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Cisco gave me a mournful little smile, while Jenn looked dumbfounded. “Why do you have his hoodie?” she asked.
“Did I see him on Friday?”
Happy for a change of subject, I leaned over and said, “You cannot still be drunk from Friday.”
“No!” Jenn seemed insulted. “I went out for brunch on Sunday with my sister and we ended up pub crawling. We have awesome fake ID.”
“With Austin, too?” I asked.
She looked at me, lost.
“You told me you and Austin were going to Wollman Rink this weekend.”
Jenn turned a little greener. “So that’s why he left me a weird message.” Jenn paused, then clutched her stomach.
“I need to get out of here. Are we going out for lunch or what?”
I agreed to go. The last thing I wanted to do was be in that cafeteria with him. I felt so stupid for thinking there was some kind of connection. I was probably something like a starving person, I surmised. A starving person will eat a rancid slice 9780373210305_TS.indd 84
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of pizza and think it’s a gourmet meal, because they’re so hungry for food. Well, I was starving, only I was starving for normalcy, starving for acceptance, and all Brendan had offered me was a month-old slice of pepperoni.
I rationalized in my head all the way to McDonald’s, which Cisco suggested to calm Jenn’s raging hangover. She ran into the bathroom as soon as we sat down—and Cisco immediately leaned forward.
“So Miss Connor, do you think he got the point that his hoodie is in your locker?” His brown eyes twinkled at me.
“Shut up.” I frowned, balling up my napkin and throwing it at him. Cisco deftly blocked it, laughing.
“Seriously, though, what the hell was that about? You went on and on and on. And on some more.”
“I don’t know,” I wailed, dropping my head into my hands.
My face made a smacking sound when it hit my palms. “I am so embarrassed! I went to say hi to him and he just ignored me. Jerk.”
“Okay, he wasn’t a jerk, per se,” Cisco began, “but I did think he’d be, I don’t know, warmer to you. Or something.
You guys really got along on Friday.”
“He almost kissed me on Friday.” I sighed, then mumbled,
“I probably just imagined it.” Cisco gave me a sympathetic look, and mouthed the word “Sorry.”
“Em, I got the vibe that he was into you,” Cisco continued, trying to make me feel better. “I thought he liked you.
He doesn’t really hang out with anyone from school, except when he deejays at dances and stuff. The only reason Brendan came out on Friday was for you. Maybe he’s just having a bad day.”
I just shrugged and tore my French fries into little pieces, drowning them in barbecue sauce. Talking about it made my head hurt as much as Jenn’s probably did.
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“We should get Jenn and head back,” I said glumly. “She’s been in there awhile.” And truly, I was starting to get worried.
She’d spent almost the entire lunch break in the bathroom.
Once back at school, I tried to put Brendan giving me the cold shoulder out of my mind. I got to Latin class late so I wouldn’t have to face Ashley’s line of questioning, and after class I raced down to the dungeon so I could get his stupid hoodie and put it in his stupid locker, all the way up on the stupid fourth f loor.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I muttered to myself, stomping to my locker in the very pit of the building. I f lipped the combination lock and saw his hoodie hanging there. Mocking me. Great, someone had slipped a f lyer for Halloween Movie Night in there. Oh, hi, paper cut, meet lemon juice.
“Scenes & Screams! This Friday, hold on tightly to your favorite person for our night of zombie movies!” the orange slip of paper shouted at me. I crumpled up the f lyer and threw it in the wastebasket, then turned my scornful eyes on his hoodie. I f licked the sleeve with my finger, giving it a dirty look before grabbing it and running back up the f lights of stairs until I got to the fourth f loor. I walked along the hallway until I saw locker number 445. The lock dangled there, open, so I removed it and slammed the door open with such force, it bounced off the locker next to it and slammed shut again.
I hung my head back, exhaling loudly. I opened the stupid door again, this time more slowly, and reached in to hang the sweatshirt on the hook. I thought for a moment about leaving a note— Thanks for letting me borrow this. Here’s your stupid sweatshirt, you moron. I totally wish I’d spilled nail polish on this. By the way, do you have an evil twin?— when I figured I should say,
“Thanks.” At least my behavior would be beyond reproach.
I pulled a small notebook out of my bag and hastily wrote,
“Thanks for the loan—Emma” on a scrap of paper.
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Casting a quick glance around me and making sure no one was watching, I checked out the photos taped to his locker door. There was a picture of Brendan and some guy I didn’t know deejaying, and some group shot of a bunch of people in Central Park. No pictures of him with girls, at least—a small consolation. A small paper sketch of a medallion, taped in the bottom right corner, caught my eye.
“No. Freakin’. Way,” I said aloud. I reached around my neck and unclasped my necklace, holding my medallion up against the drawing. Yep. Of course Brendan’s medallion looked familiar. I’ve seen it every day—around my own neck.
I’d tried to find out what the crest meant hundreds of times before, but an internet search for “medieval-looking crest”
only brought up pages and pages of similar designs and “make your own crest” websites.
“I have no idea what it means, Ladybug.” My twin brother Ethan had smiled at me, using the nickname he’d given me when we were eleven, and both covered in spots from the chicken pox. (Except then, he called me Ladybug-Face and I called him Spot.) Ethan gave me the necklace after finding it at a garage sale, just a few weeks before he died. He went looking for vintage video games and came home with this instead.
“It just seemed like you. I hope it brings you good luck, Ladybug.”
I had always thought it was something special—I fancied it to be a one-of-a-kind, rare design, something only shared between me and my brother, my hero. And now that stupid idiot Brendan had to go and ruin it. He probably saw it at the mall.
I stared at my beloved necklace, my only tie left to my brother, until tears pricked at my eyes, blurring my vision.
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running as fast as I could away from his locker, away from the school—away from all reminders of him. I needed to get out of there.
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It would soon be too cold to go jogging in the park, but I needed one last day before hanging up my sneakers for the winter. I had to clear my head.
There was a chill in the air, thanks to a morning rain that had dampened my walk to school. It chapped my cheeks, still wet from tears that sporadically burst forth. I tried to keep them at bay, running as fast as I could through the leaves. Just work it out, one more time in your head.
Could I have been imagining a connection with Brendan?
I’d always read about seeing emotions in someone’s eyes, but it had never felt real to me before. I know I’d seen something real in his emerald eyes. And losing that connection today made me feel so alone—more alone than I did during those last few weeks at Keansburg High.
I ran for about an hour, slowing to a quick walk as I neared the Eighty-sixth Street exit to the park. It was the same exit for the Met, and I turned to the imposing white structure and defiantly gave it the finger.
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Seeing the Met set off a new series of emotions, so I decided to keep going. I was racing faster than I ever had, so there was plenty of time for me to get back to my aunt’s for dinner.
I headed across town, aiming for the pathway that ran along the East River. Once the shimmering black water came into view, I slowed to a walk and pulled my foot up on the metal base of a streetlight to retie my loose laces. Suddenly it was dark.
“What the hell…?” I said aloud, looking up. The streetlight was soot-black, as if it had exploded from the inside—just like the lamppost at the Bethesda Fountain a week ago. And the one that burned out when Brendan hailed me a cab. Again?
What’s the shelf life of these bulbs?
My eyes adjusted and I finished tying my shoelace.
I pulled my earbuds out and walked along the sparkling water, listening to the wind skipping along the waves. I wrapped my earphones around my purple iPod cover and stuck the player in my pocket.
I kept my ears peeled for footsteps, looking behind me sporadically as Aunt Christine had drilled into my head, to make sure I was not being followed. There was nothing behind me but a dark expanse of pathway, garishly lit by the yellow streetlights. All I could hear was the soft squishing of my own feet on the wet leaves as my sneakers pressed them into the concrete.
And then I heard it: a low, hissing, popping sound that made my bones jump. It was similar to the sound of a balloon exploding, only deeper. I whirled around, seeing nothing but the river, and the still, silent pathway spreading out behind me. A bitter, almost sulfuric smell burned my nose. I looked up, and saw that another street lamp had gone out. That’s…
also weird.
I picked up my pace, breaking into another jog. Hiss. Hiss.
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Pop. POP! I stopped short, as if I had run into an invisible wall.
I was frozen in my tracks, afraid to look behind me. I slowly turned around, dimly aware that I had started shaking. Four street lamps were extinguished, the lights dead and black from within. The pathway was velvet dark, the only illumination coming from Queens, across the river. I placed my left foot behind me, carefully, as if I were walking the plank. My eyes were still riveted on the dead street lamps as I backed away from them cautiously, the way someone would step away from a wild animal.
I heard another popping sound behind me. It started off low—almost guttural. I spun around. The streetlight in front of me was smoking, black plumes streaming out as if it were on fire. I heard a sharp sizzling, crackling sound and instinctively crouched down, covering my head with my hands. I screamed as the frosted glass light exploded, a f lash of f lames shooting glass and filaments into a halo on the ground below. The burning embers extinguished as they fell on the wet leaves, sending off a sinister, snakelike hiss as the heat died out.
The next thing I heard was choked-up breathing—mine.
I took off, ignoring the burning in my chest as I sprinted down the pathway. I tried singing to myself, to distract myself from the sounds that I knew I could not be hearing. But the crackling, the hissing demanded to be heard, getting louder as it chased me, reaching out to grab me with unseen claws as I raced along the river. Every light I passed ruptured and died. Every streetlight blew out as I passed it, like I was the wind extinguishing a row of lit matches.
I ran off the pathway and across the street, ignoring the blaring horns of a taxi as it stopped short in front of me. Getting hit by a car would be preferable to letting the blackness catch up with me, I knew it. I had to get out of there before I was in total darkness.
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I stumbled forward, my palms falling onto the yellow hood of the cab. For a short moment, the driver’s eyes and mine met—he f linched when he saw my face.
I pushed myself off the taxi’s hood and stumbled onto the curb, gasping for breath. Grabbing hold of the building on the corner, I whipped myself down the side street, my back against the cool stone of the building. Sweat dripped down my forehead as I peered around at the sinister-looking stretch of the East River, a smoking dark tunnel that threatened to entomb me. It was a black pit of nothingness.
Slowly, all the lights f lickered and came back on. It looked like any other night, a postcard-perfect view of the East River.
If I’d been looking for something to take my attention away from Brendan, this did it. I didn’t even notice him—well, not much—in English class the next day. I was pretty much useless in all of my classes. I lied to Cisco and Jenn at lunch, when they asked me why I was so quiet.
“I think I’m catching Mr. Emerson’s cold,” I fibbed, my voice clear as a bell. “I just don’t feel well.”
I was too freaked out when I’d gotten home the night before, but I planned to spend the rest of this evening on Google. There had to be some explanation. Maybe the streetlights were not up to code? Maybe they were overdue for maintenance? Maybe I really was going crazy, and imagining a bond with Brendan was the first symptom?
In chemistry class, I slumped in my seat, giving Angelique a weak smile as she walked in. She halted in her tracks when she saw me, a terrified look on her face. I glanced over my shoulder, wondering what Kristin was doing to provoke such a reaction. Spitballs, most likely. That girl had remarkable 9780373210305_TS.indd 92
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aim. Then I realized Angelique was horrified because she was staring at me.
She grabbed at one of her necklaces and mumbled something to herself, then slowly slid next to me.
“Hey,” I said, trying to be casual.
She ripped a page out of her notebook and wrote down three words.
Call me tonight.
Angelique then took off one of her rings, a silver band en-graved with some unidentifiable symbols inside and outside, and handed it to me.
Wear it.
The serious look on her face told me to do what she said.
I hastily slid the ring on my finger.
It was almost 5:00 p.m. when I was able to give Angelique a call, since Ashley (who was still in full infatuation mode with Anthony) stayed over for a while, giggling about her f lirtatious emails with Anthony and ignoring my protests. She wanted me to come over to her house for dinner but I begged off, using the same cold excuse that seemed to work earlier in the day.
I sat on my bed and dialed Angelique, who answered on the first ring.
“Hello—Angelique? It’s Emma.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Wow, are you psychic, too?” I asked in awe.
“No, I have caller ID.” Oh, yeah. Duh.
“So,” Angelique continued. “What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?” I stalled,
knowing full well what she meant.
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paused. “It was like there was a black hole where you were supposed to be. You were in the dark.”
I bit my lip, fighting back the sick, creepy feeling that spread up through my stomach and gripped my heart.
“Funny you would say that,” I began. “I kind of was.” I told her about the streetlights—how it felt like I’d triggered the explosions.
“Well, it was right of me to give you my ring then,” she said, sounding relieved. “Are you wearing it?”
“Yes,” I said, turning the ring over on my index finger.
“It’s been blessed,” Angelique continued. “It should protect you. It’s just a precaution, though. Even though you saw the lights exploding above your head, you likely weren’t ever in any real danger.”
“Well, except from the exploding shards of glass,” I corrected her.
“Not really,” she explained. “They might not have really exploded. It’s possible that you only saw them explode. How can I put this so you’ll understand?” She paused. “What happened was the spirit world’s way of saying, ‘I’m not touching you,’ then sticking their fingers in your face. Like a little kid would do, only much, much scarier.”
“If the spirit world wants to annoy me, couldn’t it just give me a wedgie or something?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Angelique said, ignoring my lame joke. “And besides, even though spirits are technically not more active around Halloween, people are more aware of them, so they have a bigger reach to the mortal realm, so to speak.”
“But I don’t believe in ghosts,” I protested.
“Eh, that really doesn’t make much of a difference,” Angelique replied, cavalierly. “And it’s not necessarily ghosts, mind you. There are energies, spirits, forces in the world no one 9780373210305_TS.indd 94
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really understands.” She paused again. “You didn’t deface any sacred grounds, did you, Emma?”