by Liana Liu
“Now let’s join hands,” I say, reaching out my arms. Ella sets her palms on mine. Her fingers are cold. I look at my notes. “Now we have to say ‘Eleanor Arrow, this is no longer your home.’ We’re going to chant it three times. Then we’re going to say ‘Eleanor Arrow, we set you free.’ Also, three times. Ready?”
“Ready,” Ella says solemnly.
“Eleanor Arrow, this is no longer your home,” we chant three times.
“Eleanor Arrow, we set you free,” we chant three times.
Shadows rise and sway around us, flickering with the candlelight. Despite myself, I feel uneasy. I am putting on this show for Ella’s benefit—I want to relieve her fears. But all of a sudden it doesn’t feel like a show anymore.
“Now we’ll cut this paper into pieces and burn them,” I say. I pause. I frown. “Under normal circumstances, we shouldn’t be playing with fire like this. Fire can be really dangerous. I’ll do the burning. You cut. Promise me you won’t try this again, and never play with fire.”
“I promise,” Ella says.
I pass her the scissors, and she cuts the paper into strips. I dip each one into the fire. They burn fast. PEACE. Smoke swirling. FUN. The air bitter with burning. FRIENDS. Paper melting into ashes. HAPPINESS. Ashes dissolving into dust.
When the last strip vanishes, Ella and I rejoin hands.
“Now we’re going to chant ‘Good-bye, Eleanor.’ Three times,” I say. When I made up this routine, I worried it was too ridiculous, that I wouldn’t be able to get through it without giggling. But my voice is serious. I am now completely serious.
“Good-bye, Eleanor. Good-bye, Eleanor. Good-bye, Eleanor!” we say.
Then something happens.
The flame flares up and doesn’t go down. The candlelight fills the jar, expands past the jar, fills the whole room. The heat is fierce. The brightness is blinding. The air thickens and turns into something else, something solid. And hot.
“Ella!” I shout, but no sound comes from my mouth. I clutch her hands and try to pull her toward me. We have to get out of the pink room.
But Ella doesn’t budge. And it feels purposeful—as if she could move if she wanted, but she doesn’t want to move.
“Ella, come on!” I shout.
“No, it’s okay. We just have to wait,” she shouts back.
Yet neither of us makes a sound.
It makes no sense. How can I hear her if we’re not actually speaking?
But I can hear her. So I wait. I hold on to Ella and wait.
After a minute, the fire begins sinking slowly but steadily, like water draining from a tub, until it’s just a normal candle flame. Then, with a feeling like a sigh, the light goes out completely.
We sit silently in the dark. I’m not scared anymore. My body feels strangely light, as if I might float away. Suddenly I start laughing. As soon as I do, Ella laughs too. We laugh and we laugh, great big gusts of loud, wailing, joyous laughter. We laugh until we sob. Then we start laughing again.
The glaring overhead light comes on. I turn around, dazzled and disoriented by the abrupt brightness. There is a figure standing in the doorway.
“What’s going on in here?” says the figure.
I blink hard to clear my vision. “Nothing,” I say.
“We freed Eleanor!” says Ella.
“Who’s Eleanor?” asks Henry.
I look at Ella. She looks at me. I sigh.
“You want to come in?” I say.
For a moment Henry merely stands there, and I think he’s going to turn around and walk away. But then he does what I asked. Maybe because Ella is here. Maybe because he’s too curious not to. He sits down on the floor with us.
“Eleanor is the ghost,” says Ella.
“The ghost? We have a ghost?” He looks excited.
“Not anymore,” I say. “We just set her free.”
“She was the one who broke the bowl at dinner,” says Ella.
“Huh, okay.” Henry nods. “Tell me more.”
Ella tells him everything: that Eleanor Arrow, forgotten daughter of Lionel, has been haunting us. That she was angry about the party, which is why she destroyed the bowl of tomato soup during dinner. But that we—she and I—have just set her free. And that the room filled with a bright light as Eleanor left.
“Great job, El,” Henry says. “But I wish you had told me we were being haunted, so I could have helped. Or at least gotten a chance to meet her before you released her.”
Ella looks at him apologetically. “Eleanor didn’t like boys. Especially brothers.”
“Hmm. Sounds like someone else we know.” He looks at me.
I know he is talking about me and him. But I can’t help thinking about my own brother. I stand up. “We should probably get to bed,” I say. “Tomorrow’s going to be a big day. Ella, want me to tuck you in?”
“No, I’ll tuck her in,” Henry says.
“You both can,” she says magnanimously.
The three of us go to her room. Ella gets into bed. I sit on one side of her, and Henry sits on the other. “Good night,” we say. I pat her shoulder. Henry kisses her cheek.
“Good night.” Ella shuts her eyes and wriggles her face into the pillow. Her breathing slows and steadies. She seems to fall instantly asleep.
I look at Henry. He is looking at me. But as soon as my gaze meets his, he gets up and walks out of the room. I follow him into the hallway, carefully shutting Ella’s door behind me.
“Henry,” I say.
He keeps walking.
“Henry,” I say again.
“Yeah?” He keeps walking.
“Can we talk? Please. Just for a minute,” I say.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Henry says. But he turns around.
I take a deep breath and say, “I want to apologize for yesterday. And last week. I’m sorry I called you selfish and self-centered. You’re not. I just freaked out that night because . . . never mind. You were right. I’m not nice.”
He frowns and my heart sinks and I tell myself that I did what I could—I apologized—and I can’t force him to forgive me. But then he says, “No, you are nice. I only said you weren’t because I was mad. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“Do what?” he says.
“Apologize when I’m apologizing. I’m the jerk here.”
“But I shouldn’t have told you not to worry so much about your family,” he says. “You were right—I don’t know what it’s like for you.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what it’s like for you either. Though, stupidly, I thought I did.”
“Okay, so now we’re fighting about who’s the biggest stupid jerk?”
“Yeah. Please let me win this one,” I say.
“Never.” Henry smirks. Or maybe it’s a grin. Maybe it has always been a grin and I just never realized it. “Friends again?” he asks.
“Friends again,” I say.
“How about a swimming lesson tomorrow?”
“It’ll be too busy with the party and everything.”
“Okay, swimming lesson the day after tomorrow?”
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “But the party . . . is it still on, you think?”
Henry grimaces. “Important question. No answer. It’s pretty ironic that I’ve been dreading this event all summer, but now I’m worried about it not happening.”
“What do you think will happen if it’s canceled?”
“Vanessa will divorce my dad.”
“Really?”
“It’s possible. Ness has a way of overreacting.”
“In this case, I don’t necessarily think she’d be overreacting,” I say, remembering the conversation I overheard. And how I told her about it at the worst possible time.
“Maybe not. But she definitely overreacted about Ella and the witchy stuff.”
“What witchy stuff?”
“I told you, remember? Ella’s falling-out with her friends?”
“Y
ou didn’t say anything about witches,” I say.
So Henry tells me the whole story. When Ella and her friends got in trouble for trashing the school bathroom, they hadn’t been vandalizing for vandalizing’s sake. They had been inspired by a movie about teenage witches, trying to cast a spell to see their future. So they drew hearts on the walls and draped toilet paper over the lights. They smeared lipstick on the sinks. Then they chanted magic words as they stared into the mirror, waiting to see what would become of them. And a teacher walked into the room.
“After that,” he says, “Vanessa got rid of all of Ella’s books and movies and toys that had anything to do with the supernatural. I think she was embarrassed that they all accused Ella of being the ringleader. Though . . . after hearing Ella talk about the ghost tonight, I can see how she might have been.”
Then Henry lowers his voice, making it soft and spooky, and says, “Now will you please tell me more about this ghost? What’s the deal?”
And because he lowers his voice, I have to lean closer in order to hear him. And because I lean closer, our faces are suddenly close together. Noses nearly touching. Lips almost aligned.
I quickly lean back. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“You actually think she was real?” Henry speaks normally again.
“Well, at first I thought Ella was making it up. Then I thought we were both making it up with our overactive imaginations or something. But what happened tonight felt really . . . real. Now I don’t know what to think. It’s all so weird and mysterious.”
“Well, the world is a weird and mysterious place.”
“I guess so,” I say. “Anyway, I should get to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”
“Hopefully,” Henry says with an expression of wide-eyed panic that isn’t all pretend.
We say good night. I go into the pink bedroom and clean up the remains of our ceremony. I return the trash bin to the bathroom. I put the candle, matches, scissors, and paper on the dresser. I toss the floral pillowcase in with my dirty laundry. Then I’m about to get into bed when I realize there’s something missing. I search on the floor, in the trash bin, on the dresser, under the rug.
The ballerina figurine is nowhere to be found.
It’s strange. I’ve tried multiple times to get rid of the thing this summer, yet now that she’s gone, I’m a little sad. And confused. Where did she go? I shake my head as I get into bed. The world is a weird and mysterious place.
But at least Henry and I are friends again. And—most important—the problem of Ella and the ghost has been solved. I hope.
9
THEN IT’S THE DAY OF THE PARTY. AS SOON AS I COME DOWNSTAIRS, I can tell it hasn’t been canceled. There is something in the atmosphere, a buzzing apprehension. A sense of excitement. Even though it’s just Ella, Vanessa, and old Mr. Morison sitting around the kitchen counter eating pancakes (Ella) and drinking coffee (Vanessa and Mr. Morison), as usual.
But then Vanessa jumps up and exclaims, “What am I doing? I have to go get ready. The event planners will be here in an hour!”
Jeffrey Morison enters the kitchen. “Good morning!”
I freeze, and so does Ella, and so does Mr. Morison. Only Vanessa turns to her husband. She walks right over to him and clasps her arms around his neck and lays her head on his chest. Jeffrey tips forward and kisses his wife’s hair. A few times.
“Morning, beautiful,” he says.
“Good morning,” she says.
I relax. Ella relaxes. Mr. Morison returns to his coffee, looking faintly disgusted. The bags under his eyes are dark and deep.
“Hi, Ellie. How’s my pretty girl today?” asks Jeffrey.
“Good, Daddy!” Ella chirps. “Um, Daddy, can we go out on the boat today?”
This was the original plan: Ella would distract her father and get him out of the house, away from the party preparations and arriving guests, until the magical moment of surprise. Apparently Ella is still operating according to plan, even though there can no longer be any surprise.
“Sure, Ellie. That’s a great idea! Will you join us?” Jeffrey asks his wife. As if he doesn’t know about the party.
“I wish I could, but I have some chores to do around here,” Vanessa says regretfully. As if she doesn’t know that her husband knows about the party.
“We should see if Henry wants to come along.” Jeffrey says to his daughter.
“Yeah, I’ll go ask him!” Ella hops off her stool, abandoning her pancakes.
“Darling, will you make sure she finishes her breakfast before you go? I’m going upstairs to get ready,” Vanessa says.
“Of course, sweetheart,” Jeffrey says.
They kiss.
I focus my attention on my pancakes. Banana. Walnuts. Maple syrup. Delicious. I’m glad the Morisons made up. Though I can’t help wondering how they managed it. And I can’t help wondering if she told him that I told her about the phone conversation I overheard.
But Jeffrey smiles at me when he comes over to sit at the counter. “Good morning,” he says. “Oh, and before I forget—here’s my HR manager’s business card. Email her, and she’ll arrange your internship for next summer.”
“Thanks.” I take the card he gives me and try to smile back.
“And how are you doing, Dad?” Jeffrey asks his father.
“If I were you,” says Mr. Morison, “I would be more concerned with how you’re doing.”
“Everything is under control,” snaps Jeffrey, and for a moment he is not Jeffrey Morison, rich and successful businessman, but a sulky kid annoyed at his father. He picks up the newspaper and starts reading, or pretends to.
I finish my pancakes and go upstairs to see if Vanessa needs any help. But she’s not in her room. She’s not in her office. She’s not in the library. I go back to the pink bedroom and there she is, standing on the fluffy white rug, surveying the pink walls and ornate furniture.
“Oh! I was looking for you,” I say.
She nods absently, still gazing at the floral and the frill. “I thought this room would be perfect for you. I wanted someone to enjoy it, especially after Ella refused to sleep here, but it is a bit over the top. The thing is . . . it’s the bedroom I always wanted when I was a little girl. Or thought I did. I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a beautiful room,” I tell her.
Vanessa smiles. “So, you were looking for me?”
“I wanted to see if you needed any help today.”
“I certainly do, which is why I came here to find you. Get ready. After lunch, you and I are going into town. We have an important appointment.”
“What appointment?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
Our very important appointment is at the hair salon.
“But I thought you needed my help with party stuff?” I say.
“No, no, no, of course not. That’s what event planners are for. They bring staff. They set up everything. Our only job is to get pretty,” Vanessa says, beaming, as if I had never helped her pick up invitations or type spreadsheets or stuff gift bags.
“Okay. Well, I’m happy to keep you company, but I don’t need—”
“Two shampoos, deep-condition treatments, and blowouts,” Vanessa tells the receptionist.
We sit side by side as we get our hair washed and deeply conditioned and blown and styled. Vanessa tells her stylist she wants a twisted side braid bun. Then she debates with my stylist about what to do with my hair. The stylist wants to do waves and Vanessa wants it straight and I have no opinion at all.
“What are you going to wear?” the stylist asks me.
“A black dress,” I say.
“What’s the fit? The neckline? Does it have any embellishments?”
“Um. It’s sleeveless and it dips a little in the front. It’s just a plain black dress,” I say. It’s my graduation dress, the newest and nicest one I have.
“We should do waves to add texture,” the stylist says.
“Do her hair straight,” Vanessa says.
Ironed straight, my hair is a sleek curtain of black hanging all the way to my waist. I look . . . different. Older. Bolder. I’m not sure I like it. But Vanessa and the stylist coo and stroke and pat me like a pet.
“You were right,” the stylist tells Vanessa.
“I know.” She smiles.
The house already looks like a surprise when we return: tiny twinkling lights in the trees, tables swathed in linen, glittering glassware, attractive waiters in sleek uniforms. There is a bar made of ice, and a handsome bartender organizing bottles behind it. The swimming pool has been covered in frosted acrylic to create a glowing blue dance floor.
“It’s perfect,” Vanessa and I say at the same time.
Then she tells me she’s going to her room to rest for a bit, and recommends I do the same. “Will you come up in an hour to help me zip up my dress?” she asks. “It’s a little challenging to get into.”
“Of course,” I say.
I go upstairs to the pink bedroom. I want to take a nap, but I can’t figure out how to lie down without creasing my hair. Eventually I just pile all the pillows behind me so I can recline comfortably. Somewhat comfortably. I take out my laptop and check my email. There’s a message from Ms. Baldwin.
Are you back in the city yet? I’ve gotten in touch with my friend Annabella Schultz, and she wants to talk to you. Let me know when you’re available and we’ll set something up. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but things are looking good—fingers crossed!
I frown at the screen. I have no idea what Ms. Baldwin is talking about. What hopes? What looks good? Who is Annabella Schultz? That, at least, I can look up on the internet, so I do. Annabella Schultz, I discover, is the assistant director of admissions and financial aid at Waltman College.
Immediately, I shut my laptop. As if I’d seen something inappropriate, something I didn’t want to see. But even with my computer closed, I still feel uneasy. I should probably email Ms. Baldwin back and thank her for her efforts, then tell her that I have no interest in going to Waltman College.
Instead I take out my phone and call my mother.
“Are you busy? Having dinner with Andy or something?” I ask when she answers.
“Wŏ zàijiā. Nĭ gēgē gēn tā de péngyŏu chūqù,” she says. No, I’m home. Your brother is out with his friends.
