Beyond Anon Read online

  It was in him.

  3

  2012—Somewhere in Wyoming

  On the first leg of a long bus ride, Michelle Breedlove had time to think. She was exhausted and wanted to sleep, but her mind raced and her eyes wouldn’t close. She thought about Stuart Keller, the nice man who had helped her, but that wasn’t enough to block out the horrors of losing most of her family, as well as Lacy, who had died helping. She tried to focus her mind on Pa, who would pick her up at the bus station in Kansas City, but that seemed like an impossible dream. She still expected the next wave of terror at any moment. Both eyes had to stay open, just in case.

  Barren earth blurred beyond filthy, tinted windows.

  Resting her hand at her side, something sharp scraped her wrist. She looked down and saw the edge of a card sticking from her pocket. She grabbed the mysterious item and unfolded it. A postcard.

  The glossy face of the card read The Land of Light and featured an image of Reggie and Tyler Ellison in tennis clothes. Tyler’s hand rested on his son’s shoulder, and Reggie gripped a tennis racket. Both of them smiled in the image. And that made Michelle smile.

  She turned the card over and found a message written in ballpoint.

  Dear Michelle,

  It’s over for now, but not for good. I’m sorry.

  When you’re once again needed, you will see me.

  Sleep for now, sweet angel. You’re safe.

  Love,

  Reggie

  A fresh tear trailed down her cheek as she tucked the card into her pocket and leaned back. Around her, unsavory-looking men—some old, some young—slipped bottles from bags and offered toasts. A guy in his twenties, who might have been handsome if he had all his teeth and a comb to his name, took a swig of something clear, though clearly not water, and turned to Michelle. “You riding the bus alone, little girl?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll ever be alone again.”

  The young man laughed. “Got Jesus, huh?”

  “No. Something better.”

  “Don’t we all.” He took another long pull from his bottle.

  She closed her eyes and started drifting.

  “Don’t worry,” the young man said, “we’ll all keep an eye on you. Make sure nothing happens.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. Then she slept without dreaming, all the way home.

  —Chapter One—

  1

  Michelle Breedlove enjoyed silence; rare moments when the world allowed her time to embrace herself and offer assurances nightmares would end. But they wouldn’t end today; she knew that much. And within the hushed auditorium, deafening the mind with cold eyes and musty air that crackled with electricity, there lived silence of a different stripe.

  The calm before the storm.

  When her name was called, she glided across the stage. If she could take back the last four years of accomplishment, not that the work had been difficult, she would. Because now it all came down to this: the short, chubby girl that everyone found strange and therefore feared, delivering her valedictorian speech.

  None of them cared about her. The lack of camera flashes, plentiful for others, was all the proof she needed.

  Stepping to the microphone, Michelle scanned the crowd, looking for her mother. Coming up empty, she reached inside, hoping to find sadness. Emotion was equally absent.

  The masses fidgeted in their seats, clearly feeling the strain of the pageant. Their discomfort caused Michelle to rise on wings of dark hope. She could almost feel her body growing tall. She, like them, was a virus, able to give as well as receive.

  Time for truth to shine.

  She leaned forward. “We’ve all heard it said that no one goes it alone.” A blast of feedback squealed through the auditorium. And Michelle looked toward her seated classmates, meeting Laura Gore’s green eyes. Eyes of reason and compassion. A reminder that not every soul in Oak Lawn was claimed by the machine. Michelle’s smile lingered, even as she turned her attention to a nefarious banner at the back of the room.

  Keep an Eye on Your Children, it read above the image of a sleeping girl, a large eyeball resting atop her torso.

  Resting? No. Crushing!

  Below the child, bright yellow letters cut through the relative darkness of the hall: Anon Financial Congratulates the Class of ’18.

  “And that’s true, I suppose,” she said. “A euphemism that’s of-a-piece, most would agree, with ‘It takes a village to raise a child.’”

  Nods. Smiles. The odd, outspoken girl, their expressions hinted, might be ready to make nice. Of course, she wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

  “But that’s wrong,” she said. “We…”

  Michelle was silenced by a bright ball of light that seemed to erupt from the center of the Anon banner. Seemed, that is, because no one else, their suspicious eyes trained on her, noticed it.

  A small form, a child, stepped from the nimbus as it dimmed. Michelle blinked several times, trying to will the thing from existence. She wanted to run. Run away with Laura. Sweet Laura. Grab her hand and go. Never look back. A dream that moments ago, before worlds had once more collided, seemed vaguely possible. Now the fantasy died a quick death as she locked eyes with Reggie Ellison.

  Why? her mind screamed.

  He shook his head and responded, Sorry. And she could tell that he no more wanted to be here than she did.

  A new slash of light spread. This time everyone took notice as a side door swung open and Faith Breedlove walked through it.

  “We,” Michelle said, drawing some attention back to her, “as in ‘United We Stand,’ is a beautiful notion, isn’t it? That’s probably why it’s such an easy sell.”

  Faith rushed across the back level of the auditorium toward a group of empty seats. She sat, flashing Michelle an insincere smile. Here she was, late again. And right on time.

  Michelle looked away from her mother and took a deep breath. “But…but when do We cross the line? When does unity destroy the individual?

  “I am not a child of God, but my father, who you knew well, was a believer. He once told his congregation that if Christ returned today, we wouldn’t hang him on a cross and drive stakes through his arms. No. He said we’d label him a nut then crucify him with indifference. And the very institutions that he’d inspired would all take part.”

  Faith Breedlove frowned at the mention of her dead husband, eyes glazed with guilt. Michelle, who felt no pity for her mother, continued: “Regardless of what I believe, or what you think you may believe, consider this: bold individuals make a difference. Don’t get me wrong, many organized movements produce positive results. So I’m not, let’s be clear, bashing all forms of unity. I, for one, appreciate celebrities who promise young people like me that ‘Things get better.’ I really do. But at the end of the day, after those well-meaning stars return to their palatial mansions, their needs and egos stroked by servants of the almighty dollar, it’s the individual who stands up with fear in their heart that deserves respect. The little person who forces their toe over the line, concerned for their own skin yet moved by virtue, speaking and acting in favor of truth and reason. They’re the difference makers.”

  Michelle pointed at the Anon banner. “And I’m ashamed of myself; mortified that I haven’t done more to drive evil out of this town.”

  The crowd was restless now, many shaking their heads.

  Michelle laughed at their discomfort. “But don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m just a crazy girl.” Then she looked back at Laura, who was no longer smiling. Without turning to the microphone, she added, “Worse yet, a crazy girl who’s also a dyke. Easily dismissed. Maybe even sick, right?”

  Nervous titters rumbled as Vice Principal McCullough pulled his fat form from his seat on the stage, anger radiating from him in palpable waves.

  Michelle smiled at the approaching administrator. “Don’t worry, Mr. McCullough. Words, though clearly ineffective, are my only weapons today.”

  He held up a si
lencing hand that, as usual, didn’t have the immediate potency he clearly desired.

  “I’m almost done,” she said. “You can soon return to your cocoon of mass-righteousness. But before that happens, I want to thank you.” She turned back to the spectators. “Mr. McCullough…Ned.” Her smile widened. “You see, Ned once told me I was a beautiful girl. Didn’t you, Ned? Such validation. Such kindness.”

  “This is over,” Ned McCullough said under his breath.

  “And even now,” Michelle said, glaring at the vice principal, “he can’t talk to me without staring at my tits. You wanna touch them, Ned? Is that what you—”

  A loud pop sang through the speakers then died, indicating that the microphone feed had been cut. McCullough motioned for Michelle to return to her classmates.

  She complied, as was too frequently the case, hating herself a little more each time she wilted under authority. She knew she wasn’t the type of person she admired, the mythic archetypes she’d vaguely referenced in her ill-fated speech. She was just a girl. A girl who knew what was right but had no idea what to do about it. Once upon a time she’d been an impressive force of nature. Now she was just struggling not to be an irrelevant cliché. And it hurt.

  Walking back to her classmates, she looked over at Reggie, who was still standing by the Anon banner. His grim expression bloomed into an encouraging smile. The gesture did nothing to improve her mood.

  It was time, she knew, to become something more than a powerless provocateur.

  And it wouldn’t be as easy this time.

  2

  Laura Gore had already witnessed her father’s self-destruction with alcohol. Now Michelle, another person she loved, was ripping herself apart with anger and resentment, drugs no less powerful. It was almost too much to bear. But she didn’t want to be like Mom with Dad. Didn’t want to run and hide, even though every instinct screamed otherwise.

  Michelle fired insults at her mother. And, though words were indecipherable above the din of the room—parents hugging and congratulating their children amidst volleys of camera flashes—Laura knew what her friend was saying. She’d heard it all a thousand times before.

  Just to make matters worse, she knew how Michelle felt about her, which would have sent most girls running. But Laura wasn’t most girls. At least she didn’t want to be.

  Two nights ago, Michelle had dropped the bomb with, “I love you.” She’d said it several times before, but this was different. Soft. Clearly heartfelt. Not spurred by a shared prank or funny moment.

  Laura had tried to play dumb, though she knew what Michelle really meant. All the signs had been there for a long time, impossible to miss. Laura had even allowed the wandering hands of youthful curiosity during a few sleepovers, though she was dead certain she was only attracted to boys.

  “I love you, too,” she’d responded, and meant it, just like the thousand other times she’d said those words. If she could give Michelle what she wanted, she would, because Michelle was strong. And strength was something that had always been missing from Laura’s life.

  “No,” Michelle had said. “I’m in love with you.”

  Laura had laughed nervously. “Like I told you before, Shell, if you were a dude, I’d fuck you in a heartbeat.”

  “What difference does it make?” Michelle asked. “I love you and you love me. Doesn’t that mean more than the equipment in our pants?”

  It was a good point; and it had taken Laura a long time to formulate a response. Finally, she’d said, “I understand why you’d feel that way, but what if I was a guy and felt the same way about you?”

  “But you’re not a guy.”

  “Thanks for noticing.” She’d offered a tentative smile that faded the moment it wasn’t returned.

  “Besides, if you were a guy, I wouldn’t love you,” Michelle had said, the edge of her words nearly drawing blood.

  “Gee, thanks—”

  “But you do love me. You said so yourself. You love me as I am, right?”

  “Well, sure, but…” There was no denying that Michelle was the queen of circular logic, and it was no use trying to win an argument with her. Laura had grabbed her friend’s hand and said, “I’ll always be there for you, Shell. I promise.”

  And here she was, standing on the edge of a hot mess she doubted she could handle. Drama, she supposed, had a way of creeping into everyone’s life; but others seemed so much better equipped to deal with it. She often felt like a fool who didn’t know when to get out of the rain.

  Michelle looked away from her mother and beckoned Laura with a brisk flick of her wrist. Laura, a lump in her throat, approached the duo and tried to smile. “Hello, Mrs. Breedlove,” she said.

  Faith regarded Laura with a grim-eyed nod. Michelle’s mom had never really liked or trusted her, even though Laura went out of her way to be nice and polite. She might have laid it on a little thick sometimes, overcompensating, but the effort never felt disingenuous. She frequently broached the matter with Michelle, but Michelle offered no genuine insight, other than to call her mom a bitch. Laura knew it was much more than that. It was because of her parents’ tragic past. Not that the Breedloves didn’t have skeletons of their own, something they never talked about in any real way.

  “My past is so dark,” Michelle often said, “that if I spoke of it in the light of day, I might extinguish the sun.”

  Faith had risen above the stigma associated with family turmoil, even though it had done a hell of a number on her daughter. The reason, as Laura saw it, was simple. Faith Breedlove had money, and money was the lie that extinguished truth.

  “Are we done here, Faith?” Michelle asked.

  “I’m your mother,” Faith snapped, “not—”

  “I said, are we done?”

  Another grim nod from Faith. And Laura, despite hundreds of reasons not to, felt sorry for her. It was one thing to hate someone for hating her, but watching a family implode, a thing she was acutely sensitive to, was another matter altogether.

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Breedlove,” Laura said. Then Michelle grabbed Laura’s hand and pulled her away.

  A few paces from Faith, Laura tugged back, stopping Michelle. She shook a strand of curly, red bangs from her face and looked down at her friend. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “What do you mean?” Michelle’s wide brown eyes were enough to make Laura cry. So much sadness. And the way one side of her mouth always curled into a frown while the other tried to smile—even now as her lips trembled—as if a happy child lived somewhere deep inside and was fighting for escape. Distressing, but remarkably cute and endearing, and Laura almost, for just a second, thought she could give Michelle what she wanted. Almost, but not quite.

  “What do you mean?” Michelle repeated.

  Laura heaved a sigh. “I guess you’re right. We should get out of here.”

  3

  One foot in The Land of Light and the other in The Old World, Reggie watched the girls leave the auditorium. If capable of tears, he would have cried. Michelle was, after all, the most important aspect of his provisional existence, the one thing that could keep him and others of his kind in The Flow. She had no idea how important she was.

  To see her now, crushed by an unfortunate childhood, caught in a game without grasping it, he couldn’t have loved her more. Had he been able to help her through the last six years, she might have fared better, more ready for what she’d soon have to do. But that hadn’t been possible. All games had rules. And one of the necessities of her short-term safety had been Reggie’s distance.

  Still, The Game was always in motion, and the shadows were cunning and intelligent, always able to gain advantage, even during periods of relative cease-fire. Pulling Michelle closer by alienating her, feeding off her anger, making her appear foolish—heartbreaking tactics, Reggie considered, but also what made the shadows worthy adversaries.

  Feeling a presence at his back, Reggie turned into The Land of Light. “Are we sure we need her?” he aske
d. It was a desperate question, and he already knew the answer. “If she gets away from here, she may have a chance. She may find happiness again.”

  “Then we’ll lose,” Tyler said. “And so will The Old World, her world…in the long run.”

  “Couldn’t we just bring her here, keep her safe. Is her world really needed? I mean, would anyone miss it?”

  Tyler Ellison shook his head and smiled. “Probably not. But The Game can’t be played without it.”

  Reggie looked back into the auditorium, watching the pageant play out. Camera flashes and smiles. Hugs and new beginnings. Michelle wasn’t part of it.

  “She’ll be fine,” Tyler said. “She has to be.”

  Reggie wasn’t so sure.

  4

  Faith stormed into the house and slammed the door.

  A shout came from the kitchen: “Hell’s bells!” Feet pattered across ceramic tile, and Reba, Arnie’s caregiver, appeared in the foyer with a fading look of concern. “Is everything okay, Mrs. Breedlove?”

  When will she learn to stop asking that question? Faith thought. Nothing was ever okay. Doing her best to back her shit down, Faith took a deep breath and delivered her usual lie. “Yes, Reba. Everything’s…fine.” Her cheeks constricted and the vein in her forehead bulged.

  Reba nodded slowly. “Well, I was just in the kitchen feeding your dad. Made me spill food on his shirt, what with the shock you gave me.”

  Faith forced a smile onto her face. “Don’t you think you should be used to me by now?”

  “You’d think so, Mrs. Breedlove. But I’ve always lived a quiet life. Never easy, mind you, but always quiet.”

  Faith waved off the comment and walked into the kitchen, Reba following closely behind. “Hello, Daddy,” she called out. “How’s your day going?”