Wintergirls (9 page)

A hand touches my shoulder and a guy whispers in my ear. “It’s okay. Go on. I’m right behind you.”

I trip, then shuffle, eyes down, over to her mom. Mrs.

Parrish drapes her arms around me without a word and lays her head on my shoulder. I pat her on the back. Mr.

Parrish shakes the hand of the guy behind me and says something that I can’t hear because Cassie’s mom is so heavy that she is dragging me under the hip-deep water in the sanctuary and down through the marble floor. She wants us to sink below the basement into the warm crawly dirt, where Cassie has a room waiting, so the three of us can curl into critter balls and wait for spring.

The hand touches me again. Mr. Parrish pulls us out of the ground and unpeels his wife from me. He fierce-kisses my forehead, but can’t find anything to say.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” says the smoke-eyed Elijah guy attached to the hand that is holding mine.

“Words aren’t enough.”

He pulls me into the tide moving out the door. I stumble, and he grabs my arm to keep me from falling.

“Drink this.”

Elijah pushes a heavy mug of hot chocolate toward me. I don’t remember who ordered it. I don’t remember walking here.

“Go on.”

I use both hands to pick up the mug, and sip. It burns my lips and tongue and my pink throat. Serves me right. My hands shake as I set the mug back down, and it sloshes on the table. He pulls paper napkins from the metal holder to wipe up the spill.

I know this place, I’ve been here before. It’s the vegetarian diner a couple of blocks from the church, the place with chill music, hemp bagels, and petitions at the cash register.

“How you doing, Emma?” he asks.

It takes a minute to register that he’s talking to me, that I still haven’t told him who I am because it’s easier to lie. I should say “Much better, thanks, how are you?” with the good-girl smile, but I am too freaking tired.

He pushes the soggy napkins to the end of the table.

“Seeing dead people can be weird.”

I hold my fingers in the steam rising from the mug and watch the cook working the grill, the toaster, and the blender. Cassie is sitting in every chair, laughing, chewing, pointing at the special on the menu.

“She’s not in her coffin,” I blurt out.

He freezes for a second, eyes fixed on mine. His hair is washed and pulled back into a short ponytail. The wooden plug in his earlobe has been switched out for a hollow bone circle that makes a round window next to his jaw.

He’s wearing a button-down dingy shirt with a sad black tie. His hands are clean. He shaved, sort of.

“I know,” he says. “That’s just her shell, not her soul.”

I shake my head. “That’s not what I mean. She sat up in the coffin. Then she disappeared. Didn’t you see that?”

He lays both of his hands on mine and leans forward. They’re so warm they should be glowing. “Do me a favor,” he says slowly. “Take a sip, close your eyes, and breathe.”

“That’s dumb.”

He smiles and nods. “Yeah, I know. But do it any-way.”

My hands raise the mug to my lips again. I am muffled in white velvet sheets. The beads click on my abacus: twelve ounces of hot chocolate = 400, but I am freezing. I need to gulp the whole thing down and ask for more drink one mouthful and ignore the taste.

I sip, set down the mug, no spilling, and close my eyes.

Breathe, he said. I breathe in pancakes and french fries.

Nervous smells.

“Keep breathing,” he orders, his voice a rumble of far-away thunder.

The cook puts something on the griddle and it hisses.

Chair legs scratch the floor as the guy sitting at the table next to us leaves. Someone lifts a rack of glasses that tinkle together like rain. A couple of women laugh, their voices tripping over each other. The bathroom door squeaks.

“Ready?” he asks. “Open your eyes. Don’t think. Just open your eyes and be still.”

The diner comes back into focus: tables, chairs, lights, kitchen. Posters covering the walls. Through the hole in Elijah’s earlobe I can see the crescent moon and stars painted on the wall under the clock. The girl sitting next to it is not Cassie. Neither is the waiter refilling her mug.

I turn in my seat to look around. Nobody here is Cassie.

I’m safe.

“Better?” he asks.

“Better. Thanks.”

“No problem.” He spears a forkful of waffle drenched in maple syrup. “You had a shaky moment. It happens.”

He shovels the waffle into his mouth.

“Wait,” I say. “Where did that come from?”

He points to the table next to us. The waitress hasn’t cleaned it off. It still has her five-dollar bill stuck under the saltshaker, a half-empty cup of coffee, a dirty fork, and an empty place mat with syrup stains.

“They were just going to throw it away.”

“That’s disgusting, what about the germs?”

“Free food never makes me sick. You want some?”

“No way.”

He laughs so loud that people turn and stare.

“Are you always this strange?”

He laughs again. “Stranger. See this?” He rolls up his sleeve to show the tattoo that takes up his entire forearm: a muscular half-bull, half-man thing riding a bike through a wall of flame, with wings sprouting from its legs and arms and helmet.

“What is that supposed to be?”

“He’s the god of bike messengers. Cool, huh? This vision of him came to me one day when I was delivering a package to a law firm in Boston. Saw him so clearly I thought he’d reach out and choke me. He had to go in my skin.”

“You have visions.”

“It’s a gift. You should see the tattoo on my butt.”

“No, thanks.” I give the diner a quick glance. Still no Cassies. “What if you get a vision you don’t like?”

“Doesn’t matter if I like it or not. What matters is that I pay attention, and figure out why it was sent to me.”

His eyes dart to something over my shoulder, and he suddenly shoves the waffle plate across the table, almost dumping it in my lap.

Our waitress appears, long denim skirt, thick Icelan-dic sweater, tiny shells dangling from cartilage piercings.

BMI 23. She rests the tray on her padded hip and frowns at the waffles. “When did you order those?”

“I didn’t,” I say.

Elijah gently kicks my leg under the table. “My buddy gave them to her,” he says. “The guy with the beat-up Bruins jacket—he left a couple minutes ago.”

She narrows her eyes, smelling a scam. “Are you sure?”

“He didn’t stick us with the bill, did he?” Elijah asks.

“No.” She shakes her head. “He paid.”

“Left you a good tip, too, so no worries, right?” He points to her tray. “Is that mine?”

She sets the plate of toasted brown bread and a small crock of red jam in front of him and walks away without another word.

He dumps the jam on the bread, spreading it thick with the knife.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He takes a bite. “Anything.”

“What’s a bike messenger with visions doing in the middle of Nowhere, New Hampshire?”

“I don’t live in Nowhere, I live in Centerville. Want a bite?”

Sure “No.” I shake my head. “Not hungry.”

“And I
used
to be a bike messenger. Right now I’m a handyman. Turns out I have mad skills with a wrench.”

He folds the bread in half and stuffs most of it in his mouth. “It’s crazy. I can do anything.”

“Right. Sure.” I laugh and accidentally drink some hot chocolate. “Like what?”

“Where should I start? Poet, philosopher, fisherman.

My pop calls me a bum, but that’s elitist, don’t you think?

I can split wood, spread mulch, pour beer, and grow perfect tomatoes.”

“Sure you can.”

“I’m an ace poker player, a shaman, and a wanderer in search of truth. I can drive a cab, a motorcycle, and ride a bull, but not for long. I shovel manure in an original and artistic manner. As soon as I get my car fixed up, I will become a gypsy looking for a lost world.”

“And you’re a thief,” I add.

“When the situation calls for it.” He pulls the syrupy plate back in front of him and dips the toast in it.

“Why don’t you just use your powers to win the lottery or make money grow on trees instead of stealing food?”

“That would be boring.” He licks syrup off the side of his hand. “Your turn. What are you?”

“Sad.” The word falls out.

“You knew her well, didn’t you?”

The lights flicker behind my eyes. I knew her a whole world. I knew her sleepovers and cookie sales and crushes on boybands and the time I broke my leg riding on the back of her bike and the time I helped her paint her room white after she painted it black without permission.

“Tell me something about her,” he says. “Something nice.”

“She loved waffles.”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“She said the world would be a better place if we all used waffles instead of bread.”

He eats a spoonful of jam. “Why?”

“Because they taste better and ‘waffle’ is more fun to say.”

“Good point.”

The scowly waitress comes by and leaves the check facedown on the table. Elijah flips it over and glances at the total.

I take out my wallet. “What do I owe?”

He reaches in his pocket. “I got it.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.” He dumps a handful of change by his plate.

“But only if you finish that hot chocolate. I cleaned out a septic tank to earn this money. Not that you should feel guilty or anything.”

I fight a smile and curl my hand around the mug. I am a healthy teenage girl in a diner, and I can sip a little more hot chocolate. And this feels good and I don’t want to go home, not when I’m just starting to warm up. I’ll let the skin form on top of hot chocolate and be so grossed out by it, I can’t drink any more. He can’t expect me to drink skin. I’ll stay for twenty minutes, until the library closes. “You still hungry?” I ask.

“Always. The smell of those french fries is killing me.”

“Why don’t you order some?”

“Can’t.” He points to the pile of change. “That’s all I have on me.”

I pull out my debit card and wave it at him. “No problem.”

Two french fries = 20.

I am almost a real girl the entire drive home. I went to a diner. I drank hot chocolate and ate french fries. Talked to a guy for a while. Laughed a couple of times. A little like ice-skating for the first time, wobbly, but I did it.

As I walk in the house, the whispers start up again. . . .

. . . she called.

thirty-three times.

you didn’t answer.

body found in a motel room, alone.

you left her alone.

should should should have done anythingeverything.

you killed her.

I try to squeeze them out by focusing loudly.
I am walking up the stairs. I am walking in my room. I am—

you left her alone.

—shut up, I am throwing my purse on the bed. I am
changing into my pajamas. I need my robe, I think I
hung it up—

I open my closet.

you left me alone.

Cassie is leaning against the stack of boxes. She tilts her head to one side and waves. “Have a nice time?”

I slam the door so hard the frame cracks.

She almost went to a doctor two years ago
. The stuffing/puking/stuffing/puking/stuffing/puking didn’t make her skinny, it made her cry. Her coach bumped her down to the JV soccer squad because she couldn’t run fast enough. The drama teacher told her that she wasn’t “shining” bright enough so she didn’t get the lead in the play.

“I can’t stop, but I can’t keep going,” she told me.

“Nothing works.”

I totally supported her. I looked up the names of docs and clinics. I e-mailed her recovery Web sites.

And I sabotaged every step.

I told her how strong she was and how healthy she was going to be and how proud I was of her and I dropped in how many calories I ate that day, the magic number on the scale, the number of inches around my thighs. We went to the mall and I made sure we used the same dress-ing room so she could see my skeleton shine in the fluo-rescent blue light. We went to the food court and she ordered cheese fries, chicken nuggets, and a salad. I drank black coffee and licked artificial sweetener from the palm on my hand. She asked me to guard the door while she puked lunch into the dirty mall toilet.

We held hands when we walked down the gingerbread path into the forest, blood dripping from our fingers. We danced with witches and kissed monsters. We turned us into wintergirls, and when she tried to leave,
I pulled her back into the snow because I was afraid to
be alone.

I stay up past midnight reading in the family room in the hopes that Cassie will get bored and go away. Just as I’m ready to head down to the basement to burn away my leg muscles until the sun comes up to exercise mod-erately for twenty minutes so I’ll sleep better, Dad comes clumping down the stairs and into the kitchen. I hear the refrigerator open, then a long spray of whipped cream.

The refrigerator closes and he heads my way.

“Lia?” Dad is wearing a blue-and-green-checked robe that is older than me, flannel pajama pants, and a gray T-shirt that says ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT. His feet are bare. His too-long hair, more silver than black, is sticking out all over the place. He looks like a homeless guy begging for change on a corner, but instead of an empty can, he’s holding a pie plate buried under a mound of whipped cream. The last two pieces of pumpkin pie from Thanksgiving dinner, I bet.

“What are you doing up?” he asks. “You should be asleep.”

I hold up Neil Gaiman’s latest work of genius. “I have to see what happens at the end. What about you?”

He carefully sits down in the recliner, pie plate in his lap, and digs in for the first bite. “I keep dreaming about my research and waking up Jennifer because I’m punching the mattress.” He frowns. “I should never have agreed to write this one.”

“Why not?” I ask.

He takes another bite and chews. The smell curls up next to me, sweet sweet pumpkin, whipped cream melting on my tongue That pie is almost a week old, slick mold is growing in the crust, it’ll make him sick.