“Yeah. Not smart,” Jacqueline said. She thought of the times she and Tyler would sneak out of the Korvaks’ house and do pretty much the same thing and cringed.
Mitzy gave her a thumb’s-up. “Exactly. Back to the story. So there’s the fire, and the six kids died, and the police finally went up to the estate to tell Mrs. Coppington about what’d happened. No one answered, and when the cops broke down the door, they found Gabriella Coppington dead. The house was already falling apart at that point, what with no one but an old lady and her cats to keep up with it, and the dining room floor just…crumbled. Supposedly, she fell fifteen feet and broke her back, then lay on that floor, slowly dying, for days. Another rumor went around that her body finally gave out on her the very night of the fire, and that her ghost killed those kids. At least those were the stories that were passed around when I got into high school. It’s been considered a haunted house ever since.”
Jacqueline poked at a dumpling with her fork. “You believe in ghosts?” she asked.
“No. Not really.”
“But you actually looked scared of it.”
Aunt Mitzy laughed, and her abrupt smile was infectious. “That’s because it’s a creepy place, Jackie.” Her tone became serious. “It might not be evil, but it’s dangerous. It’s falling apart, the floor has cracks in it, and the roof’s caving in. You know how kids your age get when they’re told there’s someplace they’re not supposed to be? Well, two kids have died and many others seriously hurt while trying to stay in the house overnight on a dare. It might not be haunted, but Coppington Manor is certainly unsafe.” She leveled Jacqueline with a serious gaze. “You’re never to go there.”
“I won’t,” said Jacqueline.
“Promise me.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
Mitzy’s lips became a thin white line. “I trust you, Jackie. I do. You’ve behaved yourself wonderfully since you got here. But we’re still getting to know each other, and you’re still a teenager. I was a teenager once too, you know. There’s too much temptation in the world to think that you’ll always do the right thing, no matter your intention.”
Jacqueline folded her hands below her chin and bowed to her aunt. “I promise, then, that I won’t ever go to that house,” she said with mock reverence.
“Good. And if you do, I’ll kill you,” Mitzy said playfully.
“You’d have to catch me first. I run pretty fast.”
“Good trait to have this day and age,” her aunt said with a wink.
When dinner was finished, Jacqueline cleared the empty boxes off the table and washed the dishes, then headed for the stairs. She’d intended on locking herself away in her room for the night with Mal, as had become their tradition, but when she breezed into the living room, her aunt stopped her. Mitzy had changed into a pair of bland gray sweats, looking absolutely stunning even in something so drab. Jacqueline wondered if she’d be just as gorgeous when she grew up.
“Want to watch a movie?” Mitzy asked.
Jacqueline shrugged. “Um, I guess so. What movie?”
“The Princess Bride is on Netflix. I haven’t seen this movie in forever. Or maybe, if you’d like to see something less silly, we—”
“Okay,” Jacqueline abruptly said.
Mitzy smiled wide. “Then get over here. I’ll make popcorn.”
They reclined on the couch together, munching from a gigantic bowl of popcorn while scenes of roiling English hills appeared on Aunt Mitzy’s television. Jacqueline remained transfixed as the movie began. The Princess Bride had been her father’s favorite. Every year since she was old enough to remember, they’d sit on the couch together whenever it came on television and watch it. It had been a bonding ritual for them, and now it could be the same for her and her newfound aunt. Jacqueline could almost smell the musty-sweet odor of her dad’s sweat, feel the coarseness of his stubble when he kissed her forehead. Her eyes began to itch, and instinctively she leaned into Mitzy. Suddenly she was eight years old again, in a place of warmth and safety where there was no hurt, no sorrow, no fear. Her head dropped lower until it rested across her aunt’s slender thighs. A velvety hand caressed her cheek as Wesley and Buttercup appeared on the screen, so innocent and in love. Jacqueline squeezed her aunt’s knees tightly, never wanting to let go.
“Hard to think there’s places out there where this movie doesn’t exist,” Mitzy said offhandedly.
“I’d never want to live there,” whispered Jacqueline, and she realized that she really was, for the first time in forever, home.
CHAPTER 11
Before Jacqueline could blink, it was the morning of her first day as a sophomore in her new school. She got up that morning completely frazzled, and contemplated rolling over and throwing her covers over her head in hopes Aunt Mitzy would forget what day it was.
Downstairs, Mitzy’s alarm blared. A moment later, Jacqueline heard her aunt’s shuffling footsteps. Resigned to her fate, Jacqueline climbed out of bed, went to the window, and peeled back the curtains. The rising sun painted the trees and surrounding houses in muted, pinkish shades. She backed up a step, glanced over at the pictures of her mother and father, and swallowed hard.
I’m strong, she thought. I can do this.
From there, Jacqueline was on autopilot. She showered and brushed her teeth, then walked purposefully back into her bedroom and shut the door. She unwrapped the towel from her body, tossed it on the bed, and opened her closet. The morning was warm, promising another scorcher of a late-summer day, and Jacqueline’s still-moist flesh prickled. She searched through all her new clothes, trying to decide what combination would work best. For a moment she considered retrieving her compact to ask Mal what he thought, but then remembered she was naked. She hurried over to her dresser and threw on a bra and panties, then looked at herself in the mirror.
“I don’t need Mal for this,” she whispered.
She stepped back to the closet, hand cupping her chin. The last five years of school had been all about toughness and survival, and she decided to dress the part this time.
Jacqueline chose a pair of black leggings, a black Misfits tee, and a checkered navy blue flannel. The flannel was too heavy given the weather, but she didn’t want to have her butt out there for everyone to see. She slipped on her black leather boots, the ones Mitzy had bought for her on their first shopping excursion. A studded bracelet went on one of her wrists, and around her neck she wore the only gift Tyler had ever given her—a pentagram pendant strung on a black cord. She then applied thick eyeliner, making sure to draw straight lines out from the corners of her eyes, making them look slanted, catlike.
When she was finished, she stepped back and admired herself. Not too shabby. She then grabbed her compact, flipped it open. It took a moment for Mal to appear this time, his hair frizzed as if he’d just awoken. It struck her as funny to think that the boy in the mirror slept at all. There’s not much room in there to lie down.
“How do I look?” she asked.
Mal whistled through the mirror. “Splendid.”
“Good.”
“Be careful today, Jackie. I’ll miss you.”
“Miss me? Why? You’re coming with.”
Mal grinned.
Jacqueline snapped the compact shut, tucked it into the pocket of her flannel, and glanced at the clock. It was 6:58; the bus would be there in ten minutes. She rushed down the stairs to find Mitzy in the living room, brushing her hair with the television tuned to the morning news. “Breakfast’s on the table!” she shouted.
“Thanks!”
Jacqueline went into the kitchen, snatched her empty backpack off a chair, gobbled down a steaming English muffin topped with jelly from the table, chugged down a glass of orange juice, and ran for the door.
The bus stop was five houses down, and she could see only one kid standing there, a boy with spiky brown hair, kicking at stones on the sidewalk. Jacqueline froze, filled with sudden panic. She didn’t know who that boy was. She didn’t
know who anyone was. The moment she stepped off the porch, she’d be all alone.
The bus pulled around the corner, the doors folding open so the boy could step on. It lingered there for a few moments until the doors closed and the bus began moving once more. It passed right by Jacqueline’s house, and she could see it was packed with teenagers. They looked like prisoners being hauled away.
Jacqueline lingered there until the bus turned down the next connecting street. She glanced at the spiked bracelet on her wrist. The spikes were plastic, their danger an illusion. She hung her head, turned around, and gloomily walked back into the house.
Mitzy was in the kitchen reading something on her tablet, already dressed to the nines, her full lips red and sparkling as she sipped her coffee. Her hair was glossed and wavy, cascading over her shoulders. She lifted her eyes from her tablet when Jacqueline entered.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Missed the bus,” Jacqueline lied.
“Oh. No problem, I’ll drive you. And don’t look so glum. Now you know you have to be out there earlier tomorrow.”
Mitzy winked, as if to say she knew exactly what’d happened and she wasn’t about to judge her for it.
On the way to school, the radio was tuned to the local hip-hop station. While Jacqueline sat quietly, Mitzy danced behind the wheel, shoulders moving this way and that, lips puckered, head bobbing, as if she were the teenager and Jacqueline the world-weary adult. It might’ve been annoying had Jacqueline not been queasy with anticipation.
Buses still lined the parking lot of J. Robert Oppenheimer when they arrived. The front walk was crushed with students. Mitzy pulled the car up to the curb. “Delivered safely,” she said. Jacqueline closed her eyes and took a deep breath before pulling on the door handle and stepping out of the car. The air was filled with chattering voices and the scraping of soles on concrete. Despite the number of people about, no one seemed to notice her. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“Sweetie, you forgot your bag.”
Jacqueline turned to see Mitzy stepping around the front of the car, the backpack hanging in her hand like a deflated balloon. Her aunt walked with hurried, shortened steps, her long, hip-hugging skirt too tight to allow her to take any longer strides. She stood almost on her tiptoes atop six-inch heels. Jacqueline was horrified. Mitzy handed her the bag, and Jacqueline took it mindlessly. Her aunt then leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek, revealing the ample cleavage that bloomed from her low-slung blouse. A series of whistles sounded from behind her, and Jacqueline groaned. So much for no one paying any attention to her.
“Have fun today, okay sweetie?” Mitzy said, rustling her hair. She then turned tail and quick-stepped back to the car.
Jacqueline slowly turned around to see a number of students gawking in her direction. The engine of Mitzy’s sedan roared as she took off across the parking lot. Jacqueline slung her backpack over her shoulders and put one foot in front of the other, heading for the packed school entrance.
“Your mom’s hot,” an older boy with freckles and a head of sandy-blond hair told her as she strolled by.
“Gee, thanks,” she replied without looking.
The halls were crowded, allowing Jacqueline to blend in with her surroundings. She followed her printed-out course sheet, finding her locker and throwing her backpack inside. Homeroom was three doors down from her locker, and she sat in the back, eyes downcast, only raising her hand when the teacher called out her name. Still no one seemed to notice her. Either this school had a strange habit of ignoring new people, or she’d successfully wished herself invisible.
For the most part, her first day was like any normal school day she’d ever had. She went to math class, then history, then biology, then English, mimicking her behavior in homeroom—remaining at the rear of the classroom, lips sealed shut. Yet while she’d originally hoped to go through the day unnoticed, as period after period passed by, she found herself feeling lonely. This school was more interesting than the others she’d been to. The teachers—with the exception of her English teacher, an old man who dozed off in his chair after telling them to read the first chapter of A Separate Peace—seemed to enjoy their jobs. They smiled and made jokes, actually trying to connect with their students. And this place was way more diverse than any other school she’d been to. The various ethnicities wandering the halls intrigued her. There were blacks, Asians, Hispanics, and even a few of Middle Eastern descent. For the longest time, while living in northern New Hampshire, she’d been the only somewhat brown-skinned person, which made her stick out. Here, she blended in. Here, she was just part of the crowd.
At lunch, she sat at the end of one of the cafeteria’s long benches. The vast space was filled with laughter and merriment as teeming students caught up with each other after the summer break. Instead of sitting with her head down as she’d been doing, Jacqueline remained attentive while she ate her salad. The table she sat at was filled with underclassmen, eating in silence, terror in their eyes. Three tables in front of her, a group of older boys playfully punched each other in the arm while a collection of pretty girls looked on with fawning eyes. At another table, a throng of kids of varying ages, all wearing black, bobbed their heads, earbuds stuffed into their ears. At still another table, nine teenagers sat ignoring each other, noses pressed into their smartphones. And further down the cafeteria, she saw a gathering of smarty-pants types, chatting quietly as they shoved food into their mouths. When folks from one group passed another, there were respectful greetings and head-bobs, as if everyone could migrate from one clique to another if they wanted to.
A bristling sensation worked its way down Jacqueline’s spine. She swiveled her head and saw someone staring at her from the other side of the cafeteria. It was a small, slender girl, with hair so blond it was almost white, like Mal’s, and cold eyes the color of sea glass. She was sitting with a small cluster of friends, seemingly existing in their own bubble of reality in the congested room. Jacqueline quickly looked away, staring down at her salad, only to furtively peer out the corner of her eye to see the girl still staring. She shuddered, suddenly not hungry. You’re pathetic. The boisterous, aggressive types she’d always been able to deal with, to laugh off, but the quiet, brooding ones, the ones that gave off an aura of secret intelligence, scared the hell out of her. Without another glance in the girl’s direction, she stood up from her seat, said excuse me to the gangly boy with glasses beside her, and hurried up the stairs and out of the cafeteria. She had to find another spot to eat lunch tomorrow. In no way did she want that girl’s cold eyes on her again.
Unfortunately that wish went unfulfilled, for the girl appeared in her art class the very next period.
The teacher’s name was Mr. Lawson, and he was attractive in a big brother-ish way. He lined all the students up against the wall and called out names alphabetically, directing them where to sit. “Annette Shepherd,” Mr. Lawson said, and the white-haired girl stepped forward. Up close, Jacqueline could see just how small she really was. Even at five-foot-three, Jacqueline towered over her. The girl took her seat, sliding an oversized purse, similar to the one Mitzy carried, under her desk.
“Jacqueline Talbot,” said Mr. Lawson.
Taking a deep breath, Jacqueline kicked herself off the wall and slid into her assigned seat. The girl, Annette, gave her a sidelong look. Jacqueline let out a sigh of relief when the girl turned away.
Art class was actually fun. Mr. Lawson cracked jokes and peppered the class with questions about the history of art, a subject Jacqueline knew next to nothing about. Students eagerly answered, Annette more than most, and Jacqueline found herself transfixed by the girl’s voice. Her tone was throaty rather than high-pitched, and direct. When Annette Shepherd spoke, she spoke with confidence, which made her even more intimidating.
Halfway through class, Mr. Lawson passed out stiff sheets of watercolor paper. He pointed toward the stool at the front of the class, atop which had been placed a pitcher of water, an a
pple, and an old red bicycle pump. “Draw it as well as you can,” he said. “If you stink, you stink. Not everyone’s an artist. I won’t be grading you on how well you draw, but how much effort you put into it. You have fifteen minutes. Now go.”
All chatter ceased, and the only sounds in the classroom were frustrated grunts and the gentle scratching of pencils on paper. Jacqueline clutched her own pencil tightly, chewed on her lip, and went to work. She hadn’t drawn anything since her dad was still alive. She worked without thinking, sketching lines and loops, swirls and hash marks. The fifteen minutes passed in a heartbeat.
Mr. Lawson told everyone to stop and paced around the room, looking down at each student’s work and offering short, kind critiques. He applauded Annette on her sense of spatial relation, and then moved on to Jacqueline.
“Good,” he told her. “You have the form of the objects down, but you need to work on scale. The way it is, the apple’s the same size as the pump.” He smiled warmly. “That’s one huge apple. Or a really tiny pump. Anyhow, good job. You’ll do better.” He then moved on to the next student.
“I think it looks awesome.”
Jacqueline jerked in her seat and spun toward the voice. Annette was leaning over in her desk, lips pressed tight in concentration.
“Thanks,” Jacqueline said.
“You got talent.” Annette nodded to no one in particular, then sat back in her seat and faced the front. Jacqueline raised her eyebrows, puffed out her cheeks, and let out a long, perturbed breath.
Five agonizing minutes later, the digital buzzer that signaled the end of class sounded. Jacqueline quickly gathered up her things and swept out of the classroom. She only had study hall and then finally Spanish before she could call an end to the day. She felt the pocket of her flannel, where the compact, and Mal, still hid, and breathed a sigh of relief. All in all, it hadn’t gone too badly. She hoped it would remain that way.
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