The Traveling Vampire Show

He eyed the ground in front of him. It glittered with bits and chunks of shattered bottles. Also, there were a couple of snake holes in the dirt. If he followed Phoebe’s orders, he would have to lie down on them.

His sweaty face flushed a deeper shade of red than before. “Hey,” he said. “C’mon. I didn’t do nothing.”

“Down,” Phoebe said.

I don’t know whether it was the razor sharp arrowhead a few inches in front of his nose or the look in Phoebe’s eyes, but something convinced him to obey orders. Hands on the ground, he eased his trembling body down onto the dirt and broken glass and snake holes.

“Stay put,” Phoebe told him. Then she turned toward Tim. He cringed away from her.

“I want my arrow back,” she said.

Tim looked down at Scotty curled on his side, the arrow jutting up from his leg. Scotty was quietly weeping, and not moving at all except to gasp for breath. Probably he didn’t want to get cut up any worse by the glass he was lying on.

Wrinkling his nose, Tim faced Phoebe. “Your arrow?”

“That one right there.”

“How’m I suppose to…”

“Jerk it out.”

“But…”

Scotty spoke up. In a tight voice that seemed to vibrate with pain or rage, he said, “Touch the fuckin’ arrow and I’ll eat your heart.”

“But…”

“I’ll kill your mom and fuck your sister. I’ll…”

Giving him a dirty look, Tim bent down and jerked out the arrow. Scotty screamed, clutched his wound and lay there twitching.

Phoebe uncocked her bow and slipped the arrow into her old, raggedy quiver.

Tim handed the other arrow to her. “Thanks,” she said. She waved it toward me and Rusty. The steel head looked as if it had been dipped in red paint. A couple of drops fell to the ground. “My lucky arrow,” she said.

Not bothering to clean Scotty’s blood off its tip, she swept the arrow over her shoulder and dropped it into her quiver.

“You lie down, too,” she told Tim.

Without protest or hesitation, he stretched out on the ground.

To Rusty and me, Phoebe said, “I guess that’s enough target practice for one day. Let’s go home.”

We went to the target first. I plucked the arrows out of Eichmann’s eyes and nose and gave them to Phoebe. Then I picked up the cardboard box.

Scotty, Smack and Tim stayed on the ground.

We started walking away, Phoebe in the middle.

They stayed down.

When we were pretty far away but still within earshot, Phoebe stopped and turned around. She shouted, “We won’t tell if you don’t!”

They never did.

We never did.

In the woods after we got away from them, we laughed nervously, shook our heads, slapped each other on the back. and told Phoebe “Good going” and “Way to go” about a million times.

Then I saw she had tears in her eyes.

When I saw that, my own eyes went hot and wet.

I’m not really sure why either of us got weepy like that, but I suspect there were plenty of reasons. They had to do with fear and loyalty and bravery and cowardice and humiliation and pride. They also had to do, I think, with the joy of survival.

Pretty sure we didn’t spill any tears over damages inflicted on Scotty or his pals.

After that time in Janks Field, by the way, they were no longer pals. They stayed away from each other, and really stayed away from me, Rusty and Phoebe.

They were so scared of Phoebe that they never even dared to give us dirty looks. Many times, in the first few months after the incident, I saw each of them cross streets or start walking in the opposite direction just to avoid us—Scotty with a pretty good limp.

One week after her target practice in Janks Field, Phoebe won the Fourth of July archery contest (junior division) with a final, amazing shot that would’ve done Robin Hood proud.

She made the shot, of course, with her lucky arrow.

And won the hand-tooled leather quiver.

Chapter Twenty-six

On both sides of the quiver, I could see the powder blue strings of Slim’s bikini top, her bandages and bare, tanned skin down to the waistband of Lee’s red shorts.

I was half lost in how Slim looked from behind, half dwelling on the summer she won the quiver and pretty much paying no attention at all to anything else as I followed her to the door of her bedroom.

One step into the hallway, she stopped.

“What?” Rusty asked.

As if he didn’t know.

Slim went, “Shhhh.” Then she walked straight across the hallway and into her mother’s bedroom. We went in after her, spread out, and stared at the mess we’d left behind. A puddle, prickly with broken glass, remained on top of the dresser. The carpet below the dresser now looked dry, but dangerous with shards from the demolished vase and perfume bottle. A few bright yellow rose petals lay among the remains as if they’d been blown there from somewhere else.

The flowers were gone.

For a moment, I thought that Rusty or I must’ve thrown them away.

Then I remembered that we hadn’t touched them.

A chill crawled up the back of my neck.

Rusty and I glanced at each other.

He, too, had noticed the roses were gone…

“We better get outa here,” he whispered.