Mac Bowers
Mac Bowers graduated from Susquehanna University with a degree in Creative Writing. When she isn鈥檛 experiencing frequent bouts of existential crisis, she enjoys writing weird stories and talking about Scotland while sipping on far too many cups of coffee. Her online ramblings can also be found on Twitter @macbwrs.
Pricker Bushes
by Mac Bowers
Rory had just turned eighteen when she found a girl buried beneath a giant hickory tree in the woods behind her house.
She and her dad used to trek these woods, back when Rory was five, six, seven. They walked hand-in-hand over rocks, leapt muddy puddles, ducked underneath low hanging branches, and once in a while her dad would stop, point their joined hands to a stream of sunlight that slipped between tree leaves like slivers of gold. 鈥淟ook at that, Rory,鈥 he鈥檇 say. 鈥淚t鈥檚 making magic,鈥 and then he鈥檇 kick the dirt under his feet, add, 鈥淎ll hidden under our feet, like nuggets of gold.鈥
But that had been a long time ago, and Rory was grown now, so she went out into the woods by herself, hours after the sun had gone down, carrying a drawstring bag that held only a trowel and a Tupperware container she鈥檇 stolen from the kitchen. Every night, she slipped. She tripped over tree roots, caught her ankles in pricker brushes so an anklet of blood beaded her skin as she parted damp foliage. Every night, she stopped at a different square of earth, dropped to her knees, and dug.
She dug until her arm shook, until her wrist cramped, until bedrock and sunrise insisted she could dig no further. Then she got up, dropped her trowel back into her bag, wiped dirt from the skin of her knees because the denim of all her jeans had long since worn away, and went home, only to return and do it all again the next night.
Tonight, she dug until she hit flesh. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark well enough for her to recognize a pale hand against dirt. She dropped her trowel, sat back on her heels, wondered if she should run back for her parents or call the cops or just go home and pretend like she鈥檇 never seen it. And then a finger on the hand twitched in a very still alive sort of motion, so she dove forward and used her hands to scoop away dirt, revealing an arm. Then a shoulder. A collar bone and a long neck and then the face of a girl, eyes blinking.
鈥淗ello,鈥 the girl said. She sat up, and dirt cascaded from her shoulders. She brushed it from her arms, reached a hand up and scrubbed at the short hair on top of her head. She looked at Rory, and her eyes shone like two tiny pinpricks of light.
Rory swallowed, kept her eyes trained on the strange animal-shine rather than the pale, bare expanse of the girl鈥檚 shoulders, ribs, chest. 鈥淗i.鈥
The girl looked around. Her gaze landed on Rory鈥檚 trowel. 鈥淵ou dug me up.鈥
Rory said, 鈥淚 guess I did.鈥 She didn鈥檛 know why she felt guilty.
鈥淲hat鈥檚 your name?鈥
Rory said, 鈥淩ory.鈥
The girl smiled, and for a moment it looked serrated, like the edge of a knife, before softening into something that Rory was able to recognize. 鈥淵ou can call me Locke. You know what happens now, right?鈥
Rory shook her head. She didn鈥檛 make a habit out of finding buried girls.
Locke said, 鈥淵ou have to take me home.鈥
Rory looked away, looked down, reached up to tuck the stray strands of her hair back into place. She frowned. 鈥淚 still live with my parents.鈥
Locke said, 鈥淭hey won鈥檛 even know I鈥檓 there.鈥
Rory had never stopped to consider how lucky she was to have her room in the basement鈥攁nd an outer door that went directly into that basement鈥攗ntil she tried to sneak a strange girl into the house. It was easier than it had any right to be, pushing the door open and urging Locke through it with a finger to her lips. Rory closed it softly behind them, pointed Locke in the direction of her bathroom.
Locke鈥檚 bare feet left trails of dirt and pebbles as she walked, remnants of the woods falling to the hardwood like mini percussion. Rory dispersed the mess with her shoes, kicked it into corners and against walls, told herself her parents never came down here long enough to notice, anyway.
鈥淭here鈥檚 the shower,鈥 Rory whispered in the bathroom. 鈥淚鈥檒l just get you a towel,鈥 but Locke just stood there, blinking, so Rory leaned forward and turned the faucet on.
Locke stepped underneath the water, turned her face up against the spray. Rivulets of brown water ran over her thighs, behind her knees. Mud caked the drain, and Rory fled across the hall to her room, told herself that it was fear that pounded in her chest and tightened her throat. She snuck back into the bathroom a few minutes later with a towel, laid it folded next to the sink, tried not to look too hard through the steam.
When Locke walked into Rory鈥檚 room鈥攖owel wrapped around her shoulders like a cape鈥擱ory had a bed made up for her out of spare pillows and blankets on the floor. Locke looked at it, then looked at Rory, but Rory was already shoving a spare set of pajamas into her hands and turning away. Rory studied the bright red folder on her nightstand and followed the curve of the embossed letters with her eyes. She swallowed.
鈥淒on鈥檛 worry,鈥 Locke said when they finally had her settled. She patted the pillow behind her, tugged a blanket up higher. 鈥淚 won鈥檛 eat you in your sleep.鈥
Rory paused sliding into bed. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 realize that was a concern.鈥 Her fingers shook a bit where she had them bunched into her sheets. 鈥淏ut why not?鈥
Locke frowned, tilted her head a bit, hawk-like. 鈥淚鈥檓 not sure.鈥 And then she smiled again, that same smile that twisted at Rory鈥檚 gut, and laid down.
Rory dreamt that Locke was sitting cross-legged next to her head that night, twisting Rory鈥檚 hair this way and that, tying it into flowers. When she woke, Locke was sound asleep on the floor, and Rory spent too much time in front of the bathroom mirror, combing out knots.
Locke stayed and, true to her word, Rory鈥檚 parents never noticed. With Locke there, the basement felt like some other world, one that was completely their own. Locke wasn鈥檛 truly nocturnal, but she tended to wake from her nest on the floor sometime before dinner, and return to it long after Rory had already gone to bed. She pattered around Rory鈥檚 room, in Rory鈥檚 clothes, reading Rory鈥檚 books. She kept Rory up sometimes, with her eyes that shone like lamplight and the way she hummed strange tunes Rory had never heard before.
Rory didn鈥檛 know when she ate, wasn鈥檛 sure she even ate, until one day her dad said from the depths of the refrigerator, 鈥淚 just bought beef yesterday,鈥 and her mom peered over his shoulder, 鈥淲e should have some chick鈥攐h.鈥
Rory froze. 鈥淎ctually,鈥 she said. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 feel well. I think I鈥檓 going to skip dinner tonight.鈥
She opened the basement door, started down the steps.
鈥淗ang on,鈥 her mom said. 鈥淵ou have some mail here.鈥
Rory waved it away and closed the door tight behind her.
鈥淲e need to be more careful,鈥 she said to Locke, who looked up from where she sat curled into a corner, the red folder open in her lap. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e noticing food missing.鈥
Locke slid a piece of paper out of the folder, held it up. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 American University?鈥
Rory said, 鈥淎 college,鈥 and then, 鈥淎re you listening to me?鈥
Locke waved her away. Rory crossed the room and tore the folder from Locke鈥檚 hands. She opened the drawer to her nightstand, shoved it in with the others, pushed pushed pushed until it finally closed.
Silence descended softly, like a blanket. Locke crawled across the floor to retrieve a book from Rory鈥檚 bookshelf. Rory laid flat on her bed, pretending not to notice the way she felt Locke鈥檚 gaze land on her and then flick away again.
Eventually, she said, 鈥淪orry I dug you up.鈥
Locke laughed, sharp and surprised. 鈥淚鈥檓 not. Can I ask鈥斺
鈥淪hut up,鈥 Rory hissed. She pointed to the door, where shadowed feet peeked under the crack. She held her breath. She looked at Locke with wide eyes, but Locke stared at the door, her head tilted to the side.
An envelope, heavy and thick and embossed, slipped underneath the door.
Locke rose to her feet and Rory was terrified, just for a moment, that she was going to open the door. But she walked as softly as breath to Rory鈥檚 bed, leaned down until her lips ghosted the shell of Rory鈥檚 ear.
鈥淒oes 鈥榗ollege鈥 mean 鈥榣eaving?鈥欌
Rory swallowed. Looked away. Nodded, just once.
鈥淒o you want to leave?鈥
Rory shook her head, so minutely that it was barely perceptible.
Locke鈥檚 forehead thunked heavily against Rory鈥檚 temple and they sat like that, just for a moment. She smelled like a mixture between Rory鈥檚 shampoo and the dirt she鈥檇 been dug from. The footsteps retreated.
Locke whispered, 鈥淲hat were you looking for?鈥
Rory pulled back, met Locke鈥檚 eyes, mouthed, 鈥淢补驳颈肠.鈥
They went into the woods. Rory donned her drawstring and Locke retrieved a sweatshirt from the closet and they snuck out through the same door they鈥檇 come in. They walked over tree roots and through pricker bushes, ducked under low hanging branches.
When Rory had determined they鈥檇 walked far enough, they stopped. She dropped to the ground and pulled out her trowel. Locke found a log next to her and sat crisscross on it.
Rory dug. Locke picked weeds and ferns and leaned forward to stick them haphazardly into Rory鈥檚 hair. Wrist deep in mud, Rory found a nightcrawler and placed it in the palm of Locke鈥檚 hand. They watched it crawl over her wrist, up her forearm, before Locke offered it her other hand and placed it back in the dirt.
They walked deeper into the woods. Rory鈥檚 fingers brushed the backs of Locke鈥檚. She told herself it was accidental, and then did it again on purpose, to show herself the difference.
They walked until Rory鈥檚 legs grew tired, until the sun bled across the sky. Locke stopped, looked up. She pointed to the trees with long fingers, to where sunrise slipped in between the branches. She smiled with a mouth full of teeth that were sharp as a pricker bush.
鈥淐ome with me,鈥 she said.
Rory nodded.
鈥淭rust me?鈥
Rory nodded again. They both dropped to their knees, and dug and dug and dug.