Page 7 of Miserable Marionette

“It is not okay, Audrey!” his mom yells at the top of her lungs, her voice straining with the force of it. It’s so loud in the small room, like a gunshot. I flinch, my eyes immediately welling with tears as I step away from her, jerking my arm free from her grip. My heart raging in my chest.

When I look around her thin body, Gideon is staring at me, at the tears now cascading down my cheeks. I didn’t think it was possible for his severe eyes to get harder, colder. When I stare back, I don’t see a trace of my best friend anywhere in there; it only makes my lip wobble more, my chin joining in. My hands fist the too-long hoodie sleeves as he steps toward his mom again, getting closer despite her backing away. Herding us both closer and closer to the double doors.

When he leans in and speaks, she flinches. The movement jarring and visceral. “You’re scaring her, Abigail. You should stop.”

“Son.”

All of my breath whooshes from me at the sound of Mr. Bell’s uncharacteristically stern voice, but I can’t take my eyes off my friend. The picture of him watery and distorted by my tears. His fists are shaking at his sides. I don’t want him to be upset; I don’t want it to be my fault.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. B-Bell.” I sniffle. “I-I just wanted to see Gideon for my birthday.”

The frazzled woman just glances over her shoulder at me. Her own blue eyes red and watery, chest heaving before she abruptly heads back up the stairs. Slamming past her husband, arching her body to ensure they don’t touch. It’s something I’ve watched Mom do when she’s mad hundreds of times. It feels awful, like someone you love so much hates the idea of touching you.

“Hey, enough of that,” Mr. Bell softly shushes my sniffling as he kneels in front of me, looking over his shoulder at his son. “Get her clothes, please.”

He seems to produce a tissue out of thin air as he turns back to me, offering a warm smile I’ve never seen on any other member of his family. “Let’s get you back home. There’s no party without the birthday girl.” His gentle, comforting tone unknots the rope holding my heart hostage. He lets me use the upstairs bathroom to change, and I do my best to settle my sniffles before we reach my house across the street.

4

What’s Wrong with Gideon Bell?

Audrey, Twelve Years Old, 1980

My eyelids flutter open, my back pressed against the hot seat of the school bus as it rolls over the one-lane bridge, making all its passengers bounce in their seats. When I look down, my thick beaded bracelet unsticks from my skin, leaving large red circles imprinted there. Gideon moves around beside me, his woodsy, clean linen scent urging my eyelids to close again. I wish the bus would start over so I could sleep for a few more minutes, the noisy ambiance and kids laughing managing to allow for better naps than my house.

“Come on,” he orders in his trademark stoic way, not flinching as I wipe the drool off my cheek and stumble out of the seat after him, barely awake. I take a step forward before his large hand grips the chunky belt I’m wearing, halting me long enough to strap my backpack to my back. One drowsy blink from sleepwalking as I head up the aisle, ignoring our classmates as they whisper and point. The warmth of the bus not allowing the edge of sleep to be shaken off. I even debate asking Gideon if I can crash in his room for a few hours until my absence at home would get me in trouble.

In a nanosecond, I seem to go from half asleep to wide awake. My teeth clack together so hard I swear they’ll break as Jeremy jerks his leg out into the narrow walkway of the bus at the last second, making me trip. My hands grip the sun-damaged leather seats, only barely halting my fall. I’m halfway turned when Gideon’s shoving me into a nearby seat. He’s there so fast, like he was primed and ready the whole time. His hands jerk out, snatching Jeremy’s throat in a brutal hold. The whole bus devolves into chaos.

My eyes widen, my mouth gaping in shock for a few precious seconds before my mind catches up to his sudden and untethered rage. His grip only tightens around Jeremy’s throat, squeezing so hard the skin bunches and ripples under his palms in ways I’ve never seen before. Like he’s trying to squeeze right through the muscle and bone. I’m out of the seat, off the sweaty bodies of the boys I’d landed on, my hands knotting in his T-shirt just as the bus driver surges up.

“Gideon, stop it!” I yell barely above the other shouts. He doesn’t budge, his laser focus on preventing Jeremy from breathing. Jeremy has made school hell for the past few months since my dad arrested his for possession.

“Enough!” I flinch as the bus driver, a substitute today, yells over the riotous bus.

My hands grip Gideon by the backpack and jerking with all my might until a tiny sliver of light filters back into his deep eyes. “We need to go now!”

He shoves off Jeremy before bending close to him, not so much as budging as the kid coughs and gasps inches from his face. His lips nearly touching his ear as he says something so low I can’t make it out. Nor do I think I want to. Whatever it is, pales the ruddy tone to Jeremy’s skin just as the bus driver wedges his cumbersome frame to us.

The man practically shoves into a seat, smashing whoever was seated there. Both girls squeal, making the boys behind them erupt in laughter. I barely pay them any mind because Gideon is jerking me into his arms and all but carrying me off the bus. Sometimes I forget Gideon isn’t a grown-up, playing along with all my silly kid games. He seems so much older than he is. I lie awake some nights wondering what happens to a kid to make them so… cold at fourteen. If there’s ever been another as frigid and unwavering as him. I don’t protest as he hauls me into the foyer of Bell Funeral Home, his chest heaving. I’ve never seen anyone fight like that, not… not with their bodies. I should be scared, scared of Gideon.

I’m shaken, sure. But scared? Not at all, if I’m honest.

“Hey… Gideon, it’s okay,” I choke out, still getting my bearings.

“No! No, it’s fucking not, Audrey. I’m not.”

I frown, my chest tightening as his eyes glaze over, losing their pretty light again. I never really know what to do when he gets like this, so like usual I opt to hug him. The smell of wet dirt and fabric softener fills my nose as his arms band around me, holding me back. No, not holding, gripping. I know I shouldn’t smile, but Gideon is the best friend ever. So, his hugs, by default, are also the best. It doesn't matter how silly or how late it is, he always plays whatever game I want. He doesn’t tell me I’m being too excited or goofy. He listens to me and lets me cry when I want to. Let’s me sneak into his room at night when Mom gets too loud and Dad finds any reason to stay at the station. The least I can do is give him a hug when he needs one.

He buries his head in my hair, inhaling deeply. “I think there’s something wrong with me, Audrey. I think I need help. I’m-I’m going to do something bad. It’s all I think about,” he says it into my hair, muffled but desperate like a secret he’s been dying to tell.

“Miss Audrey, I know you have a science project due tomorrow.”

I tug away from Gideon, ignoring the way he clings to me, refusing to let go despite his dad’s warm face down turned into a concerned frown at the top of the stairs.

“Better get back home,” he adds. His eyes, a dark deep mahogany like his hair, dip to his son’s white-knuckled hands as I finally untangle from them. Only barely wincing from the sudden release of a punishing grip.

“I finished it last night, thank you very much!” I state proudly, crossing my arms. Hoping to defuse the situation, cover for Gideon maybe. Also, technically Mom finished it for me, but I’m not going to tell him that.