The Color of Night by Jack Thomas
It hurt him deeply, and he knew that it hurt them, too.
School wasn’t much better. There were two more attacks over the course of the weekend: one stubborn man had one of his legs torn up while taking a midnight stroll, and a woman was bitten in the hand while carrying groceries from her car to her house (only managing to escape by beating the wolf away with a jar of pickles, according to rumor). And every day Dean showed up to class, shooting Patrick with invisible dares and challenges with his mere presence. Though Patrick was sure he was imagining it, he heard Dean’s voice inside his head, taunting, “TRY it! I DARE you!” over and over whenever they passed in the hall or sat in the same room. By attending his classes obediently and most importantly staying out of the woods, Patrick was flying a white flag above his head; and that filled him with a shame that he had never before known.
He tried his hardest to keep his problems away from Rachel, but he would be lying if he said that it didn’t burden their friendship. Patrick would often come to school sullen, and it was hard to joke and laugh with her in light of everything. To some extent his secret was causing the same reaction between them as it was with his parents, though with her he didn’t feel the constant pressure to reveal himself. Her smile, in fact, was the only thing that kept him anchored to reality—that prevented him from slipping away into total emotional isolation. And though their time together was more quiet than usual, at the moment it was the only aspect of his life that he didn’t feel like running from.
*****
Patrick poked at the mound of mashed potatoes on his plate with his fork. He had eaten his steak without a problem, but lately such bland things as potatoes and bread were more and more difficult to tolerate. He looked over to his sister who was engaged in a similar activity, though her poking was far from idle and yielded much more artistic results: She had sculpted what looked an impressive amount like a gecko, little pea eyes, corn spots and all.
His parents were talking about work, and Patrick’s attention was only pulled from deep space when his mother said his name.
“So Patrick…”
He looked up at her. Her smile had grown more genuine as the days passed and as Patrick proved that he wouldn’t be endangering his life again anytime soon. He still felt estranged, but at least it was getting a little better.
“I was just wondering,” she continued, “when you would be inviting Rachel over for dinner.”
Patrick felt his spirits raise a little at the idea—a feeling which he hadn’t experienced in what felt like a long time.
“You guys are still…” His father made air-quotes, “very good friends, aren’t you?”
An odd thought occurred to him then: It was likely that one of his parents’ theories about his shocking behavior was that it had been the result of something bad happening between him and Rachel. Perhaps this was their way of investigating without officially prying. It was clever—if that was in fact what they were doing—but he was afraid that in an odd way he had to disappoint them.
He smiled. “Yeah.”
“Good!” his mother said with a big smile. “Then how about you invite her over tomorrow night?”
“Okay,” was all he managed. His mind was suddenly overwhelmed with the idea of Rachel stepping into his house. It would be like two completely different worlds colliding; like introducing your closest chum to a friend from your childhood. She would be at the mercy of his mother’s questions and his father’s crude jokes and perhaps worst of all, his sister’s insistent suggestions about their relationship.
As if she heard this thought, Lizzy said, “Oooooh, Patrick’s girlfriend is comin’ over for dinnerrrrrrr!” Her voice was high, but her face seemed uninterested; she never took her eyes away from the sculpture on her plate. Sometimes being the annoying little sister was just her job, it seemed.
The image of Rachel sitting at the table with them was a frightening one, but sent a fresh little flurry of butterflies through Patrick’s stomach nonetheless. Maybe it was just his imagination, but the brief conversation seemed to bring new life to the table. Knowing that he was in better spirits allowed everyone else to breathe and laugh a little easier. Some of the awkward tension lifted and for a while, at least, and things were somewhat normal again.
His father seemed to sense this as well.
“So who wants to hear a funny puke story?”
It was the only thing which could have pried Lizzy’s eyes from her mashed potato gecko.
“I dooo!” She raised her hand fervently and elongated her ‘o’ as though she were in kindergarten again.
“Not while we’re eating,” his mother pleaded, though everyone knew that what that really meant was, “It should be absurd to talk about such things at the dinner table, but I want you to go on anyway.”
His father told the story of a certain food poisoning-related event that had taken place at work (a place which seemed suspiciously exciting for having anything to do with irrigation or any aspect of agriculture for that matter) and by the end even Patrick was laughing. The fear didn’t leave when you ignored it, but it certainly got quieter, and it felt good to forget about all the problems in his life and just have a laugh. Maybe he was on to something.
Chapter 15
Rachel was very pleased by his offer, as he expected she would be.
“Absolutely!” she said with a huge smile.
Patrick had slept fairly well that night. He had focused on his political science homework with great vehemence and gone to sleep reading a book, not giving his backyard so much as a glance. He dreamed about nothing, then got up, showered, and walked to school. The woods called to him as he walked up the road, just as they had that morning and the night before and the days before that, but he ignored them. That little voice piped up as it frequently did and told him that he was a coward and a failure, but what was the point of dwelling on the obvious? All that mattered was that he was a teenager who needed to get to school on time; everything else was water off a duck’s back. Treating it this way made it at least tolerable.
*****
He had invited Rachel to his house for dinner the moment he sat down next to her in first period English. He was dimly aware of Dean’s presence somewhere in the room behind him, but he chose not to care. Caring wouldn’t get him anywhere.
“I was wondering when you were going to ask me!” She said with a little scoff that Patrick found adorable.
“Maybe you should have reminded me,” he laughed. “This book report is a killer!”
The class had indeed ended up reading “Of Mice and Men” and after only one night Patrick had all but completed his report using recycled knowledge of the characters and themes (and also owing tremendously to Mrs. Spotts’ laughably junior high-grade criteria).
“Whatever,” Rachel said, clearly trying to muster all the scorn her voice could manage (which, it turned out, wasn’t a great deal).
For the rest of the day the two of them laughed as they used to, doubling up their efforts to poke fun at Mr. Rolls in Mr. Poulton’s prolonged absence. They were having trouble coming up with a name for the poor gym teacher’s mega-band, but were satisfied with his hit single, “Gotta Suit Out (Every Day) feat. The Hillward High Jock’s Choir”.
The monster that terrorized the small town lurked in the halls around him, but it went unbidden. As far as Patrick was concerned, it was only the shadow of a dream.
During lunch the two of them walked to the front office and Rachel called her father to get permission. (Patrick was very thankful that the two incredibly loud women at the desk at least respected phone calls with silence.)
After school the two of them walked up the dusty road. The day was pleasantly cool and there were a few dangling clouds above the trees, but rain was still a ways off, from what Patrick had heard. The air rang with lazy birds and the diminishing sounds of cars.
They continued an earlier discussion about their feelings on bologna.
“I don’t know why, I just do!” She raised her arms in both a defensive gesture and a shrug.
“It’s just so…” Patrick searched for the right word. “Gross!”
“When I was a kid and my grandma would visit she would always buy a bunch and eat it all the time, and I guess it just grew on me.”
Patrick made a gagging motion with his finger. “It tastes like it grew on something. I’m pretty sure it’s made from hippo butts and shredded newspapers.”
Rachel giggled. “Sometimes my grandma would fry it on a pan and just eat it that way.”
“Ohhhhh, barf!” Patrick turned his head and shut his eyes tight in disgust, as if to shield them from the image of such a travesty of nature.
He noticed that the two of them had reached Rachel’s street and were now walking past it. The simple image of her walking beside him this far down the road was a very odd one, as Patrick had never shared company between his house and that corner. This was the beginning of one world bleeding into another, Patrick thought. Such concepts never ceased to intrigue him, though no one else ever seemed to think about these things at all…
As they turned into Patrick’s driveway he could feel himself getting progressively more nervous. They rounded the corner and his house came into view.
“You built a new deck,” Rachel said.
Patrick looked at the redwood deck, then stupidly back to her.
“What?”
“This is a new deck. Back when I used to go trick-or-treating the lady that lived here would always invite the kids in for hot cocoa.”
Patrick was truly surprised by this, and for the moment he forgot about his nerves.
“So you’ve been inside my house?”
They had stopped in front of the deck and Rachel was regarding it thoughtfully, as if trying to recall the scene from a childhood past.
“Lots of times. I don’t remember her name, but she was a really nice old lady. I don’t even know what ended up happening to her. Maybe she just moved away… I hope…”
Patrick knew he had never lived in a brand new house, but it was hard to imagine that any stranger had ever lived in either this one or the old one, as he was sure it was for most people. It was easy to subconsciously assume that your personal space was untouched by anyone else in the world, just as it was easy to assume that there would be no one after you—that the house would simply remain empty, waiting for you to come back someday. Bringing to mind the fact that someone had until recently occupied his house was strange, but for some reason knowing particular details about the woman and being unsure of her fate was a little unsettling. (He was certain, however, that were he to inquire and discover that her fate aligned with his morbid fears it would be all the more unsettling, so he made a note never to bring it up again.)
“That’s weird,” Patrick said, starting up the steps. The two of them reached the door and stepped inside. Patrick went first, then immediately wondered if he should have opened the door for her like a gentleman.
Of course you shouldn’t have, he thought to himself. You only do that if you’re on a date! …I think! They placed their bags by the door and headed toward the kitchen.
But is it a date? he thought to himself again.
Of course not! he answered. It can’t be a date if your parents are there! And that’s a simple fact!
“Hello,” Patrick called as they entered the dining room. His mother was working at the table and she smiled when she looked up.
“Hey! How you kids doing?” She stood up and shook Rachel’s hand, then sat back down again.
“Good,” Rachel said in a quiet and vague way, most likely as unsure of whether the question was rhetorical as Patrick had been.
“I’m Jodi,” his mother said, beaming at both of them. “And you’re Rachel, right?”
“Yeah.” Rachel was smiling an awful lot. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, too! I practically had to poke Patrick with a cattle prod to get him to invite you over!”
Patrick looked at Rachel with a quick roll of his eyes and said, “Not true.” Rachel giggled.
“Whooooooooo—” they could hear Patrick’s father coming down the hall, “—ooooooo’s that I hear?” He rounded the corner in very Jim Careyesque fashion, appearing suddenly without moving his upper body much at all.
Here it comes… Patrick thought with a mental grimace (and most likely a trace of a physical one as well).
“I’m Richard. Patrick’s younger brother.” He offered his hand and Rachel shook it. “Who are you?”
“I’m Rachel,” she played along, a big grin on her face.
“Well don’t steal anything while you’re here.” He turned to Patrick and very obviously mouthed “Watch her,” then continued past them and into the kitchen.
The three of them laughed, and Patrick’s mother stood up.
“I’m going to start dinner in about an hour, so it’ll be ready around six.”
“’Kay,” Patrick said, suddenly feeling that everything was moving very fast.
His mother flashed them another big smile and followed her husband into the kitchen.
For a brief moment Patrick was unsure of what to do next, but Rachel saved him the trouble of thinking and said with much excitement, “I want to see your room!”
He turned to her, a little surprised by her enthusiasm.
“Uh, okay!”
The two of them left the dining room and jogged up the stairs, Patrick feeling more and more as though he were drawing some foreign part of his life ever deeper into his personal world. When they reached the top and started for his room, they encountered the very last person that Patrick wished to see at the moment:
Lizzy.
She was coming from her own room, and Patrick could see that her annoying little fangs were bared, her eager eyes centered on his neck, her body poised, ready to strike and fill Patrick with the hot venom of embarrassment. The “girlfriend” teasing had only been small game; now that Rachel was here to witness every little sting, she would truly dig in.
Lizzy walked up and passed them at Patrick’s door.
“Hi,” she said to Rachel, who returned it. Lizzy reached the stairs and walked down.
The bafflement that struck Patrick made him pause for a moment; he felt as though a bus had just whooshed in front of his face a moment before he intended to step across the street. Then he said, “That was Lizzy,” and opened the door to his room.
They stepped inside and Rachel made a silent ‘o’ with her mouth, looking around excitedly like a child (or his father) at a butterfly exhibit.
“You sure like seeing peoples’ rooms,” Patrick said with amusement.
“Seeing someone’s room is the best way to get to know them,” she said, walking around slowly and inspecting his posters, one of which was the same “Return of the King” poster she had on her own wall, as she immediately pointed out. Viggo Mortensen stared back at her from behind his sword. “Well, other than simply talking to them, that is. You can discover their interests, their organizational tendencies…”
“Just give it a couple months and you’ll discover something very different about my ‘organizational tendencies’ than what you see here.” He looked at the scant discarded clothes on the floor, knowing that very soon they would be doubled and tripled, despite his mother’s protests. It was one trait he shared with his father, at least.
“You can glean a little about their thought processes by observing how they’ve arranged stuff…” she continued, studying a “Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time” poster that was frayed at the edges from many years of being tacked and re-tacked to the wall, then moving to the action figures on his dresser. “If their closet’s open enough you can see what kinds of clothes they like to wear all i
Patrick walked up beside her and gave her a moment of silence to take in his reading material. Then he said, “What does my bookcase tell you about me?”
“Well, you’re into nerdy stuff, like I am,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, suddenly so much like a professor in a lecture hall. (She would make a good professor, Patrick thought.) “So right off the bat I can tell that we share a large pool of common interests, even if we don’t like exactly the same stuff.” She put the tip of her finger on her nose in a gesture that was half way between a ponder and a scratch. (Either way, it was incredibly cute.) “I can see that you like manga, but only own a few select series, so I can tell that you don’t allow yourself to be sucked up into a craze, and can rule out that you’re one of those lunchroom Naruto-freak Japanophiles.
Patrick smiled. “That’s good.”
“I can see a selection of fantasy series, such as Redwall and Dragonriders of Pern, both of which I enjoy greatly, and I don’t see a shred of that dungeon-crawler bulk fantasy, so I know that you are at a much higher reading level and have more refined tastes than the average teenaged nerd.”
Her positive use of the word “nerd” was oddly liberating. It was hard to find anyone other than his ever-encouraging parents who would embrace such a characteristic in him.