by Jeyn Roberts
“Granny owns our house,” Scott tells her. “She downsized and rented it to my folks so they could afford to come back. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to do it.”
“Why did you move back?”
“Dad lost his job last year and Granny got him a new one,” Scott says. “He didn’t want to do it, but in the end he had no choice. My parents hate it here. I think it makes my dad feel like a failure.”
“That’s sad,” Tatum says. “Can’t say I blame them, though. I can’t stand this place either.”
“I don’t mind it,” Scott says. “A place is just a place. It’s what you do with it that matters. And I like being close to Granny. She’s pretty cool. Way more interesting than my parents. She’s fun to hang out with.” He pauses, as if listening to the words coming out of his mouth. “Wow, I just became the lamest guy on the planet.”
Tatum laughs. “Nah, I think it’s cute.”
“Great. Now I’ll never be cool. Don’t you know that calling a guy cute is a death sentence? That’s pushing it straight into the friend zone. No passing go. Kiss that two hundred bucks goodbye.”
She laughs again. From the corner of her eye, she sees some girls watching her carefully. They’re all wearing red lipstick. Great. What’s going to appear on her locker tomorrow?
Tatum and Scott grab their drinks and head back to the car. Scott is being elusive, refusing to answer any questions and promising to take her somewhere she’s never been before. Tatum finds this hard to believe, considering she’s lived here her entire life. But Scott’s enthusiasm is catching, and soon she’s loosening up and having a good time. She even finds herself laughing when Scott tells a bad joke about what the egg says to the boiling water.
It’s a nice surprise when he turns left and heads in a familiar direction.
“Frog Road!”
“Why do you call it that?”
She explains the meaning behind the name, wondering if he knows that this is Molly’s road. He must, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything.
A few miles in and he pulls the car over. There’s not a lot here. Farmers’ fields. Off to the right is a marsh; she can see the water peeking out from behind the trees. An old train bridge is in front of them, casting shadows over the car. It’s no longer used; in fact, she can’t remember ever seeing a train cross in all the years she’s been coming here. The bridge is small and plain, just an overpass over the road that looks like it’s seen better days. Kids have spray-painted names and dates onto the wood.
“Come on,” Scott says. He grabs his mocha frappe from the drink holder and turns off the ignition.
“Here? Your secret is here?”
“Yep.”
She shrugs off her seat belt and gets out. The wind catches her hair, pushes it against her cheeks. It’s nice out today. Overcast, but that’s normal for Washington. It doesn’t look like it’s going to rain. In the distance, she can see sun peeking out from behind Mount Baker.
“Hope you don’t mind getting muddy,” Scott says.
“You’re joking, right?”
He gives her a grin that suggests he might or might not be.
Beside the train bridge is a small path. It’s narrow and steep, slightly muddy from all the recent rain. Scott leads the way. Tatum follows, keeping one hand on the wooden structure for support. She slips on a rock and almost falls, and suddenly she’s laughing hard, imagining her rear end all nice and dirty for the ride back home.
“Careful,” Scott says. Suddenly his foot slips out from beneath him and he goes down on one knee. He drops his drink, and thankfully the lid’s on too tight for it to spill. But one hand goes straight into the mud, and Scott lets out a nice curse.
“You were saying?” she asks once she stops laughing.
They continue down the path, which travels alongside the bridge and through the trees. There are signs of human life everywhere. Candy wrappers and potato chip bags. Cigarette butts. Empty beer cans.
Then the forest opens up, and they’re down beside a pond.
The place is hauntingly beautiful. The water is a perfect circle, a mountain oasis in the middle of nowhere. Trees sink into the wet earth, covered in moss that drapes down from the branches. The water looks surprisingly clear and clean; Tatum can see the bottom. A few minnows swim by lazily. She even spots a tiny frog sunning itself on a log. From above, some birds scold them, cawing loudly, unhappy that their home turf is being invaded.
“Wow,” she says.
“So. Have you been here before?”
Tatum shakes her head. She hasn’t. She thought she knew every inch of Frog Road, and in a way she does. But when she drives down here, she doesn’t usually stop to get out of the car. The local farmers own most of the land, and they can get a little moody when they find people trespassing. The only hot spots she can think of in the woods are places where she’s partied in the past, and this place wouldn’t make the cut. She can only imagine a drunken Levi falling in and drowning.
Actually, that doesn’t sound bad at all.
“My grandmother used to take us here when we were little,” Scott said. “There’s an underground stream that feeds the pond. You can fish here. Not big fish or anything. Nothing you could eat. But we used to do some catch and release. A really big thing when you’re five years old.”
“I’ve never gone fishing,” Tatum says.
“You’re not missing anything,” Scott says. “I once hooked a fish in the eye, and that kinda ruined things for me. I got a little squeamish after that.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I think it’s funny that you call this place Frog Road,” he says. “I used to go around and collect all the frogs. Thought I was some sort of amphibian king. I’d put them in my pocket and Granny would have to frisk me before we left.”
“I used to do that too! I had such an obsession with having pet frogs. Wanted to take them to school for show-and-tell. Mom hated it.”
Scott picks up a pebble and skips it expertly. Tatum finishes off her drink, taking in the lovely silence. This is the sort of place she could come to enjoy. Maybe she should pitch a tent and spend the rest of the school year living here. It wouldn’t be so bad. She could get a cooler and a propane-operated barbecue. She tries to imagine herself doing her homework by firelight, curled up in a sleeping bag, enjoying the solitude, away from her nagging parents, who always give her that look when they think she’s not watching.
Heavenly.
Of course, she knows this is nothing but a silly pipe dream. It wouldn’t take long before Claudette’s nosy body figured it out. Then she’d end up bombarded in the middle of the night with condoms filled with urine. Better to stay at home, where at least the walls protect her from some of the outside abuse.
Scott skips another rock, only this one falls in with a heavy plunk. He puts his drink down on a log and wipes at his dirty knee with some Starbucks napkins.
Tatum grins. The memory of him slipping is still strong.
It suddenly hits her. She does like Scott. In a way, she’s known for a long time, but this is the first moment where she actually allows herself the thought. There’s no but afterward: I like him, but Claudette wants him. I like him, but there’s no way a guy like that would go out with me. I like him, but he should have stuck up for me.
I like him. Period. And I think he likes me back.
As if on cue, Scott looks up at her and gives Tatum a big grin. “I think I’m starting to dry off,” he says. “I definitely jinxed myself back there.” Leaving the wet napkins by his drink, he comes over to her. “But I think my luck might be changing.”
“Oh?” The word is heavy in her throat.
“Yeah.” Scott leans in close. He’s not a lot taller than her, just a few inches, and she enjoys the fact she doesn’t feel as if her neck is breaking when she looks in his eyes. Scott’s hair is short and spiked; she likes the way it still kinda parts down the middle although it’s obvious he’s trying to style it differently.
&
nbsp; “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a while,” he says. “But I didn’t know how to go about it. Do you think it’s okay?”
He’s asking? Oh God. Just do it, already.
Tatum nods.
Scott begins to lean toward her.
Behind her, Tatum can hear the crackling noise of people walking over dead leaves. Scott glances up, and all the color leaves his face.
“What the hell…”
MOLLY
I mark Tatum’s name on the wall and we pick up our pebbles. Parker is pouting; he’s doing everything in his power to make me aware he’s completely against this. He’s doubled his lectures on the dangers of spending too much time inside a world I can no longer be a part of. But he’s the one who opened the door here; he can hardly complain when everyone wants to go through it. I hear his cautions, but they don’t scare me enough. I’m far too determined to finish what I’ve started.
Mary, however, can barely contain her excitement.
“We have to get Tatum to take us shopping first,” Mary says. “I haven’t been to a proper dress shop in forever! Over a hundred years. Money. Where can we get some? Could always just do a quick pinch. It’s not like they could call the coppers on me. Do you think I’d be able to bring something back?”
“I don’t know,” Parker says. “We’re not going shopping. Be serious.” He gives me a look to suggest I’ve betrayed him. I suppose I have, but he agreed to share the cave with Mary. I suppose I just pushed him into it. I didn’t want Mary to be left out.
When we appear on earth, I realize quickly that heading to the mall will be the last thing we do. I appear straight out of thin air and into two feet of water. My feet begin to sink in the mud. Mary squeals, grabs the folds of her long skirt, and jumps backward, nearly tripping and falling into the cold water.
Parker stands on the bank, a satisfied smile on his face. He’s the lucky one, and he’s not going to let me forget it. It’s my punishment for being so determined to go back to Tatum. He gets to stay dry.
Speaking of Tatum. We’ve interrupted something important. She’s standing across from us, with a boy, and they look like they’re about to lock lips. But our presence has already been noticed. Tatum looks thrilled, if slightly disappointed at the timing. The boy, however, looks like he’s seeing a ghost.
Which, of course, he is.
“Molly!”
I manage to pull my foot out of the mud without losing my sandal. It’s slow moving, and I’m the last to get to dry ground. Mud oozes between my toes, and a sharp rock gets stuck beneath my heel. I have to spend a bit of time in the shallow water, moving my legs around to try and remove the last of the muck from my skin. Mary is lucky with her leather boots; they don’t get practically sucked off her feet in the quicksand. She sits on a log, using her hands to squeeze the liquid out of her heavy skirt.
Parker holds out his hand and I take it, allowing him to pull me out of the water and onto dry land. My own skirt is weighted with fluid and sticks tightly against my legs. Tatum rushes toward us and throws her arms around me. Behind her, the boy follows, a look of curiosity and shock on his face. It’s almost comical. I think he recognizes me; perhaps Tatum has shown him a picture and told him my story. But his brain refuses to make the connection, so he’s confused. This can’t be the murdered hippie girl from almost fifty years ago. It’s not possible.
“You’re back,” Tatum says. “It’s about time.”
“How long has it been?” I ask. It’s only been a few hours on my end. Even though Parker warned me against going back too soon, apparently whatever energy keeps the cave active recharges faster than he thinks. Or that’s what he’s trying to make me believe.
“It’s been three days,” Tatum says. “I was hoping you’d come sooner.”
Wow. Time really does fly. That’s good to know. What feels like a few hours equals a few days. I wish I had a watch so I could experiment. But from what I’ve seen, people who Fade with watches often find them not working anymore. They always stop the moment the person dies. It’s a horrible reminder, and such devices end up getting lost after a few days. No one wants that memory etched forever on their wrist.
“I know you, don’t I?” the boy asks. He’s staring straight at me. If he were a puppy, his head would be cocked to the side with one ear higher than the other.
“Scott. This is, um, Molly.”
Absolute silence.
“Molly?” Scott glances toward Parker and Mary, taking in their unusual clothes and hairstyles. Mary has peeled off her boot and is holding it upside down, letting the last of the swamp water pour onto the ground. She’s pulled her dress up over her calves, exposing her petticoats. Her shapely legs are very white from an entire life in the London rain. Hairy, too. She’s not abashed in the slightest. Mary does what Mary wants.
“Hello,” I say, trying to come off cheery and completely nonthreatening. It’s not working. My voice sounds stilted and awkward. There’s really no way of handling this situation without freaking him out.
“You’re…” Scott’s brain still doesn’t want to give in without a fight. Tatum reaches out and touches him anxiously. She doesn’t want to straight-out tell him, and I don’t blame her. Because if she does, she’s going to look like the crazy one.
“Molly’s a friend,” Tatum finally says.
“You look just like that girl. Molly. The dead hippie. The one my grandma saw.” Scott turns toward Tatum. “Is this some sort of a joke? I don’t understand.”
“No,” Tatum says. “Not a joke. She’s real.”
“You’re doing this to get back at me,” Scott says. “For keeping my mouth shut. It’s some sort of weird revenge.”
“No,” Tatum says, “I wanted to tell you. I’m not writing a story. I made that up so I wouldn’t have to tell the truth. I met Molly a few weeks ago on the road. I was afraid you’d think I was crazy because I was looking up all that ghost stuff. She’s kinda my friend now.”
I notice that Tatum doesn’t say a word about my vision and how I’m trying to protect her from dying. She gives me a look, so I figure I better not bring it up either. I do like that she calls me her friend. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that word. I guess I could call Mary and Parker my friends, but with them the word doesn’t feel right. Emotionless.
“That’s not possible.” Scott points in my direction. “You’re dead. I’ve seen your picture. I read all those articles. Tatum and I talked about them. My granny! She claims she saw you.”
“Who was your grandmother?” I ask. “Did I appear to her?” What a coincidence. I suppose it’s not really surprising considering I’ve been haunting this area for all these years. And although most people probably don’t say a word about the mysterious hitchhiking girl, there must be a few who’ve bragged to all their friends.
“You told her to go back to her sister’s house in New Hampshire,” Tatum says. “You said there was something important hidden behind a bed frame.”
“Dorothy,” I say with a grin. “I do remember her now.” An older lady, a dozen Fades ago; she picked me up in a station wagon, admitting she’d never stopped to give a ride to a stranger before. She’d stopped because I reminded her of her own daughter, who was a lot older but had done some crazy stuff when she was a teenager that used to keep Dorothy awake late at night. Thankfully, the daughter turned out fine and didn’t get into too much trouble, and Dorothy understood that sometimes a girl had to do things she didn’t want to do, especially if times were tough. She had been lovely, and I was happy to give her a good fortune. No cheating spouses or death sentences for her.
Scott, meanwhile, has lost all coloring in his face. His grandmother’s name must be Dorothy, because he nearly fainted when he heard me speak it.
“I’ve wanted to explain this to you,” Tatum says to Scott. “But I didn’t really know how.”
Her words aren’t convincing him. I can tell that’s exactly what Scott’s thinking. He’s positive he’s being made the
butt of someone’s bad joke. It’s not every day a ghost catches you about to kiss the girl you like. Even worse that it’s the same ghost his grandma claims to have seen. I get it, there must be at least fifty easier ways to explain this, but I’ll be damned if I can think of one. Scott steps back, almost bumping into Parker, who isn’t paying attention to us at all. Parker is staring off into the woods as if he sees something.
Then I feel it.
A slight chill. A wind brushes against my skin, seeping through the wet folds of my cotton skirt. A shiver rushes across my legs, making me tremble.
“We should leave,” Parker says.
“We just got here,” Mary says. “I’m not going until I’ve had my fill. Don’t you give me that look, Parker. You’ve been keeping this from me all this time. I could have been romping down here, having a good time and getting me some drinks and men. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had me a bitter? Some cheroots? Or bought meself some pretty things? I ain’t gonna use this time hanging out in no swamp. We need to go somewhere else. Blimey, I want me a pie. Nice and proper, steak and kidney, none of that sickly chicken muck. I want one soaking with lots of jipper.” She smacks her lips, stuck in her food fantasy, moving on to cakes and biscuits, but no one is paying attention to her in the slightest.
The cold brushes against my skin again. It’s not quite a wind; it’s more like the atmosphere has changed around me. Like the temperature has suddenly dropped several degrees. Tatum and Scott seem completely oblivious to it, but Parker’s eyes are growing wide. Mary’s skirts are so thick and plentiful, she probably wouldn’t even notice if it suddenly started snowing.
“You can feel it,” Parker says to me.
“What?” Tatum asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I can see you shivering. You feel it,” Parker says. He drops his voice, hoping I’ll be the only one who hears. “It’s the first warning.”
“What?” Tatum asks again. She apparently has the ears of a bat.
“I’m freezing enough from landing in the bog,” I snap. “It’s not exactly summer.”
