“I’m not! I didn’t hear anything. What did you hear?”
“I’ll tell you outside. Let’s go.”
“My book bag!”
“Get it tomorrow.”
“No! My name’s all over it. I am not getting kicked out.”
Torn, Nate hesitates. “Okay. But I’ll get it. You wait here.”
“Don’t forget the rope. And my flashlight!”
He dashes off, stranding me in the shadows. I hop from foot to foot, eyes glued to the wall clock with the big red second hand. Sixty seconds … two minutes … five minutes … seven.
What’s taking him so long?
Why did you let him go back there alone?
Finally I can’t stand it. I take off, and bump right into him as he veers out of the locker room. Aggravated, he thrusts my book bag into my chest. “All your junk fell out, by the way.”
“I hope you got it all,” I pant as we race back. “I hope you didn’t leave something behind with my name on it.” No answer. We rush to the main doors where Nate collides to a stop. “What’re you doing?”
“You seriously didn’t hear it?” I shake my head. He eyes me for an eternity. “I couldn’t tell what it was. It was kind of a voice, but not really. It—it’s hard to describe.”
“What did it say?”
“Nothing. It just kind of … howled.”
“You mean like a dog?”
“Maybe wail’s a better word. Like it was trying to scare us away.” Nate cracks his knuckles smartly. “But not like a person. Jesus, Rinn.” He rakes impatient fingers through his hair, and then stops, astonished, and stares down at his hand.
His fingers are wet.
With my heart punching the walls of my chest, I stand on tiptoe to examine his hair.
Ice crystals, like crushed glass, coat the top of his head.
4 MONTHS + 27 DAYS
Tuesday, December 2
“Experiment: Day #1”
Drugless, I make it through the school day without a glitch. All I notice is that when 2:00 rolls around, I’m awake, not groggy, and my brain works faster.
I wonder how long it’ll take.
All day I wait for Mr. Solomon to scream over the PA that someone broke into the pool room again. Yes, once you pick a dead bolt you can’t relock it, of course—a fact I forgot about till it was over and done with. But I know Nate shut that door; nobody’ll notice it’s unlocked unless they try to get in. With Bennie MIA, that might take a while.
I doodle Annaliese’s name on a folder.
I have no plan. Shouldn’t I have a plan?
I print her name a second time, and then smear it with my thumb before anyone sees it.
Annaliese. Where are you?
How will I know when it’s time to find you?
4 MONTHS + 28 DAYS
Wednesday, December 3
“Experiment: Day #2”
In my dream, Annaliese is playing the piano, and I’m sitting there watching her like it’s the most natural thing in the world …
Then I open my eyes, and it’s dark, and the music is real, not part of my dream. I peek at my clock. Why is Mom playing the piano at 4:00 a.m.?
I smell cigarette smoke.
I sneak downstairs. Mom fumbles a few notes, and backs up again. She misses. She tries again, and again. Not once does she get the tune right.
“Mom?”
Ignoring me, or possibly not hearing, Mom continues to bang out the same awful notes. I walk up behind her and touch her shoulder. She slams her hands on the keys with a thunderous crash. “My God, Rinn! Don’t ever sneak up on me in this house again!”
In this house? Would sneaking up on her be less heart-stopping in any other house?
“I didn’t sneak up. You just didn’t hear me.” I point to her overflowing ashtray where smoke drifts up from a smoldering cigarette. I spy the pack: Millie’s brand. I said nothing the night she smoked with Luke, but now I feel I have to. “Why are you smoking? You were doing so good.”
She grinds out the cigarette. “Don’t nag me. I needed one. It’s been a hellish week.”
Wisely I don’t point out that she likely smoked twenty, not one. She absolutely reeks, and she looks tired and haggard. “Why are you up so early?”
“I couldn’t sleep. And I can’t seem to get this piece right anymore.” Querulously, she shakes the sheet music as if to wake it up. “Make me some coffee, will you?”
So I make the coffee, the whole time listening to Mom struggle with the tune. I wonder, Did I dream about Annaliese because I heard Mom playing in my sleep? Or is Mom playing the piano because I dreamed Annaliese was playing?
It’s a funny thought, though not out-and-out “crazy.” Wondering if I should keep track of these weird ideas, I swallow my birth control pill and wash the psych meds down the sink.
I know what to watch for. I’ll pay very close attention. Nate promised to help me.
I’ll be perfectly fine.
4 MONTHS + 29 DAYS
Thursday, December 4
“Experiment: Day #3”
We get our schedules for next semester. I make some changes, like switching two classes so Nate and I have the same lunch period. This eating alone depresses me. Today I sat with two girls from PE, but all they wanted to talk about was Tasha: “You were there, right?” Like they’re blaming me. “Did you see her fall?” Like I want to talk about that. “You guys were friends. Didn’t she say anything? How could you not know she wanted to kill herself?” Like I knew she planned it, which she didn’t, and I never said a word.
Rinn—everything that happens is not your fault.
Then why do I feel like it is?
Because you’re crazy, Rinn. It’s what crazy people do.
I jump up in the middle of their conversation—and mine—and throw my lunch away.
5 MONTHS EXACTLY
Friday, December 5
“Experiment: Day #4”
I’m sad about Tasha. I’m missing Meg like mad. But I’m not nervous, I’m not lethally depressed, and the only Voice I hear in my head is my own. Either I don’t need those stupid meds, after all, or I haven’t been off them long enough to make a difference.
Think about it, though: what if I’m not bipolar? What if it simply went away? If you believe what you read, or those TV evangelists, people are cured of terrible illnesses all the time.
Why not me?
This morning, again, Mom doesn’t set out my pills or remind me to take them. Does she really trust me?
Or does she no longer care?
Either way, the pills go down the sink.
I skip lunch and hang out in the library, worrying again about the pool room door. Bennie’s still not back. Does that mean no one discovered the broken lock? Would they report it to Mr. Solomon if they did? Would he fix it immediately?
I agonize over this for, like, half the period.
It has to be locked! Nobody else can go in there! It’s too dangerous!
I ditch the library, cut through the auditorium, and dart into the tunnel. Since Tasha died, nobody uses it. Even the jocks steer clear.
I hesitate, remembering, with a shudder, those ice crystals in Nate’s hair. Funny how we’ve both been too afraid to bring that up.
Then I grasp the knob. The metal stings my fingers.
Wait for Nate. Do not try this by yourself.
Unlocked, as I’d feared, the door knobs turns easily.
Is that chlorine I smell?
I open the door an inch, wondering why I’m doing this, yet powerless to stop.
Fearless Rinn, Nate once called me.
“I know you’re there,” I call softly, vaguely aware of my burning fingers.
With an audible whoosh the knob wrenches out of my hand
The door slams shut.
Throat parched, I bolt out of the tunnel and back to the real world.
The slick sensation of candle wax scathes my hand the rest of the day.
5 MONTHS + 1 DAY<
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Saturday, December 6
“Experiment: Day #5”
“You look different,” Nate observes. “You wearing makeup?”
“Yep. Deodorant, too,” I drawl. “I even warshed my pits jest for you.”
Nate joins in. “Well, hayull, you clean up real good. I reckon I might have to ask you out on a date real soon.”
“You mean when you pay my way and everything?”
“Yup. How about tonight?” he asks in his regular voice.
I consider this. I’d so love to do something besides sit around and be sad. Is there a protocol to follow when a good friend dies? Like, no dating for a month? No laughing for a year? “There’s nothing to do around here on a Sunday night.”
“We can drive to Westfield, catch a movie. Maybe sit in the back and throw Milk Duds at people.”
My stomach flips when Nate’s smile assures me that Milk Duds aren’t all that’s on his mind. “Wow, you farm boys sure know how to show a gal a good time.”
We skip the Milk Duds, but we do sit in the back. I must be more depressed than I thought; I keep wondering, what right do I have to enjoy myself? How can life breeze along like nothing terrible happened? It feels so very wrong.
It takes Nate less than a minute to wear me down. I feel safe with him, and he holds me tighter than ever, like he needs this as much as I do. We kiss till my cheeks are raw from his stubble. Luckily the movie’s awful; only ten other people in the theater, and none of them close enough to see what we’re doing with our hands.
So why do I feel someone’s eyes on me?
Ridiculous! No one’s paying us any attention. Yet more than once I have to sit up and crane my neck in the dark. That man there, two rows ahead of us—wasn’t he farther away a few minutes ago?
“What’s the matter?” Nate asks.
I shake my head and go back to kissing him. Under my shirt, his hands are warm on my skin. Sliding the hem of my cami out of my jeans. Gliding up.
Slut, slut, you are such a slut, that’s all you are, you’ll never change, will you, Rinn?
I tell myself I’m not hearing that, that the man two rows down can’t possibly know my name. Still, the nasty whispering continues: Look at you, you make me sick, you slut, you bitch, don’t you know I can see you, that EVERYONE can see you? Oh yes, we’re watching … we’re watching you, Riiinnnn …
“Stop it!” I shout.
Nate jerks. “Huh?”
Heart ripping through my chest, I stare ahead.
The man is gone. All I hear now are the actors laughing onscreen, and snickers from two kids way down in the first row.
“God, Rinn,” Nate says gruffly. “I thought you—I mean, I thought we—”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
Nate looks around briefly. “Um, then who?” I shrug helplessly. Technicolor lights flash in Nate’s eyes, rendering them unreadable. “O-kay. So, is this what you meant by goofiness?”
“I’m fine,” I say weakly. “Sorry.”
Fine? I think about the pool room door, how the knob burned my hand, how it slammed shut by itself. If I tell Nate about that, will he think it’s more of that “goofiness” I warned him about?
He kisses me again before I can make up my mind.
It’s snowing hard by the time the theater lets out. Usually Nate lets me drive the jeep, but no way will I navigate these icy roads in the dark. After a slow, treacherous ride, it’s after midnight when we get back. Although I don’t have an official curfew for weekends, Mom may kill me; I thought we’d be home by eleven.
Our good-night kiss lasts approximately ninety seconds.
Inside, I find that our previously neat, quaint living room has morphed into a giant ashtray. Mom, on the sofa, puffs on a cigarette and stares at a late night talk show.
“Sorry I’m late,” I announce. “It took forever to get home.” I wait for the lecture, but Mom says nothing. “What’s wrong?”
Mom’s eyes swivel to touch on mine. She blows out smoke.
I can’t resist. “Mom, you need to quit smoking. It’s totally disgusting.”
“Don’t worry, honey.” She taps off a cylinder of ashes. “I won’t burn down the house.”
I sway. Did she really say that to me?
WOULD she say it?
I retreat to my room, with its comforting Precious Pewter walls, and wipe the sweat off my shaky hands.
5 MONTHS + 2 DAYS
Sunday, December 7
“Experiment: Day #6”
I don’t sleep all night.
I lie there for hours thinking about my Klonopin downstairs, how just one teensy pill would knock me out for a while. How two might let me sleep peacefully till morning. Three could render me unconscious till noon tomorrow.
Four or five would carry me through till Monday. I could skip all of today—what a great idea! Because if I don’t get some sleep, my head’ll explode.
When I shut my eyes for the millionth time, I see Annaliese’s face for the millionth time.
What kind of a friend would Annaliese have been? The kind who’d be nicer to Lacy, who’d accept her for who she is?
Who’d call 9-1-1 when she knew something was wrong at Meg’s instead of running first to Nate, wasting valuable time?
Who could’ve read Tasha’s mind, and kept her out of the pool room altogether?
Who wouldn’t have abandoned Dino.
Who would’ve rushed back to the cottage the second she saw those flames and dragged her unconscious grandmother to safety?
I had those chances. I blew them every time.
Annaliese had no chance to do anything, right or wrong.
I turn on my lamp and rummage around for a compact. Flicking it open, I aim the dusty round mirror at my face. I stare hard at my eyes, those flat gray disks. The longer I stare, the lighter they become, growing paler and brighter till they shine like silver coins.
Is that you, Annaliese, hiding inside me?
What would you be like if you’d lived? Did people like you? Hate you?
Were you smart in school? Mediocre, like me?
Were you in love with someone?
I think you were. You looked sad in that yearbook, but I know you were just lost in another world, thinking about him, counting the minutes till you’d see him.
Whoever he was, he loved you. Yet he let you die.
I hear her reply: “Yes, he did. And I hate him for it.”
My words, my voice. But I don’t know why I said it.
I throw the compact across the room.
Sleep. Who needs it? By 7:00 a.m. I’ve unpacked all the boxes I’ve ignored for weeks. I’ve also alphabetized my books, changed my sheets, organized my CDs, and showered and dressed. Next I consider all my random piles of clothes, and I decide I’m sick of living out of laundry baskets. I sort and stack every item by color and season, then gallop downstairs to ask Mom about Annaliese’s dresser. She said I could use it.
I find a note on table: At Millie’s. Will probably take her to out to lunch. Be good!
Millie again. I crumple the note. Be good? Really?
I enlist Nate’s help in moving the dresser. It’s hard navigating the narrow staircase, plus we knock a hole in my wall once we get it to the top.
“Nice going,” I observe, though it’s not entirely his fault.
He falls on to my mattress with exaggerated pants. “Now what?”
“Now you can help me clean this thing up”—I nod at the dresser, a cherry wood box with four roomy drawers—“and put my stuff away. Or …” His eyes grow huge as I unbutton the top button of my shirt. “We can have sex.”
“What?”
I unbutton the second one, then the third. Nate watches, transfixed. “My mom’s taking Millie out to lunch. We’ve got plenty of time.” The fourth and fifth buttons pop open. I slide my arms out of the shirt, wondering why he’s looking at me so funny, and why I feel like I’m acting a part in a movie. Cut! Print! “Well?”
The Unquiet Page 23
