She’s silent in response, so I know I’m right.
I look down and see her hand in mine. I let myself feel it, let it mean more than just support.
“This is weird,” I say.
“What?”
I squeeze once, then pull my hand away. “This.”
She doesn’t get it. “What do you mean?”
Even though it’s a different situation, even though we’re in an emergency situation right now, she’s still looking at me that way. I can feel her feeling things for me. I am receiving that.
I try to explain. “It’s not like the other day. I mean, it’s a different hand. You’re different.”
“But I’m not.”
I wish I could believe that was true. “You can’t say that,” I tell her. “Yes, you’re the same person inside. But the outside matters, too.”
“You look the same, no matter what eyes I’m seeing you through. I feel the same.”
If this is possible, what else is possible?
I can’t imagine what it must be like to live like that.
A is asking me to imagine it. I know she (he?) is. But it’s hard.
I go back to her argument about this girl, about not interfering. “You never get involved in the people’s lives?” I ask. “The ones you’re inhabiting.”
She shakes her head.
But there’s a contradiction here, isn’t there? “You try to leave the lives the way you found them,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“But what about Justin? What made that so different?”
“You.”
I cannot wear that answer. It can’t possibly fit.
“That makes no sense,” I say.
Then, as if to answer my thoughts, she leans in and kisses me. I am not expecting it. I am not expecting the feel of her lips, the chapped roughness. I am not expecting her fingers light against my neck.
I am not sure who I’m kissing.
I’m really not sure.
Because if it’s A, the person who kissed me on the beach, it’s one thing. But if it’s this girl, that’s another. This girl doesn’t want to be kissed by me. This girl isn’t a fairy-tale character who can be cured by a kiss. This girl needs much more help than that. I know.
After a minute of letting it happen, I pull back, even more confused than before.
“This is definitely weird,” I say.
“Why?”
I feel it should be obvious. “Because you’re a girl? Because I still have a boyfriend? Because we’re talking about someone else’s suicide?”
“In your heart, does any of that matter?”
I know the answer she wants. But it’s not the truth.
“Yes,” I tell her. “It does.”
“Which part?”
“All of it. When I kiss you, I’m not actually kissing you, you know. You’re inside there somewhere. But I’m kissing the outside part. And right now, although I can feel you underneath, all I’m getting is the sadness. I’m kissing her, and I want to cry.”
“That’s not what I want.”
“I know. But that’s what there is.”
I can’t stay on the bed. I can’t stay in this conversation. I didn’t come here to talk about us. I came here because we need to save this girl’s life.
I stand up and try to push us back on course.
“If she were bleeding in the street, what would you do?” I ask.
A seems disappointed. I can’t tell whether it’s because I’ve changed the conversation back, or because she knows she has to make the call.
“That’s not the same situation,” she says.
Not good enough. “If she were going to kill someone else?” I challenge.
“I would turn her in.”
Aha. “So how is this different?”
“It’s her own life. Not anyone else’s.”
“But it’s still killing.”
“If she really wants to do it, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
If A weren’t in someone else’s body, I might try to slap some sense into her, this logic is so damaged. You can’t cry for help, then claim to be a bystander.
“Okay,” she says before I can go on, “putting up obstacles can help. Getting other people involved can help. Getting her to the proper doctors can help.”
“Just like if she had cancer, or were bleeding in the street.”
I see it’s all sinking in. It’s still amazing to me that she’s never had to deal with this before.
“So who do I tell?” she asks.
“A guidance counselor, maybe?” I offer.
She looks at the clock. “School’s closed. And we only have until midnight, remember.”
“Who’s her best friend?” I ask.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s what A confirms—there’s no one.
“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?” I try.
“No.”
“A suicide hotline?”
“If we call one, they’d only be giving me advice, not her. We have no way of knowing if she’ll remember it tomorrow, or if it will have any effect. Believe me, I’ve thought about these options.”
“So it has to be her father. Right?”
“I think he checked out a while ago.”
I’ve always felt like the expert on checked-out parents. What’s interesting is that now I discover another truth underneath: Even if they seem that far gone, they’re rarely all the way gone. If they were already gone, they would’ve left.
“Well,” I say, “you need to get him to check back in.”
Because that has to be possible. Maybe not easy. But possible.
“What do I say?” A asks.
“You say, ‘Dad, I want to kill myself.’ Just come right out and say it.”
That would wake my parents up. I know it would.
“And if he asks me why?”
“You tell him you don’t know why. Don’t commit to anything. She’ll have to work that out starting tomorrow.”
“You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?”
“It was a busy drive over,” I tell her, even though the truth is that most of it is just appearing to me now.
“What if he doesn’t care? What if he doesn’t believe her?”
“Then you grab his keys and drive to the nearest hospital. Bring the journal with you.”
I know it’s asking a lot.
But I also know she’s going to do it.
She’s still there on the bed. Looking lost. Looking worried.
“Come here,” I say, sitting back down next to her. I give her the biggest hug I can. To look at her, you’d think her body would break from the embrace. But it’s stronger than it seems.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispers.
“You can,” I tell her. “Of course you can.”
—
We go through it one more time. Then we both know it’s time for me to go. If her father comes home while I’m there, it will only make things more confusing.
It’s hard to leave. It’s hard to be a part of this girl’s story and then walk away from it.
I realize as I’m leaving that I don’t even know her name. So I ask A.
“Kelsea,” she tells me.
“Well, Kelsea,” I say, imagining she can hear me, “it’s good to meet you. And I really, really hope you’ll be okay.”
But there’s no way to know for sure, is there?
Chapter Eleven
When I get home, I need to distract myself. I get on the computer and binge on all the stupid websites I like to look at when my brain can’t take anything deeper. I am not expecting to find anything that has to do with me. So when I see it, I’m shocked.
Just one new window. One click. And there he is—Steve’s fake cousin Nathan—staring back at me.
THE DEVIL AMONG US!
At first I think it’s a prank. But how? This isn’t some high school website. This is a Baltimore newspaper. Not a good one, but still.
>
It’s definitely Nathan. If I was unsure about the photo, his name is right there in the article: Nathan Daldry, age 16. He claims to have been possessed by the devil six nights ago. He woke up after midnight, at the side of the road. He has no idea what happened to him.
But I do. That’s the night I danced with him.
I read the article with a strange numbness. He’s not the only person who claims to have been “taken over.” Other people say the devil went into their bodies and made them do evil things.
Only, Nathan doesn’t really specify what evil things he was made to do. He just assumes that anything he can’t remember is bad.
The devil. They are saying A is the devil.
But the devil wouldn’t have helped Kelsea. The devil wouldn’t have been so scared.
I don’t know what A is, but A is not the devil.
I think about Nathan in his tie. Awkwardly standing around the party. I wonder how much of that was A and how much of it was Nathan. I wonder what would make him think he’d been possessed. It sounds like people are making a big deal of it, and that there’s even a reverend acting as his spokesman. Is Nathan out for the attention? Or does he genuinely not know?
After dinner, I search some more. Nathan’s story has gotten out there. If A left his body right before midnight, he must have woken up without any memory of me or the party. Or did he remember the party and have to make an excuse to the police officer who found him asleep at the side of the road?
I wish I knew Kelsea’s last name so I could look her up, too. Not that I think she’ll be updating her online status tonight to say Everything’s okay! I can’t really imagine what A is going through. What A has to do. But I’m certain that A is doing it.
Because A is not the devil. And A is not an angel, either.
A is just a person.
I guess I know that. A is just a person.
—
Justin texts me when he’s off work.
Wanna hang out?
I don’t. So I tell him I’m tired.
He doesn’t text back.
—
I keep thinking about Kelsea all night, wondering what happens after A is gone.
In the morning, I can’t stand it. I realize I still have the phone number at their house. I can call and make sure she’s okay. I can pretend it’s a wrong number. I just want to hear someone’s voice. I want to be able to tell from the sound of her voice, or her father’s.
It’s nine in the morning. Nobody answers.
I call again. They can’t be sleeping. This would have woken them.
So they’re not there.
I email A:
A,
I hope it went well yesterday. I called her house just now and no one was home—do you think they’re getting help? I’m trying to take it as a good sign.
Meanwhile, here’s a link you need to see. It’s out of control.
Where are you today?
R
I think he needs to know what Nathan is saying, and the fact that people are listening to it.
I wonder if he’s dealt with this kind of thing before.
And then I step back and acknowledge how weird it is that I’ve accepted all this. I mean, I still want more proof. Which is where the idea comes from for what I’m going to do next.
I start searching the Internet again.
—
About an hour later, there’s a new email from A.
Rhiannon,
I think it’s a good sign. Kelsea’s father is now aware of what’s going on, and before I left, he was figuring out what to do. So if they’re not home, they are probably getting help. Thank you for being there—I would have done the wrong things without you.
I am sure you know this, but I am going to say it anyway: I am not the devil. Nathan had a very bad reaction to me leaving him—they weren’t the best circumstances, and I feel bad about that. But he has leaped—or been pushed—to the wrong conclusion.
Today I am a boy named Hugo. I’m going to a parade in Annapolis with some of his friends. Can you meet me there? I’m sure there will be some way for me to get away for a little bit, and I would of course love to see you. Let me know if you can make it. Or if you can’t reach me—I’m not sure I’ll be able to check here—look for a Brazilian boy with a “vintage” Avril Lavigne T-shirt on. It is, I imagine, the T-shirt of his that is least likely to be worn by anyone else.
Hoping to see you.
Love,
A
—
Annapolis is far. Not too far, but far. Especially if there’s no way to know if I’ll get to see him.
I do not have the energy to chase around after someone else.
And I have something else I want to do.
—
Justin texts around eleven. I’m guessing he’s just woken up. And I’m scared that he hasn’t, because then he might have seen me close to his house.
What are you doing? he asks now.
Just some things, I type back. See you later?
He lets that hang for a good ten minutes before answering, Sure.
Awesome, I reply.
I have to be careful here.
—
Annapolis, I keep thinking as I drive.
But I take a different turn.
—
It’s as I’m walking up the front steps that I realize how ridiculous I must look. It seemed like a good idea when it was just an idea. As an actual thing that I am doing, it’s on the sillier side of sane.
There aren’t camera crews or anything outside. No reporters. No one to notice the girl with the bag over her shoulder as she heads to the front door.
I just need to know. It will only take a minute. I’m sure of it.
He has to be the one to answer the door. It’s a Saturday, so anyone could be home.
I ring the bell and take a breath. I keep rehearsing in my head.
Then the door opens and it’s him.
Same awkward body. Same messy black hair. No tie.
And no recognition in his eyes.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
I give him a second to look at me. Really look at me.
I am the girl you danced with.
I am the girl who was with you that night.
You sang for me.
But he didn’t do any of these things, did he? He’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before. Because he’s never seen me before.
“I’m helping my sister out and selling Girl Scout cookies,” I say, nodding toward the bag on my shoulder. “Can I interest you in any?”
“Who is it?” a voice behind Nathan asks. His mother—it has to be his mother—shuffles into the frame, suspicious.
“Girl Scout cookies,” I say. “I have Thin Mints, Samoas, and Tagalongs.”
“Aren’t you old to be a Girl Scout?” Mrs. Daldry asks.
“It’s for her sister,” Nathan mumbles.
Don’t you know me? I want to ask.
But when he says no, what will I say next? How can I begin to explain?
Nathan’s mother softens a little. “Do you want a box?” she asks her son. “We haven’t had any since the Hayes girl moved away.”
“Maybe the peanut butter ones?” he says.
His mom nods, then tells me, “Let me get my wallet.”
I expect Nathan to ask me something—where I’m from, where my sister is, anything. But instead he looks embarrassed to be stuck with me. Not because he remembers the time we had together. But because I’m a girl in his house.
I start to hum “Carry On” to myself. I look one last time for recognition.
Nothing.
The difference is also there in his eyes. Not physically. But in the way he’s using them. In what they are saying to me. There’s no excitement. No longing. No connection.
His mom comes back and pays me. I hand over a box and that’s it—we’re done. She thanks me. I thank her.
Nathan goes back to his life. I imagine he’
s already forgotten I was there.
—
I get back in the car.
Pizza? Justin texts.
Annapolis? my mind asks.
I check my email before turning the ignition.
Nothing from A.
I am not going to run around a city looking for an Avril Lavigne T-shirt.
I tell Justin I’ll pick him up.
—
“What took you so long?” he asks as soon as I get there.
I realize I didn’t tell him how far away I was.
“Just running around for my mom,” I say. Running around with my mom, he won’t believe. Running around for my mom, he probably will.
He looks like he didn’t get much sleep. But, I figure, maybe he always looks like that. I try to remember the last time I saw him fully awake. Then I think, Duh, it was at the ocean.
Of course it was.
“Hello?” he says. Shit, I’ve missed something.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “Just tired. A little spacy.”
“I’ve heard that before,” he says gruffly. And I realize that, yeah, I pretty much said that to him last night. “Why so tired?”
“Life,” I tell him.
He gives me a look.
He’s not buying it.
—
We go for pizza. Once he’s got food in him, he talks.
“I don’t give a fuck what you’re doing,” he says, “but at least have the decency to let me know how long it’s going to take. It’s just rude.”
I tell him I’m sorry.
“Yeah, yeah. I know you’re sorry, but what does that really mean? When it all comes down to it, isn’t that word just one short excuse? It’s like, my dad can be King Asshole to my mom and tell her that she and I are a complete waste of his time, and then he’ll come back and say, ‘Sorry, I didn’t really mean it,’ like now everything’s fine, now everything’s erased. And she’ll accept it. She’ll tell him that she’s sorry. So we’re this big, sorry family, and I get all the shit because I refuse to play along. I get it enough from them, and now you’re doing it, too. Don’t turn us into Steve and Stephanie, because you know we’re better than that. You and I don’t play games and we don’t cover things up with sorry this and sorry that. If you don’t want to tell me what you’re doing—fine. But if you say you’re coming over, come the fuck over. Don’t make me wait like you know I don’t have anything better to do. I just sat there like a dumbfuck waiting for you.”