“Yeah, you’re in luck; looks like your mom and Steve are still out.” Janine turned down the volume. “Do you need help getting in?” she asked. “Do you have your key?”
I nodded. “I can do it.” The air conditioning was blowing hard and I knew it would be awful getting out into the humid night air. My shorts were cold and damp against my skin: I wished I’d remembered to get a bag to sit on. I wished Janine could remember to put the car roof up at night. I reached out and pulled up the handle and leaned into the door. I stumbled out and bumped the door shut with my hip. I swayed a bit in my driveway and watched Janine drive off.
I fumbled through my purse for the key and lost my balance, slamming down hard onto the driveway. “Crap!” I sat up and brushed away the small pebbles sticking to my hands. I dumped my purse out onto the pavement; lighters, brush, tampon, change — no key. I stuffed everything back in, trying to remember if I was the last one home and if I might have left the door unlocked.
I stood up and held on to the side of Steve’s car, waiting for some semblance of equilibrium. A drop of sweat rolled down my brow and I wiped it away. At least my mom wasn’t home yet. I hate having to pretend I’m not trashed.
A warm breeze snaked its way slowly by and I smiled, breathing in the honeysuckle that grew along the driveway. How many years had it been since Lisa and I had pulled the stamens out of hundreds of blossoms for just one drop of nectar? And what had become of us? I spend a great deal of time getting wasted, and Lisa’s in rehab.
I leaned back on Steve’s car and breathed deep, wanting to remember summer days with Lisa. Things were so easy then.
Oh, God. Coconut.
I sat up, feeling icy cold. I smelled that overpowering coconut lotion that Michael used to wear. The hairs on my arms and neck stood up, my heart pounded. Sickeningly sweet coconut permeated the air.
My head cleared and I bolted for the door. With each breath I drew in that scent, wondering how was it possible? Michael was dead, but I knew without a doubt he was near. Somehow he was out there. In my yard. Close. I fell onto the front door and turned the knob, thanking God it was unlocked. I opened the door and slammed it shut behind me before pulling the deadbolt.
I stood in the entrance hall, breathing in the stale, moist air as I looked into the dark rooms on either side of me. I smelled the two-week-old day lilies rotting in their vase on the entryway table. I smelled the old perfume that clung to my mother’s coats in the open closet. No coconut. I counted ten breaths, and then slowly turned back to the front door, squinting out the black windows.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. God, I can be so stupid.
Someone probably dropped a bottle of suntan lotion in the street, I thought. Janine probably ran over it. That was the smell. I walked to the door and checked the deadbolt. I peeked out and saw my purse lying in the driveway.
Shit.
Just get a grip and go out and get it, I told myself, but I just stood there frozen. I decided to let my mom bring it in when she and Steve got home. Better to get a talking to about leaving valuables on the ground than to go back outside.
I turned and started up the stairs feeling wobbly again. I went into my room, pulled my shirt off, and flopped onto the bed. My stomach churned from too much wine and ranch dip. Why do I do this? I hate going to bed feeling like I’m going to puke.
The air was so sticky. Sweat trickled down my chest and soaked into my bra. I looked up at the window, still closed. I groaned, remembering the grackles.
Stupid birds! I thought, sitting up. Stupid freaking birds with no purpose but to torment me. Why couldn’t bluebirds be nesting in there?
I sat up on my knees and lurched toward the window, fumbling for a grip on the sill. I grunted as I slid the pane up.
Coconut.
“Jordan.”
I screamed and rolled off my bed, landing on the floor.
“Help me, Jordan. Let me in.”
A dark figure was perched in the branches outside my window. I knew that voice.
Michael.
“Who are you?” I asked, though every part of me already knew the answer.
“It’s me, Michael,” he moaned. “Help me, Jordan. Please, help me. Let me in.”
I slowly pushed myself away from my bed, never taking my gaze away from the dark window. I couldn’t see a damn thing, though; it could have been anyone. But I knew it wasn’t.
“Michael?” I squeaked out, half hoping this was some kind of joke, because how could Michael be sitting out there in the dark?
“Jordan, help me. Open the window. Let me in.”
He sounded so sad, so scared. I wondered if it had all been a mistake, the newspaper articles about Michael’s suicide, how they found his body with his throat cut? But how could it be? There’d been a huge investigation; all the local news channels had covered it. They thought he’d been murdered at first, but then there was no sign of a struggle, no other footprints, no other fingerprints on the knife.
I stood up slowly, rubbing the rug fibers off my sweaty arms. Part of me wanted to go to Michael, and part of me was terrified he’d come crashing through my screen.
“What is going on, Michael?” my voice rasped out. “Everyone thinks you’re dead. They had your goddamned funeral today!” I took a step toward my bed, trying to get a look at him. Was he a ghost?
“Why weren’t you there, Jordan? Why weren’t you at my funeral? I stood outside my house tonight. I couldn’t sense you. You were never there. I went to my house to see if you were at the party they were throwing. I’m fucking dead and my parents break out the chips and soda for all my friends! But not you; everyone but you.”
Then he started to cry. I couldn’t believe it. Somehow Michael Green was sitting outside my window. Michael Green was sitting in my tree crying like a baby. My head was spinning.
“Michael, I’m sorry, but… what happened to you? How can you be here?”
“This thing attacked me, Jo,” he sobbed. “It jumped me from behind. Out of nowhere this thing comes flying at me. I couldn’t fight it off, it was so strong. So strong. It cut my throat before I knew what was happening….”
Michael started sobbing again. My eyes felt wide and dry, and I forced myself to blink.
“It was laughing, drinking the blood pouring from my neck, and I couldn’t move. It held me in its arms just lapping it all up. I wanted to scream and puke but the fucking thing cut my neck. Do you know what it’s like feeling your lungs fill up with blood and not being able to scream?”
I stepped back until I brushed against the wall. It felt cool on my skin, and I wished I were farther away from the window. I wanted to be very far away, not listening to this. I wanted to scream at him to get away from me, from my window, but I just stood there wishing this were all a nightmare. Knowing it wasn’t.
“Jordan, let me in. I’m so cold.”
“Michael,” I whispered. “I can’t believe this. It’s not possible.”
“Let me in,” he growled, “and you can feel the scar on my throat. It’s thick and white and I catch myself rubbing it. I rub it and pinch the skin with my fingers wondering how my neck put itself back together. And my body doesn’t work like it used to, Jordan. Sometimes I start breaking apart, turning to mist or fog or whatever, and have to use every fucking ounce of energy I have to stay in one piece. Let me in and you can see! Help me figure out what I am.”
“But they said you were cremated,” I said, trying to shoot down this whole crazy story. “They were going to bury your ashes today.”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “The wonderful, compassionate prick at the funeral home probably filled my urn with kitty litter. I wake up on this slab, and I don’t know where the hell I am, and I can barely feel my arms and legs I’m so cold, but I’m happy, see, because I thought I was dead. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy, and I sit up, and I look around and see where I am, but I’m still happy because I think it’s a miracle I survived that lunatic’s attack.
“‘Hey,’ I called out
. And I’m so happy my lungs aren’t filled with blood, and there is actual sound coming out of my mouth. ‘Hey, there’s been some sort of mistake.’
“And you know what? The guy isn’t so happy to see me. He’s not looking at me like it’s a miracle; he’s looking over at me like I’m a piece of shit. ‘Damn,’ he says, ‘I had a feeling about you; I should have been prepared for this.’ And then he looks around all wild like, and grabs this huge needle and starts waving it at me, pointing to this door with his other hand. ‘Get out!’ he says. ‘I won’t deal with your kind. Get out of here and do everyone a favor by getting the hell away from here.’”
Michael was crying again, and I realized I was rubbing my skin raw rocking back and forth against the grit my mom had put in the paint to give the walls some texture.
“But then,” Michael continued, “I don’t move or anything, ’cause I don’t understand what’s going on, and the son of a bitch lunges at me with the needle. ‘Get out of here!’ he screams, so I jump off the table, but my legs aren’t working real good, and I wipe out on the floor. I’m lying there naked and the son of a bitch kicks me, screaming at me to get out. So I did. And I came to you, Jordan. I knew out of everyone you’d be the one to help me.”
“But I can’t,” I stammered. “I don’t know how.”
“Don’t let me down again, Jo. I don’t think I could take it if you let me down again. You owe me. But you have to open the window. You have to ask me in.”
Then it clicked. The blood, the invitation.
I’d seen enough horror movies to know why Michael didn’t come crashing through my window I knew he’d figured it out, too, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to invite a vampire in; the idea was absolutely ludicrous. It was a death wish.
I have to laugh now — I was so sure I’d never let him in. But how many times have I played out the scenario in my mind since that first night? How many times have I imagined opening my window and letting Michael take me away from all the crap in my life? And how many times have I sat on my mother’s bed, slowly shaking a bottle of Valium back and forth,, staring at the little pills as they clicked and clacked in their brown container, thinking how nice it would be to just sleep and not have to deal with anything.
It really wasn’t such a ludicrous idea after all.
CHAPTER SIX
I take my seat behind Paul Grubrick, whose six-foot-something frame makes an excellent cover when I don’t feel like contributing to the class discussion, and I can avoid making eye contact with Danny when he shows up. I have to be careful because, as much as I’d like to take Janine’s word that Danny’s still interested in me, Janine is famous for reading too much into things, and I don’t want to humiliate myself.
Mr. Pappas walks in and slaps a stack of papers on his desk. “People, you disappoint me.” He’s shaking his head, frowning at the essays we handed in last week. “You’re supposed to be the best and the brightest in the school, yet I find myself holding a plethora of papers filled with banal insights and shaky grammar. And might I remind some of you that not liking Pilgrim at Tinker Creek does not give you a free pass for marginal work.”
I exhale, thinking my paper’s okay. I thought the book was cool. I liked the way the author spent all this time alone hanging out with nature and avoiding all the nonsense that comes from living with people.
When I read it a month ago, I actually fantasized about Michael and me running away from this suburban hellhole to the wilds of Canada. The book takes place down south, but I thought Canada sounded more remote. I even pictured some English class reading my book about it someday: A Year in the Yukon with Michael!”
It was a short-lived fantasy, though. The night I asked Michael what he’d think about living in a rustic cabin by a stream or lake, he said it sounded like a total snooze fest — worse than sitting through a musical. Seeing as vampires can’t cross running water or swim, lakeside living was probably a bad idea, anyway.
Mr. Pappas looks up at the ceiling, spots a pencil hanging in the acoustic tiles, and hops up on his desk to pull it loose. “I’ve never understood the appeal of lodging a pencil into the ceiling,” he says, jumping down. “Ah, the machinations of a bored mind. And I hope you all remember that ‘machination’ will be on next week’s vocabulary test.”
He checks out the people heading in late. “Mr. Douglas? Definition please!”
I peek around Paul Grubrick and see Danny walking in with Sara LaRue. Sara hurries to her seat, looking immensely relieved that she didn’t get called on.
“Uh, definition?” Danny asks.
Mr. Pappas looks up at him with his eyebrows raised. “Yes, Mr. Douglas, the word is ‘machination.’”
“Uh — uh — okay,” he stutters. He has the cutest way of stuttering when he’s nervous. “Machination, a scheme or plot for, uh, an evil end.”
“Very good, Mr. Douglas. Now, take your seat and try to be on time tomorrow.”
Danny starts shuffling to his desk, then pauses. “Uh, actually, Mr. Pappas, unless someone intended the pencil to fall out and injure someone, I’d say stuffing it into the ceiling tiles is more an act of stupidity”
The class laughs, and Mr Pappas smiles. Nobody has to worry he’s going to get mad at being corrected, like some teachers would. Mr. Pappas isn’t like that. “I have to agree with you, Mr. Douglas. Truth be told, I just couldn’t think of a better segue into our next two books — plays, actually. We’ll be leaving Thoreau and Ms. Dillard behind to examine the inner workings of some troubled minds.” Mr. Pappas places the pencil on his desk and points to a stack of books on the windowsill. “Mr. Douglas, why don’t you and Miss Shaw pass out Hedda Gabler and Othello while I hand out these papers. I’ve noted on a few of these that a rewrite is required, and one of you will find a note suggesting that he actually read Ms. Dillard’s book.”
A collective groan goes out as Mr. Pappas starts making the rounds.
I watch Danny walk to the windowsill and grab a pile of books. He’s really tall, basketball tall, and really gawky when he walks. The basketball coach used to harass him about joining the team freshman year, until he saw Danny shoot hoops in gym class. But when he’s running he’s amazing to watch. All his muscles just click and start working right.
Mr. Pappas clears his throat and I lookup. He shakes his head and frowns as he leaves my paper upside down and moves on. What now? I glance sideways at Gina Naples, but she’s too engrossed reading the comments on her paper to care about mine.
I flip it over and start to shake. There’s no grade. None. Just a big red “SEE ME” scrawled across the top. What the hell does that mean?
I start reading my paper trying to figure out what’s wrong.
“Heads up!” Danny drops Hedda Gabler on my desk and smiles at me. “Miss you at practice. Uh, Coach is trying to get a winter track thing going, you should, uh, try out for it.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I mumble, my cheeks firing up.
Miss you? Does he mean he misses me, or the team misses me? What does he mean? I wonder if it is possible to implode?
I turn back and watch him hand out a few plays, and wish I could’ve gone out for the cross-country team. I remember when he started running with me at practice. Man, I had to hustle to keep up with his long legs. Then he started sitting with me on the bus rides to our meets, and one time we found this really cool moth stuck against the side of the bus, and I told him I had a thing for insects, which is not something I’ve shared with a lot of people. I discovered early on that most people do not find insects as fascinating as I do. Most people find insects repulsive, and when they find out you have a thing for six legged critters, they find you repulsive as well.
But I got brave and told him about the hissing cockroaches I used to have. My dad sent them to me from South Carolina when I was ten. My mom freaked. “Your father’s sitting in some fancy beach house and sends giant bugs to my home. Who the hell does he think he is!” But I got to keep them because she didn’t want to give him th
e satisfaction of knowing it pissed her off. I sometimes think the only reason he sent them was to get to her.
But they were so cool; these huge, fat, shiny cockroaches that hissed when I picked them up. Lisa even got used to them, and one day we put them in the tub just before her brother was going to take a shower. We laughed our asses off when her soccer star brother screamed like a girl over a few roaches in the tub.
When the last one died, my dad said he’d send some more, but he never did. I guess he figured it wasn’t worth the hassle if my mom wasn’t put out.
But Danny didn’t look at me like I was some nut job for having cockroaches as pets. He got all excited and told me about the ant farms he’d had all over his room when he was a kid. He’d had nine of them connected with plastic tubing. And it turned out we’d both read this ant book by this Cornell University guy. We were in some sort of geek heaven on those bus rides. I’d even stopped mooning over Michael. All I was thinking about was Danny, wondering when he was going to make the move I was sure he was going to make.
He finally did at the end of the year track party at Melissa Smith’s house. It was different from the usual parties I go to: no booze, no smokes, just barbeque and soda. I didn’t really want to go because I couldn’t remember being at a party without being wasted. Well, not since seventh grade, anyway, and I really didn’t hang out with anyone on the team outside of practice. But I knew Danny was going to be there, and if nothing happened that night, I would have to wait until school started again to talk to him.
The party was actually fun, and I realized how nice it was conversing with people who were of sound mind and unaltered states. I almost started thinking this could be a new thing for me. Sobriety.
A bunch of us were hanging out in a gazebo, and somehow Danny and I had managed to sit next to each other. I needed to go to the bathroom, but I didn’t want to lose my spot. Finally the crowd started to thin out as people got up to get a soda or go swimming, and it was just Danny and me sitting under these small twinkling lights. It was so nice being with him, talking about books we’d read and bands we liked. And then he just leaned in and kissed me.