Another Day (11 page)

“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?

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.”

I almost say
Sorry
again. Almost.

“In case you were curious, my father finally got off his ass to see my grandmother. I told him I wanted to come and he said it wasn’t the right time. And I was like, ‘When’s the right time, after she’s dead?’ That really pissed him off. And I wanted to say,
What’s it like, Dad, to be a failure as both a son
and
a father? How do you account for that?
But he had his give-me-one-reason-to-belt-you face on. He never does it, but man, he wants to.”

“Is she getting any better?” I ask.

“No. She’s not ‘getting any better.’ Jesus.”

Fair. I need to focus. And when I focus, I see the pain he’s in. His grandmother is the one person in his family he really loves. Hers is the only blood he wants in his veins. I know this. He’s told me this. I have to stop treating it like he has no reason to be angry.

“You should call her,” I say. “They can’t stop you from calling her. Is your dad there yet?”

He shakes his head. “He’s probably still on the plane.”

I reach across the table and pick up the phone.

“So beat him to it.”

A lot of the time, love feels like it’s about figuring out what the other person wants and giving it over. Sometimes that’s impossible. But sometimes it’s pretty simple. Like right now. He doesn’t have the words to thank me, but when I hand him the phone, he holds on for a moment, lets me know I’ve gotten it right.

Right after he dials, I tell him I can go. Give him some privacy.

“No,” he says. “I want you here.” Then: “I
need
you here.”

So I stay, and watch him talk to his grandmother like it’s all going to be fine. Not going near
goodbye,
even though it’s probably the word most on his mind.

After he’s done, he puts the phone back on the table and says, “Wow, that was hard.”

I wish I were sitting next to him, not across from him. I press my knees against his knees.

“It’s alright,” he says. Then he picks up a slice of pizza and keeps eating.

I’m about to ask him what his grandmother said, but then the phone rings and it’s Steve, telling us about a party at Yonni Pfister’s house.

“We’re there,” Justin says. Then, after he hangs up, he tells me where we’re going.

Annapolis,
I can’t help thinking. But we’re going nowhere near Annapolis.

Say any city enough times, it starts to sound like a made-up place.

Rebecca is at the party. She searches me out.

“I think our boyfriends are getting pretty baked,” she tells me.

“Lucky us,” I say.

She looks at me in surprise and laughs. “Did you really just say that? Good for you!”

Don’t tell Justin,
I want to say. But I know she won’t. She might tell Ben, but he won’t tell Justin, either.

Am I the only one who actually likes Justin?

“What’s been going on?” Rebecca asks me.

“I’m just tired,” I say.

“Yeah, but tired of what?”

She’s genuinely interested. She genuinely cares. She is my friend.

I don’t tell her a thing.

I duck out of the party before it’s too late to call Kelsea’s house.

This time someone answers.

“Hello?” His voice is rough. Tired.

“Hi, is Kelsea there?” I ask. I just want to hear her voice. I just want to know she’s okay.