Glimmer

by Phoebe Kitanidis

  As for the labor of love . . . I look around the room, but I don’t know what motive people had for making anything in here. The books were probably made by bored bookbinders. Our clothes could have been made in sweatshops. The IKEA couches were probably made by robots.

  Liz’s meals? But that’s at least as much obligation as love.

  I could make something for Elyse . . .

  Except I’d really be making it for my spell, so it wouldn’t count. Also, you can’t love someone after a day and a half. Can you? Especially not someone with a boyfriend.

  Then I remember Jeremy and Ruta in the computer lab, the awkward music-box gift. There’s a school directory buried under a 10-inch pile of unopened mail in the kitchen. The only Ruta is Ruta Paulraj on Finch Street. Two blocks away from me.

  When Ruta sees me at the door, she grins and claps her hands once and sort of bounces up and down on her tiny feet. “Come on in! I saved the last piece for you.”

  Of what? I must come over here all the time if she saved food for me. I follow her into the kitchen and watch her open the fridge and pull out an old-fashioned crystal cake pedestal with a fitted glass cover. She transfers the single slice of cheesecake onto a plate. It’s topped with a yellow-orange glaze that I’m not so sure I’ll like. “Want to split it?”

  “No, I want to watch you love every bite.”

  I take a tiny bite. Creamy filling, moist graham cracker, and tart tangy mango. “Oh my god, I do love it.” I load up a second, bigger forkful and savor it on my tongue. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten in my life.”

  She giggles, then covers her mouth shyly. “That’s what you said when you had it on my birthday. Orange zest,” she adds, “in the crust. Brings out the mango flavor.”

  “If you made this, you are a goddess.”

  “You said that on my birthday too.” She beams, flashing silver metal with no trace of self-consciousness, then—as if catching herself—shuts her mouth and blinks down at the white linoleum. My mind flashes back to Joe, the condescending way he patted that waitress’s head, like she was a cocker spaniel. He wrote off the Summer Falls folks as zombies, but it’s amazing how Ruta remembers minute details of conversations between us. She must have spent hours making this cake and she’s getting a bigger kick out of watching me feed my face with it than having some herself. Joe was wrong. People here aren’t zombies or pets—they’re just people.

  She grabs two water bottles from the fridge and motions me to follow her. “Come on.”

  I follow her down the hall, lagging behind to cover the fact that I don’t know which room is hers. Her bedroom is as spare as the rest of the house: a twin bed, a pine desk, a single framed print on the wall. A Hubble telescope–slice of the universe, galaxy upon tiny galaxy. The rest of the walls are decorated with straight-A report cards and honor-roll certificates. Trophies from regional science fairs.

  “So.” She throws herself on the bed, barely mussing the sheets, and takes a deep breath. “I think I’m finally over it.”

  Over what? From her expectant look, I’m obviously supposed to know. “Good,” I say, nodding. “I mean, finally.”

  She pouts. “That’s it? A three-year crush and all you can say is good?”

  Crush . . . she had a crush on someone . . . was it me, or someone else? If it was me, that’s kind of insulting for me to say good. “How did you get over it?”

  “Actually.” She brightens. “It’s mostly because of you.”

  Oh no.

  “Well, indirectly. Okay, so you know how it drives me crazy the way people ignore you.”

  “Right.” So it’s not just me thinking that people ignore me?

  “I mean, you’re the coolest guy I know, and no one realizes it because you sit all slouched in the back row and don’t exactly draw attention to yourself. But still. You don’t let being ignored get you down, you just accept it. You even take advantage of it—like how Ms. Niffenhauer never busts you for cutting class because she can’t remember you’re a student or how . . .”

  I don’t catch her second example. I’m still mulling over a single word she said: advantage. Is it possible people aren’t ignoring me because I’m a loser but because I’m somehow making them ignore me? I glance from my cheesecake down to my tattoo. My mother put it there to protect me, but maybe some of the ways it protects me aren’t 100 percent great.

  “Anyway, I got to thinking,” Ruta goes on. “There must be some advantage to being me too. Being, you know, the kind of girl guys don’t ask out.”

  “Ruta—” I start to tell her that a guy asked her out just today, but she doesn’t remember that. “Of course there’s an advantage to being you. You’re pretty and you’re nice, not to mention smart as a whip.” Looking at her, I realize I’m not just saying that. Ruta is pretty, nice, and smart. The trifecta of long-term-girlfriend material. At least in a normal world.

  “Guys don’t want smart,” she informs me glumly.

  “Bullshit we don’t.” I think of Elyse, her sharp intellect peering through those big green eyes. “Smart girls are the hottest, trust me.”

  She looks down. “Not to guys like Dan.”

  “Dan?” I blurt out. “You had a crush on that moron?”

  “He’s not that dumb,” she says. Too quickly, like she’s used to defending him. We’ve probably had this conversation a hundred times. “All right, fine. He’s as dumb as a box of hair. But that’s part of his charm, right? He’s so . . . unexamined.”

  I look around at Ruta’s bedroom walls, at the neatly arrayed awards, and feel sadness well up in my throat. If she wasn’t living here in Summer Falls, being stymied by constant heatnaps and memory wipes, she’d probably be a genius. But she is here. Which means instead of helping to find a cure for cancer, she’ll lose more and more ground until she finally winds up in the asylum. “Ruta,” I say slowly, “have you ever thought about going away to college?”

  “Don’t try to sell me on that again,” she says. “You know my parents would be lost without me. Who would turn the oven off when they forget? Anyway, I think there might be something wonderful waiting for me here after all. Someone, I mean.” She jumps up and bounds over to her dresser, points to the small box displayed on top. “See? I have a secret admirer.”

  It’s Jeremy’s music box, the lid open, revealing the pewter baseball player in all his tackiness.

  “Wow, um . . . who do you think it is?” I feel like a jerk for asking a question I know the answer to.

  “It’s a mystery.” She picks up the box and holds it close to her chest. “It might be Tom Bradley. Or Evan Watson. But what matters is whoever it is made it just for me. It probably took hours, maybe days. Someone likes me that much.”

  It occurs to me how easily I could manipulate her and steal the box from her. I could make her forget all this, just by telling her the truth about Jeremy asking her out. While she was out cold I could tuck the box under my arm like a football and run. An act that would hasten the demise of her sharp mind. “Ruta,” I say instead, “could I borrow your music box? Just for a day or two.”

  She glances from the box to my face and takes a deep breath, and I know that even though she’ll miss it, she’s going to hand over her new most prized possession, no questions asked. Because she’s that good a friend. “Oh sure.” She smiles and shrugs. “It’s not like I need it for anything. It’s just nice to know someone was thinking about me, you know?”

  “I do know, Ruta.” I put it in my knapsack with the crystal, the coins, and the book Returnings. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Wait . . . what were we talking about?”

  —

  Hiking to Preston House in the starlight, the music box in my knapsack, I feel guilty and small, exactly the opposite of how I felt after killing the grease fire at Mollie’s. I took something from a girl who doesn’t have much. As the roaring of the falls gets closer and drowns out the crickets, a dull throbbing rings out in my chest. It’s probably just guilt, but I
glance down at my tattoo anyway, half expecting to see a blue light. Not that I could see it last time anyway.

  Preston House is quiet and dark. Before I can open the front door, Elyse bursts through it. Seeing me, she nearly crashes into my arms. “Oh thank god.”

  “Whoa, where were you going?”

  “I don’t know, I just have to get out of here.” She looks rattled, her hair wet, her backpack on one shoulder. “I fell asleep in the shower.” She bites her lip like she’s trying not to cry. “I’m missing time.”

  Even though I’ve seen and heard about how people here fall asleep and lose little bits of their minds, I never pictured it happening to Elyse. She’s different, she’s not of this place, even if she was born here. “Elyse, it’s going to be okay. I think I found a way—”

  “How could it ever be okay?” She pulls a piece of paper from her pocket, unfolds it, pushes it in my face. “Look.”

  The black scrawl is inches from my eyeball. Angry flourishes of ink transform into words and phrases before my eyes. Ugly ones. So scared. Jeffry’s dead eyes. Against the wall. Dirty slut. “What is this?” I say, feeling coldness spread through my limbs.

  “It’s my handwriting. I even wrote the date at the top, see?” She flicks the page, making it jump even closer to my face. “It’s my memory of today, unabridged.”

  Chapter 25

  ELYSE

  Marshall stares at the paper, his dark eyes burning through it. “That son of a bitch.”

  “It’s not like it’s the first time.” I lift up my hair and turn to the side. His sharp intake of breath reenergizes my own outrage. Just seeing the evidence of what happened to me is tearing him up. “The worst part is, Liz has no clue what’s going on,” I say. “Though if he’s doing this to me, what’s to stop him from doing it to her too?” I remember the noises in their bedroom last night, the crash and what sounded like muffled crying. “Do you think what we heard last night was—”

  “Of course. He’s abusing her too.” His fingers are gripping the paper tight enough to crumple the edges. “That’s why she’s been waking up in a motel room with a packed duffel bag. She’s trying to leave him . . . but she keeps falling into a heatnap and forgetting her plan.”

  So Liz was a victim too? But she didn’t know it—at least most of the time? “This is . . . bigger and more complicated than I thought.”

  “It’s very simple, actually.” He looks up at me. “He hurt you. I will end him.”

  “Get in line.”

  “I’m serious.” His soft voice chills me. “I learned some things today about myself, my past. Let’s just say it wouldn’t be hard for me to . . . neutralize him.”

  “Neutralize?” My own voice comes out strained, an octave too high. “Neutralize as in kill?”

  “Elyse, I have to make sure he could never hurt you again.”

  “You have to make sure— Oh, great, let’s make this all about you and your macho heroism.”

  From his wounded eyes I know it was a mean thing to say, and I feel a little bad, but at the same time, it’s true. His rage on my behalf isn’t making me feel better anymore. It’s just making me feel more helpless, more stuck. Stuck in my own anger and frustration. Stuck in this life I can’t remember. Stuck in my pink-and-white frilly dollhouse prison. “I don’t care how disgusting Jeffry is”—and just saying his name makes me twitch as if a tarantula were creeping up my arm—“if you attack him in cold blood, you’re no better.”

  “Okay, you’re right,” he says. “This isn’t about me. I have a lot to tell you that is about me, but I’ll wait. What can I do to help you?”

  I reach for his hand and squeeze it. “Get me out of here. I’m tired of being scared. And being judged.” At least if I’m outside I can run from the ghosts.

  He nods. “You stay here. I’ll sneak up to your room and get the quilt off your bed. I have an idea where we could go.”

  —

  From the outside, the abandoned mill looks like any other warehouse. We slip in through a back door and Marshall lights a candle. Cautiously we explore the factory floor till we find a clear spot against the back wall to spread our quilt.

  I’m dazed from all he’s told me on the way. “I still can’t believe all that magic crap was yours,” I say.

  “Why? Why is magic harder to believe in than ghosts?”

  “Because ghosts are, you know, just spirits of the dead.” I shrug, unable to think of a logical reason. The word spirit reminds me of the story Carla read at the library. I tell him about it, including the unsatisfying nonending.

  “Interesting,” he says, “though the symbolism’s way too obvious.”

  “What symbolism?”

  “The magician’s the town’s founder, the guy I was telling you about. The one my mother worked for.”

  “I didn’t see that. I thought the symbolism was about pitting spirit-seeing people against occultists.”

  “I didn’t even see that, but good point. Only the occultist’s a straw man, he’s totally evil.” He settles down on the quilt beside me and pulls a dusty volume from his bag. “Let me prove to you that not all of us are.” He’s close enough that I can smell his soap and sandalwood scent. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. A lingering olfactory memory.

  “Here’s what I was looking for. Lie down.” Marshall stalks the floor around me, leaving a circle of coins around the edges of my quilt. He touches each one, warming it in his hand, and muttering some incantation.

  Finally he looks down at me. “It’s temporary, but it should last the night. I wish I was strong enough to do a larger area. You might as well get some sleep though.”

  I lie back, but I’m so cold and creepy and dank in here, I know I won’t be able to sleep.

  I’m in California again. This time I’m lying on my own private beach, watching the purple and pink sunset behind the water. Frothy waves break on the hot sand, teasing my bare toes before retreating to the ocean.

  “You look good in red.” I glance down at my red bikini and turn to see Marshall lying next to me. His eye tattoo glows blue from his bare chest. I’m so happy he’s here, so happy we both made it out of that place. I lean toward him to give him a hug that turns into a kiss, but the moment our lips touch he turns into Dan.

  “Hey, babe.”

  I jerk my head back.

  “You forget about me already?”

  This is wrong. We broke up. Dan’s orange-and-white letterman jacket doesn’t belong on this beach. He belongs in Summer Falls, in my past. My fingers scratch letters into the sand: I’m dreaming.

  —

  I open my eyes. In the cold, dark warehouse, a furious candle flame burns yellow, its bouncy reflection flickering on the ceiling. A tall figure’s hunched over a chair in front of the candle, muttering some incantation that doesn’t sound like English. I barely recognize the low voice as Marshall’s. The words shoot out of him harsh, cold, fast. Even when I pick out my name from the jumble of harsh sounds—Elyse—it sounds like a growling command. Quietly I sit up and flip on the light switch. “Jesus, are you still trying to do a magic trick?”

  He whirls around. “Did it work?” His eyes have that cold, determined focus, looking into the distance at something that isn’t there. “Did you dream about me like I willed you to?”

  “Willed me to?” I feel a blush spread over my face. Only problem with light, it makes you visible too. Exposed. “Yes. Yes, I dreamed about you, okay? When did I ever give you permission to go inside my head like that?”

  “Relax,” he says, which makes me want to do the opposite. “I didn’t actually enter your dreams; that’s way more advanced. I just . . . induced a theme.” His superior tone still doesn’t sound like the Marshall I know. “If I’d asked your permission, you would have discounted the results. Understandably. That’s the only reason I didn’t tell you. Do you believe me now that magic works?”

  “I believe that it’s turning you into a jer—” I stop. Silently crawling out from one of th
e giant metal ceiling pipes is the figure of a little girl. Only I know it’s not a little girl. Little girls can’t appear out of nowhere. Can’t float overhead, staring down at us with mournful eyes. Can’t shimmer.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I try to sound composed, but my heart sounds like a galloping horse in my ears. “Time to test your coin-circle spell.”

  “Where is he?” He looks around, like that’s going to help.

  “She, and it’s a kid.” Wearing an old-fashioned white cotton nightgown. “I want to run so bad,” I whisper, instantly embarrassed that I said it out loud.

  “Hold my hand,” he says, reaching for my palm. “You’re safe here, I promise.”

  Agile as a spider, the ghost child drops to the ground and clambers right up to my quilt. I shrink back toward the wall.

  “How close is she to the coin circle?”

  “Too close,” I breathe.

  “Okay, here’s what’s probably going to happen,” he says, squeezing my hand. “When she comes to the edge of the circle she’s going to stop like she hit a brick wall. Then she’ll fade away.”

  I keep my eyes on her as she inches closer. “Where will she go?”

  “According to my mother’s notes, back to the place of power. Which I presume is the waterfall. Spirits of the dead can be tethered to it, with the right spell, so they’ll always return there.”

  But instead the ghost child turns to Marshall. Her curious finger reaches out to tag his thigh, and suddenly a blue light flares out of his chest. Just like the stroller lady, the ghost child goes flying backward. This time I feel a tiny bit sorry for her. It’s not her fault she’s stuck here as a ghost, just like it’s not my fault I’m stuck here as a living person.

  “Do you think it hurt her?”

  He starts to shake his head, then says, “I don’t know.”

  We snuggle together under the quilt for warmth, and he’s so quiet I wonder if he’s falling asleep while I quietly go insane from how good his arms feel around me and how good he smells.