The Unquiet (30 page)

Mom is back by midmorning. By then Nate and I are downstairs, sitting at the dining room table, though nobody ever sits there and we’re not even eating.

“How’s Millie?” I ask.

Mom throws her coat onto a chair. “A wreck. Bob drove in this morning.” Tasha’s dad. “He’s with her now.” She hugs me from behind with cold arms. “How are
you
?”

“Okay.” I look at Nate. “Can we go riding?” Mom stares at me, aghast. “Mom, I can’t sit around and do nothing.” I remember how Xan, and all the hard work at the stable, took my mind off of Meg, if only for a while. Maybe it’ll do the same with Tasha. “And you can go back to Millie’s,” I add.
I know she wants to be with her. I would, if Millie were
my
friend.

Besides, all she’ll do is fawn over me. Ask me a thousand times how I feel, if I want to talk, if I need a shrink. On and on. I don’t think I can bear it.

Nate squeezes my knee under the table. “I’ll take good care of her, Mrs. Jacobs.”

“Well, I suppose it’s all right. But don’t be all day,” she warns, reaching for her coat again. “And if I’m not here when you get back, come down to Millie’s.”

Hand in hand, Nate and I walk to his jeep. For once, the cold winter air feels good on my face. The sky is blue, not gray. Even the sun’s out for a change.

It’s a beautiful day. I wish Tasha could see it.

Saturday, November 29

At Tasha’s funeral, while I’m standing at the grave site—
I was just here for Dino, how is this fair?
—it occurs to me I’m the only person not crying. I rarely cry—not even when I was screaming in Mr. Solomon’s office—but I never thought much about it, or even wondered why.

Now it’s perfectly clear: I don’t cry like other people for the very same reason I can’t be “touched” by Annaliese Gibbons.

The drugs. They silence the Voices. They chase the shadow people away. They keep me down enough so I don’t get all manicky and do stupid things like hook up with strangers, break into houses, or try to grab hold of a police officer’s gun.

They also keep me
up
enough so I don’t want to cut my throat again.

Yes, the drugs make me safe—but they numb me, too. I can’t cry when I’m sad. I can’t always laugh at the funny stuff, either. Things that used to excite me don’t excite me as much. My
guitar, for instance. I’m playing it now because Mr. Chenoweth socked me with that part, but I’m not exactly loving it. I just do it.

Of course I’m glad I’m not sick anymore. Glad, too, that Mom trusts me enough to take those pills on my own. But sometimes those same old doubts creep in, and I wonder: if I’m numb all the time, how is that living? Maybe I’d
like
to cry over a sad movie, or because someone hurt my feelings.

Or because I’m standing in a cemetery two days after Thanksgiving, knowing it’s Tasha in that shiny pink casket. Don’t normal people cry when a best friend dies? Maybe
not
hearing and
not
feeling things like other people is crazier than hearing and feeling things everyone else
doesn’t.

And watching bad things happen to your friends, one after the other, and not being able to help because you
can’t understand what happened to them first
because you’re a NUMB, PATHETIC, DRUGGED-UP FREAK is unfair.

And frustrating.

And incredibly scary.

Annaliese exists! Even Nate can’t deny it. But if nobody finds out what she wants—and of course she wants something, isn’t that why ghosts hang around?—who knows what terrible thing might happen next?

I have to figure it out.
Yes, it has to be me. Nobody else cares enough. If I’m already labeled crazy, I have nothing to lose.

So, as soon as Nate and I do what we need to do, I’m stopping my meds.

“No, you’re not,” Nate says.

“Yes, I am.” This argument’s getting old.

“Rinn. You are not.”

“You have nothing to say about it.”

The funeral’s over. Like lobsters in a tank, we’re among a hundred other townspeople packed into the Boxcar Diner.

“Not all of them,” I say. “Just the mind-numbing ones. I’m only telling you this so you can let me know if I get goofy.”

“Goofier than usual? How will I
tell
?”

I ignore his sarcasm. “Trust me. You’ll tell.”

A commotion breaks out. Millie, physically restrained by a bald, frantic man I’m guessing is Tasha’s dad, screams at a cowering Bennie Unger. “You! This is your fault! It was your job to keep those kids away from that pool.
Why did you let them in?
”

“I d-didn’t, Miz Millie,” Bennie stammers. “It just—it just happened.”

“Just happened, my ass! You were
there
—why didn’t you stop her?” Breaking free of Mr. Lux, Millie lunges for Bennie. I automatically hide my eyes, a new habit lately. “What kind of moron
are
you? I’m gonna have your job, you hear me?”

It takes half a dozen people to wrestle her away. Bennie, sobbing unashamedly, grapples for the door and stumbles outside. As the diner falls into a prolonged, sickening silence, I think:
See? Even Bennie Unger can cry.

Monday, December 1

“Honey, do you want to stay home today? I doubt many people’ll show up.”

“You’re going,” I point out.

“Well, I have a job.”

“Aren’t you allowed to be sad?”

“Yes, I’m allowed. But if I wallow today, then I’ll want to wallow tomorrow, and the next day, and then, who knows?”

A funny thing for Mom to say. Mom never wallows. The closest she got to wallowing over Tasha was late last night, when I heard her playing Chopin. A sad piece, one she played over and over, and the more she played, the more she messed up. I think she’s exhausted from spending so much time with Millie.

Bleary-eyed, Mom slops milk into my juice glass, forgetting I don’t drink milk, that I never drink milk except over cereal. It sits untouched as she scoops away my empty bowl. Where’s her
makeup? Did she even brush her hair? She’s going to school like that? She looks like a—well, like a
hag
.

“I might be late tonight,” I say nonchalantly.

She doesn’t ask why. “If I’m not here when you get home, I’ll be with Millie.”

“Okay.”

I follow her to the foyer. She pulls on her coat, flinging her messy hair away from the fur-trimmed hood. When I step forward for my usual good-bye kiss, she dodges away out the door.

What’s
that
about? Is she mad at me?

Hurt, I wander back to the kitchen to shake my pills—my last dose—out of the bottles.

First thing in homeroom, Mr. Solomon announces over the PA: “As you know, we’re all grieving the death of Tasha Lux.” Half the girls burst into tears. I stare at my desk as he goes on and on—and then I hear him say, “For those of you who keep ignoring my warnings, listen up: that pool room is completely—off—limits! If I find out anyone’s been in there or tampering with the lock, you’ll be immediately suspended, and most likely expelled. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

Rats. Now what?

“If I had my way,” he continues, “I’d block off the outer corridor”—his fancy phrase for the tunnel—“completely. But with no other exit from gym, the fire marshal won’t allow it. Now I know some of you are, er, a bit uneasy about walking through there in light of recent events. Therefore, I’m lifting my ban on cutting through the gym. All I ask is, if there’s
a class going on, you’ll keep to one side and not cause a disturbance.”

Well, Cecilia Carpenter should be happy about that.

School’s tough. Another grief counselor sets up shop in the cafeteria. Students and teachers alike drift through the day in tears. At lunch, when I approach my vacant table, I’m struck by the most depressing truth of all: all my friends are gone.

No Meg.

No Lacy.

No Tasha.

I’m alone.

I see Cecilia chattering with Stacy Winkler, the student council chick with the overalls, and with Pat Schmidt, apparently recovered from mono. Cecilia, no doubt remembering our unpleasant meeting at Millie’s diner, pays no attention to me.

I ditch the whole scene and check the custodian’s closet. No Bennie, either.

Next, I head to the office. “Mom, is Bennie here today?” I just want to check on him. As bad as I feel, he must feel ten times worse. Especially after what Millie said.

Mom stares at her computer screen. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Is he sick?”

“How would I know?”

“Duh, Mom. Isn’t it your job to keep track of us?”

She raises her head, but looks past me, not at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to a class?” Then she picks up the ringing phone, dismissing me entirely.

Last night, Nate and I planned to meet after school today. I know he didn’t believe I’d go through with this. Now he asks incredulously, “Didn’t you hear the announcement?”

“Yes. But you said you’d help me.”

“Well, not to get myself expelled in the process.”

“Fine, I’ll do it myself.” I stalk off, secretly hoping he’ll follow.

He does, of course.

I think I love this guy.