Call Me Grim (4 page)

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.

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.

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.