Phobic (15 page)

Did you see that clarinet girl, the one who sulked her way down the hall? She must have really sucked.

It makes no sense how I can have missed that spot. If I hadn’t forgotten my music—hadn’t been so consumed with something I have
no
control over, it never would have happened.

I go back to my corner and swab out my clarinet before putting it in its case. My clarinet, those lovely pieces of wood and silver; my companion for the last five years. It’s almost as bad as Todd picking Sierra over me.

For some reason the thought of Todd hugging her makes the shame reemerge, harder than before. I slam the lid shut. I have to get out of here.

The tile floor is cold on my bare knees. I do a weird sort of push-up and stand, smoothing my skirt. And I gasp. Todd’s head nods above most of the others in the room. He’s scanning faces, looking for me.

I
search the room, looking for an escape. But those doors are my only way out. Before I know it, Todd’s brown DCs stop right in front of me.

“Hey,” he says, hands in his pockets. His mouth has this adorable, sad smirk. “So, you knock their socks off?”

Fabulous. Instead of speaking, he took a LOSER stamp and pounded it against my forehead. Worst of all, I’m sure he’s seen the fake profile. But if he has, he doesn’t mention it. Ugh, I’m deleting it the first chance I get. I sniffle and try to shuffle past him, but he grabs my arm. I shirk out of his grasp.

“I told you. I don’t need a ride home.”

“Piper, I’m sorry. I had no idea Sierra did that.”

I roll my eyes, only to find his vulnerable, entreating gaze hasn’t once left my face.

“I only brought it up to ask what happened. Really. I was just trying to act like I—” He looks down at his hands. “Well—I don’t like her anymore.”

I’m beyond confused. A sound clogs out of my throat, halfway between a sob and a laugh. “Feelings aren’t like brakes in a car, Todd. You can’t just stop.”

I punch through the doors, down the hall and outside. The air has cooled slightly, and traffic streams down the busy street. Sniffling again, I pound the sidewalk toward the bus depot. Those judges must think I’m such an idiot. Not to mention the key to my personal jail has just been taken and chucked into the deepest sea. Some nerve Todd has, showing up here and acting like nothing’s wrong.

I should’ve found my pianist to thank her for taking the time to help me, but I’ll send her flowers or something later. I can’t go back there.

I’m about a block down when several horns bleep. Todd, in his little red pickup, inches slowly on the street beside me. He’s the beginning float in a piss-people-off parade. At least three cars are stuck behind him. He rolls down his window and pooches out his bottom lip.

“Go away,” I call, but a smile tugs at my mouth. A small laugh leaks out at the train of cars he’s collecting. Another horn honks, and some guy yells, “What’s your problem!”

“You’re gonna get jumped, you know,” I tell him.

“Guess you better get in,” he answers.

I glance again at the line of cars behind his truck. No doubt, he will probably tail along with me the whole way to the bus depot. Shaking my head, I scamper onto the street and climb in. I fold my arms and sink back into the seat. The sight of my backpack on the floor sends more stings to my eyes.

“Piper,” Todd begins.

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Fair enough.”

He presses on the gas, and the honking behind us subsides. It’s silent the whole way home, and Todd watches his lap as I climb out of his truck.

“Hold up,” he says as I’m about to slam the door. The sound of his voice razzes me. He unbuckles and gets out, scampering around to the sidewalk. He brushes a few curls from his eyes.

I want to stay mad, to stomp away, but his pleading gaze melts me. It sizzles straight through to my core. “I know you don’t want to talk, so just listen, okay?”

I huff, but grapple my case with both hands and lean against his truck. I blink with deliberation, hoping he reads it as,
don’t push your luck.

“The only reason I brought Sierra up earlier is because I was worried about you. It just came out wrong—you telling me all that about your house, and then her whining at me… I didn’t mean to snap or anything. I didn’t have time to process and it came out wrong,” he says again.

“Okay,” I mutter, because I don’t know what else to say.

He peers down at his hands. “And for what it’s worth, I thought you sounded amazing up there.”

My lids press shut. He was in the auditorium. He saw me blow it.

“Look at it this way. At least you’ll be staying with me this next summer.”

“Todd—”

“It’s not like you can’t try again.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Just get over it, Pipes. You’ll get it next time.”

“I don’t want to be nonexistent!” I shout, not knowing where the words come from. “There is no ‘next time,’ Todd. I’m sick of being defined as ‘that girl with the zits,’ ‘that girl with the creepy house.’ ‘That girl whose—’”

I swallow and my voice deflates. I’m about to mention Mom, but it’s too much to deal with right now, especially after that profile, so I shift gears to another scab, one that doesn’t ache quite as much.

“’—dad just died. If I can’t do this, then what am I good for?” Music has always been an out for me, something I could pour my soul into. Make the clarinet sing so others would pay attention to it instead of how much ‘the girl whose mom committed murder’ was hurting.

Todd’s gaze never leaves my face. I know, because I can feel it more than anything else. Penetrating like a laser beam. His voice is so soft I wonder if he really speaks or if I make it up.

“I know you feel abandoned, Pipes. But in case you didn’t notice, I’m still here.”

I go straight up to my bedroom. I stand there on the rug, staring at the antique dollhouse in the corner, the lacy curtains, the marble-topped dresser and mirror, and my modern additions to the room like posters and a nail polish collection the size of Sally Beauty Supply.

I don’t even undress, just crawl into bed and ignore my empty stomach, not caring that the sun hasn’t set yet or that Joel is nowhere in sight. My thoughts won’t settle, and it’s no wonder. I lose it at school. Spit back at Sierra exactly what I’ve always wanted to say to her. Yell at practically everyone in my greenhouse class. Then something
else
freaky happens in my house.

I should have known Sierra would retaliate, but I never imagined she could do something so cruel. And my audition. Why,
why
did I miss that spot? Music has always been my safe haven, and now it’s failed me too. Except I’m the one who messed up, but that’s beside the point.

Before, I had no problems with the way things were. My house is quirky. It always has been. I just accepted it, like the way someone would accept their grandma for wearing leg warmers and orthopedic shoes. But I don’t approach the house. I don’t ask it what happened. I don’t touch its walls, trying to find some answer.

And Todd. This blistering in my chest is partly from him, but it shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t care if he likes Sierra. Although, he said he didn’t like her anymore…

In a rage I pull open Facebook on my phone and delete my account. Who needs it? Then I go into settings and report the fake profile. That should take care of that. Except it doesn’t make me feel any better.

I need to get over it. Accept that I blew the audition, so now I’m doomed to this house. Huffing, I toss the covers back and wander the rooms aimlessly, not wanting to hold still. In the kitchen all I can see is the rug, and in the library, that door chars my nerves. I go to the parlor, thinking of how people sat and played cards and wasted their lives away in here instead of accomplishing things. Maybe that’s what I should do. Waste away.

Black and white, aged photographs hang on the wall above an elegant table. They’re constant reminders that this was someone else’s house before it was mine. As far as I know I’m related to them somehow, I’m just not sure on the
how
part.

I’ve never stopped to notice them before, but for some reason the faces hold my interest this time. In fact, one sticks out more than the others, and it’s not because of the placid, sterile look on the girl’s pretty face.

She’s in a staring match she’s determined to win.

A dusting of chills spreads over one corner of my shoulder, and they bubble there like I’m being touched by a cold hand. I can’t break my eyes away from the girl. The longer I look, the colder I feel. And the more frightened
she
looks. She stares off like the others around her, but the line of her hawk eyes, the tightness in her jaw and the way her neck looks constricted—it’s as if she’s being forced into the picture and taking it could end her life.

“Who are you?” I whisper, roving over the wall of faces. I catch movement from the corner of my eye and jerk in its direction, heart hammering, startled to find nothing but the hardwood flooring and silent furniture. The chills at my arm won’t stop.

I’m almost sure she’s a servant, though I didn’t realize they took pictures of their servants back then. But she wears a frilly white cap across her hair, while none of the other women on the wall have one. They all have these crooked, straw hats, or wide-brimmed concoctions covered in feathers.

I sink onto the cream chaise lounge and plunk my head into my hands. It’s hopeless. Whether I failed or not, those pictures are reminders that nothing matters. I don’t even know who these people are, what they accomplished. Now they’re just nameless faces. What I might as well be.

“What more can I do?” I ask the silent room, feeling crappier than ever.

Cold rushes over me like a thousand tiny spiders. I lift my head, and the room ripples as if I’m looking at it under water. Imperfections appear as the ripples slow: cracks along the crown molding; smudges of soot surrounding the fireplace. The house looks more real than ever—less like a newly renovated showroom and more like a well-worn and loved item. It takes on a golden sheen, like color fading from a photograph.

It’s too real to be a dream, but it makes me wonder if the illusion shifting over my eyes is genuine. I blink. The washed-out haze doesn’t lift.

Footsteps snap my spine—I thought I was alone. An elegant young woman in a wine red dress cascades through the room, solidifying the scene so it’s more reality than vision. I wait for her to notice me, to say something, but she pays me zero attention.

Short sleeves trimmed with fringe hang off her shoulders, exposing a bit of cleavage. Her waist is tiny, and then the skirt thickens with a bustle at her backside and a train dripping in layers of ruffles.

Fear seizes me for several moments, moistening my skin, but it fades to intrigue. I nearly open my mouth to ask who she is, but I’m afraid to speak or even move, in case the vision or whatever it is vanishes.

“It’s lovely on you, Ada,” says a man’s voice. I jerk; I hadn’t noticed him, but he’s behind me, below the arched ceiling in front of the curved bay windows. He wears a vest and high-necked white shirt and bow tie beneath a dark suit. Talk about dressed up.

“Miss Havens, if you please, sir,” she corrects. Half of her dark hair is piled high on her head, and the rest of it twists in ringlets down one side of her neck.

“If you wish.”

Ada, Miss Havens—whoever she is—can’t be much older than I am. Black gloves climb up to her elbows, and she tugs on the fabric at her hips.

“It is too much, sir,” she says, fiddling with the ringlets in her black hair and the flat straw hat tipped forward on her head. “I fear I am overdressed.”

“Nonsense,” says the man, stepping toward her, a top hat tucked under his arm. Wrinkles sprig around his eyes, but he’s not bad-looking. For an old guy. He pulls white gloves onto his fingers. It’s obvious he’s at least ten years older than Ada is, if not more.

“To anyone who asks, you are merely my guest, nothing more. No one will suspect—”

“I am your servant, Mr. Garrett. You should not expect so much of me.” She tips her head to the side while worry makes lines on her pretty face.

A servant? Now I recognize her. She’s the girl from that picture! She’s way more sophisticated now than she was in that shot.