Denny points at a pink lock that looks both new and cheap. My vision tunnels out until all I can see is the fleshy tip of his finger.
Then the curve of the cutter’s blade.
And his finger again.
“Try that one,” Denny says.
“Sure,” I say, my throat sandpaper dry.
I position the blade carefully around the arm of the lock. My hands are slick with sweat as I push the handles together.
It’s a cheap thing, bubbly seventh-grade writing and dollar store written all over it. It should give, but it doesn’t. I push harder, ears ringing. Lean into it because this is stupid. It should have cut the metal with the first push, and it isn’t… It won’t—
I ease the handles open, and slam them shut fast and hard. The lock drops, and a scream erupts in the air. So shrill, so loud that I’m sure I have cut off a finger. I drop the bolt cutters, hands clamping over my ears as the scream grows into a hundred…a thousand. All I hear—all I feel—is this noise, a terrible shriek that electrifies my teeth.
It goes on and on and on.
And then when my mouth is stretching around my own scream, it stops.
It should be quiet now, but my ears are wrecked, ringing and throbbing like I’ve been standing too close to a fire alarm. Or a bomb.
Denny grabs my arm, and I can see he’s concerned. Checking my hands. His lips are moving, pressing together, opening and shutting. He’s saying something I can’t hear, because my ears don’t work. His voice is a low, underwater hum beneath a high-pitched whine.
Denny’s lips move again, and I hear him.
You said it meant something.
That’s not Paige, not us.
I thought it meant something!
Someone else’s voice. Someone else’s words.
A glimpse of shiny pink catches my eye. The lock—broken—sits on the decking. My foot shoots out, kicking it off the bridge.
My ears right themselves in an instant. No ringing. No humming. No strange girlish voices floating out of Denny’s mouth and into my ears.
I can hear him now, the real Denny, shaking my arm hard. “—into the damn railing, and what the hell is going on with you?”
“Nothing,” I say automatically. My voice rattles out with a wheeze. I clear my throat. “Sorry, I hit my funny bone.”
It’s bullshit, and he knows it. He watches me for a long minute. Lights a cigarette and picks up the bolt cutters.
“Sorry,” I say again.
“I can’t babysit you, Theo.”
“I know.”
“This is a job. It needs to get done. If you’re too… If you can’t do this…”
A stab of worry hits my middle. “I can. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t have time for this shit up here, kid. I’ve got to earn a living.”
“I know. I do. I think…” I reach, searching the bridge, the river. I need an explanation that is less batshit crazy than the truth. “I think I need to stay hydrated up there. I’m achy all over. Every little thing is setting off my nerves.”
“You’re not drinking?” Denny asks, but he’s already nodding. He wants to believe it, because it makes sense. Hell, I want to believe it too. Except I know better.
“All right,” Denny says. “Run up to Anita’s and fill you up a jug.”
Gabriel catches up with me at the end of the ramp. He looks sallow and frightened, like a sickly kid.
“Where’d you run off to?”
He doesn’t answer, but falls into step beside me. I don’t have any money, so I grab my thermos from the truck, a dented mess with a broken handle. There’s still water from yesterday, and even though I’m not particularly thirsty, I drink several long swallows.
“Did you hear something up there?” Gabriel asks, his voice small.
I wipe the lukewarm water off my chin. “Yeah.”
“I thought I heard something too,” he admits.
“From all the way down here on the street.”
I’m teasing, but he flushes hard. “I got scared. It was a whisper, real far away. You know how that is…when you’re sure you can hear something, but it’s too far away to make out?”
“Yeah, I know about that,” I say. “But that’s not what I heard. I heard a scream like someone was getting their spine ripped out an inch away from my ear. And then a girl’s voice saying something about it meaning something… Hell, I don’t know.”
“Was it Paige?”
“No. Not Paige.”
Gabriel looks at me gravely. “You shouldn’t cut those locks, Theo.”
“Because some ghostly woo-woo voice is going to scream at me when I do?” I shake my head, feeling a familiar rush of anger. “Screw that. Screw all of this shit.”
“No, because it’s not helping. You’re making whatever this is angrier.”
Heat flares in my chest, and my hands roll into fists. “Good. Maybe I’m doing something right. Maybe cutting these locks is exactly how we break…whatever the hell this is.”
“Your uncle. He didn’t hear anything.” It seems like Gabriel is talking to himself. He’s gone very still again, leaned against the truck. “I’m going to talk to one of the ghost hunters.”
“Ghost hunters? What the hell are they going to do?”
“Hopefully they’ll help us figure out how to stop this. Cutting that lock could have started some sort of downward spiral. We need to talk to someone who knows what to do.”
My laugh sounds mean. “The only thing they know how to do is to con drunk tourists into handing over hard-earned cash.”
“They’re as close to experts as we’re going to find.”
“Fine,” I snap. “Tell you what. You go talk to your ghost hunters.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I’m pretty sure you can make a solid guess.”
He swallows hard, looking terrified. “You’re going to cut off more of them.”
“Yes, I’m going to cut those locks. First, because it’s my damn job, and I need to not get fired. And second, because I want to do it. I’ll do whatever it takes to end this, and if that means cutting off a thousand screaming locks, I’ll do it.”
I storm back up the steps, not bothering to look back. My head is pounding and my vision is smeary, and I don’t give a shit. ODD is generally nothing but hell, but today it’s exactly what I need. I don’t say a word to Denny when I jam in my headphones and crank my music.
I pick up the bolt cutters and move to the first lock. My music blares loud enough to make my headache throb, but when I cut off the next bolt, it’s not loud enough. The scream cuts right through the chorus. It tunnels past the headphones, deep into my ears until it’s clawing at the inside of my bones.
I move as fast as I can, throwing my whole weight into every cut. Ignoring the waves of agony and nausea that follow. None of the locks come loose easy, and the voices—God, the voices are a nightmare. No amount of thumping bass or shrill guitar drowns them out. Young and old, male and female. They whisper and cry and moan, interrupting each other, tripping over each other’s sentences.
Never ever—how could you do this—you never meant a word—I love you—you’re always—forever—don’t touch me—my everything—this is special—what we have—I should kill you for this—I love you—you never—I always—it’s over.
Then there’s no music, no screaming, no sound at all. I stumble to the railing and spot the glint of our lock—Paige’s and mine—down the line.
The whole world whirls harder and faster. Something gray closes in at the edges of my vision. I realize too late what’s happening, that I’m passing out. But I don’t feel myself hit the wooden walkway. I don’t feel anything at all.
Paige
After lecture, the entire day is a blur of rewrites and independent work. It’s what
I love most about this program. In high school, class ends and you go home. The learning stops. Here, it’s endless. Melanie and I sit on our beds, fingers flying across phones and laptops alike. Music plays softly, and we take breaks to sing and to raid the vending machines on the third floor. I can almost forget about her strange questions.
I feel so normal, so completely right in this place.
Melanie orders pizza late at night and still doesn’t ask about my anxiety. With notes strewn across the foot of her bed and her hair in a messy ponytail, it’s hard to imagine her spying on me. But is it spying? A healthy friendship might include that kind of concern.
I wouldn’t know much about healthy friendships.
I try not to think about Theo. I’m mostly successful, until we turn off the lights. Then I can’t think of anyone else.
I hugged him today. I felt his arms around me and the heat coming off his body. What does a hug like that mean? What does it change? Our feelings for each other are out and open, and somehow it’s muddier than ever.
What are we supposed to be now?
Because Theo is different, and Theo is the same. I am broken, and I am a survivor. We are good and bad together. I don’t know how to make sense of it.
Hours pass, and my sleeping pills sit, untouched, on my end table. I clench my sheet to my chin and listen to Melanie breathing. I’m sure I won’t sleep. Absolutely sure of it. And then Melanie’s phone alarm jangles me awake.
I bolt upright, blinking in the jarring brightness of morning. My heart pounds as I smooth my hair and force myself to my feet. I don’t want her to think I was dreaming, to have anything to report to my parents.
I dress quickly and brush my hair and teeth in record time, and this time there is no blood. There’s also no pain. My universe is one hundred percent normal. Except that there’s an awful feeling swelling in my chest and sinking in my middle. A feeling that something is wrong—even if I’m not sure what.
That part is normal for me too. It’s the feeling I’ve lived with most of my life. Maybe I’m not the healed, fully functional girl I thought I was.
Back in the room, I slide my bag over my shoulder and force myself to smile at Melanie. I even suggest picking up coffee at the decent shop just off campus, putting all the perk I can manage into my tone.
After lecture, we’re last in line for the equipment, and some of the water tests take six hours to develop. After a quick check-in with Dr. Lutmer, Melanie and I take off for the day to practice our project presentation. We’re two days out, and we seem to have it together.
Melanie starts us out with the video. It looks so good that I feel a little sick watching. She’s covered everything—testing sites, methods, data validation. My palms sweat on my phone as I flip through my notes for the conclusion.
That was my piece. I slaved every night over it, and the research is solid. But after Melanie’s multimedia piece, it feels small and plain. I have note cards on a phone app. Melanie produced a motion picture.
Also? She doesn’t require note cards. She didn’t even glance at her phone while speaking, and she still sounded smart and polished. A total natural. In contrast, I’m stilted and unconvincing. I stop a few cards from the end, feeling my cheeks go hot.
“I need more practice.”
“You’re doing great!”
“Not really. I need to make a few tweaks.”
“Don’t give up! You’ve got this!”
My stomach twists. Her tone makes me feel like I’m back in gym class, trying to climb that rope. Jolie and her crew are snickering on the bleachers. And Melanie is the gym teacher brightly cheering me on—and secretly knowing I’ll never be the girl who will get this right.
I close my phone, sure I won’t be able to string together two sentences now. “I’ll get it. Your part was pretty mind-blowing. I’m just nervous.”
I leave off the part about me possibly also being inept, but it’s in there. My nerves are in knots. How am I going to keep up with her? She’s got to hate that she did this project with me.
“Look, it’s only a video,” she says. Because apparently she’s a mind reader too.
I try to play it off. “What do you mean?”
“Making a video is great and we’ve got good information, but the arsenic you found is the ticket. That’s interesting.”
“I’m not even sure it matters. Like you said, it’s all filtered out.”
“Still, you’re the reason we know it’s there to begin with. Your instincts are good. If you hadn’t asked the right questions, we wouldn’t have this angle in our report.”
One that my conclusion doesn’t reflect yet. I nod and close my phone. “I’m going to edit it a little. Could we look at it later?”
“Don’t worry, okay? We’ll think of something together.” My shoulders tense. I feel like she just patted me on the head.
I’m not being fair. She’s probably being nice. Unless she’s not.
I don’t know how to read her anymore. Does she see me as a good partner, or some kind of charity case? Someone who’s exceptional at research, or a girl who’ll never be strong enough to handle real college on her own? Who knows what she thinks of me.
Who knows what anyone would think of me. I’ve got medicine on the dresser, but a stack of academic recommendations. Bitten-down nails, but a neat and tidy wardrobe. A friend like Melanie and a friend like Theo. Maybe we’re all contradictions in the end.
“Okay. Twenty-five minutes till our lab time,” she says. “Break ideas?”
“Enough time for more coffee?”
“Definitely. But I’m going to postulate that when you say coffee, you actually mean the milk shakes with a vague coffee aftertaste that I prefer.”
“Postulate? Really?”
She frowns. “I know. There are way too many p-words this week.”
We hit the lab by ten, with half-empty drinks and a serious caffeine buzz cranking. We have the place to ourselves so far, so Melanie starts the music, and I check the samples we left to process last night. This time two are positive for arsenic.
“That can’t be right.”
“What?” Melanie asks.
“Two of the samples are positive now.”
“Positive?” She turns down the music and looks, frowning. “You were right.”
“It was just a hunch.”
“No, it was smart thinking.” She presses closer to the screen.
“Should we call someone?” I ask, eyeing the results. “This water is the source of the city’s drinking supply. Arsenic builds in the system.”
“The filtration system still would eliminate it,” she says. “They check the water and equipment around the clock. Remember the tour?”
I do. Pipes and machines and pumps…and I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. I thought it would feel more—sanitized.
“It’s a fascinating angle for the report, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way history affects us. That angle will give your conclusion some real spark.”
I close my mouth so I won’t say what I’m thinking. I didn’t know my conclusion needed a spark. But now, it’s all I can think of. Her video with tasteful font overlays and background music. And my note cards. Of course it needs more.
“Oh, yeah, this is totally it,” she says, nodding at her phone. “The factories that sprouted up along this river have been rising and falling for more than a century. Failing businesses aren’t concerned with what they toss out or leave behind, but garbage tells a story. History stains everything. I think you should use that.”
My thumb is in my mouth, teeth worrying at the nail before I have the sense to pull it free. I press my hands to the table, noting her glossy manicure and perfect skin. What stains did her history leave? In that moment, I think I hate her. For being better. For ha
ving more. Maybe because I feel so small beside her.
“Okay, where do you think it would leak from? We found it near the bridge,” she says. “Runoff from old trains is my suspicion.”
I force my tense shoulders to unclench. There isn’t time to change any of this. I need to do my best and finish the job.
“It’s not the trains.” The steadiness of my voice surprises both of us, I think. “It’s been decades since trains used the bridge. Anything that dripped out would be long gone. I think it’s leaking out of the bridge itself.”
“From underwater?” she asks. Then her eyes go wide. “Like those supports.”
“My friend told me about a boat crash a few years back. It hit one of the underwater supports. They did repairs, but maybe they missed something.”
“It also means that someone in the water near there could be really exposed, right? You said arsenic can build up in the system, causing all kinds of medical issues.”
I pull it up on my phone then, a list that churns my stomach. I recite some of the heavy hitters out loud. “Headaches, dizziness, respiratory failure. Psychosis.”
She laughs. “Maybe that’s why I’ve been nuts this week. We were in that water!”
My body goes cold. Could I have missed a detail like this? Is it possible that all this stuff I’m experiencing isn’t what I thought? Because tainted water feels a lot more likely than some spooky ghost out to haunt me.
“Either way, it needs to go into the report,” she says. “I say we check the supports. If we can find any existing damage from that wreck, we could totally propose that. Nothing better to end a project on than a little bit of conspiracy, right?”
I try to answer, but my voice won’t come. I nod instead, and Melanie frowns.
“If it scares you, you don’t have to.” Her expression is gentle. “I don’t want to force you to do something that’s difficult.”
Goose bumps push up on my arms, and I struggle to find a neutral expression. She’s watching me, waiting for an answer. Maybe still waiting to report back to my parents on how I cope with a change in plans.
“Difficult?” The sound I make is a terrible imitation of a laugh. “No, it sounds fascinating. I knew my conclusion needed to be stronger.”