We All Fall Down

  Melanie sits down hard at the cafeteria table. My tray bumps left, and I flinch. She laughs, teeth too white and eyes too wide. She looks monstrous. Everything does.

  “Sorry! I’m all elbows and knees today.”

  She laughs again, and I recoil from the sound. I think of cartoon witches. Then I remember her sitting across from me while I slept. Whispering about me on the phone.

  Melanie scares me now. She’s not only the smart, gorgeous Chicago girl with a private school background. She’s the girl who’s watching me. She inspects my life the way we looked at the bridge supports. Looking for cracks in the surface. Points of weakness.

  And she might be reporting all that back to someone. About Theo on the bridge. About the way I hide my pill bottles. Maybe she and Dr. Lutmer have even talked about it.

  I’m dreaming up all kinds of paranoid scenarios like that. Most of it’s probably crazy, but the stuff I think about Theo? That feels right. He’s the only one who would have known those shoes were mine.

  I force down a bite of pasta salad while Melanie opens her juice.

  “I’ve got the new bridge data layered into the presentation,” she says. “Where are you on the new conclusion?”

  “It’s finished.” Lie. “I’ll import it tonight.” Which means I’d better finish it.

  “Or, I could—”

  A scream shocks the quiet hum of conversation in the cafeteria. I whirl in my seat, searching. My heart thumps. And then races at the laughter that follows. I smell the river and taste blood. The scream is over. Everything’s fine. It was Elise. I can see her laughing, slapping Noah’s arm playfully.

  It’s flirting, but it feels dangerous to me. It feels like a cold plastic chair under my legs. Or blood on my face. My ears hum with the sawing of my own breath. My jaw aches.

  Melanie touches my arm, and I jerk.

  “Geez, what is going on with you? I kept calling your name.”

  “I’m sorry. That scream scared me.” I immediately regret the admission.

  Melanie’s dark ponytail lies over her left shoulder. She’s frowning at me. Is she worried enough to call my parents now? Has she called them already?

  I take a breath and try a laugh that comes out wrong. “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “It’s okay.” She stops and waves at a guy I don’t know. Her smile fades when she turns back to me. “You’ve been acting weird since you ran off yesterday. I wish you’d talk to me. Did you go to see that boy?”

  “No, I got that call from my mom.” Maybe I should have said it was someone else. A boy. Melanie doesn’t comment, but she doesn’t believe me. I can tell by the way her lips go tight and thin. Or maybe that’s how her mouth looks and I’m being ridiculous. I don’t trust myself anymore.

  “I’m concerned about you,” she says. “You say you’re fine but…”

  My fork feels slippery in my sweaty hand. I put it down.

  Melanie is staring expectantly, so I wipe my mouth with my napkin. I guess I have to prove that I’m fine. Which is almost funny. I’m bleeding in bathroom sinks. I’m walking across town in my sleep. I’m finding old purses and stained shoes. And I’m kissing a boy who hit me. A haunted boy who might be haunting me.

  I’m a very long way from fine.

  But I can’t tell her that.

  And I can’t tell her I’m fine, when I’m not.

  I take a big bite. It’s like chewing pieces of garden hose, but it gives me a minute to think. I can hold up my hand and make her wait. Because whatever I say next needs to convince her that my stress is normal stress. The kind that everyone half brags about—high-pressure classes and too many extracurriculars.

  “I think I’m obsessing about college apps,” I say, because this is her language. Overachievement. Her eyes brighten, and I think I might convince her.

  “I’ve been thinking maybe I love it here too much, you know? I mean, there’s no reason to stay here in Portsville, right?”

  She looks uncertain. “Well—”

  “There are so many great science programs. It seems like a waste to come here and settle, right? I should be researching. I should have pipe-dream schools, and slight-reach schools, and a few good bets, right?”

  Melanie shifts, looking uncomfortable. “Not everyone does that.”

  “But you did, right? I mean you’re applying to some amazing schools. I know I can’t go out east. But I haven’t been considering all my options. I could look at OSU or Michigan. Or what about Purdue or Notre Dame?”

  I stop myself with another shoveled bite of noodles. It’s too much. I’m babbling. Melanie smiles, but I’m sure I’ve blown it. I don’t talk like this, turning up the ends of every sentence. And I’m not considering Notre Dame.

  I’m faking it, and I’m not doing it well.

  I’m not anxious in the amusing, manic way everyone else is. I’m a basket case. Does it show?

  I chew hard and feel the horrible hot sting of tears welling in my eyes. Melanie reaches across the table and touches me. I hate her for that, because it confirms what I thought. It does show. And her kindness makes it worse.

  “You know,” she says softly. “There’s no shame in struggling with anxiety.”

  I glare at her. Because pity doesn’t help. And neither does the soft patronizing voice she’s using. My insides wind tighter with every breath.

  Melanie seems to notice. She pulls her hand back and sighs. “Please don’t get mad at me for suggesting this, but you know that the Student Services Department has counselors on staff.”

  I’m careful to keep my voice and my expression perfectly controlled. “I’m not angry, and I appreciate your concern. Still, I wish you’d respect me enough to believe that I take my issues seriously.”

  “I do,” Melanie says. And then more softly. “I do.”

  “I have help. And if I need more, I’ll get it.”

  Dr. Lutmer comes in then, gray hair mussed and creases in his slacks like he’s been sitting too long. He gives us a friendly wave on his way to the coffee station. I wave back, and Melanie turns to look at him. His expression changes a bit. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

  Is she mouthing words to him? Or gesturing at him? My heart pounds, my smile sliding off my face.

  I have to stop this paranoia. It proves every one of Melanie’s suspicions. I can do better than this. I can hold it together.

  I scrape my way through another few bites of congealing buttered noodles. And feel her watching me.

  Dr. Lutmer moves on, and my heart resettles. But the silence between us is heavy and strained. When Elise walks over, we both perk up.

  “Hey, I’ve been looking for you,” she says. She’s looking at me, and she’s holding out a gray sweatshirt.

  My sweatshirt.

  “This is yours, right?” she asks.

  For a second, I’m confused. Then I remember. I took it off down by the river before we checked the pillars. I must have forgotten it when I found the sandals.

  I take it and thank her, trying not to think of Theo looking down from the bridge. Trying not to imagine him placing the shoes side by side on that table.

  “How did you know it was mine?” I ask her, forcing a smile a beat too late.

  “Noah and I went down there for lunch.”

  Melanie tilts her head knowingly, and Elise laughs. “Fine, we went out there to make out. Whatever. Either way, I saw this and remembered the Blue Devil logo on the back. That’s your high school, right?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “No sweat! I hope you don’t mind that I wore it home. It was chilly last night.”

  “Course not.”

  Melanie takes over the conversation, and I drape the sweatshirt over my arm and stand.

  “You’re leaving?” she asks.

  “I know,” I say, rolling my eyes
. “I’m ridiculous. I want one more run at that conclusion.”

  We all laugh like it’s the funniest thing. It isn’t. I feel like I’m floating above my shoulders. Our laughter sounds hollow, but when I stop laughing, I choke on the silence.

  My palms are slippery on the tray. My heart is banging out a strange rhythm. I have to get out of here.

  I cross the lawn to the lab, feeling half sick with nerves. Nothing sounds as good as peace and quiet, but the lab isn’t offering either. The Laurens are here. They’re pouring new samples and arguing.

  They look up at me and lower their voices. If my stomach squeezes any harder, I will throw up. I’m sure of it.

  I force myself to raise my hand in greeting. The shorter Lauren—the marginally friendlier one—gives me a sheepish smile.

  “We botched the first round of heavy metals testing,” she admits.

  The other Lauren looks like she might punch her, but my shoulders relax a little.

  “We had to run extra tests too,” I say.

  It’s a stretch on the truth. Melanie and I didn’t botch our tests. We found arsenic and decided to test additional samples. Then we found more arsenic. And I’ve tried a hundred different ways to write a convincing conclusion about the implications, but why?

  There’s nothing particularly sinister in these results. There’s no conspiracy. The arsenic is there because rivers are full of icky things. And because no matter how deep you bury them, they find their way back to the surface. That’s the real conclusion from our research.

  Back in our room, I open the almost lurid last slide of our presentation. My money shot, as Melanie called it. I slaved over it for hours, making it every bit as terrifying as I could. Now, I delete it. And I tell the truth about rivers and about filth. About Theo and me too, I guess.

  For the first time, when I sit back to edit, I feel like this is a statement I believe.

  It’s simple and obvious; truth usually is. And that applies to haunted bridges that turn out to be damaged boys, so it probably applies to me too.

  “I think it’s great,” Melanie says, startling me.

  I find her standing behind me, reading over my shoulder. I suspect she’s been here a while, quietly assessing my work. It reminds me of our conversation in the cafeteria. Tension spools around my spine like wired ribbon.

  I scroll away from the conclusion to focus on earlier pieces. I force out mundane comments about data checks and scientific notation. I even show her the probability graphs I added in, thanks to last year’s class in statistics. Math and science are the languages I speak best. Melanie nods along, and it’s almost normal between us.

  The air conditioner kicks on and I shiver, pulling the gray sweatshirt off the back of my chair. I slide my arms into the sleeves and plunge my hands into my pockets, my fingertips grazing something smooth and plastic.

  My skin goes cold as I turn it over and over in my hand. I know what it is by feel alone—antibacterial gel. It was not in my pocket before.

  At my therapist’s urging, I cleaned every bottle of this stuff out of my purse and my suitcase. That was a big step in facing my fear of germs.

  So, this bottle can’t be here. But it is. And when I pull it out, spotting the familiar glittering berries dancing across the label, I know.

  I know who bought this bottle. I know who left the sandals. I’m tired of trying to believe a complicated fabrication. This has nothing to do with the bridge, or some ghost, or my anxiety. The simplest answer is the one most likely to be true.

  The simple answer is Theo.

  Theo

  Shaun, the ghost expert, is tall and thin with a carefully trimmed goatee and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that I’ll bet he spent a long time picking out. He’s ordering a soy latte with an extra shot and light on the soy milk and a bunch of other pretentious shit that makes the barista write extra hard on her little green pad. I pretty much hate him before I’ve even said hello.

  He sits down across from us and nods through Gabriel’s awkward introductions, finally shaking my hand with a pointed frown.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, but Shaun doesn’t repeat the sentiment.

  He wears an irritated expression like it’s his natural state of being, or at the very least, his default setting. It’s less meaty-fisted asshole and more intellectually pissy, like he’s already sure I’ll fail to properly recognize the depth of his wisdom.

  Yeah, I think I’m about to fail to recognize all over the place.

  He adjusts his prissy coffee on the white napkin. “So, Gabriel tells me you have an energy haunting on your hands at the pedestrian bridge on Pearl Street?”

  “I don’t know what kind of haunting it is.”

  Shaun cocks his head. “I’ll assume that’s why you called me.”

  Oh yeah. I hate him.

  I stretch my legs out beside the table, stacking one filthy work boot on top of the other, as close as possible to his crisp jeans. “Right. Well, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? I’ve heard about you and your ghost tours.”

  Gabriel gives me an odd look, then opens his notes and passes them to Shaun.

  “I thought you might be able to shed light on the details we’ve uncovered,” Gabriel says.

  Shaun flips back and forth through Gabriel’s notes, silently mouthing what he reads. “So, you both have locks engraved with your initials on the bridge?”

  “Right,” Gabriel says.

  Shaun nods. “Could be a sort of symbolism. It could channel the energy.”

  “Channel the energy?” I waggle my fingers, and Shaun gives me a look that could melt paint off a fender.

  “You don’t think it’s a ghost either?” Gabriel asks him.

  “Not with the behaviors you’ve listed. These are all limited to witnesses with significant attachment to the bridge. Or at least to a lock on the bridge.”

  “Right,” Gabriel says. “The locks are definitely related.”

  “I’m betting the locks are the whole problem,” I say.

  Shaun shakes his head. “Random factory-made padlocks aren’t infused with supernatural powers. The energy on that bridge is the key. Understanding how the locks connect with the energy might provide you with the tools to understand that power.”

  “I don’t want to understand it,” I say. “I want to destroy it.”

  Shaun blinks at me like I’m a lunatic. “You can’t destroy energy. It’s a universal rule.”

  “Like the rule about Bloody Mary showing up in a mirror if I say her name three times?”

  He narrows his eyes, and Gabriel sighs. “I’m pretty sure Shaun is referring to the law of the conservation of energy. Energy is constant.”

  Science shit. He’s probably right, but I wouldn’t know. That’s Paige’s domain.

  “Still,” Shaun concedes. “There should be a way to reduce the impact of the energy from the locks—to shield yourself from it. Have you tried removing your lock?”

  “The last time I cut off locks, I broke an eighty-dollar pair of bolt cutters and passed out cold on the bridge.”

  “Interesting.” Shaun leans back and wipes his hands with his napkin again. “That almost sounds like an intelligent reaction. A protection mechanism. Did you look into the history?”

  “One college student who had a lock on the bridge came up with a long list of unfortunate incidents that happened to other people with locks. It was a pretty big deal. She got kicked out of the school for inciting panic and then disappeared.”

  “I’m not sure that would manifest such intense negative energy. An expelled college student seems a fairly trite cause for this level of encounter.”

  “So, could it be a ghost then? Or is it just a haunted bridge?” I ask.

  “Well, your typical residual haunting, which is what most people think of when they report ghosts or hauntings,
can be loosely defined as a recording. Some people call them place memories. A spirit or location will replay or reenact some important moment in history. For example, a woman might be seen moving down the stairs over and over, carrying her husband’s last soup tray to the kitchen. Or a house’s windows might rattle and mist with a lashing rain from decades past. Essentially, it’s a recorded memory. A moment that is trapped and replaying over and over.”

  “Well, there is a moment playing over and over,” I say. “Or parts of a moment at any rate. But it’s not some ghost’s moment, it’s mine.”

  “That’s why I believe it’s all about the energy,” Shaun says. “Energy hauntings generally manifest as a presence or a feeling. People experience them differently. Witnesses report that they don’t know how to put those encounters into words.”

  “I can put it in words. I’m smelling weird things. And hearing conversations that didn’t even happen on the bridge.”

  “Where did it happen?” Gabriel asks. “The argument with you and Paige.”

  “Below the bridge. On the docks.”

  Shaun shrugs. “If the presence on that bridge feeds on negativity, it could easily sense intense emotion nearby. But are you sure your experiences are limited to the bridge?”

  “On it or near it for me.”

  “But not for Paige,” Gabriel says. Then he turns to me. “Right?”

  Shaun perks up, putting down his cup. I’m not sure I want to answer him, but what else is the point of being here, I guess.

  “No, it’s different for Paige,” I admit. “She’s found objects from the night we argued in her room. She’s had nightmares. She woke up on the bridge after sleepwalking there.”

  Shaun puts down his cup with another frown. “Is it possible she’s possessed?”

  Is he serious? I laugh, but then my face goes hard, because I think he is serious. “No, she’s not possessed. She’s freaked out because something insane is happening, and we need help.”

  Shaun blinks at me, unmoved. “You need to find the source of whatever terrible emotion is underneath all these manifestations.”