A shock wave jolts through Isabel, and her hand flies up to the bauble she wears above the neckline of her plum-colored dress—the crystal pendant Henry gave her. Alarmed by the look in his eye, she quickly searches the dance floor for Daniel and Louise, hoping they’ll come to her rescue and help her calm whatever storm is brewing inside him, but she can’t find them.
Henry reaches her side and hands her the cup. She smells liquor on his breath. “Let’s go,” he says, then lifts the flask and takes another swig.
“Put that away,” she whispers, praying no chaperones have seen him. “You’ll get kicked out.”
“Too late,” Henry slurs. He nods across the gym to where Mr. Owen, the principal, watches them with crossed arms and narrowed eyes. “He says he’ll be calling my folks tomorrow.” Henry laughs bitterly. “If he figures out how to reach them, maybe he’ll let me in on the secret. Not that they’d give a rat’s ass what I’m doing, anyway.”
Before she can ask any questions, Henry grabs her wrist and starts walking. “Our coats,” Isabel stammers, but he doesn’t stop. It’s all she can do to keep up with him as he heads for the exit. Punch sloshes from the cup she holds and onto her dress. She manages to set the cup on a table beside the door just before they step outside into the frigid night air. The door slams shut behind them. Snow crunches beneath their feet.
Halfway to the curb, Isabel hears the door open again. Music blares, then muffles. Someone yells, “Henry!”
Henry comes to an abrupt halt, and Isabel stumbles. They both turn to see Daniel rushing toward them.
“Where are you going?” Daniel asks.
Henry leers at him. “I’ve been asked to leave.”
“I heard. You’re drunk.”
“Am I, now?” Staring defiantly at Daniel, he takes another long, taunting drink from the silver flask.
Tears of humiliation form a hard knot in Isabel’s throat. Shivering, she whispers, “Henry, stop.” She can’t bear to look at Daniel. She knows what he’s thinking—that they’ve been wrong about Henry all these years, that everyone else is right. He thinks Henry is unhinged and peculiar, that he should be locked up in a hospital somewhere. That she is almost as crazy for loving him. Why is Henry doing this to her? To himself?
Despite his behavior tonight, despite the horrifying slashes on his wrist—proof of his troubled soul—she longs to defend Henry. Defend herself. She loves him, and that fact builds her resolve to stand by him, no matter what anyone thinks, even Daniel.
Daniel calls her name and she lifts her chin, steadies herself, and meets his gaze squarely. “I told Mr. Owen I’d see you home,” he says, offering her his hand. “Come inside. We’ll get Louise.”
“I’m not going anywhere without Henry.”
Concern flickers in Daniel’s eyes. “We’ll take him, too. He shouldn’t be driving. The roads are icy, and he can barely stand up.”
“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,” Henry snaps, slipping the flask into his jacket pocket. “You’re not taking me anywhere.” He tightens his grip on Isabel’s arm, and they start down the sidewalk again.
“Let me help you,” Daniel pleads as he follows behind them. “Henry, you’re fried.”
“Go back to your boring new friends,” Henry snarls over his shoulder.
“Think of Isabel, Henry. Even when you’re sober, you drive like a madman.”
We reach Henry’s car, and he releases Isabel’s arm to open the door.
“Let me take you home, Isabel,” Daniel says. “Your folks will never forgive me if I let you go with him.”
I feel her loyalty to Henry, her denial that he might hurt her, and at once it becomes my own. Our love will keep us safe and save him, make everything right again, make him all right. And then an image of the bridge creeps in to cloud my certainty and with it…fear. What if he takes her there now? What if tonight is the night? What if we see him—
Dread washes through me, but I don’t sense Isabel’s awareness of it. With everything in me, I try to make her feel it, too, try to weave my thoughts into her brain until she hears them whispering through her mind as I hear hers. Her legs are mine, so why can’t I make her step away from the car, away from Henry? “I’ll be okay,” she tells Daniel as she moves past the door Henry holds open for her and climbs into the car.
For the first time, I realize how little control I have over the situation. I am completely at Isabel’s mercy. What happens to her will happen to me until I go back to my own world—the real world. But what if I don’t go back this time? What if I’m stuck here in this car alone with Henry? If I can’t reach Isabel, can I reach him? Reason with him? Resist him? Stand up for myself? Even if I can, can I make Isabel do the same?
It’s no use. How did I ever think I could tell Henry good-bye or anything else? Why won’t he say what he wants me to know, give me his message and let me leave?
“Isabel,” Daniel says, “you’re asking for trouble.”
She knows that Daniel isn’t referring to the icy roads and Henry’s inability to drive; I know it, too, and I’m afraid.
Henry closes the door, takes a breath, then swivels around and punches Daniel in the face. Isabel shrieks as blood spurts from Daniel’s nose and he stumbles backward, slipping on the icy sidewalk and landing on his tailbone. Before he can get up, Henry runs around to the driver’s side of the car and jumps in. He starts the engine and takes off.
“Why did you do that?” Isabel cries, grasping his arm.
“Daniel needs to mind his own business.” The car swerves left to right as Henry looks down at his jacket and fumbles in the pocket for his flask. Pulling it out, he opens it using only one hand, then lifts it to his mouth and drinks.
Isabel stares out the front window at the layer of snow and ice encrusted on it. Bracing herself, she clutches the sides of the seat and yells, “You can’t see! Slow down. You’re driving too fast.” She squeezes her eyes shut when the car hits a bump and veers off toward the side of the road. Her head snaps back as they lurch to a stop nose-down in the ditch.
Before she can catch her breath, Henry is leaning over, kissing her, pressing her back against the seat. I taste the alcohol on his breath, feel the pressure of his body, and my own emotions surge up, overpowering Isabel’s. I feel trapped…threatened. But it’s Isabel who places her hands to his chest, Isabel who tries to push him away. “Stop!” she breathes against Henry’s lips. “Don’t do this…please.”
Henry pulls back, and I taste tears on Isabel’s lips. “Henry,” she whispers, “why are you doing this?” She lifts her hand to his face and brushes her fingers across his cheek. “What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong?”
Henry tenses. “What’s wrong with me?” Raw pain sizzles in his glare. Scooting over, he reaches to open the glove box and pulls a metal scraper from inside. Then he throws open his door, letting in a gush of cold air. “You’re no different than the others,” he says in a pinched voice, climbing from the car.
Shivering and aching, Isabel watches Henry scrape snow and ice from the windshield. When he finishes, he climbs in beside her again, starts the engine, and throws the vehicle into Reverse. The tires spin in place as Henry steps on the gas—
—I startle and exhale as the world around me transforms. The photograph slips from my hand and flutters to the floor. I clutch the crystal with fingers that are as cold as my toes. My head throbs, making me wonder what jolted me back. Then I hear it…a noise outside, carried by the wind. The nightingale goes silent.
Remnants of the terrifying experience in Henry’s world crowd my mind as I make my way to the window and look out. Tattered clouds cover the moon. Tree branches bend and sway. Shadows dance across the lawn. I move to the other window that overlooks the cellar and barn, squint, and look closer. The shadows part and, between them, I see someone bent over the cellar door.
Adrenaline shoots through me as, inhaling sharply, I turn and press my back to the wall. Why doesn’t Mom ever hear the prowler outside? I
f she has, wouldn’t she have mentioned it? Wouldn’t she have gone down to investigate? Her room is at the front of the house, so maybe she’s too far away to hear. Or, like the ringing bell at the Quattlebaums’ farm and the nightingale’s song, maybe the noise is only meant to reach my ears.
I know I should wake her and tell her someone is trying to break into the cellar. Tell her about the door’s splintered edges. We could take a flashlight and check it out together. Or call Sheriff Ray Don and ask him to come.
But what if I did and we didn’t find any sign of an intruder near the cellar? What if the wooden door is smooth? Intact? What if I’m the only one who sees the damage?
She and the sheriff will know I’m messed up, confused, out of my mind. Mom will ask questions, and I won’t be able to look her in the eye and lie. Would she take away my camera? The photographs? Henry’s crystal and the journal? They’re my only links to him. My only links to Daniel. And Bell. As terrified as I am of going back to the other world, I know that I have to, if only for her. I have to find a way to help Isabel. Even as I think that, I know how crazy it sounds. Whatever is going to happen to Bell has already taken place. I can’t undo it. Or can I?
I concentrate on pacing my breaths. I’m afraid to tell Mom about the prowler, and I’m afraid not to. But there’s only one thing to do; I have to handle this myself, my way.
Pushing away from the wall, I hurry toward my bedroom door, open it quietly, slip down the stairs to the screened-in back porch, and let myself out. The wind moans as it rushes around me, so loud I can’t hear anything else. Stubbly grass scratches the soles of my feet when I step into the yard, and goose bumps scatter up my bare legs. I crush the hem of my T-shirt together between the fingers of one fisted hand and walk toward the cellar, stopping short when I see a figure crouched over the door. One arm rears back. The shadowy figure is holding something. “Who’s there?” I call in a quaking voice.
The shadow wobbles, jumps up, and runs behind the barn. I follow, but the pebbles poking my bare feet slow me down, and by the time I circle to the back, the prowler is nowhere in sight.
Panting, I stand beneath the cloaked moon, staring across the field. Wind whips the long grass, turning it into a dark sea of waves that crash in my ears, drowning out every other noise in the night. But soon the gusts subside to a breeze, and the roar calms to a shushing sound. I hear the blades of the old windmill creaking, see its shadow towering in the distance like a broken lighthouse. Something tickles my toes, and just as the clouds part and a flicker of moonlight filters through, I glance down and see paper fluttering beneath my right arch. Crouching for a closer look, I raise my foot. Not paper, a feather. Tiny and brown like the nightingale. I try to grab it, but another sudden, hard gust blows it out of my reach, and the feather floats away into the black sky.
Gazing across the field, I wrap my arms around myself. Tomorrow night, if the prowler comes back, I’ll be ready…whether it’s Henry’s ghost or a flesh-and-bone person.
18
The next day, I forget to remove Papa Dan’s beret before homeroom. Mrs. Tilby is in a horrible mood. She doesn’t waste time telling me to take it off; instead, she marches to my table and tugs the hat off my head. The laughter in the room dies quickly beneath her stern glare. Mrs. Tilby returns to her desk, scribbles on a pad, then brings me a detention slip.
Across the lab table, a monochrome Rooster Boy mouths, Zombie Girl, his lips wrapping grotesquely around each syllable, his wink exaggerated. Beside him, Tate watches me with an expression on his face that I can’t read—worry, maybe, and something else. I turn away from his gaze, and as everyone heads for their next class, I hurry out into the hallway and disappear into a pewter sea of students before he can stop me.
The gloom continues through first period. I spend the entire class trying to ward off a panic attack. After finding the bird feather last night, I went back to bed, but the incidents with Henry and the prowler kept replaying through my mind until all the details became jumbled and intertwined. I didn’t even doze, and I feel as if I’m sleepwalking today.
When class ends, I escape to the restroom and close myself in a stall, dizzy and sweating. The photos are inside my backpack. I have Bell’s crystal around my neck, hidden beneath my shirt. I pull it free, comforted by its silky smoothness.
I’m afraid to see Henry again, but I have to make sure that Bell is safe. I’m so worried about her. Did he take her home? Did they make it back safely on the icy roads? Did Henry hurt her…or himself? After the way he acted that night, maybe I shouldn’t even care what happened to him, but I do. I want to look into his eyes, tell him everything will turn out okay, even though I know that’s a lie. I want to rub my thumb across the scars on his wrist and take away his pain. How can I love him and be so afraid of him, too?
The zipper sounds loud in the silent restroom as I tug open my backpack. My fingers find the photographs without searching. I do what I have to do and wait for the shimmer of light to transport me….
…The sun’s rays weaken with twilight’s approach. Henry chases Isabel up the trail. Near the top, she squeals, dodging his outstretched arms. Too late. He catches her wrist, tugs, and we tumble to the snow-dusted ground. During our playful scuffle, she manages to scoop up a handful of snow in her glove and toss it at him. Laughing and red-faced, he rolls her onto her back and pins her wrists at either side of her head.
“Let me up! It’s freezing down here!” Isabel cries.
A glint lights Henry’s eyes. “Say ‘uncle.’”
“I won’t!”
“I guess you’ll just have to freeze then.”
She glares up at him, says, “Uncle,” so quietly I barely hear the word.
“Louder.” He tightens his grip. “Say it like you mean it.”
“Uncle!” she yells. “I’m turning into an icicle!”
“Then I’ll just have to melt you.” He kisses her slowly until she stops struggling and kisses him back. Then he lifts his head and looks at her in a way that turns me inside out. Shifting his weight, he stands and pulls her to her feet.
Isabel frees her wrist from his grasp, and then dusts snow off her shoulders and the back of her hat. “You’re a tyrant, Henry Peterson.” She tries to sound miffed, but it’s impossible to be angry with him—impossible for Isabel and for me. How long has it been since I last laughed as much? In this world—as Bell—maybe only yesterday. But in my other world—as Tansy—I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt as giddy or had so much fun.
Bell has forgiven Henry for his behavior last night at the Winter Dance and for what happened afterward. Now that I’m here and understand her reasoning, I find myself forgiving him, too. The alcohol turned him into a stranger. Henry didn’t scare or hurt us; the stranger did. The stranger was forceful and dangerous, not Henry. Isabel has convinced herself of this; I want to believe it, too, and so I push my doubts aside.
“Don’t pout.” Henry draws her closer. “Why didn’t you sneak over to the house last night after I dropped you off? You said you would. I kept my end of the bargain and went to that ridiculous dance.”
Isabel drops her gaze. “I wanted to come, but—”
“Were you with someone else?”
His sudden harsh tone startles me. “Of course not!” Isabel protests. But then the memory of a face flashes through my mind, one resembling Henry’s yet different enough that I know it isn’t his but Tate’s. I have the strangest feeling that Isabel sees it, too. “No,” she repeats more softly, looking down again. “I was home in bed.”
“Were you afraid?” Isabel nods, and he lifts her chin until I look into his eyes. “What happened last night…it won’t happen again, Bell…I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she whispers.
“What did I tell you?”
“Not to be afraid of us being together.”
He smiles. “Will you trust me next time?”
She nods again.
“Good, because I waited for you, and I was di
sappointed. Don’t disappoint me again, Bell. I need you.”
For just a moment, Henry’s eyes look like the stranger’s did last night, and his voice holds the same intensity. I’m not sure if the ripple of unease I feel is my own or Isabel’s—or if we share it. But the realization that the stranger is a part of Henry brings with it a powerful, unsettling dread. Is it possible to keep that side of him at bay?
“We’re together now,” Isabel says quickly, desperate to smooth the ruffled edges of his anger and chase away his terrifying twin.
“It isn’t enough,” he tells her. “I want you with me all the time.”
She steps away from him. “What are you saying?”
He catches her hands in his. “Do you want to be with me?”
“You know I do, but how?”
“We could go away.”
“I can’t leave Mama and Daddy. They’d never let me go.”
“They don’t have to know. We’ll plan it so they won’t miss you until it’s too late.”
The idea of running away with Henry frightens and thrills Isabel at once. “I don’t know, Henry,” she says. “Where would we go?”
“Somewhere they’ll never find us. I don’t want to have to sneak around to be together anymore. Do you?”
I look down at Isabel’s shoes as she whispers, “No.”
A recent lecture from her parents comes to mind. I’m not sure how I know what they said, since I wasn’t there, but I do. They insisted that Henry is “trouble” and that she shouldn’t see him. When they found out she skipped school to be alone with him, they forbade her to spend time with him outside of class. We’re only here now thanks to Louise. Louise wasn’t happy about it, but Isabel talked her into providing an alibi again today. I realize, though, that she’s only buying time. The photo from the Winter Dance is bound to appear in the evening newspaper or, at the very latest, tomorrow’s edition. When Isabel’s parents see it, I won’t be surprised if they send her south to live with her aunt, just as they warned her they would. Isabel is also afraid that’s what they’ll do.
Through Her Eyes Page 22
