I still remember Drew’s face when she realized I’d lied. She was with her parents, all dressed up for the occasion, and her face collapsed. Her response hurt almost as bad as the pitying looks from everyone else and the hushed snickers. The money had to be returned. No more big giant cardboard checks for me. I had to stand there next to my mom as she explained the truth. I knew, even at thirteen, that no one was ever going to let me forget this.
I did get a few things out of the situation, even if there was no dad or trip to our nation’s capital. I got a standing appointment with a counselor to get at the root of my “issues,” and the development of a full-blown anxiety disorder complete with panic attacks.
Drew forgave me. I felt bad that she’d tried to do this amazing thing for me and I’d ruined it. She felt bad that her plan had blown up so publicly in my face. Or maybe she felt bad because my life was so messed up that I had to make up an entire parent. Either way, we never talked about it much after that. We moved on. But I knew she never forgot.
I wasn’t sure we’d move on from this. If Drew discovered I’d lied again, she wouldn’t forgive quite so easily. She might finally decide she’d had enough.
Or maybe I’d had enough. Maybe the only way to make the life I’d been wishing for a reality was to do something big. If destiny was going to try and keep me here, I was going to have to do something bold to change it.
I jumped up and crossed the room with jerky steps to the set of World Book Encyclopedias, pulling out the L volume with a shaking hand. I flipped through, and the typed note was tucked in between the pages describing the Lindbergh kidnapping.
ARE YOU IN? Y or N?
My pen hovered above the page for just a split second and then I circled Y. I slammed the book’s cover shut and put it back on the shelf. One step closer to my new life.
Four
Regret, unlike satisfaction, isn’t hard to get. And by the time I got out of bed the next morning, I knew that I’d made a huge mistake. I’d tossed and turned all night, the sheets twisting tightly around me. There was no way I could go through with this. The fact of what I’d done filled my guts with wet, heavy cement. I wasn’t the kind of person who would do anything to get what I wanted. Or at the very least, I didn’t want to be the kind of person who would sink this low.
As soon as I was out of the apartment, I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was around the bus stop and then whispered into the phone when he picked up. “I’ve been thinking. I’m not sure I want to be mixed up with this. I can’t do it.” I held my breath, waiting for the reaction.
He was silent for a beat. “Are you kidding me?”
“You don’t need to worry. I won’t tell anyone. You do whatever you need to, but I don’t want to be involved.” My tight chest loosened.
He barked out a laugh, shattering my fragile sense of relief. “That’s a shame, because you’re already involved. It’s too late to back out. Things are already in motion. If I were you, I’d make sure I had an alibi for tonight.”
I stared down at the phone. He’d already clicked off. I was screwed.
Five
Four days after I left the note at the library, I trudged through the lobby of my apartment building after my double shift at the Burger Barn. The stench of bacon grease and burnt coffee had soaked into my clothes and hair. The lack of sleep over the past few days was catching up, my eyes were gritty, and my legs felt as if they were tied down with weights.
The back wall of our lobby is covered in 1970s gold-flecked mirrored tiles, and there’s a sofa covered in some kind of moisture-resistant fabric. The whole apartment building has a worn, past-its-“best-by”-date look. I yanked open the creaky fire door that led to the hall and waved to the closed door of apartment 103 as I went past. Rumor has it Ms. Kowlowski sits on a kitchen stool in her daisy housecoat and slippers looking out her peephole and keeping track of who comes and goes all day long. I guess everyone has to have a hobby.
If I were struck blind, I’d know I was home by the smell. Our apartment building was a toxic mix of moldering hall carpet, the curry Ms. Baskhi cooks in her apartment, stale laundry stink wafting up from the basement, and my mom’s addiction to Febreze. Mom is convinced there is no problem that Febreze can’t solve. It’s like a magical fairy dust that she sprays on anything that doesn’t actively move away from her. We might have had a sofa we found out by the dumpster, mostly no-name brands in our cupboards, and closets full of clothes that other people didn’t want, but dammit, our place smelled like a fresh-rain-soaked lavender field in Southern France.
I heard the TV before I even unlocked our apartment door. My mom likes the volume loud enough that you can practically see the sound waves as they move through the room.
“Skye, you have to watch this.” Mom waved wildly for me to join her. She was still wearing her uniform smock from the Stop and Shop. She must have gotten her nails done on the way home. They were a bright red with a crystal embedded in the thick polish at the tip. My mom lives to BeDazzle everything.
I dropped onto the sofa and tried to figure out what had caught her attention. Ghost Hunters, I guessed, based on the night vision shots with people faux whispering, “Did you hear that?!” every two seconds.
“See the guy on the left, the one with the thick glasses? He can feel the vibrations of the dead.” Mom chewed a wad of mint gum with her mouth open. My mom sees dead people. And angels. And auras. She believes in aliens, fairies, the Loch Ness monster, Bigfoot, and in all those online scams that promise you millions of dollars if you simply click “like” and post a picture of a stack of money on your wall. I used to think it was cool that she saw magic in everything. Then I grew to hate it. Then I hated that it bothered me even more.
“Wow,” I said in a flat voice.
She glanced over, scowling. “If you could be bothered to watch, you’d see it’s true. He predicted a child died in that house, like, a hundred years ago, and when they researched it—?he was right.” She pointed at me with one shiny fingernail like she’d made a critical point.
I sighed. It never once occurred to her that the show might actually lie.
“I think I have a bit of that ability too. It’s more than psychic readings: it’s a sense of those who have been lost.” Mom sipped loudly from a can of cola. “There are times when I’m in a place and I can almost feel a humming in my skin, like electricity. They were saying human spirits are basically made up of energy, so that would explain it.”