Alive (15 page)

When I get back in the car, I know two things. First, that unmistakable pain is already busy crawling back into the cavity of my chest.

Second, it’s past five oh eight.

A sculptor. Tall, wiry, craggy-faced. Shards of limestone crumble to the floor. His hammer strikes at the toothed chisel.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

I watch the falling stone break into powder and dust as pointed metal bites into rock.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

The ra-ta-tapping is coming from inside my skull, which is eggshell thin. Petrified calcium. The metal spike tries to break through to the other side. I watch and feel, waiting for the stone to
morph into…into something.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

Louder now. My eyelashes are moth wings fluttering toward the light until my eyelids snap apart and darkness burrows into my pupils. I search the room, confused. It comes into focus, slowly at
first, outlines of a desk, the foot of my bed, a chair and a nightstand blurred by the moonlight. My chest is raw and achey.

Tap-tap.

My heart skips. I sit up in bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. At the window is a face with hooded eyes and skin that shines an eerie silver. Shadows criss-cross my bed and I sit still
underneath them.

“
Stella?
” The voice is muffled through the thick pane of glass between us. “Stella, are you awake?”

“Levi?”

“Yeah. Who’d you think it was?”

I swing my legs out of bed and land barefoot on the plush carpet. “I don’t know, an axe murderer? That was my first guess.” I’m wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a thin
white T-shirt. No bra. I pad over to the window, unlatch the top, and slide up the bottom half to create a space large enough to crawl through.

“Sorry to disappoint.” He smiles wickedly, teeth gleaming. “Can I come in?”

I peer down through the open window. He’s wearing the same dark jeans and black V-neck he wore a few hours ago. I nod and, with hardly a sound, he hoists himself into my room, where we
stand together, my nose inches from his chest.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper, feeling small as he looks down at me.

And then his hands are cold and damp against my neck. His thumbs skim my jawline, pulling me in. “I missed you,” he breathes into my lips. The ache in my chest is a memory. I let his
fingers skim the length of my spine, finding their way to my hips as he guides me. I follow his lead, mouth pressed into his, as if caught in a dance. And then I’m falling backward. His arm
curls around to catch me and I land with a light thud on the mattress, caught in a cocoon of down comforter and twisted bedsheets.

“I missed you, too,” I venture, pressing my nose into his shoulder. I look up and our mouths find each other. His tongue is soft at first. Twirling. Testing. He tastes cool and
salty, like the sea.

Gradually, his kisses grow stronger, more purposeful, and I work to keep up. The bones of his hips lock against mine. I feel heady, the fabric between us a formality. He hovers over me, and
before I can resist, my shirt is over my head, the air cold and exhilarating against my bare skin. He covers my entire length without even touching me. My body hums as his kisses wander lower. Icy
lips caress my throat. I arch in anticipation. I can’t stop myself—or him. I’m powerless.

He lightly touches the bone between my breasts, causing me to gasp. He plays my flesh like notes on a scale. Rising, rising, I get higher and higher.

“Yes.” The word flows out of me in a slow murmur as his fingertips graze my rib cage, tracing each ridge until he reaches my belly button. Underneath his weight, I squirm closer.
“Please,” I whisper, so softly I’m not sure he can hear. But in response, his hand slips from my stomach to the groove of my spine.

He kisses the underside of my chin. I tilt my head back further, anticipating the next touch.

There’s a nip at my neck. My breath hitches. The next time, nails sink in. I cry out but can’t get up. My arms are pinned. I try to kick, but the weight of him is too much. The nails
pick at the top of my scar and it breaks open, tearing me apart where I’ve been stitched together. Only they are nails no longer. There’s the glint of moonlight on metal and I see the
scalpel in Levi’s hand, wielded like a knife as it shreds at my skin, too deep to feel.

I watch as Levi raises the nasty, surgical point, red eyes glowing in the darkness. It’s aimed at my heart like a scorpion ready to strike. I shriek as it plunges in and—

My chest convulses, and I lurch off the bed, then slam back down on the ground. It convulses again and my body is tossed as if I’m possessed by demons, but then, once I fall for the last
time, I also fall still. The first thing I realize is that I’m awake. The second: I’m alone. My pajamas are soaked through and I’m lying in a pool of sweat. I sit up, heart
thumping.

My shirt’s been tossed to the floor. I flip on the nightstand lamp to see scratch marks etched across my chest in angry lines like stigmata. A rabid cat could have gotten to me. If only I
didn’t know better.

I hold my shaking hands up in front of my face and turn them over. My breath rattles, catching in my lungs. Underneath my own nails are thin traces of pink.

“Come outside.” The flat surface of my iPhone is cool pressed against my face. It’s early for a Monday morning. Any morning, I guess, but especially a Monday.
The air’s dark and chilly. Daylight has already begun to shorten on both ends.

“Am I under arrest?” asks a husky voice over the line.

“No, your chariot awaits—you know you want a ride to school.”

“It’s early.” A whine, but a good-natured one.

“I’m told the driver’s stunningly attractive, so you better get moving.” I click the phone off and drop it in the center console.

Steam billows off my car, swirling in the headlights and out into the fresh morning air. From inside the two-story brick house, I see a pair of fingers poke through the blinds and then
disappear. Seconds later, Henry stumbles out, his backpack looped over one arm while he tries to button his uniform over a white undershirt. Henry lives in a Betsy Ross–style home with a
white-and-blue awning that embellishes its bay window and a Washington Huskies flag flapping alongside the front door.

A crisp breeze rushes in as he slides onto the passenger seat. Neither of us is dressed for the drop in temperature. He blows hot air into his hands, removes his cap, and tousles his damp hair
with long fingers. Droplets nip at my cheeks and I try to shield myself from the rest. Being with Henry is a lot like having a standard poodle puppy in the car. Curly head and gangly limbs, neither
of which he can seem to control.

“Where’s this stunningly attractive driver I heard about?” He stuffs his backpack between his knees.

“Okay, that part was a ruse, but I did bring coffee, which in my opinion is better anyway.” I point to the second cup holder with a travel mug.

“This is why you are not a dude.”

“I’d always thought that was one of my better qualities.”

Henry jiggles his mug from the holder and takes a sip, jerking away with a wince when apparently the contents are too hot. He touches his fingers to his lip and looks at the cup with a frown.
“Okay then, to what do I owe this pleasure at”—Henry glances at the clock on the dash and returns the mug to its original spot—“seven oh five
A
.
M
.?”

I’d spent all of Sunday feeling anxious. I couldn’t sit still for any period of time. I’d grab a book and quickly decide I’d prefer to watch TV. I’d flip the
channels and not be able to find a single thing to watch. I offered to give Elsie a bath. I hovered around my mom in the kitchen. I attempted homework well before dinner. But the dream continued to
color my mood for the entire day. I had to remind myself that none of it was real. Of course, I knew this, but that didn’t stop me from sneaking looks underneath my shirt to check that it
hadn’t been clawed open, or from recalling the dream as though it weren’t a dream at all, but instead a memory. Thin pink scratches crisscrossed the skin. Where my nails had dug deeper,
there were orange-yellow scabs, rimmed in red. They’d now started to itch.

A quick Internet search about the meaning of dreams and I’d come across an article that I thought at least came close. The category “horrified dreams” described a nightmare in
which the dreamer is typically murdered or torn apart by wild animals. It’s a stretch, but it’s caused by an onslaught of negative emotion, usually guilt, which fits the bill. Granted,
the horrified-dream effect is one most often seen in psychological evaluations of serial killers, which I’m most definitely not, but I
am
guilty of killing a potential
relationship.

“I…” My eyes search his and I lose the words I’d intended to say. His eyes are so perfectly sweet. A little droopy, like he might have just woken up. That would be just
like him. Sleepwalks to the shower, throws on a shirt from the pile of clothes lying at the bottom of his closet, and stuffs an uncooked Pop-Tart in his mouth while he drives to school. From bed to
school in fifteen minutes flat. There are dashes of pink on his cheekbones and the fresh smell of soap on him—such Henry-ism. “I just wanted to say sorry for not making
Lunatic
Outpost
on Saturday,” I say. “What’d I miss?”

I have to tell him, I think, grimly. Unless I want to take up insomnia, the guilt will tear me apart. It’s clear that I won’t be able to see where things go with Levi if I’m
not honest with Henry.

But when his face lights up I think it might break me in two. “Oh, it was awesome,” he says, clearly gearing up to tell me every detail.

Putting the car in reverse, I let it roll back out of his driveway. Henry and I used to carpool to school more often. His house is on the way home to mine, but we’d gotten out of the
pattern. The upheaval caused by my illness made keeping any routine next to impossible.

The worst part is, he doesn’t even seem mad. In the past few days I’ve ditched him twice and there’s not so much as a slam of the door to let me know what a bitch I’ve
been. I mean, that’s what I would do.

“It was about body snatchers,” he begins.

“Like the book?”

“No. Well, kind of. Quentin took all these calls from people claiming that their real bodies had been invaded by aliens or whatever. They didn’t call them aliens, but that was the
gist.”

“If their bodies were snatched, then what bodies were they calling from?”

“That was the weird part. Each had a different story. Most said they were now cohabitating in the body of their girlfriend or brother’s best friend or something. Just quietly taking
up residence.”

“Aside from taking the time out to call into podcasts, of course.”

“Of course.” He turns toward me. “Okay, serious question: if your body got snatched, whose would you take?”

I squint one eye shut, thinking, while Henry hums the tune to
Jeopardy
. “That’s easy. Harry Potter’s,” I say. Years ago, Henry and I had concocted our
most-epically-awesome-graduation-slash-never-grow-up-slash-off-to-college dream trip. We would go to Universal Studios to visit the Wizarding World of Harry Potter and afterward we’d walk
through the House of Horrors maze thirteen times in a row or until the park kicked us out—whichever came first.

“Harry Potter? That’s not even a real person!”

“We’re talking about a world where aliens-but-not-aliens invade people’s bodies. I think I’m entitled to take liberties with the Wizarding World.”

“Fine. Then I’m going with the Wolf Man.”

“Circa 1940s or the remake?” I ask in earnest.
The Wolf Man
is a cult favorite among regular
Lunatic Outpost
listeners. It’s regularly cited as actual evidence by
people calling into the show. Example:
“I know there’s a werewolf living in the woods behind my house, because I hear the same type of howling as in the final scene of
The Wolf
Man
.”
Case closed.

“Remake. Way scarier.”

I roll my eyes. We have a fundamental difference of opinion when it comes to remakes versus originals. The only thing we agree on is that if someone tried to reboot
The Twilight Zone
again, we’d both puke.