The Storyteller by Aaron Starmer Page B

explain that she enjoyed wearing the tuxedo and bicycling in the wind and falling asleep when rain was pattering on the roof, that she liked the feeling of Rosie’s sharp—but not too sharp—nails on the soft spot behind her ear, that she adored it when Rosie would give her a shower because the water on her head felt like liquid sunshine and always reminded her of that day along the road when Rosie first found her, that she didn’t care much for the taste of radishes but loved how they crunched, and that she didn’t remember where she lived, or who with, or what she did in those days before Rosie and Hamish spotted her along the side of the road.
    As for not growing, and as for the glow in her fur, she would have said that this worried her. She would have confessed that deep down, she knew something was wrong. But she also would have said that she didn’t think about it too much. Mostly, she thought about food.
    That’s right. Luna had ideas and emotions, but there was no way that anyone could tell. To the world, she was simply a dim-witted, dimly lit marsupial. Little did they know, she was so much more than that.
    TO BE CONTINUED …

 
    T HURSDAY , 11/30/1989
    AFTERNOON
    To be continued is a terrible thing, I know. But life is to be continued . You want to be continued as long as possible. Which makes me sad about my walk to school this morning. As I rounded the corner toward the parking lot, I saw a dead baby bird on the sidewalk. It’s almost December. I didn’t know birds had babies so late in the year. But there it was, nearly see-through and dead. Tiny. A baby hummingbird.
    Sure, it reminds me of the story I wrote about the jogger named Justine Barlow, and I want to say it’s only a coincidence. And it probably is. But maybe it’s also an omen. Telling me that good news might not be good news after all. Because there was good news this morning. Plenty of it.
    Before leaving for school, before the baby bird, I called Mandy and told her I was dating Glen Maple. Instead of telling me I’m crazy or pretending to throw up, she said, “That is so awesome. I am so happy for you.”
    Which was … good.
    A minute after I hung up, just as I was about to step out the door, the phone rang. I figured it would be Mandy calling back to say, “Ha, ha! It’s Opposite Day! Glen Maple is gross. Why would you ever want to date him?”
    But it wasn’t. It was Mr. Dwyer. Charlie and Kyle’s dad. He had some even better news. Or so it seemed.
    Kyle Dwyer is awake.

 
    THE STATEMENT OF KYLE DWYER
    It wasn’t too late, but it was dark out. Sunday, November nineteenth, right? Yeah, had to be. Because Saturday was the eighteenth. I know because Saturday was Jared’s birthday, and he couldn’t celebrate on Saturday because his parents had a whole fancy dinner for him with his grandma and grandpa and everyone. So that’s why we went out on Sunday. Had a few beers by the silos at the Finnerman farm. Didn’t get plastered or anything. Played the radio, sat in the back of the van as the rain came down. Four of us. Kim and Heather were there too.
    We talked about stuff, Fiona Loomis mostly. She’d been gone for at least two weeks, I think, which is, like, forever for a kid to be missing. Seemed even longer because we actually kinda knew her. We polished off the twelver around, I don’t know, seven thirty or eight, and I was feeling really bummed out. Been a rough month around here, ever since Charlie blew his fingers off.
    I dropped everyone back at their places and I felt like driving to clear my head, but the rain was coming down harder and it was a bitch to see out the windshield, so I headed home.
    A couple of weeks before, on Halloween actually, Alistair Cleary told me that he was afraid that Fiona’s uncle was some sort of psycho, the type looking to hurt kids. It’s funny, I thought the guy’s name was Damien for