The Year of Shadows (24 page)

The shades overhead scampered away, but one lingered above me, its face cocked to the side like a bird.

Still, I stumbled into the kitchen with a smile on my face, ready to cook Thanksgiving dinner. I heard clattering noises; Nonnie must have already been in there, getting out the dishes.

But it wasn’t Nonnie making noise.

It was the Maestro.

He had set the table with our chipped yellow plates, our mismatched silverware, diet sodas from the vending machine. Baked potatoes, cooked so long they looked shrunken and wrinkled. Canned soup. A loaf of bread.

Nonnie was already seated.
“Ombralina!”
She clapped her hands. “You’re awake! Look at this feast.”

Feast? No. What we’d had at our old house was a feast. Turkey and dressing, spinach casserole and warm, buttered rolls. My stomach growled just thinking about it. I was so sick of baked potatoes and soup. The cheap kind too, which doesn’t have much in it but broth.

“I thought I would help out a bit,” the Maestro said. He straightened his sweat-stained shirt and smoothed down his hair. “To surprise you.”

I took a seat. The Maestro was watching me. So was Nonnie, smiling and swaying from side to side.

So were my ghosts, crowding at the door, staring longingly at our food. I smiled, despite my bad mood. They were back, they were
back
. Everything—school, Counselor Davis, the new ghosts, the orchestra—seemed less scary now. Smaller. Quieter.

“Get back,” Jax said, trying to shove the other ghosts away. Tillie kicked at them, puffing up clouds of smoke. “This is family time.”

Family time. What a joke.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Olivia,” the Maestro said quietly.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” Nonnie threw up her hands. Then she began to eat.

I didn’t. Neither did the Maestro. He was too busy watching me.

“Olivia, I meant to ask you yesterday.” The Maestro cleared his throat. “But in the confusion . . .”

“You forgot to ask me if I was okay?” I said. “After a ceiling crashed down on me?”

Nonnie stopped eating.

“Yes. I’m sorry, Olivia,” the Maestro said. I couldn’t look at him. “I suppose I was in shock.”

I wouldn’t say it was okay. It
wasn’t
okay. “Fine. Great.”

“Some in the orchestra, they were speaking of shadows. You remember hearing this?”

I hadn’t expected him to say that. “Yeah. I think so.” Of course I remembered. If he only knew. It was almost enough to make me laugh.

“Did you see what they were talking about?”

I shrugged, but my heart was racing. What did the Maestro know? What had he
seen
?
I think that I see things
, he’d said.
I think that I see her. But when I look again, it is just a trick of the shadows.
“Did I see shadows? Sure. There are shadows everywhere.”

“No, not normal shadows. Shadows almost like . . . creatures.” He laughed, leaned hard on his elbows. “That sounds insane, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see them?”

Yes. “No. I’m not crazy.”

We had a staredown then. The Maestro blinked first. “No,” he said. “I didn’t see them either.”

Liar. He was so definitely lying. But then, I was too. I didn’t want to admit what him seeing shades meant—that he had experienced true loss.

That he could hurt. That he could feel sad.

I didn’t want to feel sorry for the Maestro. I didn’t want to feel anything for him but anger.

Nonnie was playing with her fork, clinking it against her plate. “Let us take turns to say thankful things. Something glad.”

After a minute, the Maestro cleared his throat. “I’m thankful that Olivia did not get hurt yesterday. That she is safe and healthy.”

I stabbed my potato with my fork. “And I’m thankful for this food.” I shoved a forkful in my mouth and glared at the Maestro. “Who knows how much longer we’ll actually have any?”

His smile faded.

And just like that, Thanksgiving dinner went silent.

After I cleaned up, I ran outside to the corner pay phone. I couldn’t be in the Hall for one more second.

I dialed, and waited. Not much traffic on Thanksgiving Day. The streets were quiet. A couple of cars, a truck, and a taxi sped down Arlington Avenue. When they passed by, it sounded lonely.

Someone picked up. “Hello?”

“Henry!” Like I was surprised to hear him, even though I’d been the caller. “Hey. Hi.”

“Olivia? You okay? Are the shades back? Do you want me to come over?”

“No, it’s not that. I just . . . I don’t know. I wanted to talk to someone who wasn’t here.” Across from the pay phone, someone had painted
MONEY IS LOVE
in bright green across the brick wall at the edge of the Hall’s property. “Sometimes when I’m here for too long, I feel like the Hall is all there is in the world. You know?”

“I think so.” Henry paused. “We’re kind of eating Thanksgiving dinner, Olivia. I don’t want to get in trouble. I mean, if you’re okay.”

“Sure. I’m sorry.”

“I’d ask you over, but I don’t think I should. Family time and everything.”

I didn’t realize how much I wanted to go over to Henry’s until he said it. Maybe they had turkey, and a house that was a real house. “That’s okay.”

“Hey, Olivia?”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll be okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Midnight, right?”

“Your parents are okay with that?”

The connection crackled. “Yeah. They won’t even know I’m gone.”

The next night, Gregori Stevsky tried melting into me and Henry five times before we gave up, gasping and shivering in pathetic heaps onstage. Our bodies just couldn’t take it. We were too tired. Our minds were too full.

“You said you would help me,” Gregori growled.

Igor was going back and forth between me and Henry, licking our skin back to normal.
Would you like me to claw his eyes out?

“Hey, look,” Henry said, “we’re doing our best.”

Tillie darted into Gregori’s face. “Yeah, so back off or I’ll—”

Gregori blew her off of him with a gust of icy wind. “Or you’ll what, little girl? Kill me?”

Nobody laughed, but I don’t think it was supposed to be funny.

“If you don’t help us, what then?” another ghost said. He pointed at the ceiling. Shades had been there all day, alone or in groups of two or three. Coming close, but never too close. Darting. Watching.

Waiting.

The ghosts outnumbered them right now, and the shades hadn’t bothered them yet, not with me and Henry around. But how long would that last?

As it turned out, not long at all.

I didn’t see how it happened because I had my head on my knees and my eyes closed, trying to swallow my nausea away. Then I heard cries from the ghosts.

I forced my head up.

“Oh, no,” Henry whispered.

One of the ghosts had wandered away from the others toward the back of the Hall. A shade slithered there, back and forth across the floor. A black space behind it grew wider by the second.

Limbo.

“Don’t listen to it!” one of the new ghosts cried.

“Stop!” Tillie and Jax shouted. “Please!”

But the ghost couldn’t hear them, or maybe he did and chose to ignore them. Maybe he just didn’t care at this point. Maybe he was too tired, and from here, Limbo looked like paradise.

The shade’s arms grew to three times their normal size, welcoming the ghost in for a hug. A black smile spread across the shade’s featureless face like tar. It shrieked softly, luring the ghost closer.

Some of the ghosts around me surged forward, wistful looks on their faces, but the others held them back.

The shade stretched out its hand—a clawed, long-fingered hand. The ghost smiled and grabbed hold of it. Then it screamed, and it sounded so human, so
scared
, that I felt sick and clapped my hands to my ears. The doorway to Limbo
closed with an awful sucking sound, like a black hole collapsing on itself.

When they were gone, no one moved for a long time. A stone formed in my stomach, weighing me down. We had failed that ghost. He would be a shade now, because we couldn’t save him.

I felt the other ghosts’ eyes on me. They didn’t say anything, but I knew that’s what they were thinking too. Even Mr. Worthington seemed disappointed, or maybe just surprised, like he’d never considered we might fail.

Henry pulled me aside. His hair was dark with sweat, plastered to his forehead. “Olivia, what do we do? We’re not going fast enough, but we can’t keep on like this. Who knows, we might be giving ourselves permanent brain damage or something.”

“You’re right,” I said. “We need help.” And then inspiration hit me, as my brain searched frantically for an answer. “And I think I know just who to ask.”

T
HE NEXT DAY,
Henry and I met at The Happy Place, our ghosts right behind us.

“I don’t know how I feel about showing myself to another human.” Tillie had been muttering that all morning. “Who is this lady again?”

“Her name is Mrs. Barsky,” I said. “And she knows things, apparently. She said so when we first mentioned you.”

“Everybody
knows
things.”

“Yeah, but I think she knows things about ghosts.”

We stepped inside, and Gerald squawked, pacing back and forth on his perch. His neck feathers stood up. I wondered if he could see the ghosts no matter what, like Igor could. Maybe animals were different in that way.

“I don’t think she’s going to be too happy about this,” Henry said. “Maybe we should leave.”

“And watch the ghosts get sucked into Limbo, one by one?” I said. “Or kill ourselves trying to save them? No way.”

I hoisted myself up onto a stool at the counter. “Mr. B? Mrs. B?”

Mr. Barsky threw himself out of the kitchen with a flourish of an invisible cape. I sighed. Merlin today. He’d probably been peeking out from the kitchen, waiting for the best moment to make his entrance.

An older couple sitting by the window started applauding.

“Ah, young heroes,” Mr. Barsky began, in this lofty, wizard-like voice. “You have journeyed far and wide, through many terrors, to arrive safely at my magical abode. I must reward such bravery, of course, as is my solemn wizard’s vow.” He bowed to us. “Whatever you ask of me, is yours.” He stood back up, grinning. “Croissant? Green tea?”

Jax laughed. Tillie just stared. “This guy is nuts!”

“Actually,” I said, “we need to talk to Mrs. Barsky. Privately. It’s important.”

Mr. Barsky’s face turned serious. “Of course. Right this way.”

Mrs. Barsky was in her office, jotting something down on a notepad. Today, her beads were bright purple. “Oh hello, you two! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you around, Henry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Henry mumbled. “Sorry, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am.”

“You seem a bit out of sorts.”

“The children wish to speak with you about something serious,” Mr. Barsky said. He gave Mrs. Barsky this look I couldn’t read, and then he left us and shut the door.

“All right.” Mrs. Barsky settled back in her chair. “What’s this about?”

And we told her—everything. The séance, the ghosts—both old and new—the shades. Sharing, the ceiling.

“And now there’s too many of them,” I said quietly. I felt ashamed to say it out loud. “We can’t . . . It’s not working anymore. It’s getting too hard to share, and yesterday a ghost got sucked into Limbo. Right in front of us.”