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the Curve of Arctic Air
cc&d (v253) (the Jan./Feb. 2015 Issue)




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the Curve of Arctic Air

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Stepped On A Crack

Marilyn June Janson

    “You stepped on a crack,” a voice says. “You’re next to die. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
    Rushing home from my fourth grade class, I stop and look up.
    The teen grins, showing rotted, blackened teeth. “He, he, he,” the kid laughs, sounding like the Wicked Witch of the East.
    Pasty faced, he leans against the stone wall and smokes a cigarette. The kid wipes his runny nose against the sleeve of a ragged, black leather jacket.
    The ally behind the building is empty. The kids living in the apartments across the street were already home. Before school let out, my best friend Susan’s mom picked her up in their car. Susan had a dental appointment. Usually, we walked to and from school. Except today.
    He must be lying. Any kid would say I was dumb for believing that you could die from stepping on a crack.
    This creep is probably a high school drop out. No one would want him in their class.
    Granny Celia always told me, ‘Marissa, stay away from bad boys.’
    I hold on tighter to my backpack and run the half-mile toward home. The biting wind makes my eyes blur as it pushes me on the path. Dried leaves whip against bare legs.
    Today we got our school pictures taken. Mom made me wear a dumb skirt.
    Swish!
    Wind pushes up the cotton material around my legs. I look like a huge balloon filled with helium.
    Shaking, I wonder if the boy is chasing me. I have no time to turn and look. He could be right behind, about to grab and shove me into a sewer to be buried alive.
    Was he right? Older kids knew much more than younger ones.
    Maybe he did see kids drop dead after they stepped on that very same crack.
    When I get home, I’ll ask Mom. Grown-ups are way smarter than boys. And I’ll call Susan. She always has the right answer.
    Taking quick, shallow breaths, I sink into my navy wool coat as if it will protect me from the death monster.
    With only three blocks to go, home seems as far away as Transylvania.
    Strands of limp hair come loose from my ponytail and flap around purple, framed glasses.
    Worn out, I don’t dare stop to rest. He could be about to pounce on me.

*            *            *


    Whew! Home at last.
    With my right hand, I open the storm door wide enough to allow myself to get through.
    Crash!
    It snaps shut on my hand.
    “OWWWW! MOMMMYYYY.”
    Stunned, I drop the bag and pull my injured limb from between the metal frame and wooden door jam.
    Examining my reddened fingers, the dull pain escalates into agony, as if the tiny bones were shredded by a wood chipper.
    Tears sting as they flow down chapped skin.
    Through my muddled brain, I hear Mom’s voice.
    “Look at that mess!” Wobbling her peroxide red hair, she says, “Now we have to buy a new door. Do you know how much that will cost your father? We spend too much money on you anyway.”
    Peering into her parrot size periwinkle eyes, a storm brews behind them.
    Shaking, I cradle my hand and say, “It’s broken, Mommy. Make it better.”
    She disappears down the hall.
    Why is she leaving me here? Doesn’t she love me?
    Slumping to the ground, I stare at the glittering shards of glass scattered all over the porch. Like fairy dust, they reflect red, orange, and purple colors from the setting sun. I watch the pieces jab my skin.
    Ouch!
    Pulling myself up, I pick out the fragments. Bits of blood eek out of my legs.
    Stepping through the empty door frame, I collide with Mom.
    The broom and dustpan Mom carried falls beside my feet.
    “Watch where you’re going,” she barks. “You should be cleaning this up, not me.”
    That kid at the school was right. I am going to die. My hand and legs will become infected with gangrene. The poison will travel through my bloodstream and I’ll get that gross flesh eating disease.
    “Mom, I don’t want to die!”
    Sweeping up the glass, she ignores me.
    I run into my bedroom and slam the door. Throwing myself on the bed, I cry.
    ‘Baby, baby, you’re acting like a baby’, I hear Dad say.

*            *            *


    The sound of a car engine wakes me.
    I open my eyes and look around.
    The lights are off in my bedroom. Through open curtains, a blue light from a streetlamp provides a soft glow.
    The pink light on the Little Mermaid clock says it’s 9:00 PM.
    Where is everyone? Mom didn’t wake me up for dinner. And where’s Dad? He didn’t tuck me in like always.
    The feathery touch of terror crawls up my back.
    I switch on my Ariel lamp.
    After pulling on a blanket, I hold my right hand up to the light. Didn’t I hurt it when the door slammed?
    Holding my fingers up to the light, I’m happy to see that they’re still attached. That’s weird. The redness is gone as if nothing had happened to them.
    Moving to the edge of the bed, I touch the skin on my legs for cuts from the shattered glass. The area is smooth. It doesn’t hurt.
    What happened?
    That kid found my house. He killed Mom and Dad. They died instead of me. I’m here alone. Or am I?
    The doorknob squeaks and turns.
    Shivering, my eyes are glued to the door.
    No! He’s coming to get me, too. Mommy... Daddy...Help me.
    Freaked out, I crawl under the bed.
    “Marissa, come out, come out, wherever you are,” a girl sings in a baby voice.
    Susan? What’s she doing here?
    Getting up, I inch over to the door and look through the keyhole. She is standing on the other side.
    About to grab the knob, I hesitate. “Susan, why are you here? It’s a school night.”
    “OPEN THE DOOR!”
    I cover my ears from the brain pummeling sound. Her voice is mean and harsh. Not at all like the happy, friendly girl I knew.
    Swoosh!
    The door blows open, throws me across the room and against the window.
    The light goes out.
    Two huge, bright green disks scorch my body as if I’m on fire.
    Falling to the floor, I curl up into a ball and cover my head. “GO AWAY.”
    Something snatches my arm. Susan’s icy claws tighten their grip. As the blood flow halts, my fingers tingle and become numb.
    “Let go of me!” I whine.
    Susan commands, “You’re coming with me.”
    “You can’t make me.” Wherever she’s going, I’m fighting my hardest to break free.
    Wrestling with her, my strength dissolves as if the muscles were siphoned out. “What’s wrong with you,” I whisper, my voice void of power and pitch.
    “THE DENTIST GAVE ME TOO MUCH GAS SO I WOULDN’T FEEL ANYTHING. I’M DEAD,” she howls as my bed, desk, dresser, and stuffed toys whip around the room.

    I try to move out of the way when a chair aims for my head.
    Whack!
    It hits my eye. Again, I feel no pain.
    The ceiling disappears. Thundering rolls of fire hover above us. Its tentacles lick my face and arms. Stunned, I watch my skin smolder.
    Clutching the window sill, I struggle to push up its wooden frame. My fingers hopelessly tug at the nails holding it shut.
    As the inferno melts my shirt, I grab my former best friend. “NOOO! MAAAKKKEEE IIITTT SSSTTTOOO...”



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