by R. L. Stine
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did you really?” Why was I putting on that teasing voice? Hadn’t I been sufficiently warned by my sister?
He waved the beer bottle toward the den. “Are you coming in with us?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m working. In the basement. On my cabinet.”
“Cool,” he said. “Can I see it?”
He wants to go down to the basement with me.
“Sure,” I said, my heart beating a little faster. “It’s . . . it’s just boards.” And then I blurted out, “Hey, maybe you can help me with something.”
What made me say that? I’ll never be able to explain it. And believe me, I’ve thought about it ever since.
“No problem,” he said, following me to the basement door.
“I can use an extra hand on this one thing,” I said. “The shelves, see.”
An amused smile crossed his handsome face, just for a second, but I caught it. I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re surprised to see a girl who likes to do woodwork?”
He waved a hand. “No. Of course not.” I could see my question made him uncomfortable.
“Just teasing,” I said. I led the way down the stairs and across the basement to my workshop against the wall.
Aiden studied the table saw and the drill press. “Impressive,” he said. “This is serious stuff.” He took a deep breath. “Mmmm. Smells so good. What kind of wood?”
“Cherrywood,” I said. “When I apply the finish, it’ll be even darker.”
He tilted the beer bottle to his mouth and took a long swig. “I like it.” He set the bottle down on the floor. I could hear the girls’ voices from upstairs right through the basement ceiling.
“Here’s my problem,” I said. I picked up one of the rectangular shelf boards and shoved it into his hands. “I’m not using nails or screws or anything—I’m going to connect the shelves to the frame with wooden dowels.”
He nodded. “Nice.”
“I need to drill holes for the dowels in the corners of each shelf,” I explained. “Very carefully. I don’t want to drill all the way through. See?”
He nodded again. “I get it. So what do you want me to do?”
I stared at him and didn’t answer his question. I could feel the blood pulsing at my temples. I didn’t answer. I didn’t think. This is where I lost it.
I lurched forward and threw my hands around his neck. I pressed myself against the board he held in front of him. And kissed him. Not just a kiss. But a full-on passionate embrace.
Holding him tightly, I moved my lips over his and waited for him to kiss back.
Twenty-One
“Uh.” I made a soft, startled cry as he pulled his head back. Then he used the board to push me off him. Gently, but he still pushed.
I stood there openmouthed, heart pounding, the taste of his lips on mine. “Oh. I . . .” I felt instantly silly and then confused and surprised at myself, surprised at what I had done on not even an impulse. I just did it. As if someone had cast a spell on me, and I wasn’t the one in control.
I could feel my face go hot and I knew I must be beet red.
I’ve been impulsive before, especially when guys have been involved. And, believe me, it wasn’t the first time I made the first move.
But I’d never been so wrong.
I cared about Marissa. I would never try to start a family fight. A battle over tall, blond Aiden. No. No, I wouldn’t.
But there we were gazing at each other. Talk about awkward. And what did I want? I only wanted to kiss him again.
Finally, I felt I could talk. I forced a laugh. “Sorry,” I said. “Just had to get that out of my system.” I can make a joke out of it. “Welcome to the family,” I said.
That made him smile. “Your sister warned me about you,” he said.
I couldn’t keep the surprise off my face. “Seriously? What did she say? That I’m a slut? That I’m crazy? That I’m jealous of her?”
He shrugged. “I’m not saying.” His eyes kind of twinkled. Like it was all a big joke to him.
He picked up the beer bottle and drank again, his eyes on me. “Harmony, do you really want me to help you?”
“Yes.” I took the shelf from him. “I need you to hold this steady.”
He stared at it. “Hold it?”
“I need to drill four holes in the corners. For the dowels. But my drill press table is only twenty inches. The board doesn’t fit on the table.”
I tugged him over to the drill press. I held the shelf over the table to show him. “So I just need you to hold it in place.”
He ran his fingers over the drill bit. “Isn’t this too big?”
I shook my head. “It’s a quarter-inch drill bit,” I said. “The dowels will fit snugly inside the holes.”
Aiden seemed to have forgotten my crazy kiss ever happened. But I still felt jittery, light-headed. I wondered if he would tell Marissa about it later.
If he did, I’d be dead meat.
He finished the beer and set the bottle down on the floor. “Harmony, how many shelves do you want to do?” he asked.
“Just two,” I said. “I know you want to get back upstairs. It won’t take long. Really.”
He gave me that smile again. “Let’s do it.”
I powered up the drill. The bit made a high, shrill whirring sound and then, as it reached full speed, sent out a steady hum.
I slid the shelf upside down onto the drill press table. I moved it in place. I used a tape measure to measure the distance from the edge of the board. Then I lowered the drill bit halfway, testing the location. Yes. I had the right spot.
“Aiden, hold it steady here. By the edge,” I said. I scooted to the left to make room for him.
He stepped beside me and carefully grabbed the board by the edges with both hands.
Slowly, I lowered the whirring drill bit to the shelf. Turning the dial, I moved it down half an inch, then half an inch. I gritted my teeth as the bit dug into the wood. I was determined not to let it cut all the way through. That would ruin a perfectly good shelf.
I raised the bit and blew the wood dust from the hole. Perfect.
“One down,” I said.
He helped me turn the board on the drill table. I adjusted it carefully, measuring again to make sure the hole would go in the right place.
I turned the power back on, and the drill bit began to whir. Slowly, I lowered it toward the corner of the board.
And this was when it happened. This was it. And you have to believe me—please believe me—it was an accident. I never would have done it deliberately.
An accident, I swear. A horrible accident that I see again and again in my dreams.
As I lowered the whirring drill bit, I tripped—on the empty beer bottle, I think. I tripped and my stomach bumped the board. And Aiden’s hand . . . his right hand . . . it shot forward.
I saw it. I saw the drill bit dig into the back of his hand. The bit tore into the back of Aiden’s hand and buzzed right through his hand. The bit drilled into the back of his hand and poked out through his palm.
And before he could even scream, a spray of bright red blood splashed over me, over my face, over the front of my shirt. And the blood spun out in a wide circle, a circle of glistening red. I saw red petals like a flower. I saw a pinwheel of blood.
I guess I went crazy. And then Aiden’s shrill wail broke into my daze. Howling like an injured animal, he snapped his hand free of the drill bit. I could see the hole in his palm. I could see the blood and the veins inside his hand. And his flesh . . . it looked like raw meat.
And now we both were screaming. And the blood wouldn’t stop. Aiden was squeezing his hand shut with his other hand. But the blood oozed everywhere. And our screams rang off the ceiling. Shock and horror and blood. That’s what I remember.
It was an accident. A horrible accident.
The hole went right through his hand. But it wasn’t my fault. I swear. I swear.
But I know I’ll
never force that picture from my mind. Never get over the shock . . . and horror . . . and blood.
Twenty-Two
Two days later, Marissa and I went to see Aiden. He was staying with his cousin Shawn at an apartment in the Old Village. I had to drive because Marissa was still sobbing, mopping at tears running down her cheeks.
It was a gray April day, low clouds threatening rain. Gloomy and depressing, which fit our mood perfectly. I had to concentrate hard on my driving. I still felt shaky from the horror that night in my basement.
“You spoke to Aiden this morning after he left the hospital? What did he say?” I asked.
Marissa hadn’t been talking to me. But in the car, with just the two of us, I hoped she would forget her anger and start again.
I knew she’d probably never forgive me. But if only she would talk to me . . .
“His hand . . . ,” she started in a trembling voice. “The tendons were all torn. They tried to reattach them. But . . . but they don’t know if he’ll be able to move his fingers again.”
More tears. She dabbed at them with her wadded-up Kleenex.
“Oh my God,” I murmured. A fresh wave of guilt washed over me. I lost my concentration. The car slid to the right. I had to jerk the wheel hard to get back in the lane. “Marissa—I’m so sorry . . .”
“Stop saying you’re sorry,” Marissa snapped, her jaw clenched.
“But—”
“You ruined Aiden’s life,” she said, her eyes burning into mine. “He’ll never be a surgeon if he can’t use his fingers.”
“I know, but maybe—”
“You’re trying to ruin my life—aren’t you?” Now she was screaming. Her voice shrill in the small car. “Aren’t you?”
“No. Of course not!” I protested. “You’ve got to believe me. It was a total accident. I tripped. It’s the truth.”
She didn’t reply. She crossed her arms in front of her and glared out the window, her face twisted in anger.
I made the turn onto Division Street, a little too fast, but I kept control even though my hands were cold and shaking. “You’re never going to believe me—are you?” I said in a tiny voice. “You’re never going to forgive me?”
She didn’t move and didn’t answer. Kept her arms wrapped tightly around her and stared out the windshield, her expression stone hard, her mouth set in a furious scowl.
And suddenly, my sorrow, my guilt, my shame . . . it all faded away. I could feel it wash away, as if I was getting lighter, floating, rising above it.
And then I felt a deep surge of red anger raging up from the pit of my stomach. Anger so powerful that I had an urge to crush the gas pedal and slam the car into a wall.
We are sisters, I thought. Why can’t we ever stick together as a family? Why does Marissa resent me so much? Why does she hate me? Why can’t she forgive me?
And as I pulled the car into a narrow parking space in front of the apartment building, my anger led me to darker thoughts:
You should be nicer to me, Marissa. You don’t know the things I can do.
I don’t know anything about the visit with Aiden. Even though I was desperate to see him and tell him how sorry I was, Marissa made me wait in the car.
When she returned after about twenty minutes, she was pale and shaken. She refused to say a word to me.
That night, a bunch of Marissa’s friends came over to console her. Her best friend, Taylor, squeezed next to her on the big armchair in the den and kept her arm draped around Marissa’s shoulders. Olivia and Dani were there, too.
They all spoke in near whispers, and there was a lot of head shaking and sorrowful frowns, and muttering. I could hear Taylor talking about the screams they heard that night from the basement. “It sounded like a wild animal. Seriously. I was so terrified. I thought a wolf or something had crawled into your basement. I had no idea it was Aiden.”
She wasn’t doing a very good job of cheering Marissa up. None of them were.
Of course, I wasn’t allowed in the room. Marissa had made that very clear to me. That afternoon, I eavesdropped on a conversation she had with Mom.
Marissa told Mom that Aiden was out of his mind with anger. He couldn’t stop screaming and waving his hand with the huge cast on it, threatening her with it. Marissa said he blamed our whole family. He kept saying he was going to sue us.
Mom isn’t good in situations like this. She gets so defensive, she doesn’t think straight. “I thought there was something wrong with that boy from the moment you brought him in,” I heard her say.
Marissa went ballistic. “Something wrong with him? Mom, you can’t blame Aiden. How can you blame Aiden? Harmony destroyed his hand. Harmony ruined his life!”
“Don’t say that,” Mom replied. “Don’t say that about your sister. Did you see how devastated she was?”
“Ha!” Marissa cried. “Devastated? Mom, Harmony—”
“You’re always trying to blame people. You know it was an accident.”
“I don’t know it,” Marissa insisted.
Listening in the hall, her words gave me a deep shudder. How could Marissa think I did it deliberately?
She really hates me, that’s how.
Now it was after dinner—our silent dinner. Dad was away on a business trip. Mom tried to start a conversation a few times. But Marissa and I muttered replies to our dinner plates. And Robby remained silent. Mom gave up and we ate in total silence. The clink of our forks on the plates never sounded so loud.
It was as if someone had died. Like a funeral in our house. And when Marissa’s friends showed up, it didn’t get any cheerier.
Since Marissa made it clear I wasn’t allowed in the room, I listened outside the den door. I didn’t have anything else to do. For a moment, I considered going downstairs and working on my cabinet.
I had cleaned up all the blood, although the floor was still stained. But it didn’t matter. I think I realized somewhere in the back of my mind that I’d never work down there again.
“Hey—!” I cried out as something bumped me in the back.
I turned and saw Mom. She held an oval tray of blondies in both hands. “A snack for them,” she said, whispering for some reason. “Bring it in to them.”
Mom makes the best blondies in America. Believe me, I wanted to eat the whole tray. But I obediently pushed open the den door and carried in the tray.
I saw Marissa’s expression change immediately. Her eyes flashed with anger.
“From Mom,” I said.
“Set it down on the coffee table, and leave,” Marissa snapped.
I could see the surprise on Taylor’s face.
But I didn’t want to argue or anything. I set the tray down, wheeled around, and strode from the room. As I pulled the den door nearly closed, I saw all of them reaching for the blondies.
I shut my eyes and whispered a spell, a few words I had memorized from one of the old books. I knew I shouldn’t be doing what I was doing. But Marissa’s anger had rubbed off on me.
Then I leaned against the wall, just out of sight, and listened. Marissa’s three friends all talked about how sorry they felt for her. And I heard Marissa tell them that she would never forgive me. A chill ran down my back, and something snapped inside me. I mean, why would a sister say that to her friends?
I should have gone up to my room or out of the house. Standing there, listening to Marissa’s hatred, only made me feel weak and sad. But I couldn’t leave the doorway. I was waiting for Doug to arrive.
I knew Doug would spark a little life into the evening. That’s why I called him that afternoon and invited him over.
When I spoke to him, he was totally surprised to learn that Marissa was in town. That meant she hadn’t found the courage to break up with him yet. So . . . both Doug and my sister were in for a big surprise.
And when Doug came bursting into the den, so big and broad, like a bull as always . . . When Doug came bursting in, the girls all gasped and cried out, and did a terrible job of hiding th
eir surprise.
Doug left the den door wide open, so I could see the whole thing. Doug stood in the middle of the room, looking like the Hulk, staring hard at Marissa, who still shared the armchair with Taylor.
“Marissa.” Doug was breathing hard, as if he’d run all the way to our house. “You didn’t tell me you were in town.” He managed to sound hurt and angry at the same time.
Marissa squeezed past Taylor and struggled to her feet. “I . . . well . . . I’m sorry. It was a short visit and—”
Marissa is not a good liar. You have to be quick to lie well. That just isn’t how her mind works.
Taylor jumped up and scrambled beside Dani on the couch. Olivia sat cross-legged on the carpet beside the couch. All three of them looked as if they’d love to be somewhere else.
“I’ve been texting you,” Doug said. He shoved back the hood of his gray hoodie.
“I know,” Marissa said. Her cheeks were bright pink.
Doug squinted at her. “Is something wrong?”
Marissa shook her head. From the doorway, I saw tears bubble in her eyes. “No. Well . . . yes. I mean—”
Was Marissa going to tell Doug about Aiden? Was she going to break up with him right in front of her friends?
Doug curled his big hands into fists, then uncurled them. He shifted his weight from right to left. “I don’t get it.”
Marissa started toward him. “We need to talk. But not now.”
He backed away from her. “You mean—?”
“It just happened, Doug,” Marissa blurted out. “I didn’t mean for it to. But . . .”
From the doorway, I saw Doug’s face darken, almost to purple. “What are you saying? I don’t understand.”
Marissa’s three friends shifted uncomfortably. Could this be more embarrassing? Marissa was breaking Doug’s heart, and they were, like, in the audience watching.
Marissa avoided Doug’s stare. “I . . . met someone else,” she said in a whisper.
Doug nodded. His eyes went blank. Even from a distance, I could see he was trying to process her words.
