One Past Midnight (7 page)

With Maddie pawing over my hair, in between drawing on my cast and telling me my hair was so, so pretty, it made it easier to keep up the act. Helped me not consider just how much of a problem I'd have on my hands if, come midnight, I shifted to Wellesley—and back into Dex's arms—with short, shaggy black hair.

By the time Maddie had finished drawing a family of bunnies, I started making us dinner, figuring Mom would work late. As for Dad, the moment he walked in the door it was clear that he had not had a good day, something that was increasingly frequent. He'd taken one look at my hair and I guess it was the final straw, since he'd simply picked up his keys and said he'd be back later.

I hadn't been surprised he didn't like it. Of course, that didn't mean some part of me hadn't held out hope—and
wasn't hurt to, once again, be a disappointment. At least silence was better than launching into one of his “we don't do all this work for you to go around looking like a tramp” lectures. And gone were the days when he could drag me back to the hairdresser and demand she fix it. So instead he would drink. It was what he had started to do after a particularly bad day at work, or when he felt one of us was not “being our best” at home. It wasn't like it happened every night, but still it was enough. And completely hypocritical.

After our macaroni and cheese, Dad stumbled in right on cue, went straight into his and Mom's room, and shut the door, leaving behind a waft of bourbon. I distracted Maddie until the banging around stopped. Despite my parents' flaws, they never took anything out on Maddie. She was the sun. For us all.

By the time Mom got home I'd read
Alice in Wonderland
cover to cover, twice, and just managed to convince Maddie to stay in her bed and go to sleep. Mom looked at my hair and sighed.

“Well, it's definitely different.”

Her way of saying she didn't like it. She sighed again, looking toward her closed bedroom door.

“I take it your father has seen you?”

I nodded, looking at my feet. “He's crashed for the night.”

Mother's intuition finally kicked in and her look
softened. “It's such a big change, Sabine. I'm just not used to it.” She smiled weakly. “But the cut is already growing on me.” Translation:
the color isn't
.

“It's fine. Not everyone has to like it, just me, right?” I said, not waiting for her response. “There's leftovers in the fridge if you're hungry.”

Mom shook her head, her exhaustion obvious. “No, thanks. Straight to bed for me tonight.”

It was the reply I'd been hoping for. “Me too.”

As soon as Mom was in her room, I slipped into the bathroom and closed the door. I took my time organizing everything, needing it to be just right. Maybe delaying a little too. I couldn't decide what kind of blade to use, so I grabbed a pair of scissors and a shaver and wrapped them up in a towel along with everything else. It took a few trips, but when I was finally back in my room I wedged a textbook under the door. The last thing I needed was for Maddie to barge in on me.

I placed most of the items on my bed, then took the roll of toilet paper and put it, along with a bowl of warm water, on my bedside table. I stopped a number of times to remind myself to breathe, but once I had everything arranged and was sitting on the towel there was no reason left to delay.

First thing—I ran a lighter flame over the blades.

It was slow going to start. Scissors weren't a good idea. I'd misjudged just how hard it would be. Forcing myself to
make the cut was bad enough—using almost-blunt scissors was impossible. By the time I'd hacked away at my thigh for a while, sucking in sharp breaths each time I tried to make a quick cut, I had to accept the scissors weren't creating enough impact.

But I couldn't give up. I needed to be sure.

The rules had changed. At least, that's what I was starting to believe. Ever since I'd woken up in Wellesley minus one broken wrist, I'd been thinking. Reminiscing over all the times I'd imagined what it would be like if the physical didn't cross over. I remembered how Casey Tulin slit her wrists in junior year, and while everyone else was mourning, I was daydreaming.
If the physical didn't cross over . . . maybe I could . . .

I didn't agree with Casey's decision, but my situation was entirely different. I've always felt deep down that by having two lives they somehow canceled each other out. That maybe the end of one life could mean the start of my first
real
one.

That's all I'd ever dreamed of.

I'd cried myself to sleep for so many years. Confused, distraught, not knowing why I was different from everyone else. Not knowing why I wasn't enough in either one of my worlds. Not knowing who I am . . .

If there was a chance . . . If I could make it so there was only one of me . . .

I growled in frustration and dropped the scissors. They weren't doing anything substantial.

I moved on to the razor blade, warm tears slipping down my cheeks. I started with my right thigh again, selecting the same area. My hands trembled, but I managed to get a few clean swipes of the blade across my skin. The result wasn't exactly what I'd planned. Using a disposable razor only allowed for a surface cut: three in my case—triple blade. What it
did
do was cause a lot of blood. It seemed like as soon as I wadded the toilet paper and covered the cut, it was already drenched.

More tears flowed. I wanted to stop, to figure out another way. But I knew there wasn't one. I needed to know if the blood theory worked; if what happened to my body in this world was
only
going to affect this body and not my other. Knowing this might be the key to a future I actually wanted.

I took a few deep breaths and waited for the bleeding on my leg to slow. Then I covered the cuts with Band-Aids and slipped into a pair of sweatpants.

I opened my bedroom door a crack. No light. The house was silent. I let the door swing just wide enough for me to slip out without it creaking. My heart thumped in my chest as I made my way downstairs. I felt like every step, every breath, was so loud that at any second Mom or Dad would come rushing out of their room and catch me in the act.

In the end, it took a while to find what I was looking for.
Someone had put it away in the wrong drawer. By the time I'd placed it carefully under the side elastic of my underwear and shuffled back to my room, I'd built up a light sweat of pure panic. It was twenty minutes before my hands stopped shaking and the churning in my gut settled down.

Once I'd steadied myself, I concentrated my efforts on the base of my ribs, hoping it was the right choice. I figured it was one of the safest, most discreet areas. Until I knew more, I didn't want to go making a terrible mistake.

You see . . . I didn't want to die.

It was the exact opposite.

I
wanted
to live.

I used the lighter to burn off the edge of the filleting knife I'd just lifted from the kitchen. It wasn't the biggest—but oh, it was the sharpest.

To my surprise, it made everything a lot easier. After a couple of false starts I managed to talk my hand into holding the knife with enough pressure to make a decent cut.

“Shit,” I said over and over as I tried to clean up. I used the warm water and toilet paper. Kept up the pressure until the bleeding slowed and then applied the antiseptic cream I'd five-fingered from the drugstore before putting on a few big Band-Aids. Afterward, I paced around my room, which meant four small steps in each direction. It wasn't much of a workout, but it gave me time to think.

“Shit.”

I sat back down on the towel, pulled off my T-shirt, and picked up the knife again. Today wasn't the day to be half-assed.

“One more,” I whispered, goading myself on as I placed the blade on the back of my upper arm. I tried to swipe the knife across in one quick movement, but I chickened out mid-slice, releasing the pressure, and barely scratched the surface.

“Shit.” I shook out my trembling hand before reposi-tioning the knife for another go. Once the blade was in the right spot I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled it across my arm with no intention of going back for a third try.

I didn't need to.

It took a while for the bleeding to slow down. Half an hour after I'd bandaged it up, I needed to start the dressing process again. I suspected this one could have used a few stitches, but that was definitely not going to happen.

Eventually the bleeding settled and I put everything away, hiding it in the bottom of my closet. I got into bed to count down the minutes.

There was no way to stop the panic. I had to run down to the bathroom twice to throw up. Partly over knowing what I'd just done to myself, partly the same sickness I always felt
this close to midnight—and in
very
large part because I had not, for one moment, forgotten what would be waiting for me the second I went through the Shift.

But there was still one more thing to do.

At twenty minutes to midnight, I swallowed five laxatives.

Reflexes took over before I could stop myself.

I knew what—
who—
it was suffocating me. I'd been waiting for the Shift and trying to prepare myself, but the second I slipped back into my other self, back into my green dress, back into the basement and Dex's arms, his warm face and wet lips slapped up against mine, I snapped.

Sometimes our own strength can be a real surprise. Mine sure as shit surprised Dex when—somewhere around what must've been Second Seven or Eight of his kiss—I launched him clear across the pitch-black basement. He fell into something that tumbled with him to the ground, making a loud clanking sound.

Too preoccupied with trying to breathe and hold off another bout of nausea, I barely even heard his response. Something about “what” and “hell.”

I felt the same way.

He clattered around, getting to his feet. I opened my mouth to start a long-winded apology, hoping I wouldn't throw up on him in the process, when the door flew open at the top of the stairs.

“Whoever is down there, get up here. Now!”

It was Lucas. Come to the rescue a little late.

“Luc, it's me,” I said, bracing myself with my hands on my knees.

His tone changed from heated to hesitant. “You okay? Who's down there with you?”

Oh, great. Inquisition.

I swallowed, still trying to pull myself together and stop the shakes. It didn't help that the effects of the alcohol in my system had hit me like a freight train. The light from the stairwell gave a dim glow to the room. Dex was moving toward me, hands out cautiously.

“It's just me and Dex,” I called back. “Luc, can you hold the door? We'll be up in a minute.”

He grunted in reply.

Dex stopped in front of me as I struggled for words. I had no idea how I was going to fix this. “I'm so sorry, Dex. I . . . I just . . . You caught me by surprise. I think I've had more to drink than I—”

“Sabine,” he said carefully, hands still out like he was approaching a wild animal. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I'm so sorry . . .”

I was mid-headshake when he cut me off again. “Sabine, you're bleeding.”

My whole body froze.

It hadn't worked.

My mind flew into overdrive. What was I going to say? How was I going to explain this? Oh, shit—my hair!

“I . . . I can explain—”

“Here.” He passed me a scrunched-up cocktail napkin from his pocket. “You must've caught it on something.”

Stunned, I looked to where he was gesturing with the napkin.

The scratch on my right arm. The
scratch
!

I grabbed at my left shoulder frantically, patting it down, followed by my ribs. And then I went to Crazy Town and yanked up my dress to look at my thigh.

Nothing.

I ran my hands through my hair. Long. Normal.

“Ah, Sabine? You okay?”

“Oh, yeah. I, um, I bumped into a few things when I came down here. I was just checking I didn't have any other scratches. You know, I, er . . . didn't want to damage the dress.”

Dex nodded as if this sounded reasonable enough.

“Sabine! Are you coming up?” Lucas called out.

We started walking up the stairs. Dex was rubbing his elbow.

“I'm really sorry, Dex.”

“Hey, don't worry about it. I'm sure I can think of a way you can make it up to me,” he said slyly.

I looked at him and smiled. It seemed to satisfy him and I was glad—I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Lucas eyed me disapprovingly as I passed by. “I suggest staying out of the basement in the future if you can manage it. It's never easy to throw off a basement-girl reputation—even for you, Sabine,” he said quietly.

In the kitchen Dex insisted on fussing over me, honorably tossing almost-topless girl her blouse and telling her and the guys to get lost while he cleaned my arm.