by L. Penelope
“That’s it, baby girl. Start at the bottom and just do a little bit at a time. Work your way up.”
Her voice is sweet as butterscotch with just a little bit of rasp to it. I do like she says, holding a section of hair in one hand and the comb in the other. I pull through the tangled locks, wincing at the feeling of little forks and knives piercing my scalp. A tangled clump pulls free and gets stuck in the teeth of the comb. My eyes water.
“It’s all right. You gotta get those naps free.”
Swallowing, I pull the hair out of the comb and add it to the growing pile in front of me. Daddy hasn’t combed my hair in — I don’t think he’s ever combed it. Miss Lucy did it when she was still coming around. She’d part it and grease my scalp with something in a sweet-smelling jar and then plait it up nice, with colored barrettes on the end of each braid. But after she and Daddy fought one day, she ran out, black streaks racing down her face from where her makeup mixed with her tears. That time she didn’t come back.
My room is a tiny box with ugly walls and a creaky floor. I taped up my drawings to make it look pretty, but they don’t help that much. Outside people shout day and night, and sirens wail. The fan in the window just pushes hot air around, and my back is all sweaty. The effort that it takes to pull the comb through the bird’s nest sitting on top of my head makes me even hotter. My arms ache from holding them up for so long.
“Miss Sadie, why can’t you comb my hair?”
She keeps smiling, but it turns a little sad. “You know why, child. Now go on, you almost done.” Her face is pretty and smooth, dark as a shadow — blue-black, my daddy would say, with a note in his voice that made it sound like something bad. But I think her skin is perfect. The first time I ever saw her, standing here in my room, I tried to touch her face to see if she was real. She just laughed and ducked out of the way, telling me not to be so rude.
She stands by the door, giving me directions, almost always in the same spot, though sometimes she’ll walk over to look out the window. She never sits down.
I finally finish combing through my hair, and Miss Sadie teaches me how to plait it. My braids don’t look as good as Miss Lucy’s, but Miss Sadie tells me it’s a whole heckuva lot better than before. She’s right. I stand in front of the mirror, admiring my work.
The sun is almost ready to go to bed — it’s just peeking up at the world now. It’s a little cooler, but not much. My stomach rumbles and I bend over, trying to hide the sound. Sometimes if you tighten up into a little ball, the growling goes away for a while. Miss Sadie frowns and purses her lips. I told her about the stomach trick, but I don’t think she likes it.
Through the wall, Daddy’s snores are loud. When he wakes up, I’ll ask him for something to eat, but I know better than to try to raise him before he’s ready. A bright light outside catches my eye. The fan blows hot air in my face as I peer through the spinning blades.
At first it looks like a star has fallen right down from the sky, but it’s a bright orange-red, not white. The star flies fast, like somebody threw it, and shoots down to hover over the rooftops, then it zips to the building next door. It disappears for a minute, then shines bright through the window of the apartment across the alley.
The man and two ladies who live there almost never close their window. They don’t have an air conditioner box or a fan, so it must get real hot. But they still always dress in their fancy clothes, and the ladies seem to spend most of their time putting on makeup. Miss Sadie usually just shakes her head when they start shouting and carrying on, hitting and beating on each other.
The orangey light in the window is so bright it hurts my eyes. It flashes even brighter, and I squeeze them shut. A few seconds later, the pressure on my eyelids lets up and I open them. Whatever it was is gone — just that fast.
One of the ladies across the alley stumbles into the room and starts screaming.
“Wake up! Wake up!” she shouts, shaking the other lady, who’s sprawled across the bed.
I turn away from the window to ask Miss Sadie what she thinks happened, but she’s gone.
“Miss Sadie?” I go out in the hallway and run smack into Daddy coming out the bathroom.
“Where you going so fast?” he says, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. “And who you talking to?”
I swallow, staring up at him. “Talking to Miss Sadie,” I whisper.
“I done told you about these imaginary friends of yours, Maia. You getting too old for that baby bullshit.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He shakes his head and turns back around to go into his bedroom. Miss Sadie stands in the doorway and he pauses, frowning, like he’s forgotten something. I hold my breath as she stares him down, using her angry face. I’ve never given her reason to use that face on me, but she does to Daddy all the time. Even though he can’t see her. Finally, she shakes her head and moves over to the side. Daddy squeezes by her and closes his door.
I asked one time why, if Daddy can’t see her, why he always stops when she’s right in front of him, like he can tell something’s not right, he just doesn’t know what. Miss Sadie said it was just the way things were.
She sighs at the closed door, then fixes her dark eyes on me. “Come on in the kitchen now. I’mma show you how to make a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“On the stove?” Something bounces in my chest like a basketball, each thump a mix of fear and excitement.
“Yes, baby girl. On the stove. I don’t trust those mic-ro-waves. Food should be cooked with real heat, not radiation.” She’s smiling again, and the fast bounces turn into a nice easy hum that’s not scary at all. Thoughts of the strange light and the screaming woman and Daddy being angry fall away.
“Now you be sure to mind me and not work the stove unless I’m here to watch over you. Everything will be right as the river.”
I nod and follow her into the kitchen.
Just then the front door flies open with a crack. Daddy’s friend, Uncle Jason, stands there with two other men I don’t know. They definitely have their angry faces on. I shrink back, my head just below the kitchen counter, and I don’t think they see me.
“Go back to your room, Maia. Lock the door.” Miss Sadie steps to the counter where she has a clear view to the door and stands between me and the men. I’ve never seen Uncle Jason look like this. He and Daddy argue sometimes — Daddy can’t seem to get along with anybody for too long — but Uncle Jason always seems to have laughter in his eyes, even when he raises his voice. Until today.
Daddy’s door slams open and he stomps out, carrying his gun. I race down the hall to my room and shut the door, but Miss Sadie must have forgot that the lock’s broke.
Outside, Daddy and Uncle Jason start arguing. My chest hurts, the basketball is back, thump, thump, thumping at me from the inside. I fold myself in two, trying to make it go quiet like with the stomach grumbles.
“Where is it?” one of the men asks. There’s a commotion, like something big falling down. Something else clicks, followed by a lot more crashes and shouts. I slam my hands over my ears, but everything is still so loud. Miss Sadie appears next to me, her eyes big and round.
“We’re gonna turn this place upside down until we find it, so you’d best tell us where it is,” a man says. Something else slams and breaks. Footsteps spread out around the small apartment.
“Check in there,” someone says.
Miss Sadie turns to me. “Go out the fire escape, Maia. Go down to the neighbor’s place and have them call the police.”
“What about — ”
Then Miss Sadie does something she never has before. She reaches out and presses the palm of her hand into my chest, pushing me back. “Go, now!” Her touch is heavy, not like a normal shove. The shock makes me stumble.
I run on shaky legs to the window and pull the fan down. Miss Sadie stands against my door as it starts rattling. Someone’s pounding on it from the other side, but it doesn’t open. She’s leaning into it, somehow touching it and keeping it closed.
I scramble out the window and onto the metal grating. The whole platform wobbles, it’s old and rusted and the ladder leading down makes the ball inside me dribble faster. The tiny knives and forks stabbing me now are my fears. I don’t want to leave.
Miss Sadie manages to keep the door closed, but now it looks like a ribbon of black smoke is dancing around her. There’s no burning smell in the air, and the smoke grows and changes until it starts to look like fire — black fire, attaching itself to her whole body.
“Go!” she shouts, but her voice sounds far away.
I race down the ladder and huddle in the corner of the platform as the sound of wood splintering fills the air above.
Something tells me I won’t ever see Miss Sadie again.
* * *
Now
“Can you settle a bet for me?”
The guy’s voice comes from behind me, where he’s been standing for the past minute or so. I’m in the drugstore a few blocks from campus, standing in the toothpaste aisle.
I ignore him. But he won’t go away.
I check him out in the angled mirror near the ceiling — the ones they use to stop shoplifters. He’s just standing there with his hands in his pockets, watching me. We’re the only two in the aisle.
His clothes don’t give me any clues. They’re kind of preppy: khakis and a button-down shirt. Chuck Taylors on his feet. An outfit that would fit in both twenty years ago and today.
I wish he would pick up something.
“Excuse me,” he says.
I sigh, but don’t engage. He should get the message and walk away, but he doesn’t.
“Hello?”
I pluck a package of dental floss off the rack, turn around and toss it at him. He catches it, his eyes wide with surprise.
Alive, then. If he were dead, it would have sailed right through him.
“I’m not interested,” I say and turn back around.
He steps closer to me and I can smell him, clean soap, an enticingly boyish smell, but it scares me.
The bottles of mouthwash on the shelf aren't aligned. I've been trying to fight it, trying not to line them up, but I give up and organize the bottles into neat lines, then make each row even. There are three fewer bottles of the store brand. I lay them out so they take up the same space as the brand name, but that doesn't feel right. Nothing I do will make three more bottles appear, and it’s frustrating.
“Do you work here or something?” he asks. He's handsome in a generic way. Milk chocolate brown with smooth skin and a bright smile.
“What part of ‘not interested’ don’t you understand?”
Something in his face falls. I don't think he's used to rejection, but I can't be bothered by that. He reaches out and accidentally brushes my arm, bare since I pushed up my sleeves outside in the September heat. I flinch.
"Please don't touch me." The waiver in my voice makes me angry. He's alive, not dead, and he’s just trying to flirt with me. Maybe ask me on a date or something. Something normal.
If I were normal, I wouldn't flinch at a simple, innocent touch, and I wouldn't be backpedaling now.
He holds up his hands to look non-threatening. But I'm done. I’ve gotta get out of here.
A beardy guy with bloody hands comes down the aisle toward us, waving his arms and moaning. I know what he is, know better than to look, but my eyes widen and I can't stop staring. Mr. Preppy turns around. To him the aisle is empty. I swallow and make a whimpering sound and shut my eyes.
I'm acting crazy now. Like I belong in the mental institution. If I’m not careful, they’ll send me back.
I take a deep breath. Force my eyes open. Bloody Hands is spitting and muttering. He’s one of the angry ones. Mr. Preppy is still looking at me, a little more cautiously now. He seems nice, concerned, attractive. What would it be like to be able to touch him? Kiss him? Let him hold me?
I'll never know, so I push the thoughts from my mind and focus on what I can control. The display of cookies at the end of the aisle is off balance. I step back and shift them so they're all lined up.
I look over at the preppy guy. "I'm sorry. I'm kind of fucked up."
Then I walk away, past Bloody Hands who's now screaming the name “Meredith” at the top of his lungs. I plug my ears with my fingers and nearly run out of the store. I walk blindly for a few blocks, ignoring everything. Trying to bring myself back under strict control.
When I finally look up, the sidewalk is packed. I’ve wandered to the edge of a farmer’s market taking place in the middle of a few closed-off streets. There are so many people here I can't breathe. Logic tells me most of these must be living; the dead don't like crowds. But I can't get Bloody Hands’s cries out of my mind.
I can’t do this anymore. I’m going to go back and call Rosie and tell her that I just can’t. I’ll drop out and use the money I have saved up to buy a ticket to Alaska and live out in the wilderness, like I used to think about. This crazy dream of finishing college and living some kind of normal life, there’s just no way it can happen.
I take a side street to avoid the crowds and find it blissfully empty. Bending down to catch my breath with my hands on my knees, I see a light out of the corner of my eye. The first floor of the apartment building next to me has its windows open. The red-orange glow brightens until it’s blinding. I know what that means, and I don’t plan to stick around for the aftermath. I don’t want to know if the person the light came for decides not to go into it. Decides instead to stay here and roam the streets, unseen by everyone but me, making my life that much more miserable.
Whatever this one chooses, I don’t want to find out, so I run, all the way back to campus.
Chapter Three
A GROAN ESCAPES my throat as I enter my dorm room. He is here again. The strange one with the haunted eyes. There’s just no way to win, is there?
My first year at Douglass University, my social worker, Rosie, pulled some strings and got me into the newest dorm, a building new enough that no one had died in it yet. And I had a single. For all of freshman year, my home was my sanctuary, but this year is different. I have a roommate, Genna. And she’s got a dead guy haunting her.
If he were alive, most girls would call him hot. Light brown eyes, café au lait skin, close-cropped hair. He probably could have modeled in life. He looks about our age, but there’s no way to tell how old he was when he died. The dead appear the way they remember themselves — it’s not always how they looked at the end.
But this one is weird. He’s kind of a failed hipster, all wannabe thrift-store chic in weird jeans and goofy T-shirts, but it totally doesn’t work for him. And he floats, usually near the ceiling. That’s pretty rare. I’ve seen a couple others who did stuff like that, but they’re most often the really angry ones, like Natasha. The murder victims who are about to lose control. This guy seems calm. Harmless, even. He might actually be friendly, but I’m not planning on finding out. And he’s completely obsessed with Genna. He hovers there, staring at her for hours. He’s been here every day for the past week, since right after we moved in.
Rosie told me she’d checked Genna out. Both of her parents and all four of her grandparents are still alive, and she didn’t seem to have any crazy exes in her past, certainly none who had died violently. No stalker types. She’s lived a charmed life so far. She’s a pretty girl, in a benign, friendly sort of way, and she’s actually gone out of her way to be nice to me. Lord knows I haven’t made it easy. Why she’s being haunted, I have no idea, but it pisses me off.
When I walk in, Ghost Boy is, uncharacteristically, sitting at her desk. Genna is rifling through her dresser, looking for something. She’s usually pretty neat — I guess Rosie checked that out about her too. I still organize her stuff when she’s not around, but she hasn’t said anything about it so far. It used to piss off Cadence, my roommate at the group home, but that never stopped me.
I drop onto my bed and am about to put in my headphones when Genna turns around.
“Caleb, meet Maia. Maia, Caleb.” She points back and forth between me and her desk, then goes back to her dresser. Ghost Boy is staring right at me, but I avoid his eyes and look at Genna’s back. I don’t engage the dead anymore. Ignoring them has been working really well so far. And I know Genna can’t see him, she never has before, so I have no idea what she’s talking about. She slams her drawer shut, turns around, and smiles.
“She’s kind of shy,” she says.
I’m looking at her like she’s crazy. Who the hell is she talking to? Her phone is on her desk, and she doesn’t have a Bluetooth. Something about brain cancer.
Ghost Boy stands up directly in front of me, blocking my view, and holds out his hand like he expects me to shake it. Genna comes up beside him and lays a hand on his outstretched arm. I shoot off the bed, unable to peel my eyes away from her fingers brushing his arm. She’s touching him. His skin looks normal. Golden hairs dust his forearm. His hand is still stretched out to me; I reach for it tentatively, brushing my fingers across warm human flesh before pulling my hand back as if stung.
I feel like I have been stung. Shocked by a cattle prod is more like it. I look back and forth from him to her, disbelief cutting off my airways. What. The. Fuck?
Genna’s staring at me like I’m covered in green slime, and Ghost Boy’s eyebrows are up to his forehead. I shake my head, trying to clear it. I can’t take this. It’s too fucked up.
I leave my stuff and run out of the room. Run until the dizziness engulfs me and I collapse.
* * *
The door slams, punctuating the exit of Genna’s roommate.
“I’m sorry about that,” Genna says, shaking her head. “She’s … she’s got some issues. She’s kind of bad with people. I’m sure it wasn’t personal. Though I’ve never seen her quite that freaked out.”
I turn from staring at the door and shrug. Genna’s roommate is certainly an unusual girl. “Maybe she just had a bad day. Listen, I had better go. I will see you tomorrow?” Hope infuses my voice.