The Unquiet (17 page)

I decline Mom’s invitation to drive to Westfield to pick up some decent, affordable groceries. As soon as the SUV pulls off, I dial Tasha’s number, hoping to feel her out about the séance. Before we exchange five words, she invites me over. “Lacy and Meg are here. Hurry up!”

I do. But when I get to Tasha’s house, no one’s talking about
the séance; instead, they’re discussing yesterday’s game, and Meg’s ill-timed fall.

“I can’t believe Koenig kicked me off the squad,” Meg moans.

“Not for good,” Tasha reminds her. “Just till your doctor okays you.”

“What if he doesn’t? What’ll I do then? Cheering’s all I care about!”

Unfazed, Tasha retorts, “You heard what Rinn said. Those stunts are dangerous. You’ll never catch
me
trusting my life to a bunch of ditzy pom-pom girls.”

Lacy sticks out her tongue. “No, you just leap headfirst from a fifty-foot board and pray your skull doesn’t smack the cement.”

I cringe, picturing Annaliese tripping, whacking her head, tumbling into the pool with a scream nobody hears … gasping for breath …

Lacy nods curtly. “What’s with
you
, Jacobs?”

I wet my lips. “Is everyone okay?”

Tasha blinks. “You asked us that last night.”

“I mean … you know … the séance.”

“Oh, that. A waste of time.”

Lacy pokes Meg. “But we sure scared the hell out of that big jock boyfriend of yours. Where’d
he
disappear to? What a pussy.”

Meg’s wan smile reveals nothing. Tasha says with a snicker, “Too bad Dino farted and spoiled the whole mood.”

Frustrated, I shout, “I’m talking about what happened
after
Dino farted.”

“Nothing ‘happened,’” Lacy growls, “because
somebody
had to run crying to her mommy. We got busted. We left. End of story.”

“That’s not the end and you know it.” My confusion blossoms as they all exchange looks. “That’s not the end of the story,” I repeat loudly
because I wasn’t hallucinating!
Now, in the daylight, with time to think about it, I know I’m right. My “real” hallucinations were always vague, distorted. I remember every vivid detail about last night.

It happened.

Lacy lifts her brows. “So what is the story?”

“You guys acted … well, weird!” How
do
I describe their dead faces and frozen limbs? “You sat there like zombies, not moving, not talking—”

Amused, Lacy interrupts, “Whatever you’re smoking, Jacobs, I wish you’d share it.”

“Why are you pretending nothing happened? You
said
you smelled chlorine and then all of you went blank!”

Tasha interjects. “I smelled dirt. And that candle.”

Why is she lying? I heard her
say
she smelled it. I seek out Meg, lost in her own world, absently rubbing one ear. “Meg?”

Frowning, she drops her hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well. So much for that.” Lacy thoughtfully twirls a curl. “Hey, guys, did you see Rinn’s mom dancing with Nate’s old man? Whoa, better watch out—you might be dating your own stepbrother one of these days.”

“That’s not incest,” Tasha assures me kindly.

“Not technically,” Lacy concedes. “Just gross.”

Okay, now the truth is quite clear: either they honestly
don’t
remember what happened, or they’ve already made a pact not
to discuss it with me. This second idea makes the most sense, I decide. And for this I ditched Nate?

I’m glad I never took off my jacket. “Whatever. Go ahead, play your stupid games. But next time, leave me out of it.”

As I charge out, I hear Tasha ask, “Jeez, what got into her?”

Monday, November 3

I’m mad. And frustrated. And ready to scream.

First thing this morning, I catch Dino near his locker. It’s almost comical how he looks both ways, like he wants to make sure I’m actually speaking to
him
. “I need to talk to you about Saturday night.”

Dino affects his bad-boy slouch. “Yeah, what about it?”

“You guys were goofing around, right?”

“Uhh …”

“At the séance, Dino. Before my mom showed up.”

He loses the slouch. Confusion clouds his face. “You mean when I threw the candle? Look, I’m sorry about that—”

I stomp impatiently. “No, Dino.
After
the candle and
before
my mom. What happened in there?”

A long, long silence. Then he answers slowly, as if carefully choosing his words, “I guess I fell asleep. It’s kind of a blur, y’know?”

“A blur,” I scoff. “Fine. Forget it.”

Boldly he catches my sweater as I whirl away from him. “Hey, hey, wait! Why’d you ditch us, anyway? And run for your mommy?”

“You know damn well why.” I pull free and smooth my sweater down. “Oh, and by the way, my candleholder? I spent
days
working on that thing. Thanks for nothing.”

“I can get it back for you,” he offers, “and we can glue it or something.”

“Right, get it back how?”

“I can hop that fence. I done it before,” he boasts.

Irritably I say, “It must be in a thousand pieces by now.” Funny how I didn’t realize till now how attached to it I was. That candleholder was first thing I’d ever made with my two hands. Lopsided or not, even Mom said she liked it.

“Look, I said I was sorry. I’ll get it back, I swear.” He shoves hair out of his eyes and smiles tentatively. “I really, um, like you, y’know? I guess you figured that out.” His toe scrapes the floor as he avoids my stare. “I mean, I know you’re with Brenner and all. But I keep thinkin’, if he hadn’t gotten to you first, maybe you and me …?” He shrinks at my look and plaintively adds, “I’m not really a jerk, honest. I just like to goof around.”

“Whatever.” Obviously he’s not going to tell me a thing about last night. All he wants is, well,
me
. Talk about nerve. “Forget it. See you around.”

I stalk off.

Cecilia ignores me both in art and chorus. Does she plan to stay mad forever? Or is she too embarrassed to talk to
anyone
after she massacred the National Anthem?

I hope it’s number two.

Approaching Dino was a waste of time. It occurs to me maybe I’ll have better luck with Jared—I know
he
saw what happened—but he’s nowhere around. Is he avoiding me?

And other than an occasional “hi,” Nate’s barely spoken to me since the dance.

At lunch, with the cafeteria humming around me, I rest my chin glumly in one hand. Then I sit back up and sniff my fingers. Lavender?

This is the same hand that skidded through the wax Saturday night. Hot, wet wax, when, as cold as that room was, it should’ve dried the second it hit the floor.

My hand itself looks perfectly normal. I sit there, sniffing suspiciously, while Tasha blabs about the regional diving competition coming up in a couple of weeks. Lacy whines that her head hurts again, and that Chad hasn’t sent her that plane ticket or answered her e-mails. Meg, keeping elbows on the table and her hands over her ears, mumbles occasionally so they’ll think she’s paying attention.

Lacy zeros in on my compulsive sniffing. “What—are—you—
doing
?”

Cheeks warm, I reach for my Snapple. I’ve taken three baths since Saturday. I wash my hands constantly.
How can I still smell the wax on my fingers?

Dismissing my nonreply, Lacy continues, “I hope Chad’s not, you know”—she laughs weakly—“dumping me after all this. We even picked out baby names—Chad Junior for a boy and Chantal for a girl. Or maybe Chandra. What do
you
guys think? Chantal or Chandra?”

She can name it Osama or Guadalupe for all I care. Slowly
my right hand creeps back up.
Sniff … sniff.
Confused, I frown.
Now
all I can smell is my pencil and a hint of soap.

No lavender.

“Is anyone listening to me?” Lacy asks petulantly when no one offers an opinion.

Meg massages one ear. “I can’t hear half of what you’re saying over all this buzzing.”

“Well, go see a doctor already! We’re sick of hearing about it.”

Tasha objects, “Speak for yourself. All
you
talk about is that loser, Chad. I bet he dumped you already and you’re too dumb to see it.”

Time stands still at our private table, while the cafeteria bustles with conversation and activity.

“What did you say?” Lacy asks slowly. Tasha, apparently rethinking the situation, pokes a straw into her milk carton. Lacy’s disbelieving eyes roam the table. “Do you guys really think that?”

Meg scooches her chair closer. “Nobody thinks that! Don’t even listen to her.” She glares at Tasha. Tasha then cocks one eyebrow at me, silently asking:
Care to chime in?

I shake my head. I am
so
staying out of this.

Lacy crumbles. “Oh God. She’s right! Why else would he ignore me?”

She looks so, well,
tragic
, my resolve to stay mad at her, and the others, dissolves. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to forgive them for that séance prank. But Lacy’s on the verge of a serious wigout. To say nothing of being sixteen and pregnant in a stuffy town, with a preacher for a dad, no less. In the old days they used to write books about this stuff.

So I say, “I think you should e-mail him again and ask him straight out. If he says yes, then you can deal with it, right? It’s the only way to find out, instead of aggravating yourself to death.”
And the rest of us, too.

Lacy blinks away tears. “Maybe you’re right.” She surprises me with a grateful smile.

The bell rings and we gather up our stuff. Meg asks Lacy, “Are you gonna be okay?”

Lacy nods. “I guess, if this headache ever goes away.”

As Meg and I head off in the same direction, she confides, “Jared’s acting all weird now, like he doesn’t want to be around me. I tried to talk to him but he keeps blowing me off.” Her face falls. “God, if I don’t get back on that squad I don’t know
what
I’ll do. I’m auditioning for a cheerleading scholarship in April. How’s it gonna look if I’m not on a team anymore? Or if Coach Koenig won’t give me a recommendation?”

“Lacy’ll get kicked off, too,” I remind her. “Sooner or later that coach’ll catch on that she’s”—I drop my voice, taking no chances—“you know what.”

“I know. And I’m worried about her headaches. What if it’s something serious, like a brain tumor?” She rushes on while I examine this ghastly idea. “She says she’s had a migraine every day since we—” She stops, stricken.

I stop, too, ignoring the jostles and rude comments. “What?”

“Remember the day she jumped you in the tunnel? When the air got all funny?
That’s
when. That’s when my ears started ringing, too.” Meg squeezes her books and starts walking again. “It’s a known fact that weird things happen in that tunnel. It just never happened to me before.” She taps one ear. “Not like
this
.”

What weird things?
Before I can ask, Meg sprints ahead and disappears. I slow down, my brain spinning with improbable ideas. I go into that tunnel, too, sometimes twice a day. If there’s something “wrong” in there, why haven’t I felt it? Why didn’t
I
notice the funny air? Why didn’t
I
smell chlorine during that séance and morph into a mannequin?

Unless that chlorine thing was part of the joke, too.

The warning bell rings. I’m practically alone in the hall. I break into a run and reach my English classroom one second before Ms. Rasmussen closes the door.

Maybe it’s
all
a joke, one they planned from day one. A conspiracy designed to trick Corinne Jacobs into wondering if she’s losing her marbles again.

And, like before, everyone’s in on it. Everyone!

Maybe Mom’s right: maybe my meds
aren’t
working. Because there’s a word for this. It’s called P-A-R-A-N-O-I-A.

Not that I think anyone’s poisoning my food or following me with a camera. Been there, done that. This is not the same.

So far I’ve come up with three possible scenarios:

1. The séance was a setup. Freaks in this school think it’s funny to pick on the new girl, same way they think it’s funny to stand outside and scream “Can Annaliese come out to play?” This scenario means I’m not paranoid. Only suspicious. For good reason!