Saving Michael Jackson

Monopoly and a new guy

"I forgive you," she says, sitting down beside me, "only because I know what it feels like to get angry and say stupid stuff." She glances at me. "So, what's up?"

I would like to tell her. I would like to tell anyone, honestly, because keeping all of this to myself feels unbearable sometimes. The only problem is... I don't know if I'm allowed to.

"I wasn't kidnapped," I say quietly.

"Why did you lie to Michael then?"

"I guess I didn't know what to say. I was nervous when we met." I shrug. "Look, I don't want to talk about today or yesterday. I really don't."

Wanda smiles softly and taps my shoulder.
"Okay, Cece. Whenever you're ready. But you've seen Michael—I mean, I saw him, and he really cares about you."

Michael? Caring? About me? The thought settles strangely in my chest, warm and confusing all at once. It feels nice to hear, embarrassingly nice, but whether it's actually true or not... i can't know that.

"Wanna watch a movie till Mickey comes back?" she asks.

"Is it Rocky?"

"Yeah. Rocky III." She stands up.

"I thought you said you watched part four yesterday. Why are we watching part three if you already—"

"I didn't watch three," she interrupts.

"But why did you watch—"

"Everyone kept saying four is good, so I watched four. Damn, Cece." She rolls her eyes dramatically. "So much talkie-talk."

I laugh, and we both head upstairs to the room she slept in. Her bedroom is a little smaller than Mike's, but it still has that strange old-fashioned charm every room in this house seems to carry. Vintage, maybe? I don't know how to describe an eighties bedroom, but every bed in this mansion either has flower-patterned sheets or cartoon characters on them. And Michael? You can practically measure how childlike he is by those Peter Pan bedsheets alone.

"Let's see..." Wanda mutters, opening the closet.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I ask.

She kneels down, digging through a pile of random stuff. "Looking for something..." Her eyes brighten. "That is fun."

She pulls out a box. "Monopoly is fun."

God, I haven't played Monopoly in forever. It used to be my mom's favorite game.
We sit on the bed while Wanda opens the box.

"Let's play." She rubs her hands together like an evil mastermind.

7 p.m

"Fuck no," I laugh, handing over my last five Monopoly dollars.

"Cece Grande, you the best girl ever," Wanda sings.

I throw the money at her face. "Asshole."

I stop laughing the second I hear someone entering the house.

"Oh, Mickey's already home." Wanda starts packing up the game.

I stand to leave the room, but she suddenly slaps my hand. When I look at her, she motions for me to stay quiet.

"Don't leave the room," she whispers.

"Why are you whispering? Michael's back," I whisper back.

"This is not Michael. The front door didn't close."
She slowly shakes her head.

"So what? It's freaking Neverland. No one other than him lives here," I whisper-shout.

Then— Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Walking upstairs.
Oh no... This is definitely not Michael. Shit.
Every serial killer documentary I ever watched suddenly rushes back into my brain. Most of them happened between the sixties and nineties, and the seventies and eighties were basically serial killer heaven. Bundy. Richard Ramirez. Dahmer. The freaking Zodiac Killer.
I have never been this scared in my entire life.
Wanda slowly grabs the lamp from the bedside table. Great. She's about to fight Ted Bundy with a lamp while he probably has an axe. We are absolutely going to die.