“I can’t,” I snapped. “Because I have a lot more homework, which I’m already putting off until later.”
“One episode,” Logan pleaded. “And then you can take out your homework.”
I sighed.
“I can’t. I already told you.”
“You mean won’t!” Logan accused. He was so angry that he was shaking. All of a sudden, his eyes were too big for his face, and his mouth was trembling, and he scared me, just a little bit.
The coffee table flipped over without warning. My meal went flying, splattering the just-cleaned rug with orange juice and melted gelato.
“Logan!” I scolded, running to the kitchen for a roll of paper towels.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said, looking panicked. “I don’t even know what happened!”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Accidents happen.”
Logan hovered over my shoulder while I sopped up the mess. He kept repeating that it had been an accident, that he hadn’t meant to. And I told him not to worry. I didn’t tell him that I was already worried. That he’d lost control, just like he had at the tree fort. That, for a few seconds, I hadn’t recognized him, and it had terrified me.
MY DAD BROUGHT home a pizza that night, so I knew my parents had been talking about me. That was how it worked: pizza always came with a cross-examination. Because when the universe provided something nice, it had to balance the scale somehow.
“You know you can tell us everything,” Mom said over dinner.
It was almost exactly what Claudia had told me, and it made me feel twice as awful. Because I couldn’t tell them anything. Not about Jamie or Logan. I’d been keeping my parents at arm’s length for years, shielding them with a stitched-together blanket of half-truths and omissions. And I was starting to realize how much damage that had done.
So I mumbled something about how Jamie and I were better as friends, but I could tell they didn’t quite believe me.
And then my mom put my phone down on the table.
“I think this punishment has gone on long enough,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said dully, reaching for it. Because of course I would finally get my phone back when there was no one I wanted to talk to.
“We might have changed all of the passwords,” Dad admitted.
“To what?” I asked.
“‘Make smart choices,’” Mom said, and I resisted the urge to groan.
AFTER DINNER, I turned on my phone, watching the old messages pop up, like a rerun of my former life.
Everything was broken now. Maybe it had been for a while, and I’d been the only one who hadn’t noticed. Or maybe the brokenness was my fault. Logan had died of a beesting, and I’d gotten the ability to see ghosts, and it just wasn’t fair, any of it.
But then, life had never promised to be fair.
Later that night, after I got out of the shower, I heard the TV on downstairs. I hoped it wasn’t Logan.
As I came down the stairs, I realized it was a ball game.
“Hey,” my dad said, glancing up at me. “Look who came to join her dear old dad.”
“I couldn’t stay away,” I told him, sitting down.
Watching baseball was boring, no matter how much I tried to enjoy it. They kept pausing the game and replaying it, which made me want to scream at the announcers to just keep going.
After a while, a commercial break came on, and Dad fast-forwarded through. But then he paused.
“Kiddo, what happened?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Jamie was too busy with the play. Honestly. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You know,” Dad said, “your mom never had problems fitting in at school. I was the nerd, and then you kids got it from me. Remember all of that Star Trek and Doctor Who we watched when you were little?”
I stared at him in surprise. I’d forgotten how it had started. But very faintly, I remembered all of us in matching pajamas on Christmas morning, watching the specials together.
“You kids were so into that stuff,” he continued. “It was like you forgot the rest of the world existed. But I want you to promise me something, okay?”
I nodded.
“I don’t want you to stop putting yourself out there just because it didn’t work out with Jamie. You’re wonderful, and smart, and beautiful, and the world is lucky to have you in it.”
Dad winked at me and tapped a finger to the side of his nose.
And I wrapped my arms around him, breathing in the familiar scents of him: eyeglass cleaner and peppermint tea and aftershave.
“I love you,” I said.
“Love you too, Rosebud,” Dad said. “Now don’t tell your mother I went and fixed everything. She probably has a self-help book all picked out for you.”
26
AS IT TURNED out, Mom did have a self-help book for me. One that she’d secretly stashed in my backpack, and which I found during advisement the next morning. I read it in the library at lunch, trying not to snort as it suggested ways to improve communication with the opposite sex.
By the end of it, I wished I’d read her book about joyful sock folding instead. But at least it gave me something to do other than staring out the window at my friends, who were sprawled in the grass looking like the front page of a fall catalogue, laughing and joking.
That is, all of them except for Jamie, who was hunched over, his arm still in the sling, trying to read a novel one-handed.
LOGAN’S BIRTHDAY WAS that Saturday. He would have been twenty.
My dad didn’t go into work, and the three of us smiled thinly at one another over toast and coffee that morning, tiptoeing around a conversation, because we all knew what was coming.
A trip to Logan’s grave.
I hated going. Hated seeing the gravestone, with the date of his death etched into it. Hated watching Mom press a hand over her mouth, her shoulders trembling. Hated watching Dad take off his glasses and pinch his nose. But most of all, I hated thinking, He’s not really gone. Or, I’ll see him tomorrow.
After we got home, I took the world’s longest shower, as though it would rinse away the dust from Logan’s grave. Except I could still feel the wrongness all over me, no matter how hard I scrubbed. I was out of Q-tips, so I went down the hall to steal one from my parents.
And that’s when I saw the light on in Logan’s room.
It was Mom.
She was sitting on his bed, staring at his dresser. The top drawer open and full of clothes. On her lap was that self-help book about how magical it is to tidy up.
“Mom?” I said, pausing in the doorway. I was still in my towel, and I could feel the water from my hair dripping down my back, making me shiver.
“Everything in here sparks joy,” she said softly, half to herself. “Even after all these years.”
She looked up at me, as though asking for my permission.
“I can’t do it,” she said. “I can’t throw anything out.”
“That’s okay.” I sat down next to her. “I don’t think you need to. If you leave someone’s Facebook page up, you can probably leave their sock drawer alone.”
Mom laughed.
“When did you get so wise?” she asked me.
“It’s one of my secret powers,” I said.
Mom leaned over and folded me into a hug. We stayed like that for a while, my hair dripping onto Logan’s old blue duvet, the two of us staring at his untouched room like it was another tombstone we didn’t know what to do with.
PRESTON AND I got a B on our presentation in art history.
I expected more from you, Rose, Mr. Ferrara wrote on the top of our evaluation sheet.
It was Monday, and I was back in my assigned seat, next to Jamie, who had a big red A on his evaluation. He looked over at mine and made an apologetic face. But I didn’t want his pity.
When the bell rang, Jamie took his time. Or maybe he was just slow packing up one-handed.
“Rose?” he said.
I was standing over my chair, puttin
g my binder into my backpack.
I glanced up at him. At his hair, which really did need to be trimmed. At the glasses he was still wearing, with a small smudge on the left lens. At his button-down shirt, one of my favorites, with the little dots on it. At the canvas sling he was wearing over it, and the scrape on the side of his face, fading fast.
I miss you, I thought suddenly. I miss you, and you’re right here, and Logan is dead, and permanently fifteen, and a secret that’s becoming harder and harder to keep.
“What?” I said instead.
“A bunch of people are going to Duke’s tonight,” Jamie told me. “After tech rehearsal. If you want to come.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Claudia asked me to invite you, since she knew we have class together,” he added, ruining the whole thing.
“I’m still grounded,” I lied, and I’m not sure which of us was more relieved.
I DIDN’T WANT to go home, so I wound up biking over to Plaza Island, just to do something. I thought maybe I’d wander around the shops by myself, but then I remembered the public library was just across the street.
It had been a long time since I’d come here, since mostly I just used the website to check out e-books. But there was something reassuring about the burgundy carpet and the dusty smell of the library stacks.
The children’s section was in the back, and I wound up there, running my fingers over the familiar spines of stories I’d checked out when I was a kid. Here was Narnia, and there was Hogwarts, and Camp Half-Blood, and Howl’s Castle.
I kept going until I reached the children’s nonfiction section. The books were slimmer than I remembered, and the print was much larger. But they were all still here. The ancient Egypt books.
I pulled out a stack of them and sat down with my back against the shelf, leafing through the familiar pictures of pyramids and pharaohs and papyrus scrolls. Except they reminded me too much of Jamie. Of our stupid fight over these books, and of our accidentally matching Halloween costumes, and of ringing each other’s doorbells on Saturday mornings back in elementary school.
The books were still here, unchanged, ready to be checked out at any time. But we’d outgrown them now.
I was putting the books back when I spotted a familiar rolling backpack parked at one of the tables in the teen section. Sure enough, Kate was there, reading a stack of graphic novels with a blue-haired boy from our school’s marching band. His instrument case was next to her backpack, bulky and oversized and somehow perfect.
She looked up and saw me.
I felt so self-conscious, standing there by myself in the children’s section. But I took a deep breath and forced myself to smile and wave.
Kate looked surprised, but then she smiled and waved back. It was such a small thing, but it felt good. Right.
I was on my way out of the library when a display of books made me stop short. Self-Help Starts Here! a sign read.
Most of the books were my mom’s greatest hits. But there was one book with a tag announcing Just arrived! that I hadn’t seen before. It was about hygge, the magic of finding happiness in warmth, sharing, and coziness. The summary was all about how Denmark is the happiest country in the world, and everyone there is constantly drinking cocoa by candlelight and cuddling on a sofa.
I took it to the checkout and dug my ancient library card out of my wallet.
This was it. My chance to give Mom a self-help book. Because I was pretty sure this was the one she’d been searching for. The one that would convince her, once and for all, that it was okay to clean out Logan’s sock drawer.
A FEW DAYS later, I got an email that my PSAT score was available online. Logan and I were sitting in the living room watching TV, and I told him I’d be right back.
I ran upstairs and closed the door to my bedroom, taking some deep breaths. Whatever it is, I told myself, you’ll be okay.
I got out my laptop and logged in to the portal. For the few seconds it took the score to load, it felt like my heart was going to escape from my chest. And then, there it was, in black-and-white: 1400.
“Yes!” I said.
“What is that?” Logan asked, peering over my shoulder.
I hadn’t realized he’d followed me.
“Rose?” Logan asked. “What is that?”
“It’s my PSAT score,” I said, relieved. I’d done well enough for most of the UC schools.
Logan had a strange look on his face.
“You’re going away,” he accused. “I knew it!”
“Logan,” I said, “we have plenty of time.”
But it was too late. He was livid, his eyes dark and terrifying, his mouth stretched wide and angry in his face. He didn’t look like my brother anymore. He looked like a monster.
“YOU’RE GOING TO LEAVE ME HERE!” he screamed. “ALONE!”
My dresser drawers all flew open at once, the contents spraying out.
“Stop,” I begged him.
My alarm clock rose off the table, its plug straining like a kite string. And then the plug came out of the wall, and the clock flew at my head.
I didn’t duck. Maybe I didn’t really believe it would hit me. It connected with my cheek, hard, and I yelped at the sudden burst of pain.
I stared disbelievingly at Logan, waiting for him to snap out of it. But all the clothes that were on the ground funneled into the air, creating a tornado. Logan rose up to the ceiling, howling. No, not Logan. His ghost.
“Get out,” I snarled.
I didn’t realize I was sobbing until the clothes dropped to the ground and I was left all alone, a purple bruise rising on my cheek.
Of course my mom was horrified when she got home and saw me.
I felt awful that I couldn’t tell her the truth. So I made up a lie that I’d done it backstage in Gardner’s class.
“I was trying to get down a bolt of fabric. I didn’t realize it was attached to a curtain rod.”
My mom grabbed my chin, inspecting the bruise for the second time in as many minutes.
“I want you to keep icing it,” she said. And then she went to the freezer and got out another bag of vegetables, because apparently the one I already had wasn’t enough.
That night, as I lay in bed with my cheek throbbing, I couldn’t deny it anymore: Jamie had been right about Logan. He wasn’t holding me together anymore; he was holding me back. And it was time for both of us to let go.
27
THE PLAY WENT up on Friday. I put on about a million pounds of concealer, trying to hide my bruise, but it didn’t really matter, because we were on assembly schedule.
Mrs. Yoon led us over to the theater to watch the performance. Even though I’d seen the programs before, I still flipped through mine, looking at all the smiling photos and reading everyone’s bios. Sam’s crowd never took them seriously, and this year was no exception. Max’s bio read: Call me, Edward Cullen, and we’ll go for drinks. But I lingered over Jamie’s the longest:
Jamie Aldridge makes his Laguna Canyon High theater debut in his dream role of Grumpy Male Buffy. He regrets to inform you that the tagline of tonight’s performance is not “someone’s getting the wrong end of the stick.”
The programs had been printed too early, and a little piece of paper had been stuck in, announcing that the role of Van Helsing would now be played by Seth Bostwick.
I stared down at that slip of paper, and at Jamie’s bio, feeling terrible. It was all my fault. I knew that now. I’d refused to accept the truth about Logan, even after it had become impossible to ignore.
Jamie had lost his chance to do the play after he’d worked so hard for it. And then I’d broken up with him, because running away was easier than facing my problems head-on.
I wished I’d done so many things differently. I could feel Logan’s bruise on my cheek, throbbing and painful, and I wondered how I could have ever thought his ghost was a figment of my imagination, because this wasn’t at all how I would have imagined my brother.
The theat
er went dark, and the curtain opened, and the play began. I watched as Van Helsing recognized the marks on Lucy’s neck as vampire bites. As he kept the information to himself, convinced no one else would believe in vampires or supernatural illnesses. I watched as things went from bad to worse, as Dracula grew younger and more powerful. I watched as Van Helsing killed Dracula, freeing him from his vampiric illness. And I watched as, at the end of the play, everyone tried to go back to life as usual but found themselves haunted by the knowledge of the supernatural. In the last moment, Seth, as Van Helsing, stepped forward, urging the audience to remain vigilant for evil in the world around us, and to be ready to defeat it.
He dropped a line in the middle, and I saw him wince, stumbling to get back into character. It had never been more obvious than in that moment that it was supposed to be Jamie up there, not Seth. And it had nothing to do with flubbed lines. Jamie could have made as many mistakes as Seth did, or more, not that it was possible. Seth was playing a role that he didn’t fit, and I knew all too well what that was like.
I’d done it back in middle school, when I’d become part of Delia’s clique. I’d done it for the past few years, hanging around the edges of the school plays without ever pitching myself into the heart of them. And I was doing it now, because I was too scared to go back to the people I cared about and say the words out loud.
But not for much longer.
THERE WAS ANOTHER performance that evening. And afterward, the cast and crew party. I hadn’t been planning to go, since it was at Abby’s house. But now I realized I had to.
Because I had to see a boy about a ghost.
My parents weren’t exactly thrilled that I wanted to borrow a car to drive to the cast party, but Dad stuck up for me.
“Julie, we should let her go see her friends,” he said, winking.
“Really?” I stared at him, shocked. “Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.”
“Just one thing—” Dad said.
“I know, I know. Watch out for poles,” I said.
“I was going to say, have fun,” Dad said. “But now that you mention it . . .”
I groaned and grabbed the keys.
Invisible Ghosts Page 19