The Unquiet (32 page)

I skip lunch and hang out in the library, worrying again about the pool room door. Bennie’s still not back. Does that mean
no one discovered the broken lock? Would they report it to Mr. Solomon if they did? Would he fix it immediately?

I agonize over this for, like, half the period.

It has to be locked! Nobody else can go in there! It’s too dangerous!

I ditch the library, cut through the auditorium, and dart into the tunnel. Since Tasha died,
nobody
uses it. Even the jocks steer clear.

I hesitate, remembering, with a shudder, those ice crystals in Nate’s hair. Funny how we’ve both been too afraid to bring that up.

Then I grasp the knob. The metal stings my fingers.

Wait for Nate. Do not try this by yourself.

Unlocked, as I’d feared, the door knobs turns easily.

Is that chlorine I smell?

I open the door an inch, wondering why I’m doing this, yet powerless to stop.

Fearless Rinn
, Nate once called me.

“I know you’re there,” I call softly, vaguely aware of my burning fingers.

With an audible
whoosh
the knob wrenches out of my hand

The door slams shut.

Throat parched, I bolt out of the tunnel and back to the real world.

The slick sensation of candle wax scathes my hand the rest of the day.

Saturday, December 6
“Experiment: Day #5”

“You look different,” Nate observes. “You wearing makeup?”

“Yep. Deodorant, too,” I drawl. “I even warshed my pits jest for you.”

Nate joins in. “Well, hayull, you clean up
real
good. I reckon I might have to ask you out on a date real soon.”

“You mean when you pay my way and everything?”

“Yup. How about tonight?” he asks in his regular voice.

I consider this. I’d so love to do something besides sit around and be sad. Is there a protocol to follow when a good friend dies? Like, no dating for a month? No laughing for a year? “There’s nothing to do around here on a Sunday night.”

“We can drive to Westfield, catch a movie. Maybe sit in the back and throw Milk Duds at people.”

My stomach flips when Nate’s smile assures me that Milk Duds aren’t all that’s on his mind. “Wow, you farm boys sure know how to show a gal a good time.”

We skip the Milk Duds, but we do sit in the back. I must be more depressed than I thought; I keep wondering, what right do I have to enjoy myself? How can life breeze along like nothing terrible happened? It feels so very wrong.

It takes Nate less than a minute to wear me down. I feel safe with him, and he holds me tighter than ever, like he needs this as much as I do. We kiss till my cheeks are raw from his stubble. Luckily the movie’s awful; only ten other people in the theater, and none of them close enough to see what we’re doing with our hands.

So why do I feel someone’s eyes on me?

Ridiculous! No one’s paying us any attention. Yet more than once I have to sit up and crane my neck in the dark. That man there, two rows ahead of us—wasn’t he farther away a few minutes ago?

“What’s the matter?” Nate asks.

I shake my head and go back to kissing him. Under my shirt, his hands are warm on my skin. Sliding the hem of my cami out of my jeans. Gliding up.

Slut, slut, you are such a slut, that’s all you are, you’ll never change, will you, Rinn?

I tell myself I’m not hearing that, that the man two rows down can’t possibly know my name. Still, the nasty whispering continues:
Look at you, you make me sick, you slut, you bitch, don’t you know I can see you, that EVERYONE can see you? Oh yes, we’re watching … we’re watching you, Riiinnnn …

“Stop it!” I shout.

Nate jerks. “Huh?”

Heart ripping through my chest, I stare ahead.

The man is gone. All I hear now are the actors laughing onscreen, and snickers from two kids way down in the first row.

“God, Rinn,” Nate says gruffly. “I thought you—I mean, I thought we—”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

Nate looks around briefly. “Um, then who?” I shrug helplessly. Technicolor lights flash in Nate’s eyes, rendering them unreadable. “
O
-kay. So, is this what you meant by goofiness?”

“I’m fine,” I say weakly. “Sorry.”

Fine?
I think about the pool room door, how the knob burned my hand, how it slammed shut by itself. If I tell Nate about
that
, will he think it’s more of that “goofiness” I warned him about?

He kisses me again before I can make up my mind.

It’s snowing hard by the time the theater lets out. Usually Nate lets me drive the jeep, but no way will I navigate these icy roads in the dark. After a slow, treacherous ride, it’s after midnight when we get back. Although I don’t have an official curfew for weekends, Mom may kill me; I thought we’d be home by eleven.

Our good-night kiss lasts approximately ninety seconds.

Inside, I find that our previously neat, quaint living room has morphed into a giant ashtray. Mom, on the sofa, puffs on a cigarette and stares at a late night talk show.

“Sorry I’m late,” I announce. “It took forever to get home.” I wait for the lecture, but Mom says nothing. “What’s wrong?”

Mom’s eyes swivel to touch on mine. She blows out smoke.

I can’t resist. “Mom, you need to quit smoking. It’s totally disgusting.”

“Don’t worry, honey.” She taps off a cylinder of ashes. “I won’t burn down the house.”

I sway.
Did she really say that to me?

WOULD she say it?

I retreat to my room, with its comforting Precious Pewter walls, and wipe the sweat off my shaky hands.

Sunday, December 7
“Experiment: Day #6”

I don’t sleep all night.

I lie there for hours thinking about my Klonopin downstairs, how just one teensy pill would knock me out for a while. How two might let me sleep peacefully till morning. Three could render me unconscious till noon tomorrow.

Four or five would carry me through till Monday. I could skip
all
of today—what a great idea! Because if I don’t get some sleep, my head’ll explode.

When I shut my eyes for the millionth time, I see Annaliese’s face for the millionth time.

What kind of a friend would Annaliese have been? The kind who’d be nicer to Lacy, who’d accept her for who she is?

Who’d call 9-1-1 when she knew something was wrong at Meg’s instead of running first to Nate, wasting valuable time?

Who could’ve read Tasha’s mind, and kept her out of the pool room altogether?

Who wouldn’t have abandoned Dino.

Who would’ve rushed back to the cottage the second she saw those flames and dragged her unconscious grandmother to safety?

I
had those chances. I blew them every time.

Annaliese had no chance to do anything, right
or
wrong.

I turn on my lamp and rummage around for a compact. Flicking it open, I aim the dusty round mirror at my face. I stare hard at my eyes, those flat gray disks. The longer I stare, the lighter they become, growing paler and brighter till they shine like silver coins.

Is that you, Annaliese, hiding inside me?

What would you be like if you’d lived? Did people like you? Hate you?

Were you smart in school? Mediocre, like me?

Were you in love with someone?

I think you were. You looked sad in that yearbook, but I know you were just lost in another world, thinking about him, counting the minutes till you’d see him.

Whoever he was, he loved you. Yet he let you die.

I hear her reply: “Yes, he did. And I hate him for it.”

My words, my voice. But I don’t know why I said it.

I throw the compact across the room.

Sleep. Who needs it? By 7:00 a.m. I’ve unpacked all the boxes I’ve ignored for weeks. I’ve also alphabetized my books, changed my sheets, organized my CDs, and showered and dressed. Next I consider all my random piles of clothes, and I decide I’m sick of living out of laundry baskets. I sort and stack every item by color and season, then gallop downstairs to ask Mom about Annaliese’s dresser. She
said
I could use it.

I find a note on table:
At Millie’s. Will probably take her to out to lunch. Be good!

Millie again. I crumple the note. Be good? Really?

I enlist Nate’s help in moving the dresser. It’s hard navigating the narrow staircase, plus we knock a hole in my wall once we get it to the top.

“Nice going,” I observe, though it’s not entirely his fault.

He falls on to my mattress with exaggerated pants. “Now what?”

“Now you can help me clean this thing up”—I nod at the dresser, a cherry wood box with four roomy drawers—“and put my stuff away.
Or
…” His eyes grow huge as I unbutton the top button of my shirt. “We can have sex.”

“What?”

I unbutton the second one, then the third. Nate watches, transfixed. “My mom’s taking Millie out to lunch. We’ve got plenty of time.” The fourth and fifth buttons pop open. I slide my arms out of the shirt, wondering why he’s looking at me so funny, and why I feel like I’m acting a part in a movie.
Cut! Print!
“Well?”

Speechless, he waits till I drop my jeans. Then he leaps off my mattress as if jabbed by a branding iron. “Stop.” My hands falter. I can tell he’s trying hard to concentrate on my face, not my thong. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea to jump into this. Y’know, like it’s nothing special.”

Hotly I ask, “Who said it’s not special? You were all
over
me last night.”

“Yeah, I—” He steps forward as I yank up my jeans, but stops at my warning glare. “Look, don’t get mad. But when you told me to watch out for ‘goofiness,’ you weren’t all that
specific. So I did some research and, uh … this is one of the signs.”

“What is?”

He flips one finger to me, to himself, and back at me. “You know.
This.
”

I flap my shirt at him. “Whatever. Thanks for your help. You can go home now.”

“Rinn—”

“
Good-bye
, Nate.”

If I were a crier, I’d be bawling my eyes out.
I can’t believe he said no! How could he say no?
Facedown on my mattress, I dig my nails into my pillow, hating Nate.

Hating myself more.