by Unknown
“Doris and Gertrude?” I asked as I slipped inside her office.
She shut the door behind us and started for a plush leather chair beside a matching sofa. “The ghosts that haunt this home, of course.”
Oh. Of course.
Rose nodded for me to take a seat on the sofa. “Well, go head, sit. It is surprisingly comfortable. If I could sleep during the day, I would find it a great place to nap.” She took a seat in the chair and flicked her cigarette into an ashtray shaped like a cat. I noticed all the ashes were piled up over the cat’s head, none over the rest of its body, which was odd, and I wanted to ask her why, but I wasn’t ready to speak. Not yet. I had learned that with therapists, it was best to let them get their spiel out first.
I allowed my gaze to roam over the rest of her office, taking it in. A grandfather clock sat against the wall beside her desk. On the other wall was a large portrait of a bird hanging upside down on a wire. Her curtains were a rose print, like something you would see in the kitchen of some old TV show, but her furniture was all modern.
I turned back around to face her only to find her watching me, her eyes tight like a hawk’s. “What do you think?” she asked, though I suspected she already knew what I thought.
“It’s nice,” I said, because my mother was paying her and she would expect me to be polite.
Rose smiled. “That’s interesting. I didn’t peg you as a liar, but at least it’s refreshing to speak to someone with intellect.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry?”
Her smile remained in place. “It’s easy to speak the truth. A lie, however, takes more thought, more intelligence.” She waited a beat, as though allowing me the time to process what she just said. “Now, I’m sure you want to ask about the ghosts. Most do.”
I studied her. Was this lady for real? Had I somehow walked into a crazy person’s home instead of a shrink’s office? I focused back on her, torn between running for the door and staying to see what she would say next. Damn my curiosity.
“Why do you think the house is haunted?”
She laughed. “Oh, I don’t think it’s haunted. I just understand that some things—or some people, in this instance—refuse to be put to rest. They linger, whether we want them to or not.” Her eyes held mine, and I sensed that there was deeper meaning to her words.
I glanced down at my hands, deciding in that moment whether I should stay or leave. I had enough crazy in my life, and this therapist was all sorts of crazy. Yet . . .
I lifted my eyes back to hers. “Okay. So, tell me about the sisters.”
***
I left Dr. Rose an hour later, my mind a convoluted mess of confusion and awe. Rose spent most of the time explaining the ghost sisters. How Doris and Gertrude were alive during the Great Depression and how they had run the house as a sort of social place for people to come and feel like they belonged. Not like a brothel, even though it sounded that way to me. It was just a place people could come and eat or have tea or just talk. The sisters were apparently very wealthy, so they allowed their house to become an escape for those who weren’t.
Rose said the sisters never really left the house after they died. Rumors of it being haunted spread, and soon the house became a steal on the market. Rose scooped it up when she had opened her own practice nearly ten years ago because, as she put it, “The sisters were nothing more than therapists in their own right, and I wasn’t one to be prejudiced against therapy. Regardless of the brand.”
I listened to the story, asking questions all the way, and before I realized it, Dr. Rose had done something a dozen therapists before her couldn’t do. She had me talking. And I hadn’t even realized it.
Damn her.
When I returned to my dorm, it was empty, but Kara had scribbled a note for me to meet her for lunch after my 11:25. I grabbed my messenger bag and set off for my first official college class.
Because Kara and I had spent most of Sunday walking from building to building, I knew what I was doing when I entered the Science Center. I knew where to go. I knew it would be a large auditorium-style class. I had my mind set on where I would sit. How close to the door. How far away from the teacher. I was prepared.
But I wasn’t prepared to see Preston Riggs walking into the class moments before me.
He didn’t see me enter, which was maybe the only thing that kept me from running back to Dr. Rose’s office to hang with her and the ghost sisters. I wasn’t an especially shy person, but something about your first class on your first day of college felt private, sacred even, and I didn’t want it ruined by having to be “on.” I wanted to settle into things before I had to talk to the people around me. I wanted to observe and listen and take it all in. And there was no chance of me doing any of that with Preston Riggs in the room.
He was a sophomore, anyway. What was he doing in Bio 102? Unless this wasn’t Bio 102, and I had somehow pulled an Olive and jacked up my schedule. Oh God. What if I was in the wrong class?
I had already taken my seat in the middle back of the room, a good six rows from the class-ruiner, Preston Riggs. There were no less than five people blocking my way to the exit. And my last name was Warren. God, why couldn’t it be Abbott? If the professor came in and took attendance, without announcing himself or the class, I would be stuck until he finished calling everyone’s name and then I would have to stand like an idiot and—
“Well, isn’t this butter on toast.”
I hadn’t realized I’d propped my elbow on the armrest of my chair or that my hand was covering my eyes. But even with my eyes covered, I knew that voice. I cringed as I forced myself to look up and into Preston’s mocking gaze.
“What did you say? Butter on toast. What does that even mean?”
He grinned. “Is anyone sitting there?” He pointed to the seat beside me, but he wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to the girl on the other side of the empty seat. She shook her head and smiled, and I wanted to throw up all over both of them so they would leave me alone and let me have my first real class. Even if I wasn’t sure I was in the right class. Oh God.
I leaned down to grab my schedule, just as the professor walked in and announced himself as Dr. Carter. My heart jumped inside my chest. Dr. Carter. The same name listed on my schedule.
I relaxed back in my seat and took out my new notebook and pen, smiling to myself.
“Thought you were in the wrong class, didn’t you?”
“Shut up.”
His lips quirked up. “Care to share one of those fancy pens? I’m stuck with this Bic.” He twiddled a basic white pen with black cap against his notebook. I eyed my sparkly purple pen. I liked colored ink—pink, teal, purple. I hated to use regular ink colors. Where was the fun in that?
“I’m not sure ‘fancy’ fits you.”
Again with the quirking. “Touché.”
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. And then instead of filling my brain with Dr. Carter’s lecture on what to expect in Bio 102, or thinking about how to get to my next class, or any one of a zillion normal things I should be thinking about on my first day of college, I ended up spending the rest of class trying desperately to say something else smart just so I could see his lips quirk up once again.
The Preston Riggs thing was becoming a problem that I needed to fix, stat. Thankfully, class ended before my mind became any more muddled. Preston was Kara’s best friend. Forget feelings, I shouldn’t even have thoughts about him. I grabbed my things and started for the door, but Preston hadn’t budged.
“What?”
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
“What is your major, anyway? This is an intro class, and you’re a sophomore.”
He finally stood, but he didn’t move toward the door. “I just switched majors from Undecided to Biology, so I’m playing catch up.”
“Biology? Are you planning to pursue medicine?”
/> His expression turned serious. “Pediatrics. And why the surprise? What did you think I was majoring in? Ways to screw over innocent girls?”
I rolled my eyes, which annoyed the hell out of me. I hated girls who rolled their eyes all the time, and now I was becoming one. “Not surprised. Just . . .”
“Surprised. It’s okay. I get it.” He started for the door. Damn it. Could I have a normal conversation with this guy without offending him? Clearly not.
Preston turned back just before exiting. “You know that whole ‘don’t judge a book’ thing? Yeah . . .”
And then he was through the door before I could reply.
Chapter Seven
I texted Kara as soon as my next class finished. We had planned to meet at the Fresh Foods dining hall on the first floor of Liberty. For cafeteria-style food, it had turned out to be pretty good yesterday, but I had a feeling we would end up eating there most days, like it or not, just due to scheduling.
I thought of Preston the entire walk over, worried that he told Kara what I’d said, though even now, I couldn’t figure out what I had said that was so wrong. Maybe it was the hesitation. There should be meds for hesitation. It’s like a subconscious version of admittance that is completely out of my control and always seems to screw me over. If some genius doctor ever created a remedy, I would be the first in line to try it. Unless, of course, that doctor was Preston. Then I would run the other way.
Kara and I had clicked immediately; her upbeat personality setting off my mellow one so perfectly it was as though the housing office had a list of traits and assigned roommates accordingly. The last thing I wanted to do was push her away because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut around her best friend.
I slipped through the door to Fresh Foods and saw Kara already seated by the windows.
“Hey,” I said as I walked up.
She cocked her head at me. “You don’t like Preston very much, do you?”
My eyes went wide. “What? No. I like him. I definitely like him. He’s . . .” What? I couldn’t tell her what I really thought. I wasn’t sure even I knew what I really thought. “I like him fine. Why do you ask?”
“He and I had Spanish together just now, and he mentioned that you two had bio together this morning.”
“And he told you what I said.” I dropped my bag in the free chair beside Kara and slumped into the seat across from her. “I don’t know why I even asked what his major was. It isn’t like it matters. He came to sit beside me and I got all . . . I don’t know. It was weird, and I just . . . I don’t know.” I glanced up to see Kara staring at me. “What?”
She shook her head, grinning. “Nothing. I just didn’t realize he’d had that effect on you. I kind of thought you were immune or something, but clearly—”
“Oh no.” I waved my hands to stop her before she made any assumptions. True or not. “I’m not into him, if that’s what you mean. I just act stupid around him. I don’t know why. I’m sorry. I hope you’re not mad.”
“Are you crazy? I don’t care. He’s a friend. That doesn’t change the fact that we’re friends, ya know?”
I let out a breath. “God. I’m so glad you said that. I’ve been making a complete ass of myself around him, and I know you two are so close, and we live together, and God. I was so worried you were going to get pissed by default.”
She studied me as though she were trying to figure out something overly complex. “No, it’s all good. Let’s get some food.” She motioned toward the line and then turned back. “But just so you know, and Preston would be so pissed if he knew I was telling you this, but he isn’t an idiot. The opposite actually. He’s sickeningly smart. The king of never studying, yet aces the test. There were just a few years when he stopped caring.”
“Kara, is there something . . . I don’t know, I get the feeling . . . I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”
She smiled. “It’s okay. He’s just been through a lot.” She looked away as though she’d said too much.
I wondered what happened to cause this tension between them. I knew better than to ask, so I changed the subject. “So, was he telling the truth about you two when you were little?” I asked as we sat back down with our lunch.
She laughed. “Oh, yes. But it was destined to never work.”
“Oh really, why is that?” I asked.
“Aside from the fact that he’s like a brother to me, he breaks all my dating rules.”
“Dating rules?”
“Yeah. No babies of the family. No trucks. Oh, and no tattoos.”
I nearly choked on my sandwich. “Preston has a tattoo?”
“A small one, but still, they’re tacky and I don’t do tacky.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at how judgmental she was being. Most people had opinions on things like tattoos, but not everyone was willing to voice their opinion so openly with people they hardly knew. I decided I’d wait until later to tell her that I too had a tattoo. I wondered where Preston’s was located. I hadn’t noticed one when he was shirtless in Kara’s and my room Saturday morning. My mind replayed his bare chest, the way his pajama pants hung low on his hips. Suddenly, the room felt hot. “So, I’m guessing Ethan doesn’t have one?”
She sighed. “He didn’t when we got together. He does now. He got it on Saturday, just after he moved into his dorm. I haven’t seen it yet. God, I hope it’s not huge and horrible.”
I fought back a grin and changed the subject back to Preston. I could tell Ethan’s new tattoo wasn’t something she wanted to talk about. “Okay, so Preston has a tattoo and a truck. What about the baby of the family thing? What does that mean?”
“He’s the baby of his family. He has an older brother. I can’t stand that attitude guys get when they’re the babies of their families. Their mothers end up doing everything for them, and we girlfriends suffer the results. Nah-ah. Not this girl. Only middle children or the eldest for me.” I grinned. I guessed that was mark two for me. Just like Preston, I was the baby of my family. I had two older sisters. I started to tell Kara that, when she checked her watch and nearly screamed. “Crap, I’m running late.” She took a final bite of her sandwich, downed a gulp of her Coke, and grabbed her bag. “See you later?”
“Yeah, sure.” I waved to her, before finishing up and diving back into the rest of my day. Two more classes to go. Hopefully I could make it through my last two without offending anyone or making a complete idiot of myself.
My phone buzzed as I was leaving the dining hall, and I glanced down to see Mom flashing across the screen. My thumb went first to Answer and then to Ignore. I didn’t want to talk to her right now. She would want to talk about my therapy session this morning and then ask me if I was ready to transfer to Columbia. In my mom’s mind, my coming to Charleston was just a vacation, a little getaway for a few weeks, and then I would get back on track. She didn’t realize, or didn’t care, that (a) I chose to come to Charleston, and that (b) you couldn’t exactly transfer in the middle of a semester. I was here now, like it or not.
I hesitated over Answer and accidentally clicked it. Damn hesitation!
“Olive?” Mom said.
I lifted the phone to my ear, cursing my stupid thumb. “Hey, Mom,” I said, a little too enthusiastically, but it was that or get a thousand questions I didn’t have time or the energy to answer.
“Hi, sweetie. I just wanted to check in with you. How is your first day going?”
I waited for the real question she had, but it never came. “Good. I’ve only had two classes. I’m heading to my third now.”
“That’s great. Are you enjoying it so far?”
What? Had an alien inhabited my mom’s body? “Uh, yeah. It’s great.” Pause.
Pause.
Pause.
“So, how was therapy this morning?”
And there it was. The real reason for the call. At
least she had the decency to go through the niceties. “It was fine, Mom. Look, I’m running late for class. Can we talk about this later?”
“Sure. Yes, of course. I’m glad it’s good and that you’re enjoying your day. I—”
“Mom, I really have to go.”
I could almost feel the hurt coming through the phone. I hated this. I hated making her feel bad. I wished she would just focus on Cameron or Lily, my older sisters, and leave me alone. I would be fine. I just needed everyone to leave me alone.
“Sure, honey. Have a nice day. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
I ended the call and stuck my cell back in my bag, a giant helping of guilt now packed on my shoulders.
Chapter Eight
I stepped into class and slammed down my bag beside the desk closest to the door, so distracted that I didn’t realize I was five minutes late—or that the professor had stopped talking. The entire class had turned to stare at me.
“Thanks for gracing us with your presence . . .” She pulled a clipboard from the desk she was leaning against and traced a finger down the attached sheet. “Olivia?”
I nodded, my cheeks so warm they were liable to explode. “Yes. I’m so sorry. It—”
She held up a hand to stop me. “I think you’ve delayed the class enough.” She set the clipboard back on the desk. Crap. “As I was saying, welcome to Poetry 130. I am Lauren Rochester, your professor, but you can call me Lauren. I prefer to teach the class in a workshop-like manner. What that means is we’ll read, analyze, and discuss everything from Shakespeare to Walt Whitman to Mary Oliver, but for assignments, I’d like to see your work. I realize that may make some of you feel uneasy, and that’s okay. Just try your best. Your final will involve a complete dissection of any poem of your choosing. I suggest you start looking through your options now. During class, we’ll take turns reading from the assigned poetry list on the back of your syllabus. I like open discussion and expect everyone to participate.”