by Jade Thompson

Gravity was pulling the rain down hard and fast like bullets—firm drops beating my back like a drum.
     “Why did you stop?! Hurry up and keep digging!”
     My knuckles were white from gripping the shovel. Blisters were emerging on my palms. I started moving again. I brought down the shovel to the ground, which was now as soft as pudding. Shink-plop, shink-plop. I dug up a bit of dirt and threw it to the side. Like clockwork. I was sopping wet, tired, and I wanted to go home. I stopped again, leaning on the shovel with all of my weight.
     “Why do you keep stopping? I don’t have time for this!” Even in the rain she looked like a goddess. Is there a goddess for rain? If there was one, she would be that. She tugged the back of my mud-caked shirt and made me stand up right. “Look at that.” She pointed to the dead body that was next to the hole I had been digging. I sighed. “We can’t have this above ground when the sun comes up,” she said, kicking the body with frustration.
     “I know,” I replied.
     It’s not the first time I have done something like this for Elysia. It was only small things before. In elementary school, she made me spit in her friend’s raspberry soda. I don’t know why. In middle school, she moved next to a family that owned a chicken coop. She said that the chickens were too smelly and loud. I opened the gates one night but they came right back the next day. Elly said it wasn’t good enough. “Make it look like a fox got in.”
     In freshman year, her brother failed out of college and had to move back home. We live in a small town, so it was no surprise that everyone was talking about it. When you’re the subject of everyone’s gossip, their whispers sound like the flapping of a thousand birds flying overhead. I would know. She wouldn’t tell me the details but he left bruises all over her stomach and thighs. So I cut the breaks on his motorcycle. He’s still in the hospital.
     Now, senior year, I’m digging a grave for our homeroom teacher. She says that he looks at her funny. That he tries to touch her. I guess I love her. So I do things for her. If she asks me to kill her homeroom teacher, I’ll do it if it makes her happy. It’s like she’s casting a spell on me when she smiles like that. Her eyes will narrow and her mouth curls up at the sides. Rather than her physical attributes, it’s her confidence and her intelligence that draw me to her. She can take up any class, any sport, or any instrument, and become the best at it. It’s clear that this town is too small for her. That she can be someone important. I feel like a little bit of that rubs off on me when I’m near her. And I think she’s popular because everyone else feels that way too.
     We waited in my rusty moss green car for four hours after school ended. The engine was off, so the rain hitting the windshield should have been audible to me. The only thing I could hear was my heart beating, threatening to rip through my shirt. The whole time we sat there I wondered if she could hear it. When our teacher finally came out of the building, jogging to his car and using his hands as an umbrella, I remained seated in the front seat. My heart had moved up to my ears now. I couldn’t hear her yelling at me from the seat next to me. I don’t remember getting out of the car, just the sound of a shovel against a human skull. He didn’t die instantly. He moved weirdly, like he was breast-stroking to safety. She smiled her trademark smile throughout the whole thing. I didn’t find it funny; blood makes me queasy. I threw up three times.
     I don’t know how I feel about this dark side of her that no one knows about. Do I like it? Do I hate it and just put up with it? I don’t know. I think that when I found out about it, I knew I could make her happy. By doing what she wanted, I could stay by her side. I knew that since I was the only one who knew, that meant that she needed me. It’s also the only thing I have against her. I have the power to expose her. I think that scares her, so she lets me stay.
     My knuckles are white again. This time from clenching my hands too tight. I bet my nails are cutting into my palms. They might be bleeding but I’m too afraid to look. The light from the ceiling is making my stomach churn. Now that I am here.
     “Now that you’re here…”
     Should I betray her?
     “What’ll it be, son?” says the officer.
     He gives me a look that says I know everything.