Page 11 of Tar City
On the screen, through a haze of grainy tracking lines, a figure resolves itself. It’s Mr. Halpern. Our English teacher, the man who lives in eternal khaki and drones on about symbolism. Apparently, he’s also a chaperone.
He’s standing behind the punch table, ladle in hand, putting on a show for some mom in a sequined sweater. He leans in close, says something lost to the camera’s mic, then attempts to pour her a cup of punch with the theatrical flair of a sommelier pouring champagne.
It goes badly. The ladle overshoots the cup, sending a red waterfall cascading down the front of his shirt. He freezes, a statue of pure awkwardness, and the sequined mom stares. From off-camera, someone laughs so hard the whole frame shakes.
Ivan winces. “Whoever filmed this must hate his guts. Some things should never be recorded.”
On screen, Mr. Halpern attempts to salvage his dignity, patting at the spreading stain with a handful of flimsy napkins that immediately disintegrate into a wet, red pulp.
“Oh, this is gold,” Jax says, grinning.
The camera jolts, swinging toward the gym floor where kids are dancing in a loose circle beneath paper stars and a mirrored ball that spins. The awkward shuffling, the glittery dresses, someone’s bowtie hanging on by a thread—it’s all so painfully normal.
“This is nothing,” Ivan says, shrugging. “Just a party?—”
Jax reaches over, eyes still glued to the screen, and flicks a piece of popcorn at him. “Shut up.”
Jax leans forward, elbows on his knees, the bowl balanced precariously in one hand. I watch the tense line of his shoulders, the way he’s completely locked in.
Then the camera lurches—too fast—and drops. For a moment, all we see is the scuffed wood floor and a confetti star stuck to the lens, the music muffled through the tape’s grain.
Before we can even think to skip ahead, the camera is scooped back up. The view swings wildly away from the dancers, like whoever’s filming suddenly remembered they had somewhere else to be.
The hallway appears, washed in the weird shine of string lights. Without them, the video quality dissolves into static and shadow.
“Why would they film an empty hall?” I ask.
All three of us lean forward. The footage creeps down the corridor, stopping just short of the girls’ bathroom door.
“I don’t think we should watch this,” I say, my hand already reaching for the remote.
“We’re watching,” Jax says as his fingers close around my wrist. He hits pause. His grip shifts, turning my wrist slightly, his eyes catching on the small mark there.
“What’s this?” Jax asks, his thumb pressing right into the mark.
“Birthmark,” I say, pulling back hard and he lets go.
He nods, like he heard more than I said, and hits play. The camera lurches forward, settling right in the crack of the door.
Through it, we see a girl, not fully in frame. At first it’s just her reflection in the mirror: scared, crying, a pair of white dress gloves pulled up past her wrists. She wipes her face with them, leaving dark, damp streaks on the satin.
Ivan leans forward, squinting at the screen. He starts picking at the skin around his fingers, some spots already split and dried. “Is that…?”
“The Knotted-Hair Girl?” I whisper.
Jax shakes his head. “Don’t know.”
The girl turns on the water, slowly peeling off the gloves to set them aside, the camera dipping with her movement, lowering toward the sink as water rushes and her hands appear under the flow. She’s scrubbing her fingers hard, frantic, like she’s trying to scrape something off, and then we see it—black, staining her fingers, worked deep into the lines of her skin all the way to her knuckles.
She glances back toward the door, her eyes wide with fear and the screen goes black.
No one breathes. Before anyone can react, Ivan’s up and moving, already halfway to the door. “I have to go,” he says, clipped, like something’s nipping at his heels.
“Ivan—” Jax starts, but he’s already gone.
I look at Jax and my throat closes up. “I should go,” I say, the words pushing themselves out.
Jax looks up, and his eyes lock onto mine. “Stay.”
