The cold air feels good when I open the patio door. She’s awake when I walk inside, her hair in damp braids. An easy smile rests on her face.
Until she notices my expression, which must be a mix of anxiety and self-loathing. Suddenly, her grin vanishes.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
“Back to the library?”
“No, not that. I mean, we can go there, but after school hours if that’s okay.”
“Because you’re supposed to be at school,” she says softly, remembering.
I nod, and the quiet between us turns heavy.
“Where do you want to go?” she asks.
She looks up at me with bright eyes, and I feel a buzzing under my skin. A thousand what-ifs are crowding my mouth in languages I don’t even know. What if this was her house? What if I was the runaway, sleeping in the pool house?
The tumble of possible answers is suffocating, so I offer another question. “Have you ever been climbing?”
She shrugs. “I mean, trees and fences, but other than that? No.”
“Are you afraid of heights? Or not into that kind of thing? No, don’t answer that. Do you want to? Go climbing, I mean. Would you want to try it? Yeah, answer that one.”
“Which one? There were like fifteen questions there.”
I laugh. “Do you want to go climbing with me?”
Her smile is a flash fire, bright, but brief.
“I don’t really have anything to wear for that.”
I bite my lip. “I might have an idea. But I’m going to need you to deal with one of my weird friends for like ten minutes.”
“Okay.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah,” she says, taking my hand. “Just like that.”
I check around before we walk next door. This time when Mallory hesitates at the property edge, I get it. Though it doesn’t have the instant curb pizzazz our house has, even around here, the house next to ours is imposing. Three stories, a four-car garage, and—I kid you not—a garden complete with a hedge maze and fountain out back.
Mallory is tense, but true to her word, she doesn’t bolt when I ring the doorbell. After my second ring, I hear footsteps thunder down the inside stairs.
The door swings open to reveal Ava, wearing a pair of her brother Tate’s Carnegie Mellon sweatpants and a giant T-shirt. Her hair is piled in a heap on top of her head, and she stares daggers at me, until she notices Mallory behind my shoulder. Her whole face softens, but I don’t miss the interest in her eyes.
“Hey,” she says to me, and then to Mallory. “Hey, again.”
Mallory takes a breath, so I think she’s recognized her, but she looks at me, not Ava when she speaks. “Does no one in Fairview go to school?”
I shrug. “Ava’s an art prodigy who doesn’t need our little mortal school full-time.”
Ava waves that away and leans in, closer to Mallory. “Some clarification here. First, I’m not a prodigy; second, I do go to school; and third, Spencer doesn’t know what mortal means.”
Mallory’s laugh makes Ava smile. “I go down to the art college twice a week,” she explains, “which means I get to sleep in those days. Usually.”
“What would you do if I wasn’t here to wake you in time to enjoy this beautiful morning?” I gesture at the flat gray sky and naked trees.
“I’d sleep. Come in. It’s cold out here.”
Mallory follows me inside. Ava’s house is different than mine, and not only because it has an entire extra story. It’s enormous and old, and unlike most Fairview houses, this one hasn’t been renovated from the ground up. Ava’s house doesn’t boast modern walls of windows and open living spaces. It feels more like an undiscovered tomb. Dozens of paintings crowd the narrow halls. Inside the rooms, china cabinets stand shoulder to shoulder, cluttered with trinkets and dishes and crystal goblets, most more dusty than pretty.
We’ve been neighbors our entire lives, so I don’t think about it much anymore. Having Mallory here makes it hard not to imagine how it appears to her.
Ava leads us down a long, dark hallway, past a stuffy office, and into the family room in the back. Even with the generous number of windows overlooking the lawn, the room is murky. Sagging leather couches offer seats beneath shelves lined with probably priceless vases. Ava flops onto the nearest couch and gestures at the coffee table. I spot a scattering of nail polish bottles and a white box of pastries.
“Want a cannoli? Dad just got back from Sicily.”
I can see that Mallory is too uncomfortable to willingly reach for a cannoli in here, but we didn’t have breakfast, so I take one and tear it in half, handing her the larger portion.
“It’s good,” I say around a bite.
Ava shrugs. “So what’s up? I doubt you smelled the cannoli from your house.”
“I was hoping I could borrow Tate’s extra climbing harness. And maybe some pants?”
She laughs. “You having a pants shortage next door?”
Mallory tenses and I realize I didn’t think this through. One instant after that, her cheeks go red, and my neck burns. Terrific. Now Ava is thinking the same thing Allison was yesterday. I’ve got my foot so far in my mouth, I’m digesting shoelaces, but maybe if I explain—
“Oh,” Ava says softly, because she’s sharper than she looks. And sweeter. “Shit, guys, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry.”
“It’s not like…” Mallory’s voice is small, and she stops herself. Naturally. She can’t say what it is like, so where is she going to go?
Ava shakes her head. “No worries. Really. I should’ve figured it out. Or kept my mouth shut.”
Mallory is still flushed, and I’m not helping. My mouth is opening and closing without a single helpful thing coming out. Ava stands and shoves between us with a laugh, taking Mallory’s arm and glaring at me.
“God, Spencer, of all the times for you to lose your ability to bring the funny.” Then to Mallory. “Come on. I’m pretty sure my stuff will fit you.”
Mallory hesitates, but Ava tugs her gently along. “Eh, the awkward is already out there. Let’s get those pants. But promise not to judge me because my room is out of control.”
They disappear, leaving me surrounded by crowded walls and a giant box of pastries. I take another cannoli and follow them up the wide stairs, heading right at the top toward Tate’s room, which is every bit as spartan and immaculate as the rest of this house is cluttered.
Tate was in Allison’s year. He hung around one summer due to a short-lived crush on my sister. Our friendship, however, lasted. We never played the same sports, and since we weren’t in the same grade, there was zero competition. But we walked to the pool in the summer, held snowball fights in the winter, and both learned to climb after my freshman year.
Well, technically, I learned in Utah, and after Mom found out I was practicing without equipment on the forty-foot outdoor climbing wall downtown, she enrolled me in classes. Tate tagged along. He picked it up even faster than me and was always up for a climbing adventure. Until he headed off to college, met Maggie, and promptly fell ass over elbows for her.
Tate’s baseball trophies line the south wall, but I head for the closet, hoping to God he kept Maggie’s harness. I never got the impression that she was too serious about climbing. It seemed like she did it to make him smile.
I find her harness next to his, carefully stored with extra rope and carabiners. No women’s climbing shoes, but climbing barefoot is fine for your first time.
I follow the sound of Ava’s voice to her bedroom. Mallory is perched on the edge of her bed like she’s been directed to sit there—and is miserable about it. Ava’s oblivious, standing in a heap of clothes by her closet. Four of five pairs of stretchy pants lay over her left arm. A stack of bags from Saks and Nordstrom ar
e crumpled between the door and the dresser.
“Most of these are black or gray, but I’ve got this pink pair if I can find them.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mallory says. “Really.”
“Oh, wait, I might have a white pair.”
“Black is fine,” Mallory says. She catches my eye in the doorway. Her expression conveys both terror and amusement.
“Maybe you should try them all,” Ava says, frowning as she peers into a Nordstrom bag on the floor.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Mallory says. “I’ll take a black pair. Your least favorite.”
Ava scoffs and throws her some pants. “You are terrible at borrowing clothes. And by borrowing, I mean taking, because I clearly have a black pants surplus.”
“This is Ava’s end of the world plan.” I gesture at the stuffed closet. “If she dies in a zombie plague or gets hit by a meteor, she’ll be well-dressed doing it.”
“And you’ll be giving a stand-up routine,” Ava says.
I laugh, but Mallory doesn’t. She watches me until I feel like a puzzle she’s piecing together. More power to her. I have no idea what’s up with me, but maybe she can figure it out.
Ava flops onto her mattress with a whump, and Mallory bounces at the foot of the bed.
“So, what the hell is up at the library?” Ava asks.
Mallory stands so abruptly I clear my throat and kick at the edge of Ava’s door to cover her sudden burst of motion.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Mom’s on the board,” she says with a shrug. “They’ve had like a thousand meetings since that lady overdosed. So sad.”
I nod. “I barely saw her, but she seemed young.”
“Shut up.” Ava sits up. “You were there when the lady died?”
“I was there when they found her.”
“Sorry, Mallory,” Ava says. “Do you know about this?”
“A little,” she says, voice surprisingly steady. “Just what Spencer’s told me. But I thought it was a little while ago.”
“Well, the weird keeps coming. Mom told Dad they found all this writing on the walls inside the library.”
“Where are you?” I say, nodding. “I saw it.”
“They tried to run fingerprints, but so far, no matches.”
“What do they think it’s about?” Mallory asks.
“I mean, Dad was going on and on about how they need to do something about security there. Because you know, the lady was a Jane Doe. They think she was homeless. They think she might have been trying to stay there. In the library.”
I scoff because I don’t know what else to do, but Mallory is pale. Shaking. I need to get us out of here.
Ava puts up her hands. “Dad’s paranoid. He thinks maybe it’s some druggie friend of hers, coming back to the library. Like there’s a whole colony of squatters.”
“Most of the writing was written on the inside of a locked supply room.” I pluck a glittery hat off a peg on Ava’s wall and prop it on my head. She laughs, and I use a cartoon duck voice. “I don’t think squatters are generally experts at picking locks without a trace.”
Mallory is pale, her eyes glassy. I stay in duck voice, to cover her sudden change. “What does your mom think?”
Ava bites her lip, and her eyes gleam. “Mom likes the little girl’s ghost theory. You know, old building. All that history. And now a dead woman? What if she wasn’t ready to leave this world?”
I pull the hat off my head and toss it at her, Frisbee style. “Maybe she should suggest a séance at the next board meeting.”
Ava’s still laughing about that when we leave. The door closes behind us, and Mallory’s hand curls over my arm. Her fingers are cold and damp. Clammy.
I don’t chance saying anything until we’re back in my yard, almost to the driveway.
“You ready to get out of here?”
She lets out a shaky laugh. “Beyond ready.”
Mallory
Monday, November 20, 9:08 a.m.
I have never seen anything like this room. It didn’t look like much from the outside, a boxy gray building nestled in an industrial area on the northwest side of Columbus. I halfway suspected Spencer had taken a wrong turn until he pulled into a parking spot. A small sign on the door read:
ASCENSION
BRINGING YOU TO NEW HEIGHTS
Now I’m standing in a small carpeted waiting room with large picture windows overlooking the climbing area. It’s taller than I expected. I was thinking of the climbing walls you see at playgrounds or the sporting goods store, but this is a whole other animal. Blue padded walls run from floor to ceiling, angling this way and that, covered in irregular colorful knobs. A few climbers are in various states of ascent, each latched to a rope, each clinging to the wall in awkward poses, feet arched or flexed, knees bent and arms splayed. They all look up, eyes fixed on the goal.
“Mallory?” Spencer nudges me gently with the clipboard. I spot the form and open my mouth to protest, but he lifts a hand. “Just a signature and a date. I told him we’ve been climbing before.”
“Then what is this?”
“A release form.”
I spot the two signature sections, one for an adult, one for parental signature for anyone under eighteen. Alarm plucks at the base of my skull, but the guy behind the counter isn’t paying attention. He’s on his phone, headphones in, and lost in his own world. I sign my name on the adult line. It doesn’t even feel like a lie.
Inside, Spencer explains all the basics while he steps into a strappy contraption and puts on a pair of special shoes. The harness is the main thing, he tells me. It appears to be an ugly belt with miniature belts for each thigh. After his is adjusted, he holds up a slightly smaller version.
“So you might need to adjust it, but it’s a woman’s harness.”
“Okay.”
“This one’s for you to wear.”
“Right. I got that,” I say, still not touching anything.
Finally, I take it and try to put it on, following his instructions. Ridiculous is the only word that fits. It’s like putting on a diaper made out of furniture straps. We’re both laughing by the time I get the straps adjusted, but then Spencer frowns at me. “Check the waist. It needs to be above your hips. Cinch it in.”
“What?”
“The belt part. That’s what keeps you from falling to your death if you flip upside down.”
“Super comforting.” I fiddle with the plastic adjuster, but somehow make it looser. “Which part do I push through?”
“The top one.”
The black strap wraps in and out, and it shouldn’t be this hard, but I’m lost. “Help?”
Spencer grabs the belt, and I suck in a breath while he loops straps quickly and efficiently. He hooks his thumbs in two loops in front of each of my hip bones, tugging them hard enough to make me stumble.
And of course, I stumble closer.
He pauses. It’s not really a moment, but he could use it if he wanted. I think he knows it too. Even with his dark complexion I can see the flush in his cheeks. I want to—I don’t know. Run. Kick him. Pull him closer. We spring apart awkwardly.
The gym is incredibly quiet. Part of that is the padded floor, but part of it is silent embarrassment that makes me painfully aware of the few sounds surrounding me. Two climbers are softly conversing at the far end of our wall. The auto-belay, I think that’s what Spencer said it was, whirs softly as a climber on the opposite wall drops to the ground. But we are quiet. We stand, fidgeting, looking at everything and anything but each other. Finally, he laughs.
“Should we talk about—”
My face turns hot in a rush. “Uh, can we please, please not?”
“Of course. Do you want to start?”
The wall stretches above me, a blue behemoth with misshapen k
nobs. Spencer said forty feet, but there’s no way—it’s more like a hundred feet. Maybe a thousand.
“You should go first,” I say.
First, he starts in about the belay system and ropes and how certain loops and knots work, and I’m lost by the time he’s on the second sentence. Thankfully, when he explains the auto-belay system, I nod in enough of the right places for him to move on.
“Okay,” he says. “Climbing. The super basics.” He dips his hand into a small black pouch at his back. His hand comes out chalky, but he ignores it, staring up at the wall, head tilted and eyes shifting.
He’s like a different person. His smile fades, and his shoulders roll back. It’s the way I’d imagine a surgeon steps into the operating room. Or a pilot takes off. He stares at the wall, and his hands twitch at his sides, pinching and turning. I think he’s rehearsing.
In his mind, he’s already climbing.
When he begins, he doesn’t say a word. I’ve never really seen anyone do this, and it’s not what I initially believed. It’s slow and quiet. When he’s not moving, his back isn’t to me the whole time like I thought it would be. His body swings to the left or the right, like a door on a hinge.
He isn’t all bent knees and elbows either. His arms stay straight, stretched high above him, and his body is low into his knees, one hip always snug against the wall. When he moves, he swings his body to the opposite side, arms flexing and feet and hands repositioning. Sometimes it’s wicked fast, like a jump. Other times it’s a steady push. The whole thing is an intricate dance, and I’m mesmerized.
When he reaches the top, he taps his forehead once against the wall. Then he pushes out from the wall, his limbs loose as he descends on the auto-belay. He smiles at me on his way down, and it’s like no other smile I’ve ever seen. It hits me square in the chest and leaves me half sick with a feeling I haven’t had since sixth grade.
It’s a crush. Maybe more than a crush. A feeling so big I can’t fit it in my chest, so it spills out everywhere, filling all the spaces in me.
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