A knot of students passed me on the way out, and I heard one say, "What up, fake?"
Another shouted back after me. "Where's your boyfriend?"
The harpoon in my chest twisted. I wanted to say something back, or at least hurl my milk carton at them, but the energy seemed to have drained from me. All I could do was walk, zombie-like, to the only other place I could think of. The magnolias.
Autumn in North Carolina is capricious--it goes from heat to rain to hurricane and comes out the other end all pumpkin spice and changing leaves. This particular day, thank God, was mostly of the latter variety, as we neared the downslide into winter. I headed for the line of trees growing alongside the school My boots crunched on drying grass, then on almond-shaped leaves as long as my forearm, carrying me unerringly to the tree where, two months ago, I'd seen the ghostly body of a hanging girl.
I stopped just short of where I'd seen her hanging, all slumped neck and bloody lips. Now, all I saw were branches converging toward the trunk. No ghost. No tapping of blood on the drying leaves below. No arm outstretched toward me, beseeching.
Amanda Barnes had died in the 1990s, though I wasn't sure of any details about her demise other than the obvious. Apparently, Hiroki had tried to exorcise her, but even his skills weren't enough to send her on.
I hadn't realized I was coming here to exorcise her until that moment. Maybe I hadn't been--maybe I'd come because it was the only other place Hiroki and I ate lunch, and I am a creature of habit--but standing there before her here, I knew what I had to do. I swallowed and took in a deep breath, settling my eyes closed.
Sounds became louder. Cicadas and birds, the occasional car, and outdoor generators whirring alongside the school. I relaxed my mind, trying to let thoughts pass through it like clouds or whatever. I'd always been shit at meditating. Hiroki had once said that people who were half asleep could sometimes catch a glimpse of ghosts from the corner of their eyes.
"Amanda?" I said, and the word disappeared as soon as it left my lips. I cracked open one eye. Nothing. I closed it again. "Amanda, I know you're here, and I know all you want right now is peace. I can help. Just...if you want to move on you can...well, use me. I mean. I assume that's why you're always creepily reaching for me, right?"
Nothing.
Tentative, I stretched out a hand. For a second, I thought I felt something--denser, cooler air eddying against my palm. Then it was gone, and my arm grew heavy. I opened my eyes and let my hand fall.
"Not you too," I said.
I slumped to the leaf-strewn ground and glared at my tray. My stomach gave an impatient growl, unsympathetic to the problems at hand. I reached for my sandwich gloomily, wishing, not for the first time, that I could at least be the kind of girl put off her food by depression. But that had never been in the cards for me.
I bit into the sandwich and pulled my phone from my blazer pocket. Despite the filters and disabled comments on The Toilet Paper, the red dot over my mailbox showed several hundred unread messages. Below that, the EMF app stared innocently up at me, the same eerie green as will-o-the-wisp and ectoplasm. Not that ectoplasm even existed.
I pulled up the app, which immediately went nuts. I glanced around for possums.
This was stupid. Anger built in my chest, filling in the hole Hiroki's harpoon had left. The app probably didn't even work. Hiroki probably told me it was accurate to get me to stop asking whether there was a ghost behind me every twenty minutes.
A plane passed overhead. A cool breeze ruffled what grass was still standing, and the weathervane on the greenhouse creaked in a laborious circle. I took another bite of my sandwich as the tears came bubbling over and streamed down my face. Eating and crying is a messy business, and one I am all too accustomed to. I almost always have food or coffee on hand when I break down--sometimes both.
For the first time in a long time, I wanted to be a normal teenager.
Miles and miles down Highway 264, the State Fair was in full tilt. It came every October, clogging the roads and the parking lots, crowding out the farmers market and making passage through Raleigh impossible for four weeks at a time. It occurred to me that I shouldn't be researching a property full of rusting tributes to a girl thirty-something years dead. I shouldn't be asked by the police to look for a ghost that I couldn't see, that might not even exist. I should have been worried about how to make the moves on my crush, not how to get the press to stop making moves on me. I should have been sitting between Jamie and Hiroki, screaming out the words to Thunderstruck on our way to a weekend of funnel cakes, rigged games, and dubiously-safe rides.
This whole situation was bullshit.
I clicked out of the app. Then, anger still hot in my chest, I deleted it. Who the hell was I kidding anyway? I was useless without Hiroki. Unless there was a surefire way to get me Spectral Sight without giving myself another concussion, I might as well give up on this story.
My last resort was research, and if that didn't work, this fucking day could bite me.
CHAPTER FIVE
Psychopomp and Circumstance
The brick came through my window at approximately 7p.m.. I'd been hunched over my computer with about twenty tabs open, wondering if I should just close my eyes and point to one. I couldn't count on Hiroki's Sight and I couldn't see ghosts on my own, but I could try to manufacture the concussion phenomenon and give myself another brief glimpse into ghost land. According to my doctor, it probably wasn't a great idea to give myself another concussion, and I doubt I'd have head butted a wall or something, but I was almost desperate enough to try. The brick almost did it for me.
My window exploded inward and I was on my feet, shielding my face from the a spray of shattered glass. My roommate shrieked and I stumbled back over the area rug, dropping onto my butt amidst the remains of our silent study time.
Pranitha leapt off her bed, displacing her homework and a mug of Thai tea. She jammed her feet into slippers, and her hands dripped bright orange, spicy-sweet liquid as she dashed to my side. My desk was right up against our dorm room window, and my monitor, which had caught most of the brick's force, now flickered with the loosened connection to my laptop. Amazon reviews for Ghoul-Aid blinked in and out of sight.
"Oh my God, Oh my God," Pranitha was saying, repeating it like a calming mantra. "Are you bleeding? No blood. Oh, a little blood. Just your hands--okay. Are you alright? What the hell happened? Is that a brick? Oh my God--it's a brick. Is there a note?"
The brick in question had apparently tumbled off my desk, as it now lay in the top of my backpack. My hair was still half-wet from the shower, and while my giant gray and white raglan shirt had protected my arms, the purple pajama shorts did very little for my legs. I rolled onto my knees, trying and failing to avoid any more glass. A quarter-sized piece cracked under me, drawing out a yelp, but I managed to get my hand on the back of my chair and pull myself upright without further injury.
"I'm getting Sarah," Pranitha said. She dashed from the room and I picked my way through the glass and bent over my desk, peering through the sharp edged hole toward the trees. Nothing moved. No shiver of branches, no silhouette darting over the papering of brown magnolia leaves. The culprit had either become one with the darkness, or run like hell.
I was still too pumped up with adrenaline to be scared or notice more than a slight sting from my knee and the backs of my hands. I crouched. The brick was rough under my fingers, but crumbled at the edges. Old brick, weathered, with paint adhered to one side. It was darker than any of the new pathways between the school's wings, and smaller than any used on the buildings. Unfortunately, there was no threatening note to help me identify the thrower.
Pranitha arrived with Sarah Constance in tow and my report was so calm, it almost didn't feel like I was there.
By then, students had congregated in our doorway, drawn by the promise of yet more gossip. The crowd was mostly ladies from my hall, but a few boys craned their heads over the flock, straining to hear the news. Then Sarah ki
cked us out and called the Sheriff for the second time in as many days.
I know it sounds like we're in the old west when I say we called the Sheriff, but Millroad Academy is down a winding two-lane highway about five miles outside the city limit. We're out of jurisdiction for regular police, so we're the problem of the men and women with black and gold Dodge Charger's.
I pushed through the crowd into the hallway. Pranitha trembled visibly, but when she caught me looking, she tried to hide her fear with a dimpled smile. I appreciated it, even though I could tell it was forced. It had to suck being my roommate, but because she's Pranitha, she wasn't going to blame me for anything that happened. That made me feel even worse for subjecting her to the splatter of my journalistic mud-slinging. The instant her friends crowded around her with worried questions and offers of prayer and hot chocolate, she vanished. That left me standing between the crowd of classmates in my doorway and the approaching of cops.
I was unsurprised to see Deputy Reid, who looked equally unsurprised to see me.
"You again," she said, pulling out her little police notebook.
I faked a smile. "Miss me?"
She pinned me with a look that said my name was spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E and said, "That depends on what you've got to say."
I winced, because I had a feeling it wasn't going to be much help.
#
Maybe it was too many read-throughs of Harry Potter, or maybe it was the certain knowledge that no one would be so diligent on a Friday night, but after my interview with Deputy Reid, I found myself walking toward the library. I held my breath as I passed the study room hallway, trying not to remember how the stairwell at the end had led me to a nearly-strangled classmate.
I ducked into the library, nodding to Sister Ann-Margaret, whose habit was mercifully free of Brunswick stew. Our library isn't big--half the size of the assembly hall beneath, and the best room was reserved for club activities and bible studies. I'd never been there before two months ago, since it was generally locked when not in use.
I almost checked to see if the chess club was in session, but it seemed late even for them. Instead, I ducked between six-foot beige shelves stocked with plastic-covered volumes and cracked leather spines.
In the library's center, a brood of heavy tables crowded close to each other, blond wood scarred with forty years of pencil-impressions and careless treatment. The jumble of battered chairs made an obstacle course of the aisles, so most students kept to the perimeter tables.
Twenty or so open books tiled half of one table, overlapping like roof shingles. So I wasn't alone after all. I squinted at the books, noting the supremely type-a way the covers were all lined up. To one side, a three-ring binder lay open, the top page sitting on an intimidating amount of handwritten notes. To the left, a stack of college applications, the topmost of which I could read from here--Princeton. I imagined a senior, hair sticking straight up from being clenched in their fists, shivering from her third Redbull.
Part of me wanted to know whose stuff it was, where else they were applying, whether it was their own idea or their parents', but the rest of me told the inner journalist to STFU, because I had more than enough questions about myself to worry about anyone else. My hands and knee still hurt, and I was starting to worry that I was still so calm. Was it possible to have a threshold for weird shit? Had I found mine?
I massaged my knee and dumped my bag on the edge of a table. I'd been researching before the whole whirligig fiasco, and I still thought maybe the references I'd pulled down might have something useful. I could just pick it up on my own. It's not like I needed Hiroki's help.
I peeked into the nearby stacks to make sure no rabid senior skulked wild-haired among the Amish romances, and for the first time that day, I was in luck. I made my way to the computer and typed in the search terms from yesterday. Fifteen minutes later, I stood in front of the seventh shelf, staring at the empty spot where my book should have been, trying to decide if this was another prank.
All of them were gone. I could accept the first few being gone out of coincidence, but by the seventh, I refused to believe it wasn't a pattern. Either someone hadn't re-shelved our books--unlikely, since Sister Ann-Margaret ran detention attendees ragged--or someone had checked them out. All of them. The day after me.
"I switched focus to Greek mythology."
The voice sent me shrieking sideways, and its owner started, nearly dropping the books tucked under his arm. My hand went to my neck, the other finding a handhold on the shelf as I beat back my fight-or-flight reflex. Concentric ripples of recognition, embarrassment, and relief left me weak kneed.
"Did you not notice me standing next to you for the past ten seconds?" Jamie said, his voice strained as though he too fought down a racing pulse.
I shook my head without looking up, lifting the back of my hand to my forehead to check how hard I was blushing. Jamie bent forward, but I turned my face away before he could see it. I had the terrible feeling I would cry if I looked at him. I didn't want to do that.
We stood silently as I scraped all the shit from that day into a tiny compartment in the back of my brain and mentally sat on the lid.
"What about Greek mythology?" I said, surreptitiously wiping clammy palms on my pajama shorts.
Holy. Shit. I was in my pajamas. In front of Jamie. And I had wet hair. And no makeup on. It's not that I need a ton of makeup or anything, but I pride myself on always looking put-together, even if my internal world is a screaming vortex of chaos.
At least I was clean. This is the reason I buy good-smelling shampoo.
If Jamie had reacted to my appearance, I'd missed it in my moments of panic. "I stopped looking at these." He held the stack of books out where I could see them. I recognized a few from yesterday's research. "I thought I remembered something about Hermes. I've been doing some research on Greek mythology."
At last, I looked up. "About me?"
He returned my gaze, gray eyes cool behind heavy plastic frames, and shrugged. "After the appalling lack of research in that Daily Times article?" He gave a pompous snort, and leaned one shoulder into the shelf beside us.
Even in a graceful slump, he was taller than me. Though most students had already changed into their weekend clothes, he'd only removed his blazer. The Bishop, as most people still called him, remained buttoned up to the throat and tied with a double windsor. He hadn't even rolled up his sleeves.
I wanted to do it for him. I could help him with his tie too. And the rest of it, if he'd let me. The full effect of James Marion Grant was, at least to me, spine-melting.
I imagine my poor little heart was thinking, "Fuck you, Collins--I just stopped hammering your ribs and now you're going to look at the runway model for Prada's Starfleet collection? What's next, stairs? I quit." But it was nice to feel something besides anxiety, so I didn't berate myself for perving out this time.
My lips twitched, though they didn't quite make it to full smile status. "Thanks, Marion."
He rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the shelf.
"I'm going to give you a pass this time," he said.
I was beginning to get my bearings back, though it still felt like there was static electricity crackling around my head. I fell into step next to him and headed back toward the study tables. "How far does that pass extend?"
"Not far. You're...what's wrong with your knee?"
I shrugged one shoulder. "Just a little brick through my window this evening. No big."
He drew up short. "Pass extended," he said. Then he turned toward me, passed his eyes over my face, my hands, my bloody knee. I'd have called that look clinical but for the slight frown that tugged down the corner of his mouth. My cheeks went hot. He shook his head.
"Want a coffee?"
That brought out a slight smile. Maybe I was predictable, but it didn't matter. "You know what I like," I teased.
His lips twitched, and he paced over to grab his things.
I should have guessed the boo
ks were his. If I'd looked close enough to see the Ionic Greek Dictionary, I'd have figured it out. I helped him cart the tomes to the book drop and followed him out the door. I was surprised when we skirted the stairs down to the central corridor, where our school coffeeshop was.
He correctly interpreted my look. "Would you rather wade through the Friday night crowd?"
"Nope," I said. "I'm trying this new thing called 'Avoiding Everyone'. It's, like, a twelve-step-program."
"Step one, go to the library."
"Yeah. Only eggheads hang out there on Fridays."
"Step two, use outdated insults like 'egghead' to convince others you're ignorant of current social conventions."
"Step three, tell the egghead to shut the fuck up and explain how we're getting coffee without going to Higher Grounds."
"I have a..." he paused for a second, just long enough for me to start wondering why, but then continued. "...a french press. It's a little battered, but-"
"I didn't think you drank coffee," I interrupted, struggling to rearrange that perception in my head.
"I don't."
It took me half a second to want to kick myself. I was a moron. I knew Jamie didn't drink coffee. Aaron had. And as his best friend and roommate, Jamie had inherited a bunch of his things after he died.
"Step four. Be an asshole," I said.
Jamie clapped a hand on my back, just over my shoulder blade. It was a quick gesture, and the warmth of his palm disappeared at once. But I knew what it meant, and I was grateful.
#
Walking into a boy's room always felt like passing the threshold into another country--a country that smells funny, has weird customs, and might not have a working waste disposal system. Hiroki's room was neat, but only because he'd propped his bed up on cinderblocks and shoved everything into laundry baskets underneath. The walls on his half were papered in graphite sketches and indie band stickers, and by now I think I've seen every pair of boxers the boy owns.
The Girl in Acid Park Page 4
