Only a sliver of moon shines tonight—a toenail moon, Papa Dan used to call it. Henry’s journal lies in my lap. I run a finger along the leather binding and peer into the night. My breath catches when I see someone standing beside the storm cellar, looking up at the turret window. At me. Pushing to my feet, I press my hands against the window and look closer, but the person moves quickly out of sight. I step to the side of the window, too, take a deep breath and hold it, risk another peek. Shadows have swallowed the person I saw or think I saw.
Trembling, I turn away from the window, sit on the floor, open Henry’s journal to the page I’ve marked with a ribbon, and read….
Clock is ticking,
Ticking, tricking
Night to day and day to night
Sun is rising,
I’m despising
Pain ahead, the same old fight
Footsteps clicking,
Children kicking
Stones along the rotting walk
Laughter pealing,
I am feeling
Eyes that follow, words that stalk
Leaves are falling,
Someone’s calling
Someone’s name: could it be mine?
Lies are spreading,
I am dreading
Empty smiles, the same old lines
I am fading,
Dissipating,
They can’t see me, they don’t know
I am ending
Breaking, blending,
Soon, so soon now, I will go
Clock is ticking,
Ticking, tricking
Night to day and day to night
Moon is rising,
No disguising,
Darkness brings a whole new light
Darkness. I turn to look out the window again. Henry once sat here, too; I sense it. Watching the night and searching for something…or someone…in the shadows.
Outside the window, the insomniac bird begins its nightly serenade, his lonely song more faint than usual since the windows up here are closed. I take out the color snapshots again. On top is the picture of Papa Dan beside the mulberry tree, squinting up through the thick lenses of his glasses at the leafy green branches. Was Henry the phantom image I know I saw in the mulberry tree, even though it doesn’t show up in the photo? Or is he the boy I saw peering up at the branches? Was it Henry I saw a moment ago in the shadows outside, staring up at me?
After studying the snapshot a long time, I lay it aside and pick up Henry’s pocket watch, close it, trace the engraving on the back with my thumb. I wrap my fingers tightly around it and lift the crystal with my other hand for a closer look. The cut glass catches the overhead light, releasing a shimmering prism of radiance that reflects off the shiny surface of the picture with the same luminous intensity as the sunbeam that touched Papa Dan by the windmill.
The image in the photograph shimmers, shifts, fades to black-and-white. My hand trembles, and I drop the crystal as the scene in the snapshot broadens and surrounds me…
…I stand in snow across from the still figure of the guy looking into the tree. His squinting eyes are exactly like my grandfather’s, his face like photographs I’ve seen of Papa Dan as a boy. A sparrow hangs motionless above his head.
Henry’s pocket watch presses against my palm. I spread my fingers, and the cover pops open. The hands have moved to 8:15.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
My heartbeat is the only sound I hear. No wind blows, but the air is so cold that goose bumps scatter up my arms. I exhale, and a white puff of breath suspends in front of my face like a tiny, low-hanging cloud. I step closer to the tree where the phantom guy sits as still as a doll upon a gnarled, barren branch, his black button eyes staring down at me. His face is no longer blurred. Startled by his resemblance to Tate Hudson, I back up, whirl around, come face-to-face with the teenaged version of Papa Dan. Hysteria spirals up inside of me, twisting like a tornado, swelling. I reach my hand toward my boyish grandfather but stop short of touching his face.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
The house looms in front of me, the paint no longer chipped and peeling. I tilt my head back to look up at the turret, feel dizzy, and close my eyes—
“Tansy!” Mom calls from somewhere far off, and I feel myself sucked back into the turret. “Hailey’s on my cell phone. She said you haven’t been answering yours.”
Opening my eyes, I jump to my feet, but my knees feel like putty, so I immediately sink to the floor and prop my elbows on my knees. Shivering uncontrollably, I cover my face with my hands and surrender to a bone-deep chill. “Ohmygod, ohmygod,” I whisper, rocking back and forth. What just happened? The air in the room is still, but a cold wind swirls inside me, murmuring an answer that I can’t hear.
“Tansy?” Mom yells louder. “Hailey—”
“Tell her I’m in the shower,” I call back, my voice unsteady and raw. Realizing that I’m clutching Henry’s watch so tight that my nails are digging into my palm, I splay my fingers to find the cover open, though I know I closed it only moments ago.
The hands on the face read 8:15.
8
At seven thirty on Monday morning, I walk beneath the center archway at the entrance to Cedar Canyon High School, down the noisy first floor hallway, and into the office.
Clock is ticking…ticking…tricking…
The secretary welcomes me and gives me a locker assignment, a lock, and my class schedule. We go over it together and she tells me where to find my homeroom.
I walk in and see the teacher’s name, Mrs. Tilby, scrawled in red marker across the front eraser board. There are four rows of five desks, a few of them filled. Five lab tables form an L down one side and across the back of the room. I head for the empty table closest to the door, then sit and watch the Cedar Canyon Bobcats file in.
Footsteps clicking…clicking…clicking…
On top of having the new-girl jitters, I can’t quit thinking about what happened in the turret last night and wondering if I’m going insane. Is this how Papa Dan feels? Scared and confused and out of control? As if his mind is teasing him cruelly?
Trying to calm my nerves, I look around the room, avoiding eye contact with everyone. On the opposite wall, someone has used black paint to scrawl the words Science, Matter, Energy, Atoms, and Observe in big cursive letters. Colorful construction paper orbs hang from the ceiling. From prior science classes, I know they’re called icosahedrons and that each one has twenty sides. The spheres hover above me, as motionless as the sparrow in the frozen world I stepped into last night. That’s how it seemed—as if the crystal’s radiance transported me into the photograph. Crazy.
As the bell rings, Mrs. Tilby walks over, carrying a box of lab equipment. She sets it on my table and says quietly, “I need this space. Would you mind moving to the back?” She motions to a lab table where a tall, thin girl sits writing in a spiral notebook with her head down. Her long, dark hair gleams beneath the fluorescent lights and falls forward to hide her face. All the desks are full now, so I make my way to her table.
Textbooks are stacked on the tabletop opposite the girl so I lay my backpack on the floor next to the stool beside her. The moment I sit, she says, “Hi.” I smile and turn to her, my heart dipping when I realize it’s Shanna, and that she isn’t talking to me but to Tate, who is approaching us. I smile again—at him this time—but he doesn’t smile back. I avert my gaze quickly, wondering what’s changed since the other night at the Longhorn Café. Was he just pretending to be friendly to the weird new girl on a dare or something? Mad at myself for being such a dope, I grab my backpack, and take out a notebook and a pen.
Tate sits across from us, pushing a stack of books on the table aside to make room for his backpack. “What’s up, Shanna?” he asks, but I feel his gaze on me. I glance up to find his blue eyes narrowed and brooding, just like the phantom guy’s black eyes last night. I must have fallen asleep in the turret; I must have been dreami
ng. Why else would Tate and the ghost look alike? I had Tate on my mind after hearing him argue with his father at the Watermelon Run; that’s the only explanation that makes sense.
“You haven’t been hanging out with anybody much lately,” Shanna says, her smile seeping into her voice. “How come?”
Tate shrugs. “No reason.”
Shanna wears dark eyeliner and too much mascara. She doesn’t spare me a glance; she’s too busy staring at Tate with a dopey grin on her face. I can’t blame her. Even though I pretended otherwise to Mom, Tate might possibly be the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Not perfect or pretty. Not even handsome, really. He’s…startling. Imposing, my mother would say; an oak tree in a mesquite-dotted field. He is definitely the most interesting guy I’ve spotted so far at Cedar Canyon High School. Which isn’t saying much, since in a school this size, there aren’t many guys to choose from, hot or otherwise.
As the principal welcomes us to a new school year over the intercom, then begins reading announcements, Rooster Boy walks in wearing diarrhea green high-top sneakers and a T-shirt with some old dead rock star on front. Damp curly hair falls into his eyes. “Sorry,” he says, nodding at the teacher. “Couldn’t find any clean undies this morning.” Everyone laughs except Mrs. Tilby.
“Take a seat, Mr. Jenks,” she says.
He heads for the empty stool next to Tate, and I add one more reason why this morning sucks to an already long list. “Hey! Zombie Girl,” he whispers, shooting a blast of heat up my neck. Ignoring him, I start writing in my notebook, making an inventory of supplies I need for my darkroom. Anything to make me look busy. Since I’m not cooperating with Rooster Boy’s antics, he makes kissing noises at Shanna. She looks up from the note she’s writing to give him a stop-it-or-die glare.
The principal talks on and on while Mrs. Tilby unloads lab slides and beakers onto the table up front. Quiet laughter drifts on the air like a breeze. I pretend to concentrate on my list while sneaking peeks at Shanna’s note to someone named “Beeyotch.” Ironic, since I’ve been thinking that name would suit Shanna perfectly.
Where were you before school? Shanna’s note asks. Emily and I looked for you in the parking lot. We were so nervous about walking into the building that we had to sneak an early-morning beer in Em’s car to calm our nerves.
That surprises me. Not the beer so much but the nervous part. Shanna doesn’t seem the type. I wonder if “Beeyotch” is Straight-A Alison. Would she risk her goody-two-shoes reputation by drinking beer in the morning? Or any other time? She looks too sweet to be real, but I think she has a lot of people fooled. Especially the adults in this town, if Mary Jane and J. B. are any indication. I might’ve fallen for her pious act, too, if I hadn’t caught her, Shanna, and Rooster Boy making fun of me at the Longhorn Café, if I hadn’t heard Shanna’s disgusted comments about Papa Dan. And they all laughed at him when we were at City Drug. As bad as Shanna and Rooster Boy are, though, at least they don’t pretend to be something they aren’t. Alison is like Hailey—a fake. Must be exhausting to put on an act all the time, to try to look perfect.
On the intercom, the principal asks us to stand and say the Pledge of Allegiance, and after we do, we have a minute of silence. Must be one of those small-town traditions Mom was talking about. Except in elementary school, I’ve never been required to recite the Pledge in any of the other places I’ve lived. And the silent thing is definitely a first.
Mrs. Tilby calls roll, and when she says my name, I answer, “Here.”
She looks up from her attendance book. Finally some attention. Lucky me. “You’re the young lady from California?”
“Yes,” I say, and every gaze in the room darts in my direction.
She taps her pencil against the earpiece of her glasses. “Welcome to Texas,” she says. Her smile is like plastic wrap, thin and transparent. Pointing the pencil at my head, she adds, “We don’t allow hats in the classroom.”
The heat in my cheeks spreads up to my forehead. Serenaded by snorts, snickers, and whispers, I pull off the beret.
Laughter pealing, I am feeling eyes that follow, words that stalk.
I cram the hat inside my backpack, and throughout the rest of roll call, stare over Mrs. Tilby’s head at a narrow strip of poster paper attached on the wall above the eraser board that reads: The Important Thing Is to Not Stop Questioning.—Einstein.
Questions. All at once, they flood my mind. Was what happened last night a dream, even though it didn’t seem like one? Or is Henry haunting our house…haunting Papa Dan and me? Is he the phantom in the mulberry tree? I think of the young image of Papa Dan staring up at him through the branches. Were he and Henry friends when they were young? Enemies? What does my grandfather remember that has him so upset?
Another bell rings. Stools scrape the floor, voices rise, and a minor stampede ensues as everyone heads for first period. I push away from the table and stand, aware that two sets of eyes are watching me. “Zom-bie Girl-y,” Rooster Boy says in a singsong voice. He extends both arms out in front of him and walks stiff-legged into the hallway.
I dart a glance at Tate. Something in his stare bothers me more than Rooster Boy’s teasing. Is distrust what I see in his eyes? Or is he pissed off at me? Either option is totally bizarre, since we don’t even know each other. My stomach clenches as I start for the door. I’ve dealt with plenty of Rooster Boys in plenty of towns. But I don’t know how to deal with what I see in Tate Hudson’s moody blue eyes.
Clock is ticking…ticking…tricking…
In the school’s hallways it’s easy to disappear. I’m just another body hurrying along, which should relieve me, but it doesn’t.
They travel in groups.
I travel alone.
They call out to one another, laugh together.
I move quietly, unknown, unnoticed.
They exist.
I am fading, dissipating; they can’t see me; they don’t know….
I’m not sure what I want anymore. I hate being watched, laughed at, and whispered about. But maybe it’s worse not to be seen at all, passed by as if I’m invisible. Is that what happened when I held Henry’s crystal over the photograph? Did I fade from this world, scatter to dust, then reappear in the picture?
My beret flattened my short hair. I want to try to make it look halfway decent before my first-period class starts, so I head for the restroom. I open the door in time to hear someone say, “—and her disgusting hats are so unbelievably lame.”
Stepping inside, I see two girls standing at the sinks with their backs to me. Straight-A Alison and Beer-for-Breakfast Shanna. Shanna is distracted by her own image as she applies even more mascara to her already clotted lashes, but Alison sees me in the mirror. Before she can jab her friend with an elbow to shut her up, Shanna continues, “I heard she’s one of those West Coast whack jobs who only eat green stuff.”
The elbow works. Shanna’s gaze shoots up to mine in the mirror as Alison swivels around to face me, wearing a guilty smile. A whisper weaves through my mind…. Lies are spreading, I am dreading empty smiles, the same old lines.
Alison looks so pretty, so Betty Crocker cake mix wholesome and fresh, like she got a full eight hours of sleep last night instead of tossing and turning like I did. She wears a crisp white sleeveless blouse, sky blue denim capris, silver sandals. Her pale hair falls in soft, gentle waves to her shoulders.
A toilet flushes. Moving past Alison and Shanna to escape into a stall, I run into someone. Or, to be exact, she runs into me. My backpack falls from my hands and lands upside down on the floor, scattering the contents.
“Ohmygosh,” a voice screeches. “Oh, geez. Darn and double darn.”
I’m only five feet four inches tall, but the girl in front of me barely reaches my shoulders in height. Her clothes are too big for her stumpy frame, and she’s stepping on the hem of her pants in back. One look at her thin, straight, mouse-brown hair, pulled back at the sides with little-girl barrettes, and I’m sure she cuts her bangs li
ke Mom says my grandmother used to cut hers—with Scotch tape and sewing scissors. They’re straight across and blunt, with a jagged spot in the center. The girl drops to her knees on the scuffed bathroom floor and crawls on all fours, chasing a rolling tube of my lip balm.
Behind me, Alison and Shanna giggle. “Stinky!” Shanna exclaims. “Did you just use a curse word? Shame on you. What would your mother say?”
Kneeling, I begin scooping my stuff into my backpack. The strange little girl is in a stall now, still in pursuit of the fleeing tube of lip balm. Considering where it’s been, I’m not so sure I want it anymore. “O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!” she shrieks.
Shanna rolls her eyes and mutters, “What a whack job.”
“You okay?” Alison asks me quietly, but I detect a smothered laugh in her voice.
“I’m fine.” Keeping my head lowered, I push to my feet. Alison hands me my comb, and I stuff it into my backpack.
“Let’s go,” Shanna says with a groan. “We’re going to be late.”
“’Bye,” Alison murmurs over the noise that floods in from the hallway as she and Shanna push through the door and leave.
Through Her Eyes Page 8
