Soul's Asylum is a twenty-five-minute drive outside the city limits.
Afternoon sun beats down, glaring off the car's hood. Once you get past the buildings, strip malls, and houses, there's not much landscaping in Pleasance. Just flat, dry plains with sparse growths of shrubbery and spindly trees.
Each time Jeb starts to talk, I mumble a monosyllabic response, then crank up the volume on the newly installed CD player.
Finally, a song comes on—an acoustic, moody number I've heard Jeb listen to when he paints—and he drives in silent contemplation. The baggie of ice he brought for my swollen ankle has melted, and I move my foot to let it roll off.
I fight drowsiness, knowing what waits on the other side of sleep. I don't need to revisit my Alice nightmare in midafternoon.
As a teenager, Alison's mom, Alicia, painted the Wonderland characters on every wall of her home, insisting that they were real and talked to her in dreams. Years later, Alicia took a flying leap out of her second-story hospital room window to test her "wings," just a few hours after giving birth to my mom. She landed in a rosebush and broke her neck.
Some say she committed suicide—postpartum depression and grief over losing her husband months earlier in a factory accident. Others say she should've been locked away long before she had a child.
After her mom's death, Alison was left to be raised by a long line of foster parents. Dad thinks the instability contributed to her illness. I know it's something more, something hereditary, because of my recurrent nightmare and the bugs and plants. And then there's the presence I feel inside. The one that vibrates and shadows me when I'm scared or hesitant, prodding me to push my limits.
I've researched schizophrenia. They say one of the symptoms is hearing voices, not a winglike thumping in the skull. Then again, if I were to count the whispers of flowers and bugs, I hear plenty of voices. By any of those measurements, I'm sick.
My throat swells on a lump and I swallow it down.
The CD changes songs, and I concentrate on the melody, trying to forget everything else. Dust slaps against the car as Jeb shifts gears. I glance sideways at his profile. There's Italian somewhere in his bloodline, and he has a really great complexion—olive-toned and clear, soft to the touch.
He tilts his head my way. I turn to the rearview mirror and watch the car freshener swing. Today's the first day I've had it hanging in place.
On eBay, there's a store that sells customized fresheners for ten bucks apiece. Just e-mail a photo, and they print it onto a scented card, then snail-mail the finished product to you. A couple of weeks ago, I used some birthday money and bought two of them, one for me and one for Dad—which he has yet to hang in his truck. He has it tucked in his wallet; I wonder if it will always stay hidden in there, too painful for him to see every day.
"It turned out good," Jeb says, referring to the air freshener.
"Yeah," I mumble. "It's Alison's shot, so it was bound to."
Jeb nods, his unspoken understanding more comforting than other people's well-intentioned words.
I stare at the photo. It's an image of a huge black-winged moth from one of Alison's old albums. The shot is amazing, the way the wings are splayed on a flower between a slant of sun and shade, teetering between two worlds. Alison used to capture things most people wouldn't notice—moments in time when opposites collide, then merge seamlessly together. Makes me wonder how successful she might've been if she hadn't lost her mind.
I tap the air freshener, following its sway.
The bug has always seemed familiar—eerily fascinating yet at the same time calming.
It occurs to me I don't know its history—what species it is, where it lives. If I found out, I would know where Alison might've been when she shot the picture and could feel closer to her somehow, but I can't ask. She's sensitive about her albums.
I reach behind the bucket seat, dig my iPhone out of my backpack, and open a search for glowing moth.
After twenty-some pages of tattoos, logos, Lunesta ads, and costume designs, a moth sketch catches my eye. Not a perfect match to Alison's, but the body's a bright blue and the wings shimmer black, so it's close enough.
Clicking on the image turns the screen blank. I'm about to restart the browser when a strobe of bright red stops me. The screen throbs as if I'm looking at a heartbeat. The air seems to pulse around me in synchrony.
A Web page flickers to life. White font and colorful graphics stand out vividly against the black background. The first thing that hits me is the title: Netherlings—denizens of the nether-realm.
Next follows a definition: A dark and twisted race of supernatural beings indigenous to an ancient world hidden deep within the heart of the earth. Most use their magic for mischief and revenge, though a rare few have a penchant for kindness and courage.
I scroll past images every bit as violent and beautiful as Jeb's paintings: luminous, rainbow-skinned creatures with bulbous eyes and sparkly, silken wings who carry knives and swords; hideous, naked hobgoblins in chains who crawl on all fours and have corkscrew tails and cloven feet like pigs; silvery pixielike beings trapped in cages and crying oily black tears.
According to the text, in their truest forms, netherlings can look like almost anything—they can be as small as a rosebud or larger than a man. Some can even emulate mortals, taking on the likeness of existing humans to deceive the people around them.
An uneasy knot forms in my chest at the next line of text: While wreaking havoc in the mortal world, netherlings stay connected to their kind by using plants and insects as conduits to the nether-realm.
My breath catches. The words dance around me, a dizzying rise and fall of broken logic. If this were true and not just some Web weirdo's fantasy, it would mean Alison and I share the traits of some creepy, mystical creatures. But that's not even possible.
The car bounces over a bump and I drop the cell. When I pick it up, I've lost the website and any signal. "Crap!"
"Nope. Pothole." Downshifting gears, Jeb sidles a lazy gaze my way—Mr. Cool behind those shades.
I glare at him. "You should probably keep your eyes on the road in case there's any more, genius."
He shifts back from third to fourth gear, grinning. "Fierce game of solitaire?"
"Bug research. Make a right here." I drop the phone into my backpack. I'm so uptight about going to Soul's, I probably read the words wrong. Even though I'm almost convinced of that, the kink in my stomach won't loosen.
Jeb turns onto a long, winding road. We pass a faded sign: SOUL'S ASYLUM: OFFERING PEACE AND REST TO THE WEARY MIND SINCE 1942.
Peace. Yeah, right. More like drug-induced catatonia.
I roll down the window and let in a warm breeze. Gizmo idles while we wait for the automatic wrought-iron gates to respond.
Flipping open the glove compartment, I dig out a small cosmetics bag along with the hair extensions that Jenara helped me make out of shimmery blue yarn. They're strung together and clip in for a dreadlocks effect.
We cruise toward the four-story brick building in the distance; it stands out bloodred against the clear sky. It could've been a gingerbread mansion, but the white shingles on the gabled roof look more like jagged teeth than icing.
Jeb finds a parking space next to my dad's Ford pickup and cuts the engine. The motor grinds to a stop.
"Has the car been making that sound long?" He tosses his shades onto the dash and concentrates on the panel behind the steering wheel, checking out dials and numbers.
I lift my braid over my shoulder, sliding the elastic band from the end. "About a week." Hair hangs across my chest in platinum waves just like Alison's. Per Dad's request, I don't dye it or cut it because it reminds him of hers. So I've had to find other creative ways of ramping up my style.
I bend at the waist until my hair flows like a stream over my knees. Once the dreadlocks feel secure, I flip my head upright and catch Jeb watching me.
He jerks his gaze back to the dashboard. "If you hadn't been ignoring my calls, I could've already taken a look at your engine. You shouldn't drive this until it's fixed."
"Gizmo's fine. Just a little hoarse. Maybe he needs to gargle some salt water."
"This isn't a joke. What are you going to do if you get stalled out in the middle of nowhere?"
I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. "Hmm. Show some cleavage to a passing trucker?"
Jeb's jaw clenches. "That's not funny."
I giggle. "Oh, come on. I'm kidding. All it would really take is a little leg."
His lips curve slightly, but the smile is gone in a blink. "This from the girl who's never even had a first kiss."
He's always teased that I'm a mix between skate glam and American sweetheart. Looks like I've just been downgraded to prude.
I groan. It won't do any good to deny it. "Fine. I would call someone on my cell and wait safely in my car with all the doors locked and Mace in hand until help arrived. There, do I win a cookie?"
He thumps a finger against the dash. "I'll come over to look at it later. You can hang with me in the garage. Just like we used to."
I pull some eye shadow out of the cosmetics bag. "I'd like that."
His smile makes a full appearance—dimples and all—a glimpse of the old, playful, teasing Jeb. My pulse quickens at the sight of it.
"Great," he says. "How about tonight?"
I huff. "Right. Taelor would have a litter of kittens if you left prom early to tinker with my car."
He drops his forehead to the steering wheel. "Ugh. I forgot about the dance. I still have to pick up my tux." He glances at the clock on my dash. "Jen said some guy asked you but you didn't want to go. Why not?"
I shrug. "I have this character flaw? Called dignity?"
He snorts and picks up a bottle of raspberry-flavored water wedged between the emergency brake and console and drinks what's left.
I open my compact and apply a smear of kohl eye shadow atop what's already there, and then elongate the outside corner like a cat's eye. Once I finish both eyes with a sweep along the bottom lashes, my ice-blue irises stand out against the black like a fluorescent shirt beneath the UV lights at Underland.
Jeb leans back in his seat. "Well done. You've managed to destroy any resemblance to your mom."
I freeze. "I'm not trying—"
"C'mon, Al. It's me." He stretches out a hand to bat the air freshener. The moth spins, reminding me of the website. The pinch in my sternum tightens.
I drop my eye shadow into the bag and fish out some silver gloss to spread over my lips, then stuff the bag back into the glove compartment.
Jeb's hand rests next to my elbow on the console, his warmth seeping over to me. "You're scared if you look like her, you'll be like her. And end up here, too."
I'm speechless. He's always been able to read me. But this… it's like he's crawled inside my head.
God forbid.
My throat dries, and I stare at the empty water bottle between us.
"It's not easy to live in someone's shadow." His face darkens.
He would know. He's got the scars to prove it, deeper than the cigarette burns on his torso and arms. I still remember after they first moved in: the blood-chilling screams next door at two in the morning as he tried to protect his sister and mom from his drunken dad. The best thing that ever happened to Jeb's family was when Mr. Holt wrapped his truck around a tree one night three years ago. His blood alcohol level was at 0.3.
Thankfully, Jeb never touches the stuff. His dark moods don't mix well with alcohol. He found that out a few years back, after nearly killing some guy in a fight. The court sent Jeb to a youth detention center for a year, which is why he graduated at age nineteen. He lost twelve months of his life but gained a future, because at the center a psychologist helped him rein in his bitterness through his art and taught him that having structure and balance was the best way to contain his rage.
"Just remember," he says, weaving our fingers together. "With you, it's not hereditary. Your mom had an accident."
Our palms touch with only my knit gloves between us, and I press my forearm to his to align the ridges of his scars against my skin.
You're wrong, I want to say. I'm exactly like you. But I can't. The fact is, alcoholics have programs, steps to take so they can fit into society and function. Crazies like Alison—all they have are padded cells and blunted utensils. That's their normal.
Our normal.
Looking down, I notice blood has seeped and dried on the bandage at my knee. I run a hand over it, worried about Alison. She flips out at the sight of blood.
"Here." Without my even saying a word, Jeb works the bandana off his head. Leaning over, he ties the cloth around my knee to hide the soiled bandage. When he's done, instead of moving back to his side of the car, he props an elbow on the console and runs a finger along one of the blue falls in my hair. Either it's vibes from our unresolved issues or from our intimate conversation, but his expression is serious.
"Those dreadlocks are wicked tight." His voice is low and velvety, filling my stomach with knots. "You know, you really should go to prom. Show up just like this and knock everyone on their asses. I guarantee you'll still have your dignity."
He studies my face with an expression I've only seen when he paints. Intense. Absorbed. As if he's considering the painting from every angle. Me from every angle.
He's so close, I smell the raspberry on his hot breath. His gaze shifts to the dimple in my chin and my cheeks flame.
In the back of my head, that shadowy sensation rouses, not so much a voice as a presence, like a shudder of wings scrambling my insides… urging me to touch the labret beneath his lower lip. Instinctively, I reach out. He doesn't even flinch as I trace the silvery spike.
The metal is warm, and his stubble tickles my fingertip on either side. Hit full-on by the intimacy of my action, I start to draw back.
He grabs my hand and holds my finger against his lips. His eyes darken, thick lashes narrowing. "Al," he whispers.
"Butterfly!" Dad's shout carries through the open window. I jump, and Jeb boomerangs to his side of the car. Dad saunters down the immaculate lawn toward Gizmo, wearing khaki pants and a royal blue polo embroidered with TOM'S SPORTING GOODS in silver thread.
I soothe my racing pulse with a few deep breaths.
Dad bends over to look through my window. "Hello, Jebediah."
Jeb clears his throat. "Hey there, Mr. Gardner."
"Hmm. Maybe you should finally start calling me Thomas." Dad grins, arm propped on the window's edge. "After all, you graduated last night."
Jeb smirks, proud and boyish. He gets that way around my dad. Mr. Holt used to tell him he'd never amount to anything, pressuring him to drop out and work at the garage full-time, but my dad always encouraged Jeb to stay in school. If I wasn't still ticked over how they'd teamed up against me about London, I might actually enjoy their moment of bonding.
"So my girl lassoed you into being her chauffeur?" Dad asks, shooting me a teasing glance.
"Yep. She even sprained an ankle to get her way," Jeb ribs back. How can his voice sound so steady, while I feel like a hurricane has been set loose in my chest? Isn't he even a little rattled by what happened between us two seconds ago?
He reaches into the backseat and tugs on the handles of the wooden crutches he borrowed from Underland's medical supply room.
"What did you do?" Dad opens my car door, worry apparent on his face.
I swing out my legs slowly, gritting my teeth against the throb as blood rushes to my ankle. "The usual. Skateboarding is trial and error, you know?" I glance at Jeb as he comes around to the passenger side, mentally forbidding him to tell Dad about the worn-out knee pad.
Jeb gives his head a shake, and for a second, I think he's going to turn on me again. Instead, our eyes lock and my insides tangle. What made me touch him like that earlier? Things are weird enough between us as is.
Dad helps me stand and crouches to look at my ankle. "Interesting. Your mom was convinced something happened. She said you'd hurt yourself." He stands, an inch shorter than Jeb. "I suppose she just assumes the worst any time you're late. You should've called." He cups my elbow while I position the crutches under my arms.
"Sorry."
"It's okay. Let's get you inside before she does something—" Dad stops himself in answer to my pleading gaze. "Uh, before our ice cream melts to cheesecake soup."
We start toward the sidewalk lined with peonies. Bugs dance atop the flowers and white noise grows around me, making me wish I had my earbuds and iPod.
Dad throws a glance over his shoulder when we're halfway to the door. "Could you park the car in the garage, in case it rains?"
"Sure thing," Jeb's voice answers back. "Hey, skater girl…"
I pause behind Dad and pivot on my good foot, fingers tight around the cushioned crutch grips as I study Jeb's expression in the distance. He looks as confused as I feel.
"When do you work tomorrow?" he asks.
I stand there like a brainless mannequin. "Um… Jen and I are on the noon shift."
"Okay. Get a ride with her. I'll come by then to look at Gizmo's engine."
My heart sinks. So much for hanging out like old times. Looks like he's going to avoid me now. "Right. Sure." I bite back my disappointment and turn to hobble with Dad up the path.
He catches my eye. "Everything all right between you two? I can't remember a time you didn't tinker in the garage together."
I shrug as he opens the glass door. "Maybe we're growing apart." It hurts to say it, more than I'll ever admit out loud.
"He's always been a good friend," Dad says. "You should work it out."
"A friend doesn't try to run your life. That's what dads are for." Raising my eyebrows to make my point, I limp into the air-conditioned building. He steps in behind me, silent.
I shiver. The hallways here unsettle me with their long, empty stretches and yellow blinking lights. White tiles magnify the sounds, and nurses in peppermint-striped scrubs blur in my peripheral vision. The uniforms make them look more like candy stripers than certified health-care professionals.
Counting the barbs painted on my T-shirt, I wait for Dad to talk to the nurse behind the main desk. A fly lands on my arm and I swat at it. It swoops around my head with a loud buzz that almost sounds like "He's here," before darting down the corridor.
Dad pauses beside me as I stare after the fly. "You sure you're all right?"
I nod, shaking off the delusion. "Just don't know what to expect today." It's only a half lie. Alison gets too distracted around plants and insects to go outside very often, but she's been begging for fresh air, and Dad talked her doctor into trying. Who knows what might come of it?
"Yeah. I'm hoping this doesn't unbalance her too much…" His voice trails off, and his shoulders slouch, as if all the sadness of the last eleven years weighs on them. "I wish you could remember her the way she was before." He places a hand on my nape as we head toward the courtyard. "She was so levelheaded. So together. So much like you." He whispers that last part, maybe in hopes I won't hear.
But I do, and the barbed wire tightens once more, until my heart is strangled and broken.
