Chapter Five
Rosalie
I grew up in a haunted house. I don’t remember what my mom looked like, but I can feel her everywhere: in the yard planting seeds that never sprouted, in the kitchen waving frantically over a pan to keep the smoke detector from going off, in my bedroom reading me a story unsuited for children when I couldn’t sleep. Especially in my bedroom, and especially when I can’t sleep. When I look into the dark and the darkness looks back, I imagine that it’s my mom, too. The eyes that peek out from the closet are her eyes. The hands that reach up from under the bed are her hands.
Andrew grew up in a different kind of haunted house, a house that was haunted by its inhabitants instead of ghosts. He never really spoke about it, but I knew from the moment we met, knew it from the shadows in his eyes and the kindness in his voice. The kindness of a survivor.
I was thirteen, kicking up clouds of dirt at the bus stop. It was my second day of high school, and I dreaded finding a seat among the kids that were bigger and louder than I was, the kids that chose their spot the day before— or maybe they’d always had a spot. Maybe they knew where they were going to sit from the moment they were born, and I was racing to catch up.
My heart thudded in my ears as the bus pulled up. Every seat was filled by the kids from the stop before, and nobody looked up at me as I brushed past. Nobody except the gangly boy with wild auburn hair that moved his backpack onto his lap and patted the leather seat next to him. I bowed my head, my hair falling forward to cover my face as I shoved myself onto the seat.
He leaned over and whispered, “I’m scared, too. We can be scared together.”
It’s not like I didn’t have friends. I was quiet and polite enough to be absorbed into a small group, the same group I’ve clung to since elementary school, but Andrew was different: a shared grimace from across the room, a laugh before the punchline. “If someone opened your skulls,” Emily told us once, frustrated by our secret giggles, “they’d find half a brain in each.”
Beneath the table, he nudged my knee with his. “Elective hemispherectomy.”
Emily sighed. “What?”
“Elective?” I snorted. “As an ice pick.”
“An iron rod,” he agreed. “Have pity on my frontal lobe.”
When I tripped while running the mile in gym class, Andrew was the one who noticed the limp and demanded that I go to the nurse. When I hobbled home on crutches, Andrew cleared the debris from my path. Andrew held the door open. Andrew stayed up all night on the phone with me, reminding me to elevate my ankle.
It became our greatest secret, those phone calls. Some nights we would whisper and stifle our giggles. Some nights we would listen to the sound of each other breathing, offering nothing but quiet company until we fell asleep. We wouldn’t hang up, not until the sun was in the sky. That was our agreement. We would never be alone when it was dark. We would be scared together.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I would ask him. “Do you believe in God? Do you think we’ll be okay?”
Yes, no, maybe.
He would never hesitate to answer, never tell me that I was being silly or that I should worry less. He would ask me, “Do you believe in parallel universes? Do you believe in aliens? Do you ever want to run away?”
No, yes, maybe.
He would walk to my bus stop even though it was further from his house. I would tell him about how Emily was making all of us t-shirts to wear to Mike’s basketball game or how Henry got sent to the principal’s office for correcting our algebra teacher, and he’d laugh, and the smile wouldn’t touch his eyes. He needed me as much as I needed him. Maybe he needed me more, at least back then.
At his funeral, all I could think of were the questions I never got to ask him. Do you believe in soul mates? Do you believe in fate? Do you think I’ll be okay?
And I was so, so scared.
There are flowers on my nightstand. Hyacinths and forget-me-nots and lilies with stems cut at an angle and cards balanced on the lips of the vases. The givers probably stopped at the corner store on their way here, hoping to be let inside, only to be turned away at the door by Emily. Andrew would’ve hand-picked the flowers. Roses. I would’ve rolled my eyes. I would’ve kept them long after they wilted.
I turn onto my back, staring at the ceiling fan. Around and around and around. The blades blur. I squint without blinking until they start moving backwards. An optical illusion, the reversal. Would it hurt if I stuck my fingers between them? Would I be able to stop it?
I swallow against a dry mouth, trying and failing to will my body to rise. Down the hall, Emily’s carpet-softened footsteps beat a rhythm against her hushed voice. She’s on the phone, probably talking to my dad. I don’t blame him for finding an excuse to be anywhere but here. I’d run away if I could.
Knuckles rap against the wall next to the open bedroom door. She doesn’t need to knock; it’s just us here. I don’t respond, but Emily floats into the room anyway. Her phone is in one hand, a glass of water in the other. “Good. You’re awake.”
“I am?” I croak. “Terrible news.”
She frowns. “Don’t say stuff like that.”
Andrew would’ve laughed.
She throws open the curtains. Behind her, Andrew beams at me from a photograph with crinkled edges. His russet hair flicks up around his ears, so it must’ve been taken last autumn. His hand covers the top of his face, thumb and index finger touching either end of his eyebrows. October, then, nearly a year ago to the day. He asked me to paint his nails. We had to scrub them clean before he went home, but his cuticles were stained purple.
“Henry’s been asking about you,” Emily says, setting the glass on the desk. There’s no room on the nightstand, or she’s trying to get me to stand up. I blink and slide my eyes to watch her. She plops onto the beanbag, sighing. Her blonde hair is twisted in a clip, and strands peek out above her head. They're arranged as if she gave them stern instructions to fan out perfectly and they were too frightened to disobey. It must be the weekend because she’s still wearing sweatpants and her student council t-shirt from sophomore year. “He wants to come over.”
I know what Henry wants. He's texted me sixteen times. I’ve responded once.
He asked, How are you holding up?
I said, As expected.
I’m so sorry.
I can bring food if you’re hungry.
Let me know if you need anything.
Want me to drop off your schoolwork?
And on and on. “Are the flowers from him?”
She shakes her head. “The football team. They want to do a tribute before their next game.”
“He didn’t care about football.”
“Well. Apparently, football cares about him.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “Vultures, all of them.”
I don’t disagree. “Including Henry?”
“No. Henry cares about you.”
I don’t have a reply for that. She doesn’t expect one, launching into a story about how Annie and Micah ditched school on the same day and everyone thinks they’re hooking up but Micah said it was just that her dog was sick and he drove them to the vet, because he’s sort of dating Layla, remember? Here’s the thing, though. Annie’s brother said they don’t have a dog, only cats, but he’s also super into drugs now so nobody believes anything he says. The swell and dip of her voice fills the air like a familiar song on a new playlist. I can almost pretend that we’re eight years old again, waiting for my dad to drive us to softball practice. We’ll sit in the outfield and pull up grass. A ladybug will crawl on her thigh, and she’ll scream until I nudge it to crawl onto my finger. It’ll fly away. We’ll watch it go.
“Em,” I say, interrupting her prattling. She looks up, lashes fluttering around ice-blue eyes. “Did you win?”
“Hm?”
“Homecoming queen. I didn’t hear the announcement.”
“Oh.” She fusses with the worn hem of her shirt. “Yeah. I did.”
She leaves around noon with a promise to return before the sun sets. “Just to pick up fresh clothes,” she says, “and check in with my parents.”
I tell her not to rush. She comes back less than an hour later.
Despite my dissent, life goes on.
I blink, and Emily is trying on prom dresses while I sit on the cushioned bench outside the fitting room and pick at a hangnail until it bleeds. We're in a boutique downtown, one we've passed by probably a hundred times but never been inside of until now. But it's the season of teenagers in formal wear, and Emily was drawn in by the dresses in the window that are definitely out of her budget. I was drawn in by Emily.
She slides the curtain just enough to peek her head out. "Zip me?"
I oblige, slipping into the tiny fitting room. I gather her hair and tuck it over her shoulder so it doesn't get caught in the zipper. The dress is blush pink and form-fitting, fanning out around her feet in a perfect circle. It's a little long on her, but she'll be wearing heels. Once I fasten the clasp at the top, I peek over her shoulder into the mirror. Her face, heart-shaped and tan despite the brutal winter on its way out, is turned towards mine, sallow with dark circles beneath my eyes.
"What do you think?" she asks.
"I like it."
"You can't say that about all of them!" She whirls towards me. The fabric beneath her makes it look like she's floating. "If I wanted a non-opinion, I would've brought Mike."
I pretend to consider. I've gotten good at pretending. "You look better in blue."
She spins back to the mirror and sways, watching the dress glide over the floor. "You're so right." She sighs and moves her hair to the side. I reach for the zipper again. "You didn't see anything you liked?"
"I'm not going, Em."
"I know, but there's no harm in trying one on. What about that green one? With the shawl?"
I slide the zipper down and tap her shoulder. She slips out of the dress and pulls on her jeans. "Not interested," I say.
She sighs but doesn't argue further.
I blink, and it's March. I'm barely passing calculus. Henry offers to tutor me, and I can't find a good enough excuse to say no, so I wait by his car. When he spots me from across the parking lot, he smiles and waves like he's not expecting me to be there. If I'm being honest, I'm not expecting myself to be there.
He's the only person I know who lives in a gated community. While he's leaning out the window to punch in the passcode, he says, "I don't think the math is the problem. You're wicked smart."
I say nothing.
"The problem," he continues, twisting back into his seat as the gate slides open, "is your focus. But I can help with that, I think."
His house looks older than it is. The tall front door opens to a wooden staircase. There's a tidy living area on the left with a brick fireplace and pristine leather couches. On every wall, framed photographs of him and James, or him and his parents, or all four, smile down on me. There are no candids. "Make yourself at home," he says, tossing his backpack next to the door and striding into the kitchen. I set my bag beside his and follow.
"Where are your parents?"
He's pouring himself a glass of bourbon before I enter the room fully. "Mom's in Cabo. Girl's trip. Dad's in…" He blows out a breath. "Wyoming? West Virginia? Some startup is desperate for his attention." He turns to me, pressing his back against the edge of the counter, and motions towards the formal dining room through the arch beside us. "We can set up in there. You want a drink?"
I shrug.
Three hours later, I rest my forehead against the crease of my textbook, groaning. We've spent the last forty minutes going over parametric equations. He's patient, if a bit drunk. "I don't know how you keep all of this inside your brain," I mumble.
"You already have it in your brain." He reaches across the table to rest his hand on my forearm. "You just have too much other stuff in there, too."
Maybe it's the alcohol or the frustration or the fact that he's the nearest living person willing to listen, but I ask, "How do I get it out?"
The silence stretches for long enough that I look up at him. His hand is buried in his combed-back brown hair. The words he's mulling over are creasing his brows and wrinkling his nose. He's long since abandoned his glasses, claiming them gave him a headache. He's handsome. I never noticed before.
"My parents are very… particular. They have high standards. For James, too, but mostly for me. It can be… frustrating, but I've found that emotions like that hinder my… productivity."
"So you— what? Ignore them?"
He offers a tiny smile. "I give myself five seconds to feel everything. For five seconds, I'm allowed to be as immature and angry and sad as I want. Then, I tuck those emotions away and get on with what I need to do."
"Like calculus."
"Like calculus." He exhales. "Like sitting across from you and talking about trigonometric identities, knowing you're still in love with someone else."
Is that the name for the cinch around my lungs, the scream lodged in my throat? If this is love, I don't want it.
Henry's enduring crush is a poorly kept secret, one that was infinitely entertaining to Andrew. At lunch, he'd look over my shoulder to watch Henry approach and sing, "Your boyfriend is coming." I'd kick him underneath the table, and he'd grin. That smile was reserved for me, all teeth, eyes glinting like we had a secret. I guess we did.
"One of these days, I'm going to tell him yes," I said, "and you'll be sorry for making fun."
He laughed like a stampede. "He'll make you miserable, and you'll be his entire world. Seems fair."
Henry misinterprets my silence. "We, ah. We don't have to talk about it. I just thought you should know." He straightens, clearing his throat. "I'd be good to you, if you let me. I think we'd be good. Together."
I run my finger along the edge of the textbook, tempting a paper cut. If I were still the person I'd been five months ago, I might have something more to say than, "Oh."
I blink, and the four of us are sitting on plastic benches crammed around a plastic table in the courtyard. On one side, Mike twirls Emily's hair around his finger. I sit to their right, picking at the chipping paint on the table. Henry is across from me, reading a book that I'm positive he's finished before. The fourth bench was where James used to sulk before he graduated last year. The unoccupied space beside me is a festering wound. Our conversation, as most of them have lately, turns to prom.
"It's a milestone," Emily says. "In fifteen years, you'll look back and wish you'd gone."
Mike says, "Not to be the bear of bad news—"
"Bearer," Henry corrects.
"That's what I said. What did I say?"
Andrew would've elbowed me, cheeks bubbling, lips clamped together. The grizzly of grim tidings. The ursid of unfortunate updates.
Emily pats Mike's thigh. "Go on."
"They stopped selling tickets last week."
Henry says, "I have an extra."
"Why would you buy two tickets?" I ask.
Emily glares at me like I asked why stars disappear during the day.
He shrugs. "Just, you know. In case."
"I can't take all four of us on my motorcycle," Mike sighs. "I don't have enough helmets."
"My mom gave me the keys to her Lexus," Henry says. "It has heated seats."
Emily frowns. "It's almost summer."
Mike raises his index finger. "Shotgun."
"Even if I wanted to go," I say, "I don't have anything to wear."
"Sure you do," Emily says. "What about the dress you wore to—" She cuts herself off, but the unspoken word rises anyway, levitating above the four of us like an axe waiting to drop.
There are things we don't talk about, phrases that explode on impact. Homecoming is among the most fatal, second only to his name. He would've loved the drama of it all. I half-expect him to stride over holding a basket of undercooked fries and take a bow.
"Made you miss me," he'd say.
I'd steal a fry as he sat down. "I have terrible aim."
His lips would quirk up, leading with the left side. "Close one eye."
"The shot goes wide."
Emily would roll her eyes at our nonsense, and it would be easy again.
I press my palms into the table and stand. Mike says something that I don't hear. Emily stares at her lap, and Henry raises his book to cover his face, now pale. Nobody shouts after me as I walk away.
There's a gaggle of sophomores gathered around the oak tree he got suspended for climbing. They're laughing and bumping shoulders, completely unaware that he existed. It's their meeting spot now. They might as well have chosen a grave.
The pleasant weather has drawn most people into the courtyard, leaving the area around the main building mostly empty. I shove through the doors and avoid looking at the spot where he kissed me for the first time. Right outside the counselor's office. It must've been a few weeks after my fifteenth birthday. He had a black eye from fighting with some older boys and wouldn't tell me why.
"Don't be mad at me," he said.
"Stop doing mad things."
He frowned so slightly that nobody else would've noticed. "Keep me in temper."
I poked his chest. "Trying to sway me with Shakespeare?"
"Is it working?"
"Hm. A little."
He took my face in his hands and lowered his lips to mine, gentle despite his bruised knuckles. It was chaste, over as soon as it started. When he pulled away, he was shaking so hard that I threw my head back and laughed until he joined in. I didn't have a name for the flood in my chest. I didn't know anything except that I wanted him to kiss me again.
I'm not sure where I'm heading until the metal door of the stairwell slams shut behind me. The unventilated air is so stale that even the echo seems sluggish. I have fifteen minutes until people start flooding in, less than that until Emily comes looking for me. The concrete floor is cool against my legs even through my jeans. Did I fall? No, I'm sitting. Forehead against my knees, knees against my chest.
Five seconds. A sob tears from my throat, ricocheting against the silence. Howl, howl, howl, howl. Is this to be the rest of my life? Am I meant to exist as an audience to others, watching them move on like cars on a highway while I'm stuck walking? Hoping they don't swerve or say his name? Smiling and hiding my hands so they don't see the gnawed skin around my nails. I'd rather be numb than bursting. I'd rather—
I look up. Thirty steps to the top. I wipe my eyes and find my cheeks dry. Lucky, or I'd be catching more stares than I normally do. I stand. One step, then another. No doubt my friends are whispering about me. I should apologize to Emily. I should let them all stew in it for a little longer. I should scream his name and watch them flinch. I want every living person to say it as soon as they wake up in the morning and again right before they sleep. I want him here. I just want—
I'm almost at the top when my foot slips. Arms flailing, I'm airborne for only a second before hands wrap beneath my armpits and steady me, holding on until my feet are securely on the step that was almost my doom.
A voice I don't recognize mutters, "A spotter for an infant. Of all the things…"
My face heats. I whirl, twisting out of the stranger's grip. Her lipstick is a shade of red that Emily would call cheugy, turned down with a sliver of teeth flashing. "I'm eighteen," I say.
Her eyes widen. "You can—" She throws back her head and laughs, too loud. "Of course you can. Oh, he'll love that."
"Do I know you?"
From the curl of her lip, it wasn't the question she expected. "You can thank me at any time."
"You can answer my question at any time."
"A mouth on you, too." She jerks her chin to the landing behind me. "Think you can make it?"
She wiggles her brows like she's daring me to bite back, but exhaustion overwhelms my irritation. Her jade eyes track the rapid rise and fall of my shoulders, relentless in their query. Who are you? The question fizzles on my tongue. Andrew would've asked. He wouldn't walk away until he got a sufficient answer.
"Yeah," I say. "Thanks."
She frowns as I turn and bound up the remaining steps. Just as I'm about to throw open the door and reenter the realm of the living, she calls, "Hey."
I pause with my back to her.
"Hang in there. You'll be alright."
I don't want to call her a liar, so I say nothing.