Famous Last Words

by Katie Alender

  “Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”

  “Well … I don’t feel that way anymore. I feel like we found the missing piece. We just need to figure out how it fits into the puzzle.”

  Mom spent the afternoon rushing around the house, packing for Palm Springs as if they were going on a three-month trek to Siberia and not a three-day trip to a city two hours away from home.

  I racked my brain for a way to tell her that I’d been uninvited from Marnie’s house, but the right moment never seemed to arrive.

  So instead, I came up with a foolproof plan, which was: Don’t tell her.

  After all, I was seventeen years old, practically an adult. Plenty of people my age stay home alone all the time. And I wouldn’t even be truly alone — I had the ghost, right?

  I was in my room trying to catch up on English Lit reading when there was a light knock on my door.

  “Willa?” Mom said.

  “Yeah, come in.”

  She carried in a small empty suitcase. “Did you pack yet? I thought you might want to use this.”

  Oh, right. As far as she knew, I was going somewhere. “Thanks,” I said, taking it and setting it on the floor next to the bed. “Are you excited?”

  She smiled, shrugging. “I guess. I feel bad for leaving you. Maybe we should have done a familymoon.”

  “First of all,” I said, “familymoon is a totally disturbing word, and an even more disturbing concept. Second of all, go have fun. Relax. Stop worrying about me for a couple of days.”

  “I’m a mother,” she said. “I know it’s a cliché, but I’ll never stop worrying about you.”

  I made a face. “Do I seem that helpless?”

  “Oh, Willa, of course not.” Mom reached over and rubbed my back, like she used to when I was a little girl. “You’re the opposite of helpless. You’ve been growing so much lately. But … they say when you become a mother, part of your heart walks around outside your body.”

  “That would be me, huh?” I asked. “The mobile segment of one of your bodily organs?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not going to apologize for loving you more than anything else in the world.”

  I leaned my head on her shoulder. “You really think I’m growing?”

  “Oh, yes. Don’t you feel it? Since we got here, you’ve developed this … I don’t know, this aura of confidence.”

  “That’s totally ironic,” I said, “because the stuff that’s happened to me here is so non-confidence-aura-making.”

  “You’ve had a hard time at school?” Mom asked, sounding slightly heartbroken.

  I didn’t answer.

  “But, honey, don’t you see? Even if it’s tough now, those are the things that are making you stronger. Facing difficult circumstances. Getting through them. And look, you have Marnie — and you’re friendly with Reed — and you’re coming out of your shell a little.”

  I was incredibly glad that we were sitting next to each other so she couldn’t see how red my face turned when she mentioned Reed.

  She sat up and gave her hair a little shake. “I’m proud of you. And I’m sure your father would be, too.”

  Tears stung my eyes. “Stop. You’re going to make me cry.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such a drama queen.”

  “We’re both drama queens,” I said. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  She stared out the window. “I guess you’re right. Poor Jonathan, having to live with us.”

  “Poor Jonathan? What about poor you? And poor me? Why is Jonathan the only one whose suffering is considered legitimate?”

  Mom sighed. “That’s not what I meant —”

  “I’m tired of feeling bad about everything,” I said. “And you should be tired of it, too.”

  Mom shrugged. “I feel selfish. I wanted to marry Jonathan — you didn’t get a say in that. And then you got dragged out here, also without a say. And now that I’m here, honestly, I don’t even know what to do with myself all day.”

  I looked at Mom, who was staring at the floor. “Really?” I asked her softly.

  “Yeah,” she said. “And I know I should go back to work, but what if I can’t get a job? What if I’m not good enough?”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked. “Of course you’re good enough. You think the people here are so special? They’re normal people. You’re probably smarter than ninety-nine percent of them.”

  Her left cheek dimpled, the way it always did when she was trying not to smile.

  “Start applying,” I said. “You’ll get something right away. Or you can have Jonathan call in some favors.”

  She laughed. “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Mom,” I said. “He married you. He puts up with your nutso daughter. You think he won’t make a few phone calls, if it would make you happy?”

  She sighed. “I just wish I knew how long it would take for me to feel like myself again.” Suddenly, she grabbed her head with both hands. “Like this! I mean, how did I end up blond? I swear, Willa, sometimes I look in the mirror and it’s like I don’t even recognize the person looking back at me.”

  I rested my head on her shoulder. “I recognize you.”

  She smiled through her tears and rubbed my upper arm before pulling me into a giant Mom-hug. “You’re one of a kind.”

  “That’s probably for the best,” I said.

  She kissed me on the forehead and then stood up. “Oh, look, your sink is running. How strange. Is the faucet acting up?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think so. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

  “Dinner’ll be ready in about an hour, okay? I made spaghetti.” She went into the bathroom, shut off the faucet, hugged me again, and left, closing the door gently behind her.

  I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling for a while, feeling oddly at peace.

  Later that night, as I brushed my teeth, my whole body suddenly felt warm and clammy, and my head began to ache. I took this as a not-so-great sign.

  I closed my door and climbed into bed. Even though I was already hot, I didn’t push the blanket off. I wanted protective layers between myself and whatever the night had in store for me.

  As I reached over and switched off my bedside lamp, I heard a short, sharp shattering sound.

  I forced my eyes shut so tightly that they ached immediately.

  I’m ignoring you, Diana, I thought. La la la, I can’t hear you.

  Except of course I could.

  Through the darkness came another sound:

  Squeak, squeak, squeak.

  I sat up and walked over to the bathroom, gave the door a tiny shove, and reached in to switch on the light.

  Nothing happened.

  Pushing the door open a few inches farther revealed what must have been the source of the first sound — a lightbulb in a thousand pieces on the floor.

  That didn’t explain (a) why the lights hadn’t come on at all, because there were two bulbs, and (b) the source of the second sound, which was now poking me in the brain with a fiery-hot knife.

  SQUEEEEEEEEEAK.

  Could it be a mouse? But it seemed to come from up high. Then my eyes went to the lone lightbulb that remained in the fixture over the vanity.

  Ever so slowly, making the faintest squeak, squeak, squeak, the bulb was spinning. Before I could dash forward to catch it, it came free and plunged to the counter below, shattering.

  The ghost was there. Right now. With me.

  In a panic, I backed away, staring in horror into the darkened room.

  “What?” I asked, my voice trembling. “What do you want, Diana?”

  Another crash. The towel bar fell, leaving two patches of torn plaster in its place.

  Then the bathtub faucet and shower both turned on at once.

  Was it going to destroy the whole bathroom?

  Feeling utterly helpless, I sank to the floor, ducking my head and squeezing my eyes shut. Like a little kid making herself as small as possible.

  “Plea
se,” I said. “What do you want?”

  The faucets turned off. The room fell quiet.

  I opened my eyes and glanced around.

  In my bedroom, on the wall opposite the bathroom, in huge black letters, was written:

  WRONG

  Behind me, the sink faucet turned on again.

  Suddenly, the word wrong was appearing on every inch of the wall, and floor, and ceiling of my room. WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG.

  The closet door burst open. Thousands of rose petals flew out, swirling in midair.

  I watched for a moment, speechless, and turned to run for the door.

  Then I saw my bed.

  The sheets and blankets had been completely stripped off. My pillow was shredded, its stuffing strewn everywhere.

  Drawn on the mattress, in black, was a giant question mark.

  “What?” I said. “What?”

  I spun in a slow circle, taking in the chaos around me. The flower petals churned silently overhead.

  “Wrong … question?” I asked.

  And in a whoosh, everything disappeared. The rose petals were gone. The walls were wordless once again. I heard the faucet shut off.

  “Wrong question,” I whispered, looking down at the pillow stuffing that littered the floor.

  Not what do you want, but …

  Maybe there was a reason Diana Del Mar wasn’t replying to my questions.

  “Who?” I asked. “Who are you?”

  I swallowed hard and waited for my answer.

  More writing appeared, once again covering every available square foot of wall space in the room:

  I AM AN ASPIRING HOLLYWOOD TYPE DETERMINED TO DO MY HOMEWORK BEFORE PLUNGING INTO THE SWAMP OF TINSELTOWN I AM AN ASPIRING HOLLYWOOD TYPE DETERMINED TO DO MY HOMEWORK BEFORE PLUNGING INTO THE SWAMP OF TINSELTOWN I AM AN ASPIRING HOLLYWOOD TYPE DETERMINED TO DO MY HOMEWORK BEFORE PLUNGING INTO THE SWAMP OF TINSELTOWN I AM AN ASPIRING HOLLYWOOD TYPE DETERMINED TO DO MY HOMEWORK BEFORE PLUNGING INTO THE SWAMP OF TINSELTOWN

  I closed my eyes and sat down on the bed.

  And then I said, “Hi, Paige.”

  The next morning, after cleaning up the mess Paige had made and sneaking around the house to find replacement lightbulbs, I couldn’t wait to get out of Mom’s car to find Wyatt and tell him about everything that had happened.

  But my mother was practically wringing out a hankie at the idea of being away from me for a whole weekend.

  I tried to extract myself from her clingy embrace. “You’re going to be gone for seventy-two hours,” I said. “And Monday afternoon, when you come to pick me up, I’ll come trotting out that gate like always.”

  “I wouldn’t describe your movement as trotting,” Mom said, not letting go of my hand, “even on the best of days.”

  “A joke!” I said. “Why, that’s wonderful, Mother, what smashing progress. So listen, you have my phone number, and I have yours, but don’t call me. This is your honeymoon, remember?”

  She frowned. “Not even to say good night?”

  “You can text,” I said. “You get two texts a day. How about that?”

  Mom sighed.

  I gave her a hug. “Have fun,” I said. “And remember, a honeymoon doesn’t involve actually mooning people.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “Can’t have you getting arrested.” I kissed her on the cheek, then slid out of the car and hurried to the gate.

  Behind me, I heard her call out, through the open window: “Be sure to say thank you to Marnie’s parents!”

  I spun around and saluted, which in my humble opinion was a very effective way to get out of actually lying to her.

  Marnie was absent again. Not that she and I had any relevance to one another anymore, I guess. But it was nice to walk over to Wyatt’s table at lunch without her eagle eyes watching me.

  “It’s Paige,” I said as soon as I sat down. I hadn’t been able to find Wyatt that morning, and my news came bursting out. “The ghost in my house is Paige Pollan.”

  “What?” Wyatt looked up from his laptop in shocked disbelief. “How do you know?”

  “Trust me,” I said. “She made it very clear.”

  “Then … then … this changes a lot of things,” he said. “We need to kick-start our investigation. We need to figure out what Paige’s death could possibly have to do with your house. This weekend.”

  I shook my head. “We can start on Monday. My mom and stepdad are out of town, and if Paige burns the house down when I’m not even supposed to be home, there’s going to be a lot of explaining to do.”

  Wyatt looked perplexed. “It would be better if she burned the house down next week?”

  I nodded. “Much.”

  “We don’t have to mess with the actual ghost at all,” he said. “I was thinking more along the lines of trying to talk to kids from Paige’s high school, or going back over the police report from her death….”

  “Oh,” I said. “Then knock yourself out.”

  “What about you?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to help?”

  “Sure I will,” I said. “I’ll be home with the fire extinguisher at the ready.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Listen,” I said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that when Paige has something to say, she’s going to find a way to say it. At some point she’s going to let us know what the next steps are. I can’t afford to go looking for trouble this weekend.”

  “We’re not looking for trouble,” he said, sounding a little defensive. “We’re looking for answers.”

  “The answers we get are always troublesome,” I said. “Do whatever you want, but I can’t play until next week, okay?”

  Wyatt pushed his laptop a couple of inches farther away from himself, which I took as a sign that he agreed with me, even if he didn’t like it.

  We ate in silence for a couple of minutes, and then Wyatt flipped his notebook open. “Why would Paige Pollan’s ghost be at your house? Yes, she was a fan of Diana Del Mar,” he mused. “But enough of one to be drawn to her house when she died?”

  “That’s not even half of it,” I said. “I mean, the script, the lines she writes on the walls, ‘Henry’ … that all ties back to Leyta Fitzgeorge, and the murder investigation.”

  “Only Paige wasn’t murdered,” Wyatt said. “She committed suicide.”

  “Well, maybe she was the murderer,” I said, feeling a sudden chill of fear.

  “But there have been two more murders since she died,” he said.

  I relaxed.

  “Although …” Wyatt thumbed back through the pages. “Maybe the ghost is murdering people now.”

  I threw a sweet potato fry at him. “Do you mind?”

  He looked up at me, shaking his head. “Don’t you want to figure out the truth?”

  “Wyatt, I’m staying home alone this weekend,” I said. “If you put that kind of thought in my head, and then Paige gets excited and decides to give me a little haunted-house performance, I will die of fright. I promise that I’ll give it everything I have on Monday. But I can’t do this today.”

  He made a face, but he shut the notebook and slipped it into his bag.

  “Let’s try something else,” I said. “Like talking about something other than murders and ghosts and dead people.”

  He folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them. “I don’t know about anything else.”

  “You don’t like music?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Well, yeah. I mostly listen to country —”

  “No,” I said. “Stop. You do not.”

  “What’s wrong with country music?” He sat up. “Marnie got me into it.”

  “That’s awesome,” I said. “If I buy you a giant belt buckle, will you promise to wear it?”

  He gave me a withering glare. “Never.”

  “Wyatt the cowboy,” I said. “Like Wyatt Earp!”

  “He wasn’t a cowboy,” Wyatt said. “He was a sheriff.”
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  “All right, so we’ll get you a big, shiny star.”

  “Willa,” Wyatt said, a hint of warning in his voice. But there was a tiny smile on his lips. Then his eyes narrowed. “Why are you in such a good mood?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “Because Marnie’s not here?”

  I shook my head. It had never been about Marnie. It had never been about Wyatt, either. Or Mom. Or my dad. Or Reed, or any one thing, really. Not even the ghost. Those things were like individual curtains blocking back the light in a very dark room.

  But suddenly I was pushing them all aside. And each situation was letting in a tiny bit of light.

  “I just think things are looking up,” I said. “Is that insane? To expect that you’re going to be … like … okay?”

  “That’s not insane at all,” Wyatt said. “That’s what we’re all aiming for, right?”

  I nodded, smiling. “What about books? Do you like to read?”

  “Of course I like to read,” he said.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Obscure Russian philosophers?”

  “I’m more into Tom Clancy. Military stuff. Strategy, politics. What do you read, Us Weekly?”

  I sniffed haughtily. “Not my taste.”

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You probably prefer the British tabloids, Bernadette Middleton.”

  “Could you not?” I groaned. “That was all Marnie’s doing.”

  “Yeah, it felt like Marnie. It had her stamp on it.” He looked down at his half-finished sandwich. “But … you, um, you did look like a movie star in that picture.”

  “Stop mocking me,” I said, blushing.

  “I’m serious. You were totally believable. You looked fresh faced and —”

  “Fresh faced?” I repeated. “Weirdest compliment ever.”

  He shot me an affectedly arrogant look. “Maybe I’m not trying to compliment you. Maybe it’s an observation.”

  “All right, Sherlock Holmes. Thanks for your analysis.”

  “Fine.” He sat up straight and looked at me. “You looked beautiful in that picture.”

  Oh.

  I blinked and glanced down at the table, collecting my thoughts and feelings, which were scattered all over the place.