happens to set foot in their establishment.

In this instance, it's me.

I pluck a Wonder-Woman issue from the rack and casually flip through it as footsteps gradually make their way up to me. Then it gets quiet.

"You reek of undead," a deep monotonous voice points out from next aisle over. I look up and meet the tumultuous gaze of the shaggy haired kid with the patchy bandana tied across his forehead.

"Is that a perfume brand?" I ask indifferently, refusing to be scared off by their antics.

"That sounds like something a newborn would say."

"Or a succubus," comes another deadpan remark at my other side. Standing there, is the one with the straighter, dark hair. He has the look of a budding serial killer in his eyes.

"I don't know-"

"You think she's one of them?" The one with the dark hair says over me to the bandana kid.

"-what you're-"

"No sunglasses. Eyes aren't bloodshot. Skin isn't pale."

"-talking about."

The one with the fashion accessory fingers a lock of my hair. "Frizz is a dead giveaway."

"Hey!" I swat his touch away, self consciously peering down at the tendrils that hang naturally in slight waves.

"Provoked aggression. That's some serious results of iron deficiency, man." The dark haired kid crosses his skinny arms like he's a drill instructor.

The other one nods in agreement. "For sure."

Whatever the Surf Nazis have been doping up on, they've obviously been passing some around to these two kids. I've heard many personal accounts of less than amiable encounters to what Santa Carla now knows them as the Frog brothers, but seeing it for myself puts it into a different perspective. They really are crazy.

"Here's the situation, Gothilocks," The bandana kid drawls. He reaches into the back pocket of his faded blue jeans and takes out a rolled up comic of a squad of three multi colored haired schoolgirls wielding pom poms with blood dripping down their chins; their eyes are a bright cherry red, glowing with feral hunger. The title reads When Vampire Cheerleaders Attack! "This isn't your usual Teen Beat Magazine," the kid goes on. "But considering the circumstances, this might just interest you."

My gaze flickers between the two siblings (or so they say; frankly these two just seem like two escaped juveniles who banded together) for a full minute, wondering just how this town manages to exceed my expectations of abnormalities on a daily basis, before muttering a confused and slightly garbled, "Huh?"

"And just so you know, don't mistake our mercy for compassion because you're a chick. We've seen your kind in action - we know how to play the game," the bandana one pledges. "And next time, we won't hold back."

"You can stop with the jokes now. I'm not buying it."

"This is no joke, dude."

"And quit calling me dude." My shoulders droop with a sigh and I unceremoniously toss the Wonder-Woman comic back on the rack. "If you wanted me leave, you could have just said so."

As I begin to rove on out of the shop, their footfalls follow me step by step.

"Last chance, She-Ra. Once you walk out of here, there's no going back."

"You'll be trapped in the arms of the blood sucking Adams Family."

"Forever."

Their creepy words makes me practically book it straight out of the comic shop, worried that they'd give a relentless chase down the strip, spraying a squirt bottle at me with what they'd claim to be holy water. But surprisingly, I hear nothing. When I look over my shoulder, all I see are the backs of heads and approaching strangers who don't look murderous at all. Huh. That was beyond weird. Maybe it was all a ruse to get me out of their store for some other reason. Well, whatever the motive, it worked.

Freaks.

Closer to evening time now, I brush past the fresh crowd of carnival goers and make my way to the beach. A married couple with their toddler bounces a big red ball back and forth between each other by the lifeguard tower. Surfers out beyond the waves ride the tide like they're part dolphin. One wipes out in mid water rise. I lean my arms over the wall separating the beach line from the sidewalk and gaze out at the pale blue reflection.

It feels like it's been years since I've seen my friends, tasted real high school cafeteria food, smelled the murky air of a filled lecture room. All these things that I hated before, that left me feeling drained every night before bed, are now what create these sources of nostalgia and longing in me. A slice of normality, structure and purpose. I didn't think I'd feel so lost without it. How do you get something like that back? Is that even possible to replace, something that never truly existed to begin with? Maybe college would have been the answer to those questions, but that option is long gone now.

Just like everything else.

DAY 28

It's the beginning of July.

What had gradually started out as a promising year full of possibility and fresh slates has turned into diluted hours of continuous sunshine and contrived seasonal spirit; some mornings I find myself laying under my bed sheets, watching the walls as daylight slowly makes it's way above the clouds from the window behind me, it's bright reflection seeping past the blinds to make long streaks of yellow dance against the uniform white wallpaper. Sometimes I stretch my arm out and let it hang over the edge of the bed to feel it's warmth, like I'm reaching for the edge of a bell jar that won't raise up and let me inside it's bubble. Other times, I turn away from it all and create my own world, hidden underneath mounds of worn out blankets and tattering quilts.

The only thing keeping me sloshing through the boring, uneventful days of summer, carnival rides, and police sirens is the prospect of hanging out with Star every night after Ethel's closes shop. That's where I've been spending most of my time lately, when I'm not coasting from place to place just to pass a couple hours or worse yet, upstairs in my bedroom, staring at the ceiling or counting the cars that drive down the neighborhood from my window. Every once in a while I'll even go down to the Surf Nazi's designated chill out spot by the beach and visit an old high school friend.

Or high school dropout more like. His name is Aaron. During the beginning of Junior semester, Surf Nazi leader Greg got his claws into him and convinced him attend one of their infamous bonfires. One casual night of beer drinking became two, then three, and then four. Before anyone knew it, he stopped showing up to class. His test papers, either unmarked or entirely wrong, stamped with an F. The more his academic grades and attendance started to plummet, the higher his tolerance to heavy liquor seemed to increase. It was a sad thing; I don't think anyone expected that from him. I guess that goes to show you just don't know what anyone is capable of, including how much they can lose. He's still a good friend, despite who he associates himself with and somehow still manages to not completely lose all hope for himself. Ever since his parents kicked him out, I see him from time to time in the street and whenever he catches sight of me, he grins like we can just shared a class together the other day.

Last time when the Surfers held a bonfire and a random member passed me a red solo cup filled with who knows what, Aaron snatched it from my hand, swirled the contents around a little, then took a cautious sip to see if it was safe to drink. And surprisingly enough, it was. Even after giving everything up, whether he really wanted it or not, and seemingly enjoying the scraps he lived off of now, he still cared. He made peace with life and the shards it put in his hands; unusable, but still beautiful. And he looked happy.

I wish I could be, too.

But instead, I wait. That's the constant in my life. Waiting for something, someone; always. For what, I don't even know, but it's like a chain around my ankle that I don't remember putting on or even having the key to, and the one thing that was able to set me free doesn't exist anymore. I don't know how I let it sink this way. I told myself I would pick myself up after a certain point, that I wouldn't let them win, that no matter what happens it'd all work out. Some days I wake up, see the shining sun and believe every inch of it.

Then the night creeps in.

And that all goes away.

MIDNIGHT

When the summer air cools off, I retreat from the humid house, away from the obnoxious soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever playing on TV, and sit on the quiet front steps of my porch. The occasional brightly lit car chugs slowly down the neighborhood street, but other than that, all is soundless. The lights of the Boardwalk have long powered down and from this angle, it's definitely weird seeing the Giant Dipper sign and ferris wheel derelict. Even in the silence, I can still hear the faint lullaby tone of the carousel humming in my ear, like a mother would to her sleeping baby. It pulls me away from the familiarity of the patio and before I realize it, I'm standing up and walking past the front gate.

The sidewalk lamps guide me.

With my hands in my jean jacket pockets, I stroll past the lines and lines of dark homes, the buzzing crickets and the faraway catcalls of wandering drunk homeless men. Random bikes and kids' toys are left out on various curbs and in front of people's lawns. The epitome of summer activity; it's not as exciting as I remember from last year.

After about ten minutes, the bench near the beach where the dots first connected between Star and I comes into view. The single lamp post behind it is lit up, but the light bulb must be going out, as every few seconds it flashes dark before coming back on again. The surrounding space is entirely pitch black. I gaze at it for a moment like it's an exhibit in an art museum before plopping down with a sigh. There's nothing to accompany me here except the wind that rustles fallen noticeboard papers and the gradual blinking of a star in the sky. At least now I don't have to hear The Bee Gees music filtering in from the kitchen window.

As I sit there in the dead of night, the back of my mind can't help but drift to Star and where she could be. It feels like it's been years since I saw her first step into Ethel's, looking like she just fell from a dreamcatcher. It feels even longer that we were here in this exact spot, where I took out the deepest set knives in my wounds and let her see them bleed and her presence alone made them sew together. I never thought one person's friendship, as small as it is, could affect me like this. After losing practically everything, I figured it'd be some time before everything would click into place again - or when I would grow the desire to have those things back and feel safe with them. Why bother if all they do is disappear at some point?

It's bound to happen again, that much I know. You would think having this as a never-ending presence in my head would make me come to terms with the situation, but it doesn't.

All it brings is many blue days.

DAY 29

One evening after the shop closes, I sit by the curb closest to the Boardwalk in hopes of talking to Star. It's been nearly a week now since that beach side concert. Her nightly appearances were never ones of consistence, but given that time is stretching unbearably long without her usual visits, I can't help but feel unhinged. So I stay there for a while, anticipating a glimpse of her sheer skirts and ringlet curls to travel through the crowd at any second.

Hours pass.

She never comes.

DAY 30

Still no Star.

DAY 31

The video store has a new clerk. I meet her on a day where traffic is slow at Ethel's and I decide to go out for some fresh air on my fifteen minute break. Conversion is slightly better there, but when I come inside to browse, there's less than ten customers in the shop. That's still considered busy for a Thursday morning. I flip through the selection of video tapes, finding no other way to spend some free time than to catch up with the locals. As usual, Max is never here during opening hours and weirdly enough, neither is Maria today. It's just the new hire standing at the counter, looking busy, but a little out of place; especially when younger, loud kids come in. Despite this, she still manages to smile and talk to them all like they're her own children.

Like the typical adolescent, some kids aren't particularly nice to elders. Her expression falters uneasily when the kids use lingo that generally soar over most adult's heads, but she remains pleasant as one can be while in the face of disrespect. I feel bad for her, but I can't think of anything better to do than buy a handful of those lollipops Max gives out for a few cents. She puts them all in a little white bag as I dig inside my jean pockets for quarters and dump them on the counter. One accidentally spirals out of control and rolls off onto the floor.

She smiles at me after I stoop down to pick it up and says her name is Lucy.

On the way back to Ethel's, I open the bag by the cutout holes and peer inside, wondering how I let myself waste almost a whole dollar on sweets that will just rot my teeth out. Junk food doesn't really appeal to me like it does to some people who can get wired off a pixie stick, unless you count chugging down a can of Coke at six in the morning when your boss wants you to come in an hour earlier than usual. It feels like my bloodstream runs on cola half the time now.

When I walk back inside the shop, Francie is finishing up a business call and hangs up as the door dings shut. She smirks at my approaching figure and eyes the treasure swinging in my right hand. "What's this?" She asks after I grab a fistful of lollipops and deposit them on the glass counter in front of her. She studies them closely when I don't answer. "For me?"

I nod, unwrapping a red one for myself. The crinkling of plastic sound like knuckles popping.

"Well, aren't you a peach." Francie opens her taupe colored shoulder bag and stuffs the candy inside. Knowing her, she'll probably hoard them for a later date. "I think I'll keep you after all."

I roll my eyes, stick a lollipop to the side of my mouth, and trudge to the backroom to get started on shipment.

THAT NIGHT

After my shift ends, the sun has already set. Since the store has been opening an hour before our usual time due to summer hours, Francie sends me home twenty minutes early. Most of shipment has already been processed, the floors swept, go-backs put in their place and markdowns organized. Given that there was a woman in the store earlier arguing over the counter that she was overcharged on fragrance oils, I'd rather not stay and listen to Francie go off on a tangent about fraudulent customer service policies. Last year there was some kind of lawsuit against the Frog brothers accusing them of harassment. There's always something legally outrageous to happen during the summers in Santa Carla. I really don't want to be around that again, so I take what's left of my lollipops (which isn't much) and call it a day.

The weather has cooled down to a comfortable warmth by the time I walk out. There's still time left before the entire Boardwalk shuts down and as usual, there's plenty of people milling about to fit four gymnasiums. I trudge along sidewalks my friends and I used to take after school, smelling the sugarcane of cotton candy, the bitterness of the Surf Nazi's spilled liquor and everything else that's changed over the summer. The scent of fresh laundry gone stale; the perfectness of a photograph crinkling around the edges. An aging that no one wants to see but will have to eventually.

I find myself drifting along the beach, like a scrap of wood being pulled into sea. My shoes, unlaced with sand sticking to the white sides, hang off two of my fingers as I walk to a cleaner, quieter spot by the high cliffs where the lighthouse is more visible. It's bright wide light sweeps over the blackening waves from left to right, mechanically. It's never been properly taken care of for years, despite the single workman going up to turn on the light each night and a lot of adolescents once and a while camp out up there to see who will get scared first. There's been tons of origin stories about the place, but none of them have ever been confirmed to be true. The beacon always stays lit, though.

The only light on a night this dark.

I sit on a soft mound of sand, knees to my chest and watch as the water licks along the shore. Sometimes I forget how pretty Santa Carla really is. Being in a state of inconsistency, both at home and outside, it doesn't leave you with much incentive to think about the nice things, the positive accumulations aside from the negative. And no matter the margin difference between the two, the good things will always outweigh the bad, if you think about it hard enough. I haven't been thinking at all, though.

Should I be?

"Hannah."

I lift my head from it's resting spot against my folded arms and squint through the murkiness. A long shadow casts it's claw-like limbs against the driftwood, settling over me and blocking the sparse source of pink light filtering from the Boardwalk. When I peer over my shoulder at the figure, though, my heart skips. A wind whipped skirt, that embroidered shawl I've come to recognize so much. Womanly and beautiful in it's unearthly shade.

Realization setting in, I rise unsteadily to my feet, the sudden gust of wind knocking me slightly askew. "Star?"

She walks closer, her features hitting the moonlight, but doesn't say anything; just smiles sadly.

Without thinking, I throw my arms around her and hug her tightly to me, feeling her wild curls press against my cheek. She stills at the contact at first, inhaling sharply, but after a moment she tugs her hands out from my embrace and returns the greeting. Her skin is cold and sends chills up my spine when she brushes against my exposed skin. Even her hair smells like salt from the sea, the cloth wrap she usually has around her shoulders giving off an old withered scent, like antique furniture stores. It sinks in slowly, like a doctor's syringe, that she's really here. This is actually her and I get to talk to her again.

I don't realize just how rash the action was until I hear a group of young kids laughing far away, making me snap away from the embrace. "I was worried," I tell her after pulling away. "I mean, I haven't seen you in a while, so..."

The explanation sounds so lame and needy. I rub the back of my neck awkwardly, feeling the icy air glide over it, and wonder out of all times for her to appear like this, why it happened tonight - when I least expected it, wasn't thinking of it. That's becoming a repeated motion now. People, objects, and scenery changing between the moments when I shut my eyes at night and open them in the morning. And it all happens when I'm not prepared for it, when I think the bad has really passed. I guess I should just start expecting it all the time now.

Star smiles and loosely links her arm through mine. We walk further down the shoreline, finding a more secluded spot along the sand and when we reach a small alcove where the jagged rocks meet, we sit on the grainy hill. She holds my hand gently and doesn't let go.

"I'm sorry." Her voice comes out as quietly as the wind.

I look over at her in surprise. "What for?"

"For not coming back. They make it hard to get away." Star replies, looking out at the water. The soft wind blows wisps of curls away from her forehead.

"It's fine. You don't have to explain it to me if you don't want to."

She goes silent, her hand straining over my own. If she squeezed any tighter, her skin would merge through mine; a balancing mix of stone cold temperature and mild summer nights. "I ran away from home," she confesses. "A long time ago, before I came here. That's how they found me. It was the middle of the night and I had nowhere to go." She pauses then, like this part is the hardest for her to admit. "My father kept drinking that night... him and my mom always talked about how it would've been different if I wasn't around. I was sick of listening to them. All they did was hurt me. So one day, I just ran. I fell asleep on this beach and when I woke up... he was there. He told me I didn't have to run anymore."

The he in her story, I realize, is David.

"You've been with them ever since?" I say.

She nods.

"You can always leave."

"I've tried," she says, her irises turning glossy and I don't know if it's from the sadness in her life or the light of the moon. "They always find me."

"You shouldn't give up," I tell her, not realizing how damn hypocritical I sound.

Star turns to look at me fully, as though this the first time she hears another person's voice, felt their skin against hers, realized that there are others out here that feel the same way she does. But all her eyes project is bleakness. "What else is there to do?"

I don't answer. The sky is too dark to make out anything than what the feeble light from the Boardwalk offers and the sweeps of the lighthouse. The cold bursts from the waves rolling forward makes me shudder and hold the arm that isn't anchored by Star's hand around my middle. Star slides closer to me and extends her long shawl, wrapping the other half around my shoulders, pressing me to her side so our arms are touching. The tiny hairs on my arms raise as she leans her head against mine and I'm faintly aware of the fact that her skin seems to be cooler than the air encasing us, but in all my weary happiness and haze in seeing Star again, it doesn't strike me as anything but normal.

We just stare out and watch the oceans duet with the shore.

She doesn't say much after that and I don't raise questions, despite the bubble of concern that builds in my gut by her explanation of her absence. It makes me wonder what exactly is keeping her tied to those four men - if not a pleasant relationship. Maybe it's not so bad as it feels. Maybe Star is really is okay and it's just one of those days. The kind where everything seems to fall apart in your hands. In a town like this, that's all too normal.

Santa Carla is a grey city.

And it's turning my bones black.

DAY 32

The first Sunday I have off in weeks is spent, to summarize it lightly, sifting through boxes of the past.

Since moving in with the Larsens, the crawlspace built into the ceiling of my sliding door closet is being put to use as an extra attic, housing whatever junk Ralph and Jennifer can't fit in the second floor garret. Climbing up there since the day I unpacked, it looks like an antique shop now. A broken rocking chair, old vinyl records, chipped bone china sets and baby clothes are scattered all over without dust coverings or anything. Even some of my stuff is up there, but I wouldn't let Ralph leave them unless they were wrapped tightly in a box and marked. He listened without much argue, something that still surprises me to this day. That probably wouldn't have happened if Jennifer had been in the room.

I sit on the carpeted floor beside my bed, cross legged, and leaf through the only box belonging to me that was subjected to the dust mite invested storage living above my closet. Dirt and grime is caked onto the top of the lid, but I made sure Ralph used extra duct tape before packing it away. Written in thick black felt pen on one side is the word PHOTOS. I don't remember taking this much with me when I left the group home. Besides clothes, which wasn't much either to begin with, the miscellaneous objects didn't feel like enough to put in one single box. From the weight of it, there definitely is more in here than just pictures. I'm not sure if I even took any for memory - I might have and just forgotten about it. The irony of that...

The first thing that touches my hand when I reach inside is hair. The texture is soft and fine, like a doll's, but when I pull it out I see that it's my own tresses tied in one long strand with a brown elastic. It doesn't hit me at first glance, but upon further inspection, I realize that it's the first snippet of hair loss during my first haircut at the group home when I was ten years old. My hair was a lighter shade back then and almost always pulled back with another girl's favorite scrunchie that I kept taking without permission. Needless to say, I didn't have many friends during that time. I guess that's one thing that somehow consistently stays the same.

The next item I see in the pile is a photograph. Polaroid.

The shot is of staff members lined up behind kids that were apart of the group home with me, years before the Larsens came into the picture. Some of the children are embracing each other happily while others look as glum as a mugshot taken in a juvenile detention hall. My own figure is tucked away on the far right corner, hidden under a tall boy's shadow. Written in scrawl on the blank white space below is St. Joseph's Children's Home, 1978. Thinking back on it now, it really wasn't that bad of a time. The place always smelled like cleaning supplies, there didn't seem to be enough food for everyone and the kids were so loud it was like you had this mini stadium chant in your ears, with a thousand numbered crowd screaming unintelligibly. But still, I felt included somehow. Comfortable. So much has changed since then.

A rapping at the door pulls me from the nostalgia.

"Hannah?" It's Ralph. His voice is muffled by the barrier of wood. "Hey, uh... dinner's ready and waiting downstairs if you're hungry. But if you're not that's, ah... that's fine. No pressure."

A beat passes.

Neither of us say a word and I sit tight, anticipating the thump of his shoes to go down the stairs, but it doesn't. It's almost like he's deciding on what to say next. Or waiting for me to talk first. How long would he stand there if I stayed quiet?

I swallow the dryness in my throat, never taking my eyes off the door as if he's melting through it. "Okay."

Silence.

Then floorboards creak with the weight of Ralph's heavy steps as he descends back down to the kitchen, where the clink of cutlery and metal cooking pans echo. I sigh with relief, shoulders slouching into relaxation. This isn't the first time he extended an invitation to dine with him and Jennifer like I used to before everything went down. Once he even asked if I wanted to go along with him to a trip to the dry cleaners. They were never those kind of foster parents, the ones who made the first move and tried to create a relationship, a different routine. It's like my addition to the household was just another cog in their everyday machinery, something that they needed to weed into their schedules, for convenience sake. And the monthly checks.

It's weird to see Ralph trying this hard, after two years. I guess he feels bad and wants to overcompensate for low blowing me like that. And by that account, I should probably be a little nicer to him. He's not being a big of a jerk as he could be.

But I still don't go downstairs for dinner.

LATER THAT NIGHT

Most of the day is spent inside my room.

Life, as bleak and monotonous as it seems in the Larsen household, continues down below. The Santa Carla Nightly news blares on the old television set, Jennifer's upbeat aerobic music powers on in the master bedroom across the hall, and somewhere out beyond the borders of the Santa Carla Boardwalk, the joyful screams of happy children can be heard. Summer activities don't seem to mesh well with the nighttime anymore. Even with the dawn, the casual school free vacation has been dwindling down and in it's place, is something that doesn't feel entirely wholesome. Sinister almost.

And I don't know the cause of it.

When the sun sets, I pull back the curtains and open the window to let in a breeze of silky night air. The cold rush feels good against my hair as I sit at my window ledge and look out into the night. Lights twinkle ahead from the Boardwalk strip and I can distinctively hear the roar of rollercoasters as it whirls over and over on it's tracks and the nursery-like jingle that plays on the Ferris Wheel when people stand in line. Francie must be fussing to restock the merchandise while keeping on eye on the register. Multi tasking was never her strong point; that's why she had to hire me. Even though she found it in her aging soul to give me the day off, I find myself feeling useless and unsure what to do with my time. I could go downstairs and have something to eat, as if this house didn't need anymore awkward dinner adventures punctuated with the occasional screech of a fork on a plate. Or I could just call it a night and go straight to bed.

The wind howls between swaying tree branches.

The decision is clear. I snatch my house key from the dresser, walk out into the hall by Jennifer's closed bedroom door, down the stairs past Ralph's figure dozing off on the sofa and out the door. The volume of the city is doubled in places without walls. Every noise rings in my ears as I trudge down the sidewalk, unsure of where to go, but knowing that I wanna go somewhere. The beach is too cold and I can't go to any of the hang out spots my friends and I used to frequent without feeling glum. As contrived as it is, the only thing I can stand right now is fake cheer.

So I go to the Boardwalk.

As expected, the entrance sign is flooded with a crowd pushing their way to get passed the threshold. I wander past random game booths, watching people whack plastic animals with foam clubs, snap various pictures with disposable cameras. How great that must be, I think to myself, to be so carefree.

As I stand off near a corner where the go-kart ring is, I feel a hand on my arm. Delicate and icy, but the feeling doesn't spike me with discomfort. I turn toward the quiet presence, meeting the soft gaze of deep brown eyes.

"Oh, hey, Star," I say, my tone brightening at the sight of her. The mute kid, Laddie, clings to her right leg. "I didn't think you'd be here."

Star smiles and something about it seems distracted, like she forced herself to come here under false pretenses. Her curly hair whips behind her with the wind and I realize that this is the first time I've seen her without a shawl wrapped around her frame.

"Can you watch Laddie for a while?" She asks with a crinkle in her brows. "There's something I have to do."

"Oh, uh, yeah," I accept with surprise and rub the side of my neck awkwardly. "Yeah, sure."

Relief floods her features. "Thank you. I don't have anywhere else to take him."

"What about those other guys?"

Star's eyes flash, a sudden fierceness coming over her. "I can't," she refuses. "I don't want them around him." She sounds so protective. I can't help but think of where lost people would've been if they had someone to look after them as Star does for Laddie.

The kid himself has been silent this whole time and just fists a chunk of Star's skirt in his hand. By looking at him, I can't think of any way to make this squirt open up to me like he does for her. Children aren't ones to shy away from expressing distaste, especially over a guardian, so I'm nervous about this to say the least. I don't really know what I'm in for.

Star kneels down to Laddie's level. "Stay with Hannah, okay? I'll be back soon."

He only nods.

After thanking me again, Star turns back toward the crowd and disappears through a parting gap. It feels like a vortex had just opened, sucked a bit of life out, sealed shut again and I'm left wondering how to cover this hole up without anybody else noticing. I glance back down at Laddie, who stares at me now with those big doe-like eyes of his, as if to say, You're my babysitter now. Do something. I've never been around kids that much in my life. It's not that I don't like them; it's just that I can't help but feel aged around them, like who I am inside doesn't match up with the outer layer.

I push a lock of hair that flew into my eyes behind my ear. "So, uh.. what do you feel like doing?"

Keeping true to his quiet nature, Laddie grabs me by the hand and leads me to a game booth where you have to toss softballs at a row of five targets to win prizes. There's at least ten other kids crowding around waiting to play, so I stand back and watch them go at it, making sure Laddie doesn't get shoved in the process by other excited children. Occasionally, I gaze around at the surroundings, seeing adults, teens, and greasers come in and out of the park rides. The Boardwalk has never been more alive, but something about the atmosphere tonight feels weird, like everything is just a page ripped from a child's color book and scribbled over with grey crayons.

Laddie plays at the gaming station for a few minutes, making all the shots except for the last one. When he misses his fifth try, he makes that little sad face only kids can make that break even the hardest of hearts. I don't like seeing tykes like him this way, so I reach over him for a softball and chuck it with half the effort to the target zone. It lands straight at the red circles with a bang, making him win the game. There's a twinkle in his eyes as the game operator hands him his prize: a stuffed grey cat plushie. I stifle a laugh; it looks more dinosaur than feline.

Considering the effort he put into it, I think he got cheated. I almost tell the guy to give him something better, but Laddie takes it eagerly and holds it close like it's a real animal and it hits me that kids see the world through rose tinted goggles. What they see is not always how we see it. And what's little to me might be big for Laddie and that's a mind frame I grew out of a long time ago. Sometimes I forget it's possible to still have it. I don't wanna rob that from him, so I stay quiet and follow behind him as he weaves through tall legs to the next station. An ice cold, tickling feeling runs up my arms, making me look over my shoulders every now and then. I scan and scan and see nothing but oblivious party goers, the sides of heads, tight lipped smiles.

Also, I see Star.

She's not alone this time. The Mystery Guy from the concert walks beside her now, looking just as enamored with her as he was before. At first I think he's relentlessly following her against her wishes, but then I see the tiny smile pulling at her pink lips. The sparkle in her eyes.

Oh, I think to myself. She's on a date.

Turning back to the kid, I hold his prize for him as he eagerly plays a water gun game. Droplets splash all along the backdrop and even onto the bottom of my jeans. I shiver, not necessarily out of the spatter of water everywhere, but from the instinctual tug inside that whispers for me to constantly monitor the surroundings...

Why does it feel like we're being watched?

SEVERAL HOURS LATER

Laddie really likes to play.

Several games later (actually got some words out of the kid this time) and he's starting to act like an every day adolescent boy. It comes to the point where he asks me to join in with him at a station and I do. He seems to particularly favor the ones that require good aim. He's a pretty sweet kid, if not kind of aloof, but at least he's not one of those kind of ankle biters that are always wired off sugar and somehow get their hands dirty with something sticky. The dawning realization that I had to look after this child for however long Star's date lasted was difficult to swallow at first, but now I find myself warming up to it. Maybe even enjoying it a little. I don't think it's to the point where I'll ever want kids of my own, but if Ethel's ever goes bankrupt, at least I have a solid plan B.

"Wow, you're good at this game!" Laddie exclaims after I dunk a mini basketball through a hoop from five feet away.

I only shrug and turn to look at a shelf of knick knacks. A six inch owl is squished between other plush items of animals, eyes made up of plain black buttons. His nose is painted a goldish yellow and his cotton filled wings are held out slightly as though he's preparing to take flight. It's cute enough for me to actually stop and stare at. When I pick it up to check the price tag, I see that it's five dollars. In my pocket, I'm only carrying about three. I guess I've outgrown stuffed animals anyways.

With a sigh, I turn to follow Laddie, who marches on ahead of me, the grey cat plushie clutched to his chest. When we get close to the area where people lock up their bikes, a familiar feminine figure in a white skirt approaches him from the front.

Star.

Laddie eagerly runs over to her and takes her hand. "Star, look what Hannah won for me!" He lifts up the toy for her to see, childish mirth saturating his voice.

Star smiles, first at him, then up at me. She looks the same as before, except the Mystery Guy is no where to be seen, and all four biker guys are waiting behind her - taut on their motor vehicles and close enough for me to hear their voices clearly if they talked. The bleach haired one, David, lights a cigarette and puts it to his lips, letting it rest lightly there. Smoke rises from the end as he watches us.

Watches me.

I feel cold as Star comes up to me, her small shoulders suddenly broad in the black military jacket she wears. The expression on her face is different now, all traces of peace gone.

"Thank you for watching Laddie," she says softly. "I didn't know where else to take him."

"It's okay. He's a good kid," I tell her. "How was your date?"

"It wasn't a date."

"It looked like you having fun to me," I point out slyly. "I didn't know you liked him now."

Star glances down at that, like she's confused about it herself, about why she's here in the first place. About everything. I frown, wondering what exactly has gotten her into a mood like this and I'm prepared to ask-

Then David calls for her.

Star freezes, her eyes shutting for a second before she looks over her shoulder at them. David looms in the background, cigarette held between two fingers now, but he's not smoking it. His arm is thrown over the bike handle, the other braced against his muscular leg. He taps the tip of the joint, ash trickling down to the wooden planks. The look in his sky blue eyes... I've never seen a guy who exudes so much intensity. And he doesn't have to say anything when he does it.

When Star looks back at me, her eyes are beseechingly wide. "Can you promise me something?" Her voice is almost a whisper.

I nod. "Anything."

"Say no."

"What?"

"Whatever David asks you... say no."

"But why would he-"

"Hannah, please." She grips my arm like it's the last that living thing she'll ever touch. It scares me. "You don't what they are."

"So tell me."

"I can't," she whispers. "I can't, I'm sorry." She takes a deep breath and blinks away the tears that prickle at the corner of her eyes. I've never seen her like this and I have no idea what to do. What can someone do when their friend is talking in riddles? Showing signs in colors that I can't see?

"Don't make the same mistake I did," she adds on after a moment, hand coming down to hold my own. "I don't want you to end up like me. I wish I could be honest with you, Hannah, but I don't know where to start. I wouldn't know how to tell you everything."

I don't say anything. I just concentrate on how her cold palm feels against my warm one, how the wind blows her curls behind her, blurring the shapes of those men. An anomaly. That's slowly what the whole world is becoming now.

"Promise me?" Star voice is small again.

Her brown eyes chain me down under like steel anchors. I feel small too. "Okay... Okay, I promise."

She quickly envelops me in a hug at that and it's doesn't feel like just any sort of hug. Not a 'goodbye' or a 'thank you' gesture, but something in between. It's eerily similar to the time I saw her on the beach after her absence and it's weird to be the one on the receiving end of it. I can't get rid of the nagging whisper that tells me the picture isn't complete whenever I'm around her, whenever I see those four bikers. But I don't know what else it could be. I just know that there is something.

Star pulls away after a minute, her expression much softer than before. She clutches my hand, squeezes it once, then let's go before turning back to the row of strange men. Laddie is already situated behind the guy with the raven black hair as Star swings herself behind David, her feet bare against the metal. I expect them to all rev up and peel off right away, but they don't. At least, David doesn't. He lingers behind for a moment, his slate blue eyes on me as he reaches inside his trench coat. My breath hitches.

Then an object is tossed to me.

I catch it with both hands before it drops. The material is soft and fuzzy against my fingers, and it takes a second for me to realize it's the owl plushie I had been looking at earlier. The price tag is still attached to it. Vendors usually take them off after purchase. How did he...?

My thoughts fade out as I stare at the owl's tiny face in astonishment before looking up again at the blonde biker. His stare burns holes into me, like he's the only thing real in this moment and everything else is meaningless slabs; colorless paint on an artist's canvas. The rumble of his bike is deafeningly loud as I watch him ride away. Star's hair blows like a sheer curtain behind him and her warning repeats over and over in my head.

I've never been more confused.

MIDNIGHT

Later on, long after the Boardwalk has shut down for the night, I trudge down the sidewalk that leads to my neighborhood, thumbing the stuffed animal in my hands absently. At the intersection that marks the roads that travel toward the heart of the city and the strips of suburban homes, something bright and thin falls out from above my head and sticks to my chest. I stop in my tracks, startled and yank the parchment off me.

It's a Missing Person's ad.

The serious face of Mr. Beasley is plastered on a big black and white portrait, listing his personal information along with the time and date he disappeared.

He disappeared? I think to myself, realizing that it's been several days since I've seen the middle aged man patrolling the perimeter of the Boardwalk and anywhere else for that matter. Have I really been so blind to what's been going on? After living in this city for so long, watching this human being in his boring nightly routine for the past year... why has it all the sudden flown under my notice? I used to be able to see everything.

Everything familiar is getting erased now.

With the paper cold and crinkling in my hands, I gaze up at the sky where the flyer floated down from, like it was destined to collide with me.

The darkness stares back.

A/N: Thank you guys so much for the feedback on the first chapter! It gave me that extra push to go through with the ideas I have. I hope this wasn't too disappointing considering the boys didn't make an appearance until the very end again and there wasn't any dialogue from them - I hope to break that in the next chapter now that I have the plot points set in motion. I'd love to hear what you think so far! :)

In case anyone was wondering, She-Ra is a fictional character from the 80s cartoon She-Ra: Princess of Power.

Thanks for reading! Take care.