by Margo Kelly
“What if we set off the smoke detectors?” I asked.
“Not enough smoke.” Plug swept the sage around the clothes in my closet. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Open the window to let the negative energies and spirits leave.”
When I did, Mom pulled her red Toyota Prius into the driveway.
“We have to go downstairs,” I said. “Now.”
He tossed the sage into the pan on my bed.
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Leave it. Let it keep smoking while we’re gone.”
“No way. It could catch my bed on fire.” I set the pan on my desk and grabbed a water bottle from my backpack.
“It will only smolder,” Plug said. But I suspected he was a rookie at this, and so I poured water over the burning weeds. It smoked more, and I coughed. I dumped the water into the pan and used the butt of the bottle to smash the embers down into the pool.
“Let’s go.” I motioned him toward the door, and I closed it behind us. We reached the bottom of the stairs right when Mom entered.
Plug stuck out his hand. “Eugene Polaski.”
Mom shook his hand. “Beth O’Leary.”
“I should go,” Plug said, but then he paused at the door. “Need a ride tomorrow?”
“That’d be great.”
“See you at seven.” He closed the door behind him.
“New friend?” Mom asked and gave me a small plain brown sack.
“Only friend.” I opened up the sack and found a new set of keys. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Hungry?” she asked.
“No, we ate.”
She scrunched up her nose. “Were you two smoking?”
I sniffed my blouse. “Not the way you think.” How could I explain it without freaking her out? “We tried smudging my room with sage to get rid of the negative energies.”
She cleared her throat. “Let me get this straight, your new pal, Eugene, thought it was a good idea to go in your room while I was at work and light herbs on fire. To expel the negative energies?”
“Right.”
Mom’s neck reddened like a glowing ember. “Instead of trying Native American rituals, which you know nothing about, you should wait to discuss these ideas with Dr. James.”
“I’m not crazy,” I said.
“Of course not.” She clutched my shoulder. “You hit your head in the accident, but whatever the cause, it’s abnormal to hallucinate.”
“What if the things I’m seeing are real?”
“Then other people would see them, too.” The reddening crept from her neck to her cheeks to her ears.
I stopped myself from telling her what had happened in the art warehouse. It would’ve added fuel to her fire.
• • •
I lingered at the kitchen table with my laptop and checked e-mails and social media. There was nothing from Manny or Lily. I closed my laptop and carried it upstairs. The stench of burned sage filled every inch of my room. Hopefully, it had worked.
I flopped down on my bed and dialed Manny’s home number.
“Hello,” Manny said.
I sat upright. “You’re home!”
“About an hour ago.” The sound of his voice flooded me with relief.
“I texted you earlier,” I said.
“Still no cell phone.”
“Oh,” I said. “Have you heard how Lily’s doing? Is there any change?”
“No change,” he said. “How was your first day?”
“Pretty bad.” I filled him in on everything that had happened at school and started to cry.
“People are probably just in shock over the accident,” he said. “I’ll be back soon, and it’ll get better.”
“When?”
“Doctors said if I’m up to it, I can go back on Thursday.”
“I miss you so much.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” he said. “So, tell me what you did after school.”
I told him about Eugene, Nick, and Kyla.
“You hung out with anarchists all afternoon?” Manny asked. The irritation in his voice surprised me.
“I wanted to be with you,” I said, “but you were still in the hospital. And they’re not anarchists.”
Manny cleared his throat. “I guess Eugene is a good enough guy. I had a couple of classes with him last year. He’s smart for someone like him.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“You know,” Manny said. “Someone who is more concerned with rebelling than—”
“That’s unfair,” I said, but what did I really know about him?
“I’d feel better if you didn’t hang out with them so much.”
“It was one afternoon,” I said.
“Do you want to come over here after school tomorrow?”
“Of course I do.” Even if he was being condescending, I wanted to see him as soon as possible. I needed Manny to get better and for things to improve. After we said our goodnights, I plugged the phone in to charge and set it on my nightstand. Then I shut the window and yanked the drapes closed.
In the stillness of the room, I undressed and tossed my jeans and blouse into the far corner. I tugged an extra-large baby-blue T-shirt over my head, and a shiver ran up my spine. I remained still and listened for a few seconds. Silence. But the hair on my arms stood. I scanned the room, and my gaze settled on the chair behind my closed door. The pink elephant, singed with its stuffing falling out, sat on the chair. I sank to the carpet. Plug had told me that the tiger-eye would help protect me, but I’d left it in the pocket of my jeans—on the other side of the room.
“Be gone,” I whispered. Nothing happened. Those words had worked earlier in the warehouse for Plug. I crawled over to the corner and dug into the pocket of my jeans. I clutched the stone and rubbed it like a magic wishing lamp. I closed my eyes and yelled, “Be gone!”
When I opened my eyes, Mom stood in the open doorway, staring down at me.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Behind the door.” I pointed.
She closed the door, and the stuffed animal was still there.
“Tell me you can see it,” I said.
“See what?” The color drained from her face. I pointed at the elephant.
She picked it up and ran her fingers along the scorched trunk.
“You can see it.” I slouched with relief. I didn’t want her to worry about me the way she had about Dad. All those times he embarrassed her. His behavior made more sense to me now that I knew he had schizophrenia, but I hated that he’d been so tortured he’d committed suicide. Most likely, no one had believed him when he said he saw things. At least Mom saw the pink elephant. She had to know I was telling truth. The elephant was real.
“Of course I can see it,” she said. “Where did it come from?”
“Manny won it at the fair. It was burned in the accident.”
“How did it get in your room?” Mom rotated the elephant in her hands and inspected it.
“I thought it was destroyed when the car exploded,” I said.
Mom’s eyes widened, and then she stormed out of the room, with the elephant still in her clutches. “I’m calling the police,” she said.
“Wait!” I hopped up after her. “You can’t!”
She whipped around, her neck and face red with anger.
“It will be more proof that I’m nuts.”
“Just the opposite, Hannah. Someone is tormenting you. They’ve been in our house and left what can only be classified as a taunting reminder of the horrific accident. You’re not delusional!”
I snatched the elephant from her grasp, rushed downstairs to the kitchen, shoved the pink atrocity into a trash bag, and ran outside. After I threw the bag into the trash bin, I darted back inside and slammed the front door behind me. I glanced down at myself. I wore only my T-shirt and underwear.
“Hannah!” Mom waited at the base of the stairs.
“I don’t want the police here,” I said. “I want it to be ov
er. Let the elephant go to the junkyard.”
Mom wrung her hands. “We need to report it.”
“No, Mom.” I used my T-shirt to wipe my tears and smeared black mascara across the baby-blue fabric. “The neighbors will see a cop car at our house. People will talk about it at school tomorrow. I can’t handle it.”
Mom tried to give me a hug, but it was awkward. We both wanted everything to be normal, but we both knew it wasn’t.
“All right, Hannah.” She tucked my hair behind my ears.
“I just need a good night’s sleep,” I said.
“I love you. Do you know that?” she asked. I nodded and stepped away.
I climbed the stairs and turned toward Mom. “I love you, too.”
I closed my bedroom door, picked up the massive art book Rose had loaned me, and climbed into bed. I flipped pages, skimming the pictures, until I came to a section of artwork depicting death. I scrutinized each painting. The victims of death expressed terror: their mouths opened wide, screaming for help; their hands held high, trying to shield themselves from pain. The reapers of death expressed joy: their eyes bright and lips wet.
I closed the book and set it on the floor next to my bed. I reached for the lamp to switch it off, but my cell phone rang with an unknown number. I clicked End Call and turned out the light. I fell asleep clutching the tiger-eye.
Tuesday
August 27
I slapped my alarm silent and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Morning sunlight peeked around the edges of my bedroom drapes. I stretched and threw off my bedcovers, surprised by the bright orange-and-black Princeton T-shirt I had on. I glanced around the room for the blue shirt I’d worn to bed, and my gaze settled on the chair behind the door.
The pink elephant had returned.
I let out a skull-scraping scream until the tips of my fingers tingled.
Mom threw open my door and ran to my side. I gasped for air and pointed at the evil creature and the trash bag wedged beneath it.
“Hannah,” Mom said. “You brought it back inside.” Her eyebrows creased.
“No!”
“Yes. I got up to check on you last night when I heard the front door open. You’d gone out and returned with the trash bag. I asked you if you decided to keep the elephant. You ignored me. I thought maybe you were sleepwalking. I made sure you got back to your room, and I let it go.”
“I’ve never sleepwalked before. I wouldn’t suddenly start last night.” I threw my pillow and knocked the rotten beast from its roost. I patted around on the bed for the tiger-eye. It was supposed to protect me last night, but apparently it had slipped from my grasp. I swept my hands through the sheets.
“Hannah?”
“Someone sneaked into our house and put the elephant back,” I said.
She perched on the edge of my bed. “Sweetheart, I saw you with the trash bag. Plus, I made sure the doors and windows were locked. No one got in.”
I remembered how Plug had picked the store’s lock with ease.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t call the cops last night,” Mom said.
My heart sank.
Her mouth dropped open, and she tried to retract her words. “I just meant—”
“You figured I brought the elephant into the house the first time, too.”
Mom clutched my fingers. “We will get you in sooner to see Dr. James.”
I yanked away.
“Hannah, neither one of us likes this, but the way you acted last night was abnormal. This fascination with that thing is abnormal. We need his help.”
In my mind, I retraced my steps from last night. I threw out the elephant. I went to bed. I flipped through the art book.
The art book.
I leaned over the edge of the bed. It was gone.
“What?” Mom asked.
“The book my teacher loaned me is gone. I set it there.” I pointed at the floor. Mom got down on her knees and searched under the bed.
“This?” She tugged out the book and set it on my lap. “Are you okay?”
“Ask me a different question.”
Mom groaned as she stood. “We’ll figure this out, Hannah, but we need Dr. James’s help.” She reached out to touch me, but I shrugged away.
“Get ready for school,” she said and left the room.
I traced the spine of the book. Something wedged inside made the pages bulge. I opened it and found the tiger-eye stone crammed into the gutter of the book’s binding. I removed the rock and set it on my nightstand. It had marked a page I’d not seen last night.
A sculpture by Rodin: Iris, Messenger of the Gods.
She was headless and naked. I traced the detailed muscles of her legs up to her neck—where a head should have rested. Heat rose from the pit of my stomach, and I flipped to the next page.
Another sculpture by Rodin: Head of Iris.
My hand trembled. Dirt was caked in my cuticles. I flicked some off, and it landed in the book. I brushed it away and read the caption beneath Rodin’s sculpture. “He wanted to achieve more than a mere similitude of his subject; he wanted his art to possess the inner conflicts and emotions.” I studied the Head of Iris more closely. What could her inner struggles have been? Maybe the fact that her head was disconnected was trouble enough.
I slammed the book closed.
The elephant peered out from under my pillow on the floor. Today was trash day. I hopped up and plucked the plastic bag off the floor. I stuffed the elephant in, and then I grabbed my rhinestone jeans and ruffled blouse and threw them in also. I had bought them to coordinate with Lily and Chelsea, and that was an utter failure. I wanted it all hauled to the city dump with thousands of other people’s discarded junk.
I dropped the bag in the hallway and contemplated changing clothes. Earlier in the month, I had planned out my entire wardrobe for this first week of classes. I wanted to make a great impression with my teachers, leaders, and friends, but now as I lifted my sleeveless navy dress from the closet, I just wanted to stay in my pajamas. That wouldn’t go over well at school though. I was already getting enough stares and whispers. So I changed into the dress. The wide flowing skirt hung beneath my knees, and the fabric was soft against my skin. I slipped my feet into some white wedge sandals. Then I reached for the coordinating necklace with large white beads, but when I hooked the closure, I felt as if I was choking to death. I removed it and tossed it back into my drawer. The dress alone was enough to keep up appearances. I’d skip the accessories today.
In the bathroom I used my pearl-handled brush to smooth my hair back into a ponytail. I avoided making eye contact with myself in the mirror. I didn’t want to study myself or examine my inner conflicts and emotions. It was easier to analyze art. I swiped a new coat of mascara over yesterday’s, wiped the black flakes from under my eyes, and spritzed on a generous amount of jasmine body spray.
The doorbell rang.
I remembered the dirt around my fingernails and darted to the sink. I halfheartedly washed and tried to recall how the grime got under my cuticles. Maybe it was from the sage yesterday. I ran back to my room, snatched the tiger-eye, and slipped it into my skirt pocket. Then I grabbed my backpack and the trash bag, hollered goodbye to Mom, and rushed out the front door. I nearly crashed into Plug.
“Need help?” he asked.
“Nope.”
But he helped anyhow. He lifted my backpack from my shoulder and carried it over to his car. I threw the trash bag into the bin and rolled it to the curb.
Plug held open the door, and I plopped into the passenger seat.
“You smell great,” he said and closed my door.
I hoped he was serious, since I skipped taking a shower today. My mom would be mortified by the idea, but she’d be even more bothered by the fact that I neglected to make my bed. I’d left a mess.
Plug sank into his seat. He wore the same gray waffle-knit shirt and worn-out jeans from yesterday. He started the vehicle and drove down the street. “Seriously,” he said, “y
ou smell like sage and jasmine—”
“Sage?”
Plug nodded.
I lifted the fabric of my dress and sniffed it. “People will think I smell weird.”
“So?” Plug said. “Did the smudging work?”
“No.”
Plug frowned. “We need to do the whole house for it to work right.”
“Why does it even matter to you?” I blurted out. “You hardly know me.” He’d been in my house yesterday; he knew the layout. He could’ve been watching when I took the elephant out to the trash the first time. He could’ve sneaked in and put it in my room. And he gave me the tiger-eye, which was wedged next to the picture of the naked sculpture.
Plug thumped the steering wheel and pulled to the side of the road. He twisted in his seat and faced me. “Hannah, I do know you, and you know me. Maybe we haven’t been best friends, but we’ve been in broadcasting together for the last two years, and before that we had biology together, and before that . . . well, we went to middle school together. I know you—”
“Like an obsessed stalker? That would explain why you’re going out of your way to be nice to me.” Maybe Manny was right about Plug, and I should’ve stayed away from him.
He glared at me. “You want me to stop helping you?”
I held his gaze. He didn’t fidget at all. Not with his lip ring. Not with his ears. He was upset with me. I covered my face with my hands. I was an idiot to accuse Plug. I needed him on my side.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“Why are you so angry, Hannah? What happened?”
I swept away my tears and gasped for air. “I’m losing everything, including myself.”
He reached over and clutched my hand. I flinched and started to pull away, but he tightened his grasp.
“Tell me,” he said.
I prattled on and on about the elephant appearing, reappearing, my mom’s version, my version, and the tiger-eye marking the nasty page in the book.
“I must have botched the programming of the stone,” he said. “I know I messed up the smudging, because I researched it more last night. After school today, we need to put salt in every corner and olive oil above your doors. And we’re supposed—”
“I can’t today. I have plans with Manny.”