The Unquiet (42 page)

“Maybe”—he sounds strained, uneasy—“she’s turning her into the person your mom used to be.”

“What?”

“Okay, listen. I talked to my dad, like you asked me to. And you might not want to hear this …”

“Go on. Tell me.”

“Your mom was a cheerleader, right? Millie, too. My dad says they were, like, the total queen bees of the school.”

“I already know that.”

“Bees,” he stresses. “As in bitches.”

“My mom’s not a bitch.” Not my real mom, anyway.

“She
was
, Rinn. A bitch, and a bully, and—”

“No way was my mom ever a bully! She lectures me all the time about being nice to people.” People like Cecilia, who hates me now, anyway. “Why would he
say
that?”

“She hurt people,” Nate insists. “She and her cliquey little friends were nasty to everyone. My dad says they went out for a while, but he broke it off. He went to college in New York and never saw her again. But he did get a letter, like, a year later.”

“What letter?”

“It said she was sorry, that she’d learned her lesson, and, um, that she hoped he’d forgive her so they could keep in touch. He didn’t answer it, though.”

“But why did he dump her?”

Nate says, ashamedly, “He said he couldn’t stand her anymore. She embarrassed him. But when you guys moved in,” he adds, “and he got to know her again, he was really shocked. He says she’s changed so much he’d never believe it. He likes her, Rinn, a lot. Well, at least he did,” he adds regretfully, “till what happened … you know, with you and me. In my room.”

He means till Mom accused him of trying to kill me. But what girl’s mother
wouldn’t
react that way?

“If that’s true,” I say slowly, “then she did change, Nate. Because she’s a good person now. The best mom ever. She’s always stuck by me. And I’ve done some pretty bad things.”

Nate shrugs. “Well, that’s good, then. That she changed.”

Realization dawns.

“Changed,” I repeat faintly. “Something changed her, from what she
used
to be like. And now something else is trying to change her back.”

Annaliese, you soul-sucking bitch—I will not, will NOT let you take my mother!

“People!” Mr. Chenoweth calls from the stage. “Everyone down here on the double!”

Nate urgently catches my wrist. “One more thing. My dad … uh, when he broke up with your mom? He didn’t just ‘break up,’ Rinn. He dumped her for someone else.”

He hooks an elbow around my neck and whispers her name as Mr. Chenoweth bellows, “That means you two lovebirds up there!”

Nate releases me. “Break a leg, surfer girl.”

Cecilia, who usually stands on the tier behind me, trades places with someone at the last second. I don’t know what excuse she gave Mr. Chenoweth, but now she’s two rows up and five people away. When Mr. Chenoweth eyes me in a funny way, I want to scream at Cecilia:
What do you think I’m gonna do to you, up here, onstage, in front of the whole friggin’ town?

I spy Mom and Frank in front row seats, with Luke behind them. Mom smiles up at me and says something to Frank. Briefly I fantasize about us moving back to La Jolla in time for Christmas …

Where Annaliese, that piece-of-shit traveling ghost, might be waiting for me, anyway.

We perform the five songs we’ve practiced for ages. The next one is “O Holy Night” followed by “My Sweet Lord.” Then Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus for our grand finale.

A wave of stage fright hits me out of the blue. How can I sing in front of all these people? Why the hell would Mom hide my Klonopin? Why did Nate wait till right before the show to tell me about Luke dumping my mom for Annaliese?

I don’t think I can do this. I’m petrified.

I force my tumbling thoughts aside and try to concentrate on “O Holy Night.” Though I’m not all that religious, as I sing the familiar words I feel my muscles unwind, and my spiraling brain crank to a lower gear: “
Fall on your knees … oh, hear the angel voices
…”

The lights flicker. Nobody misses a beat.

They flicker a second time.

Then one row of lights blinks out completely.

Performing like professionals, we finish the song to enthusiastic applause. Mr. Chenoweth steps up to the podium with an apologetic laugh. “Looks like we’re having some electrical issues here. Not surprising with all that wind out there. Now I’d like to introduce to you Rinn Jacobs, who, along with the chorus, will sing ‘My Sweet Lord.’”

Surreptitiously I check my hand—no fresh blood—and then head downstage to my waiting guitar. I perch on the stool, infinitely glad that Frank’s here to hear me play because he’s the one who taught me how to
rock out.
I strum the introduction, loving how George Harrison’s breathtaking notes hum through the speakers. Though it’s not a Christmas song, and not even Christian, it’s one of Mr. Chenoweth’s favorites. Frank’s, too.

I start to sing, surprisingly unafraid after all.

Halfway through, as the chorus chimes in with the hallelujahs, another row of lights blacks out. I don’t falter, but others around me trade looks. Anxiety tickles my ribcage as my slippery fingers fly over the strings of a guitar that suddenly feels like it weighs a ton.

With a
snap-crackle-and-POP
, the sound system dies. The
stage blacks out with a thump, leaving only a single row of stage lights to illuminate the auditorium. My fingers stumble. The notes, and my voice, shrink to small hollow sounds.

My vocal cords die. My hands fall limply to the strings.

Mr. Chenoweth rushes back to the podium. “Sorry, folks. I guess our ‘electrical issues’ are a bit more than we bargained for—”

As the last row of lights sputters menacingly, people in the audience rise and shuffle toward the rapidly filling aisles. I see Frank tugging Mom’s arm.

Mom doesn’t budge. She stares up at the stage, at me, instead.

Watching me.

Waiting for my reaction to the sickening black holes that, moments ago, held her eyes.

My guitar topples to the floor. Trancelike, I slide off the stool and move toward the front edge of the stage. I know Frank can’t see what
I
can see. All he knows is that Mom won’t leave her seat. Clearly I hear him say, “Wait here, then. I’ll find her.”

He stands, faces the stage as if to seek me out—and that’s when the last row of the lights explodes.

Sparks rain down, creating havoc. Kids leap up, tripping over chairs, music stands, instruments, and each other. A few braver ones wail, “
Wooo-OOOO! It’s ANNA-liese!
” Their laughter chokes off when the sprinklers kick in, spraying ice-cold water in all directions.

No longer can I see past the stage, that’s how black the room is. I can’t see Frank, and that’s bad. I can’t see Mom and that’s worse. I doubt Frank sees her, either, and that’s more horrible than anything. He has no idea he’s inches away from a demon.

Find him, find him, and get the hell out of here!

I slide my foot out, searching for the steps—but there’s nothing but empty air under my wobbling shoe.

I hear a scream.

It’s me.

Nothing.

No sound.

No light.

It’s so dark and so quiet, I’m sure this is what it’s like to be blind and deaf.
Or dead.

No, not dead. I doubt if dead people feel this wet or this cold.

My weightless head turns in a sea of black. No lights, not even emergency EXIT signs. Somebody should sue. Those things should
never
go out.

Achy and disoriented, I kneel on the soggy carpet. I don’t remember being pushed or struck. I don’t remember falling. But
something
happened to me.

I do remember the horrendous crackling, the sprinkling of electrical stars. Then a lid of darkness slapped down over the auditorium. But before that?

Yes, Mom’s face. That terrifying blur of white, those depthless black holes.

Where is she? Where’s Frank?

Where’s anyone?

My voice croaks in the void. “Nate?”

No answer.

“Mr. Chenoweth?”

Nothing.

I’m alone, but where? I have no idea.

I hobble on sore knees, flailing for something to hold on to. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

Nothing, nothing, nothing at all.

I halt at the familiar sound of a creaking door. I recognize that sound because I’ve heard it dozens of times: the tunnel door. Now I know for sure I’m on the floor next to the stage, probably where I landed when I fell.

Beyond that door I hear other things, too. Metal against metal, a tinny scritching. Jangling hardware. The clatter of metal pieces dropping to the floor.

A blast of icy air ruffles my wet hair. All around me, the air grows heavy, and the smell of chlorine coats my mouth like fish oil. Instinctively, I hold my breath till my lungs blaze. I’d run, but where? There’s nothing around me but nothingness.

Betrayed by my body, I gasp for oxygen, choking on what feels like gallons of that vile, bitter substance. Then, seconds later, I feel the
pull.

The inexplicable vacuum drags me off my knees and into the air. I’m moving, but touching nothing. Frigid oil ripples over my face as I sense, not see, the tunnel door growing closer … closer …

When I slam into the wall, no sound reaches my ears. Stunned, I lie flat on the floor and play dead. That works, I’ve heard, if you’re attacked by a bear in the woods.

I don’t think, however, this applies to ghosts.

Dazed from the blow, it takes me a moment to understand
that I’m
in
the tunnel next to a rectangle of light from the pool room door. The door knob rolls lazily into my hand, but when I try to grasp it my fingers won’t obey. In fact,
nothing
on my body works. I’m not sure which terrifies me more: knowing I may very well be paralyzed for life or that Annaliese
knocked the whole doorknob right out of the door
!

That’s when the door itself crawls open the rest of the way. Of course! What good are locks and dead bolts against a ghost? Mr. Solomon had no business firing poor Bennie. He should’ve taken a load of dynamite instead and blown the pool to smithereens. Screw the media center.

Struggling for breath against the wall of air, I roll my eyes toward the light on the other side of the doorway.

Not light.

Fog
.

The same fog I saw that day with Nate, only brighter, more distinct. My brief gratitude at seeing
any
light at all dissolves to dismay, then horror, as the vapor grows and surges, blindingly bright, and leisurely morphs into the shape of a body.

Wavering limbs stretch into place. A neck forms and grows, broadening into a head. Silky strands of fluorescent hair float on a nonexistent breeze.

The unbearable pressure of the atmosphere lifts. Shocked to discover I can move again, I start to rise—and then scream at the twist of pain in my right wrist. That’s the hand that hit the tunnel wall first. How lucky am I that it wasn’t my head again?

I don’t feel pain in my dreams. Not pain like this, so throbbing and vicious.

This can only mean one thing: “I’m not dreaming,” I whisper.