Haunted

by Susan Oloier

  “This hasn’t been easy for me either. Do you know how people look at me now? “

  “You?” I get in her face. I can feel energy in the crowd tuning into our drama. After all, the majority of them are privy to it. “Aside from the whole loss-of-trust issue,” sarcasm peppers my tone now and I notice myself gesticulating more than usual, “no decent girl in the school wants to go out with me because they think, they think…” I stumble all over my words. “You know what they think.”

  Heat creeps across my face, and I know I need to get out of here before I truly do have an anger management problem. Because what I want to do to Madeline now will far surpass the episode at her house last school year where the neighbors opened their doors to my tirade and rock throwing and where her dad had to call the police. Not only that, but soon the replacement words will be substituted by a parade of bad language that will make even Nate blush.

  “Fine,” Madeline says. “I can see you’re getting upset—”

  I cut her off. “Upset because you’re making me upset.”

  But she ignores me. “All I want to do is say I’m sorry and maybe…”

  Maybe what? I think. My blood pressure skyrockets at the words she might say next.

  Then Madeline softens. “Nothing. I just miss you is all.” Then she takes off after dropping that statement all over me like a dozen eggs broken over my head.

  Misses me? What the hell? The bell rings just as I’m wondering if I entered an alternate universe or a bizarre episode of The Twilight Zone.

  Hailey

  I sit in the back of English Lit and watch the oak and aspen leaves outside the window; they have already begun to transform. While the weather is still warm during the day, cold has begun to leach into the nights. The wind smacks a branch against one of the panes, but no one seems to notice but me.

  I’ve been at Bloomfield High for a few weeks now, and I’ve done such a good job of avoiding people that I don’t know a soul in the classroom. Sure, I’ve memorized names. But as for the actual people: their idiosyncrasies, their relationships to one another, the nuances of their personalities; they are complete strangers to me. At Wheaton, everyone was familiar in one way or another. And I have done little to cultivate new friendships or invite conversation at the new school. I’ve definitely closed myself off to just about everyone. Except—I glance over at Eli. There’s this whole Hamlet project hanging over my head. Eli and I have said next to nothing to each other about what we plan to do.

  “What about Ophelia?” Eli asks during class.

  Ms. Langley has given us time with our partners to solidify a topic. It’s so awkward being face-to-face with him that I make figure eights on the corner of my paper to avoid his gaze.

  “What about her?” I ask, knowing I come across as curt and standoffish. It’s the only way I know how to be to keep people from getting too close to me, to finding out the ugly truth.

  “Well, she’s pretty much a mystery. There was definitely something going on between her and Hamlet. Maybe we can focus on that.”

  More figure eights. They distract Eli, and he divides his attention between the subject matter and my doodles. “Is that an infinity sign?” he asks, his eyes flitting to his wrist.

  “I hadn’t realized I was doing it,” I say, putting my pen down to scan the room.

  Whether it’s about Hamlet or the upcoming football game or the weekend, other pairs are engrossed in conversations. No one appears as uncomfortable as I am.

  “So is that our topic sentence? Something is going on between Hamlet and Ophelia?” I sound caustic—my lame attempt to disengage.

  “No. We can tweak it. Whatever,” he grows defensive. “I don’t hear you coming up with any ideas.” He taps out some sort of beat with his pen.

  “You’re right.” I finally look at him. “I haven’t helped. So Ophelia it is.” I cross my arms over my chest as Ms. Langley approaches.

  “You two have a topic?”

  “Ophelia,” I say.

  She stares me down, awaiting more. “Ophelia? Not exactly specific, is it?” She rests her hand against the back of Eli’s chair, coming dangerously close to his back. He doesn’t seem to notice or care.

  “Does Hamlet love Ophelia,” Eli says. “That’s our topic.”

  It is?

  Ms. Langley smiles at Eli. Even she seems a bit smitten with him. “Very nice. I like it. Should generate some good conversation between the two of you.” She removes her hand and saunters away.

  Eli raises his eyebrows and gives me a what-do-you-think gesture.

  I nod. “Fine.”

  “So when do you want to get together to work on it?”

  Together? I don’t think so. “I’ll do research. You do research. Then we’ll put it together somehow. That’s that.”

  “That’s that? That’s not a team project,” he says. The pen taps away again.

  “Right,” I say, staring him down. “I don’t want to do a team project. Ms. Langley wants me to do a team project. And that’s how I work. Take it or leave it.”

  He crosses his arms and stares at me for a moment. His cheeks redden, but he works hard to keep his temper in check. “Leave it,” he finally says. “I’ll let Langley know you’re not cooperating.”

  “You’re going to tattle?” I ask.

  Eli works hard not to lose it. “My grades are important to me, okay? I’m trying to get into—a certain school.”

  “What school?” I ask.

  He simply glares, but I soften at his honesty.

  “Yeah. All right.”

  “All right you’ll work with me or all right I can go ahead and tattle?” He smiles his uneven smile.

  “I’ll work with you,” I say “But I’m not making any promises.”

  “Deal. So…I guess we should get busy.”

  Suddenly nervous at the prospect of working one-on-one with someone other than Jeremy, I’m back to the figure eights or infinity signs.

  “So Ophelia,” he starts, flipping through the pages of the play.

  I look up at him. “I’m going to see your band on Friday,” I mention, completely out of the blue.

  He halts mid-page, looks up. “Oh?”

  “With Stella.”

  Eli rests his chin in his hand. “She’s hot for Nate.”

  “I kind of guessed that.”

  There’s a play of energy between us in the spaces of the silence: A magnetic pull—chemistry even—in the moment. I feel powerless to control the feelings that surge and spew because of a simple look. A gaze that makes my heart float around inside my chest, a feeling I haven’t felt since—well, since. For some unexplained reason, I’m lost and clambering in the irresistibility of his stare despite the fact I know it’s wrong, that things can and never will be anything between us. There’s so much guilt as I comb over the nuances of his face—things I didn’t notice before like the freckles on his nose or the birthmark along his cheekbone. It’s wrong. A huge semaphore to stop, so I nip it.

  I grab hold of my book and comb through the pages, ready to move on to Hamlet. He breaks away and returns to English Lit, as well.

  “I hope you like it,” he says as if reading the words from the pages of Shakespeare. “The music on Friday, that is.” He lifts his lashes, tearing his eyes briefly from the play.

  “Well, as long as it’s not about elephant ears and slimy, grimy worms, then likely I will.” My head is still stuck in the book.

  “You didn’t like my rendition of Worms on a Lunch Tray?” He touches the ends of my fingers with his pen if only to capture my attention, but it sends a jolt through me. “It’s destined to become a cult classic, you know.”

  God, he’s adorable. Maybe I shouldn’t go on Friday at all. Guilt paints itself all over my demeanor. He senses it, I know. He pulls back as if he knows he crossed a line. And the playfulness between us severs.

  Hailey

  Stella and my parents chat it up in the living room. She’s already won them over. But I can
see in the subtleties of my mom’s face that she’s considering why I’m not going out with Layla instead.

  I can’t call her. Not yet. The pain’s too fresh and open. I need time to cover it, treat it, and let it heal over for a while before I delve back into the past.

  My parents tiptoe around my history, keeping everything general because they don’t know how much Stella knows, which is nothing.

  I inspect the contents of my purse: cell phone, lip-gloss, and money, while assessing my appearance one last time in the hallway mirror. I have a layered tee with jeans and hoop earrings. My hair is pulled back. The look is a semblance of my old self only more reserved than before.

  “Is this you?” Stella calls out.

  I step into the living room to see her eyeing a photograph of the old me from my dancing days.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hailey used to compete,” my mom chimes in. I shoot her a look.

  “Really?” Stella trills with excitement, then continues to peruse the pictures.

  I wish she would just stop.

  “And wow! Look at you here,” she continues. “Who’s that gorgeous guy you’re with?”

  My parents and I look at each other, unsure of what to say. The truth? Something south of the truth?

  Stella glances around at all of us. We’ve suddenly grown intensely quiet. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

  “My boyfriend.” I feel my parents watch me.

  “Well, where is he tonight?” she asks as if anxious to meet him in the flesh. Stella’s eyes dart around, waiting for an answer.

  “Well, he’s not exactly my boyfriend anymore.”

  She knits her eyebrows together, puzzling over my response. She knows there’s a story there, but chooses not to ask about it. I’m beyond glad. “Oh,” she deflates. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” I mumble. Though it’s really not.

  “So? You ready?” Stella is a bundle of optimism again.

  “Yeah.” I grab my purse and turn back to my parents before Stella and I make it out the door. “I’ll be back around 11:00,” I tell them.

  “Have a good time,” my dad says with reservation in his voice. My mom simply nods. She’s definitely worried. But Dr. Wheeler has emphasized to all of us the importance of moving on. So I pretend that’s exactly what I’m doing, though I’d much rather stay at home with my mom and dad, watching TV.

  Eli

  Hoppers. A bi-level, underage bar. It isn’t the greatest of venues. We much prefer the of-age scene, but all of us decided any exposure is a good thing. Rick’s busy tinkering with his drum kit. It always has to be just so. The rest of us are ready to roll.

  The lights are already dim and the room is twilit in midnight blue. Classic rock plays in the background as the crowd files in. I down the rest of my ice water, abandoning the glass on a nearby hi-top, and climb the side stairs to the stage to get a better look at the door.

  Nate sneaks up and peers over my shoulder. “Let’s see,” he presses a finger to his lips in mock pondering, “You wouldn’t be waiting for a certain someone to show up, would you?”

  “Just checking the turn-out is all.” I’m such a bad liar.

  “Right,” he says, watching the entrance with me. “The turn-out. You’re so hot for her and you know it.”

  “Who?” I try to sound aloof.

  “Her,” he takes his finger and stretches it over my shoulder and past my face toward the door. “That’s who.”

  Hailey walks in, and everyone else disappears. She looks scorching in her tight-fitting jeans. She has a great body, for sure. This time her hair is pulled back in a sexy way, too.

  “Even if I was hot for her, which I’m not, she totally hates me.”

  “Sexual tension, man. It’s all just sexual tension.”

  I shoot him a look. If only that’s all it was.

  There’s an unhappiness about Hailey. Something holds her back. I’m sure it has to do with her transfer to a new school during her senior year. It’s just not done unless something is very, very wrong. Like with Madeline and me. I sure as sh—wish I would have moved to another school. But I need to stick it out, face up to the rumors and the backlash. It isn’t easy, but it’s necessary.

  “Speaking of sexual tension,” I nod toward Stella, “what about you and Stella?”

  “There’s no me and Stella.” Nate swallows the rest of his cola, which I’m pretty sure has been spiked with rum. “So she wants me. Can you blame her?” he smiles.

  “And you don’t want her?”

  Nate pays her a glance. “I can’t be tied down, bro. She’s the tying-down type.”

  Martin, Black Taxi’s lead singer, approaches. “We’re up.” Nate makes a one-eighty.

  “Coming,” I say, taking in Hailey one more time.

  Hailey

  “So why don’t you go to Wheaton?” Stella finally asks as we push our way into the club. “That’s your district,” she says it as if it’s news to me.

  The music, something sounding a lot like Foreigner or Asia or one of those old 80s bands, plays in the background. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness, which is tinted in shades of blue; a tangerine spotlight shines up front. I glance up: two levels. It’s a pretty tripped out place for an underage club.

  “Oh God! There he is!” Stella’s focus is now onstage, so I’m saved from having to explain myself. For now.

  “So why don’t you talk to him?” I ask, trying to pay attention to Nate with his black fitted suit jacket, dark jeans, and cord necklace. He is kind of cute. But there’s something about the torn, straight-leg jeans and untucked, gauzy oxford dress shirt of Eli. Such a contrast to Nate and the other band members, like he stands apart from them in some way.

  “Talk to him?” she says, as if I just told her to step onstage and take off all her clothes. “No way.”

  “Why not? You’re not afraid, are you?” I dare her.

  She meets my eyes. “Yeah, I’m afraid. I mean, look at him. I’d be lucky if he gave me the time.”

  The band launches into its first song. I stare at Nate, plucking away at his bass guitar. I guess he could be intimidating, but Stella’s so absolutely adorable. Her punked-out hair and kinda-goth look seem perfect for him.

  “Want a drink?” I ask.

  Stella can’t tear her eyes away. “Anything’s fine,” she answers.

  I make my way to the bar and lean in. The bartender smiles. “What can I get you?”

  “Two virgin Bellinis, please.”

  The guy, clearly over twenty-five, gives me a lascivious look. In my previous life I would have talked and flirted with him—all in fun, of course. But I’m not that person anymore. One who will talk with anyone, overtly smile, and effortlessly be the life of the party. I am someone else entirely now.

  “Oh. My. God.” It’s a voice I know. Well. I turn.

  “Layla!” I don’t do a good job of hiding the complete shock in my own voice.

  She wraps her arms around my neck and hugs oh-so tightly. “I’ve been calling and calling you,” she yells over the music. “Why haven’t you called back?” Hurt taints her words.

  I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, unable to explain myself.

  The bartender returns, and I dig through my purse. “On me,” he grins.

  “Thanks.” I repay him with only a smile. Nothing more. I refocus, turning my attention back to Layla. I clutch the two drinks in my hand.

  “You’re here with someone,” she gestures toward the drinks—the same order she and I used to get when we went out. But with the alcohol.

  I simply nod.

  “I’m glad to see you out.”

  I know what she means. She fully expects me to sit inside the house and wallow in my sadness, missing Jeremy. Frankly, I’d much rather do that than pretend to be normal and like everyone else. It’s a lot of work.

  “Want to sit with us?” Layla motions to where Cal, Erik, and Lynda huddle at a hi-top. “Everyone’ll be so thr
illed to see you.” She waits, her eyebrows arched in anticipation.

  I look across the room to them, laughing and having fun. They were all Jeremy’s friends. Especially Cal. They were mine, too. But that was before. I feel my stomach twist into knots. For all intents and purposes, I should be here with them. Telling jokes, making fun of the way drunken people dance even while we spike our own sodas with vodka. Stella and Nate and Eli should all be strangers to me. But one night behind the wheel changed all of that, and there’s no going back. Ever. So I don’t.

  I glance over at Stella who combs the room for me. “I can’t. I need to go.”

  “All right.” Disappointment peppers her tone. “Call me, though. Please.”

  “I will.” But I’m pretty sure it’s a lie.

  Eli sings now. His voice is smoky, the tiniest bit raspy. It fills the room and makes me pause as I reach Stella’s side. Now it’s my turn to be distracted. I hand her the drink without removing my focus from the stage. “Bellini,” I explain before she asks. “Virgin.”

  “Nice, huh?” she asks of the band. Of Eli in particular. He sings about shattering, falling apart, and pulling himself back together again. And I wonder if it’s autobiographical, having something to do with his ex-girlfriend.

  Stella glances over at Layla and the gang. “Is that your ex-boyfriend?” She watches Cal and takes a sip of her Bellini. I study him.

  “He’s cute,” she says of Cal.

  So often people mistook Jeremy and Cal for brothers. Yet they’re so different. Cal isn’t a dancer and is far more laid back than Jeremy who occasionally had a temper.

  Cal sees me looking at him and waves. I raise a hand and turn my mouth into something of a grin. They’re giving me my space.

  “No,” I say to Stella. “Not my boyfriend.”

  “But you know them.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “Yeah. They’re from my old school. Wheaton,” I confess.

  “So you did go to Wheaten.” Stella’s obviously confused as to what’s going on with me. I appreciate that she doesn’t pry. Instead she watches the stage again.