The Unquiet (13 page)

According to King Solomon’s announcement over the PA, the no-cut-through-the-gym rule will not apply during the Homecoming dance. In fact, the tunnel is forbidden tomorrow night, for our “own safety,” he says. Either he caught wind of Lacy’s planned séance or he thinks we’ll use it for an orgy den.

Cecilia and I reach the art room at the same time. “How’s the voice?” I ask anxiously.

She clears her throat as if testing it. “Fine now.”

“Good. I was worried.”

“I bet.” With that, she stalks away.

Okay, I get it: she’s mad as hell.

I trail in and take my ceramic bowl/candleholder/whatever off the shelf. Meg, pale, her un-made-up eyes shadowed, strolls in last and drops into place.

“I didn’t sleep much last night,” she offers, though I didn’t comment.

Guilty conscience, I hope.
“Why not?”

She lifts a shoulder. “My ears again. No biggie.”

My candleholder looks fabulous now that it’s painted—smooth, dark red, only slightly lopsided, with my name etched into the bottom. I decide to skip the glossy finish so I can take it home tonight, find a candle, and place it on the porch for the trick-or-treaters.

“Are you mad at me because of what happened with Cecilia?” Meg murmurs.

“I’m madder at Lacy,” I say truthfully. “Sick of her, too.”

“Rinn, you really don’t know her that well.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

“I’ve known her forever. If she acted like that
all
the time, do you think I’d stay friends with her?” I flash her a
hell-if-I-know
look. “Okay, she’s bitchier than usual. But that’s because—”

I hold up a hand. “I get it already.”

“Well, good. Because I don’t appreciate having to defend my friends.” Meg’s dirty look surprises me. “And why did
you
have to open your mouth about you know what? To Cecilia yet! She’s not even part of our group.”

I glance at Cecilia, hoping she didn’t hear. “I don’t know. I was mad. It just slipped out.”

Pause. “Guess we all have our bitchy moments.”

“I guess so.” We exchange forgiving smiles, and then I brandish my candleholder. “I think I’ll bring this to the séance.”

Just like that, Meg shuts down. “Right. That séance.”

“I’ll protect you,” I joke. She rubs one ear and says nothing. Firmly I add, “Meg, it’s just a
tunnel
. And it’s just a game, okay?”

She nods, casually.

I don’t think she believes me.

After school, I catch Cecilia on her way out, to try to make up with her one more time. Before I say two words, she faces me. “Look, Rinn. I think it’s cool that you’re not so much like other people around here. But I can’t be friends with you if you’re gonna be friends with
them
. I don’t need this crap, and I don’t need to be anybody’s project. No hard feelings, okay?”

I’m stunned by how deeply that hurts. “You weren’t my project.”

“Whatever. If hanging out with the clique bitches is so important, well, more power to you. I feel sorry for you, Rinn,” she adds, walking away. “Really sorry.”

Me, too. And I’m not altogether sure why.

“My house,” I argue when Nate wants us to hand out candy from
his
porch. “It’s my first Halloween here.”

“Uh, that might not be such a good idea,” he warns.

“Why?”

“Well, there’s this tradition around here …”

“Oooh, you’re scaring me already.” I pretend to quake. “Forget it, farmer boy.”

“Suit yourself. But you better have some decent candy, see? None of those Nyquil suckers. We like chocolate round these parts, Snickers ’n’ stuff.”

“I got it covered.”

My art project sits proudly on the porch railing, a spicy scent drifting up from the candle I inserted. Two hollowed-out pumpkins, also with candles—Mom’s traditional jack-o’-lantern, and mine more sinister with slanted eyes and a screaming mouth—perch on either side of it.

We drag the glider to the edge of the steps, where we sit and pass out candy to clusters of kids dressed like witches and ghosts and Disney characters. After a time, Nate pops a mini Mounds bar into his mouth, chews, and then states, like he’s been pondering this, “We’ll have fun tomorrow night.”

“I never went to a school dance before,” I confide.

“Why not?”

Simple: because I couldn’t. No dances, no school programs, no plays, nothing. I was too afraid people were watching me, talking about me, possibly following me around with devious intentions. Would they poison my food if I looked the wrong way? Plant a tracking device on me so I could never escape?

I’ve already told Nate so much about me—do I really want to scare him off for good? So I smoothly reply, “Nobody cute ever asked me.”

At that split second, my evil screaming pumpkin flies off the railing and splats on the ground. A dark figure in a sinister mask races through my yard, shrieking, “Can Annaliese come out and play?”

Nate jumps up. “Beat it, you moron!”

The ghoul howls and dashes down the street. I stare, outraged, at the empty space. Why didn’t he pick on Mom’s pumpkin instead?

Nate vaults off the porch steps. “Nice!” He kicks the shattered pumpkin, then hops back up on the porch. “Hey, I forgot. Rumor has it, someone else asked you to Homecoming.”

“Yeah. Dino.” I roll my eyes. “Can no one around here keep their mouths shut?”

“Was it supposed to be a secret?”

“Why? You jealous?”

The glider squeals as he sits back down,
much
closer to me than he sat before. “Maybe.” The huskiness in his voice transforms my heart into a fluttering moth.

A new group of kids, clearly too old for trick-or-treating, halt in front of us: Leatherface, waving a plastic chainsaw, Michael Myers in his hockey mask, and a Grim Reaper. They stand and stare, saying nothing.

I shake my bowl of candy bars. “No need for violence. I’ve already been warned: no crappy suckers.”

Silence.

“How about a Twix?” I dangle one invitingly.

Nate snickers, joining in. “What’s the capital of Delaware? Who was the last president of the Soviet Union? What is—?”

“—the square root of one thousand, three hundred and seventy-five?” I shout.

Still no answer.

“Weirdos,” I murmur.

“Just wait.”

I do. Eventually Leatherface asks in a spooky voice: “Can
Aa-a-ana
-liese come out and play?”

“Told ya.” Nate nudges me.

I jump up and plunk down the candy bowl. These dudes are creeping me out! “Why don’t you go harass someone else?” Michael Myers chuckles. “Fine. I’m siccing my dog on you.”

Nate says under his breath, “You don’t have a dog.”

“They don’t know that.” I open the front door, whistle sharply—and screech when a brick crack-lands on the porch, missing me, Nate, and my imaginary dog by inches. “HEY!”

Laughing, the ghouls sprint off, costumes flapping, shoes slapping the sidewalk.

“I’m calling the cops!” I scream. “Willful destruction of property!”

“Don’t bother. Mrs. Gibbons called the cops every Halloween. They never catch ’em.” I stare in disbelief. “I told you, it’s a tradition. People stand outside and ask if Annaliese can come out.” He pulls me down on the glider. “I sort of hoped they’d forget about it this year, seeing as how the old lady’s …” He glances up at the big amber moon. “Dead now.”

I think of that room upstairs, the one with the canopy bed, where, presumably, Annaliese once slept. “They tormented Mrs. Gibbons? After what she went through?
You
didn’t, did you?”

“If I say yes, would that change your perception of me?”

“I’m not sure I have a perception of you yet.”
Other than the fact that I think you’re very, very cute and a whole lot nicer than some people around here
. “Losers!” I shout as Nate slides an arm through mine. But now that I know I won’t be slaughtered by a mob of monsters, I laugh outright. “What a hoot! Admit it, Nate. They scared the bejesus out of you, too.”

Nate frowns. “Hoot? Bejesus?”

He deflects my fist. Then, just like in the movies, he leans closer and closer till our lips nearly touch—and whispers to me in the sexiest way imaginable, “Dang, surfer girl. You’re fittin’ in here just fine.”

Saturday, November 1

Meg and Tasha show up in the morning to take me shopping at Barney’s. It’s
so
last minute, I doubt I’ll find a thing, and I’m having hideous visions of showing up in
Mom’s
old prom dress.

“Lacy wanted to come,” Meg says, “but she’s got another migraine and wants to shake it before the game.”

I’m glad Lacy didn’t show. I’m in no mood to be nice to her.

“Chad finally e-mailed her,” Meg adds as we walk toward the square. “He says he’s going to send her a plane ticket to Okinawa.”

“What?” Tasha yelps.

“He wants to marry her. Really! Now she just has to tell her parents.”

“Or elope.”

“She can’t elope to Japan unless she has a passport,” I remind them. “And she needs their permission to get one. To say nothing of getting
married
.”

“Maybe Japanese laws are different,” Meg says hopefully.

“Who cares, if she can’t get there?”

“Why are you always so negative?”

“I’m not, I …” Fine, forget it. I don’t know how old this Chad dude is, or what the age of consent is, here
or
Japan. But I suspect he’s in for a buttload of trouble.

We cross the square and walk down Main Street, while Tasha describes the fight she had with Millie. “She pitched a fit! She practically threatened to disown me. But I said, too bad, I’m going to the dance and no way can she stop me.”

Meg pats her back. “Good for you for sticking up for yourself. She pushes you way too hard.”

“Maybe,” Tasha admits halfheartedly. “But, really, she just wants me to be the best.
I’m
the one who wants to go to the Olympics. My folk have been saving up for it for years. But I’m
not
missing Homecoming. Now she’s mad as hell.”

We reach Barney’s Consignment Shoppe at the south end of town, between the Lutheran church—Lacy’s dad is the pastor there, Meg informs me; no wonder Lacy’s so nervous about telling her parents she’s pregnant—and the Army Surplus. I roam the cluttered aisles for fifteen minutes, growing more and more desperate. Nothing but halters, spaghetti straps, and plunging necklines!

Then I spot it: black velvet, with long sleeves and a high collar. My friends watch doubtfully as I pull it on over my clothes. Okay, it’s kind of roomy, and too long, and it stinks of mothballs—but other than that, it’s perfect.

I posture in front of the mirror while my friends offer comments:

Meg groans. “It’s ancient. You can’t be serious.”

“What’s that smell?” Tasha fans her nose.

“Didn’t Annie Oakley wear this to a funeral once?”

“Yeah. Her
own
.”

Their hysterics cause some creepy dude in a red bandana to glare at us over a barrel of shoes. Torn, I finger the ruffled collar, soft with age. Do I love it because I love it or because it’ll cover my scar? I stare into the mirror, running my fingertips down the row of pearly buttons. My gray eyes shine back. My black hair blends into the dress. I look …
otherworldly.
It’s the only word to describe it. “I love it. It’s mine.”

After the elderly clerk, maybe Barney himself, rings up my purchase, Creepy Red Bandana Dude blocks our exit. “You gals gettin’ ready for the shindig tonight?” He reeks of booze and motor oil. “Well, don’t get too friendly with the boys, don’t drink and drive”—
drive where?
—“and don’t take no chances stirrin’ up old Annaliese, now.”

“We won’t,” Meg says courteously. Then she ducks one way and Tasha ducks the other way, leaving me alone with Creepy Red Bandana Dude.

“Monica Parker’s kid, right?” Recognition sparks in his bloodshot eyes. “Tell’er her old friend Joey Mancini said hey. Joey, from high school. Tell her to come on down and see me sometime.”

Mancini? This drunk, trashy old guy is Dino’s dad? I smile politely, dodge around him, and catch up outside with Tasha and Meg. “
Wow
, what a freak.”