And that was it. Dell was done playing. She climbed from him, letting her hem fall around her boots. But Patrick remained on the ground, exhausted, his thingy still sticking from his pants.
She’s a vampire, Classique thought. You’re next.
And I didn’t want Dell doing that to me, draining my blood, putting her mouth between my legs, or riding me.
"It’s gross,” I whispered.
So we began sneaking away, but a juniper twig snagged my dress. When I yanked free, the bush rustled. Then we ran. We flew past the mesquites. And I worried that Dell had heard me, that she and Patrick might be chasing after me.
Eventually, I stopped behind a tree and looked. But no one was coming. Her house was in the distance. Just then Patrick’s Nissan honked twice. He was leaving. And I figured they hadn’t spotted me running away.
I took a deep breath.
That rabbit-hole is nearby, Classique was thinking. Why don’t you show me it. You’re safe from them, I think.
If I do, you’ll have to listen for her. She could trap us.
No, she won’t. She didn’t hear you. You escaped.
"Okay,” I said. "All right.”
Then I wandered to the footpath, glancing around every so often for Dell. The rabbit-hole was easy to find, a cavernous opening beneath the mesquite tree. And I showed it to Classique, my arm extended. I held her over the brink. The hole was black, much larger than I remembered. I could maybe squeeze my shoulders past the rim.
Closer, Jeliza-Rose. Let me go in.
But the rabbit is there.
Closer, please.
"This is Alice’s hole,” I said.
And just then Classique slipped. In she went. Spinning, spinning, spinning into blackness, beyond my reach. Lost. She was falling through the earth, to where the people walked with their heads downwards.
My stomach sank like Lisa. "Classique!”
And I wanted to cry. And I would’ve too -- but she sent a message: "It’s okay, dear. I’m falling very slowly. The sides of the hole are filled with cupboards and book-shelves. I wonder how many miles I’ve fallen by this time?”
I couldn’t go home. Not yet. So I stayed there until dusk, in the golden light, wondering how to rescue her. I sat under the mesquite tree with my legs crossed. I tossed pebbles into the creepy hole. Then the train whistle blew. And I knew the Bog Man would soon be stirring in his grave.
"Classique, don’t worry,” I said.
But no message came.
She’s sleeping, I told myself. She’s sleeping, flying down down down, dreaming of me and What Rocks and her bodiless friends.
And wandering home that evening, I was angry at myself for finding the rabbit-hole in the first place. And mad at Classique too. She wanted me to take her closer. It was her fault anyway -- now I was alone again.
"You’re so stupid," I said. "Sometirnes you’re the dumbest."
14
Classique was the first head I discovered in the thrift shop bin. I held her in my palm and showed my mother.
"She’s so beautiful,” I said.
My mother shrugged. She wasn’t looking at me. She was gazing at a shelf lined with painted china plates, all mounted on wire stands, each depicting a different image-a waterfall, John Wayne, kittens, Jesus on the cross, The Beatles.
"Can I have her, please?"
And to my surprise, my mother said yes. She dug two dollars from her purse.
"If it’s more than that,” she said, "put it back.”
She hadn’t read the cardboard sign above the bin: All Doll Parts, Mix & Match, 5 for $1.
"Thank you, thank you," I said.
Then -- carefully holding Classique in a hand -- I rummaged through the box of arms and torsos and legs and heads. I found Magic Curl next. Then Fashion Jeans. Then Cut ’N Style. But none of them were as good or as beautiful as Classique. She was the best. And she knew it.
"Dear, I picked you,” she told me later. "And you picked the others.”
If her voice had a flavor it would’ve been honey, sweet and ingratiating.
But after falling into the hole, it became harder to hear her. Her voice was fainter, a distant transmission almost impossible to make out, and sometimes she had to scream.
"CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?! CAN YOU--?!”
While I slept on my father’s mattress, she appeared; her red hair billowed as she sailed past cupboards and bookcases, her tight lips somewhere between a grimace and a smile.
"This is it, dear. I’m done for. You’ve abandoned me, I suppose.”
No, you’ll be okay. I need you.
"Too late. Too late. But at least you have the others for company.”
The others; they were on the floor when I awoke the next morning, waiting anxiously like beauty queens at the conclusion of a pageant. Three heads wondering which among them would replace Classique and receive the crown of Jeliza-Rose’s friendship.
"She’s not dead yet,” I told them. "You’re just sharks! You’re happy she’s falling through the earth!”
Then I forbade them to speak for a million years.
"You’re just heads! You don’t have hearts! You’re traitors!"
I attacked on hands and knees, tucking my index finger behind my thumb -- and then I flicked the traitors around the room.
"Take that-!”
Flick.
Magic Curl spun across the floor like a top.
"And you-!”
Flick.
Fashion Jeans shot up into the air.
"And you too-!"
But I couldn’t flick Cut ’N Style.
My finger hesitated in front of her damaged face and blackened eyeballs. If anyone had a right to hate Classique it was Cut ’N Style -- so I tipped her over, gently, and whispered in her ear, "You’re better than those other two. I’m sorry Classique was so mean to you."
Then I considered bringing her with me to the rabbit- hole, where I could put her on Grandmother’s boa and lower her inside. And because Cut ’N Style was blind, maybe she’d be good at sensing Classique there in the darkness. Maybe she could somehow rescue Classique and they’d be best friends for life.
I want to save her, Cut ’N Style was thinking. Let me come.
"No, you better stay,” I concluded, reluctantly. "You might fall in -- then I’d be trapped with Fashion Jeans and Magic Curl. They’re just as bad as ants. They’re worse than squirrels.”
And I was glad Cut ’N Style didn’t accempany me after all. She wouldn’t have been much help. The boa was pointless as well, too light and fluffy for a lifeline; I couldn’t tell if it was reaching anything in the hole or not.
"Dumb big feathers!"
I ended up slinging the boa around my neck -- while Classique screamed from the void -- and went searching for semething else, something long and sturdy.
CAN YOU HEAR ME?!
Yes. Loud and clear.
IT’S COLD! I’VE HIT BOTTOM, I’M PRETTY SURE! OR I’M ON A LEDGE PERHAPS!
Don’t worry. I’m here. I’m getting a stick.
IT’S SO VERY COLD AND I’M SO TIRED-!
"I’m corning," I said. "Don’t go to sleep. Stay awake.”
Mesquite branches were everywhere, on the greund, beside the footpath, all gangly and brittle; none was long enough though. I had to break a dead branch from a tree, had to tug on one end of it until the slender limb splintered loose in my fist. Then I dragged it on the footpath.
Branch longer than my leg, I thought. Lenger than P-P- Patrick’s creepy boy-thingy.
And I felt like whistling as the branch scratched against the dirt. I pursed my lips, blowing. But only breath and some saliva burbled from me. It was hopeless.
So I invented a happy song instead.
I sang, "Dragging the branch, dragging the branch -- better watch out for Mr. Dragon Branch -- he’ll bite your head, he’ll bite your head -- dragging the branch -- Mr. Dragon Branch - dragging the branch-”