Between (9 page)

“Want me to come with you?” Caroline offers. She holds up a single finger, gesturing for Topher to wait before leaving without her.

Josie appears to be studying Richie. “No,” she says. “That’s okay. I think I’ll hang around for a few more minutes, actually.”

Caroline shrugs. “Whatever. I’ll be at home if you need me.” She pauses. “Just make sure you call first. My parents aren’t letting me out without, like, advance notice.”

Richie and Josie—and Alex and I, for that matter—watch without saying anything as Caroline walks down the steps and climbs into the backseat of Topher’s car. After the three of them pull away, Richie says, “Well, I guess you should go get your coat.”

Josie nods. “I guess so.”

“I’ll come with you,” he says.

Walking into Richie’s house feels like going home in so many ways. I can’t count the number of afternoons I’ve spent here, the weekend sleepovers—in the basement, with all of our other friends—and of course, all the time Richie and I spent alone, in his room.

Like I said, his parents are hippies. It’s funny; Nicole is such a free spirit, but Richie’s mom and dad never seemed to warm to her after my mother died. My real mom and Richie’s mom were close, and his parents always liked me—but it wasn’t like our families were particularly close. Even though everybody thought Richie and I would eventually get married. Even though we lived two doors down from each other practically our whole lives.

“So this is where the magic happened,” Alex says, looking around Richie’s room. He glances at my body.

I raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, it’s not nothing, Alex. What did you mean, ‘this is where the magic happened’?”

He blushes. “You know. All the sex.” He bites his lip, still gazing at me. He might hate me, but I know it doesn’t change the way I look. “I bet you two did it, huh?”

Alex is wrong, though. Despite all the time we spent alone in Richie’s room, when his parents weren’t even home, I remember now that we never went all the way. The night in his car after prom—and later on, in the boat—was as close as we ever came. Even then, it wasn’t that close.

When I tell Alex this, he looks shocked. “You dated him for how long?”

“Since we were twelve,” I say. “Almost six years.”

He shakes his head, laughing. “Man, he must have been
frustrated
.”

“No,” I say firmly. “Richie wasn’t like that. He never would have pressured me to do anything I wasn’t ready to do.”

“Still,” Alex says, “you guys were going to be seniors, and Richie could have had any girl he wanted. I mean, he’s
Famous Richie Wilson
.”

“I know that,” I snap. “We were
going
to do it. Just not yet.”

Alex gives me a long stare. “Are you sure about that? You’re sure he felt the same way?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” I look around the room and feel overwhelmingly sad. It’s the same room where he gave me my first real kiss, the same room where we sat on his bed and talked for hours, sometimes well into the night, so many times. The bedroom is big and warm and filled with light. It’s on the far right side of the house, and it takes up the whole length of the place, so there are three windows: one in front, looking out on the street; one on the side, facing the neighbors’ house; and one in the back, which allows Richie a clear view of the Long Island Sound and the
Elizabeth
. “Why would you ask me something like that?”

“Because,” he says simply, “it looks like he sure has moved on quick.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they look awfully friendly. Don’t they?”

Before I can argue with Alex, I notice that Richie has closed his bedroom door. Josie stands close behind him, beside his bed. She has her hands on his shoulders. She tugs him closer to her.

He turns around. He stares at her for a moment. And then he kisses her.

I didn’t know it was possible, as a ghost, to feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. But as I stand just inside Richie’s doorway, watching the two of them together, I actually feel like I’m going to be sick.

Richie’s room is practically a shrine to the two of us. On his desk, below the back window that looks out over the Sound, are several framed photographs of us at different ages. There’s one of him and me standing at the bus stop together on our first day of kindergarten. We’re holding hands, both of us wearing those backpacks that look like stuffed animals. Richie’s is a lion; mine is a unicorn. Our fingers are laced together.

In another photo, we’re sitting on the bleachers after a cross-country meet. Richie isn’t a runner, but he was always there to support me. In the picture, I’m wearing my running uniform, my long hair falling over my shoulders in two braids. I’m flushed and sweaty, obviously exhausted, but I’m smiling. So is Richie. His arm is slung casually around my tanned shoulders. It was Josie, I believe, who took the picture.

The last photo—the biggest one, in a shiny silver frame—is of the two of us at homecoming last year. We look so happy. We loved each other. Like plenty of events, I don’t remember any details from the evening. But I’m willing to bet it was one of the best nights of my life.

And now here he is—my boyfriend kissing my stepsister. They wrap their arms tightly around each other. Richie is crying a little bit. Still kissing him, Josie reaches for his face and wipes away a tear. Her hand lingers on his damp cheek. Josie’s fingernails are painted a sparkly shade of deep purple, which I happen to know matches her toes exactly. I was there with her, the week before, when my friends and I went to get our nails done. My own nails are the same exact shade—but not my toenails, of course.

We’d chosen it on purpose—the nail polish, I mean. We were always coordinating like that. We loved being sisters.

“This can’t be real,” I whisper, wiping my eyes. I don’t want to see what’s happening, but it seems impossible to look anywhere else. The kiss goes on for what feels like forever. With his open mouth against Josie’s, Richie begins to back her
toward his bed
.

“I’m going to be sick,” I say, finally turning away, putting my arms around Alex and burying my face in his chest.

He shrinks from my touch. “No, you’re not. You’re a ghost. You can’t throw up.”

“I’m not so sure.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. For a moment, there’s darkness. Then something changes.

I’m in the past, standing in a corner of Richie’s room. He’s lying in bed, on top of the covers, in nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts. He is pale, hair plastered to his face with sweat. His breathing is deep and ragged.

I know this day. Seemingly out of nowhere, the memory comes into sharp focus as I watch it unfold before me.

It’s the spring of tenth grade. Richie’s parents are in Prague. They have been there for almost two weeks. The Wilsons left money for Richie to buy food while they were gone, and he’d stocked up on bread and lunch meat from the supermarket. Three nights ago he accidentally left a package of turkey on the counter overnight. He ate some anyway the next morning, and now he has food poisoning. He hasn’t been to school in two and a half days.

The entire time, I’ve been skipping school to take care of him. Every morning, Josie and I walk down the street together, heading toward the high school. Then I double back, taking alleys and side streets so my dad and Nicole won’t see me going through the porch door into Richie’s house.

Now I watch my younger self as I push Richie’s bedroom door open. I am holding a steaming bowl of broth in one hand, a glass of water in the other. He’s in so much discomfort that he barely acknowledges me. There’s a bucket beside his bed. I can smell the room; it reeks of sweat and vomit.

“Hey,” my younger self whispers. Even though Richie is the only one around, I’m still dressed to the nines, with a full face of makeup, my hair wound into a carefully tousled fishtail braid that hangs over my shoulder and dangles at my side. “How are you doing?”

“Uhhh,” he moans. He pauses, taking deep, labored breaths. Then he says, “Better. I feel a little better.”

I take a careful seat beside him on the bed. For just a second, my gaze flickers to the bucket, noting its contents, but it doesn’t seem to bother me a bit. I put the bowl and glass on his nightstand and press my palm to his forehead. When I pull it away, it’s almost dripping with his sweat. Without any hesitation, I wipe my hand on my black capri pants.

My sixteen-year-old self stares at Richie with what can only be described as real love. As a ghost, I watch the two of us, so touched by the palpable tenderness in the room that I almost forget to breathe. Not that it would matter.

“Can you sit up?” I ask, touching him lightly on his back. He glistens with sweat as he lies on his side.

“Yes.” He nods. He sits up. With a shaky hand, he lifts the glass of water from his nightstand and takes a few sips.

Wordlessly, I slip my arm around his bare waist. I press my free hand to his forehead. “You feel warm,” I murmur.

“It’s just food poisoning. I don’t have a fever, Liz. I’ll be fine.”

I pull him a bit closer. “You should go to the doctor.”

“No.” He takes one last swallow of water, returns the glass to the nightstand, and falls back against the mattress, pulling me with him. “I’m getting better. I have to. I’ve got a ton of homework to catch up on.” He pauses. “So do you, by the way.”

I ignore the comment, clearly unconcerned about homework. “We could have someone come over and check you out. What about Sharon Reese’s dad? He would stop by, I’m sure of it.”

“Elizabeth.” Richie half smiles. “He’s a veterinarian.”

I sigh as I lie down behind him, my body curled against his frame, our arms wound together, hands interlaced against his stomach. “What can I do to help you?”

He closes his eyes. “You’re doing it. You’re here. But Liz, you have to go back to school tomorrow. You know they’ll call your parents if you miss three days in a row.”

“Mmm. It won’t matter. My dad will be at work. Nicole never answers the house line. If they leave a voice mail, I’ll delete it.” I close my eyes, tugging our bodies closer together. As I watch the two of us, I can remember the way his body felt. I remember that I could see each individual pore on his shoulders and back, the tiny hairs growing down his neck, the way his skin seemed to breathe in relief from exposure to the cool air. I remember it all so clearly.

“But you’re missing class.”

“Shhh. I’m not leaving you.”

He takes another deep breath. A light wheeze sounds from his chest. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Sleep. I’ll be here.”

“Liz?”

“Hmm?”

“Why do you care about me?”

The question seems to startle me. It’s uncharacteristic for Richie, who is usually so cool and self-assured. I open my eyes. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because I don’t understand. We’re so different.”

I reach around the side of his face. Once again, I wipe fresh beads of sweat from his forehead. This time, I don’t even bother wiping my hand on my pants. I lace my fingers into his again, and the two of us lie there together, his damp clamminess seeping onto my made-up face and my pretty clothes. Obviously, I couldn’t care less.

“But we fit,” I whisper. “Like this.” And I tighten my grip around him.

“Mmm.” He smiles, his eyes still closed. “You’re right. We do.”

“Richie … I’m lying. I don’t like you.”

“You don’t?” His voice cracks.

“No.” I bring my lips close to his ear. “I love you, Richie Wilson.”

“Elizabeth Valchar. Liz. I love you.”

“We fit,” I repeat.

“You’re right,” he whispers. “We fit.”

I don’t want to watch us anymore. It hurts too badly. I would do anything—
anything
—for one more second with my arms around him, like we were that afternoon.

When I open my eyes to see the present day, when I see my boyfriend kissing my stepsister, moving her toward the same bed where he and I had once lain together and professed our love for the first time, I almost can’t look. But what else is there to do? Where else is there to go?

“Wait,” Richie says. And he pulls away just before the two of them are about to collapse onto the mattress.

Josie wipes her wet mouth with the back of her hand. “What’s the matter?”

Richie stares at the floor. Then he takes a few steps backward, toward his desk. He looks at the pictures of us.

“I can’t do this right now.”

I feel smacked. “Right
now
? What does he mean, right now?”

“It means he can do it at some point,” Alex clarifies.

“Oh no. No, no, no. This cannot be happening.”

As Josie sits on the bed, gazing awkwardly at my boyfriend, she twirls a tendril of hair around her index finger, examining the strands for split ends. She seems annoyed by his reluctance. “I know it’s hard, Richie. It’s hard for all of us. But Liz would have wanted us to be happy.”

“Not true,” I say to Alex. “Not like this.”

Richie stares at her. “What makes you think I’m ever going to be happy again?” he asks. “Just because she’s gone … it doesn’t mean anything. We never told her. It would have broken her heart, Josie.”

He crosses the room, where the inside wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Richie has read more books than anyone I’ve ever met. He gets straight As in school, and for almost as long as I’ve known him he’s said that he wants to be a writer someday. But that’s not why people call him Famous Richie Wilson.

See, he’s a drug dealer. A real one. Mostly pot, but other stuff, too—prescription drugs, like Adderall and Percocet, and sometimes a little bit of the harder stuff. He sells it to students in our high school, to people in town, even to his parents’ friends. It was the only thing I couldn’t stand about him. More than once, I considered breaking up with him because of it. But I didn’t. I loved him. And he loved me—at least, I thought so.

He reaches for a copy of
Great Expectations
, a big black hardcover book that I happen to know is hollow. Inside, it’s full of measured bags of marijuana.

Josie sits up a little straighter when she sees it. “If you’re going to do that, I’m going home.” She shakes her head. “I can’t handle it.”