by Sarah Porter
And then there’s the thrill when she feels me: my thoughts sliding over her thoughts, mind whispering on her mind. The living have their lovers, their children, but they never have anyone the way I have her now. She stops washing her hair; she leans against the tiles and closes her eyes.
“Dashiell?” A long hesitation. “Are you there?”
Soon enough, Ruby-Ru. Soon enough I’ll answer the question. Be patient for now, sweet one.
Because out there in the shadowy places someone is coming. I can feel the vibrations of someone still alive, straying on the margin where death overlaps dreams. Where do they come from, I used to wonder, those strangers we glimpse in the deepest alleys of our sleep? Now I know.
But out there now it’s your twin brother’s footsteps, Miss Slippers. He’s already storming toward the same scaffold where he fell before, stomping as he goes, refusing to let himself so much as glance to the side. Coming to save you, he tells himself, but the truth is that he’s raging with jealousy that you will never love him as you love me. Coming to save you from me, when you are so utterly mine that the idea of extricating you is beyond absurdity.
“Dashiell? You died, I know you died. So why do I keep feeling—”
Hush, Ruby-Ru, Ruby-Ru. Don’t cry.
There’s something I have to attend to now. But I’ll be back with you very soon.
EVERETT
I didn’t notice when I fell asleep, but I obviously am. I know this place. Even that sick feeling of people watching me feels way too familiar already. There’s an intense vibe of invisible eyes in the corners, but like that’s a completely normal thing here.
So ignore it, then. This won’t get any easier if I hang back. I still have to climb that goddamn scaffold, and I still have to just sit there and take it when Dashiell shoves that knife into my guts. Fine. I won’t let him see me chicken out a second time. I don’t see him lurking up there at first, but by the time I’ve got a grip on those shining yellow rungs he’s hanging over me.
“Never-Ever,” he calls down, “you’ve come back so promptly! No shirking of your duty whatsoever. Attaboy.”
“Shut up, Dash,” I say. “It’s enough that you’re getting everything your way again. Right? You don’t have to gloat about it.”
“You might be getting more things your way soon enough,” Dashiell observes. He’s still pretty far up and the climb seems harder this time, like maybe there’s more gravity now. My legs drag with every step. “I truly appreciate what you’re doing, Never-Ever. I think some positive reinforcement will be in order, just as soon as I can arrange for it.”
You can’t bribe me, you bastard. “I don’t want it. Your positive reinforcement. You can shove it, Dash. Okay?”
He laughs. Of course. “Still mad, Never? I thought we’d worked through our differences.”
I’m still pulling myself up and suddenly the climb is going faster, so fast that I’m getting dizzy, like I can’t control it.
“We’ll have worked it out once you leave my family alone. You’re supposed to be dead, Dash. Like, rest the hell in peace? Did you not get the memo?”
And now I can see him. Clearly this time. His bare feet dangle over the edge, kicking in frayed jeans. There’s just enough yellow glow that I can see his obnoxiously chiseled male-model face, and his gray eyes, and his wavy pinkish-gold hair. And all at once I’m remembering Ruby—maybe we were eight?—spreading strawberry jam on top of a scone and then running around the table to Dashiell, holding the scone up next to his head. Then getting a knife and wiping some of the jam off, because she was trying to match the color of his hair exactly. And every time she went near him he’d grab her and tickle her, and she’d squeal and try to get away.
Except not really.
He ended up with jam all over one ear and they were falling over each other laughing. If we were eight then, he must have been fourteen, or fifteen at most. Was he already turning into the person he is now? Was there a specific moment when Dashiell cracked? For a whole three years after our mom left he was too pissed to talk to her. He’d storm out of the room if anyone mentioned her at all. I was pretty little then, but you don’t forget something like that, your big brother red-faced and weeping with rage.
He was so damned used to being adored that it must have blown his mind that anyone would leave him. And I guess once our mom was out of the picture, he started focusing more on squeezing adoration out of Ruby. Like, as a substitute.
“Our family,” Dash corrects me. “You don’t break those connections simply by dying, Never. The dead have every right to demand their due. Recognition, basically. Of all the ways we’re still with you.”
And then I’m up there, hoisting myself onto the wide plank where Dash is sitting—he’s already got hold of my shoulder—and dream or no dream I’m gasping for breath and I don’t have my inhaler.
Not that it’s going to matter. His left hand is sort of cradling the back of my neck and his right hand is holding the knife. If it wasn’t for the psycho-killer accessory, he could be posing in an ad for jeans—since that’s what he’s wearing. And nothing else.
“So what’ll it be, Never?” Dash asks. “The throat is foolproof, but a bit ugly. Going for your heart would be more dignified, for both of us, but then there’s the risk I’ll miss on the first try. You’ll suffer. So the question is, is dignity worth it?”
“I don’t care,” I tell him; it comes out broken-up and wheezing. Even though I know it’s just a dream, my heart is trying to spit itself out of my throat. “I don’t care about any of it.”
“Oh, pah. You care immensely. Or you wouldn’t be here.”
Red and green lights spin through the distance, but I can’t decipher much of where we are. “You know we aren’t alone here, right, Dash? There are definitely people out there. I mean, we’re being watched.”
For a flash his eyes go wide and he stares around; I could almost swear he’s afraid. Something in his face sharpens, and it makes me think he’s looking for somebody in particular. Leave it to Dash to make enemies wherever he goes. “Random passersby, maybe. Anyone could stumble in here. This is a slippery place.”
They’re not passing by, and he knows it, but it’s not worth arguing about. “Dashiell? I want you to admit something first, that’s all. Admit I’m not a coward.”
“No,” he agrees, and again there’s that eerie tenderness that could totally pass for sincere if I didn’t know better. I see the flash of his rising knife and a spasm runs through me. “No, Never-Ever, you’re proving to be remarkably brave, in fact. And I’ve given you the opportunity to learn that about yourself, haven’t I?”
And then there’s a moment when I’m launched out of myself—because hey, that happens in dreams—and I’m watching the whole thing from above: the golden-haired jeans model cradling the fat loser. The silver streak of his knife sailing up. I’m kind of proud of my expression, though. I’m absolutely giving him attitude, and I look way more defiant than scared.
Out of my body or not, I still feel it when he slits my throat.
RUBY SLIPPERS
The hush of the night. Our house crowned in darkness. And I’m awake again, my breath fast, almost sure that I heard something moving. A soft step near my door.
Everett’s been having trouble sleeping and maybe it’s him, just heading to the kitchen for something to eat. I roll over, trying to make it sound like the unconscious way I’d roll in my sleep, and check to see if there’s any light fanning under my door. Because wouldn’t Everett turn on a light to eat?
Nothing, just blackness. And the sound comes again, slow and stealthy: definitely someone trying not to be heard. Last time I got freaked like this it turned out that I was being paranoid and it was only Everett staring into space, not a stranger in the house at all, but my heart is still racing whispery-quick and I reach out silently for my phone on the nightstand. Just in case.
My doorknob starts turning. A tiny rattle in the latch. I punch in 911, my thumb ready to
hit send, and then the door swings open and I see a vague dark lump standing in the gap.
“Ever?” It’s shaped like him, more or less, only maybe a little straighter and with a more assertive line to the shoulders. But there’s no answer and my voice shoots higher. “Everett? Is that—”
“Softly now, Ruby Slippers,” says a voice—and it is not Everett’s. “Hush, my sweet Ru. There’s nothing here for you to be afraid of.”
And then I’ve dropped the phone with a crack and I’m half-leaping and half-stumbling across the room. Because I walked across the threshold of Paige’s prissy, pretentious apartment this afternoon, and somehow by doing that I slipped out of ordinary reality and into a zone where anything could be true. Because I’ve known he was so close, just on the inside of each breath that curled out of me, or helping to cast my shadow from underneath the street, with a buried sun behind him. Because I’ve heard him, murmuring in the darkness.
“Dashiell!”
And he’s already squeezing me tight, both arms locked around me and his hands wandering in my hair.
But everything is wrong. The body I’m holding is too plump, not roped in taut muscles the way Dashiell’s was, not tall enough—
Not him.
He feels me trying to pull away and clamps down. “It’s truly me, Ruby-Ru. One difficulty with dying is that I don’t have the use of my proper body anymore, so I’ve had to take out a loan. It was the only way I could see you.” He reaches to turn on a nearby lamp, and after a moment—I can’t think, I can’t breathe—I stop trying to break free.
Because it’s Everett after all. Except that it’s not. It’s Everett if you pulled him through some dream-liquid made of Dashiell and brought him up dripping, if Dashiell was darting inside him like a thousand sparks. Whatever it is, it’s tugging me closer again and brushing kisses all over the side of my face.
“Everett?” I try.
The arms let me go. “Oh, pah. I’m gone for two months, only two, and has my sweet Ru dumped out the last dregs of her imagination since then? Truly, Miss Slippers? You can mistake me for Everett now? A lady of slipping and sliding should understand that other people can sometimes do it too, whatever appearance might meet her eyes.” He sounds annoyed—whoever he is—but then he smiles. Everett’s soft mouth, but the curl of it is ironic and sweet and insolent all at once.
And God, how deeply I know that smile. “Dash-Dot-Dot. Excuse me. I know you. I knew—I was sure you were close. You—” It’s one of those things that’s almost impossible to say, but we’ve established tonight that impossibility is something to flick aside like a fly. “You’re borrowing Everett’s body. But it’s you.”
I sensed him close by, but that he might be inside Everett—that never would have occurred to me. He grins so impishly, though, that I have to believe it, believe and believe all over again.
“And are you happy to see me, Ruby-Ru? Even if it’s not the face you were used to? I’m sorry to say that face is long gone—it suited me admirably—but you can see that I’m not.”
And then I hug him again, because Dashiell has to know—he has to feel—how desperately we all want him home. “It felt like half the world was gone, Dash. Without you. And I’ve dreamed and dreamed about you.” He’s stroking my hair again, very softly. “But Everett—I mean—does he know that you—”
I don’t know how to finish the question. We’re closed together in this tiny bubble of light and the night outside just keeps getting bigger. And I can’t get used to seeing Everett’s face this way, stretched somehow; it’s still his but also transformed, tense and confident.
“Everett knows perfectly,” Dashiell says. “I’m slinging this carcass around with his full consent and approval. That said, though, he would be very upset if he found out I was using it to talk to you, Miss Slippers. So don’t tell him, please. He doesn’t want you to know I’m here at all.”
“But why not?” I’m still trying to understand—though maybe this explains a lot about how strangely Everett’s been acting. “Why shouldn’t I know? This is the most important thing that’s happened ever. Oh, I heard you talking to Everett the other night! I heard you. I couldn’t make out what you were saying, though. And then he said he hadn’t been talking to anyone. He said I’d dreamed it.”
“Hush, Ru-Ru,” Dash says. “Softly. Everything is fine. I’m here with you. And Never-Ever is striving to protect you. After recent events, he’s understandably concerned about your state of mind. He thinks that knowing I’m here—when any reasonable person would expect me to have been snuffed out like a candle—Never’s convinced that the knowledge would overwhelm you. He thinks you’d be permanently unhinged by the discovery.”
“So he can handle knowing, and I can’t?” The question comes out like a whip and Dashiell runs a finger over my cheek, soothing me. “Since when does Ever get to decide what I’m capable of dealing with? He’s twelve minutes older than me!”
“Ru-Ru. You know why. Everett is acting out of love for you. Try to respect that.”
Dashiell’s been back with me for just a few moments and he’s already reproaching me, and he’s already taking Everett’s side. I feel like breaking down sobbing. Then it hits me.
“I know why? Dash—I mean—did Everett tell you?” The river wrapping my feet in running silver, Manhattan fading into gray, and my bag dragging me sideways with the weight of those stones.
“He didn’t need to tell me anything, Miss Slippers. I was there. I was watching you through it all. Unfortunately there wasn’t much I could do to stop things from getting out of hand—and you would have found it so deeply unsettling if I had stepped in that it likely would have made the situation even worse. I certainly would have tried my best, though, if Never-Ever hadn’t been there to look after you.”
“You were there?” I say. Dashiell was never the guardian angel type, but maybe death changes you in unpredictable ways. “Dash—watching me? Where were you?” I don’t want him to see it, but I’ve started crying.
“Shh, Miss Slippers. I was with you. That’s what matters.”
“And, Dash? Do you believe I love you now? I can say it, and you won’t tell me I’m being mawkish or maudlin, or I’ve had too much hot fudge?”
That makes him laugh—his laugh. Even out of death and oblivion and infinite unraveling space, it’s his and no one else’s. “It’s a school night, sweet Ru. Go to sleep. I’ll be upstairs, and in the morning Everett will be back. Just don’t mention that you saw me. It will only make him worry about you.”
I usually can’t stand people telling me what to do. But this is Dashiell, or his spirit anyway, returned to me by a piercing, glorious miracle. It’s like my dreams, but so much better and sweeter. He can boss me around if he wants to.
“I won’t tell him,” I say. “But Dash? You do believe me?” I almost say, Paige said you always knew, but I don’t want to remind him of her. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
“I believe you, Ruby-Ru.” He smiles and kisses me gently on the forehead, just the way he always did. “Dying has proved to be an illuminating experience, Ru. It’s enhanced my understanding of quite a few things. And of you, most especially.”
NEVER-EVER
Well, there’s one thing Dash wasn’t lying about. He said I’d feel as strong as ever, and I do. I get out of bed and shower, feeling almost too energized and quick and definite to fit in an ordinary human body. I’m walking differently without trying—bigger strides. A little swing to them. Then I get it: I’m swaggering and it doesn’t feel phony or pathetic at all. I stare at myself in the mirror. I look taller and firmer, and my head tips back just a touch without me telling it to, and my shoulders have this slinky lean to them. All my normal clothes seem too schlubby, and I reach into a box on the floor of my closet and pull out this black cashmere thermal sweater that he left here one time—gaping moth holes around the neck, but that just makes it look cooler. I tug it on, and for about ten seconds I feel completely awesome about it, like I’m thi
s smoking-hot badass dragon-slaying machine. And then I realize what I’m doing.
To hell with his clothes. I’m sure he’d love for me to wear his sweater, but I won’t do it. In fact, I’ll wear the sloppiest, dorkiest T-shirt I own: one that’s way too big. With an anthropomorphic hot dog. Screw you, Dashiell.
If somebody slits your throat at night, you are under no obligation whatsoever to be nice about it in the morning.
I can’t shake him that easily, though. I gallop down the stairs like my body has a spanking-new, gorgeously oiled robot inside it. And when I get to the kitchen both my dad and Ruby stare.
“Growth spurt,” Dad decides after a moment. “You might get my side of the family’s height after all, Everett.” He’s still looking me over, confused. I can see him decide not to say, You’re starting to look like your brother. The whole thing is way too awkward, so I make myself cereal. It gives me an excuse to turn my back on him.
“You look good, Ever,” Ruby says behind me. It sounds a little condescending and I don’t answer. In fact, I basically feel like ignoring her completely.
And at school the magic continues: girls who have always treated me like a rock—like I momentarily count if they happen to stub their toes on me—are suddenly gazing at me with perplexed expressions, as if they’re at a total loss to understand how I could seem interesting. Kids smarter than me ask my opinion. My English teacher says I’m insightful. Maybe I shouldn’t like it—I’m not so clueless that I can’t figure out this must be the positive reinforcement Dashiell was talking about—but I really do. I can talk to anyone without feeling like I’m a glob of amorphous slime, intruding on their field of vision. And when I make a joke, Elena Shawn—who is punkishly cool and beautiful, both, with bright blue highlights—cracks up and leans against me while she laughs. Then she lifts her head and whispers in my ear.