Ghosting

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Ghosting Page 11

by Edith Pattou

through the window

  with the hanging shutter,

  into Boo Radley’s

  run-down, lonely house.

  And Jem does it,

  but a gun goes off

  and he loses

  his pants.

  A gun.

  I start to

  shiver.

  Let’s not, I say, so loud you can hear the shake in it.

  Scaredy-cat, says Emma.

  Like that long-ago sleepover,

  and the words that

  stung.

  C’mon, Bren. Emma turns to him, laying a hand on his arm.

  He laughs.

  Hell no. I’m the getaway driver. ’Sides, I’ve gotta answer this.

  He has his cell out,

  texting.

  Emma turns and looks back

  at the rest of us again.

  Who’s coming? she repeats.

  And her will is so strong,

  like iron,

  unbreakable.

  I picture Felix opening his eyes

  and following Emma

  wherever she beckons,

  down the path,

  onto the field,

  along the railroad tracks,

  just like he did

  when we were kids.

  I pray for his eyes to stay closed.

  They do.

  And even if it’s just because he’s

  too stoned

  I’m glad.

  I glance back at Anil and Chloe.

  She looks glazed.

  He’s staring

  out the window.

  Then she turns to him.

  C’mon, Anil, let’s go, she says, voice sweet and low.

  He shakes

  his head,

  definite,

  but with

  no expression

  on his face.

  Fine, she says with a frown and lurches past me and Felix.

  Her perfume is overlaid

  with the scent of

  MoonBuzz.

  Emma laughs a

  happy laugh

  and the two girls stand by the car,

  swaying slightly and

  looking up

  at the house.

  It’s real dark, I hear Chloe say.

  Emma snatches her cell

  out of her pocket

  and opens it up.

  See, just like a flashlight, she says.

  Then Chloe opens up her cell, too.

  I grab

  my camera.

  Can’t resist the image of their two faces

  lit up by the

  glowing

  cell phones.

  Flash.

  But the lighting is wrong

  so I try it again without the flash

  and it’s

  perfect.

  The greenish light from their cells

  makes their faces glow in an

  unearthly way.

  Felix opens his eyes

  at the second click of

  my camera,

  then closes them again.

  A feeling of dread

  suddenly squeezes

  my heart

  and I lean out the open

  car door.

  Emma, don’t, I call.

  She ignores me.

  And the two of them

  begin to walk

  toward

  the house.

  FAITH

  I love

  riding

  my bike,

  especially

  at night.

  On

  darkened

  streets

  like a

  low-flying

  bird

  soaring

  along

  just above

  the pavement.

  Almost

  invisible.

  I snuck

  out of

  the house.

  It was

  Emma

  who taught

  me how:

  to avoid the

  third stair

  from the top,

  to ease the

  screen door

  shut.

  When

  I came

  downstairs

  I could

  hear the TV

  on in the

  family room.

  Polly almost

  ruined

  everything

  with a

  plaintive,

  drawn-out,

  don’t-go

  whimper

  when she

  followed me

  down to

  the kitchen.

  Quietly

  I roll

  my bike

  out the

  side door

  of the

  garage.

  On the

  sidewalk

  in front

  of our

  house,

  my bicycle

  wheel

  bumps over

  something,

  something

  that makes

  a faint

  squeaking

  sound.

  I lean over.

  It’s a

  black rubber

  crow,

  with a grimy

  yellow beak.

  Polly’s

  favorite

  chew toy,

  faded,

  gnawed on,

  well loved.

  Don’t know

  how it got

  out here

  on the front

  sidewalk.

  I stick it

  in the

  back pocket

  of my shorts,

  and it

  squeaks,

  softly.

  I know

  the streets

  of this town

  by heart,

  from riding

  my bike.

  Holding the

  handlebars

  one-handed,

  I flip open

  my cell.

  After

  midnight.

  But there’s

  still time

  to stop

  Emma.

  To warn

  her.

  It’s a

  sultry night.

  Leftover heat

  from the day

  rises up

  from the

  sidewalk,

  but the

  rushing air

  on my face

  feels good.

  There’s a

  movie

  about a boy

  in a small

  Midwest town

  who loves

  to bike.

  It’s my

  all-time

  favorite

  movie.

  He pretends

  he’s Italian,

  the way

  I pretend

  I’m just like

  everyone else.

  Here is

  what I say

  every day

  when I get

  on my bike:

  Ciao, bellissimo Midwestern town of Wilmette.

  I pretend

  I’m off

  to Italy,

  or London,

  or Seattle,

  or California.

  In just

  four years,

  I really will

  be gone,

  so fast

  everyone

  will choke

  on the dust

  from my

  bicycle wheels

  as I ride

  out of town.

  Off to new

  wide-open

  worlds

  where a girl

  can be

  who she is

  meant

  to be.

  But for now,

  in this place

  and this t
ime,

  I’m here.

  And I can’t

  let it all

  crumble

  beneath me.

  WALTER

  They’re out there. The bad guys. I can hear them.

  Their voices, the sound of the car idling.

  Through the trees I can see flickering lights

  coming up the path toward our house.

  A sheriff has to protect his town,

  but he has to protect his home as well.

  There is no one but me to do it.

  I move toward the closet.

  FELIX

  we watch emma and chloe go slowly, very slowly, up the crumbling stone steps to the path leading to the house. max is freaked out. i want to tell her not to care so much. to just let things go.

  Remember Joey Pigza? I ask softly.

  max looks at me, her eyes wild, scared.

  Who?

  Those books I read over and over, I say. In 5th grade.

  Oh yeah, she says after a moment.

  brendan is still texting, intent on the keyboard cradled in his hand. i hear chloe’s giggles drifting back as max and i watch the light from the two cell phones bobbing slowly toward the house.

  Joey Pigza was always doing stupid shit like this, I say. And he survived.

  Joey Pigza, Max murmurs. He was the one with ADHD?

  Yeah, like me. Hey, Max, I say, with a big grin, did I ever tell you how someday I’m going to do research and prove that weed is the best medicine for ADHD?

  max smiles.

  Good luck with that, she says.

  Actually, comes Anil’s voice from the back, it’s not a bad idea.

  Really? I say

  i turn around to look at him, surprised.

  Yeah, some doctors in California prescribe medical marijuana for ADHD, but there’s very little research to . . .

  another set of chloe giggles. louder.

  Be quiet, Chloe, comes Emma’s voice, clear and annoyed. Loud. Too loud.

  anil stops talking and max’s smile disappears. her hands are clenched tight on the armrests and i’m suddenly tired of this whole thing. what the hell are we doing here? i should get max home, out of this.

  Hey, Brendan, I say, leaning forward, this is lame. Can you get your girlfriend back here so we can all go home.

  brendan turns and glares at me. looking at his slack mouth and dilated, glittering eyes, i suddenly realize how out-of-his-mind blitzed he is.

  Go back to your weed, dickhead. Emma wants her fun.

  Oh, that’s right. I forgot, I say. You do whatever Emma wants, don’t you?

  i lock eyes with him. max darts a scared glance at me. like what the hell are you doing? her face says. and she’s right. brendan looks like he’s ready to tear my eyeballs out. but i can’t help it. this i-own-the-planet, gun-toting asshole is seriously messing with EMFAX. god, did i just call us EMFAX again? that’s the third time tonight. i must be more messed up than i thought.

  Shut the fuck up, you pathetic slacker loser, Brendan says, or else . . .

  and like in a dream i see his hand reaching toward the glove compartment. behind us, anil lets out a sharp exhale. and NO! bursts from max’s throat. brendan looks back at the three of us. he knows we know and his eyes go to slits.

  he pops open the glove compartment and in the blink of an eye that shiny black gun is in brendan’s hand.

  BRENDAN

  I can’t believe those pussies went rooting

  around in my glove compartment.

  And who does that useless pothead

  think he is, mouthing off to me like that.

  Like he’s my fucking asshole dad.

  I should fucking scare the crap out of them.

  Serves them right.

  MAXIE

  I feel like I’m in a bad movie,

  one with a jittery

  handheld

  camera

  recording everything.

  Including a monster

  lurking in the shadows.

  Except

  maybe the

  monster

  is sitting right there

  in front of us.

  Brendan is grinning,

  waving his

  gun.

  You know what kind of gun this is? he says. A double-action semiautomatic Beretta 92 F.

  Put it away, Brendan, says Felix softly.

  Hell no. Teach you a lesson, Brendan says, his words slurring.

  Suddenly Brendan reaches up

  and punches a button

  next to the moonroof.

  The glass panel

  silently

  slides

  open . . . .

  Then he thrusts up his hand,

  the one holding the gun,

  through the opening

  to the night sky.

  EMMA

  Dare you to touch the door, says Chloe, giggling again.

  She’s stopped halfway up the path

  to the front door,

  blocking my way.

  And then suddenly

  from the direction of the car

  comes a loud popping sound.

  What was that? Chloe cries out, turning and stumbling toward me.

  I try to catch her, but she trips on

  a pot of flowers, knocking it over

  with a noisy clattering sound.

  She flounders, trying to recover her balance,

  (Chloe always was the world’s biggest klutz),

  and somehow she kicks over another one.

  OW! she says, way too loud, falling sideways onto the grass.

  I hear the shattering sound

  of a third pot breaking,

  Chloe’s breath coming quickly.

  I hurt my foot, Chloe bleats.

  Go back to the car, I say, helping her up.

  I think it’s bleeding, she says.

  Go back, I whisper. I’ll be there in a sec.

  Chloe limps her way back down the path.

  Even though I know it’s reckless, I have to go on.

  I have to know if there’s a ghost.

  My cell light fades,

  so I tap the keypad.

  Light blooms.

  I can see the broken pots,

  pink roses and dirt tumbled out

  onto the path.

  A lot of the flowers are flattened from

  Chloe trampling on them. Then I hear a

  soft sighing sound. From the house.

  Who’s there? comes a whispery, plaintive voice.

  I see a screen door, with jagged tears in the

  metal netting. And behind the screen door

  a woman is standing. White hair haloing a shadowed face.

  My roses. Don’t hurt my roses.

  The voice is thin, worried. Unearthly.

  She moves toward me, her gnarled hands

  reaching through the screen like it’s not there.

  For just a moment I believe she is a ghost.

  But then I see she is reaching through the rips in the screen.

  A real-life old woman in a shapeless nightgown.

  I am suddenly ashamed.

  This is a person, a living breathing person

  whose flowers we’ve ruined.

  I’m sorry, I whisper and back away.

  She opens the screen door,

  goes through, letting it fall shut behind her

  with a sharp thunking sound.

  I keep moving backward. She follows me

  down the path. But she stops abruptly

  in front of the first broken pot.

  She crouches beside it.

  And then I see her face crumple,

  her mouth gaping open.

  I hear a high-pitched wailing,

  so agonized and unearthly that at first

  I don’t realize it’s coming from her.

  MOTHER! shouts another voice, urgent, coming from inside the house.

 

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