I sit far, far away from the shadow table, but find it impossible not to sneak looks in that direction.
Nothing moves. Nothing’s out of place. Nothing remotely resembles what I’d see when I’d stop my meds for a while: those dark, humanlike shapes in the corner of my vision, drifting along the walls, approaching slowly, insidiously—like the table shadows—only to leap out of sight the second I faced them directly.
These weren’t shadow people. And I’ve been TAKING my meds.
Tasha, thankfully, stops egging Lacy on. Meg relaxes. Lacy behaves civilly. Tasha and Cecilia bond over the memories of their old gymnastics class.
I’m the only one who doesn’t talk.
Watch that table, watch that table!
I flinch when thunder rumbles and the overhead lights flicker. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Are you scared of a wittle thunder?” Lacy teases.
I keep my eyes on the table leg shadows, black on the linoleum. Waiting for them to crawl. Certain I’ll feel them if they come close enough to me.
An illusion, that’s all. Not a hallucination.
“What’re you looking at?” Lacy demands.
I pull my jacket out from under me. “Nothing.”
The lights blink again. Lacy whispers, “Maybe it’s Annaliese, trying to communicate.”
Tasha rolls her eyes. “Or maybe it’s—omigod—the weather!”
“Come on, let’s check it out.” Lacy jumps up and darts to the door to the tunnel.
Remembering what happened last time I went in there with Lacy Kessler, I shake my head. “Leave me out of it.”
“Me, too,” Cecilia agrees, for her own reason, of course.
But Tasha bounces right up. “Wimps.” She beckons to Meg. Meg reluctantly rises. By then Lacy has already rushed into the tunnel.
Her voice echoes from beyond the door. “Yoo-hoo, Annaliese! Where a-a-a-re you?” She peeks out at us. “Hurry! If we all call her at the same time, maybe she’ll show herself.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Cecilia says.
“Oh, really? Then why are you hiding way over there?”
“Ignore her,” I tell Cecilia. “Let’s just go.”
“What’re you afraid of, Cecil?” Lacy taunts as Cecilia gathers up her jacket and book bag. “Come on in. I dare you.”
Cecilia bites her lip. Why does she take this abuse?
“You dare her?” I repeat. “What is this, kindergarten?”
Lacy nails me with a knowing beam. “You’re not afraid, are you, Jacobs? Even though the last time we went in here”—she emits an apologetic giggle—“you almost ended up dead.”
I’d like to smack that evil grin right off her face.
Cecilia asks, “What’d she do to you?”
“Can we not talk about this?” I say loudly.
“Really!” Meg agrees. “I don’t think we should be goofing around in there.” She stares at me, silently begging me not to bring up what she’d said about the tunnel, how it tried to choke her somehow.
I smile back loyally. “Nobody believes that Annaliese stuff, anyway.”
“Cecilia does,” Lacy purrs. “That’s why she never takes the tunnel. That’s why she’s too scared to come in here now.”
I wait for Cecilia to confess that she’s claustrophobic, not that it’s any of Lacy’s business.
Then I wait for her to march off, too smart to be drawn into this devious game.
Cecilia does neither. Instead, she walks away from me and breezes past Meg and Tasha. When Lacy serenely moves aside, Cecilia, chin up, marches into the tunnel.
Abruptly, Lacy slams the door. I spring forward in alarm “What’re you doing?”
Cecilia’s shout from the tunnel echoes my own—“What are you doing?”—followed by the sound of hammering fists. “Let me out of here! Lacy! Let me out of here NOW!”
Collapsing into laughter, Lacy and Tasha, and yes, Meg too, lean all their weight against the metal door. Lacy presses her lips near the crack. “Hey, Orca! This isn’t the only way out, you know.”
“You guys are not funny,” I yell. “Let her out!”
“Oh, please. All she has to do is go out another door.”
I grab the first arm I reach—Tasha’s—and yank with all my might. Tasha, no longer laughing, doesn’t resist my tug. Meg, shamefaced, slinks away from the door next. “She’s claustrophobic! What’s wrong with you guys? Why do you”—I direct this at Lacy—“have to be such a bitch?”
“Me?” Lacy shoves me smartly. “Why are you such a freak, Jacobs?” Then she slashes her index finger significantly across her throat.
I can’t move a muscle.
“What happened to your neck?” She hushes Meg’s horrified protest with a flash of her hand. “Tell us. We can keep a secret.”
Distantly I’m aware of Cecilia’s persistent pleas, her thumping fists. Somewhere among my racing thoughts, I wonder, too, why she doesn’t run for the next exit; the locker room door, for instance, is only steps away. I want so badly to shout this to Cecilia, but Lacy’s venomous eyes immobilize me.
“Who cut your throat?” Her words chill me like ice sliding down my chest. “It wasn’t you, was it? Was it?”
A thunderclap splits the air. Everyone reacts but Lacy; her cold stare stays fastened to my neck. Luckily my own leap into the air clears my confusion; as the rumble fades away, I notice a terrible silence.
I grab Lacy’s sweater. “Move!” I pull so hard, the momentum sends her colliding into a table. Pumpkins roll. Candy splatters.
I open the door to a blast of frigid air. Somehow I thought I’d see Cecilia immediately, curled up on the floor in a hysterical ball.
“Where is she?” Tasha asks over my shoulder.
“Cecilia?” I step into the tunnel, then stop, wisely distrustful. “Watch the door,” I order Tasha. “You guys pull the same thing on me I’ll break all your necks.”
Tasha nods. I glance toward the north end of the tunnel, past the gym. Beyond the murky void I spot a dim slant of light—the open door of the auditorium.
I back out, rubbing goose bumps. “She made it out.”
“Well, of course she did.” Tasha won’t meet my eyes.
Meg whispers, “We only meant to scare her.”
I fight the urge to scream in her face. How could Meg, of all people, do that to Cecilia? “Well, I guess you succeeded.” I turn to Lacy now, slumped in a chair, head down, shoulders shaking. “Do you think this is funny? You terrorized her!”
“Leave me alone,” she moans. She’s crying, not laughing. “My migraine’s back. Oh God, it hurts so baaad …”
“Good,” I snap.
I race out of the cafeteria and out the front door. Oh, I hope Cecilia heard me trying to get her out! Otherwise she’ll never speak to me again.
Outside, it’s a downpour, and I see no sign of Cecilia. The wind swallows my breath when I shout her name. All I hear are the rustling trees, and gusts of rain splattering the sidewalk.
A car rolls by, wipers slapping. Power lines bob. Street signs rattle.
Where is she? Where?
Then I spot a figure plodding across the square. I bound down the steps and splash across the street. “Cecilia!” She keeps walking. Rain drips into her eyes, but she barely blinks it away. “I’m so sorry that happened. Are you okay?” Slipping in the wet grass, I stop her with my hand. I’m surprised she doesn’t punch me.
Hugging herself, Cecilia whispers something through chattering teeth.
“What? I didn’t hear you. I said, are you all right?”
Her lips move again but I can’t make out the words. I lean closer and put my ear next to her mouth. Finally I hear it, when she repeats it a third time: “I c-can’t talk.”
“You can’t talk?” I echo.
Cecilia nods, and crumples against me with a sob.
3 MONTHS + 26 DAYS
Friday, October 31
“What were you doing in that tunnel, anyway?�
�� Mom clanks my juice glass in front of me and passes my pill bottles.
“We weren’t in the tunnel. Lacy locked Cecilia in.”
“Well, I can’t believe you let it get so out of hand.”
“Me? I’m the one who told them to leave her alone!”
“Honey, I’m proud of you for making friends with Cecilia, and for trying to include her. But why didn’t you come get me when the trouble started?”
I almost choke on my pills. “Oh, that’d go over great.”
“Or you and Cecilia could’ve left.”
“You mean choose, right?” I say angrily. “Say good-bye to my new friends so I can go hang out with the one person none of them like?”
“If your friends”—Mom stretches out the word in an irritating way—“are truly your friends”—oh, God, she does it again—“then why can’t they accept Cecilia? Why does somebody always”—her voice climbs in pitch and volume—“have to be left out?”
I cringe when she snatches my cereal bowl, slams it in the sink, and whacks on the faucet. Rays of indignation radiate from her silhouette like heat from an asphalt road. “Mom, what’s with you? Are you having a nicotine fit?”
“You know what’s with me! You know how I feel about bullies.”
“Well, I’m not a bully. I am friends with Cecilia. But I like Meg and Tasha, too, and—” Okay, maybe not Lacy, but how can I stay friends with the others and not with her? “Oh, why do there have to be all these stupid rules?” I burst out. “You know, you can hang out with this person, but not that one, because the others’ll get mad. It’s so unfair!”
“Yes, it’s unfair. And no, it’ll never change.”
Sullenly I say, “Maybe I’ll go back to the dark side, then. Maybe I’m better off without any friends. At least that was easier than this stupid shi——uh, crap.”
Mom turns from the sink. “I can’t tell you what to do. And no, I can’t tell you not to hang out with Lacy. I just want you to think things over a bit.” She kisses my hair and reaches around to hug me. “I’m proud of you, honey.”
“For what?” Because I haven’t tried to cut my head off lately?
“For everything. For being you.”
I have no idea how to face Cecilia. Mom’s right, I should’ve done more to stop it. Yet, to be fair to me, Cecilia walked into that tunnel by herself. Nobody hog-tied her. Nobody threw her in.
Why did she do it? To take Lacy up on her dare? Why does Cecilia care what Lacy Kessler thinks?
I know why: because, like me, she wants to belong. God knows I don’t want to go through another year with no friends. When I was sick, I didn’t care. I do care now.
Vowing to make things right, I get dressed, grab my stuff, and bounce out the door. Although the sun shines through the naked branches, it’s twenty degrees colder today. Frost cakes every surface.
Nate, in a Cincinnati Reds jacket, his glorious chestnut hair hidden by a hunter’s cap with furry earflaps, rocks in the porch rocker, perfectly at home. “Trick or treat!”
I try not to look so thrilled to see him. “No band practice again?”
“Game’s tomorrow. If we don’t have it down by now, we never will.” He jumps up. He looks happy to see me, too, which makes me even happier. “So, did you guys get the cafeteria all fancied up last night?”
“Yes, and that frickin’ bombed.” Briefly I rattle off the details. “And when I found her on the square, she couldn’t talk to me. Her voice was gone.”
Nate, disgusted, shakes his head. “About Lacy. I guess I should’ve warned you.”
“Warned me that she’s a witch? I figured that out the first day.”
“So why hang around her?”
“How can I not hang around her? She’s Meg’s friend, and I like Meg.” Though not so much last night. Remembering something, I add defensively, “Anyway, from what I hear, you used to hang out with her, too.”
He eyes me. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I know you hooked up.”
“Hooked up as in ‘going out,’ which we did, or as in ‘having sex,’ which we did not?”
Relief washes over me. “You didn’t?” He didn’t!
“Cripe, Rinn, gimme credit for a brain.”
“So why did you stop ‘going out’ with her?”
“Because she cheated on me the whole time.”
“Right, with Dino. Uh, Tasha mentioned something,” I add at his sharp look.
“My fault, for not knowing better. They’ve been messing around since middle school. Sneaking around, really, since Lacy thinks she’s too good for him. But that doesn’t stop her from … well, you get the picture.”
“He’s sort of her Homecoming date. Unofficially, that is.” Poor clueless Chad.
Nate smiles crookedly. “Anyhow, it’s not like we were serious.” He squeezes my hand, lifting my mood a hundred percent.
I smile at our entwined fingers as we hop down the steps.
According to King Solomon’s announcement over the PA, the no-cut-through-the-gym rule will not apply during the Homecoming dance. In fact, the tunnel is forbidden tomorrow night, for our “own safety,” he says. Either he caught wind of Lacy’s planned séance or he thinks we’ll use it for an orgy den.
Cecilia and I reach the art room at the same time. “How’s the voice?” I ask anxiously.
She clears her throat as if testing it. “Fine now.”
“Good. I was worried.”
“I bet.” With that, she stalks away.
Okay, I get it: she’s mad as hell.
I trail in and take my ceramic bowl/candleholder/whatever off the shelf. Meg, pale, her un-made-up eyes shadowed, strolls in last and drops into place.
“I didn’t sleep much last night,” she offers, though I didn’t comment.
Guilty conscience, I hope. “Why not?”
She lifts a shoulder. “My ears again. No biggie.”
My candleholder looks fabulous now that it’s painted—smooth, dark red, only slightly lopsided, with my name etched into the bottom. I decide to skip the glossy finish so I can take it home tonight, find a candle, and place it on the porch for the trick-or-treaters.
“Are you mad at me because of what happened with Cecilia?” Meg murmurs.
“I’m madder at Lacy,” I say truthfully. “Sick of her, too.”
“Rinn, you really don’t know her that well.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
“I’ve known her forever. If she acted like that all the time, do you think I’d stay friends with her?” I flash her a hell-if-I-know look. “Okay, she’s bitchier than usual. But that’s because—”
I hold up a hand. “I get it already.”
“Well, good. Because I don’t appreciate having to defend my friends.” Meg’s dirty look surprises me. “And why did you have to open your mouth about you know what? To Cecilia yet! She’s not even part of our group.”
I glance at Cecilia, hoping she didn’t hear. “I don’t know. I was mad. It just slipped out.”
Pause. “Guess we all have our bitchy moments.”
“I guess so.” We exchange forgiving smiles, and then I brandish my candleholder. “I think I’ll bring this to the séance.”
Just like that, Meg shuts down. “Right. That séance.”
“I’ll protect you,” I joke. She rubs one ear and says nothing. Firmly I add, “Meg, it’s just a tunnel. And it’s just a game, okay?”
She nods, casually.
I don’t think she believes me.
After school, I catch Cecilia on her way out, to try to make up with her one more time. Before I say two words, she faces me. “Look, Rinn. I think it’s cool that you’re not so much like other people around here. But I can’t be friends with you if you’re gonna be friends with them. I don’t need this crap, and I don’t need to be anybody’s project. No hard feelings, okay?”
I’m stunned by how deeply that hurts. “You weren’t my project.”
“Whatever. If hanging out with th
e clique bitches is so important, well, more power to you. I feel sorry for you, Rinn,” she adds, walking away. “Really sorry.”
The Unquiet Page 9
