Seventeen-year-old Alyssa Wood's life is turned upside down when her boyfriend kills himself the day after she dumps him.
Blamed by the townsfolk of Broadwater and ostracized by her friends is bad enough. But the fallout from dealing with her mom's increasingly frequent psychotic episodes sends her fleeing to New York City to live with her aunt, a Wicca High Priestess.
Alyssa doesn't believe in magic, not any more.
She has a new life to lead: a new BFF in Seth and a major crush on Ronan, the sexy geek saxophonist who tutors music at her high school.
Can she leave her old life behind or will the ghosts of the past continue to haunt her?
VANISH
By
Nicola Marsh
Copyright © Nicola Marsh 2015
Published by Nicola Marsh 2015
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They’re not distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all the incidents in the book are pure invention.
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in any form. The text or any part of the publication may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.
Discover other titles by USA TODAY bestselling & multi-award winning author Nicola Marsh at
https://www.nicolamarsh.com
Recent titles by Nicola Marsh:
Banish (YA)
Crossing the Line
Towing the Line
Blurring the Line
Walking the Line
Before
Brash
Blush
Bold
Crazy Love
Lucky Love
The Second Chance Guy
Scion of the Sun (YA)
Wicked Heat
Wanton Heat
Not the Marrying Kind
Busted in Bollywood
CHAPTER ONE
The last two months since Noah died had sucked.
Everyone blamed me for his death. I couldn't walk down Broadwater's Main Street without enduring accusatory glares or hearing disparaging voices muttering something like, “Shame on Alyssa Wood, driving that poor boy to his death.”
Though the turn-aways were the worst. People who'd once smiled indulgently when they'd seen Noah and I hanging out at the diner or having a picnic in the park would now turn their backs on me. Pretending I didn't exist.
Some days, I wish I didn't.
My five-month relationship with Noah had been the highlight of my crappy life. He’d made me happy. He’d made me feel like a normal sixteen-year-old. He’d made me forget what I faced at home every single day.
Home. What a crock.
I'd loved this place once. Loved the duck-egg-blue rendered walls, the alabaster window frames, the bay window in the front room, the russet tin roof. Loved the faded parquet floor, the clutter of old magazines, the herbs growing with riotous abandon in planters along the west fence.
Loved the fact it was Mom and me against the world.
Not anymore.
"Hey, Mom, I'm home," I called out, nudging the sunroom door open with my hip, trying not to juggle the box in my hands.
I'd bought a birthday cake. Chocolate. Mom's favorite. Aiming for normality in my increasingly freaky world.
I doubted it even registered with her that today was my seventeenth birthday. Because this morning had been just like every other morning for the last five years. Mom unable to drag her ass out of bed. Mom barely able to slip into day-old sweats and a grubby T. Muttering to the voices only she heard. Eyes glazed and unfocused from the vodka bottle she'd drained last night.
My family had a Wicca Threefold Law: whatever you dished out would come back three times worse. If that was the case, Mom must've done some really bad crap to end up how she was.
"Mom?" I placed the cake box carefully on the counter, hating how I wouldn't be able to stomach a piece because of the knot of nerves perpetually twisting my gut. "Let's have some cake."
She appeared in the doorway, her creepy wide-eyed stare boring into me as usual. I jumped. She'd been looking at me like this since I hit puberty, like she half-expected I'd morph into a monster. Sadly, she'd been the one to do that.
I missed my mom something fierce. The way she used to fill the house with wildflowers and candles and crystals. The way she practiced Wicca but never forced her beliefs on me. The way she'd dance around the kitchen to old bands I'd never heard of.
Now, Mom wrung her hands or ducked her head or stared into space, communicating with dead people. So she said.
I'd looked after her for the last five years and I was tired. So, so tired. The kind of tiredness that seeps into your bones and makes you ache. Losing Noah made that ache spread to my heart until I could barely breathe most days.
"Cake?" She drifted into the kitchen, her reedy voice making it sound like I'd offered a side of poison with it.
Doing my usual false, upbeat routine, I nodded. "Chocolate. Your favorite."
She muttered something unintelligible and sat at the wooden table for two in the corner.
"Happy birthday to me," I murmured under my breath. I opened the box and lifted the cake out, quelling the sudden urge to smash my fist through the frosting.
Why did I do this? Fake normalcy when our lives were far from normal?
I cut two pieces of cake, placed them on plates, and carried them to the table. Filled two glasses with milk and did the same. Routine, mundane stuff that helped ground me.
I did it every day. Made breakfast. Went to school. Made dinner. Did homework. Everything by rote since Noah died, and what little fun I'd had in my life faded to nothing.
And it had been my fault.
"Do you hear that?" Mom tilted her head to one side, her gaze fixed on some point beyond my shoulder.
"Hear what?"
The piece of cake I'd forked into my mouth tasted like sawdust, and I hoped this wouldn't end like our last conversation that had started out the same way: with Mom catatonic for a day.
"It's him." She refocused, eyeballing me with the kind of stare that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. "Wishing you a happy birthday."
The fork fell from my hands and hit the plate with a clatter.
I didn't want to know who the 'him' was. I didn't want to tread down this familiar road of Mom badgering me about whether I could hear what she could. I didn't want to encourage her insanity.
I stood so abruptly my chair hit the wall. "I've got homework to do—"
"But it's Saturday and it's your birthday," she said, managing to sound wounded on my behalf.
She did this sometimes, had short bursts of lucidity that did nothing but build my false hopes that the Mom I knew and loved was still within the faded shell.
"Sorry I didn't get you a present." She toyed with her cake, pushing crumbs around her plate.
"It's okay," I said, a stupid, conditioned response, when nothing about our home life was okay, and hadn't been for a long time.
"Next year will be different. You'll see." She pinned me with a surprisingly clear stare, before the shadows clouded over again. "You need to keep the faith."
Faith? I'd given up believing in anything a long time ago. Losing everything I'd ever loved did that to a girl.
"Sure, Mom." I turned away, blinking back the tears, muttering "whatever" under my breath.
"Isn't that Kelsey coming through the gate?" she asked, and I ducked behind the pantry door, not wanting to see my friend. Not when I was on the verge of losing it.
; If she said one kind thing, I'd probably blubber all over her.
"You girls chat. I'll be in my room."
Guess I should be grateful for that, because no way did I want anyone seeing my mom the way she was. Townsfolk talked enough. They'd been talking about us for years. By the towering stash of empties in our trash, they thought she was an alcoholic. They'd be saying a lot worse if they knew the truth.
I'd kept up the charade of normalcy well, because no way did I want social services to be called. Living at home, I had my independence, even if I was the primary caregiver in this house. But being shipped off to a foster home? I'd rather pretend to hear dead people chatter like Mom.
Kelsey knocked on the back door and I mentally counted to ten, wishing she'd go away. I could hide in the pantry until she left, but considering she was the only friend who had stuck by me after Noah's death, I felt obligated to see her.
We'd grown apart when I'd dated Noah—my fault—and I'd acted like a douche after he died, ignoring her condolence text and email. Thankfully, she hadn't given up on me and had been trying to snap me out of my guilt-ridden grief ever since. Which effectively meant I couldn't blow her off without feeling worse than I already did.
Wishing I didn't have a conscience, I stepped out of the pantry. And my heart sank. Because the moment I caught sight of Kelsey in her skintight black mini dress, towering ankle boots, hair straightened and full make-up, I remembered why she was here.
The annual Broadwater High retro dance, run by the social committee, the most popular jackasses in school. Biggest social event on our calendar. The party to end all parties. An annual event not to be missed. Unless you weren't invited.
I'd never missed it. Until now. Because somehow my invitation had ended up in the same place as Mom's voices: in the great beyond.
I didn’t believe in Mom’s Wiccan religion. Often wondered if it had somehow contributed to her lapse. Whatever supernatural stuff dogged my mom, I didn’t want any part of it.
Kelsey had been bugging me to show up anyway. And by the manic way she was gesturing at me to open the door, she was about to give it one last shot.
Bracing myself for her usual irrepressible exuberance, I opened the door and held up a hand. "Before you say one word, Kel, I'm not coming and nothing you say can make me."
Kelsey rolled her eyes and bumped me with her hip on the way in. "Two words for you." She held up two fingers for emphasis. "Social. Pariah."
She took a seat at the table, her eyes lighting up when she spied the cake. "You need to face those bitches head on, and showing up tonight is the way to do it."
Shaking my head, I sat next to her. "What's worse than not being invited? Showing up like some kind of desperado."
Kelsey patted my hand. "You know the people who matter don't listen to gossip and they'll want you there."
Hating how my heart leaped at her pep talk, I eased my hand out from under hers and folded my arms. "Yeah, like who? Name one person apart from you who wants me there."
I saw the answer in Kelsey's quick look-away glance before she even spoke. "Our usual crew."
I didn't have a crew. Not anymore.
Because of Mom, I'd never been one of the cool kids at school. Parents talked at home, kids picked up on it. Mom being a weirdo ensured I was, too. So I'd spent the last five years trying to prove everyone wrong. I'd become a joiner. Trying anything, from cheerleading to newspaper editing, never mastering stuff, but at the forefront of every school event anyway. It didn't stop the stares or whispers, but gradually my bravado had worked. Kids were okay hanging out with me. And dating an older guy like Noah had given me serious street cred.
Until I'd dumped him. He'd killed himself the next day, and I'd gone right back to be being mocked and slandered.
Kids blamed me. Everyone did. Hell, I blamed myself most days. But no one knew what had happened between Noah and me that last day and they never would.
My pain was still too raw, my confusion swamped by my guilt. And no way would I put myself in the position of being ridiculed further by turning up at the dance when I could barely look kids in the face in school hallways.
"They're your crew, not mine," I said, wishing Kelsey would leave so I could mope in peace.
Because the reality was, I loved music. And the retro dance was the highlight of my year because hearing the old hits from bands like Bon Jovi and Aerosmith and Backstreet Boys reminded me of Mom in her better days. The days she'd grab my hands and swing me around the kitchen, shimmying to songs I'd never heard of, before we'd collapse onto the sofa and giggle until we could barely breathe. Days I'd give anything to have again.
"Sammy's not going, if that's what you're worried about," Kelsey said, her blue-rimmed eyes wide, as if she didn’t dare mention my nemesis. And the girl who'd found Noah's body.
"I don't care what that cow does," I said, making a mockery of my bold declaration by swiping at the sudden sting in my eyes. "I'm not going because I don't feel like it."
Kelsey's pity was palpable. She didn't buy my pathetic excuse for a second.
It didn't matter if Sammy wasn't attending the dance. She'd done enough damage to my reputation the last few months. We'd been enemies since eighth grade, for a variety of reasons that seemed pretty childish now. And after she'd found Noah's body hanging in the town's gazebo she'd turned on me even more, screaming obscenities on Main Street during the after-school rush-hour, torturing me, blaming me. Like I wasn't already blaming myself enough.
"Please come." Kelsey grabbed my upper arms and gave me a little shake. "You need to get past…this."
"This being the death of my boyfriend, you mean?" I shrugged off her grip and pretended to slap myself upside the head. "Oh, that's right, I meant ex-boyfriend. Because that was the catalyst for his suicide, you know. Me dumping him. Everyone says so."
I was acting like an idiot, off-loading to the one person who'd stood by me through the mess. But I was over the constant taunts, the constant blame, and not being invited to the dance I loved really rammed home the fact how much I'd been ostracized.
"Cut the crap." Kelsey sighed, her pink-glossed mouth turning down at the corners. "You sure you don't want to come? Prove them all wrong?"
"I can't…" My voice barely above a whisper, I cleared my throat. I didn't like sounding weak. I couldn't afford to be, not with Mom worsening by the day.
I forced a smile. "Thanks for trying, Kel, you're the best."
She hugged me, a fleeting embrace that felt great. "And by the way, I haven't forgotten it's your birthday, so we'll hang out tomorrow and do something nice, okay?"
"Sure," I said, knowing that tomorrow wouldn't happen. Kelsey's folks dragged her to church on Sundays, then they did family stuff together, like picnics or canoeing or hiking. I envied her.
She stood and tottered toward the door on her too-high heels. "And I'll fill you in on all the gossip from the dance." She must've glimpsed my pained expression despite my best efforts to hide it. "Or not," she said, blowing me a kiss at the door. "Chat tomorrow."
I waited until the door closed before slumping into the chair, staring at the uneaten chocolate cake—evidence of how pathetic my life had become.
I'd bought my own cake. I'd received no presents, bar the usual Wicca paraphernalia Aunt Angie in New York City sent in her consistent efforts to try to sway me to her way of thinking. And I hadn't been invited to the biggest event in high school history.
My resentment grew the longer I stared at that cake. Anger rose to heat my cheeks, and made my hands shake until I clenched them into fists. I raised my right hand and smashed it into the center of that damn cake. Frosting flew. Splattered the walls, the table. A blob landed on my nose.
I didn't care. I left the mess, knowing I'd be the one to clean it up in the morning. I headed for the sanctity of my room, where I could nurse my hurt and humiliation in peace and mull the eternal question: what the hell had I done to deserve this?
CHAPTER TWO
I
hid away in the sanctity of my room, wasting thirty minutes bawling and another ten stomping around, kicking the wall twice for good measure. Then I slumped down to the floor and pulled the box from under my bed, knowing I shouldn’t do this.
Going through my precious stuff when I was feeling down had become a habit. One I had to break, because it got me nowhere, other than feeling more miserable than ever. Because looking at relics from my past—my happy past—only rammed home how much I'd lost when Mom's…condition, or whatever it was, had spiraled out of control.
I unlocked the small blue steel box and eased it open, the lump in my throat growing when I caught sight of the necklace. A thin gold chain, with a red jasper pendant. Mom had given it to me when I'd turned five. The stone had protective powers, apparently. Pity it was doing such a lousy job so far.
I'd retrieved the necklace from the trash last year, where Mom had thrown it after a major meltdown. Despite not wearing it for years, I'd wanted to jar her memory of better days, when we were a team. So I'd worn the red jasper alongside an old pentacle pendant, hoping to get Mom to open up about what was really bugging her. Cue a psychotic episode when she'd ripped the necklace off my neck, ranting about failed protection and dire consequences and sinister spirits.
I hooked the necklace with my finger and lifted it up, watching the pendant swing side to side like a pendulum. Maybe I should try again. Try to shake her up. Snap her out of the stupor that had her shuffling around the house talking to the walls.
A knock sounded at my door and I dropped the necklace in the box, slammed the lid shut, and slid it under my bed. Mom never came near my room and I braced for the next wave of crappy luck that my life entailed these days.
"Come in." I stood and brushed myself down, hating that I felt gauche and awkward when Mom opened the door and stepped into my bedroom.
"You're not going to the dance?"
My jaw dropped. Mom didn't know what I did on a daily basis. She never asked about homework or boyfriends or parties, normal stuff a mom would want to interrogate a teen about. She just didn't seem to care anymore.