The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep by Laurie Stolarz (summer reads txt) 📕

I stare out into the darkness, flashing back to a conversation I had with Dr. Mary in the healing garden at the hospital. The purpose of the garden is to provide a stress-free space, but I couldn’t have felt more anxious, biting my lips, scratching my palms.

“It’s pretty here, isn’t it?” Dr. Mary said. “Tranquil, meditative…”

Torturous. The flower petals reminded me of switchblades. The thorns looked like barbed wire.

“I don’t belong here,” I told her.

She reached out to touch a bloodred rose. “You feel the need to be punished. We need to explore why that is, why you’re so angry at yourself.” As if it were a mystery.

“My aunt is angry with me too.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I feel it.”

“Do you think it’s possible that what you perceive as your aunt’s anger is really just your own? Because, maybe, deep down, you feel unworthy of being loved?”

I eyed a flower, tempted to pluck it from the ground. Its stem reminded me of a dart. How would it feel, punctured through my heart?

Still in the car, I take a deep breath, able to smell the fireplace at the yacht club; the scent has melted over my skin and combed through my hair. I look out at the park. The swing set reminds me of the one back in elementary school. My mom and I had a game where I called out degrees of salsa spice for how high I wanted her to push me (mild, medium, jalapeño, hot…). Sometimes she’d swing with me too. We’d sit side by side, pumping our legs, trying to go at the same rate.

Time to turn back? Logic asks.

I venture outside. The cool fall air chills the back of my neck. The overgrown grass, wet from the drizzle, brushes against my ankles, makes my skin itch. The closer I get to the phone booth, the more lit up the area becomes. Overhead lights shine over the harbor, where there’s a smattering of boats. I have an extra flashlight, clipped to my key ring (industrial-strength despite its mini size). But I keep it off, hoping to remain invisible.

The wind rustles a loose chain on the swing set. The seats have all been damaged: knifelike slits through the rubbery texture. I continue past them, keeping focused on the phone booth. It’s steel gray, with a foldable door and a bashed-in base, where the safety glass was broken.

I unfold the door and go inside, unable to spot any broken glass on the floor. Could Peyton have been trapped in here? Did she kick the booth open? I peer outside, toward the cement platform, but I don’t see any broken glass there either.

The phone receiver hangs slightly crooked on the hook. I pick it up and hold it to my ear, wondering if Peyton might’ve used it to call someone. She had a cell phone—it’s what she must’ve used to log on to Jane—but she also had bad cell reception, at least according to Darwin.

I fish inside my pocket for a quarter and drop it into the slot, checking to see if the phone actually works.

An automated voice (an operator’s recording) comes on right away: To complete your call, please deposit fifty-five cents. Please deposit fifty-five cents for your local three-minute call. To complete your ca—

I hang up and continue to look around, searching for some sign or clue. I poke my finger into the change return and take out a handful of coins: ninety-five cents. I leave them on the counter just as the phone starts ringing: a blaring tone that makes my insides jump.

I let it ring, unsure what to do. Pick it up? Or continue to look around?

Nine rings.

Ten …

It doesn’t seem to stop. At sixteen rings, I grab the phone receiver and place it up to my ear.

“Hello?” says a tiny female voice.

I peer outside, into the darkness.

“Can you hear me?” the girl asks.

A clamoring noise sounds—like metal on metal—somewhere in the park. Is someone else here? Does the person see me? Or was it just the wind?

“Hello?” the voice continues. “Are you there? Can you help me?”

A question strikes me like a match. Could it seriously be Peyton?

“Who’s this?” she asks.

“Is this Peyton?”

“Is this…? Terra?”

“Where are you?” I search the pay phone for a number, but it’s been peeled off; there’s sticker residue above the keypad.

“I can’t believe you came.” Her voice is riddled with tears. “I’m so sorry, and I’m so grateful.”

“Don’t apologize. Just tell me where you are.”

“How did you even find me? Is Darwin with you? Did you talk to him?”

“Wait, do you have access to a phone?” Obviously, she must. “Are you calling from your cell phone? Did you also call for help?”

“Hold on, is Darwin there? Can I talk to him?”

“No. I’m alone.”

“So, he didn’t come? There’s a pay phone where I am, but it only dials one number.”

“Wait, what? How is that possible?”

“He took me, Terra. Just like I said he would, just like I always feared.”

“Where are you now?”

“A junkyard, like the book page he left in my mailbox.”

“In Pineport?”

“Yes.” Her voice quivers. “It’s not far from the phone booth.”

I look back toward the street, unable to see much. The street-lamps seemed dimmed. One of them is broken. Still, I continue to search—by the slide, the swings, the bouncy toys, the parking lot, but I don’t see anything. “Is the guy there with you?”

“No. He’s been gone for a while.”

“Tell me where you are, exactly—where in the junkyard.”

“I don’t think I’m going to get out this time.”

“You will,” I insist. “Just tell me how to get to you.”

“Are you facing the pay phone? Look to the left of the harbor. Do you see a sign in the distance that says Smitherton’s Salvage?”

It takes me a second to spot it. The sign stands tall, lit up with a spotlight. “Yes. I see it.”

“If you drive to the salvage yard, park on the street—somewhere he won’t spot your car. Then come on foot. You’ll see