Talk to them, sure. The popular kids from school. The kids who spend every minute I’m around them putting me down. And thanks for reminding me that my house was your bargaining chip.
“Like I said, Pipes. You don’t have to. We can just have the party at my house. But I think they want to know if it’s all true,” Todd goes on. He studies his hands, and from his tone I can tell he’s wondering whether or not he should have kept his mouth shut.
“If what’s all true?” Is he talking about my mom? He promised he would keep it a secret!
“The secret passageways,” he says, elbowing me. “The floating door.”
Oh. That.
“But they can already see that from the outside,” I say. And I hadn’t thought about that part of things. Like what to tell them if I actually do hear Dad’s voice again.
A few more students lumber in, and a guy I hadn’t noticed sitting there puts a trombone to his lips and blurts out a few notes. I lower my voice. “I mean, it’s only on the side of my house.” On the upper level. No stairs leading to it, just the door to nowhere.
“Come on, let them see who you really are. They think you’re some closet freak.”
“You’re not helping.”
“They’ll be nice,” Todd adds. “I promise.”
“Only because you threatened them,” I mutter.
I duck my head down and Joel’s words from last night linger in my brain, sticking their noses in where they don’t belong. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad if you actually tried making friends. Joel probably says stuff like that just so the pressure gets taken off of him.
But he’s never said a word about those friends coming to our house. No one besides Todd has ever really come over, and I know Joel likes it that way. He hardly has anyone over!
“It’s not a big deal,” Todd says, his voice gentle. “Never mind. I’ll just tell them I’d rather have it at my house. Besides, we’ve got a hot tub.”
“I’ll have to check with Joel.” Though it isn’t a good idea to spring a bunch of strangers on my house—especially not after this last-minute project with Cassie—I can’t help being curious about what will happen.
Todd puts his arm around me and squeezes. At least he’ll be there. And I can tell Joel I’m making an effort at the whole friend thing. I sink into him.
“You won’t be sorry, Pipes,’” he says.
“Not yet, anyway.”
Dread is a twenty-pound sack of rocks connected to the clock, dragging time so the rest of my classes take a decade instead of an hour. Despite my curiosity, the thought of having all of those losers over still tortures my brain. I shouldn’t agree. This is the last thing I need right now. I should be focusing on my audition, not worrying about the kids I despise the most in the world coming to my house. It’s blasphemy, like I’m turning my back on an important belief.
I know Todd would never intentionally hurt me, but his honesty earlier still stings. Face it, Pipes. They think you’re weird because your house is weird. I almost laugh. If they already think my house is weird, just wait until they come over tomorrow night and see what really happens there.
This is a disaster. Dis. As. Ter.
Todd does have a point; it would be nice to let them know me, to get them to back off. And I won’t be able to run this time, not like I would if it were at like, Sierra’s, or something.
Maybe we should just have it at Todd’s house. He’s next door after all, so they’ll still get the gist of my freaky haunted house. But I can’t dog out. Not this time.
Fortunately, the space by my locker is mostly clear when I check in book-wise after school. Todd and the guys are all out at the field for practice. No doubt Sierra is out there, too, watching her boyfriend get all sweaty. Whoop-de-do.
“My audition,” I mutter to myself as my backpack gets heavier with each book. “I’ll just focus on my audition.”
“Hey, Piper,” Cassie says, her perky smile coming out of nowhere. “Want a ride?”
“Sure.” I slam my locker shut.
Lying on my stomach on the bedroom floor, I scribble the eraser across my paper while Cassie rearranges the square pieces of the puzzle for the fifty billionth time. So far so good. The house hasn’t made a sound since she got here.
“Maybe they go this way.”
“There,” I say, penciling in what I’ve already figured out, that the three squares put in the correct position make a right triangle. Lorde plays on the iPod, and I labor to keep my mind on the math problem in front of me instead of the fact that Joel will be home any minute and I’ll have to mention the party to him. The progressive darkness outside with the sun setting makes it harder to see. If the sun is already setting, that means it’s time for Cassie to go.
“You got it? Good.” Cassie sits up and brushes hair out of her face. She leans over and copies what I’ve got written. So much for group work.
Her glance travels and lands on the antique, pink dollhouse in the corner, an almost exact replica of my house, except for the color.
“That is seriously the cutest thing,” she says, crawling over to it.
“Yeah,” I say, worry ticking inside me. I could be nice and go on about how it was my favorite thing to play with as a child. How I loved the tiny, delicate pieces, so rich in definition and detail, unlike the plastic, stickered pieces in my friends’ playhouses. Like the other antiques we have, this dollhouse has been here as long as I can remember, and probably longer.
But this silence from my house can only last so long. The later Cassie stays, the more uneasy I get. So instead, I set my ruler down and ask, “What time did you say you were meeting Sierra?”
Cassie stuffs her notebook in her bag and stands, craning her neck to look at the cherubs painted on my ceiling. “Seriously, who has a ceiling like that? Oh—” She pulls out her cell. “Not sure. Sierra said she’d call.”
I stand too. I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t know how to politely kick someone out. “Maybe you should go over there and just see—”
“I’m so thirsty, mind if we get a drink of water?”
Before I can answer, Cassie’s already leading the way toward the landing and down the stairs. I hurry to catch up, half debating taking the servants’ staircase down so I can beat her to the kitchen. But that will only impress her, no doubt, not give her the impression I want her to leave.
“I feel like I’ve gone back in time being here,” she says, snooping through cupboards for a cup. I get one out and hand it to her.
“My mom used to say that,” I say, the words slipping out. Crap. I just broke my own personal rule—never talk about her.
“Where is your mom, anyway?” Cassie asks after getting a gulp and setting her cup on the counter.
“Oh, you know…” Prison.
At the mention of my mother I stare out the window at the gazebo outside, so similar to the one we had in Shady Heights before we moved. Knowing my house, it very well could be the same one—I’ve never thought much about it before. But Mom liked to read under its shade. She loved the roses, the smell of the nearby chokecherry trees, the way the sun kissed her skin.
She loved this house too, always talking about how elegant it was, how it made her feel like she was living in another time. The same thing Cassie said.
An awkward silence lingers between us. Cassie turns away from the china hutch, her mouth gaping open in genuine shock. Her thin brows bolt up, and she mouths, “Dead?”
I stiffen, not knowing what to say. As if to make things worse, we’re standing on the circular red rug in the center of the floor. The sight almost turns my stomach. This rug covers The Spot. The trap door where Mom hid the body.
She claps a hand to her chest. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, Piper. I shouldn’t have asked. Probably hard for you to talk about.”
“Something like that,” I say, wincing. She’s being so nice, and I’m just being…well, an idiot. I think we might actually be connecting, and I have to blow it by being me. I
look up to the molding along the ceiling. The house hasn’t so much as creaked since she got here. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if Cassie stayed a little later.
I don’t get how she can be friends with Sierra. Cassie gives me a small smile and then turns her back to me, toward the basement entrance. Her ringed fingers lift to stroke the intricate, circular carvings on the door’s surface.
“This is like, crazy beautiful. I can’t believe you live here.” She reaches for the knob, and my panic switch flicks back on.
“Don’t!” I run over and slam my back against it, blocking her way. The carvings feel strange against my back, and I realize I’m touching the thing for pretty much the first time ever.
The only other time I’d gotten close to this door, my father had been coming up out of it. His expression quickly darkened, and he charged at me. His hands gripped, digging into my arms like claws, shoving me hard against the wall. A cold draft wafted in from the open basement door, and he grunted and kicked it shut with his foot, slamming my elbow into the corner of the china hutch. I bit my lip to hold in the cry of pain.
“Don’t you ever go down there,” he yelled, ramming me into the wall again. “Do you hear me? Never!”
Tears stung my eyes. I stared at my father like he was an imposter. I couldn’t think of where he meant. I hadn’t even known he was there!
He blinked a few times, and the fury drifted from his eyes like smoke. His grip on me softened, and he lowered me to the floor.
I’d felt rigid, like my arms and legs were all bonded together and he’d snap them off if I dared to move. Eventually, I chanced a glance up away from his shaking hands to the sweat beading on his brow. For the first time it connected in my seven-year-old mind—maybe I wasn’t the only one who missed my mother.
But it was more than that. My father had looked broken.
“You okay, Daddy?” I asked, not sure if I should.
He hadn’t answered. Just kept staring at the wall where he’d thrown me. I glanced at the basement door behind him, at the circular designs that made me think of sideways eyes. Curiosity won over, and I kept talking.
“What’s—what’s down there?”
“Never you mind,” he said, stalking off and leaving me feeling more alone than ever.
This time Cassie acts like I’ve struck her. Her heavily lined eyes blink over and over, and she looks as though I’ve told her she has to solve the Pythagorean Theorem over again all by herself. Todd’s words play back again. They think you’re weird. No. Wonder.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to think fast. I can’t tell her the truth. “It’s just that we have…asbestos. You know, old house.” I force a smile.
Cassie relaxes. “Right. I’ve heard that’s like, awful.”
She pops her lips together like she’s smacking lip gloss. My eyes dart around, and I scramble for something to say to redeem the situation. My dad had these rules about our house, certain places I was never allowed to go. That’s one of them. That will only generate more questions for sure.
At the thought, my stomach sinks. There’s no way we can have the party here. I can’t keep tabs on where everyone goes, and the house undoubtedly will do something to them if they snoop. It will have to be outside.
The front door slams open, and we both jump. I steal a glance at the clock. Joel would have gotten off about twenty minutes ago.
“Sounds like my brother’s here,” I say, relieved at not being expected to explain. I’ve never told Todd about Dad’s rules, and Todd’s been my friend for years. I’m not about to tell Cassie after an afternoon here.
Cassie glances around the kitchen, at the ceramic tile near the sink and the white cabinets, the striped wallpaper. Her appreciative expression from minutes ago has been replaced with uncertainty.
I rack my brains for something to say. Todd would know how to smooth this over.
Joel stalks in, loosening his blue tie. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled to his elbows, a sure sign he’s just had a long day of school and then his office. Gel slicks back his brown hair. He looks from me, to Cassie, and back again.
“Hey, Joel, this is—”
I gesture to Cassie, but her mouth twitches, and she grabs her bag from the counter and says, “Guess I’ll go see if Sierra’s there yet,” before heading out.
“Who was that?” Joel asks after the sound of the front door closing. That sucked. Cassie should know better than to think she can come snooping around. Guess that’s the last time she’ll be here. My phone buzzes with a text from Todd.
What did Joel say?
“Cassie Richards,” I answer Joel, trying to keep track of who I’m talking to. She must think I’m psycho. Probably dying to tell Sierra exactly what it was like in Piper’s psychotic house. “Just had to do an assignment with her from school.”
Joel nods and loosens his tie the rest of the way, slipping it off. He dumps his briefcase onto the dining table on one of his many stacks of papers. For a moment I wonder whether or not I should tell him about hearing Dad’s voice earlier. One thing at a time.
I text Todd back. Haven’t asked yet. Cassie just left.
Okay. I’m coming over.
That means it’s now or never. I step forward, willing my tongue to keep going.
“So Todd wondered if we could invite some kids over tomorrow night,” I say as fast as I can. “Sort of an after-the-game party.”
The house groans. Joel and I stare up at the ceiling. I wait for the TV to flick on again, or for the sound of popping static, but nothing happens.
Joel pulls a loaf of bread and the peanut butter jar from the cupboard. “Isn’t your audition tomorrow?”
He has to bring that up. “Yeah, but this will be after that.”
“I’m not sure it’s good to have that many people here.” He slathers chunky peanut butter all over one side of bread.
“What about that try-making-friends mantra you gave me the other night?” I argue, though I’m not sure why. Just sick of this power trip he’s been on—I’d like to win, just once. “If the house knows I’m okay with it, what could happen?”
“Hey, guys,” Todd says, marching in through the back kitchen door like always. He looms over Joel. Joel does the guy chin-nod thing and then takes a bite and sits at the table with his back to us.
“So—do you care? Joel?”
“Donkey balls,” Joel answers with his mouth full, his usual lame nonsense when I bring up something he doesn’t want to deal with. I roll my eyes at him and tug Todd toward the stairs and up to my room.
Todd ducks below the mini stained-glass window above the door. His wet hair produces poodle-worthy curls, and he smells like minty shampoo. He’s got on a shirt that says something about being Canadian and knowing his Eh-B-C’s. Practice must have ended not too long ago.
“I take it the party’s a no-go,” he says, resting on the edge of my desk and picking up the pamphlet to Interlochen Arts Academy, the school hosting the summer program I’m auditioning for tomorrow. He flicks the edge of it with his thumb.
“You got that impression, too, huh?”
“You know I’m doing this for you, right?” He sets the pamphlet down and looks right at me.
My ankles won’t stop bouncing. I’m not sure if he’s doing it for me or so things will be easier for him. Either way, anxiety riddles its way over my nerves.
“That doesn’t mean I like it.”
I wait for Todd to press his point further, to try and convince me how super terrific his new friends are, how their finger- and toenails don’t even grow, they’re just so awesome. Luckily, I’m spared a repeat of that conversation because Todd parts my curtains and asks, “What’s Joel doing out there?”
I join Todd at the window. Joel is out back, sleeves rolled to his elbows, shovel in hand. Not the usual choice of pastime for my brother.
“Dunno,” I say, heading down the stairs. Todd and I meet him outside, Joel grumbling under his breath.
�
�Since when have you taken up gardening?” I ask. Since when has he had the time for it? He gets up pretty early for classes, and then usually he’s go-go-go with homework and depositions until late in the evening.
“Just go back inside, Pipey.” Joel’s face looks as though he’s ready to teach the ground a lesson for not growing things on its own.
I bend to sift my fingers in the upturned dirt. Its soft, gritty strains sift through my fingers.
“Dad always worked so hard out here,” I say, looking up at Todd. “Remember? He could never get things to grow though. And he was always complaining about it. He kept trying new spots, but no matter where he tried, he only got dirt.”
“Look,” Joel says, finally raising his head. He blinks at Todd, but goes on. “I’m glad you’re all happy down memory lane or whatever, but now is not the time.”
Where did that come from? Did he have a bad day? For a split second I wonder if this has anything to do with me requesting to have kids over for a party. “Joel, I’m just saying Dad really—”
“Dad did jack for anybody but himself! And now, even when he’s gone I can’t escape. I still have no say in my own life. The bastard is still trying to tell me what to do!”
He pitches the shovel and it does a sort of wonky teeter before landing with a thud on the grass beside the gazebo. I almost ask if he’s heard Dad’s voice too, but I get the feeling bringing it up will only make this worse.
The emptiness I’ve felt since finding Dad dead on his desk overwhelms me like a flood, pouring in from all sides. Despite his fit of anger, Joel remains in the yard, shoulders rising and falling with each of his breaths. His gaze zeroes in on the shovel he pitched. I step over and place a hand on his arm.
“‘Get the ground ready’,” he says, peering over the cliff of his shoulder at me. “‘Give your life to this, Joel.’ Does he even care that maybe I don’t want to do this?”
“Joel?” I have no clue what he’s talking about. It sounds like he had a chat with Dad over the phone or something. Another feat I know is impossible. The dead don’t talk. Or at least they shouldn’t.
Phobic Page 3
