The Dark World

by Cara Lynn Shultz

  “I don’t think you’re crazy. And that’s the dumbest nickname I’ve ever heard,” he said, sounding annoyed.

  “Then why are you laughing at me?” I countered, narrowing my eyes.

  “I’m not laughing at you.” Logan’s eyes flickered from mine to stare down the hallway behind me.

  “Miller’s coming. That’s who I was laughing at,” he added, giving me a pointed look. “He’s got his toupee on crooked.”

  “Oh,” I said sheepishly. I toyed with my bracelet, embarrassed by how quickly I had rushed to judge him. What do you know, Logan Bradley’s an endangered species: a legitimately nice human being.

  “I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling with that rug,” I muttered.

  “An actual rug would look more realistic,” Logan said seriously. “It’s like he skinned a teddy bear and glued it on his head.”

  I gaped at him—who knew Logan had jokes?—before bursting into laughter.

  “What? It’s really bad,” he said, and I just nodded in agreement.

  “He looks like he’s in a bad mood,” Logan said, tilting his head as he stared down the hall. “You should probably get out of here before he finds a reason to give you detention.”

  “I like this one for you, Paige,” Dottie gushed next to me. If her eyeballs could have popped out with giant cartoon hearts, they would have. “Now get out of here before you embarrass yourself. We’ll talk boy strategy tomorrow. I already have some ideas!” Good thing she was a ghost, because Dottie was about as smooth as gravel.

  I mumbled a quick goodbye before heading off to my locker, trying to avoid looking back at Logan as my perpetually boy-crazy friend remained behind, staring goofily up at him. I grabbed my coat and was walking out of the school’s thick metal front doors when I heard Miller’s unmistakable gruff voice in the hallway behind me. He had four students I’d never seen before in tow, and it looked like he was giving them a tour. There were three girls and a boy—a tall, dark-haired boy who stared after me curiously. He gave me a slow smile before turning his attention back to Miller. That smile sent chills racing down my arms, leaving gooseflesh in their wake, but not in a good way. It was less Mr. Sexypants and more Mr. Windowless Van.

  The door wheezed shut behind me with a hiss of the air brake as I stepped out onto the concrete front steps of Holy Assumption, only to see Pepper and her friends clustered on the corner, Pepper smearing her carefully applied lip gloss all over Matt’s skin as they sucked face. You stay classy, Pepper.

  I shoved my gloveless hands in my pockets and changed direction to avoid Pepper’s sycophants as I began the long walk home from the Upper West Side to my family’s apartment on West Forty-Fourth Street. The subway wasn’t an option for me—it was full of ghosts, and not all of them were as pleasant as Dottie.

  I replayed my brief encounter with Logan in my mind as I walked. I didn’t know much about him. Logan had transferred into Holy Assumption at the beginning of junior year and was pretty quiet in class. He hung in the back, observing everyone. I tried to think of all the times I’d seen him in the halls, and I couldn’t recall ever seeing him with a group of friends—or even one friend—although I thought I’d seen Andie sidling up to him a few times. But he shouldn’t be so desperate for friends that he needed me, the social pariah, as an ally. Maybe he was merely a legitimately nice person, nonjudgmental and kind. I’d read about those mythical figures in books, although I sure as hell hadn’t met any. I’d figured they’d gone extinct with the dodo bird.

  And what was up with new kid Smirky McSmileson giving me the eye?

  I kicked a coffee-stained paper cup into the gutter, where it rested on top of a stubborn mound of soot-covered snow that refused to melt. I felt a little cruel dismissing Smirky as creepy—hadn’t I complained enough about being labeled with that particular epithet? But I brushed that last thought aside quickly. The new kid would hear I was a psycho soon enough, and he’d want to run from me, not flash borderline shady smiles my way.

  Shrugging off all thoughts of school, I put my headphones on, cranking up some bootleg live music as I walked home. I daydreamed about the concerts I wish I could have seen until my numb fingers fumbled with the keys to the front door of the five-story apartment building I lived in with my parents. We were on the second floor, in a walk-up apartment. My mom always talked about someday moving—her dream was to be on the fortieth floor of some shiny glass high-rise with majestic views of the Hudson River—but apartment 2W worked for me. I was terrified of heights. Besides, I had a pretty sweet deal: my bedroom was at the opposite end of the apartment from my parents’ bedroom, which meant I could blast music as loudly as I wanted without bothering them. My keys had just unlocked the dead bolt when I heard my father cheerfully call my name over the loud screech of the hinges.

  I’d been doing so much better lately in my parents’ eyes—but they still insisted on babysitting me, even though I should have been wrapping up my high school career and planning for college by now. After a few too many one-sided conversations, Dad had changed his hours at work—he was a driver for a car service, which meant he drove rich people all over town in fancy leather-upholstered town cars—and switched to the night shift so he could be home when I got out of school. But lately, he’d been talking about returning to his old schedule. Which meant my parents were beginning to trust that I could be left alone without cracking up. Which meant—cue the chorus of singing angels—no more ’round-the-clock supervision. I forced a bright smile on my face as I entered the living room, where I promptly began coughing.

  “Cooking again, Dad?” I asked, waving my hand in front of my face to dispel some of the acrid-smelling smoke. I crossed the living room and pushed open the narrow window, in spite of the frosty temperatures outside.

  “I know it smells funny, but I promise it’ll be delicious,” my father called from the kitchen, his shock of red hair visible even through the thick smoke billowing up from the stove. Richard Kelly had two weaknesses—cooking and complimentary crap. He’d sign up for a new credit card or take a customer survey faster than you could say “freebie” if it meant he got a T-shirt or towel...or tickets to some horrible play that he’d usually force me to attend with him. I headed into the narrow kitchen, and sure enough, he was wearing an apron splattered with fresh stains that nearly obscured the name of an already-defunct barbecue sauce company on the front, and stirring a pot filled with something that looked like it still had a pulse.

  “Food’s supposed to make my mouth water, not my eyes,” I teased, leaning my back against the scratched white counter where a Thai cookbook was propped up. He rolled his eyes at me, and I grinned. I’d inherited my dad’s blue eyes—and his penchant for sarcastic eye rolling—but I had my mom, Anna’s, hair, which was thick, wavy and such a dark brown it looked black. I quickly changed the subject—Dad was touchy about his creative Franken-meals, and I didn’t want to put him in a bad mood, especially if he was thinking about releasing me from Overprotective Parent Jail.

  “What time do you have to be at work tonight?” I asked, stealing a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the counter and popping a few into my mouth. My dad playfully smacked my hand and grabbed the rest of the nuts, stirring them into the pot. I eyed the creation cautiously. I think he might have invented a new color.

  “I was thinking about watching a marathon of old movies to celebrate the end of finals. Watch with me before you’re off to work?”

  “Probably not, kiddo,” Dad said, giving me a wistful smile. “I have an airport pickup, so I have to leave right after dinner. But how did it go today? Any surprises?”

  You could say that. My odd encounter with Logan flickered through my mind—“I’m not laughing at you...I don’t think you’re crazy”—and my forced cheerful smile fell a miniscule amount before I brightly said, “Everything was fine.”

  My father, of course, didn’t miss
the slight crack in my facade.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, searching my face.

  “Yeah, everything’s great.”

  “Paige, be honest,” my father ordered, setting down his wooden spoon on the counter.

  “I am being honest,” I insisted, then jerked my chin toward the spoon. “You might want to move that. It looks like your science project is burning a hole in the countertop.”

  “Don’t try to distract me. You looked troubled.”

  I flinched. I hated that word. There’s nothing medically wrong with Paige, she’s just troubled. Take these pills. It was a warm and fuzzy term for crazy. And I wasn’t crazy. I spoke to ghosts. There was a difference.

  “Did something happen at school, Paige? Did you, um, have one of those conversations? I know it’s been several months since you’ve had an episode—”

  “Everything’s fine,” I interrupted him, agitated. “I just finished a week of midterms, Dad. What do you want from me, jazz hands? Show me someone who gets thrilled about midterms and I’ll show you a masochist.”

  “There’s no need to get snippy, young lady,” Dad scolded me before softening his tone, adding, “You just seem a little...upset by something.”

  I pursed my lips, contemplating how to handle this. I was not about to tell my overprotective father I had been mulling over a confusing conversation with a boy. I’d rather tell him I talked to the mailbox for an hour. He’d probably prefer that, too.

  “I had a hard time with a few questions on my history final. I’m just nervous about how I did.”

  “I’m sure you aced it, honey,” my dad said, exhaling in relief. Sure, I aced it, only because my ghost best friend sauntered over to Mr. Malhotra’s desk and read the answers over his shoulder.

  Whatever was in the pot triggered another coughing fit, so I excused myself and retreated into my bedroom. I stripped off my boxy, blue plaid uniform skirt in favor of black yoga pants and a bright yellow sweatshirt my dad had gotten from some insurance company, and flung myself on the bed. My black-and-white cat, Mercer, curled up at my feet, his chin resting on my ankles.

  “At least you don’t think I’m crazy,” I murmured, and Mercer—named after the street where I found him wandering as a kitten—continued to purr, his throat vibrating against my socks.

  I managed to play the part of the perfect, untroubled daughter over dinner—fortunately, my mom brought home Fat Sal’s pizza when she returned from her secretarial job, so we didn’t have to eat whatever maniacal creation my dad had made. I’m pretty sure it screamed when he threw it in the trash—and I told him so over dinner, which made my mom laugh and my dad pretend to pout before laughing along with us. Paige is making jokes, look at our funny, witty, un-crazy daughter. My dad even mentioned he was considering taking my mom to the play on Saturday instead of me, which would leave me with a rare, unsupervised night at home.

  I went to bed with a blissful smile on my face, my head filled with the possibilities of being home the day after tomorrow, alone and unsupervised, for the first time in nearly three years. I could dig out my old art books and sketch or paint. At Therapist Number Three’s orders, my parents had confiscated my artwork as if it were evidence in a criminal case. They’d inspected it for telltale clues of what was making me insane. I guess they were looking for grisly illustrations of car accidents and bloody murder scenes. Instead, they just found a bunch of pencil portraits and detailed sketches of old buildings around the city that I thought looked cool. The only thing killed was my desire to continue painting or drawing. But this coming Saturday, I could sketch for hours, uninterrupted, without anyone checking on me or looking at my drawings to make sure I wasn’t creating some macabre scene. Or I could watch TV in my pajamas. Win-win, if you ask me.

  It snowed overnight, dusting the streets and sidewalks with a fine, slippery coat, and my walk to school took longer than usual, so I didn’t have the chance to rehash things with Dottie first thing in the morning. My first class was gym, and I barely had time to stash my jewelry in my locker and change into my shorts and T-shirt before the first bell. I didn’t wear piles of jewelry, but we weren’t allowed to wear any during gym. It made Fridays living hell for Tabitha Nakamura, a junior with about ten piercings in each ear.

  Aside from a couple of studs in each ear, the only jewelry I wore on Fridays were a ring and the platinum filigree bracelet given to me by Melody, the mother of the kid I saved. It had belonged to Mel’s great-grandmother, passed down through generations in their family. I’d insisted that Melody didn’t owe me anything, but my mom said it was important to her to give me something.

  She didn’t understand how Dylan had ended up in the street. He hadn’t even remembered how he got there. But Dylan was a rambunctious kid, and it had been Melody’s greatest fear that he’d run off into the street and get hurt. She’d insisted that she was holding his hand tightly one second—and then he was in the middle of the intersection at Tenth Avenue and Forty-Ninth Street the next, terrified and frozen in place as a car made a very wide, very dangerous turn from the far lane, nearly hitting the four-year-old. I had been walking home from a friend’s house, saw what was about to happen, and shoved Dylan out of the way. The driver had slammed on the brakes and swerved, missing Dylan and ramming right into me. Fortunately for me, we hadn’t been far from a hospital. Melody had begged me to accept the bracelet, and finally I did, mostly to make her feel better. Now, I probably couldn’t get through a day without it. I wore it every day as a reminder: when someone called me a loser, I could touch the bracelet and remember that there were a few people who were glad I was around.

  And after gym class, it was gone.

  I knew I’d locked my locker. And I knew I’d left it on the top shelf, right next to my earrings. But now, the space was empty. I pulled everything out, flipped through textbooks and even checked the sleeves of my coat, but I knew I wouldn’t find it. I always put it in the same spot, and it was gone. I stared at the empty dark green metal shelf, willing the bracelet to appear.

  “I guess she lost something—other than her mind, I mean,” Andie Ward sniped from across the locker room, earning a few quiet snickers in reply.

  I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. “I can’t find my bracelet,” I said before turning around to face the locker room. “Has anyone seen it? It’s a platinum bracelet, with a lacy, scrolled design. Anyone?”

  Silence.

  “Is she talking to us?” Andie stage-whispered, and the laughter this time wasn’t as muted.

  “Yes, Andie, I am talking to you,” I said, making an effort to keep my voice steady. “To everyone, actually. I had my bracelet in my locker. Now, it’s gone. Please. Has anyone seen it?”

  A few girls offered muttered “Sorry’s” and “No, I haven’t seen it.” Tabitha even offered to help me look, and we fell to our knees and peered under the lockers, seeing nothing but dust and—oh, gross—mouse traps.

  “Sorry, Paige. I hope you find it,” Tabitha said, twisting her last earring in place before grabbing her bag. “I gotta get to class.”

  I thanked Tabitha and sat down on the bench between the row of lockers, steeling myself to face my next class when all I wanted to do was go home.

  The first bell rang, and I put my things back in my locker, resolving to come back at lunch and break into Andie’s locker if I needed to. Maybe she took it...maybe she’s helping Pepper get revenge for my comment about her extracurricular activities with Diego. I couldn’t figure out how someone could get the combination on my lock, though. Hadn’t I locked it?

  I ran up the stairs to homeroom, my hand automatically reaching for my right wrist to play with the bracelet, and my mood fell even more when I was reminded that it wasn’t there.

  That’s when I heard him.

  “Paige—hey, Paige, wait up,” Logan called. His footsteps thudded on the stairs a
s he raced after me. I fumbled in my bag for a pen and grabbed the first one I felt—a pink one with feathers on the top.

  “Here,” I said quickly, shoving the pen at him as I continued to run up the stairs. Matching my pace, he took the pen and stared at it with confusion.

  “What? No, I don’t need a pen. Um, you dropped something,” he said, his cheeks flushed pink and his voice a little breathy. I stopped short, pulling over to the side of the stairway to make way for the crush of students running up the stairs, and slid my backpack off my shoulder to inspect its contents. I figured I hadn’t zipped it shut in my frenzy over my bracelet, but it was closed.

  “This is yours, right?” Logan reached into the pocket of his black school pants before extending his hand. There, coiled in his palm, was my bracelet.

  Relief flooded through my system, making me almost light-headed. I dropped my backpack from my hands, and it fell down a few steps as I grabbed the delicate bracelet.

  “Oh, my God! Where did you find this? Thank you so much!” I grasped the bracelet in my fist and curled it close to my heart. “This is really sentimental, so I was freaking out a little bit,” I admitted.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Logan said, and I blinked in surprise.

  “Sorry? Why are you sorry?” I asked. “I’d probably be spending tonight listening to depressing music, wearing a black veil and writing poetry to my lost, abandoned bracelet if it weren’t for you. So, thanks.”

  I draped the bracelet over my wrist as I tried to refasten it.

  “Wow, you’re really...” His voice trailed off as he took his baseball hat off, running one hand through his floppy brown hair before setting the cap back on his head.

  “I’m really...?” I repeated, my voice rising in pitch.

  “You’re really random—but in a good way,” he hastily added when he saw the slightly insulted look on my face. “I like it. I mean, it’s funny.”

  “Oh. Um, sorry?” I stammered, thrown by his comment.