Graffiti

by J. Fallenstein

  I realize I’ve just been standing around staring when Mrs. Whyse passes me with her own lunch. Together we watch Annie storm off.

  “What just happened?” I ask.

  “I think Annie and Alex broke up,” she says before continuing toward the counseling office.

  “2gether 4ever”? I guess not, I think to myself. Wanting more answers, I follow her with my tray. As we leave the cafeteria, I spot Tony and Patricia sitting together out of the corner of my eye. They get up and empty their trays into the big gray garbage tub. I lift my hand to wave to Patricia, but she doesn’t seem to notice me. Figures. She never notices anything when Tony is around.

  A few steps later, we’ve reached the counseling office, and I try to pry Mrs. Whyse for more information.

  “Hey Mrs. Whyse, you’ve lived here for a while, right?”

  “All my life,” she says.

  “Do you know anything about that old railroad bridge—the Billy Jones story?” I ask.

  Mrs. Whyse sets down her lunch and cocks her head. “That old legend?”

  “Yeah,” I say as I sit down to join her. “How does it go again?”

  “It’s said that if a couple writes their names on the old bridge at midnight, they will be together forever. Kids were doing it so much that the bridge looked trashy, so they finally sandblasted it clean last summer.”

  That must mean the names I saw on it were added after that. But why would Patricia say not to go there at night if writing on the bridge brings couples luck? Where does the curse fit in? I try not to think about what I saw in the water. “What does that have to do with the curse?”

  “Supposedly Billy Jones jumped off the bridge when his girlfriend broke up with him,” says Mrs. Whyse. “Some people say that he set the curse as he jumped.”

  “What does the curse do?”

  “They say that any couple who writes their names on the bridge can never break up. If they do, Billy Jones will come after them. Ever since then, local couples have seen it as a challenge, thinking that their relationship is worth the risk.” She looks like she wants to say even more.

  “Do you think it’s cursed?”

  She shrugs. “Last summer, right after it was finally cleaned, a couple wrote their names on the bridge, and then they broke up and . . . ”

  I lean in. “What? What happened?”

  “They were in a car accident. They somehow went off the road and drove straight at the bridge—the barrier was so decayed that they almost went right through it. The girl, Isobel, said she saw someone on the bridge who was about to jump, but when the police came no one was there.”

  “Did anyone die?” I almost don’t want to know. Yet I have to know, like how you have to look at an accident on the highway.

  “No. Isobel had a mild concussion and a broken ankle, and Henry had whiplash and a cut on his wrist.”

  Isobel and Henry, the same names under the bridge!

  “But since the accident,” Mrs. Whyse continues, “no one really goes near the bridge anymore, except the teenagers who think their love can withstand, despite the curse. And the city installed those new barriers to keep them away.”

  “So it is haunted,” I say. “You think so too.”

  “Every story has two sides. Check the library sometime for the old articles,” she says. Her office phone rings. As she gets up to answer it she says over her shoulder, “Decide for yourself.”

  I try to focus on the rest of my food, but I can’t stop thinking about the bridge. I check the clock. There’s fifteen minutes left before lunch is over, and my curiosity wins out: I hurry to the library. There’s no way I will be able to concentrate on political science without getting to the bottom of this story.

  This is the first time I’ve been to the school library since moving here. It’s smallish with shelf-lined walls, three computers, and a single table in the middle.

  “May I help you?” asks an older woman in jeans and knee-high black leather boots as she steps out of a tiny back office. She looks at me through round, red-rimmed glasses. Her short hair is gray, and the very tips are dyed purple.

  “Yes, I’m looking for some newspaper articles on Billy Jones.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Billy Jones? Why?”

  “Mrs. Whyse sent me to do research,” I say.

  Her head tilts. “Mrs. Whyse sent you?”

  “Yes,” I say loudly and with conviction because, well, it’s technically true.

  “Well then, wait one moment please.”

  She disappears back into her office and shuts the door. I hear some shuffling around before she comes out with a large brown folder. “These are copies,” she says. “I ordered them at the beginning of the school year when kids started asking about the ghost. Don’t take them or write on them or damage them in any way.” She sets the folder on the table.

  I sit down and eagerly open the folder. It contains a small stack of photocopied pages, the first being the front page of the Middleton Times from July 1880. There, among the ads for Pianos $10 and Goodyear Rubber and Buy the Finest Spectacles $2, $2.5, $3, is a small paragraph:

  Suicide in Middleton. July 3, Billy Jones, about 18 years of age, committed suicide last night about midnight by jumping off the railroad bridge. His body was found drowned in the river to-day near where he went into the water.

  I jump when the bell rings. The next period is going to start in a few minutes. “Find what you were looking for?” the librarian asks.

  “Nothing about a curse,” I say.

  “Of course not,” she says, taking the folder from my hand. “People never gave it much thought until last year’s accident.”

  ***

  For the rest of the day, I can’t concentrate. The algebra teacher calls on me twice before I hear her. I think about Billy Jones the whole way home. When I walk up the driveway, Kasey is sitting in the rocking chair on the porch in her black Pizza Pit hoodie. “Hey, Lu. What’s up?” she asks.

  “There was a fight today at school.”

  Her eyes widen. “At Middleton? No way!”

  “Not like a physical fight. It was Annie and Alex. They broke up, I guess. She flipped his lunch tray!”

  “Oh.” Kasey sounds sad. “They were such a cute couple.”

  “Maybe they’re cursed.” I sit on the steps of the porch.

  “Cursed? Why?”

  “The names-on-the-bridge-at-midnight thing.”

  “Oh, that,” she says.

  “I saw your name there.”

  “Kasey-n-Drew r tru.” She laughs. “I wrote that.”

  “Why did you write your names if the bridge is cursed?”

  “If you write your name at midnight, you’ll stay together. I had to do it, Drew was too chicken.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Was he afraid of getting in trouble or the curse?”

  “He’s superstitious. The curse thing freaks him out.”

  “So you’re making a promise to each other?”

  Kasey shrugs and flips her ponytail. “I don’t know. It’s just for fun. So Annie and Alex broke up, whatever. They’re not the first.”

  “But what about the Billy Jones curse?”

  “Maybe people like a challenge. Nothing says ‘I love you’ like defacing a cursed bridge, right? Look at what happened to Isobel and Henry—they wrote their names on the bridge, broke up, and then—”

  “Yeah, didn’t they have an accident near the bridge?”

  She nods. “They thought they saw someone about to jump.”

  “Maybe writing your name on that bridge is just bad luck,” I say.

  Kasey stands up. “Maybe. But since both my name and Drew’s are on it, I hope not. Sorry, Lu, I’ve got to get to work.” She walks down the steps to her car. “I’ll be home at ten. And I’ll bring home any mistake pizzas,” she promises. “What kind of mistake are you hungry for?”

  “Any! But pineapple and ham would be a nice mistake,” I say.

  “Gross,” she says, but then grins. �
��Just kidding. By the way, I’ve got some new ideas for our coffee shop. Let’s talk about them over pizza when I get home.” She waves and gets into her car.

  Kasey backs out of the driveway and drives past the bridge. My eyes stop on the gray iron rails.

  After writing their names this summer, two couples have already broken up. Apparently graffiti doesn’t keep you together. I think about the bridge that night as I’m falling asleep. I have to find out more. And I know where to do it.

  chapter 4

  Tuesday

  The next morning I put on my glasses and throw my hair into a messy ponytail. My eyes are puffy. I don’t usually wear much makeup to school, but this morning I add a thick coat of concealer to the dark bags beneath my eyes.

  I woke up at midnight sweating, with the sheets tangled around my legs. I had to turn the light on because the dream I had was so creepy: I walked into an old house that was lit with four candles. Then in one of the rooms it was completely dark and I fell, but it wasn’t a regular room—it was a cliff. Then I was underwater and the weeds were grabbing my legs and holding me under.

  My lack of sleep concealed, I guzzle a glass of water and scan the fridge for something quick to eat. I grab a cold piece of last night’s mistake pizza. It doesn’t taste as good as it did then, but that may be because Kasey isn’t here to enjoy it with me. Spending time with her was so great—it finally felt like old times.

  As I hurry out the door, I pass by the bridge. Despite my nightmare, I’m still in a good mood from last night, so I won’t let it get to me today.

  I step into the counseling office just after the bell rings. As I settle into my filing work, the phone rings and Mrs. Whyse picks up. “What about Alex?” she says. “Tell me what happened.” I quickly sit at my desk and pretend to be busy stapling orientation packets together. “Last night?” she says and glances up at me. “Why was he out riding at midnight?”

  I’m not even bothering to pretend to work anymore. She’s caught my full attention.

  “I see. Is he all right?” Silence again.

  Then Mrs. Whyse says, “Yes, of course.” She hangs up and makes another call, but this time she gets up and closes her door. I tiptoe over and lean my ear against it.

  Mrs. Whyse is practically whispering. “He was riding his bike through the park, and he said a black truck was behind him with its high beams on, trying to run him off the road.” After a pause she says, “No, he couldn’t see, but he said it was someone in a black hoodie with the hood up. He’s pretty shaken up. We don’t want any more of these curse rumors spreading—that will cause hysteria.” She hangs up and opens the door before I can step away.

  “Lucia?” she says, “Did you need something?”

  I cough. “A—A loose staple fell, um, under the desk. I can’t find it.”

  “There’s a flashlight in the bottom drawer,” she says.

  I walk back to the desk and crouch down, pretending to use the flashlight to find the staple. Fortunately, Mrs. Whyse isn’t even paying attention to me. I start to realize the reality of the situation: Someone—or something—was after Alex. Is it the ghost of Billy Jones?

  Mrs. Whyse was right about rumors: everyone is talking about Alex by the time first hour lets out. Patricia stops me in the hall and asks if I’ve heard about how the ghost of Billy Jones chased Alex through the park and tried to kill him.

  “Don’t tease,” I say. “It’s scary. And where’s Tony? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you two apart. You look like half a sandwich without him.”

  “He’s sick, slept late,” she says before hurrying up the stairs to talk to a group of older girls about the ghost.

  Later, in the middle of lunch, I see Annie run into the cafeteria. Her turquoise hair flies in all directions as she screams and points down the hall.

  Hearing the screams from the nearby counseling office, Mrs. Whyse rushes into the lunch room and over to Annie. “Tell me what happened,” she says.

  “In the bathroom,” Annie wails and points down the hall. They run to the girls’ bathroom, and I can’t help but follow.

  I reach the bathroom a few steps behind them. Annie is pacing and trying to collect herself in order to tell the story. “The lights went out,” she sobs. “I asked who was there, but no one answered. Finally I came out of the stall and turned the lights on and saw that . . .”

  LIAR is smeared across the mirror in sticky red . . . something.

  Annie breaks down, and Mrs. Whyse wraps an arm around her.

  Why would someone write “liar”? This can’t be the work of a ghost, can it? In the girls’ bathroom? The rest of the day all I can think about is the curse and the bridge. I have to go back there, I think. Maybe there’s some clue I missed.

  After my last class I stop at my desk in the counseling office, grab the small flashlight, and head out.

  The sky is overcast. I’ll have to hurry because I refuse to be stuck near a broken-down bridge during a big thunderstorm. When I reach the barrier, I set my backpack down and sit for a moment to steady myself. I climb over the barrier and step on the planks as soon as I feel prepared. Raindrops speckle the planks, and the old wood is slippery. I climb back over the barrier. I can’t cross now. Not today.

  I head down the slope to check the names. A faint black line of spray paint crosses out Isobel’s name. Fog drifts over the water. A gust of wind whips through the iron rails and makes a whoooo sound, like a long sob. The hairs on my neck stand up.

  I run the flashlight’s beam back over each set of names. I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. I can just make out letters in gold spray paint: C-L-E-O. This looks unfinished, I think to myself. What if the ghost caught the couple while they were writing it and scared them away? I lean forward a bit more to see if I can find any more writing, but my foot slips and sinks into thick mud at the river’s edge. I lean into the grassy slope, grab a fistful of grass, and try to pull my foot out. But the mud is like quicksand. The harder I pull, the harder it sucks my foot back in. At that moment, the sprinkling turns into a full-on downpour. My jeans are coated up to my calf with mud and my heart starts racing.

  I try to get my footing in the slick grass, but it’s too slippery. Lightning flashes just as I fall, slipping into the river. I gasp in surprise as icy water comes up to my shoulders and shocks my body. Grass and mud from the fall coat my teeth and catch in my throat, making breathing feel impossible. Completely panicked, I almost give in to the river, but then I see my dad’s face.

  No, I think, I’m not ready to die. Not now, not like this.

  Clinging to that thought, I grasp a handful of weeds with my frozen fingers and twist my foot until it comes free.

  Drenched, I crawl up the battered slope through the downpour. I grab my backpack and run.

  chapter 5

  Tuesday

  As I race back to the duplex, a big, dark truck passes me on the road; it kicks up dirt and muck into my wet hair. When I finally get home, I hear arguing coming from Kasey’s side of the duplex. I drop my wet backpack on the porch and slink along the house. I crouch behind where Drew’s car is parked in the side yard and listen.

  “I thought you didn’t apply,” Kasey says accusingly.

  “It’s only for five months,” Drew pleads. “It’s an opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “But Mexico?” Kasey says. “It might as well be Mars. I’ll never see you! I can’t believe you’re leaving me all alone here. You said we’d be together. You promised.”

  “And we will,” Drew says. “It’s just a few months.”

  ”Remember the curse? Bad things happen to the couples that break up after they’ve written their names on the bridge. Remember Henry and Isobel’s accident last year? And look what just happened to Alex and Annie! We could be next,” Kasey says between sniffles.

  “That’s not fair, Kasey—you know how much the curse freaks me out,” Drew snaps. “Can we just talk about this later, when you’re not acting crazy?”

  “F
ine!” Kasey yells. “If you think I’m acting crazy, we might as well just break up. Then we’ll see if this curse is real.”

  It turns out I didn’t even need to go to the bridge to search for clues—Kasey has had the answers this whole time. Couples aren’t cursed just for putting their names on the haunted bridge, they’re cursed if they’ve put their names on the bridge and then they break up. All the pieces are coming together now, but one thing is still bothering me. I’ve asked Kasey about the curse before—why didn’t she tell me what she knew?

  I’m so lost in my thoughts that I almost don’t notice Drew storming out of the duplex, heading toward his car—which I’m still crouched behind. I sprint to the front of the duplex, mud flying off my jeans, hoping it looks like I’m just trying to get out of the rain. But Drew is so upset he doesn’t even see me. I hurry up to the window just in time to see Patricia give Kasey a hug. Coming through the front door, I see Kasey wiping away her tears.

  “Hey, Lu,” she says. “What happened? You look like the swamp monster.”

  At Kasey’s words, my body freezes up again. I try to forget what just happened at the bridge. Instead I turn my attention to the warm air and sweet smell in the kitchen. A pumpkin pie sits cooling on the counter; the buttery nutmeg-and-cinnamon combination makes my mouth water. Patricia lifts a laundry basket. “Gotta change over my laundry,” she says. “Sorry about you and Drew.”

  I try to look surprised. “What’s going on?”

  Kasey sits at the dining room table. “Drew’s breaking up with me for the exchange program.” A plate on the table has a small piece of yesterday’s cherry pie on it, and she stuffs a forkful into her mouth.

  “Did he say he wanted to break up, though?” Because that’s not what it sounded like . . .

  She shakes her head. “It’s just five months, but it might as well be a lifetime. If only I was still in school, I could go on the program with him.”

  I know Kasey is upset, but we have more important topics to discuss—starting with the strange dark truck that raced past me on my way home. “Not to change the subject,” I say, deliberately changing the subject, “But do you know anyone who drives a black truck?”