by Joy Elbel
Part of me though suspected that he wouldn’t even remember saying that he wanted to spend eternity with me. If that was the case, what good reason was there to remind him? I needed to suck it up and pretend that it never happened.
Decision number two. It was time to go to the police regarding my new “friend” in the gray Buick. I realized that I didn’t have much in the way of a description, but if I went down to the station before work they could drive by closer to closing time to get a firsthand look. I even told Dad and Shelly about what happened and my plan for dealing with it. They approved. I sort of left out the part where I almost wrecked, though—that was more my fault than it was my stalker’s. His attack was passive more than it was aggressive. He wasn’t using force to intimidate—he was waging psychological warfare instead. That’s when I realized that it had to be Shane. Dylan was too dumb witted to come up with a strategy like this and far too impulsive to even carry it out.
Once I finished that discussion with Dad and Shelly, Clay and I retreated to the attic. This was where things would get awkward if they were going to. I went about my business as though nothing were wrong. And so did he. I pulled out my copy of Carrie and sat down on the futon with him while he watched TV. It was fairly late when I realized that I hadn’t told Zach about anything that happened today. In fact, we had barely texted each other all day.
I let Clay know that I was going to the bathroom to get ready for bed since he now had no other choice but to follow me. I was trying to be respectful of the invisible tether between us—to at least give him fair warning before jerking him along behind me. I took my phone along with me so that I could give Zach a quick call in private. He beat me to it.
“Hey, Ruby,” Zach said quietly, “Sorry I didn’t stay in touch with you much today. When I’m depressed, I tend to lose track of time. I don’t feel like talking for long but I at least wanted to hear your voice before I went to bed. How was your day?”
So I now found myself caught in a quandary. My original intention was to tell him everything about my day but now it didn’t seem like the right thing to do. I didn’t want to make him more depressed. I didn’t want him to worry about me or the fact that he wasn’t around when I needed him to be— it would only bring up more painful memories of what happened with his grandpa. But I didn’t want to lie to him, either.
“Well,” I floundered, searching for the right words, “A lot happened today, Zach. But I think I’ll leave that conversation for later. Now isn’t the right time.”
“Yeah, I’m not equipped to handle any bad news right now. As long as you aren’t planning to break up with me, that’s all I need to know.”
“No, Zach! It has nothing to do with that. I—” Before I had a chance to tell him that I loved him, a loud ruckus erupted in the background. More unrest at the Mason home no doubt. I couldn’t tell exactly what was going on, but I could hear his Dad screaming his name amidst the chaos. I waited for the noise to die down so that I could finish my sentence before ending our conversation for the night. I hated not being able to say goodnight the right way.
Zach, on the other hand, was too busy getting his head chewed off to care. “I gotta go,” he said hurriedly. I heard a click and then silence.
Even though I understood perfectly why he did it, I still mumbled aloud, “He hung up on me. He freakin’ hung up on me.” I shook off the disappointment and finished getting ready for bed.
When I emerged from the bathroom, I realized that I now had a new problem. With our newly strengthened bond, Clay wouldn’t be able to spend the night watching TV on the futon like always. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to let him spend the night in bed with me. I grabbed my desk chair and positioned it approximately five feet from my bed and pointed to it.
“Yes, Dom!” Clay answered with a silly grin. After that failed conversation with Zach, I wasn’t in the mood for any verbal sparring with Clay. He received an eye roll in place of a goodnight. I set my alarm an hour earlier than usual and turned out the lights.
Morning came around quicker than I would have hoped. As a result, I hit the snooze button a few times too many and ended up losing that extra hour I’d given myself to spend at the police station before work. I contemplated moving that activity to the end of my day but changed my mind. Talking to the police was important and not something I should procrastinate about. It was time to grow up a little bit and get my priorities in order.
Growing up sucks. In order to have enough time to do what I needed to do before work, I had to forfeit the battle with my hair—ugly, half frizzy ponytail it is. And after taking a two minute shower, why would I even care what clothes I was wearing? I put on the first things I found in my closet which consisted of a red tee and a red hoodie—two very different shades of red, I might add—old jeans and boots that were made to wear with skinny jeans not the bootcut ones I was wearing. Maybe once they saw how bad I looked, the police would immediately know that this was an urgent matter that needed attended to. I wouldn’t go out of the house looking like this without an extremely good reason, after all.
When I entered the police station, I was relieved to see that neither Milan Museum nor his potentially flirty partner were there. Instead, I found Captain Donaldson himself and two officers I’d never seen before. I walked up to the counter and said matter-of-factly, “I would like to report a crime.”
The tall, stocky officer who bore a striking resemblance to Peter Griffin from Family Guy crossed his arms over his broad chest and addressed me authoritatively.
“Okay, miss. What kind of crime would you like to report.” “Someone is stalking me.” Nice, brief, to the point. No need to overdramatize this thing. No five act play necessary. Just the truth, short and simple.
“Do you know your stalker well? Ex-boyfriend maybe?” he questioned. Why did that matter? A stalker was a stalker regardless of how well I knew him. Right? But I knew better than to cock an attitude about it. I stayed calm and factual. “No. I barely know him—or them. I’m not sure which one it is. Or maybe it’s both.” Okay, so I wasn’t exactly very detailed fact-wise but at least I had the calm part down pat.
I should have known at this point that I had already lost a few credibility points. I should have walked away with what little dignity I had and asked Dad to take care of this for me. I should have but I didn’t. New responsible, grown up, nonprocrastinating Ruby was going to handle this matter herself.
Let me get this straight,” Officer Looks Like Peter Griffin replied with definite doubt in his voice. “Not only do you not know your stalker personally, but also you aren’t even sure if you have one or two different stalkers?”
That was the moment that I lost all poise, abandoned all attempts to not sound like a total moron. I was just too stupid to notice it. Instead, I plowed ahead enthusiastically like a death row inmate innocently offering to plug in that nice wooden “chair” for his arthritic warden.
“Well, I can’t actually see my stalker or stalkers, whichever the case may be,” I announced factually. It was the absolute truth—the windows in that Buick were too dark for me to tell who was following me. I felt certain that it was Shane but that was only based on a gut feeling.
From the minute I walked into the police station, I got the feeling that Captain Donaldson was staring at me. Obviously, I assumed that it was because I looked so hideous in my clashing red on red ensemble. I was dreadfully wrong.
“ That’s where I know you from!” he exclaimed before “Peter” could fire off another question. “You’re the one who found the body on the church steps a few months ago. You’re the one everyone in town is talking about—the one who thinks she can see ghosts.”
That was my cue to run away. That was my cue to find a legitimate reason to excuse myself. Like the first few opening lines of “A Phantom Affair”, I missed my cue. By a long shot. I was laboring under the impression that educated men—men sworn to protect and serve the community—were above petty bullying of teenage misfits like m
e. I was wrong.
“Yes,” I replied naively, “That was me and my friend Rachel. “Anyway, as I was saying—” “Wait a second,” interjected the until now silent third officer, “Is this the girl you were just telling us about, Captain? The one your wife caught playing poker with her imaginary friend?”
A round of hearty laughter filled the small room but echoed endlessly through my suddenly empty soul. They didn’t believe me. They were making fun of me. They thought I was crazy. They thought I was a liar or a freak. They looked at me as easy prey. They saw me the same way Misty saw me. And that’s the moment when I could only describe myself in three small words. I saw red.
Anger. Humiliation. Hurt. Disbelief. Clay stood beside me offering words of comfort but I blocked them all out. I blocked out everything but the pain I was so used to—the pain of rejection. The pain of being mocked by strangers and friends alike.
“Yeah, that’s me. Ruby Matthews—carnival oddity. Sideshow freak. Ghost Whisperer. I see dead people. However you want to ridicule me, I guarantee you that someone before you has done it better. Laugh at me all you want to. But I’m not crazy and I’ll take care of this all by myself, thank you.” I stormed out of the police station proudly while fighting back the tears. This was my battle to fight—not anyone else’s and especially not theirs.
During the drive to Something Wick-ed, Clay alternated between chastising the police for their insensitivity and apologizing for the role his presence played in the matter. I couldn’t respond. I was still too hurt, too angry for words. Still seeing red. I was too busy trying to figure out how I was going to take care of this problem myself. That would have been huge life decision number three if I’d been keeping track at the time. Another trifecta. A trifecta of Fate’s carefully woven threads. A trifecta that would change my life—what was left of it—until my dying day. This day wasn’t supposed to start out the way it did. And nothing in the world could prepare me for how it ended. Shit really was about to get real. And I was far from ready for it.
25. Driving Miss Daisy
Since my time at the police station was much shorter than I expected it to be, I now had more than enough time to go back home and get properly dressed for work. But that wasn’t what I did. I was too mad to care how I looked. I was too busy trying to figure out how I could prove to everyone that I wasn’t crazy. Being able to see ghosts had nothing to do with being stalked by drug dealers. Nothing whatsoever.
I drove around the block a few times while trying to decide what to do next. And venting feverishly to myself. Or at least that’s how it looked to the rest of the world. I was too mad to care who saw me talking to Clay. As I ranted and raved about how I hoped that Mrs. Donaldson stopped into the shop today so that I could give her something to talk about, Clay offered a brilliant suggestion.
“Hey, Ruby, I hate to interrupt Angerpalooza here, but I just thought of something weird. It may seem farfetched at first but I don’t think it’s coincidence.”
I was still steaming mad, of course, but I shut my mouth long enough to hear him out. It was his use of the term “Angerpalooza” that did it. Apparently, I was a sucker for literary creativity even while I was knee-deep in a bad mood.
“So I got to thinking that maybe you aren’t being stalked after all.” He said it with such conviction that if I could have smacked him, I would have. Farfetched was right. How could he—of all people—come to that insane conclusion? He was with me in the car when I almost wrecked trying to shake my pursuer. I opened my mouth prepared to hand him a heated rebuttal but he held up his hand in protest.
“Hear me out, Hot Pants,” he said to me with a devilish grin, “I didn’t mean to suggest that we weren’t being followed, I’m just saying that maybe it was really the car that was being followed.”
“Either way, I’m not following!” I shouted, deliberately ignoring my new nickname. Hot Pants. WTF? Was he making fun of my ugly outfit or my current state of rage?
“That Buick didn’t start following us until after you bought this car. Maybe that has something to do with it. Maybe they think you’re someone else. I think you should switch cars with someone for the day and test out my theory.”
Brilliance. Sheer brilliance. If I could have hugged him right then, I would have. He was right. The car I was driving now could easily be mistaken for about a million other cars in the state of Pennsylvania alone. And I knew exactly who I needed to switch vehicles with. Rachel—owner of the most distinctive car in
Volkswagen with
town. No one could look at a yellow eyelashes and mistake it for my black,
nondescript set of wheels. I knew exactly where to find her, too. Rosewood. With only thirty minutes left until I was supposed to be opening the store, I was going to have to hurry to make it all the way to my house, convince Rachel to let me have Daisy for the day, then race back into town. Assuming that racing was a possibility in a car like that. I would get the stink eye from Mrs. Tuttle even if I opened five minutes early so what difference would it make if I opened five minutes late for once. Rita would understand once I explained the situation. I think. I would still try to make it back in time but without driving like a maniac like I did last night.
Rachel was getting out of her car as I pulled up to the house. How convenient! I didn’t have to waste any time searching for her in that labyrinthine mansion. I also wouldn’t have to explain to my parents what happened at the police station or why I was borrowing Rachel’s car. I would be able to do that once I got out of work. This plan was looking better by the minute—foolproof from passenger side window and attention.
every angle. I put down the
yelled her name to get her
“Rachel! Who’s your bestest friend in the whole wide world?” I asked cheerfully. “Well, Ruby is but you’re in too good of a mood to be her so you must be a shape shifter wearing Ruby’s clothes.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste as she inspected my outfit. “Which is also a dead giveaway because she knows better than to wear two clashing shades of red together.”
“Yes, she does,” I said laughing, “But she got dressed in a super hurry and still doesn’t have a second to spare on worrying about her wardrobe. So be a good little girl and let Mr. Shape Shifter borrow your car for the day and no one gets hurt. Please? I don’t have time to explain but I promise to be careful with it.”
“It? Oh no, if you want to spend the day with my little yellow friend, you’re going to have to use her proper name.” “Fine,” I said with a gigantic sigh and an even bigger eye roll, “Daisy. Can I borrow Daisy for the day? My car is perfectly drivable so if I’m not back before you need to leave, feel free to take it.”
“Okay,” she said as we exchanged keys, “But be careful with her—she’s a delicate flower. And eyelashes like hers don’t grow on trees, either.”
Thank God for that. I forced a smile and promised to take extra special care of her precious front end before pulling away triumphantly.
Daisy handled fairly well so aside from the embarrassment factor, it was a smooth ride back into town. With such a tiny car, I even decided to give parallel parking a whirl. Unsuccessful. Especially since Mrs. Tuttle was glaring at me the whole time, pointing at her watch to indicate that I was late by two whole seconds. I came to the conclusion that parallel parking was a skill that I would never truly possess and pulled into another spot instead. I also came to the conclusion that that annoying librarian needed to get a life and stop disapproving of mine.
Shortly after we entered the store, the rain came and drove my first and only customer of the day away. Clay and I talked and played a few more hands of poker to pass the time. When I grew tired of winning, I threw down my cards and declared “Game over!”
While we were trying to find something else to do, I sent Zach a text to see if he wanted to get together later so that I could tell him what happened yesterday. When I didn’t get an immediate response, I figured he was busy scooping poop or something and figured he would ge
t back to me when he was finished. If I’d known the real reason why he didn’t text me back, I would have started panicking right then. But I didn’t so Clay and I poked around Rita’s office for another source of amusement.
As I was going through one of the filing cabinets, Clay caught sight of the file marked “Rosewood”. “Hey, is that her account of what happened to you over the summer? I want to read it.”
“You’re SOL there, Clay,” I said as I opened the empty file as proof. “Rita is waiting for me to finish writing that for her—and she’s going to be waiting for a while, too. I used to make time to write but lately, I haven’t. There’s too much going on in my life for that. Plus, there’s some memories in there that I don’t really want to remember right now.”
I didn’t like thinking about all of the lies that I told back then or how those lies affected Zach. I didn’t like how I treated Shelly last summer, either. There would be plenty of time to write once we moved to Ohio. My only goal for the next month and a half was to graduate without killing Misty—or getting killed myself. Simplicity was the name of the game until I got to leave Charlotte’s Grove.
“Gotcha,” Clay replied knowingly then spotted a Magic Eight Ball in the drawer behind my file. “There’s our entertainment for the rest of the afternoon!”
There are no words to describe how much I hated those dumb things but it was better than sitting there staring at the rain for the last few hours of my shift. Every time I looked outside, it seemed to be raining harder. Wasn’t the sun ever going to shine again?