I didn’t sleep that night. I mean, how could I? Between the great things that happened with Deborah and the horrible things that happened after, my mind was all over the place. I didn’t even turn off my lights. Just sat in bed listening to music really low on my laptop. I bounced around from one song to another, zoned out and thinking. My hand kept reaching up to touch the scar on my neck, almost compulsively. I had no recollection of how I got it. Sometimes in football, I end up with bruises and scrapes that I don’t remember getting in the first place. But they never hurt the way this one did when Deborah touched it in the truck.

Eventually I got out of bed and went to my bathroom mirror. I tried to get a look at the scar, but have you ever tried to see something on the back of your neck? Even with a mirror, it’s impossible. I kept turning my head at different angles trying to see it. The whole time, my fingers never left the scar. Frustrated, I grabbed my phone and took a quick picture of my neck.

The scar wasn’t a scar. It was a long protrusion, an elongated bump that ran just under my skin. Frank’s older cousin on his mom’s side has these subdermal piercings. Have you seen those before? They put thin metal rods, almost like toothpicks, right under people’s skin and it heals over and they have these ridges. That’s what it felt like.

At the bottom part of the picture, I noticed something else. A dark mark on my shoulder. I ran back to the bathroom; it was in a spot I could easily see in the mirror. I guess I just didn’t notice before because I was so focused on my neck.

There were four of them. Bruises a few inches long that met at a center point. The impressions of four fingers.

I closed my eyes and I was there; it all replayed before me like a VHS tape on fast-forward. Facedown on a cold, metal table. I was in my underwear. My right cheek was smashed against the freezing surface. I was screaming, not in pain but anger. My bare chest was tight; it was hard to breathe. One of their sandpaper hands pressed against my back, holding me down. There was a sharp pain in the back of my neck.

And then I was back in my bathroom. And I felt disgusting. Dirty, covered by their fingers. I turned on the shower and jumped in. The water got hotter and hotter and I let it. I let it burn my skin and fill my mouth with steam. And I scrubbed with my hands, every inch. The water was scolding my skin. Burning the feeling of their hands away. At some point I collapsed and fell to the ground and the water continued to burn me.

I didn’t move.

We went to Grandma Maisie’s for dinner the next day. I was exhausted. The kind of tired where you’d do anything to sleep, even if it meant collapsing into your plate of mashed potatoes. I looked like crap, too. My eyes had bags under them and my lips had no color at all. Despite the fact that our house was always freezing, my skin was bright red and peeling.

Mom and Dad were so worried about me, they actually didn’t fight on the way there. Mom even offered to let me stay home. But I didn’t want to be there alone, so I told her I’d go to make Grandma Maisie happy. And I think I did. She always lights up when Tabitha and I walk through the door. Tabitha and I played “I Spy” on the way and I tried to make her giggle by saying that the stop signs were green and the dog licking itself on the street corner was an old lady with a cane.

I can’t tell you what we had for dinner, but I think I liked it. After we ate, Mom and Dad took Tabitha on a walk. That’s something they do sometimes since Grandma lives in town. You don’t really go for many walks in the country. I’m not sure why. Seems like the perfect thing to do, but the roads are narrow and winding and you don’t want a truck to come over a hill and nail you, I suppose.

It was just me and Grandma Maisie sitting in her rocking chairs. She keeps them on either side of her record player. It’s pretty cool that she has one of those. She poured herself some whiskey on the rocks and then offered me a glass. I said no thanks so we just sat there while she sipped. The record was some compilation thing, which I didn’t even realize they made on vinyl. I thought it was all album rock type stuff.

She asked me if I thought Mom and Dad were going to get a divorce. I couldn’t believe she asked like that. At first, I hesitated and said probably not, not that I could imagine. But that wasn’t the truth and Grandma Maisie has known me long enough to know when I’m lying. She just gave me this sideways look and took a long sip. Then I admitted that I didn’t know.

“Your only responsibility is Tabitha,” she said. “You don’t worry about anyone else. Not even yourself. You make sure that girl is safe. Okay?”

I nodded and she lit a cigarette and I stared straight out into the room. I tried to imagine my mom as a little girl, running through that room or doing her homework or sneaking out of the house. I didn’t really know what she looked like back then.

“So what’s wrong?” That’s how she asked me, point-blank. I shook my head. Told her I was tired. And she gave me that lying look again.

“I’m still having those dreams,” I told her. “Or nightmares, I guess. And I hardly get any sleep because I’m afraid that if I go to bed, they’ll wake me up. I don’t know, sometimes I can’t even tell if I’m awake or not. Is that bad?”

She shook her head matter-of-factly. Not that anything has ever shaken her up.

“Your mom used to do the same thing,” she said. “Back when she was your age. Dreams about the end of the world and God and all these kinds of things. I told her she was too old for that. Eventually, she got over them.”

“Did you really think that?” I asked her.

“Think what?” she asked me.

“That she was too old?”

Grandma Maisie looked at me, not sideways this time, but right at me with a cigarette in her mouth and her fingers up to it.

“Moms get scared,” she said, “and say things they don’t mean. That’s why you don’t get along with your mom.” I didn’t even respond to that. There was no reason. We both knew it was true.

She told me that on the nights when it got bad, when my mom’s dreams were so bad she started crying, she would put on a record. To calm my mom, you know? And it would help my mom relax. Grandma Maisie pushed herself off the rocking chair and grabbed that record from the box underneath the record player. I didn’t really pay any attention while she did so. The other record cut out and there was silence for a moment until the new one started playing. And then suddenly I was awake because it was that song. That Bob Marley song from the radio. The one Mom sang to me, the one I sing to Tabitha.

Grandma sat back down and I stared at her. She asked me if I knew the song. I said I did. She leaned way back and shook her head.

“Your mom graduated high school when she was seventeen,” she told me. “Three days after graduation, I found out she was pregnant with you. She was crying, hysterical. So I played this song for her. And she kept crying. But it was the kind of crying that has a smile underneath. She lived here with me until you were born and there were nights, sometimes in the early morning, when I would hear this song from her room and it would make me smile, too, because I knew that she was alone and afraid, but she was strong. And smiling. And maybe thinking of me.”

You have to understand, it’s not very normal for Grandma Maisie to get weird like that, so I knew it was serious for her. She didn’t cry or anything. She doesn’t ever cry that I know of. Unless she’s like Mom and waits until she thinks everyone else is asleep.

That song kept playing and it somehow made the room seem bigger and emptier. Grandma Maisie got quiet and there was nothing but the song. And I thought about the deer and the light. I was so tired that I felt out of control of myself for a second and a tear ran down my cheek. She wasn’t even looking at me, but Grandma reached out her frail hand and took mine in it. And we just sat there like that until my family got back to her house.

We went home and I went to bed. The next thing I knew, I was standing in the middle of an open field. There were trees off in the distance at every side. It was some kind of circular clearing, a hundred yards or so across. There was snow on the ground and on the trees. But I was naked, shivering. And the black sky was barren. No stars. No moon. Nothing.

And that was it. I woke up in bed.

We had a football fundraiser the next day, Saturday. Like I said, I don’t normally mind the attention I get for being the quarterback. I saw Ronnie, the kid who was quarterback before me, get the same kind of attention the year before and I was more or less under his wing then, so I knew what to expect. He goes to college in Arizona now. From what I can tell, he drinks a lot and parties. I don’t even think he plays football anymore.

Despite being used to the attention, I can’t think of anyone who actually enjoyed being at the yearly fundraiser they made us do. It was more of an evening cookout with people from around the community. For six dollars, you could get a plate of either fried chicken or pulled pork sandwiches, homemade potato salad, an ear of sweet corn, and a cookie. Lemonade and tea were a dollar extra. The players, of course, had to serve the food. That allowed the community members to walk down the line one-by-one and congratulate each of us on our hard work and dedication and wish us good luck on the rest of the season.

I was at the end of the line, working the cash register. Now, I’m not complaining, because that fat kid, Jerry, he had it a lot worse than me. He was in charge of the sweet corn. He had to shuck each ear, pull off all the hairs, and then put it on a customer’s plate with a pair of tongs. The thing is, it’s Indiana and everybody wants an ear of sweet corn. They let him have some freshman member of the team to help him, but even the two of them weren’t fast enough. On top of that, they kept these two glass jars full of melted butter right next to the sweet corn area and a lot of people would dip their ear of corn in the butter before putting it back on their plates. By the end of the night, the jar is always full of stray corn silks, fallen kernels, and little winged bugs that flew too close. You’d think the bugs would stop people from using the butter, but you’d be wrong. So I guess the cash register wasn’t too bad, because I didn’t have to look at those putrid jars all night.

The downside was that everybody wanted to shake my hand. They’d either do it while handing me money or while grabbing for their change. And I don’t mind shaking hands, I really don’t, but I started overthinking it after a while. If a big guy came through, I tried to give him a nice, firm handshake; if it was an old lady, though, I didn’t want to break her bones, so I’d be more delicate. But then I didn’t know if that was rude or sexist or something. Frank was posted next to me dishing out cookies. I asked him about it and he rolled his eyes and said, “Only Sammy Gorman.” I don’t know what he meant by that, but he said it.

When the sun went down, this country band started playing under a white tent across the school parking lot. I’m not usually too picky, but I do not like country music. Everybody around here seems to love it, but I don’t get it. It’s not the sound so much as the lyrics, which are completely insipid, if you ask me. When that happened, most of the people migrated to the wooden benches they had under the tent. Coach told us we could leave the food line and watch the band, but I offered to stay and help clean up since I had no interest in the music. Frank stayed with me and we started helping some of the teachers put things away.

The parking lot felt big when the sun was gone. There was still a streak of pink on the horizon, but the moon was up and the stars were starting to come out. The air was chilly so I pulled on a hoodie from Dad’s truck. As I closed the truck door, I turned to see Deborah and a few of her friends standing there. I hugged her and I swear I could hear her smelling me. Is that normal?

“People are dancing,” she said. I listened to the sound of a slow country song, the kind that has an abundance of fiddle.

“You want to dance?” I asked. She shrugged. I looked at her friends and felt my face turn red. One of them pulled out her cell phone and walked away. The others followed. I grabbed Deborah’s hands and we started to sway, moving in circles to the faraway music. The crickets in the grass nearby were louder than the song and neither of us spoke. Our feet were silent on the parking lot blacktop. When the music stopped, I kissed her. She told me that she’d see me Monday and walked away.

Her friend’s car pulled out onto the road. As I turned back to the food line, which was more or less put away by now, I saw it again. A dark figure standing at the end of the lot opposite the band. The light from the tent lit the bottoms of its legs and I saw the crawling, swirling ash of which it consisted. Above it, far in the distance, a red light was hovering over the horizon, punctuating the pink streak.

Slowly, I walked to the food line. I thought maybe it wouldn’t know that I saw it standing there.

“That was romantic,” Frank said, sarcasm dripping from his tongue.

“Huh?” was all I said. He was talking about the dance, of course. I had already almost forgotten about it. He continued putting things away without a response.

I grabbed the tray of cookies from the last table in line and turned to put them on a wheeled cart, which would be taken back into the school kitchen. As soon as I turned, though, I saw it again. Or maybe it was a different one. Standing just outside the entrance to the tent with the band. Its body was perfectly outlined against the white fabric, tall and thick. The sound filled my head, loud and echoing, not echoing in my head but across the pavement.

I dropped the tray. The cookies fell off. Some fell apart, others rolled away on their sides. I apologized and bent down to pick them up. An old cafeteria lady made annoyed clicking sounds with her tongue as she helped me.

As I reached for one of the cookies, my palm slid against the pavement. The rough surface was familiar against my skin. It felt so much like them. The way they pulled me around by my arms and shoved my back. I pulled my hand away from the ground in a spasm. The cafeteria lady asked me if I was okay. I turned to look at her and it happened again. I didn’t know who she was. Or where I was. Total system reboot.

“Who are you?” I said under my breath, hoping she wouldn’t hear.

She did hear, though. She heard and one of her eyebrows rose up in confusion. She asked again if I was okay.

I wasn’t. There was rough ground under me, an old woman shimmering like a ghost in the moonlight before me. The tent, with its angelic glow and the low murmur of a stringed instrument coming from within. A sea of blackness between us all.

Frank is here, was all I could think. All I could remember.

“Frank!” I said, reaching backward with my outstretched arm. I couldn’t look back, couldn’t look away from the old woman and the deceptively enticing tent. His hands wrapped around my wrist and he pulled me to my feet.

“Come on,” he said, before repeating it again. The old lady staring at me, Frank pulled me away from the food line and back to the green truck. The green truck, which I recognized. Which was safe. I put my hands against its cool side.

“Where are the keys?” Frank asked. I fished around in my pocket. Handed the keys to him. He told me not to move.

After telling the old lady that I was okay and that we were leaving, Frank drove me home. By the time we got to my driveway, all of my confusion was gone. It was replaced by embarrassment.

Frank stayed that night. We watched movies from my bed until we both fell asleep. When I woke up with bruises on my legs the next morning, I assumed they were from him kicking me in his sleep. I must have slept through it. Right?

That Monday, the school got involved.

I didn’t pay any attention in the shower that morning. If I had taken the time to check myself, maybe it would all have turned out differently. I don’t know. But I showered again after practice that afternoon and everything got crazy.

Frank didn’t seem to notice, either. We were drying off and another kid came in to tell me that our coach needed to see me. That it was urgent. So I wrapped my towel around my waist and walked out of the locker room and into his office. It wasn’t actually urgent, but he always blew everything out of proportion and that day wasn’t any exception. Something about a pass he saw me make and how I was improving my throws and he wanted to tell me before he forgot. It was typical. But then I turned around to leave and he stopped me. I turned back to look at him and he actually got out of his chair and walked over to me. He grabbed my shoulder and looked at my back. I heard him curse under his breath. He asked what happened to me and I had no idea what he was on about.

“Go look at your back,” he said. So I walked into the bathroom and turned myself away from the mirror. I could only see it out of the corner of my eye, but the whole world went gray for a second and it was a struggle to keep myself from passing out.

There were scratches. Maybe twenty of them. Deep red and criss-crossed over my spine. There was no pain, no sensation at all when I moved. But they were undeniable. Under the yellow glow of the locker room lights, the skin around the scars was pale green. Frank walked in after me to ask a question. He saw the scratches and his curse wasn’t under his breath.

“Are you okay?” he asked. I wasn’t.

They thought I did it to myself. That was the conclusion when Mom and Dad came in for a “very important meeting” with the school principal. She made me lift up my shirt and show them my back. Dad’s face went pale and Mom gasped a little and then got angry.

Everybody started acting different around me after that. Frank and Deborah knew that I didn’t do it to myself, but I asked them not to talk to anybody else about it anyway. They didn’t. But the other guys who were in the locker room that day couldn’t shut up about it. So everybody on the team kept their distance, especially whenever I was changing and they could see the scars. You could almost feel their disgust when I took off my shirt. Deborah kept reminding me that I could always talk to her about anything and that I didn’t have to feel alone, which I really didn’t. Frank didn’t say much about it, but I noticed he was always around. Even more than usual.

People didn’t cheer as loud at football games. They didn’t say hello to me in the hallways. Every teacher I talked to had this look of sadness on their faces. It stressed me out. A lot. I woke up every day feeling sick to my stomach because I knew that everyone would think of the scars when they saw me. It was worse when I’d shower before school. No matter how hard I tried to avoid looking at them, I couldn’t. That wave of nausea always swept over me when I saw. They healed quickly, too. Within a week, they were just white lines across my skin. But even that small reminder was enough to make me sick.

My mom talked to the school and promised she and Dad would keep an eye on my situation. “Monitor” I believe is the word she used. Even they started to act weird. At dinner, they would ask me all kinds of questions about my day. They started telling me they loved me a lot more. Cautiously, though, as if they expected me to flip out every time they said it. And to be honest, I kind of wanted to. The dreams got worse around that time. It seemed like every night I was on that cold slab of metal, staring up into the bright light, not able to move or talk or scream.

One night I woke up in my room. This wasn’t a dream, I was actually awake, I know I was. And I sat up covered in sweat and I knew they were there. Standing in the corners, inside the shadows. Staring back at me and waiting for me to sleep again. The noise started up in my head. The drawn-out clicks echoing across my room. I yelled at them. Told them to stop hiding. To show me whatever it was they wanted me to see. As soon as the first words came out of my mouth, the sound was gone. It was me, alone, crazy and yelling into the room. Everything was so still and unmoving.

“I don’t want to dream anymore!” I yelled.

I wish I would’ve just gone back to sleep.

Next Chapter: Chapter 10