ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Elizabeth Holloway

1

I tap my fingers on my crossed arms and peer through the tinted front window of Carroll Falls High. At the top of the hill, a stripe of maroon paint flashes between the trees. I straighten up, hitching my purse over my shoulder. The car pulls into the school’s parking lot, and I slump again. It’s not Mom’s Honda. It’s just some old dude in a Camry.

Mom is ten minutes late to the art show, though I’m not surprised. She warned me. She tried to get out of working at the restaurant tonight, but her boss is an uncultured douchebag who doesn’t understand how big of a deal this is for me.

“How long before we go in? I’m bored.” Max’s thumbs fly over the buttons of his handheld videogame. The cuffs of his dress shirt slip down over his hands. He lifts his arms and shakes the sleeves back while he continues his assault on the control buttons.

“I don’t know.” I tug on the collar of my blouse for what seems like the hundredth time and check to make sure my cleavage isn’t trying to steal my thunder. “Whenever Mom gets here, I guess.”

“That could be hours.” Max sighs dramatically and leans against the wall beside me. “She said if she was late to go in without her.”

“I know.” I glance at the clock on the wall above Max’s head. “But it’s only been ten minutes, and she’d want us to wait.”

That’s true. No matter what Mom said, she’d want us to wait for her. It’s not her fault her boss is a psycho control freak. But I don’t think I can wait much longer to find out if I’ve placed in this year’s show. My heart might explode from anticipation.

I dig my phone out of my purse and flip it open. I would know if she texted me, my phone would have chimed and vibrated, but I check it anyway. Nothing.

Five more minutes. She has five minutes, then we’re going in without her.

“Libbi!”

I tear my eyes from the steady stream of traffic at the top of the hill in front of the school and scan the sea of uncomfortably dressed people crowding the hallway. Haley’s blond head bounces between the shoulders of two senior boys.

“Excuse me.” She pushes one of the boys out of her way and ignores his indignant protest. “Libs!” She waves and almost walks right into the refreshments table. She skirts it with a grace only Haley Dennis could master, like a near collision with the table was something she meant to do.

“Hey, Haley,” I say when she’s close enough I don’t have to shout. “Where’s Kyle?”

“He’s looking for you, silly.” She grins, and her dark eyes sparkle with excitement. She knows something. Something really freaking good. “So…have you seen your display?”

My heart jumps up to high-five my teeth.

“Not yet,” I say. It’s hard to talk around the thumping in my throat.

“Oh my God, Libs. What are you waiting for?” She grabs my hand and yanks me from the window. “Come on!”

“Finally,” Max mutters as he follows me and Haley through the crowd.

Haley’s polka-dotted dress sways as she leads me down the hall to the gym. I’m sure Mom wanted us to wait, but I don’t think I could if I tried. Haley has me in a death grip. Plus, I really don’t want to wait anymore. Not after I saw that look on Haley’s face. I have to know why she’s grinning like the Joker as she practically drags me through the aisles of student artwork.

We round one last corner, and I yelp. Out loud. I smack my hand over my mouth as my eyes adjust to the bright blue of the ribbon hanging from my painting. My painting. Written in white calligraphy on the ribbon’s center are the words “First Place.”

A squeal builds inside me, and it takes all of my strength to keep it from squeezing out. I can’t believe it. I not only placed, I first-placed.

As part of a program to promote the study of fine art in schools, the Philadelphia Museum of Art holds an annual show of work by students of Pennsylvania public schools. After applying for consideration every year for five years, Carroll Falls High School finally got the chance to host it. But the museum doesn’t accept any old kid’s work to display in their show. They want talent. I was one of only three from my school who they accepted.

And tonight, a representative from the freaking Philadelphia Museum of Art came and gave my painting first place. An actual art professional likes my work. If I wasn’t so worried my boobs might spill out of my blouse, I’d jump up and down like the dork that I am.

“Congrats, Libs.” Max sounds genuinely excited. Well, as excited as an eight-year-old kid forced to come to his big sister’s art show can sound.

“See? I told you you’d place.” Haley hooks her arm around my elbow. “You should never doubt me. I know all.”

“I can’t believe this.” I run a shaky finger down the length of the blue ribbon. Yup. It’s really there. “Where’s that Philly art guy? I think I want to tackle hug him.”

“Wait. What about me?” Kyle says behind me. “Without me, you wouldn’t have that painting.”

I turn and meet Kyle’s smiling brown eyes. Considering Haley and Kyle are only fraternal twins, it’s amazing how much they look alike, especially when they smile.

“I guess I owe you one too,” I say as Kyle pulls me into one of his suffocating bear hugs. “Thanks for looking so damned awesome.”

“Anytime.” Kyle pats my back and lets me go. “What are friends for?”

My eyes drift over to my winning painting. It started off as a picture I took with my cellphone. Kyle had been upset at school that day, and I came over to the house to see if I could cheer him up. As expected, I found him in his garage beating the hell out of his drums.

He played so furiously he didn’t hear me come in. After a few minutes, he stopped and dropped his hands to his sides. Sweat rolled down his cheeks and his arms glistened. Anger, hurt, defeat pulled at the tense angles of his face and his shoulders sagged.

I snapped the picture.

He never told me why he was so ticked off that day, but he liked the picture. He said it made him look like a badass, though I saw something different. To me, he looked broken. But he asked me to paint it for him anyway, as a gift. And I did.

***

The art show is supposed to last two hours, but by the one-hour mark the gym is pretty much empty.

Max ran off with a friend from school a while ago. The last I saw them they were sitting on the bleachers, heads together, with Max’s videogame between them. Kyle and Haley left about five minutes ago. Kyle had to stop by his bandmate’s house to drop off some equipment, and Haley insisted on hitting the books one last time.

“I can’t get into Harvard if I don’t study,” she said, but I doubt one more night of studying will make a difference. Haley will ace that history final. She always does. I, on the other hand, need to cram. I actually studied for this exam—for once—but my brain is like a sieve when it comes to dates, and I could use a last minute refresher. But instead of heading home to turn my gray matter into historical mush, I wander up and down the aisles of student artwork and wait for Mom.

The restaurant must be slammed tonight. She’s been late to events before—ten minutes here, twenty minutes there—but usually not a whole hour. Maybe I missed her and she’s already here. Maybe she’s waiting for me at my winning painting.

I find my way back to my work, hopeful that my hunch is right. I really do need to get home and study.

A boy I don’t recognize stands at the opposite end of the aisle. He meets my eyes for a moment and smiles, then he crosses his arms over his chest and studies the still-life drawing in front of him. Other than him, the row is deserted. Mom still hasn’t made it.

I touch my blue ribbon again, letting my fingers trail over the letters. First place. A thrill shoots through me. I can’t wait for Mom to see it. She’s going to be so proud of me, she might even cry.

The air around me changes, and the shiver of excitement shifts to a shiver of dread.

Someone is watching me.

I glance to the end of the aisle where that guy stood a few seconds ago, but he’s not there. He must have moved to another aisle. I’m alone.

I’m being stupid. There’s nothing to fear. There’s nobody here except me and my artist’s imagination. But I still feel it. Somebody’s eyes are on me, scrutinizing me, looking through me. Either that or someone walked over my grave, as Gran would say.

“That’s a beautiful piece,” a smooth voice says behind me.

I jump and whirl around. My hand instinctively reaches for the inhaler in my back pocket.

“Holy Jesus! You scared the crap out of me.” I hold my other hand over my galloping heart.

The boy who was checking out the still-life at the other end of the aisle is at my side. His faded blue eyes study me with interest.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” The guy’s smile is warm, but I can’t shake the cold feeling that settles in my stomach. He nods to my painting of Kyle and I follow his gaze. “I was just saying that’s a beautiful painting. Great sense of composition.”

Of course I’m proud of my work, but I’d hate to come off as a self-congratulatory jerk to a guy I just met, especially since he just scared the bejesus out of me.

“Yeah. It’s okay.” I pray the blood drains from my cheeks before he notices.

“It’s more than okay. It’s…I don’t know.” He touches his chin thoughtfully. “Passionate. Emotional. Just look at the use of color. This artist has talent.”

Oh. He doesn’t know it’s my painting. Well, why would he? He doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him. As far as I know he could be the Philly museum guy, though I doubt it. He’s only about my age. But it doesn’t matter if he is. I’m not about to tell him it’s my painting after he said such nice things. I feel weird enough as it is.

“So, are you an artist?” I ask to get his mind off my work.

“Ha! Unless you count origami, no.” He shakes his head and his black hair feathers across his forehead. “I’ve tried, but I’m terrible. My sister’s the artist in the family.” A soft smile lights his face. “She’s great.”

Ah. Now it makes sense. His sister has a display in the show. He’s here for her.

“Where’s her display?” I say. “I’d like to see it.”

“Oh.” He shifts his weight and slips his hands into his pockets. “She’s not in this show.”

“She’s not?” I ask, surprised. “Then, who are you here to see?”

“You, Libbi.” His smile is friendly, but there’s something more to that sparkle in his eyes. The hairs on my arms stand up like little soldiers.

The cold feeling I got when I first saw this guy never really went away, but now ice blasts through me like my blood has been replaced with Freon. I’ve never seen him before. Why would he say he’s here to see me? My signature scrawled at the bottom of the canvas is barely legible to me, and I wrote it. So how does he know my name?

“Something bad is going to happen to you tomorrow,” he says.

“What?” I say, because I’m shocked and my mind is too numb to think of anything else.

“Listen. What I’m about to say might sound crazy, unbelievable even.” He nervously twists a silver ring on his right thumb. “But I don’t have a lot of time, and I need you to hear me out. It’s important. Okay?”

“Okay.” I swallow. What else can I say? He has me cornered.

The guy opens his mouth, but before he speaks, his eyes dart over my shoulder and his lips smack shut.

“Libbi?” Mom’s voice drifts down the aisle behind me, and I sigh with relief. Saved by my mom.

“I’ll talk to you later, when we can be alone.” The guy turns and faces the painting opposite mine.

“Alone?” I ask, but he ignores me. He leans in close to the painting, so close he could count the brush strokes.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry I’m late.” Mom slips one arm around me in a half-hug.

“It’s okay.” I give the creepy guy one last look. He said something bad was going to happen to me. Is he just crazy, or does he know something I don’t? Maybe both. He might be crazy enough to have something bad planned for me.

A shiver passes down my body, but I shake it off. I’m letting my imagination get to me again.

“Was the restaurant busy?” I ask to get my mind off the guy and his insane prediction.

“Nuts.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But never mind about that. I’m here now, and I’m dying to see this award-winning painting of yours.”

The guy glances over his shoulder at us, his eyes wide with surprise. Maybe he didn’t think a girl could paint a winning piece. I ignore him.

“You know I placed?” Disappointment settles over me and kicks the creepy-crawly feeling the guy gave me to the curb. “Who told you?” I pout. I wanted to tell her myself.

“I ran into Max while I was looking for you.” She points at my painting decorated with the blue ribbon. “Is that it? Oh my goodness, Libbi. You got first place?”

“Yeah,” I say. At least Max didn’t spoil that.

“That’s so great.” Tears swell in her eyes. Jackpot.

I can’t help myself. I peek at the weirdo who complimented my work. He’s crazy, I’m sure, but I still sort of want him to know the painting he liked is mine. Maybe that makes me a little cuckoo myself, but I don’t care.

He meets my eyes. His gaze slides back and forth between my painting and me, his face the definition of stunned disbelief. Yeah, he definitely knows it’s my painting now.

Suddenly, his jaw clenches and his eyes harden. He mumbles something that sounds like “I can’t do this,” and then he turns and practically jogs away.

He can’t do what? My brain fills in the answer with lots of awful, scary possibilities.

For the rest of our time at the show, I continuously glance over my shoulder for the creepy guy, but he’s not anywhere.

Good. Take your insanity somewhere else. But part of me worries that he’s waiting, out of sight. Biding his time until he can follow me home. Where I’ll be in my room. Alone. Like he wanted.

The creep is back.

I may not be able to see him, but I know he’s here, somewhere. Call it intuition. Or maybe it’s just the eerie memory of when the guy stared me down last night. I don’t know, but I’m not taking any chances.

I hunch over my history final and release my thick hair from behind my ears. It swings forward like a dark-brown curtain and hides my face.

Show’s over, buddy.

I can’t look around, not with Mr. Winkler on “cheater duty.” Hopefully, the guy will get bored and go wherever the hell he went last night when he took off.

The final is what’s important. I need to focus on this test.

I read the next question on the page, but the loser’s gaze bores through my dark shield of hair and my arms erupt in gooseflesh. Before I can skim the multiple choice answers, my eyes betray me and shoot up to scan the classroom.

Mr. Winkler sits at his desk scratching at some poor schlub’s paper with his red pen of doom. His bald head gleams in the harsh fluorescent light. God, I hope it’s not my paper he’s destroying. I can’t afford another bad grade in this class.

I quickly scan the rest of the classroom through the part in my hair, but everyone is working. Eerie feeling or not, nobody’s looking at me.

But I know someone is watching. Just like last night, I can feel his stalker stare.

This is ridiculous. I shake my head and rub my arms to dispel the goose bumps. This guy has freaked me out so much I’m imagining his eyes on me now. I don’t have time for this. I have an exam to finish.

The tip of my pencil hovers over the letter C, and something in my peripheral vision shifts. I snap my head up and finally see him.

The guy I caught staring at me at the art show last night, the guy who warned me something bad was going to happen to me today, stands at the tiny rectangular window in the door. He tilts his head and his ice-blue eyes lock on mine, sending a shiver through my body.

Shake it off, Libbi, I tell myself. He’s just a crazy boy with a crush.

Actually, with his tousled black hair and his nose pressed against the glass like that, he looks a little like a lost puppy. If he wasn’t so creepy, I’d almost feel sorry for him. But couldn’t he choose a better time than the middle of my history final to eyeball me? Plus, he said he wanted to talk to me alone, and this is most certainly not alone.

I point to my partially finished test and mouth, “Final exam.”

He nods. A half-smile lifts the corners of his lips.

“Bye.” I wave my hand.

“I need to talk to you,” he mouths.

“No,” I reply, but he continues to stand at the door.

Dude, catch a clue already. I spin away from the door, sneak a peek at Mr. Winkler, and shove the eraser of my pencil between my teeth. I yank the eraser out of its metal holder and flick it at the back of Haley’s head. Her chair squeaks as she jumps and whips around to glare at me.

“What?” she whispers.

“Look.” I point over my shoulder with my pencil to the classroom door. “That crazy guy I told you about is at the window.”

We turn to the door together, but the window’s empty. He must be a shy creeper.

“Where?” Haley says.

“Never mind. He’s gone.” I slump back in my chair. At least I can finish my test in peace.

“Is there a reason you and Haley are chit-chatting in the middle of the final, Libbi?” Mr. Winkler’s cheeks flare as red as the pen he sets aside. He stands from his desk.

“Sorry, Mr. Winkler,” I say. “We weren’t cheating or anything. I thought I saw someone out in the hallway.”

“Well, I’ll be the judge of who’s cheating.” He stomps up the aisle toward us and snatches Haley’s test off her desk as he passes.

“Hey, I’m not done,” she protests.

“That’s too bad, isn’t it?” He seizes my test as well. “Maybe next time you’ll keep your eyes on your own paper and your lips sealed.”

Haley’s eyes bulge and her face flushes crimson. She presses her lips together into a thin, pink line. I know just by looking at her that Haley is too pissed to defend herself. This is my fault. I should have just ignored my stalker and left her alone.

“That’s not fair,” I say.

“Cheating is not fair.” Mr. Winkler sprays me with spittle. “Do I need to send you to the office to discuss this with Mrs. Greener?”

“No.” I wipe his spit off my cheek. There’s no way I’d willingly submit myself to Greener. I’ll have to actually talk to Winkler after class, though that’s not much better. Kyle calls Mr. Winkler “Mr. Sprinkler,” and after sitting in the front row for nine months, he’s earned the right to call him whatever he wants.

“Okay then.” Winkler marches up to his desk with both of our tests clutched in his pudgy little hands. Once he’s safely resumed his red pen massacre, Haley glances over her shoulder at me and gives me a look that makes me wish I could dissolve into the seat.

“Thanks a lot,” she whispers and whips around to the chalkboard before I can say I’m sorry. Her curls bounce as she folds her arms over her chest.

Kyle turns in his seat and gives me a sympathetic glance. At least he isn’t mad at me, but his sister is pissed. Haley would never cheat. And she’d never fail to finish a test. Haley never fails at anything. I’ll have to make this up to her.

The bell rings a few seconds longer than usual, signaling the end of the school day. The scattered pile of papers on Winkler’s desk grows as people deposit their exams and file out.

“Haley,” I call, but she races out the door ahead of everyone. She doesn’t even look at me. Okay, making it up to her might cost me more than a close encounter with Winkler the Sprinkler. I reach under my chair and grab my book bag by the straps.

“Don’t worry, Libs.” Kyle smacks his books down on my desk. “She’ll get over it.”

“Yeah, maybe. She’s pretty ticked.” I swing my bag over my shoulder and shrug. “Why don’t you go on without me? I want to try and smooth things over with Winkler. If you wait, you’ll be late for practice.”

Kyle slips his drumsticks out of their home in his back pocket and taps a quick rhythm against my desk as he considers me. Any other day, he’d say, “I can be late,” and wait for me anyway, but not today. Kyle’s the drummer of the band Red Motive, and there’s a huge Battle of the Bands at school tomorrow night. The winner gets to play three original songs at prom. Not even his huffy twin sister could keep him from band practice today.

“Are you sure?” He raises his eyebrows.

“I’m a big girl, Kyle. I can walk home by myself.”

“Okay.” Kyle scratches his cheek and smirks. “But I hope you realize that trying to convince Sprinkler to change his mind is like trying to convince the Pope he’s not Catholic.”

“Yeah, I know.” I squeeze between him and my desk and into the aisle. “But Haley doesn’t deserve to fail and I can’t afford to. I have to try.”

“Good luck with that.” Kyle claps me on the shoulder on his way to the door. I lift my hand in a feeble good-bye and trudge up to Mr. Winkler’s desk.

“Mr. Winkler, we weren’t cheating. I swear. Haley would never—”

“Like I said, I’ll decide that when I grade the exams.” He stuffs the pile of tests and other papers into his briefcase. “You’re wasting your time. And mine.”

“But we really weren’t—”

“I don’t care. You were talking, and that’s the same as cheating in my book.” He snaps the clasps of his briefcase closed.

“But we weren’t cheating.” I slap my hands down on his desk in frustration. “And it wasn’t even Haley’s fault. I made her look at me.”

“I know that.” He levels me with his eyes. “I’m not stupid, Libbi. You need an A on this test to pass the class.”

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“Oh, really?” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Well, maybe a little bit, but we weren’t cheating.”

“I’m not discussing this any further with you.” He snatches his briefcase up and pushes his chair in with his knee.

That’s it? He won’t even hear me out? My nails dig into my palms. I take a deep breath and count to three.

“That’s so unfair,” I say instead of the four-letter-word tirade that presses against my teeth.

“Go home, Libbi.”

“Fine.” I barrel across the classroom and through the open door, yanking the doorknob as hard as I can. The door slams and the lockers on either side rattle. Good. I hope I broke Mr. Sprinkler’s door.

What am I going to do? If I fail this test, I’ll fail history. And if I fail history, I might fail the year. But if Haley fails, she’ll never speak to me again. This is all my fault.

No. It’s my freaky stalker’s fault.

I turn the corner at the end of the hallway and charge directly into creepy-stare-boy’s chest. A crunch sounds in my skull and tears spring to my eyes. I take a step back and rub my nose with my palm.

“Oh jeez. I’m sorry, Libbi.” He places a hand on my shoulder to steady me. “Are you all right?”

I glance down at his hand on my shoulder then back up at him. A scowl pulls at the corners of my mouth.

He drops his hand from my shoulder and slips it back into his jeans pocket. His pale cheeks flush with color and I think he’s about to apologize for touching me, but instead he pulls a rolled-up tissue out of his pocket.

“You’re bleeding.” He holds the balled up tissue out to me. “Take this.”

“Uh…” I shake my head as I push by him. “No thanks.”

After freaking me out and disappearing last night, the guy has decided this is the best time to talk to me? But instead of making me swoon with his stalker prowess, he’s caused me to fail my final, piss off my best friend, and he’s given me a bloody nose. Smooth. And now he wants me to use his nasty snot rag? Gross.

“I’m sorry about your nose and your test,” he says as he follows me down the hall. “But I need to talk to you.”

I ignore him.

The hallway echoes with the clang of slamming lockers and the squeak of sneakers. I don’t need to stop at my locker, thankfully. It’s the end of the school year; most of my books are already turned in. But even if I was having the worst asthma attack in history and the only inhaler in the world was in my locker, I wouldn’t stop. I don’t want to encourage conversation with this guy. He can ogle me from a distance if he wants, but I have to draw the line somewhere.

The double doors at the end of the hallway squeal when I shove them open. I squint as I step onto the green front lawn of the school. The sudden assault of sunlight makes me sneeze.

“Bless you,” he says at my shoulder.

Great goodness. He doesn’t get the hint.

I spin around, and he stops just short of slamming his chest into my nose for a second time. I take a step back and look up into his face.

His unruly black hair brushes his forehead and frames his angular face. A fine shadow of stubble darkens his chin and cheeks, but it’s not bad. He’s not a rug, or anything. And good Lord, those eyes. Azure blue and piercing. I’d love to paint him. It’d be a challenge to match that blue.

He’s cute. He shouldn’t need to chase any girl, much less me.

His full lips spread in a smile and my heart flutters, but only for a second. He is a crazy stalker, after all. Just because he’s good looking doesn’t mean he’s not a creep.

“Who are you, anyway?” I plant my fists on my hips.

“Sorry. My name’s Aaron.” He wipes his palms on his shirt and reaches out to shake hands. I ignore the gesture. God, this guy is weird.

“Well, Aaron, thanks to you, I probably just failed history.” I flick my hair out of my eyes. “So, I’m really not in the mood to talk right now. Why don’t you go be crazy with someone else? Okay?”

“I said I was sorry about your test.” A deep crease forms between his eyes. “And I’m not crazy.”

“That’s what all the crazy people say,” I mutter. “Well, if you’re not crazy, what was all of that crap last night? What were you doing outside my classroom? And why are you following me?”

“I’m trying to stop something bad from happening to you.” He spreads his hands in frustration, palms to the sky. The sunlight glints off the silver ring on his thumb.

“Just leave me alone.” I storm off across the grass.

“Wait, Libbi.” He’s at my heels. “Please.”

“Go away.” I start to jog up the hill to the street. A bit of distance grows between us, but not much.

Diablo Road isn’t called “Hell’s Highway” simply because of its devilish name. It’s twisty and busy and at least one bad accident occurs per year. If I’m lucky and there’s a break in traffic, I can get across the street before Aaron catches up. I can be at my front door and away from this creep in minutes.

I hear his slow, steady breathing behind me. His pants legs swoosh against each other as he climbs the hill. He’s close. If I cross the street and go directly to my front door, he’ll know where I live.

Okay. I’ll run around the block and come in the back door. Maybe the traffic will be too heavy for him to follow. I cross my fingers and pray as I race up the hill, checking both ways for a break in the steady stream of cars.

I see one. A break in traffic. If I sprint, I can make it. I swear I hear angels singing.

I dart forward and step off the curb with just enough time to race across the street before the gap closes. It couldn’t be any better. One foot grazes the blacktop and Aaron’s fingers dig into my upper arm. He yanks me back onto the grass.

He touched me. I can’t believe he touched me. Again. My hand balls into a fist and I swing around and slug him in the jaw. Hard. His teeth smack together with a pop.

“What is your problem?” I yell. People are looking at us. Someone mutters “freak,” but nobody bothers to help me.

“What did you do that for?” Aaron massages his red, swelling jaw.

“Get a clue and leave me alone!”

“You know, you should be grateful.”

“Grateful? Grateful for what? That you haven’t murdered me yet?”

Aaron shakes his head and laughs.

“What’s so funny?” I say, hands on my hips.

“I’m not trying to murder you, Libbi.” He meets my gaze directly. “I’m trying to help you.” His icy eyes penetrate mine and a chill prickles over my arms, despite the early summer heat. I don’t believe in ESP or mind reading or crap like that, but there’s something deep in his eyes. He knows something. More than he should.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I somehow manage not to stammer.

“I want to save your life and offer you a job.” His hand is back on my elbow. “And believe me, Libbi, saving lives is not something I do often.”

“Let go of me.” I yank my arm from his grasp and stumble back.

“Please.” He reaches for me. “Just wait a few more seconds before you cross. Please? Wait until it’s safe.”

“Safe?” I back away. “Until what’s safe?”

“If you cross now, you’ll get hit by a black pick-up truck and die.”

My heels balance on the edge of the curb. One foot slips and Aaron rushes to me. He’s too fast. He grips my shoulders and yanks me away from the curb. His arms wrap around me and he holds me against his body. My face presses into his chest and the smell of fresh dirt and dead roses overwhelms me. I yelp and struggle, but my balled fists are pinned at my sides.

“Three…” He whispers in my ear. “Two…” His warm breath brushes the back of my neck. “One…”

He lets go.

The shriek of tires against pavement startles me, and I twist around. A black pick-up truck takes the deadly turn in front of the school too fast and the backend fish-tails, sending the truck into an uncontrolled spin. It skids 180 degrees and crashes sideways into the parked Honda across the street from me. The Honda’s car alarm screams to life.

“Holy shit!” I jump away from the scene of smoking, twisted metal.

“I’m all right.” Jason, a senior and the driver of the pick-up, pushes his deflating airbag away from his face. The crumpled Honda he hit is in far worse shape, but at least it’s empty.

If Aaron had let me cross the street when I wanted to, I would have been standing beside that Honda when the truck crashed into it. I’d be squished between the two vehicles right now, and I’d probably be dead.

“Oh my God.” I turn back to Aaron with “WTF?” hovering on my tongue. “How did you know?” The colors blur and my heart pounds in my ears.

Aaron smiles down at me. He says something, but I don’t hear it. The last things I see before the world goes black are his eyes.

Blue like the summer sky before a sudden storm.

3

“Shit!” a girl yells. “My parents are going to kill me.” Her voice rolls around in my head, thick and garbled.

I pry my eyes open and turn slightly. The owner of the voice, Salma Byrd, runs up the hill toward her mangled Honda. She’s a junior, like me, but I never talk to her. Her friends are athletic and perfect. In other words, not me. She passes my sprawled body without a glance.

“Are you all right?” a different female voice says. “I think you fainted.”

A wide-eyed girl I don’t know, probably a freshman, kneels next to me and fans me with a pink piece of paper. A group has gathered behind her. Half of them watch as Salma flips a shit over her car. The rest watch me.

My foggy brain struggles to remember what happened. Did I have an asthma attack? Maybe, but I don’t think so. I feel fine, other than dizziness and my missing memory. No tightness in my chest. No post-attack exhaustion. Something weirder than asthma happened before I passed out. What was it?

My stalker. Aaron.

Aaron was standing next to me. He grabbed me. Whatever weird thing happened, it had to do with him and the squished Honda.

He has to be here somewhere. I scan the group hovering over me for his face, but I can’t see clearly. It’s too bright. My eyes refuse to adjust to the harsh sunlight. I blink a few times and squint and realize the burning light isn’t coming from the sun. It’s coming from the girl fanning me. Her skin glows like someone stuffed her with neon lights. But it’s not only her; her friends are blazing too. I’m surrounded by giant, human-shaped glow sticks.

I squeeze my eyes closed for a second and then refocus on the girl fanning me, but the glow is still there. What the heck?

Did I have a stroke? Or maybe I hit my head when I fell. My head doesn’t hurt, but there has to be some reasonable explanation for the shining people, unless a nuclear bomb went off while I was out. Maybe Aaron did something to me, brainwashed or drugged me.

I search through my foggy memory to see if I felt a pin prick before I fainted. I can’t remember. Maybe I did. I push up from the ground into a sitting position, but I’m too dizzy to stand.

“Wow! Are you sure you should sit up like that?” the wide-eyed freshman says. “You look like crap.”

“I’m fine,” I say, more to convince myself than the concerned girl. At least I’m not slurring my words. “Where’s Aaron?”

“Aaron?” She glances back at her friends. A boy in a black T-shirt printed with the picture of some band I’ve never heard of shrugs.

“Aaron,” I say. “The guy who was with me when I fell.”

The kid in the black tee frowns and says, “You were alone.” He’s the kid who said “freak” instead of helping me when I was yelling and running from Aaron.

“No, I wasn’t.” I shake my head. “There was a guy with me. He’s tall and has black hair and blue eyes. He grabbed my shoulders and…” The memory rushes back and I gasp. “He stopped me from crossing the street. Holy crap! He saved my life.”

“Um, I was right here,” the boy insists. “There was no guy with you. You were alone. You were yelling and talking to yourself, and then you passed out.”

“Fine.” I pull my legs under me and get to my hands and knees. “Don’t tell me where he went.” My legs feel steady enough, so I stand. The dizziness is gone, but everyone still looks like their skin is on fire.

I swing my book bag over my shoulder and scan the accident scene for Aaron’s bright blue eyes. Jason stands next to his crushed truck and shuffles his feet in the broken glass beside the open driver’s side door. His mouth forms a perfect circle beneath his glassy eyes. He’s glowing too.

“You ass!” Salma bellows. Strands of her chestnut hair come loose from her ponytail as she jabs her finger at his chest and then at her car. “You’re gonna pay for that, you know!”

“I’m sorry, Sal.” Jason backs up a few steps, holding his hands up to his chest, palms out. “I took the turn too fast.”

A small crowd gawks at Jason and Salma and the Honda/pick-up pretzel. Aaron has to be among them. He was beside me seconds before the accident. I couldn’t have been unconscious long enough for him to get far, but he’s not here. If not for my nose—which still throbs from running into his chest—I would think I hallucinated him.

“Um, excuse me.” A light touch on my elbow makes me jump.

“Sorry. You dropped this.” The freshman who fanned me earlier holds an elaborately folded piece of origami out to me: a lily with four delicately folded petals. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s beautiful.

“It’s not mine,” I say.

“It fell out of your book bag.” She steps closer and lifts the flower up to me. On one of the petals is my name written in unfamiliar, loopy handwriting, and there’s more writing deep within the flower. It’s a letter.

Didn’t Aaron say something last night about liking origami?

I snatch the flower out of the girl’s hand. It’s from Aaron. It has to be.

“You’re welcome.” She frowns.

“Sorry,” I say. “Thanks.”

I grip one petal of the flower between thumb and forefinger so tightly my nail beds turn white. It’s a short walk to an empty park bench, but something tells me I need to sit before I read this.

My fingers tremble as I disassemble the folded note and flatten it over my thigh.

Libbi,

Sorry I didn’t talk to you sooner. I should have explained everything last night, but something came up. Anyway, now that I’ve saved your life there’s someone important I need to see, and I can’t stick around until you wake up. Things are going to get really strange for you now. Don’t worry. I’ll explain everything if you meet me at Oak Valley Assisted Living at six tonight. I need to talk to you and show you something.

Please, don’t freak out. Just come. And don’t be late.

Aaron Shepherd

I know that name: Aaron Shepherd. Where have I heard it?

I read the letter again and again, but I can’t make any sense of it. What does he mean things are going to get strange? Is he talking about the light bulb people?

And why does his name sound so damn familiar?

I try to refold the letter, but give up when the first petal I fold pulls apart as I attempt to fold the second. I tuck the half-flower into my jeans pocket.

There’s one thing I know for sure: even if I didn’t have to babysit Max tonight, there’s no way in hell I’d meet the crazy boy who chased me—and may have even drugged me—at a nursing home tonight. Even if he did magically save my life. Aaron Shepherd can suck it.

I swing my book bag over my shoulder. Traffic is stopped from the accident so I’m able to cross the street to my house easily.

Max stands on the front porch in his socks. His skin glows like everyone else’s and when his copper hair flickers in the breeze, it looks like his head is on fire.

“Hey, Libs,” he says around the straw of his juice box. “Nobody’s dead, right?”

“Nope. No one’s dead.” I can’t help but shiver. I could’ve been dead. I could have been a Libbi-and-metal sandwich. I swallow hard.

“Have you finished your homework?” I may as well wrap an apron around my waist and pin my hair in a bun. I hate pretending I’m Mom, but Mom’s at work and I’m in charge.

“No.” Max rolls his eyes. “I’ve been out here watching the accident and stuff.”

“Well, the party’s over, buckaroo. Get back inside and do your homework.” I place a hand on his shoulder and steer him toward the house, but he stops.

“What’s that?” He points at my hip. I reflexively touch where he’s pointing and find Aaron’s letter hanging halfway out of my pocket. I shove it back in.

“It’s a letter.” I herd Max through the front door.

“From who?”

“A guy named Aaron.” For some reason it feels like I’ve said something wrong, like I shouldn’t be talking about him.

“A guy?” Max waggles his eyebrows at me. His straw makes an obnoxious sucking sound as he finishes his drink.

“Oh gross, Max!” I shut the door and drop my book bag on the floor next to his.

“Is this guy-named-Aaron cute?” he says in a sing-song voice.

“I am not discussing this with you.” I grab his book bag and shove it at him. “Homework time.”

The truth is, it doesn’t matter if Aaron is cute. The guy is creepy. Something weird happened when he stopped me from walking out onto the street. I’m not sure what it is, but I have no intention of seeing Aaron Shepherd ever again. Not if I can help it.

4

I’ve never had a migraine before, but I’m sure I’m having one now. It started with pressure at my temples while I was making dinner, but by the time I sat Max’s plate on the table in front of him, the pain pounded behind my eyeballs and split my head in two.

“Can I have more nuggets?” The shriek of his voice reverberates in my ears and bounces around inside my skull.

Twenty-four hours ago I met Aaron Shepherd. Four hours ago things started to get weird when the guy chased me down and saved my life. And one hour ago I was supposed to meet my creepy savior at an old folk’s home.

I didn’t go.

If Aaron slipped me a drug, the glowing-people thing should have worn off by now. But it seems to be getting worse. This headache is killer, and the light from Max’s skin burns my eyes. I can’t look directly at him.

I glance at his plate. He ate all of his chicken nuggets, but the stacks of broccoli and instant mashed potatoes stand untouched. I nod, and my brain slams against the inside of my skull. I really don’t care if he eats his veggies. My head hurts too much to pretend I’m Mom.

“Really?” Max says. “I can have more nuggets?”

It’s me, Rosie…Rosie Benson.

“What did you say?” I squint at him.

“I said, ‘Can I have more nuggets?’”

“No.” I shake my head. My eyeballs are about to explode. “You said something else. Something about Rosie Benson.”

“Rosie Benson? Who’s Rosie Benson?” Max scrunches up his face. “You’re being really weird today.”

“Forget it.” I push back from the table and stand, knocking over the salt shaker. My fingers tremble as I set it upright and raise a hand to my clammy forehead.

“Are you all right?” Max sets his fork on his plate next to his forgotten potatoes and broccoli.

“I’m fine.” I stumble out of the kitchen to the bathroom in the hallway. I need to be away from the light. Without flipping the switch on the wall, I turn on the faucet and splash my face with cool water. The door clicks closed behind me.

It should be pitch black in the bathroom with the door closed, but it’s not.

I’m glowing too.

I hold my hand up in front of my stunned face and flex my fingers. The image in the mirror does the same.

I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does. Brain tumor, concussion, or drugs—in the dark there shouldn’t be enough light to trick my brain into seeing something that isn’t there. Right? Can someone hallucinate light in the dark?

“Max?” I poke my head out of the bathroom door. “Can you come here for a second?”

“Why?”

“I want to see something. Are you still afraid of the dark?”

“I was never afraid of the dark.” He struts into the hallway with his chest puffed out.

“Liar!” I say a bit too forcefully and my headache protests. “You’re terrified of the dark,” I whisper.

“Am not!”

“Well good, then you won’t mind my experiment,” I say.

“What experiment?” His eyes widen and his face pales.

“Don’t worry, Max. I just want to see something. It’ll take two seconds, and I’ll be with you the whole time.”

I take his hand and pull him toward the bathroom.

“Why do we need to be in the bathroom, in the dark, for your experiment?” His voice shakes.

“There’s too much light out here and I need to see something.”

“That makes no sense, Libbi,” he says, but he comes with me anyway.

The door clicks closed, and the two of us stand in the bathroom with the lights off. We don’t need the light. Max is enough. His skin blazes brilliant white. I glance in the mirror at our reflections and the difference between us is shocking.

“What the…?” I touch my fingers to my cheek. Yes, my skin glows. But I’m dull. Really dull. If Max is a bonfire, then I’m a tea candle about to flicker out.

“I’m not scared or anything.” Max’s sweaty hand grips mine. “But is your experiment almost done?”

“Do you see what I’m seeing?” This time my voice shakes.

“I can’t see anything, Libs. It’s pitch black in here.”

The headache suddenly moves from behind my eyes to the center of my forehead and pulls, as if the pain is a rope attached to my brain and someone’s playing tug-of-war. I open the bathroom door and stumble in the direction of the pull. The headache disappears. What the hell?

I’m here in this awful place, and I’m ready to go, the woman’s voice in my head speaks up again. Please, take me and make it stop. I’m ready.

Soon, Rosie. Soon, a different voice says.

I stop walking and clutch my temples in my hands, praying for the agony to be gone for good, but it returns full force. A few more steps in the same direction and the headache disappears again. Weird. Aaron said in his letter that things would get weird. Is this what he meant? But this is beyond weird. This sucks.

Weird, sucktastic, or all of the above, I don’t want the headache to come back, so I follow the pull down the hallway, through the living room to the front door. I rest my hand on the doorknob.

Where the heck do I think I’m going? I can’t leave Max here alone just because my headache insists I leave the house.

Oh Bruce, it’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you so much.

Pain explodes behind my eyes and I have to go, with or without Max. If I don’t, the pain will kill me.

“Max, I’ll be right back.” I snatch my purse off the table beside the front door. “Eat as many chicken nuggets as you want, but don’t touch the stove. Call my cell if anything happens. Don’t call Mom. She’ll kill me.”

“Where are you going?” Max follows me down the hallway.

I don’t answer. I have no clue where I’m going. I turn the knob and follow my headache out the door.

The cool breeze lifts the ends of my hair and covers my bare arms with chill bumps. I forgot my hoodie, but I don’t care. There’s no way I’m going back inside to face another blast of head-splitting pain.

I stop on the top step of the porch, unsure of what to do. Another torturous wave of pain hits me, and I double over. My stomach lurches and vomit threatens to color the stairs. I choke it down and stumble forward.

All right, all right, Headache, I think to myself. You want me out here? Here I am. Do I need my car or should I walk?

I know the answer before the thought fully forms in my head. Wherever I need to go, it’s too far to walk. And I have to hurry.

I slip behind the wheel of my car, and the cracked pleather seat pinches my butt. Rosie speaks in my head again. She says something about how pleasant it is to spend time with Bruce—whoever Bruce is. Hell, whoever Rosie is. I ignore her.

Other than the occasional pair of headlights, Hell’s Highway is deserted. It’s seven thirty on a Thursday night. In a small town like Carroll Falls, people are home from work by now and are either eating supper or getting ready for bed. This is the time of night when Hell’s Highway is the safest. It will stay fairly empty and safe for a while. Well, at least until the bars close.

I back out of the driveway and slam my foot on the accelerator. I have no idea where I’m going or even if I’m heading in the right direction, but my head feels better. It’s still tugging at me, leading me forward, but the pain is almost completely gone. A nervous chuckle slips from my lips when it occurs to me I’m using a headache as a GPS system. I’m probably the most dangerous driver on Hell’s Highway tonight.

5

The headache leads me across town to an oak-tree-lined driveway. I take the last turn, and my headlights sweep the brick facade of a large building. A well-lit sign in the carefully tended lawn reads: Oak Valley Assisted Living.

My head reels and spots burst in my vision. That can’t be right. I blink and look again, but the sign remains the same. Keeping my eyes on the curving driveway, I slide my fingers into my pocket and remove the letter Aaron left for me. I almost rip the paper as my shaky fingers unfold the squished origami. I find what I’m looking for halfway down the page.

…Meet me at Oak Valley Assisted Living at six tonight.

He wanted me to come here. And somehow, despite my absolute refusal, he got me here. It’s way past six, but I’m here. Tingles race over my skin. Who the hell is this guy?

I stop my car at the front entrance and shift into reverse. This is all too weird, in a bad, horror flick kind of way. I’m going home. Max has probably burned down the house by now anyway, and if he hasn’t, he’s at least wondering where the heck I disappeared to. I’ll pop a few Motrin for the headache.

Pain seizes my brain, twisting it like a washrag, and I realize there is no amount of Motrin, or even morphine, that will dull it enough to ignore. My stomach heaves, and I swallow against the rising bile in my throat.

“Fine!” I slam the car door and trudge to the front entrance. The headache vanishes, but I’m too creeped out to be relieved.

The automatic doors slide open, and warm air envelops me. The smell is the first thing I notice—a mixture of flowers and poop—and underlying that is another scent, something subtle and unpleasant. Something dark.

The tug in my head lurches me forward. I try not to appear crazy as I stumble past the front desk, but I must fail miserably.

“Excuse me, miss?” The tall, gray-haired woman behind the desk glares at me over her glasses. “Can I help you?”

I stop, and the pain brings tears to my eyes. Of course the headache is back. I stopped moving. I try not to wince as I turn around and face the woman.

“Um, yes.” I have to think fast. How can I get by this woman before my head explodes? “I’m here to see Rosie.” I cross my fingers and toes that there’s a Rosie living at the home.

“Rosie?” She comes out from behind the desk and stands in front of me. “Well, first of all, there are more than a few Rosies here. And secondly, visiting hours are over at seven.”

She points to a digital clock on the desk. Seven thirty.

“I’m sorry I’m so late, but I just got off work and I really wanted to tell her something. In person, you know. I want to see her reaction.”

The woman’s face remains hard. I’m not convincing her. I need to up the ante.

“I just got accepted to Harvard,” I blurt out. It’s a ridiculous thing to say and I have to stop myself from burying my face in my hands. Harvard is Haley’s dream, not mine. My grades are so bad I’ve already resigned myself to a few years of community college. But my lie works. The woman’s mouth drops open in astonishment.

“Wow. Harvard? That is an accomplishment.” Her eyes soften and she whispers conspiratorially. “Okay, I’ll let you in for fifteen minutes, but that’s it. All right? Which Rosie are you here to see?”

“Um…” My mind searches through the pain for Rosie’s last name. I know she said it. What was it? “Benson. Rosie Benson.”

I say a silent prayer that there’s a Rosie Benson living here. If not, and this woman sends me on my way, I’m sure my eyeballs will pop and blood will spew from my ears.

“Rosie Benson.” She writes the name in a ledger, looks up at me, and smiles. She’s all sugar and spice now. “And what’s your name, sweetie?”

“Err…Tina…um…Benson,” I say. I have no idea what’s going on or why I’m here, but it seems best if I give the woman a fake name.

She scrawls the name next to “Rosie Benson” and looks back up at me.

“Do you know which room?”

“Yeah,” I say.

It’s a lie. I don’t know where Rosie’s room is, but I’m pretty sure my headache does.

***

I rap on the door at the end of the second-story hall and wait for a response. A small rectangular sign on the wall labels this room “R. Benson.” A chill runs through me and my teeth chatter together, but the pain in my head is finally gone.

Something strange is about to happen, more strange than glowing people, a leading headache, or a crazy guy miraculously predicting my death and saving my life. I can feel the strangeness seeping through the closed door. But it’s not in my head now, it’s deeper than that.

There’s no response to my knock, so I try again and press my ear to the door. Nothing. No talking. No TV. No soft snore of someone sleeping. Nada.

Then a thump and a small, feminine gasp. If I wasn’t straining to hear, I would have missed it.

Whether it’s Rosie in there or Aaron or both, the strange sensation in my head is leading me into that room. I turn the knob, nudge the door open with my elbow, and almost scream.

As soon as I see her I know the old woman on the bed is the Rosie I heard in my head. She’s on her back with the blanket bunched at her feet, as if she was thrashing to wake herself from a nightmare. Her short white curls fan the pillow around her head like a halo, but the light I’ve seen on every other person since I met Aaron this afternoon is missing from her. It’s as if someone came along and flipped her light switch off. Her wide blue eyes are fixed on the young man standing beside her, holding her hand.

Aaron Shepherd’s skin is on fire, easily three times more brilliant than Max or anyone I’ve seen today. I can hardly look at him. His head snaps up at the squeak of the door, and his eyes find me.

“You’re late,” he says. “I thought I said to meet me at six.”

He drops Rosie’s hand. It flops to her chest and slowly slides across her body to dangle off the edge of the bed.

Dead. Rosie is dead.

I want to save your life. Aaron’s words to me this afternoon replay in my memory. And believe me, Libbi, saving lives is not something I do often.

I stumble back, and my butt pushes the door behind me closed. Now I know why Aaron said he doesn’t often save lives. He’s the opposite of a lifesaver. He’s a murderer.

“Oh,” is all I can say as my hand scrambles for the doorknob. A scream builds in my throat.

“No, Libbi! Don’t leave, and don’t scream. I know this looks bad, but it isn’t what you think it is.” Other than the bruise from the punch I gave him earlier, Aaron’s face is pale. I suddenly wish I’d punched him harder. Added a little more color to those white cheeks of his.

My stupid fingers scramble over the door behind me, but I can’t find the doorknob. Aaron takes a step toward me with one hand raised. I yelp and leap away from him and the door—my only means of escape—like an idiot.

Aaron takes the opportunity my stupidity creates and blocks my exit. He raises both hands to the level of his chest, palms out, like my father used to do when he tried to calm Mom during a balls-out fight.

“Look,” Aaron says, his eyes earnest. “There’s no need to be scared. I’m just doing my job. If you had been here on time, you’d know that.”

“Killing old people is your job?” I say. “What are you? Some freaky, psychic hit man to the elderly or something?” I scoot deeper into the room, moving closer to Rosie’s dead body, but farther away from her killer. My fingers close around a glass of water on Rosie’s table. He may be able to predict my death and psychically lead me around town with a headache, but I know I can hurt him if he’s surprised. The greenish-purple mark on his chin is proof. Maybe Aaron will stumble away from the door if I throw the glass at him. Then I can rush out and sprint down the hallway, yelling for help the whole way.

“What? No! I didn’t kill her,” Aaron says. “She was dying. It was her time. Didn’t you feel it? The headache? The pulling in your head?”

“Yeah, I know about the headache.” I lift the glass off the table behind me and prepare to lob it at his head. “I’m not sure how you did it, but I felt it.”

“I didn’t do it, Libbi, but I’m the reason you had it.” Aaron says this like the pounding explosion between my ears is some precious gift. “I can prove it.”

“Oh yeah? You can prove you’re the reason I had a headache? Well, I’ve pretty much had a headache since I met you.”

“Rosie told me she was ready to go. She called me Bruce. You heard that inside your head, right? How would I know that?”

I don’t know how he knows that, and I don’t care. The guy can do a lot of freaky things; he can probably read minds too.

“Now, I won’t keep you from leaving, if you want, but please don’t interrupt me anymore. It’s getting late and I need to finish this. Let me finish my job. Rosie has somewhere important to be, very soon.”

I glance over at the still form on the bed. Rosie isn’t going anywhere very soon, unless the morgue counts.

Aaron keeps his hands up in front of him as he steps away from the door, true to his word. The sleeve of his shirt brushes my arm as he returns to his place next to the bed, and chills roll over my body. It’s as if the guy has an eerie force field surrounding him.

My fingers release the rim of the glass. I don’t trust him—he totally creeps me out—but I no longer need to throw the glass at him. My escape route is clear.

And my curiosity is up to full throttle.

“Where does she have to be?” I say. “Where are you taking her?”

“Well, that’s a little advanced for you.” He scowls down at Rosie. “I’ll show you that later. But you should really watch this part closely.” His frown drifts back up to me. “I really wish you’d been here earlier. This would make more sense. But there’s no time to explain now, so let’s call this ‘Lesson One.’”

“Lesson one? Are you teaching me something?”

“I’m offering you a job, if you want to learn it.” He looks over his shoulder at me and raises his eyebrows. His blue eyes sparkle in his own unnatural light.

“What? If I want to learn what?”

“How to be a Grim Reaper.”

“A what?”

Aaron opens his mouth, either to repeat what he just said or to say something else that’s completely insane, but he doesn’t get the chance. A quiet knock sounds, and the door creaks open.

“Mrs. Benson?” The tall, gray-haired woman from the front desk glides into the room to find me standing with Aaron, beside Rosie’s dead body.

“Ah, you found her.” She smiles at me. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t get lost. Mrs. Benson changed rooms a few days ago. You took off so fast I couldn’t tell you, but I guess you already knew.”

I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’ve been caught taking the five-finger discount at the grocery store, except this involves a dead body and not a pack of gum. I’m not even sure what to say, so I just point at Rosie.

The good humor drains from the woman’s eyes when she follows the direction of my finger. She takes three long strides and almost collides with Aaron, but he steps aside right before she would hit him. She doesn’t even blink.

“She can’t see you,” I say.

“No, she can’t.” Aaron shuffles his feet and studies the secretary as she leans over Rosie’s bed.

At the same time, the woman turns to me from the bed and says, “I know she can’t see me, sweetie. I’m sorry, but I think she’s passed away.”

A light touch on my shoulder. Aaron is at my side. He leans in close, and his hair tickles my ear. I think he’s about to kiss my cheek for some reason, and I’m surprised. Not that he would do such a thing, but that I would let him. My heart races in anticipation, but he doesn’t kiss me.

“I’m running out of time, Libbi,” he whispers. “Lesson one will have to wait. Do you want me to explain everything?”

I nod instead of answering. I don’t want the woman to think I’m talking to her again.

“Go home and wait. Meet me at Jumpers’ Bridge at midnight and I’ll explain everything.”

He walks around the secretary to the other side of Rosie’s bed. The woman slowly turns and faces me. Black-mascara tears streak her cheeks.

“You know, I’ve worked here for twenty years, and I can never get used to seeing the residents pass on.” She swipes at the black tracks with the palm of her hand. “Rosie didn’t want to be resuscitated, but I’ll go get the nurse anyway. You can stay here, if you’d like.”

“Okay,” I say.

She touches my arm as she passes.

“I’m really sorry for your loss, honey. But I’m sure she knows you’re going to Harvard now. And I bet she’s very proud of you.”

Warmth flushes my cheeks at the reminder of my little white lie, but she doesn’t see my blush. She’s already scurried out of the room.

Aaron hurries to the bed and grasps both of Rosie’s hands in his. The silver ring on his right thumb blazes with fiery light when his hands touch hers. He leans back as if he’s helping Rosie out of bed, but her body doesn’t move. Her hands remain completely still, as if she’s made of stone, one arm draped across her abdomen and the other dangling off the bed.

He pulls harder. Tendrils of light shoot out of the ring and wrap Rosie’s wrist. The muscles in Aaron’s arms flex, and his overly brilliant aura dims as the light that was missing from Rosie’s skin when I first walked in the door surges. The aura surrounding her dangling arm separates and comes away from her body in a bright and fully formed hand and arm. Young, feminine, glowing fingers curl around Aaron’s hand. The light surrounding the arm draped across her abdomen separates as well, making Rosie appear to have four arms: two wrinkled, dead, and unmoving, and two young, alive, and held firmly in Aaron’s hands.

He steps back and pulls the glowing arms with him, and a young woman sits up out of Rosie’s old body. She looks up at Aaron with shimmery eyes and smiles.

“Bruce,” she sighs.

“It’s time to go, Rosie. Are you ready?”

Young Rosie looks back at the body of the old woman she had become. She gives a small nod then turns back to Aaron and nods again.

“I’m ready. Will it hurt?”

“It shouldn’t.”

Young Rosie considers him and cocks her head to one side.

“You’re not my Bruce, are you?”

“No, I’m not Bruce.”

“Can you show me who you really are?” Rosie shivers and her eyes grow wide. “Or is the real you too frightening?”

The image of a skeleton draped in a black shroud carrying a blood-stained sickle intrudes upon my thoughts. I shiver along with Rosie.

Aaron agrees with a shrug.

A moment later Rosie gasps, but I don’t see anything different. Aaron looks exactly the same to me: tall with dark, black hair and faded-blue eyes. Even the bright light surrounding him stays the same, but Rosie’s eyes brighten, and her lips curl into a smile.

“Oh. Well, you’re not frightening at all.” She giggles. “You’re quite handsome, actually.”

“Thank you.” Aaron meets my gaze for a brief moment, and his cheeks redden. He looks away. “Okay, Rosie, we have to go.”

He helps her step out of her body and leads her around the bed to the closed door. Her eyes lock on mine as she passes me, and she stops.

“I guess you’re not Kate, either.”

“Um, no,” I say. My slick hands tremble.

“Are you joining us?”

I look up at Aaron. There’s a part of me that’s dying for him to say yes, but a larger part of me hopes he says no. I need more time to digest all of this before I scamper off into the moonlight with the Grim Reaper and his newly acquired soul.

“Not this time.” He shakes his head, and I try not to sigh too loudly.

“Well, I guess you don’t have to show me what you really look like then.” Rosie pats my arm with her icy, glowing hand and lets Aaron lead her to the door.

“Tonight. Jumpers’ Bridge. Midnight. You’ll be there?” Aaron asks.

I whisper, “I’ll be there.”

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 780