“Ster,” she finally said to Mallory. “You’re the one who never wanted to be typical.”
“I got over it,” Mally murmured, studying the toes of her running shoes.
“But if you are, you are. I mean, it’s going to be harder for me. I’m a cheerleader!”
“Oh, yeah,” Mally said scornfully. “I can see that! It’s easy to be a freak if you aren’t a fruitcake with plastic pom-poms, too!”
“Mallory, I’m only saying. If we can’t fight it, we have no other choice but to join it. We have to find a way that it doesn’t control us. We have to learn the way it works and use it to make it work. That’s what you
do
, Mallory. Maybe it could . . . could almost be interesting.”
“Like a rare skin disease could be interesting,” Mallory replied. Then she breathed deeply and raised her head. “Only thing is, I guess if you have to be a freak, at least it’s better to be a freak who can do something to help . . . somehow.”
“Especially if you have no choice.”
“There’s that,” Mallory agreed, her eyes glum.
“Let’s take a run,” Merry suggested. “Before dinner. We never ran up this far, or past the camp. Let’s go farther up the road.”
“You go,” Mally said. “That road goes straight up. I just want to be a vegetable. I have to sleep this off.”
“You’ll sleep your life away,” Merry teased her. “You going off to nap is just the same as me trying to put it out of my mind.”
“Maybe it is,” Mally agreed. “Maybe I was wrong. Let’s both put it out of our minds. Anyhow, I can’t sleep. What if I have a
dream
? Okay. I’ll go if we run all the way to Canada, not just to the end of Canada Road.”
Merry shrugged. Then, handing over her bowl of snapped beans to her grandmother, she stretched her calves and set off.
Within ten minutes, she was so far up the steep path she could feel it in her lungs. She rounded a bend and, through the scrubby trees, caught sight of the camp—a ring of old cabins and a bare patch of ground so far below and behind her that she hardly recognized it. Up here, where few people except a few hikers and backpackers used it, the path narrowed and veered closer to the jagged brow of cliff on her right. If she stopped and leaned over the side, she would see down, down, down—to the rocks on the riverbed. While the sky above was still bright, shadows seeped into the spaces at the bases of trees, making the way ahead dim. Then, behind her, she heard the unmistakable slurry rasp of pebbles sliding away under the feet of someone faster, coming up behind. Merry stumbled. Her throat refused to open. She thought of that morning, alone on the path, of David’s guttural voice, his face distorted by rage. Merry stumbled. She cried out with her mind,
Mally!
The footsteps stopped.
A single pebble rolled.
Then she heard Mally thinking to her:
It’s me.
Just where the path widened, Mally was waiting. She laughed. “Beester!” she said, panting, bending to grasp her knees. “This is straight up! I couldn’t catch you!”
“I’m fast now. I’m not a big sissy anymore.”
“Sure you are,” Mallory teased. “I heard you up there. You were about to start bawling!”
Merry pushed past her twin. Mallory reached out, but Merry jerked away. Turning to face Mally, she said, “You know, Mallory? You’re so tough. But you weren’t here. You didn’t hear the disgusting things he said. You never saw anybody die. You never saw the white thing that came . . .”
“No. You’re right,” said Mally. “I was never here. But I felt what you felt. I thought I would die, too. Are you glad he fell?”
For a long moment, Merry didn’t answer. Mallory couldn’t see her face. “I’m glad it’s over,” she said finally. “At least, that part is over.”
She took Mallory’s hand. “Everything is okay now. Or at least, it’s as okay as it can be. I know you hate it, but we can’t change the future. Well, I mean, we
can
change the future, but we can’t change this power . . . or whatever it is. All we can do is live with it. And the only thing harder than dealing with it would be dealing with it alone.” Meredith stopped. When she continued, it was in a voice more serious than Mally had ever heard her use. “I’ve been thinking, Mal. Maybe that’s all you get. The only bonus is someone to help you bear it. I don’t think anything can drive you crazy if you have somebody to share it with. At least, that’s my idea and I’m sticking to it.”
For the first time since they were in kindergarten, and frightened by the boys on the big slide, Mallory squeezed Merry’s hand instead of pulling away. After a moment, Merry released her. They began to walk, tentatively, in the dusk. For a moment, the only sound was the crunch of their steps.
Then Merry said, “Look. Just down there. You can see the campfire. All we have to do is stay together and stick to the path. I’ll go first. I’m getting used to seeing in the dark.”
Acknowledgments
This is a work of fiction, but twin telepathy is very real (although not to the degree here posited). For their assistance in helping me understand it, I thank “the grown-up twins,” who knew (telepathically, I am sure) how to find me at book signings and events all over the country, as well as L.C., who allowed me to observe her five-year-old daughters at play. Plotting this book needed all I could give, never having written a mystery. For this, I am grateful to friends and colleagues Sara Pennypacker, Anne D. LeClaire, Jodi Picoult, Holly Kennedy, Andy Scontras, Jana K. Felt, Susan Schofield, Michael Schofield, John Fetto, Lisa Alexander, and Dr. Ann Collins, all of whom gave me essential suggestions in helping create Meredith and Mallory’s world. Ben Schrank of Razorbill has the lightest hands on the bit of any editor I have ever met, and I am thrilled that he and I will work together on two more Midnight Twins novels. For plot advice, I thank my son, Daniel Brent-Allegretti. To my cousins, Rayna Cardinal Shawa and Bridget Cardinal Swallow, for their love and insight into our common Canadian/American Indian heritage, I send best love. Enduring gratitude goes to the Ragdale Foundation, where this book was written in 2007. My agent, Jane (Sadie) Gelfman, has my heart, always, as do my cherished friends, my estimable husband, and my seven astounding children.