10.9 Olivia

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“Son of a bee hive,” I said. “They're back.”

Five smallish boys dismounted their bikes at the top of the driveway, then walked them quietly through the woods.

“Forgot 'em, James,” Mara said, leaning back on her elbows.

Bellydown, I peered over the brick barrier and squinted to make out the faces. My first assumption was that Ryan Brosh was storming the castle to kidnap Mara. But these boys were offish and awkward, and Ryan’s friends would have carried their bikes. A glint of starlight snagged a pair of glasses.

“Don't let them ruin another night,” Mara said.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Late.”

I crawled back to Mara's side. “What if they build another ladder?”

“Then your dad'll tear it down.”

Again, I imagined Mara lulling Livy to sleep with a tape of her voice, tossing a blanket from the bedroom window, shimmying down the wall, and kissing one of the ferrety trespassers in a tree.

“We should check it out,” I said, then blew out the candle. “We'll come right back. I promise.”

*  *  *

“Their bikes are gone. They must've ditched 'em closer to the driveway.”

Mara yawned. “Let’s finish our movie, James.”

I stood on my pillow to get a better angle. “There's three of them. They're looking for the rungs.”

“Thanks for the piercing my ears tonight...”

“Should I go out there? Give 'em a good scare?”

“Your Dad'll kill you. Any more trespassers--”

“--and we call the sheriff. I know.”

Mara stepped toward the door. “Goodnight, James.”

“Wait!” I said. “They're looking up now.”

“How many times are we gonna do this?”

I watched the boys step backwards and crane their necks. They were fixated on something, but not with their usual zombie-like trance. “They're laughing,” I said and narrowed my eyes. “They're looking in your room and laughing.”

“They're always looking in my room,” she said.

“But Mara, you're not there.”

Mara Lynn looked at me and our eyes widened at the exact same time. I leapt off the bed, joined her at the bathroom door, and we ran hand-in-hand to Livy's bedroom.

The trash-bag curtains were lying in a tattered heap on the ground. Pieces of duct tape were still attached to the window molding. Livy was positioned in the center of the frame, hair frazzled and blonde, arms poised above her head, gyrating in a teal bra and matching underwear that I once saw peeking from the rim of Mara's jeans.

“What the heck, Liv!” I cried.

She twirled to face us. Her ribs heaved with a tremendous breath. A smile garnished her white face; plaster-white like cement before it dries.

“Oh Livy,” Mara said.

My sister walked like a porcelain doll brought to life; a limp spine, top-heavy swagger, and a pair of earrings that jostled as she stepped. “Like my lipsticcck?” she asked, staring at Mara. “Like my eyeshadooow and my headbaaand and my undieees? Recognize them Maaaraaa?”

As Livy approached, I could see the gruesome details of her transformation. Blisters infected her scalp. Her hair was brittle and frayed. The lipstick filled her chapped lips like pink spackle. I backed away because, if cooties existed, they were feeding on my sister.

Mara cowered in the doorway as Livy loomed overhead. “They like me,” she purred, “They like me out there, Maaaraaa. And Ryan's gonna like me too.” Her grin expanded... then fell. She reached out her hand--still black except for sporadic patches of paint--and fingered Mara's new earring.

“You...” Livy couldn’t finish her sentence. Without warning, she reeled back, spit in Mara’s face, dashed to the bathroom, and wailed.

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