The Unquiet (5 page)

“No, some girl who drowned here, like, twenty years ago, or whatever.”

“Wait. You’re talking about a ghost?”

Meg nods seriously. “Yeah. Her grandmother sued when it happened, so they shut down the pool for good. Anyway, her grandma died a while back, and—”

My arms prickle.
Another dead grandmother
. “Died how?”

Meg wordlessly jerks a fist above her head.

“She hung herself?”

She nods again, then rubs her arms hard. “God, it’s cold in here.”

“It’s drafty,” I say, sorry I asked how the old lady died. Now it’ll stick with me all day.

“It’s
freezing
.”

I shiver, too, realizing she’s right. Unmoving, I feel the air around me grow colder with each passing second.

Meg cups her nose. “Rinn. What is that?” She sniffs like a puppy. “The air in here, it’s like greasy or something.” She touches her nose. “This is too
weird
…”

All
I
feel is very cold air and no, nothing greasy or weird about it. I watch her scratch her ears and then bat her hands around like she’s trying to grab hold of the atmosphere. Is she playing me?

“What the hell’s going on?” she quavers. “You seriously don’t feel that?”

“No!” But Meg’s panic is contagious; in ten seconds flat I’m out the door and across the tunnel and back in the auditorium. After that ice-cold pool room, it’s like being tossed into a sauna.

Meg scampers out behind me and eyes me then with peculiar interest. “Wow, you’re fast!”

“Yeah, when people scare the
hell
out of me.”

“You don’t do track or anything, do you? Good. So you want to try out for the squad? Cheerleading,” she explains, like
I haven’t already guessed. “I’m captain this year, and we could
really
use an extra body. Can you do the splits? Cartwheels? Oh, never mind, we can teach you in no time—”

Her blue eyes widen when I cup my hand over her mouth. “I can’t be a cheerleader.”

Her lips move. “
Whuh nuh?
”

“Because my mother was one, and I don’t want to be ranting about it twenty years from now, like it was the best time of my life. And no, I can’t do a cartwheel, I don’t have a rah-rah personality, and I am
not
jumping around flashing my underwear. Got it?”

Meg unpeels my slick hand. “So, like, is that a definite no? Or do you want to think about it some more?”

She might be relentless, but I really do like her.

Tuesday, October 21

“You never told me the school’s
haunted
.”

“Haunted?” Mom repeats, pouring her fourth cup of coffee. She’s up to two pots a day since she ditched the cancer sticks. “Not in my day.”

“Well, Meg knows about it. So does some kid we met in the hall.” I dribble milk over my Cocoa Puffs and swirl with my spoon. “It’s, like, common knowledge.”

Mom comes shockingly close to rolling her eyes, something she typically rags on me for doing. “Do you want me to remind you that ghosts don’t exist? Or are you hoping I’ll humor you so you won’t be so nervous?”

“I am not nervous. But I will be, if you keep bringing it up.”

“Sorry.” She plunks her mug into the sink and grabs her sweater off the hook in the back hall. “I have to run. I should’ve
been there ten minutes ago. Now remember, homeroom starts at seven forty-five—”

“I know, I know. You told me twenty times.”

“—so don’t be late.”

“Why?” I drawl. “You gonna mark me tardy?”

Mom blows me a kiss and leaves. I sit there for a moment, poking at my Cocoa Puffs, then clunk down my spoon.

I lied. I’m nervous.

Upstairs, my room reeks of fresh paint; I slapped on the first coat yesterday after my school tour. I dress quickly in a black turtleneck, gray skirt, red tights, and black socks. Back downstairs, I stuff a notebook into my hobo bag, an illicit Klonopin into my pocket, and then halt, midstep, when I hear footsteps on the porch.

Creeping
footsteps. Someone who knows I’m alone?

I can’t even call 9-1-1. Our phone won’t be turned on till later.

The rocker creaks outside. Shoe soles shuffle through stray leaves on the porch floor. I slink over to the sofa, kneel on the cushion, and part Mrs. Gibbons’s lace curtains with a single fingertip. Then I hammer my fist hard—
bang-bang!—
on the windowpane.

“God
damn
!” Nate Brenner all but ducks for cover.

Triumphant, I rush to the front door. “Why’re you creeping around on my porch?”

Red-faced, Nate snarls, “I’m not creeping. I’m
waiting
.”

“Waiting for me? Isn’t it customary around here to knock? Or at least yell ‘yoo-hoo’?”

He stares incredulously. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Yeah, and I made you take the Lord’s name in vain, too,” I tease.

Unamused, Nate flings up a hand and clomps down to the sidewalk. Wow. He’s
mad
.

I shove my feet into Mom’s pointy-toed ankle boots, all I can find in our jumble of yet-unpacked boxes—anything’s better than my smelly plaid Keds—and run to catch up with him. “Sorry I scared you. That was, well, right neighborly of you to wait for li’l ole me.”

Instead of a snappy comeback, Nate says, “That was funny the first few times.”

“Wow, aren’t
you
the crabby one today?”

“Yeah, well …” But he can’t keep a straight face, and he obviously forgives me because then he adds, “You need any help today, just gimme a holler.”

“How’ll I find you?”

“Easy. I’ll be the dude surrounded by all the fawning chicks.” I poke him. “You’re a wee bit too full of yourself, farmer boy.”

“Look who’s talking, in them highfalutin boots and that fancy Sunday getup.”

“Guess you ain’t used to citified folk,” I point out.

Merrily, he agrees, “Guess I jest ain’t,” and steers me toward the school doors.

Things don’t go as horribly as I’d expected. School is school, whether it’s La Jolla or River Hills or Antarctica or Belize. You file into class after class, the teacher takes attendance, and then you fall into a coma.

This year I’ll try to skip the coma part. It’d be nice to receive a diploma while I’m still in my teens.

River Hills doesn’t seem as cliquey as my school in La Jolla, but people do fall into certain groups. Jocks, mostly guys, with their cheerleader counterparts. A circle of preps. The obvious burnouts, including that guy from the hall, Dino Mancini. Farm kids who ride the bus in from the sticks. A couple of nobodies, ignored by everyone. No surfers, goths, Barbies, or rockers.

Rinn Jacobs, I guess, fits in nowhere.

I’m not athletic unless I’m in a saddle. My grades are average, so scratch the preps. Scratch the burnouts, too—
my
drugs are legal. And by the way people stare at my so-not-from-River Hills clothes, I know I’ll never fade off into the nobody group.

Just like before, there’s no Crazy Person clique.

I hate how the teachers introduce me to each class and then add that my mom’s the new office secretary, like
that’s
going to win me points. I make it through history with poker-faced Ms. Faranacci and then it’s off to chorus with jolly Mr. Chenoweth. After that, I hit the art class I’m taking instead of Spanish or German, and this semester it’s Intro to Ceramics. I spend fifteen minutes squishing clay to “get the feel of it” as Mr. Lipford puts it.

Because it’s a multigrade class, Meg, who’s a senior, shares a table with me. Cecilia Carpenter, a heavyset girl I recognize from chorus, is also here. So is Dino Mancini, watching me from the next table.

No, not watching:
studying
me.

Unsettled, I try to ignore him and concentrate on my clay. Eventually, though, even Meg notices. “Wow,” she whispers. “He can’t take his eyes off you.”

Mr. Lipford picks that moment to stroll out of the room. Dino instantly hops up and slips over to Meg and me to crouch between our chairs. “Hey—Rinn, right? See, I remembered.”

“Whoopee,” Meg says brightly, pounding her own blob of clay.

“You got lunch next? Yeah? You want to meet me outside? I’ll show you around …”

Meg whaps him with an elbow. “Forget it. She’s eating with
us
.”

Exasperated, he snaps, “I ain’t
talking
to you, Carmody.”

I shush them both and shoot a nervous look toward the door, never mind that everyone else is starting to act up as well. And, catching the scent of pot in Dino’s dark, messy hair, I can pretty much guess what he wants to show me. “Uh, thanks. But I really need something to eat.”

His disappointment is so obvious, I almost feel sorry for him—but then Mr. Lipford reappears at the door. “Back in your seat, Mancini.
Now
.” Dino rises, taking his sweet time about it, and returns to his own table to stare at me some more.

When the bell rings, Meg and I meet up with Lacy Kessler—a fellow cheerleader, with colorfully streaked hair—and Tasha Lux, Millie’s high-diving darling. “Guys, this is Rinn. She’s eating with us.”

I smile gratefully when no one objects. I watch for Nate as we circle a table, but, sad to say, it looks like we don’t share the same lunch period.

Lacy tosses her mass of curls when she learns I’m from California. “Poor you, ending up in a place like
this
.”

“I’ll get used to it.” Though I’m not swearing on any bibles.

“Hey! Do you cheer?”

“I already asked,” Meg interjects, with a reproachful look for me. “She said no.”

Tasha asks, “Do you swim? Gymnastics?”

“I’m not much into sports …”

“What
do
you do?” Lacy demands.

“Well …” I can’t believe I have to think so hard about this. “I play the guitar. I sing a bit.”

Unimpressed, Lacy moves along. “So you guys moved into the old Gibbons house, huh?”

I nod, and the three girls exchange glances before facing me directly: Lacy, slyly; Tasha with mild alarm; and Meg, flushed, with an apologetic smile.

“Is that significant of something?” I ask Meg when nobody else speaks.

Meg’s smile wavers. “I started to tell you yesterday, in the tunnel, remember? About—”

“I told you
not
to,” Tasha interrupts. “My mom said to wait.”

I prickle with suspicion. “What do you mean, your
mom
said to wait?”

Meg scoots closer. “Remember when I told you about Annaliese?”

“Right. The ghost.” I cross my eyes. “Yeah, you won that one.”

Meg insists, “Hey, I wasn’t joking about that air,” only to be interrupted by Lacy, who blurts out, “I can’t believe nobody told you you’re living in Annaliese’s
house
.”

“What?” I jerk to face Meg.

“Well … her
grandmother
’s house,” Meg admits.

“But you said her grandmother—” I stop as the truth dawns.

Her granddaughter and I went to school together
, Mom had said.

“Hung herself,” Lacy finishes with a satisfied grin. “Yep, she sure did. Right in the attic.”

I pop my contraband Klonopin under my tongue in a bathroom stall. If I wait for it to kick in, I’ll be late for my next class, but at this point I don’t care. I’ll ask Mom for a pass.