front seat. Before we leave, Barron turns on the song “Shut Up” by New Years Day, and my heart lodges in my throat.
“This is my favorite band,” I tell him as he puts the car in reverse and then pauses to glance my way. He says nothing though, taking us back down the drive and pausing to get our phones at the gate.
Part of me wants to ask where we're going, the rest doesn't dare. I decide to lean back and enjoy the ride, surprised when we end up at Thorncrown Chapel, the glass and wood church near Eureka Springs.
“There's a lock-in here tonight,” I say, but Barron just shakes his head as we pause at the bottom of the driveway, just in front of a chain that's hung across the road. The sign reads Closed.
“There was supposed to be, but nobody showed up. By eleven, they decided to cancel, and everyone went home.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, my heart thundering as I consider the possibility that Barron is on a time loop of his own. But of course not.
“My parents are friends with the owner of the chapel.” Just that, a succinct response. Barron sneaks a honey-colored sucker from a bag between the front seats, and then climbs out, tearing the wrapper off and sticking it in his pocket as he goes. He slips the sucker between his lips, and then bends down to unlock the bolt on the chain with a key.
It seems that Barron has keys to everything.
He gets back in the car and drives us the rest of the way up the hill. We park and climb out into the moonlight, Barron's rainbow-colored hair impressive in the ambient silver glow. He pauses to slip into the detached bathroom to wash his eyes while I stand at the end of the walkway and look up at the steep spires of Thorncrown Chapel with gently parted lips.
“Impressive,” I say as Barron pauses beside me, stray droplets of water catching on his lip. As I watch, he swipes his tongue across it to clear them away.
“Isn't it?” He takes off walking, his sketchbook tucked under his arm, the long, curled white tails of his coat bobbing across the ground as he moves, barefoot, to the door, and unlocks it. Tonight, I'm down for any challenge.
I follow after him and inside, to the rows of pews, the dais at the fair end, and the Jurassic-like ferns decorating the interior. All the lights are off, but we don't need them. The entire chapel is framed in wood, and the walls are glass. We can see the woods from in here, the moon, the stars.
“How did you get the keys to this place?” I ask, briefly surprised that the chapel hasn't already been broken into. I mean, it's Devils' Day for fuck's sake. But then I remember that Devil Springs is the only town in the world to officially acknowledge the holiday. The world's loss, I suppose.
“My parents wanted me to chaperone tonight, so they got me a set of keys.” Barron looks back at me, his wicked mouth curving into a slight smile. “Let's draw something.” He heads up the aisle and takes a seat on the frontmost pew. After a moment of hesitation, I move up to sit beside him. “I like the new hair color,” he says casually, glancing my way and admiring the half-black, half-red locks cascading over my shoulders. “Very Devils' Day of you.”
We sit close, our thighs maybe six inches apart.
Barron flips his sketchbook to a fresh page and lifts his pencil, his already-stained hand smearing charcoal as he starts drawing the dais, and the giant ferns on either side. He sketches me as I am now, wearing the ballgown and gloves, sitting on top of the podium. After a moment, I decide to humor him, and take up the same position.
“How do you know about the butterflies?” he asks me, still sketching. “Did you follow me?”
“Don't rationalize or justify tonight,” I tell him, feeling my skin sparkle with moonlight and magic. “It's Devils' Day. Nothing makes sense.”
Barron's smile gets a little wider as he continues to draw, finishing the picture relatively quickly and then standing up to bring it over to me. I'm perched on the edge of the podium, my booted feet crossed, my skirts frothing in black tulle around me.
“What do you think?” he asks, handing me his sketchbook.
The rawness in his face as he passes it over, the look in