Page 81 of Elusion

“I’m fine,” she says.

At a stop sign, I study her to make sure she’s my definition of fine and not hers. She catches me staring.

“Jordan, I’m okay. I promise.”

More satisfied with this response, I bring her hand over and kiss her knuckles. “Then tell me where the hell I’m going.”

She gives a real Callie smile and directs me toward Main Street, the encounter with Graham already forgotten. As it should be. He’s not worth the mental energy.

The town of Sutterville—or village might be more accurate—has more dilapidated business buildings than functioning ones. A bar, grocery store, and post office along with an insurance business slash realtor make up the entirety of the main street. Even the school building sits isolated, long abandoned. That is why, when Callie instructs me to turn into a gravel parking lot near the desolate, three-story brick structure, I remember my fear of dying and no one ever recovering my body.

Callie grins as she pulls the sleeves of my hoodie that she’s wearing down over her hands. “Are you up-to-date on your tetanus shot?”

I feign a laugh. “If this turns into one of Connor’s horror movies, then we’re both dead, considering what you let me do to you in the backseat.”

She ignores me and gives me a history lesson. “Sutterville and Waymore consolidated schools a few years ago. The school we went to before sits a mile that way off the highway.” She waves off in a general direction. “This place hasn’t been used for anything but parties since the nineties.”

Our phone flashlights light up a path worn through the grass, leading us around back. We pass a tall metal swing set standing next to a broken-down seesaw and wooden merry-go-round. Dead weeds stick up through the out-of-commission playground equipment. An old fire escape slide connects to the red brick on the third floor. Most of the windows have been boarded up, but a few maintain a pane or two of the original glass. Through one on the second story, a light flickers.

At first, I assume we’ll use the metal fire escape stairs until I notice half of them are missing. Callie marches up to a large board, wrinkling her nose as she tugs on it. The gentleman in me bounds over to help my woman break into Murder Academy. Her wrinkled nose is undoubtedly in response to the rotting wood smell. I wonder if anyone brought hand sanitizer.

We move the board far enough to slip through the opening and close the hole behind us. Desks, chalkboards, cabinets, and chairs litter the large open room we step into. Dust, cobwebs, and whatever else nature and rodents have left behind over the years cover everything. I expect a red ball to roll across the floor and a creepy ghost girl to chase after it, laughing, or a tricycle to squeak its way through.

“Are you coming?” Callie asks.

She’s too far away from me. So, not wanting to be alone and the first one picked off, I chase her down. She shrieks when I crash into her, making a ghoulish sound. My lips find hers long enough to remind me why I voluntarily entered this forsaken place—I would follow the girl straight into a volcano.

We wander up crumbling concrete steps to the second floor. Gray metal lockers line one side of the hall, gaps left for doorways. On the other side is, what I hope, a nonfunctioning drinking fountain along with the boys’ and girls’ restrooms.

Muffled music floats down the hall, leading us to room two-oh-seven, Mrs. Alcott, fifth grade. Callie secures the handle. “Ready to become a part of Callista’s world?” she asks.

I tuck a loose strand from her messy bun behind her ear. “It’s all Callie’s world to me.”

She smiles and throws open the door.

“Henders!”

Some guy with an unmarked bottle barrels toward us. He lowers his shoulder and plows into Callie. He drives her back a few steps before stopping and straightening up. A hand slides over the top of his head, pulling off a black stocking cap to reveal short auburn hair. With a wild grin and glassy eyes, he plucks a cigarette from behind his ear and lights it.

Callie latches on to my arm with both hands. “Jordan, this is Tony.”

He blows smoke out of his nose. “Well, he’s the guy, huh?”

“I’m starting to get the impression she’s talked about me quite a bit,” I say, ignoring the death glare from Callie.

Tony laughs. “You have no idea, dude. Welcome.” He extends his arms and does a quarter turn. “Everything the light touches is our domain. Fire barrel in the middle for warmth and the burning of shit if you feel so inclined. Beer and an assortment of adult beverages in the red coolers.” He rotates around, patting his shirt pocket. “And right here, the green if you’re keen.”

I nod, catching his drift. “Thanks, man.”

Callie shakes her head. “Where’s the birthday boy?”

She no more than finishes her question when the dozen or so people standing by the burning barrel part. Shadows from the fire dance on his face, but the closer he comes, the more I recognize him. If I still questioned his identity at all, the light in his eyes when he spots Callie verifies him as the all-American boy from the prom pictures.

His J. Crew smile grows, and he hugs her, lifting her feet off the ground. She hugs his neck, and for the first time, a jealous needle pricks at my skin. Pete—the first of a lot of things.

He sets Callie down, turning his attention on me. The lovey-dovey expression fades, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. I’m Pete. You must be Jordan.”

I shake his hand when he offers it. I don’t want to be that guy, but I size him up. At an inch or so shorter than me, he hints at a vague awkwardness in his own skin. Callouses on his hands remind me of both Trey and Callie mentioning a farm his grandparents own.

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