“Twenty Maple Lane,” she says, a glint in her eye.
That’s my address.
“What?” I say.
“As I told you, vigilabo ego sum vobis.”
What the hell? “I don’t know what that means!” I tell her.
“You will!” she chirps out. Then she guns the motor and drives away.
At the end of the road, she turns in the direction away from my house. But I’m still nervous as I keep going. I almost call my mother, but I can imagine what her reaction would be if I told her she needed to come pick me up because some old woman gave me a taste of stranger danger. My credibility has already been shot. Even if I cry puppy, they act like I’m crying wolf.
So I walk home with my phone camera looking behind me so I can see if the car returns. When I get home, I’m there alone, so I lock all the doors.
Nothing happens.
I start to wonder if I misheard her. Maybe it was Maple Drive and not Maple Lane—our town has both, even though I don’t think either has a single maple tree.
I try to forget it.
* * *
—
Three days later, my mother takes me shopping for new pants.
I tell her I don’t need new pants. She points to the frayed bottoms of the khakis I’m wearing and tells me they are—her exact word—unacceptable. The way she says it, you’d think it’s a miracle that people don’t throw stones at me as I walk down the street. Underneath the tirade, I can hear the true sentiment: You’ve embarrassed us enough this year, haven’t you? Must you keep doing it? Of course, there’s no way she can erase what happened when A took over my life. But she can buy me new pants.
We go to the Gap. I find the same exact pants I’m wearing, in the same exact size. I imagine we’re done—but no. She says I have to try them on.
So there I am, peeling off my khakis so I can put on their better-loved twin. A pair of ankles and shoes appears below the changing room door—I figure it’s the salesperson asking me if everything’s fitting, even though I haven’t had enough time to put anything on. But instead, a young voice says, “Hey, Nathan…vigilabo ego sum vobis.”
I am literally caught with my pants down. I quickly yank them up and pull open the door. There’s nobody there, so I run back into the store. The only person I find is my mother, who is asking me where the new pants are. I push past her and try to find the woman from the other day. But there’s nobody anywhere close to her description—and it wasn’t her voice.
“Nathan, I’m talking to you!” my mother is saying. I’m still looking around the store. One woman meets my gaze for a second, then looks away. I don’t even remember what kind of shoes they were, under the door. I wasn’t paying attention. There are a few other people looking anxious, but everybody looks anxious nowadays. It’s just a part of who we are, especially in public.
“Did they fit?” my mother asks.
“Of course they fit!” I yell, which causes her to give me her best you-are-the-least-grateful-son-in-the-history-of-sons expression.
“Well, where are they?” she asks.
I go back to the changing room and someone has already removed and probably refolded the khakis. So my mother and I go through this dance one more time. This time I’m not disturbed. But in the relative quiet of the changing room, I do take out my phone and type vigilabo ego sum vobis into Google Translate.
It’s Latin.
I’m watching you.
* * *
—
I could tell Rhiannon about this, I think. But I still feel like I’m this random boy who’s invited himself into her life because of this strange thing that happened to both of us. I don’t know if our friendship is strong enough for me to start freaking her out on a regular basis.
So I keep my mouth shut. I go on with life. I turn on the news and try to let that be my cause of stress and outrage, instead of something more personal. Except the news feels like a personal attack against anyone with a shred of intelligence and decency, which doesn’t make me feel much better. I try to think of ways my mind could be playing with me…but that’s a stretch and a strain.
Especially when it continues.
This time it’s my inbox that’s stalked. The emails start and they don’t stop. Dozens of them, sent at uneven intervals from an email address I’ve never seen before.
The subject line is always Vigilabo ego sum vobis.
The messages are all blank.
I send one message back:
A?
The only reply? More Vigilabo ego sum vobis.
* * *
—
In the middle of the night, the doorbell rings. I hear my father get out of bed to answer it. I hear him come back and tell my mother nobody was there.
“Just a prank,” he says. “Probably some kids.”
“Probably picking on Nathan,” my mother says needlessly. “I wish they’d leave us alone.”
It’s unclear whether I’m a part of that us.
* * *
—
The next day, I am home alone after school.
The doorbell rings.
I don’t answer it.
It rings again.
And again.
It’s not like I can call the police and report that someone’s ringing my doorbell. The police are already in the Nathan-is-a-wolf-crier camp.
The fifteenth time, I go down to the door. “GO AWAY!” I yell. But I can’t see anyone through the peephole. I go to the front window, pull the curtain aside, and peek out.
There’s a car across the street. Not the woman from before. Not a woman at all. A man, probably my dad’s age. He’s been waiting for me to pull back that curtain. He mimes a pistol with his hand and shoots at me. Then he mouths words that can only be vigilabo ego sum vobis. I think he’ll drive off then. But he doesn’t. I let the curtain drop and head back to my room.
I call Rhiannon. I don’t tell her what’s happening, because I don’t know that there’s anything she can do about it. I just need to talk to someone, to have someone on the line if the guy across the street tries anything.
I don’t even know what he’d try.
Eventually I take another look outside, and the car is gone.
* * *
—