I rush up the stairs into my room and start pulling out running clothes. I have tights for the cold weather and a layer of Under Armour to wick the sweat away from my skin. It's the sweat that makes you feel cold. I find a wool hat in Betty's closet and put it over my hair, which is the worst look imaginable when you have lots of fine hair like I do, but it isn't like I'm going to a beauty pageant, trying to be Miss Maine or something. I'm going running in the dark, nobody will see me. Until Mick gets here.
That's right.
I am going running and maybe I'll find that boy-stealing pixie guy. I pull the hat on and pause for a second without really thinking about it, and look in the mirror at the paler, thinner version of me that I've become. Even my eyes are dull. Blue, but not as blue as they used to be. If my dad were here he'd be taking my temperature and trying to feed me French onion soup. But it isn't my body that's sick. It's my insides. My insides are hollow. My insides are hollow because I've been too scared of living and going on, which is totally self-indulgent and awful, because think of all those people in prisons for nothing-for blogging, for speaking, for thinking differently. They'd probably give anything to move forward, to go on.
Is there a name for this fear? I'm not sure: I should look it up. There's tachophobia, which is a fear of speed, of moving too fast.
I shake myself out of my haze and lace up my sneakers. This is the first step in moving forward, the first step in pixie hunting, the first step in taking control of my life, because I can.
I text a message to lssie, telling her I'm going for a quick run and that we should do some more Internet investigating tomorrow at lunch. Then I text Nick.
Gone running. See you ON ROAD.
There, my bases are covered and I'm going pixie hunting.
My mother is afraid of the dark.
When I was little we had nightlights all over the house, not just in my bedroom and the bathroom. There were two in the upstairs hallway, one in every guest room, one in the kitchen, the dining room, the downstairs bathrooms, the living room, everywhere.
I asked her about it once. We were in the kitchen. I was sitting on the counter, feet dangling, wearing my Elmo pajamas and watching her cook. "Why are you scared of the dark, Mommy?"
She'd been making pancakes, stirring up the batter. She spilled blueberries into the bowl and stirred and stirred.
"I'm not."
"Then why do we have a million nightlights?"
She banged the spoon against the big ceramic bowl, the one with the two maroon stripes around the rim.
"That's so you don't get scared."
"I'm not scared," I said. "I like the dark."
"No, you don't."
She stared at me, her face hardening into something unrecognizable. She'd stirred the batter too much and broke all the blueberries apart.
"The pancakes are blue," I told her.
She looked at the bowl, frowning, and let go of the spoon. "Oops!"
"It's okay. Blue is pretty."
She kissed me on the nose and said, "Let me tell you something, Zara. Sometimes there are things that people should be afraid of."
"Like the dark?"
She shook her head. "No, more the absence of light. Understand?"
I nodded, but I didn't understand, not at all.
I slam out the door and down the steps. I don't warm up. I don't stretch. I just start jogging under the light of the moon. Frost crystals form on the windows of the house. The trees seem heavy from the weight of the air.
There is a definite absence of light, but I've rigged up one of those headband flashlight things, so I won't trip as long as I'm careful.
Something about the cold air just rips through my lungs when I run. Every breath is like an ax into my chest. Every breath is a decision I have to make, a decision to live, to go on.
It hurts but I push through it and then the pain numbs. It isn't like it's gone, but more like it just isn't so wrenching anymore. I don't think there's any other word for it than wrenching.
Breathing should always be easy, but nothing is easy in Maine. Nothing is easy in the cold. I keep running though: turning out of the driveway and onto the main road. It's easier to run on the asphalt than it is on the dirt because of foot placement. But it is harder on my joints and scarier too, like something is watching.
My legs stretch out and I pick up the pace, but that feeling conies back. A noise thuds in the dark forest beside me and I keep running. Maine makes me skittish. I've never been such a wimp. I ran through all sorts of neighborhoods in Charleston and I never got scared there.
I hate being scared.
"If you can name something, it's not so scary," my dad always said. "People are afraid of what they don't know."
I turn my head and scan the woods, but all I can make out are trees and shadows. I can't see anyone in there or anything.
My mind fills with visions of bears and wolves, but the only bears Maine has are black bears, and they're pretty much terrified of people. The Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife swears that there are no wolves in Maine, just coyotes. I know this because I checked their Web site after I saw the huge paw prints in the snow my first morning. I told Grandma Betty about them. What had she said?
"They're afraid to admit there are wolves here, but everyone knows it's true. Anyway, it's nothing to worry about. Wolves don't bother people."
That's what I tell myself,Wolves don't bother people. Wolves don't bother people.
It doesn't help.
Wolves don't bother people. Pixies bother people.
That spider-crawly feeling comes back along the palms of my hands.
Then I hear it.
My name.
"Zara."
I stumble a little, trip over a rock or something that's in the breakdown lane of the road. Why are there no cars out here? Oh, that's right. Maine isn't the most populated state in the country, especially Betty's part of Maine.
I keep running, picking up the pace, listening. Then I hear it again. It seems to echo off every tree in the forest. It seems to come from both sides of the road, behind me, all around. Still, it is soft. A soft whisper, commanding.
"Zara. Come to me, Zara."
It sounds so cheesy, so much like a bad musical line, that it's not really that scary. Oh, that's a huge lie.
I'm totally scared. Crap. Crapcrapcrap.