Between

by Jessica Warman

  He lies like that until he falls asleep, his breath eventually growing deep and even. He stays there all night, until the first rays of sun begin to break at the horizon. And I stay there with him—Alex watching both of us wordlessly, watching and understanding that I might not have always been the nightmare of an individual that he thought. Maybe not.

  Richie sleeps, but I don’t. I stay awake, my arms around him, wishing that he could feel me just one more time. Wondering what the hell happened to put me in the ground. And fearing, more than anything in the world, that I might never find out.

  Thirteen

  The following Monday at school, it’s almost like none of the bizarre events from the weekend—the séance in my old bedroom, my boyfriend sleeping on my grave—ever happened. It’s high school; the popular kids are clustered together as usual at their lockers in between homeroom and first period, taking their time getting to class. For years, my friends and I have coordinated our schedules as much as possible. So it doesn’t surprise me a bit when I see that Richie has first-period English with Caroline and Josie.

  Still, when I see my stepsister taking her seat next to my boyfriend in the back of the class, edging her desk so close to his that they’re almost touching, I can’t help but scowl.

  “It’s like she’s stepping right into my place,” I complain to Alex.

  He shrugs. “You guys were like sisters. She’s dating Richie now. I’m sure it comforts him, in a way. What’s the big deal?”

  I stare at him. “What’s the big deal? Richie slept on my grave just two nights ago, Alex. He is obviously not over me. And Josie is just moving on like … like it’s a natural progression.” I shake my head, staring at her from across the room. “I never had any idea that she liked him. Not a clue.” I pause. “Not that I remember, anyway.”

  “Well …” Alex hesitates.

  “Well, what?”

  “She thinks you two are half sisters. Right?”

  I nod.

  “Does it really surprise you that she’d want to step into your shoes, Liz? I mean, isn’t that what sisters do?”

  I stare at the dry-erase board on the front wall of the classroom. Somebody—probably not our teacher—has written DIAGRAMMING SENTENCES IS AWESOME! in big block letters. The sarcasm is obvious. “But it’s not fair,” I tell him, pouting. “Lots of guys like Josie. Jason Harvatt is practically obsessed with her. She should date somebody else. I should be with Richie.”

  “But you’re dead. And you aren’t with Richie anymore. You’re with me.” As quickly as the words come out of his mouth, he stumbles over them, clearly embarrassed. “I mean, you’re not with me with me, but we’re together in the—”

  “Alex.” I give him a half smile. “It’s okay. I know what you meant.”

  The seniors are reading For Whom the Bell Tolls, and for a few minutes Alex and I listen to a boring discussion on symbolism, which seems to drag on forever. When I look at the clock, I see that it’s only been five minutes.

  “I always hated English class,” I remark. We’re sitting on the floor at the front of the room.

  “Really? You don’t like books at all? And yet you said Richie wanted to be a writer.”

  “He does. But that’s his thing. I never liked to read much. Just, you know, magazines and stuff.” I pause. “Well, that’s not entirely true. Sometimes if Richie read a book he thought was really great, he’d give it to me to read. There were a few I liked a lot.”

  “Like what?” Alex seems genuinely interested.

  “Um, let me think … well, I loved Catcher in the Rye. That’s Richie’s favorite book. We read it sophomore year, I think.”

  “Yeah, it was sophomore year. I read it, too.” He pauses. “I loved it.”

  There’s an odd moment of awkwardness. We’re both quiet. Then Alex says, shyly smiling, “Well. That’s one thing we’ve got in common.”

  “Yeah.” I smile back. “It’s something.”

  The awkwardness lingers. It’s clear that neither of us knows where to go from here.

  “I’m bored,” I say, trying to change the subject.

  “Okay. What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know.” I look around. “We could remember something together.” I pause. “I mean something about me,” I add. We have yet to discuss further the memory from Alex’s life that we shared the other day. I can tell it’s not a topic that either one of us feels comfortable approaching, and I’m in no hurry to force the issue. It’s obvious he doesn’t want me in his head.

  There’s a part of me that feels like it’s unfair—after all, I’ve shown him so much from my life—but I’m mostly okay with letting him keep his memories to himself. After all, it’s not like our lives intersected much while we were alive, and more than anything, I’m interested in figuring out how and why I died. What could I possibly learn from watching Alex’s memories? They have nothing to do with me.

  He’s quiet.

  “Or I could do it alone,” I offer. “I don’t know if I want you to come with me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to give you more evidence of what a terrible person I was.”

  He studies me. “You’re more complicated than I thought, Liz. You aren’t just a superficial, spoiled brat.”

  “You think I’m complicated?”

  “Yes.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Let me come with you. Let’s remember something together.”

  I nudge his hand away. “I kind of want to go alone.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do, sit here while you space out?” Our teacher, Mrs. Davis, has transitioned from talking about symbolism to a discussion of the Spanish-American war, which I’ve gathered is the subject of the book. Oh God. I could die again, just from boredom.

  “Okay,” I say, “we’ll play a game to decide.”

  “We’ll what? Liz, just let me come.”

  “No, I want to play a game. Let’s do rock, paper, scissors, okay?”

  Alex rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

  I hold out a fist. He does the same. “Ready?” I ask. “One, two, three … oh no.”

  Alex is paper; I’m rock. He wins.

  “Best out of five,” I plead, unable to suppress a giggle. “Best out of five.”

  “No, no, no. You said you wanted to play, and we played. I won.” He clamps his hand on my shoulder again. “Now let’s go. Where are we headed?”

  I shrug. “Let’s not decide. Let’s see where we end up.”

  When I open my eyes, I’m still in high school. I look up and see myself standing in the doorway of my junior year English class. I can tell right away that it’s junior year because I’m limping as I walk through the doorway, and I have a bruise on the side of my face that looks awful.

  “Oh my God,” I say to Alex, staring at myself. “This is the day I came back to school after I fell down the stairs.” I look at him. “You were already gone. Do you want to try again? We could try to go back farther—”

  “No,” he says. “I want to see what happens.”

  “It’s just going to be me sitting in English class—”

  “No it’s not, Liz. It might be important. You can barely remember anything from last year, you’ve said so yourself. Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know how you ended up in the water?”

  “Yes,” I admit. But what I don’t want to see is more of me acting like a total bitch. And when I let my gaze drift across the room, toward the back, I can tell immediately what kind of display we’re in for, even if I don’t remember specifically what’s about to happen.

  “Just watch,” Alex says calmly. “It’s okay.” The corners of his eyes wrinkle in a half smile. “I won’t be too hard on you.”

  Richie is sitting in the back of the room. He always sits in the back; he’s just that kind of guy. Normally I’d be right beside him, but as I walk in, I stop dead in my tracks: sitting next to Richie, her desk against my boyfriend’s, is Beth Follet.

  B
eth is on the cross-country team with me. Her parents are divorced. She lives alone with her mom, who is a dental hygienist at Topher’s dad’s office. Beth and I don’t get along. Like so many of the other girls in school, she’s always had a thing for Richie—she even went so far as to ask him to dance with her at sophomore year homecoming, while I was in the bathroom. The nerve. Of course, Richie said no. But now, here she is, sitting beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  I walk to the back of the room, a smile plastered onto my face. “Hey,” I ask, “what’s going on here?” I stare pointedly at Beth, still smiling. “You’re in my seat.”

  “No, I’m not,” she says, smiling right back at me. “You’ve been absent for three days. We’re working in groups. Richie and I are partners.”

  “What?” My voice is flat. “Richie, is this true? You’re partners with her?”

  He nods. When Beth isn’t looking, he gives me an apologetic shrug and mouths, “Sorry.”

  I turn on the ball of my foot—despite my injuries, I’m still wearing three-inch heels that undoubtedly pinch the hell out of my toes—and walk to the front of the room, where our teacher, Mrs. Cunningham, is sitting at her desk, paging calmly through a copy of the New Yorker, paying absolutely no attention to her class.

  “Mrs. Cunningham,” I say, “I know I’ve been absent for a few days, but I don’t have a partner for the assignment now—I mean, I don’t even know what the assignment is—and I was really hoping I could work with Richie.” My voice is confident, head held high. “We’re always partners.”

  Mrs. Cunningham barely looks up from her magazine. “Yes, Liz, I’m aware of who your partner usually is. But we paired off on Monday, and today is Thursday, so I’m afraid you’ll just have to do the assignment by yourself.” And she looks at me with a wide smile. “Once you read your syllabus and figure out what the assignment is. Which,” she adds, “you would have known already, had you taken the time to look over the syllabus before today.” Then her tone softens just a bit. “I know you’ve been sick, Liz. But you have to do the project like everybody else. Okay?”

  “You’re saying I’ll have to work all by myself, when everyone else is working in pairs?” I ask.

  She nods. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m sorry, but there isn’t anybody left for you to be partners with.”

  I spend the rest of the period sitting alone at a desk near the front, first reading the syllabus, and then getting started on a sheet of questions about Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus—which I obviously haven’t read, even though I was supposed to have finished it over a week ago. When I’m not pretending to do work, I spend most of my time glowering in my seat, staring at the blank paper, doodling in the margins. I can guess exactly what I was thinking: it doesn’t matter if we’re not partners in class. Richie will help me do all the work later.

  When the bell rings, I gather my things quickly. I wait just outside the door, in the hallway, until Beth leaves the room.

  Alex and I follow her to the girls’ bathroom.

  I wait for her to finish up in the stall. Aside from the four of us, the bathroom is empty.

  “This is nothing special.” Alex sounds disappointed, looking around the bathroom.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I always thought there were, like … sofas in here, or something like that.”

  I roll my eyes. “Right. Wait—watch.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t remember, Alex. That’s why I want to watch.”

  When Beth comes out, before she even has a chance to turn the corner and face the sink, I reach out with a swift arm and grab her by the hair, yanking her close to me.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp, staring at myself. “What the hell am I doing?”

  Alex is wide eyed, obviously stunned. He doesn’t respond.

  “Listen to me, you little brat,” I say to Beth, my voice low and threatening. “Maybe you’re partners with Richie today, but you aren’t going to be his partner tomorrow. Got it?”

  “Ow!” Beth is almost crying—panicked, genuinely afraid of me. “Liz, you’re hurting me! Let go!”

  But I only yank her closer. I seem absolutely livid. “When you get to class tomorrow, tell Mrs. Cunningham that you changed your mind. Tell her you don’t want to be partners with him anymore. And if I ever see you so much as glance in his direction—let alone ask him to dance or try to get close to him—I swear to God, you’ll be sorry.” And I let go of her hair.

  She stands there, trying to blink away her tears, rubbing her head, shocked by my display of anger. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t even pick him. We were assigned to each other.”

  “Don’t lie,” I say, taking a step closer to her.

  She steps back, shrinking against the wall. Her gaze darts to the door. I can tell she’s desperate to get away from me. “I’m not lying. I’m sorry. But Liz, the project is over. It’s done. I’m not his partner anymore, okay?”

  “Okay.” I nod. My breath is heavy; my hands are shaking with anger. “Good. Then we don’t have anything else to say to each other.”

  Beth hurries toward the door. But just as she’s about to leave the bathroom, she stops. For a moment, she is completely still. Then, slowly, she turns to face me. Her gaze is steady and suddenly unafraid.

  “I remember eating dinner one night at Pasqualino’s with my parents when I was a little girl,” she says calmly. Pasqualino’s is an Italian restaurant in Noank.

  “So?” And I smirk. “You had enough money to eat out?”

  “Your father was there with your stepmother.” She swallows. “I remember my parents talking about what a shame it was, the way the two of them were so obviously running around together. See, Liz, your mom wasn’t dead yet. Your dad was just out with his girlfriend, having a good old time, letting the whole town see what was going on.” She takes a step backward. “My family might not have a lot of money, and my parents might not be together anymore, but at least I have a mother. Your mother starved herself to death. Your dad had an affair while she was dying. Everyone knows that.”

  “Shut up,” I say. “You’re poor. You’re poor and you’re ugly.”

  “You’re ugly, too.” Beth smiles at me. “You’re so ugly inside, and you don’t even know it.” She’s practically beaming. “And you’re starving yourself. Just like your mother. But you know what? I’m glad.” She puts her hand back on the door, preparing to leave the room. “The world would be better off without you, Liz.”

  And she’s gone.

  For a moment, I just stand there, staring after her.

  “Wow,” Alex breathes. “That was really … something.”

  I can’t even find my voice to respond; that’s how horrified I am by what we’ve just seen. I almost can’t process how cruel I was to Beth. Beyond that, I am humiliated by the idea that everyone in our town seemed to believe, without a doubt, that my dad and Nicole were having an affair. Everyone. Even Beth Follet’s parents.

  As I continue to watch my younger self, I manage to speak up. “Wait,” I tell Alex. “Look. What am I doing?”

  For the last few seconds, I’ve been staring at myself in the mirror. Now I’m touching the bruises on my face, wincing when I make contact. I turn on the water in the sink and watch as it swirls down the drain. I lean over and take a few deep breaths, and then I turn off the water. When I straighten up, there is a fierce, intense look in my eyes.

  “She’s right. You’re ugly,” I say to my own reflection. “Everybody knows.”

  I begin to cry. The tears trickle down my cheeks, smearing my makeup, destroying my mascara.

  “Ugly,” I repeat, almost as though I’m embracing the word, trying to convince myself that it’s true.

  I follow my younger self around the corner as I lock myself in a stall and sit on the closed toilet, pulling my knees to my chest. I sit there, sobbing without making much sound at all, until the bell rings, signali
ng the beginning of second period. But I don’t get up. I continue to cry.

  And then, just when it looks like I’m never going to stop, I suddenly stand up. I smooth the wrinkles from my outfit. I take a deep breath. I step out of the stall, open my bookbag, and stand in front of the mirror. Carefully, calmly, I reapply mascara, lipstick, and loose powder.

  I smile at my reflection. “Okay,” I say, under my breath. “Let’s go, Liz.”

  There are still a few stragglers in the hall, students dawdling in between classes, and almost immediately I spot Josie and Richie next to his locker, talking. Richie has his back to me and is leaning against his closed locker, cool as usual. When Josie sees me, she raises her arm in a wave.

  “Hi there,” I say, beaming at them breathlessly. There is no trace of the Liz I just saw in the bathroom; in almost an instant, I’ve gone from a sobbing mess to calm, collected, and smiling. “We should get to class, guys.” I look at Josie. “What are you doing down here? Don’t you have Spanish upstairs second period?”

  “Do you think she and Richie were fooling around already?” I ask Alex. I can feel the jealousy welling up inside of me, uncontrollable. “Right under my nose like that?”

  He shakes his head. “Didn’t she say it only started a few months before you died?”

  “Yeah,” I agree, “and this was the fall … it was a long time before I died. So what were they talking about?”

  Alex can only shrug. “Beats me. Let’s watch.”

  “We just saw Beth crying,” Josie says to me with a giggle. “Did you have something to do with that? Richie told me about the scene you made in English.”

  The hall is empty now except for the three of us, lingering like we don’t have any place else in the world to be, even though we’re officially late for class.

  I widen my smile. “That would be correct.” And I place my arm on Richie’s, squeezing it possessively. “She was trying to weasel in on my turf.”

  “Oh God, Liz. As if,” Richie says, sighing. “You didn’t go all psycho on her, did you? It was just a class project. It’s over.”