“You make anawesomeKite Waters,” he says.
My body heats up a few degrees. I remembered deodorant. “Thanks,” I say, then look him up and down. “I thought you were going as Dallas?”
“I am,” he says. “The wig and the scarf are in the trunk. They’re kind of dangerous to wear while driving.”
“Ah. Good point.”
“You ready?”
“Ready enough.”
“So where did you move from?”
We round the corner and continue down the long road that connects my neighborhood to the rest of Westcliff. Wallace’s headlights blink on in the growing darkness.
“Illinois,” he says. His voice sits comfortably above a whisper.
“Why?”
“Family got new jobs.” He pauses. “And my mom likes it better here. I have a few friends here too, so it’s not so bad.”
“To each their own, I guess.”
“You don’t like it?”
I shrug. “Maybe, maybe not. I’ve never been anywhere else, so I don’t know if I’d like it better somewhere else, but I’m tired of Westcliff. I’m tired of that high school. And small-town nonsense.Everyone knowing everything about everyone. Have you read theWestcliff Star?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s stuff like that. All the stories they run—you know how they’ve had the story about Wellhouse Turn for the past few weeks? That’s all they cover this time of year. So little goes on that they have to focus on the killer road. It’s kind of ... disturbing.”
“Disturbing?”
“They just get so focused on one or two things. They should leave people alone.”
He glances over at me. Smiles. “Got something to hide?”
“No,” I shoot back. “I’m just saying, I’d rather be somewhere where no one looks twice at you, no matter what you are.”
“I get that.”
We climb a hill, drive through a patch of trees, and start over Wellhouse Bridge. On the far side of Wellhouse Bridge, illuminated by Wallace’s headlights and the fading sun, is Wellhouse Turn: a sharp jackknife in the road where the ground falls away.
The flowers and other decorations from the picture in theStarare still there, some old and wilting, others fresh. There’s a bent and mangled metal barrier that gets put back up every time someone drives through it and goes over the side. The steep incline leads to the river below where, some say, you can find old car parts embedded in the ground.
I wonder if death comes quickly for those who go off theturn, or if the long tumble to the bottom takes years.
Wallace slows nearly to a stop at the turn. Most people slow down here, but never this slow. And never with unblinking rigidity. I get a glimpse of the drop. Even walking down the incline seems like a terrible idea. I bet it would hurt if you slipped, even a little.
Wallace’s face looks pale while we’re in the turn, but then we pull out of it and beneath the next yellow streetlight, and he’s fine again. As if nothing was wrong to begin with.
“Bet you don’t have places like that in Illinois,” I say.
The used bookstore Wallace’s friends told him about is called Murphy’s. I’ve heard of it in passing but never been here; post-Children of Hypnos, I didn’t read much, and after that I bought all my books online. Wallace jokes that the store’s full name is Murphy’s Law. I pray it isn’t, because a lot of things could go wrong tonight, and it would be great if they didn’t.
Murphy’s is a tiny little brick shop sandwiched between two other tiny little brick shops, with a big happyMURPHY’S BOOKSsign in the tall windows and lights on and bodies moving inside. The tiny parking lot is full when we get there, so Wallace squeezes his car into a spot on the street.
Before we go in, he pops his trunk and uses his phone as a flashlight to get out what he needs, because the trunk light doesn’t work anymore. He pulls out a lump of what looks like seaweed and a long blue-and-white striped scarf. He winds thescarf around his neck twice, leaving one end hanging down his chest and the other down his back. Then he pulls the lump of seaweed on over his head and shakes it a little so the strands fall in the right places across his face.
