Light as a Feather

by Zoe Aarsen

  Taking me completely by surprise, Trey surfaced in the parking lot around one o’clock when the afternoon shift was beginning.

  “Hey!” I exclaimed. “You’re not even a junior.”

  He pecked me on the cheek and clarified, “Oh, I’m not here to work. Just to flirt with girls.”

  I blushed and reached out to hold his fingers. With the exception of me, I had never witnessed Trey flirting with any girls before.

  “Your mom went into your room after she got back from dropping you off,” he told me in a low voice, taking a step closer to me.

  “Oh God, did she see you in there?”

  “No, of course not, but she was going through your stuff,” he continued, and waited for my reaction.

  At first I was furious—who wouldn’t be?—but then I remembered our conversation the previous morning, and realized she was probably being a diligent mom, making sure I wasn’t hiding drugs in my room. I quickly tried to think through the inventory of stuff in my room to make sure there wasn’t anything in there that might spark concerns. The Ouija board was hidden in plain sight in the Emorys’ basement on their shelf of mildewing board games. I had never kept a diary at any point in my life, and since Trey usually crept through the window already in his pajamas, he had never accidentally left any possessions behind before returning home.

  I sighed. “I guess there’s not much I can do about that. I’m giving her plenty of reasons to be worried about me.”

  “That’s not the part that’s weird,” Trey said. “She left the door open when she left, and Maude came in. This freaked me out so much: The dog sat down and just stared up at the ceiling, blinking and watching. She knows something’s in there.”

  This chilled me; I so desperately wanted Maude to remain safe from the spirits trying to interact with me. “Was she barking?”

  “Not at all,” Trey said. “She just sat there, like she was watching TV. She barely even noticed when I left.”

  Mischa arrived not long after Trey bought an ice-cream cone and walked home. She was dropped off by Amanda, almost half an hour late for her shift, and walked across the parking lot directly toward me, ignoring everyone else. “I’m here,” she announced. “But please, please don’t make me talk to her.” She gave Violet an evil sideward glance across the lot, where Violet was grinning and having the time of her life talking with Jeff and Tony about their morning of lawn work.

  I tasked Melissa with taking over my duties with Tracy at the card table, prepared to take the next job that came in and put in some manual labor personally. Mischa and I both watched in agony, our conversation abruptly ending, as we noticed Pete’s car enter the parking lot. As expected, he climbed out of the car and shyly approached Violet, placing one hand lightly on her shoulder and kissing her suspiciously close to her mouth.

  “Unbelievable!” Mischa muttered, tightening her grip on the handle of her rake. “So she really is after him. She even looks different than she did back when she first moved here. I remember on the first day of school thinking she was kind of shy and could work it a little more. She’s wearing different clothes now, and more makeup.”

  I had noticed that too. Maybe before Olivia’s death, Violet had been holding back a bit, not wanting to overthrow the queen. But now that the queen was out of the way, she wasn’t the least bit shy anymore about batting her long eyelashes and making it abundantly clear that she was the cutest girl at Willow High School.

  Pete’s flirtatious interaction with Violet wasn’t the only surprise of the afternoon. The very next car to pull into the lot was a black Mercedes driven by none other than Mr. Richmond. Olivia and Henry’s dad was classically handsome, and he whipped off his aviator sunglasses in a smooth, practiced move as he stepped out of his car. He smiled directly at me and Mischa where we lingered near the card table, looking like a catalog model with his cleft chin and broad shoulders, wearing a classic navy cable-knit sweater and khakis.

  “Can you girls tell me where a fellow can get some help with yard work around here?” he asked us in a deep, playful voice that made me wish my own dad were more like him and less like a beach bum having a severe midlife crisis, teaching two classes a week when he wasn’t repainting his boat.

  “You came to the right place,” Mischa said in her special, perky voice reserved for parents.

  Since Mischa and I had already committed to taking on the next task that came in, we climbed into Mr. Richmond’s back seat and made small talk about school all the way to the Richmonds’ house. Mischa had been close friends with Olivia far longer than I had, and Mr. Richmond asked her a litany of questions about her parents, her sister, and far-off plans for college. My mouth twisted into a frown when I saw Henry’s pickup truck parked in the driveway. We hadn’t been in contact since the wake, but I’d heard he’d dropped out of school to spend the semester in Willow with his parents. Naturally, the Richmonds had a perfectly landscaped front lawn, so the most we could do to earn our wages for two hours was rake the leaves that had fallen from the trees near the curb, and weed in between the bushes and fluffy goldenrod planted around the perimeter of the house. My heart was heavy as I pulled weeds near the ground-level window on the side of the house through which Pete had kissed Olivia on the night of her birthday. I fought the urge to peer through the hazy window to the Richmonds’ basement, not wanting to see the location where we had played Violet’s game and relive those moments in my head.

  Inside the Richmonds’ home, I was overcome with emotion simply from the familiar potpourri smell in their front hallway. Even though Mr. Richmond had just welcomed me into the house moments earlier, I still felt like a sneaky intruder, trying to be as quiet as possible, cringing at the sound of my own footsteps. Just as I was about to reach for the light switch in the bathroom on the first floor, I wasn’t sure what inspired me, but I felt a sudden and irresistible urge to sprint up the stairs to the second floor and use the bathroom adjoined to Olivia’s room. The house seemed silent and empty, and although Henry’s car was parked in the driveway, I thought it might be possible that he had gone somewhere with his mother. Once the notion of going into Olivia’s room entered my head, I couldn’t shake it. It was as if I was magnetically being drawn to that corner of the house. After standing in the bathroom in a state of suspended animation for at least thirty seconds, I finally spun on my heel and darted upstairs, my heart pounding.

  I was surprised to find the door to Olivia’s bedroom wide open. Late-afternoon sunlight flooded the room through the windows, and I marveled at how unchanged it looked since the last time I was there. Olivia’s white comforter was still spread across her queen-size bed. Her stuffed Gund teddy bears still flanked her pillows like guards. A bottle of amber-hued perfume waited patiently on her dresser, and I impulsively lifted the heavy glass bottle to my nose. Pictures of Olivia, Mischa, and Candace were tucked into the wooden frame around the mirror attached to Olivia’s dresser. In one picture, Olivia smiled brightly in Pete’s arms, and I realized it was a photograph taken at homecoming the previous year. The piles of clothes that had been on the floor the night of Olivia’s birthday had been put away, and a stuffed unicorn, the kind that could be won by throwing darts at balloons at Winnebago Days, was set on the white wicker rocking chair in the corner. Standing in the center of the room, it seemed as if Olivia was simply not home instead of not alive, as if she could walk through the door at any second and ask what I thought I was doing in her room.

  Ignoring my bladder, I dared to open Olivia’s closet to peek inside, and saw the eggshell-colored strapless dress that Olivia had bought at Tart hanging in clear plastic wrap on the rack, singled out from the other, familiar clothes as if no one had altered anything in Olivia’s closet since the morning of the big game. I thought of Maude at my own house, staring up at the ceiling, and realized why it felt like Olivia might catch me red-handed in her room any second. Because it was very likely that her spirit knew exactly where I was.

  “What am I supposed to do next, O
livia?” I asked aloud, quietly, looking around her bedroom. “I don’t know how to prevent Candace from going on the trip with her dad. You have to give me some kind of sign.”

  I used the bathroom quickly, not even bothering to turn on the light. When I turned on the faucet to wash my hands, I observed that the squirt bottle of liquid lemon-scented soap that used to be in there had been replaced by a crystal dish of white soaps shaped like hearts. Then, the conundrum: Wash my hands with a brand-new, unused novelty soap and leave evidence that I’d been in Olivia’s room, or simply not wash my hands? After two hours of raking leaves and digging through dirt, I genuinely wanted to wash up. On an impulse, I washed my hands quickly with one of the creamy little white hearts, and then, feeling like a criminal, I wrapped the remainder of the soap in a tissue and stuck it in the pocket of my jeans. I bolted down the stairs, really not wanting any of the Richmonds to catch me snooping in Olivia’s room. Outside, Mr. Richmond already had the engine running, ready to drive us back to the shopping center.

  CHAPTER 14

  LATER THAT NIGHT, AFTER VIOLET declared the day a success (twenty-two juniors had raised their funds for the ski trip, and the weatherman’s prediction that it might rain in the late afternoon had not come true), I accepted a ride home with Amanda and Mischa. “I’ve been thinking,” Mischa announced, “about what you started telling me last Saturday. If you’ve been able to make a connection with Olivia, then I want to talk to her too.”

  I thought of the Ouija board in Trey’s basement and decided it might not be a terrible idea to let her try. After all, Olivia had been better friends with Mischa than she had been with me. Perhaps she’d be able to give Mischa clearer directions, although I couldn’t help but wonder, if that was the case, why Olivia had been lurking in my bedroom instead of taking up ghostly residence at the Portnoys’ house. “Can Trey and I come over tomorrow night? I have to work the rake sale all day, but we’ll be done by five.”

  On Sunday evening, Trey and I walked across town to the Portnoys’ in the dark rain carrying the board, in its box, tucked into a shopping bag. He rolled his eyes dramatically while I spoke with the guard at the station who stood watch over the entrance to the Portnoys’ gated community.

  “We’re here to visit the Portnoy residence,” I announced. “I’m McKenna Brady.” The guard nodded and phoned the Portnoys to confirm that we were expected guests.

  “What are these gates supposed to be keeping out?” Trey mused aloud. “People who don’t live here, like us?”

  I smirked, understanding his point, but not wanting to alarm the guard. There was relatively little crime in Willow, so the entire purpose of a gated community was lost. The gate served to represent a barrier between the wealthy on the inside and the less wealthy on the outside, as sort of a physical reminder to the rest of the town that we live here, and you don’t.

  The guard waved us through and we entered the community on foot, walking another two blocks past sprawling mansions with manicured lawns until we reached the brick home in which the Portnoys lived. Mischa met us at the front door, eating ice cream directly out of the gallon carton, causing me to experience a strong pang of resentment toward her for having such a tiny frame. “Let’s go up to my room,” she suggested. “My parents are out.”

  We climbed up to the second floor, and walked past Amanda’s room toward the end of the hall. Mischa’s room was decorated entirely in shades of purple, with lavender carpeting and a rich violet velvet comforter on the bed.

  “Have you guys used this thing before?” she asked skeptically as we sat down on the floor and Trey opened the board.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “Only once, to try to contact whatever was creating such a commotion at my house. We are pretty sure it was Olivia who responded to us.”

  Mischa made a grunt that suggested she was satisfied with my answer. It was still early, not even dinnertime yet, but already night outside due to the early setting of the sun, a sign that winter was fast approaching. “Should we turn off the lights or something?” Mischa asked.

  Trey nodded. Mischa plopped down in between us after flipping off the light switch on her wall, and the three of us set the tips of our index fingers on the planchette. “Is this going to be scary? Should I, like, go to the bathroom first?” Mischa asked in all seriousness.

  “You should announce that we’re looking for Olivia. Just also say, Only kind spirits are welcome here,” Trey instructed Mischa, irritation with her frivolity audible in his voice. He was being patient and cordial for my benefit only.

  “Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath and repeating after him. The three of us sat on our knees in breathless silence for nearly a minute, our fingers resting on the immobile planchette, waiting to be spooked by sudden movement. But everything about the setting felt wrong. It was too busy with the noises and energy of life: The heat coming through the vents was audible; a dog barked down the street.

  “I don’t think anything’s happening,” I announced. “Maybe you should try, Trey.”

  I could tell that Trey suspected the same thing I did—the Portnoys’ house was just not the right place to summon a spirit—but he indulged us and in a firm voice said, “We request to speak with the spirit of Olivia Richmond. We only welcome kind, well-intentioned spirits.”

  We waited another minute, and Mischa’s patience expired. She leaned back on her heels and crossed her arms over her chest. “This is totally unfair and ridiculous. I don’t even believe you guys that you spoke with Olivia before. And that is really messed up, if you’d lie to me.”

  Trey ran his hands through his hair, and the annoyance that I had sensed bubbling in him since we were at the guard station finally boiled to the surface. “We did communicate with Olivia, but to make this work, everyone has to be very—”

  Unexpectedly, with my finger remaining alone on the planchette, it began darting across the board. Trey and Mischa both fell silent immediately, watching my hand jerk from one corner of the board to another. The sudden movement took me by surprise too, but even when I attempted to pull my hand back, I couldn’t. My finger felt affixed to the planchette, a slave to its will.

  “What’s happening?” Mischa asked in a terrified voice. “Is this a joke?”

  “No! I can’t lift my hand!” I exclaimed. The fear in my voice convinced her that I was not fooling around. The planchette came to rest pointing at the letter S. “Do you see that, Trey? S.”

  Mischa reached forward in an attempt to place her finger back on the planchette, and Trey grabbed her arm to stop her. “Don’t,” he warned.

  It jerked my fingers after a moment toward the letter T.

  Then O.

  It came to rest on the letter P.

  Mischa pressed her hands over her mouth in surprise, and her eyes were enormous.

  “Stop what?” Mischa gasped. I felt her fingernails digging into my right shoulder. “Stop playing with this board? Stop Candace from going to Hawaii? Stop trying to reach Olivia? Stop messing with Violet?”

  But the planchette didn’t specify. It dragged my finger as we watched in silence to the N, the O, and then, finally, the W.

  “What’s it doing? What does it mean? Stop what now?” Mischa shrieked.

  “Is this Olivia? Are we talking with Olivia?” I asked the board desperately.

  The planchette came to rest alarmingly at NO.

  I swallowed hard, bracing myself for the answer I next expected. “Are we speaking with Jennie?” The planchette circled lazily around the board for a painfully long time before resting once again at NO. I was more afraid than I was disappointed that we hadn’t reached my sister. Twice now we’d tried to reach her, and twice we’d failed.

  Mischa inquired, “Who else could it be?”

  “Who are you?” Trey demanded.

  The planchette inched over a few centimeters to the illustration of the moon in the top right corner of the board, and then stopped moving. “The moon?” I asked. “What is that supposed to mean?” />
  During a long, dramatic pause, the planchette remained still, and I wondered if the spirit had left us without saying good-bye. But then I sensed it vibrating beneath my fingertips, seeming to gather energy as if it were a car revving its engine. I was relieved to discover that I could lift my fingers and did so, intending to break the connection. “I’m not sure what’s happening,” I told Trey and Mischa. “It’s doing something.”

  The plastic heart-shaped pointer began revolving on its own, gaining speed until it looked like a spinning wheel going so fast that its shape blurred.

  Trey muttered, “Uh oh.”

  “Has it done that before?” Mischa asked.

  Before either of us could answer, the planchette rocketed off the board and hurled itself directly at Mischa. Its pointed end hit her in the throat and tumbled down to the floor as Trey and I watched in terror. Her hands flew to her neck, and her eyes shot wide open in surprise until she realized she wasn’t hurt. Although it had hit her pretty hard, the planchette hadn’t even left a mark on her skin.

  Then she whispered, “Guys? I don’t want to play anymore.”

  * * *

  An hour later, after we had boxed up the Ouija board, Mischa was fuming that only I had been able to make any kind of a connection with a spirit.

  “It’s not fair! We were all trying. What makes you so special that they only want to talk to you?”

  I didn’t have a response for her. It didn’t comfort me much that the spirit world had chosen me as the lucky recipient of its messages that night. Especially because whoever had contacted us had not been Olivia, which meant that there were other spirits involved who, one way or another, knew about me even though I had no clue about the significance of the moon they had tried to suggest. “Maybe because of, you know . . .” Mischa frowned as if I ought to have known exactly what she was insinuating. “Your sister. Maybe she’s, like, a conduit between us and them. Maybe it’s easier for spirits on the other side to reach you because she’s there, with them.”