"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.
I wanted this. I wanted to draw him out. But now? Fear pushes my feet faster, makes my heart speed up too fast. It pounds against my chest, trying to escape. But from what? A voice? A shadow? I came out here to find him. He's found me.
The truth slams into me: I didn't imagine that man at the airport.
I didn't imagine the way my skin felt each time I saw him.
I didn't imagine that dust or make up the words in that book.
The sound of large wings slashing through the air makes me look up. An eagle flies over my head and then ducks into the trees. Its white head gleams.
"Stupid," I say. "I'm so stupid. I probably just heard the eagle."
If my dad were here he'd laugh at what a wimp I'm being. I laugh at what a wimp I'm being and I keep running. My breath comes out in ragged puffs. I push it in and out, focus on my feet.
"Zara!"
I stop. Anger fills me. To hell with wimp. To hell with Booker T. quotes.
"What?"
I plant my feet and wait.
The cold air chills me. I shiver. My hands turn into fists.
"What do you want?" I yell. "Why arc you following me?"
I force my eyes wide open and look for something, Hashing my light around. What am I looking for?
Maybe a man? Maybe a man in a dark European suit? Maybe the kind of man who points at planes and makes your skin feel like it has become a spider parade route?
The forest seems to look with me. Each tree branch reaches out as if trying to sense what is there in the road with me. Then something in the woods moves. I grab a stick from the side of the road, hold it in front of me, and turn to face the noise. The light swings with me and I keep searching. It isn't a real noise, more like a sense, a feeling of movement.
"I'm not scared," I say, staring into the side of the road. "Just come out and talk to me. I've been reading about you. I found a book."
My voice shakes when I speak. The hand holding the stick is not too steady either.
"Zara," the voice says. "Come to me."
"Right."
"Please."
"No," I say. "You want to talk, you come out here."
The eagle screams out a warning.
Something snaps in the woods behind me, the opposite direction of the voice and the first noise. I twist around, ready for anything-crazy men, wolves, bears, dinosaurs.
"I know you're a freaking pixie, and if you think that scares me, you're stupid!" I yell. "And I know that you're following me."
The woods are silent. The spider feeling goes away.
"What? You just leave? You're toying with me? That is so lame."
Nothing.
"If you want me to be your stupid queen you should stop hiding. But I've got to tell you something, Mr.
Pixie Guy, there will be no more torturing boys while I'm here! Got it?" Anger hits me in the gut and I roar, really, I just roar like some sort of crazy actor in a wrestling match. I scream out my rage in some steroidal guttural way. I came out here because I want to findhim, because I want to know what's real, because I want to stop it.
Blinding light flashes into my eyes and a MINI Cooper engine roars as it rounds the curve in the road. A horn blares and I jump sideways out of the way and into the ditch. A rock scrapes my cheek. It takes me a second to figure out what happened. I stand up. I've dropped the stick. The world waves in front of me, hazy and unfocused. The light falls off my head and I can't find it.
"Zara!" Nick slams the door of his now parked car. He rushes to me and stands in front of me. I can't see his features because of the headlights shining behind him. He is just a massive silhouette, but I'd know that silhouette anywhere.
"What are you doing out here?" His voice comes out angry.
My voice is whisper weak. "I wanted to find him."
"What?" His hands ball into fists and his whole body quakes. "What the hell is the matter with you?"
I shrink back. Nobody has ever yelled at me like that. Never.
He's so mad, I almost expect him to hit me. I must have swayed because he grabs me, puts an arm around my waist, and leads me toward the MINI.
"I just wanted to stop it. I wanted to save someone like I couldn't save my…"