Between

by Jessica Warman

“Nothing.” Josie shakes her head. “It was just horrible, that’s all. It’s all so horrible.”

  “You were her best friend,” Richie says. “She told you what Vince was doing, didn’t she?”

  Josie doesn’t say anything.

  “You showed me those pictures. You let me believe she was cheating on me. You knew I would break up with her eventually. You knew I would confront her. And when I did, what would she say? She wasn’t going to tell me what happened. You did it all on purpose, just to … to what, Josie? To steal me from her? I loved her. I still love her.”

  Josie’s look is pained. “You love me,” she whispers. “And I love you. We have a love story. It’s like my mom and dad. We’re supposed to be together. She didn’t deserve you.”

  “What she didn’t deserve was to die. She didn’t deserve what Vince did to her. But if you think she didn’t deserve me, then you didn’t really know her at all.” Richie shakes his head. “Josie, there’s no love story here. I care about you. I don’t want to see you get into any more trouble, but it’s unavoidable at this point. I wouldn’t be surprised if the cops are on their way over here right now. You’re gonna have to face up to what happened.”

  My sister wipes her eyes. “You’re right. I guess I will.”

  “I just wish … God, I just wish so badly that Liz had confessed. I wish she’d gone straight to the cops that night, you know? Maybe she’d still be alive. Maybe everything would be different.”

  Josie gets a faraway look in her eyes. “Maybe.”

  I begin to feel dizzy. So dizzy, in fact, that without thinking about it, I reach toward Richie for balance.

  As soon as we make contact, his entire frame stiffens. For the first time since I’ve touched him after my death, I’m certain that he can feel it, too. He might not know that it’s me, but he knows that it’s something.

  “Richie?” Josie asks, sniffling, still crying. “What’s wrong? You seem weird.”

  He shakes his head. I pull away from him. I still feel dizzy, but I’ve managed to right myself in my boots—these damn boots—and slide to the floor beside Josie. The room is almost spinning. I feel like I could pass out. I take deep breaths, struggling to regain my bearings.

  “What are you looking at?” Richie asks. He still seems rattled from my touch.

  “Nothing. An old photo album. It’s from way before my mom got divorced. It’s my baby album.”

  “Baby pictures, huh? Can I see?” I can tell that he’s only making conversation. He wants to get out of my house. He wants to get away from Josie. But Richie is a nice guy—he isn’t just going to up and leave her alone, not like this.

  “Sure. Sit down.”

  The three of us are on the floor together, Josie seated in the middle. She’s looking at photos of herself as a newborn, in her mother’s arms. Nicole and her first husband look so thrilled to be with their baby daughter. There are no hints of discontent in their eyes, no outward signs that they are anything but a happy family.

  Even as a newborn, Josie was wide eyed. She gazes at the camera. A shock of red hair covers her head.

  In an instant, I remember. I understand. Here it is: the last piece of the puzzle.

  “That’s weird,” Richie says.

  “What?” Josie rests her hand on his leg like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  It is like someone has flipped a switch and turned on the lights. Everything is clear now. Everything makes sense. Of course. This is the truth. It’s always been here, waiting for me to remember.

  Get out! I want to scream. But instead, almost instinctively, I reach across Josie’s body and grab Richie’s arm. I’m doubtful that it will work, but I have to try. I want him to know. I want him to realize. I need him to understand what I know I am about to see.

  “Beware of the redhead in disguise,” Richie says. “Isn’t that what you told me the psychic said to Liz? At the Spiritualist Church you guys went to?”

  “Oh. Yeah, I guess so.” Josie takes her hand off of Richie’s leg. “But I only had red hair until I was like four. As I got older, it turned into … well, this.” She tugs at her dirty-blond locks. “I’ve been dyeing it for years.”

  “But you had it once,” Richie says. He’s staring at her.

  I hold on to him as tightly as possible. Focusing. Concentrating. Please, I think, please remember. We’re connected. Show me. Show him.

  It’s after midnight. Almost everybody else on the Elizabeth is asleep. Everyone except Josie and me.

  “Our friends are lightweights,” she complains, taking a long swig from an almost-empty beer bottle. “Can you believe they didn’t even stay awake for your real birthday? What do we have, less than two hours to go?”

  I stand up. I’m clearly dizzy, unsteady on my feet. “I need air,” I tell her, stepping onto the deck of the boat. “Come out with me.”

  We climb down the steps linking the boat to the dock and stand on the rickety wooden surface together. The night is silent, all of our friends sleeping inside. I’m almost eighteen years old, and I am in the biggest mess of trouble.

  “We need to talk, Josie,” I tell her.

  She gives me a doubtful look. “About what?”

  “You know what. Alex. What we did. I can’t do it anymore,” I say. “Not for one more day.”

  My stepsister’s expression shifts to alarm. “What did you say?”

  My speech is a little bit slurred. “I’m going to tell Mr. Riley what happened, Josie. I don’t know what I’ll do after that. Probably go to the police.”

  She shakes her head. “No way. Liz, be serious. You aren’t going to tell him anything. You’re done with Vince. It was just some pictures and some money.”

  “He’s never going to stop, Josie. No matter how much I give him, he wants more. Every time he contacts me, he wants more money, and now he wants sex.” I laugh out loud. “Can you believe he expects me to have sex with him? I’m not doing it.” I shake my head hard. The docks rock gently against the water. For a moment, it appears that I almost lose my footing. The boots look great, though. I know there’s no way I’d be willing to take them off—not simply for the sake of balance. They complete the whole outfit.

  I can tell Josie is doing her best to remain calm. “Liz, listen to me. You’re drunk. We’ll figure something out. But you can’t tell anyone. We talked about this. We’ll both be in serious trouble. It’s been over a year. Just … just sleep with him. How bad could it possibly be?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her, “I’m a virgin. You know that.”

  “Well, you’ve gotta lose it somehow.”

  “I want to lose it to Richie.”

  She snorts. She doesn’t say anything.

  I put my hands on my knees. “I’m so dizzy,” I breathe. “I feel like I’m going to pass out, Josie.”

  “Put your head between your knees,” she instructs me. “Take deep breaths.”

  “Josie,” I mutter, “I need juice. Can you get me some juice? I’m gonna faint.”

  “Yeah. Hold on.” She climbs onto the boat. She goes inside. For a long moment, my stepsister looks around. She observes my sleeping friends: Topher and Mera, their arms locked around each other, sharing the same sleeping bag. Richie, asleep on a sofa. Caroline, curled in a ball on the floor. Everybody is out for the night. Nobody knows we’re still awake, alone together on the docks. Nobody can see a thing.

  Josie doesn’t go to the fridge to get me any juice. Instead, she comes back outside, steps gently onto the dock, and stares at me.

  I’m drunk. I’m exhausted; I’ve probably run a good ten miles today—maybe more—and aside from a small bite of birthday cake, it’s likely that I’ve barely eaten. Plus there was that joint we smoked. I remember it all so clearly now. I can’t believe how I’ve treated my body. It’s like I wanted something terrible to happen to me. And now it will.

  I stare at her. “Where’s my juice?”

  I take a step backward. She steps toward me. I take anothe
r step back, this one shaky and unsteady as I begin to lose my balance, and she comes closer.

  “Liz, you can’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin everything. You’ll get in trouble.” She swallows. “You’ll get me in trouble. It’s not fair.”

  “I have to tell someone. I’m going to tell Mr. Riley. He’ll help me. He’ll understand. Josie, I can’t live like this anymore. I feel like it’s killing me to keep this secret.”

  I teeter backward, trying desperately to regain my footing, and the edge of my boot catches on the side of the dock. I hold my arms out toward Josie, trying to grab on to her.

  She gazes at me for what feels like a very long moment, even though it’s only a few seconds. She does nothing.

  I fall into the water. For a moment, my entire body disappears. Then I surface, splashing loudly, screaming for her to help me.

  The water is freezing at night by this time of year, undoubtedly cold enough to knock me into sobriety. I continue to splash around for a few more seconds, trying to grab on to the edge of the dock, to pull myself up. My stepsister only stares, watching, thinking. Deciding.

  Then she gets onto her knees. She extends her arms, like she’s going to pull me to safety, and for a moment my expression shifts to relief as I reach for her, grateful for the help.

  Josie puts one hand on my shoulder, and the other on the top of my head. She pushes me underwater. She is silent, tears brimming in her eyes, a look of steely determination on her face.

  She holds me beneath the water for a very long time. Eventually, I’ll have to breathe. Even as I’m watching, I remember it so clearly. It’s almost like I’m living it all over again. Water in my lungs, in my nose, everywhere. It burns so badly, my mouth open in a silent scream underwater, the whole world going black behind my eyes.

  Tonight, on the eve of my eighteenth birthday, I die.

  Josie stands up. She’s wearing a tank top and denim shorts, so she’s barely wet at all. Her arms are red from the cold water. She goes inside the boat, into the bathroom, and quietly dries herself off. She stares at her own reflection in the mirror, takes many long, deep breaths before leaving the bathroom, shutting off the lights in the boat, and climbing under a blanket on one of the beds.

  She lies there for a while, eyes wide open, gazing at the ceiling of the boat. Then, only a few minutes before I’m officially supposed to turn eighteen years old, my stepsister falls asleep.

  When I open my eyes and look at Richie, I can tell immediately: he understands. He might not have seen everything as I saw it, but he felt me. He knows.

  “You,” he whispers, jumping to his feet, backing slowly away from Josie. “You killed my Liz.”

  Josie presses a single index finger to her closed lips. She doesn’t say anything.

  “Why did you do it?” Richie asks, still whispering. “Why would you hurt her?”

  “She had everything.” Josie’s voice is so calm that it frightens even me. “She was beautiful. She had you. And she had our father. Everybody knows I’m his daughter, everybody. But he’d never admit it. Even my mom told me it was true. But Liz got all the attention. Liz was the prettier one. Liz was the queen at school. It was so easy for her. It was never easy like that for me. She had everything, Richie. She had everything even when she didn’t deserve it.”

  Her voice grows louder as she speaks, gaining more conviction with every word. “You barely knew I was alive before you found out she was cheating on you. Maybe it wasn’t really cheating, but it was close enough. Richie, I wouldn’t have done that to you! Don’t you understand? Life follows a pattern. Liz was like her mother. I’m like my mother. You’re like my father. Do you see? We should be together.”

  Richie looks around, like he’s trying to come up with an exit strategy. But there’s nowhere to go. All he can do is listen.

  “Liz had everything,” Josie repeats, “and she was going to throw it all away because of one stupid, drunk night.” Her voice begins to waver, just a little. “And she was going to take me right along with her. I love my dad, Richie. And I love you. I loved Liz, too. She was my sister. But she had a good life. It was time for someone else to have a turn.” She closes the baby book, puts it aside. “It was my turn. She was going to tell on us, tell on me. I wasn’t driving that night. I didn’t hit Alex. I didn’t deserve to get into trouble for what she did.”

  “You didn’t want to get caught.” Richie’s eyes are wide. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Admit it. She was going to tell the truth, and you couldn’t have that.”

  “Yes.” Josie appears feverish. She nods in agreement. “Sure. I guess that’s right, Richie.”

  “You’re sick,” my boyfriend says. My Richie. The love of my life.

  Josie nods again. “Maybe so.”

  Richie leans over, taking deep breaths, trying to collect himself. As he’s staring toward the floor, he notices something.

  I follow his gaze. I gasp.

  There, around Josie’s ankle, is her “Best Friends” bracelet. She’s still wearing it. Even though she killed me.

  In one swift motion, with more anger in his expression than I have ever seen before, Richie lunges toward her. Before Josie has a chance to pull back, he grabs the bracelet and yanks it from her ankle, snapping the chain.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieks, pulling her leg away.

  He holds the bracelet in his fist. There is genuine rage in his gaze, along with so many other emotions—pain, heartbreak—but no compassion. No pity for Josie.

  “Give that back,” my stepsister breathes, staring at his closed hand.

  He shakes his head. “No. You’ll never wear it again. Never.”

  There is a light tap at the front door.

  “I’m guessing that’s the police.” Richie is short of breath. He doesn’t move.

  Josie looks calm, but her breathing is deep and heavy. Her eyes are glazed with emotion, even though her tone is flat. “Aren’t you going to let them in?”

  “Liz would have done anything for you.”

  “Liz was going to ruin my life.”

  “So you killed her instead.”

  Josie blinks. “Let them in, Richie. I’m tired of waiting.” She sighs. “Life is boring without Liz. If I’d known that beforehand, maybe things would be different.”

  Twenty-five

  I remember everything so vividly now, my whole life a series of clear memories stretching before me like a slide show. I can access any of them anytime. There are no gaps anymore. There are no blanks. The feeling of helplessness that has plagued me since my death, the frustration of not being able to remember, is gone.

  I remember being twelve years old, on the first day of seventh grade, when Mr. Riley noticed my lanky frame and asked, “Have you ever considered running cross-country?”

  “You mean distance running?” Even then, I was already a spoiled girl. “My dad always says he doesn’t run unless somebody’s chasing him.” I pause. “But my mom was a runner.”

  At first, like anything new, it was difficult. My body had never found its rhythm until that first afternoon, I realized. And then I understood why people fell in love with running, just as I fell in love with it: for the first time in my life, I felt like I could do anything. As my legs found their stride and I grew to understand how to comfortably pace myself, I learned how it felt to have my mind go completely blank. To spend hours thinking about nothing. When I was running, I didn’t have to worry about how I looked or who might be more popular. I didn’t worry about the rumors that circulated constantly, in town and in school, about the affair my dad and Nicole had been conducting before my mother died. I didn’t wonder if Josie was really my half sister. I didn’t think about my mother, unconscious, dying in a pool of water and blood and glass. I simply pushed forward, breathing in and out, putting one foot in front of the other. You can’t imagine how free I felt when I ran.

  But after I killed Alex, no amount of running could erase the image of his dying body from my mind. I
tried so hard; I ran harder and farther than I ever had before, doing the only thing I knew to clear my head. There was no escape. Even before Alex found me in death, he was everywhere. That last breath. Those eyes gazing up at me. There was no forgetting, no matter how many miles I went.

  I ran until my feet were bloody and blistered. Until even Mr. Riley told me it was too much, that I was driving myself into the ground and I had to let up. By then I knew it wasn’t working anyway.

  Why did I wait so long to decide to confess my secret? What was I so afraid of? Anything, I know now, would have been better than having the end of Alex’s life on my conscience. Anything—even my own death.

  We were a happy family once. For more than seven years, my dad and Nicole, along with Josie and me, lived as normally as possible under the circumstances. Acknowledging that my father and Nicole were almost definitely having an affair before my mother died makes me angry now, but it doesn’t make me love my dad any less. It makes me feel so sorry for my mother. Maybe, probably, if Nicole had never moved back to Noank, or my parents had never come back here after college, everything would be different.

  But then I never would have met Richie. And if there’s one thing in my life I don’t regret, not for a moment, it’s Richie.

  It is a beautiful day in late November. In a few days, it will be Thanksgiving. I don’t know why I’m still here, to be honest. After the police took Josie away, I expected to fade into oblivion, to go wherever Alex went. But nothing happened. I’ve been here, still, for weeks. I’m waiting for something, surely, but I don’t know what.

  So much has changed, yet so much has stayed the same. Once they got over the shock of learning that Josie was responsible for my death, my friends fell easily enough into their old routines. Caroline’s father has found a new job, which is apparently even better than his last one. Out of all my friends—even Richie—she is the one who visits my grave the most. I know she must be so relieved that everybody knows the truth about what happened to Alex and me, and that she no longer has to carry her suspicion alone. When she visits me now, she never says much. And when she’s finished, she walks across the cemetery and visits Alex. Despite all her flaws—the stolen money and pills, her fixation on popularity and status—she remains a good friend.