Slide

by Jill Hathaway

  “Nora?” Mr. Golden says, barely above a whisper. The disparity in the way he addresses Amber’s parents strikes me. Why would he call Amber’s father Mr. Prescott and her mother Nora? The intimacy in the way he said her name is unsettling.

  She lifts her head for a moment and then, seeing who it is, lowers it again.

  “Nora. I’m here for you.” Mr. Golden crouches on the floor next to her. “I’m here.” The tenderness in his voice is palpable. And then it hits me: Nora.

  N.P.

  Nora Prescott.

  Amber’s mother must have given him the figurine.

  It’s as if she doesn’t even hear him. She speaks, but it’s like she’s continuing a different conversation. Her words are barely recognizable, and that’s when I smell the liquor on her breath.

  “I remember her first day of high school. She said she didn’t want to go back. She hated the way everyone pretended to be someone they weren’t. She didn’t know who to be.”

  This doesn’t sound like the Amber I knew—the girl who plotted which date for homecoming would win her the most popularity, the girl who actually took a ruler to her skirts to see how short she could possibly go without getting busted for breaking the dress code. The Amber I knew was kind of a bitch.

  “She was scared, and I made her go back anyway.”

  The woman takes a sip from a drink I hadn’t realized she was holding, then sends it flying through the room. It crashes against the wall and shatters in a burst of ice cubes and jagged pieces of glass.

  “I made her go.”

  “She had to go to school, Nora. You most certainly didn’t make her steal Trent’s gun and do what she did. You didn’t make her do that.”

  Amber’s mother turns and looks Mr. Golden in the eyes for the first time since he entered the room. “She knew about us. The day of Sophie’s funeral. She came back just in time to see you leaving. And the next day she shot herself with Trent’s gun. Because of us.”

  My god. The thought that Amber had actually committed suicide never occurred to me. I was sure someone else pulled the trigger, the same someone who dragged the knife across Sophie’s wrists. But if Amber stole her father’s gun, doesn’t that mean she killed herself?

  “Now, now, Nora. Are you sure she saw me leave? Maybe she was just overcome with sadness. I mean, her best friend had just committed suicide. She was coming home from the funeral.” Mr. Golden glances toward the doorway and then reaches over to push Mrs. Prescott’s hair out of her face. He sounds calm, reassuring.

  What if Amber did come home after Sophie’s funeral and ran into Mr. Golden leaving her house? Did she confront him? Did she threaten to tell her father? And if Mr. Golden had access to Mr. Prescott’s wife, could he have had access to Mr. Prescott’s gun?

  Mr. Golden reaches for Mrs. Prescott’s hand. She pushes it away and starts mumbling again. He sighs and gets up, leaving the notebook on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Nora,” he says, and then leaves the room without another word.

  Luckily, when I return, I find my body flopped safely on my bed. I sit up and wipe a bit of drool off my chin. Sliding is not the most glamorous way to get around, that’s for sure.

  Beside me, my phone rings insistently. Rollins again. My fingers flex, wanting to answer. My gaze falls on the T-shirt he gave me. It lies crumpled on the floor, where I threw it after seeing him with Amber. All I’d have to do is slip it on—I could reassure myself that he had a good reason to meet her that night, that he’s not the killer.

  I could slide right into his life and find out . . . everything. What he does all those hours he’s not at school or work. What he’s hiding from me at home. Why he never invites me over. I’m itching to know his secrets, but at the same time I wonder if sliding into him wouldn’t be like hacking his email or reading his diary. When I slid into him accidentally, it felt weird, but I knew it wasn’t my fault. But if I target him by using that same T-shirt, it would be different. It would be like spying.

  I’d be doing it for the right reason—wouldn’t I? To clear Rollins’s name. If you invade someone’s privacy with good intentions, it’s not as bad. I close my eyes and remember how we used to be. I miss our silly conversations about who would win in a fight—Chuck Norris or Mr. T. I miss his sardonic smile. I miss the girl I am when I’m around him.

  I have to fix things between us, and sliding into him is the only way I know how.

  My decision made, I reach down, snag the blue material with my pinky, and pull it onto my lap. Easing back onto my pillows, I hug the fabric to my chin. I’m amazed at how quickly I’m taken away. I’m kind of getting good at this.

  The smell is acrid, like rotting broccoli and urine. Water stains and cracks work their way down the walls. I’m lying on a mattress with blue flannel sheets, staring up at the ceiling.

  A song I know is playing—“Thinking of You” by A Perfect Circle. For a month last year, Rollins was obsessed with this song, playing it on a continuous loop in his car. The drums are intense, beating through my brain.

  I’m twirling something in my hands like a baton. Without even looking, I know what it is. A Sharpie. Rollins’s sword to tear the world apart. He stops twirling and uses the marker to match the drumbeat on his stomach.

  His room is desolate, furnished with only a bed, a small chest of drawers, and a bookshelf packed with old paperbacks. Back when we used to hang out, we’d go to the used bookstore every weekend and buy bags and bags of books. One of his shelves is dedicated to Stephen King novels. I remember him saying his favorite was The Dead Zone.

  His door swings open, and a guy in a red flannel shirt bursts in. It must be his uncle Ned.

  “You didn’t do your shit today,” the guy says. It’s an accusation—of what, I have no idea.

  Rollins sits up. “What shit?”

  “It’s Saturday. Your turn to do the bath.”

  Rollins swears. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “She’s your mother.” The man points at Rollins.

  Sighing, Rollins stands up and pushes past the man. He walks down the hall and calls to a wiry woman in a wheelchair, who’s watching cartoons. Her hair is a tangled nest of snarls.

  “Time for your bath,” Rollins says, his voice terse.

  No wonder he’s never invited me to his house. From his surly uncle to his incapacitated mother, he has his hands full without worrying about what his friends think of his predicament. I start to worry I made the wrong decision in coming here.

  Rollins pushes the woman down the hall and into the bathroom, which looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years. Rollins turns the knob, releasing a gush of water into the tub. He carefully gauges the temperature—not too hot, not too cold.

  He helps his mother undress, all the while staring up at the ceiling. She raises her hands, and he pulls off her shirt. She has to lean on him while he lowers her pants and underwear.

  I feel that he’s turned himself off somehow. He’s on autopilot. He helps her into the tub, bearing her weight so she won’t slip and fall. He fills a Big Gulp cup and then dumps the water over her head, which makes her clap her hands in glee. When he lathers an old pink washcloth with soap and works it over her shoulders and breasts, I zone out.

  Before long, the bath is over and Rollins’s mother has been toweled off and returned to her place in front of the television. Rollins lumbers back to his room, his fists clenching and unclenching as he passes his uncle, who’s cracking open a beer.

  As he enters his room, I catch sight of something I’d missed earlier. Peeking out from underneath his bed— which could more accurately be called a cot—is a jumbled pile of photographs.

  He walks closer, and in one of the pictures I’m able to make out the shape of a girl in a red bikini lying on a beach towel. Her black hair flares out around her face, and she wears giant red sunglasses. Sophie. What the—?

  Apprehension pulses through me. I have to figure out why he has pictures of Sophie. Before I know it, I
’m next to the bed and spreading the photographs across the floor.

  A part of me realizes that I’m controlling Rollins, but mostly I’m concerned with the task at hand.

  There are pictures of Sophie at school, of her in her cheerleading uniform, even in boxers and a T-shirt with her hair twisted into a french braid. Not only that—there are pictures of Amber Prescott, too.

  One photograph in particular catches my eye. I grab it so I can examine it more closely. It’s a picture of Amber and Sophie at cheerleading practice. In the background, Samantha Phillips stands on top of the bleachers, a megaphone at her mouth. Rollins has drawn devil horns on top of her flaming red hair and a spiky tail curling by her side. In her hand that’s not holding the megaphone, he’s fashioned a pitchfork.

  Why does Rollins have pictures of dead girls in his room?

  I set the photo down and stand up, hoping to find a hint somewhere in the room. A door beckons to me. When I open it, the contents make me sad. Two pairs of jeans, neatly hung on hangers. And his leather jacket, his most prized possession.

  There is literally nothing else in the closet.

  Just then, I feel myself start to go.

  No, I tell myself. I hold on to Rollins with every fiber of my being. But, as easy as it was for me to slide into him, I’m unable to anchor myself in his body. I stagger backward and leave Rollins lying on his bed.

  Hot water cascades over my shoulders and back, pounding out the tension I’ve felt since coming out of my latest slide. I tilt my head back and let the water run down my face, thinking about what I saw at Rollins’s house.

  By sliding into Rollins, I’d been hoping to find the reason for his meeting with Amber on the night of her death. But all I turned up were more questions.

  On the bright side, I was able to take control of Rollins. I think it has something to do with my focus. When I controlled Scotch, I was so angry and all I could think about was giving him the beating he so sorely deserved. When I was in Rollins, I was intent on finding out why he had those photographs.

  My cell phone, which I set on the edge of the sink in case Zane called while I was showering, begins to ring the generic ring it makes when someone I don’t know calls. Squinting, I shut the water off and reach for a towel.

  The number flashing on the display looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. Iowa City area code, so it’s not a telemarketer. I wrap the towel around my torso, tuck the end under my armpit, and pick up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Vee?”

  Again, the pang of familiarity strikes, but I can’t place the voice that’s asking for me.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Samantha.”

  Something like nostalgia hits me, and I wonder if I haven’t stepped out of the shower and into last year, when a phone call from Samantha wasn’t something unusual. For a minute, I’m speechless, and I just stand there with my mouth open like an idiot.

  “Um. Samantha? Why are you calling me? Did you accidentally call the wrong sister? I can go get Mattie for you. It is her birthday, you know . . .”

  “Yeah, well, that’s sort of why I’m calling.”

  “Okay . . . so what do you want?”

  “I’m organizing a little get-together at my place tonight. But it’s a surprise. I asked her if she wanted to come over and watch movies tonight, but she said she wanted to hang out with family . . .” The tone of Samantha’s voice makes me roll my eyes, like it’s so ridiculous Mattie would ever want to spend time with her family.

  “Samantha. Two members of your squad are dead. Isn’t it a little . . . insensitive to be throwing a party tonight?”

  “That’s exactly why we need some fun. I’m guessing Mattie’s been just lying around in bed the last couple of days. Am I right? She needs to get out and have some fun. I have her best interests at heart.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, Mattie can do what she wants. Sorry if that spoils your plans.”

  Samantha pauses.

  “Vee, really. I’m trying to do something nice for Matt. I’m worried about her. With everything that’s happened in the past week . . . she needs her friends.”

  I squelch the snide comment about what kind of a friend I think Samantha is and think of Mattie, shut up in her bedroom like a hermit. It actually would be good for her to get out of the house. Get out of her head. This might not be such a bad idea.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Come to the party. Convince her to go. I’ll come and pick you guys up and everything. I know you don’t drive . . .”

  Her words trail off, and I know our minds are both back in the gym last year, when she watched Scotch drag my lifeless body into the boys’ locker room.

  “On one condition,” I say.

  “Anything,” she replies, and I swear she’s near tears.

  “You can’t invite Scotch Becker.”

  “Done.”

  “Okay. You can pick us up at seven.”

  My sister’s room is dark, with the soft notes of Pearl Jam’s “Black” wafting through the air, filling the room with an anguish so thick I feel I could touch it. My sister lies on the floor, wrapped in a pink blanket.

  “Mattie?”

  “Sssssssh, this is the best part,” she says, her eyes closed.

  Eddie Vedder sings sadly about pictures washed in black. So many times I’ve listened to this song, envisioning a shroud over all the pictures of our dead mother. Samantha is right. I have to dig Mattie out of this hole.

  “I love this song,” I say, tiptoeing to her computer and finding the pause button. “But don’t you think you should listen to something a little more upbeat on your birthday?”

  When the music stops, my sister sits up indignantly. “Hey.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I just got a call from Samantha. She wants us to come over tonight to watch movies or some crap. You up for it?”

  Mattie narrows her eyes at me. “Since when does Samantha call you?”

  I sigh. “We did used to be friends. Besides, she’s worried about you. Come on. It’ll be fun.” The word fun feels like it’s been coated in cyanide. I’m guessing Mattie’s too out of it to notice how bad I am at lying, though.

  “Ugh. What time?”

  “She’s going to pick us up at seven. That’ll give you a few more hours to roll around in your own filth.” I grin.

  Mattie sticks out her tongue, and I take that as my dismissal.

  I stare at myself in the mirror, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. A party? At Samantha’s house? I haven’t been there in over a year.

  I get a bad case of déjà vu as I find myself wondering what shade of lip gloss I should wear. Instead, I flop down on my bed, pulling out the astronomy book. The Gin Blossoms serenade me as I read about stellar evolution.

  Someone pounds on my door, and then my dad sticks his head in. “Rollins is here. Should I send him up?”

  Panicking, I drop my book. I don’t feel ready to confront Rollins at all. I need more time to figure out what’s going on, what he was doing with those pictures of Sophie and Amber. Then again, maybe this is the perfect time to grill him. I mean, if he is the killer, he wouldn’t dare murder me in my own bedroom with my dad right down the hall. Right? Except for the fact that the killer murdered Sophie with her parents right down the hall. Shit.

  Another knock. “Come in,” I yell, turning down the music.

  Rollins pushes my door open, raking discarded T-shirts and music magazines across the floor. His cheeks are flaming, his hair disheveled.

  “Hey,” he says, a bit uncertainly. “Long time, no see.”

  I remember ducking down in the kitchen when he stopped by the other day. Did he catch me doing that?

  “I know. Sorry. I’ve just been . . . busy.”

  The response seems inadequate. What am I supposed to say, though? I slid into your body when you were meeting a girl who turned up dead the next day? Then I watched you give your mom a bath and found out that you have a
stash of dead-girl pictures?

  “With Zane?” Rollins asks. “Yeah, I heard you two have been hanging out a lot.” His brown eyes seem to darken a bit, or maybe the room just darkened a little—I can’t be sure.

  “Well, with Zane, but also—you know, Mattie’s been going through a lot. I’m trying to be there for her.” I notice he’s carrying a pamphlet. Is that what he’s been doing the past few days—working on a zine?

  “Here,” he says, holding out the booklet. “I brought this for you. Hot off the press.”

  I take the zine and examine it. On the cover, there’s a black-and-white photograph of Sophie Jacobs and Amber Prescott in their cheerleading outfits. I recognize the picture from the pile in Rollins’s room. He’d gathered pictures of Sophie and Amber for a zine? That’s what he must have been doing with Amber on the football field that night. I remember Amber passing something to him—it must have been pictures of her and Sophie together.

  Across the top, in Sharpie: Fear and Loathing in High School No. 8: The Sophie Jacobs and Amber Prescott Special Edition. I flip through the zine. The first section contains memories about the girls from damn near everyone at City High. Next is a list of songs people dedicated to Sophie and Amber. Mattie even got in on the action, dedicating “Stand by Me” to her two dead friends. Why didn’t she tell me what Rollins was doing?

  Relief bubbles up inside me, and I realize just how much it would have killed me if it turned out that Rollins was the murderer. I grab him by the shoulders and pull him into a bear hug, squeezing him so hard my poor muscles ache.

  “Uh, so you like it?”

  “This is so beautiful, Rollins. Really.” I step back and look him in the face. He seems embarrassed and pulls on his lip ring.

  “I wanted to do something. How’s Mattie?” He draws a Sharpie out of the pocket of his leather jacket and starts twirling it absentmindedly.