The Unquiet

by Jeannine Garsee

  Meg unpeels my slick hand. “So, like, is that a definite no? Or do you want to think about it some more?”

  She might be relentless, but I really do like her.

  3 MONTHS + 16 DAYS

  Tuesday, October 21

  “You never told me the school’s haunted.”

  “Haunted?” Mom repeats, pouring her fourth cup of coffee. She’s up to two pots a day since she ditched the cancer sticks. “Not in my day.”

  “Well, Meg knows about it. So does some kid we met in the hall.” I dribble milk over my Cocoa Puffs and swirl with my spoon. “It’s, like, common knowledge.”

  Mom comes shockingly close to rolling her eyes, something she typically rags on me for doing. “Do you want me to remind you that ghosts don’t exist? Or are you hoping I’ll humor you so you won’t be so nervous?”

  “I am not nervous. But I will be, if you keep bringing it up.”

  “Sorry.” She plunks her mug into the sink and grabs her sweater off the hook in the back hall. “I have to run. I should’ve been there ten minutes ago. Now remember, homeroom starts at seven forty-five—”

  “I know, I know. You told me twenty times.”

  “—so don’t be late.”

  “Why?” I drawl. “You gonna mark me tardy?”

  Mom blows me a kiss and leaves. I sit there for a moment, poking at my Cocoa Puffs, then clunk down my spoon.

  I lied. I’m nervous.

  Upstairs, my room reeks of fresh paint; I slapped on the first coat yesterday after my school tour. I dress quickly in a black turtleneck, gray skirt, red tights, and black socks. Back downstairs, I stuff a notebook into my hobo bag, an illicit Klonopin into my pocket, and then halt, midstep, when I hear footsteps on the porch.

  Creeping footsteps. Someone who knows I’m alone?

  I can’t even call 9-1-1. Our phone won’t be turned on till later.

  The rocker creaks outside. Shoe soles shuffle through stray leaves on the porch floor. I slink over to the sofa, kneel on the cushion, and part Mrs. Gibbons’s lace curtains with a single fingertip. Then I hammer my fist hard—bang-bang!— on the windowpane.

  “Goddamn!” Nate Brenner all but ducks for cover.

  Triumphant, I rush to the front door. “Why’re you creeping around on my porch?”

  Red-faced, Nate snarls, “I’m not creeping. I’m waiting.”

  “Waiting for me? Isn’t it customary around here to knock? Or at least yell ‘yoo-hoo’?”

  He stares incredulously. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Yeah, and I made you take the Lord’s name in vain, too,” I tease.

  Unamused, Nate flings up a hand and clomps down to the sidewalk. Wow. He’s mad.

  I shove my feet into Mom’s pointy-toed ankle boots, all I can find in our jumble of yet-unpacked boxes—anything’s better than my smelly plaid Keds—and run to catch up with him. “Sorry I scared you. That was, well, right neighborly of you to wait for li’l ole me.”

  Instead of a snappy comeback, Nate says, “That was funny the first few times.”

  “Wow, aren’t you the crabby one today?”

  “Yeah, well …” But he can’t keep a straight face, and he obviously forgives me because then he adds, “You need any help today, just gimme a holler.”

  “How’ll I find you?”

  “Easy. I’ll be the dude surrounded by all the fawning chicks.” I poke him. “You’re a wee bit too full of yourself, farmer boy.”

  “Look who’s talking, in them highfalutin boots and that fancy Sunday getup.”

  “Guess you ain’t used to citified folk,” I point out.

  Merrily, he agrees, “Guess I jest ain’t,” and steers me toward the school doors.

  Things don’t go as horribly as I’d expected. School is school, whether it’s La Jolla or River Hills or Antarctica or Belize. You file into class after class, the teacher takes attendance, and then you fall into a coma.

  This year I’ll try to skip the coma part. It’d be nice to receive a diploma while I’m still in my teens.

  River Hills doesn’t seem as cliquey as my school in La Jolla, but people do fall into certain groups. Jocks, mostly guys, with their cheerleader counterparts. A circle of preps. The obvious burnouts, including that guy from the hall, Dino Mancini. Farm kids who ride the bus in from the sticks. A couple of nobodies, ignored by everyone. No surfers, goths, Barbies, or rockers.

  Rinn Jacobs, I guess, fits in nowhere.

  I’m not athletic unless I’m in a saddle. My grades are average, so scratch the preps. Scratch the burnouts, too—my drugs are legal. And by the way people stare at my so-not-from-River Hills clothes, I know I’ll never fade off into the nobody group.

  Just like before, there’s no Crazy Person clique.

  I hate how the teachers introduce me to each class and then add that my mom’s the new office secretary, like that’s going to win me points. I make it through history with poker-faced Ms. Faranacci and then it’s off to chorus with jolly Mr. Chenoweth. After that, I hit the art class I’m taking instead of Spanish or German, and this semester it’s Intro to Ceramics. I spend fifteen minutes squishing clay to “get the feel of it” as Mr. Lipford puts it.

  Because it’s a multigrade class, Meg, who’s a senior, shares a table with me. Cecilia Carpenter, a heavyset girl I recognize from chorus, is also here. So is Dino Mancini, watching me from the next table.

  No, not watching: studying me.

  Unsettled, I try to ignore him and concentrate on my clay. Eventually, though, even Meg notices. “Wow,” she whispers. “He can’t take his eyes off you.”

  Mr. Lipford picks that moment to stroll out of the room. Dino instantly hops up and slips over to Meg and me to crouch between our chairs. “Hey—Rinn, right? See, I remembered.”

  “Whoopee,” Meg says brightly, pounding her own blob of clay.

  “You got lunch next? Yeah? You want to meet me outside? I’ll show you around …”

  Meg whaps him with an elbow. “Forget it. She’s eating with us.”

  Exasperated, he snaps, “I ain’t talking to you, Carmody.”

  I shush them both and shoot a nervous look toward the door, never mind that everyone else is starting to act up as well. And, catching the scent of pot in Dino’s dark, messy hair, I can pretty much guess what he wants to show me. “Uh, thanks. But I really need something to eat.”

  His disappointment is so obvious, I almost feel sorry for him—but then Mr. Lipford reappears at the door. “Back in your seat, Mancini. Now.” Dino rises, taking his sweet time about it, and returns to his own table to stare at me some more.

  When the bell rings, Meg and I meet up with Lacy Kessler—a fellow cheerleader, with colorfully streaked hair—and Tasha Lux, Millie’s high-diving darling. “Guys, this is Rinn. She’s eating with us.”

  I smile gratefully when no one objects. I watch for Nate as we circle a table, but, sad to say, it looks like we don’t share the same lunch period.

  Lacy tosses her mass of curls when she learns I’m from California. “Poor you, ending up in a place like this.”

  “I’ll get used to it.” Though I’m not swearing on any bibles.

  “Hey! Do you cheer?”

  “I already asked,” Meg interjects, with a reproachful look for me. “She said no.”

  Tasha asks, “Do you swim? Gymnastics?”

  “I’m not much into sports …”

  “What do you do?” Lacy demands.

  “Well …” I can’t believe I have to think so hard about this. “I play the guitar. I sing a bit.”

  Unimpressed, Lacy moves along. “So you guys moved into the old Gibbons house, huh?”

  I nod, and the three girls exchange glances before facing me directly: Lacy, slyly; Tasha with mild alarm; and Meg, flushed, with an apologetic smile.

  “Is that significant of something?” I ask Meg when nobody else speaks.

  Meg’s smile wavers. “I started to tell you yesterday, in the tunnel, remember? Abo
ut—”

  “I told you not to,” Tasha interrupts. “My mom said to wait.”

  I prickle with suspicion. “What do you mean, your mom said to wait?”

  Meg scoots closer. “Remember when I told you about Annaliese?”

  “Right. The ghost.” I cross my eyes. “Yeah, you won that one.”

  Meg insists, “Hey, I wasn’t joking about that air,” only to be interrupted by Lacy, who blurts out, “I can’t believe nobody told you you’re living in Annaliese’s house.”

  “What?” I jerk to face Meg.

  “Well … her grandmother’s house,” Meg admits.

  “But you said her grandmother—” I stop as the truth dawns.

  Her granddaughter and I went to school together, Mom had said.

  “Hung herself,” Lacy finishes with a satisfied grin. “Yep, she sure did. Right in the attic.”

  I pop my contraband Klonopin under my tongue in a bathroom stall. If I wait for it to kick in, I’ll be late for my next class, but at this point I don’t care. I’ll ask Mom for a pass.

  Must. Talk. To. Her. Anyway!

  But when I stop at the office, Mom’s not there. Some snotty senior is manning the desk, a student assistant name badge—LINDSAY McCORMICK—dangling from a lanyard.

  “She’s in a meeting with Mr. Solomon,” Lindsay drones, intent on the book in her lap.

  “It’s urgent. I’m her daughter.”

  “I know who you are. I can give her a message.”

  “I’m sure you can,” I say politely. “But I really need to speak with her myself.”

  Lindsay shrugs. “Come back in half an hour, they’ll be done by then.”

  I resist the urge to fly over the counter. Instead, I turn and walk, unsteadily, out to the hall. By the time I make it to PE, I’ve come to my senses. If Mom doesn’t know Mrs. Gibbons hung herself in our house—not just in our house, but in my freaking bedroom—maybe it’s best she not find out while she’s still on the clock.

  By the end of the day I have three official friends: Meg, Lacy, and Tasha. Four, if you count Nate Brenner.

  Five, if you count Dino Mancini, who dogs me down the school steps after the last bell. “Hey, Rinn. Can I walk you home?”

  It might be nice to have someone to hang out with after school, but I’m not sure that someone should be Dino Mancini. In the old days he’d have my pants off in a second. Why tempt fate? “Well, I just live right over there …”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll walk you, anyhow. Nice boots,” he adds, staring briefly at my feet. Then he raises his eyes slowly, too slowly. And I know that hungry look too well.

  I whip my head around when someone touches my shoulder.

  “Hey,” Nate greets Dino. “What’s up?”

  Dino hesitates. “Nothin’.”

  Nate’s hand tightens on my shoulder. Dino notices. He sends Nate a dirty look, me a sad little wave, and slouches off.

  “My pleasure,” Nate says, though I haven’t thanked him yet. “How’d it go today?”

  “Oh, just lovely. Why didn’t you tell me she hung herself in my room?”

  Happily, I caught him off guard. “You mean Mrs. Gibbons?”

  “Hel-lo? You told me she died of old age.”

  “No, you said she died of old age. I just kind of agreed with you.” I splutter, and he takes my wrist, maneuvering me away from the crowded walk. “Look, my dad asked me not to mention it, because Miss Millie asked him not to mention it to your mom.”

  “That’s unethical. Can’t he lose his license for misleading people? For lying by omission?”

  Nate scoffs. “It’s not like the Mansons camped out there. Some depressed old lady committed suicide. So what? People die everywhere.”

  “Then why didn’t Millie want my mom to know?”

  “Guess you’ll have to ask Miss Millie that.”

  “Oh, stop calling her ‘Miss Millie.’ That’s so, so …”

  “Hick?” he suggests. “Hayseed? Yokel?”

  “All of the above. Oh, forget it.” I walk away and head for the corner, but he catches up before I make the bend. “What?”

  “Rinn.” He sounds tired. “Do you want me to apologize for not telling you some old lady hung herself in your attic? Okay, I apologize. Now why don’t we go for a walk or something?”

  “A walk?”

  “A walk.”

  The last time I went for a “walk” with a guy I hardly knew, I woke up in City Heights, in a very bad neighborhood, minus my purse, plus the dope I’d just scored. “You just met me, Nate. Why’re you hanging all over me?”

  Nate clenches his jaw so hard I’m surprised he doesn’t crack a tooth. “I don’t know what it’s like where you come from. But first of all, I’m not ‘hanging all over’ you—I’m headed the same way you’re headed, and if you’d rather not walk with me, then say so. Second of all, I was brought up to be nice to people, which I guess is a foreign concept to you. Thirdly—”

  “Is that a word? Thirdly?” I ask, hoping to temper his tirade. I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings if that’s what happened here.

  “Thirdly, I …” He stares at the whirlpool of leaves circling our feet. “For some stupid reason I guess I kinda like you.”

  Startled, I blurt, “Why?”

  “Beats me. Maybe because you’re the only girl around here I haven’t known since kindergarten?” He nods at my un-Mayberry-like boots. “You’re, uh, interesting. Some folks think that’s a crime round these parts.”

  I’m ridiculously flattered. “You really like me?”

  “If you get down off your high horse and lose the attitude, I sincerely might.” A lopsided grin. “Now, do you want to take a walk or don’t you? I can show you the sights.”

  I snicker. “Oh, golly, the sights! Sorry,” I add quickly. “Attitude. I know.”

  We cross the square, pass the Boxcar Diner—ooh, I’d like to drop in and dunk Millie’s head into her famous deep fryer—and circle down Main Street, past the high school football field, and back up Walnut Street, where Nate points out Meg’s house, a cozy green bungalow. It’ll be nice to have a friend who lives so close to me.

  As upset as I was earlier to find out about Mrs. Gibbons, spending this time with Nate has calmed me down. Besides, he’s right: people die everywhere. Is it such a big deal that somebody died in my new house?

  No, not just somebody.

  Somebody’s grandmother committed suicide in my room.

  “Mom’s gonna freak,” I say aloud as we cross Main Street again. “About the old lady, I mean. She knew her. She’ll probably make us move again.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Me, too.”

  Even though I’ve only been here three days, the idea of leaving—of packing all those stupid boxes back into the SUV, of abandoning that big turreted room I’m in the middle of painting, not to mention the first friends I’ve made in years—makes me wants to rip out my hair.

  “Let’s find out.” I break into a run.

  Mom’s home from school by the time we make it back. Nate and I hear her before we even hit the porch.

  Yes, she knows. How could she not? Probably the whole town is discussing it by now: Guess who moved into the old Gibbons house? The new school secretary and that spooky daughter of hers.

  “Dammit, Millie, you had no business keeping that from me!”

  I don’t hear an answer, which means the phone must be working.

  Mom shouts, “I’m talking about Rinn, not me. You know what I’ve been through with her! Do you have any idea what this might do to her?”

  Crap, crap. And triple crap.

  Nate, riveted, yelps in surprise when I almost knock him off the porch. “Go. Go!”

  Reluctantly, he follows me to the sidewalk. It’s too late, of course. He heard enough. “I’m guessin’ there’s more to you than meets the eye,” he ventures.

  “I’d say you guessed right.” No point in denying it.

  “Care to elucidate?”

>   I force a smile. “That’s a mighty big word coming from you, farmer boy.”

  “Yup, four whole syllables. I amaze myself.”