Breaking Glass (32 page)

“Thanks, Chaz,” is all I can choke out.

“We have to be there at eight AM, team, so get some sleep. If you don’t mind, I’ll crash here tonight. Your dad will be home late.”

He leaves. Marisa still smiles shyly at me. I’m painfully aware that we’re alone in the room. Me, her, and my rampaging libido.

And then I yawn.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” she asks, smiling.

I’m completely wiped out, my eyes drooping closed, but the last thing I want is for her to leave. “No. Not at all.”

She pulls her chair closer. “Good.”

My palms are damp. Sweat pops out on my brow. Great. In a minute she’s going to see what a loony tune I am and make a run for the hills. I bunch up the blankets so she won’t know what’s going on under there.

Marisa leans in closer. So close, I can see her teeth glint behind her parted lips.

“I like you, Jeremy,” she whispers. “I like you a lot.”

My skin prickles with electricity. My good arm lifts like it plans to wrap itself around her without my permission. What the hell am I doing? What am I saying?

“I like you, too. A lot.”

“I’d like to be there to see you walk, Jeremy.”

“Of course,” I say. But I’m just plain gone. I’d say yes if she asked to watch me fly.

Her lips press against mine, and my mouth slides open to hers. It occurs to me that my dad wouldn’t be paying her to do
this
.

I kiss her tenderly, carefully, as if my heat might melt her. As if in a moment she’ll realize she’s kissing the frog who won’t be turning into a prince anytime soon. As if the spell will break and the pumpkin coach will arrive at the stroke of midnight to steal her away.

She draws back, hand over her mouth. “Oh, crap. I—I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I hope you don’t think I was too—forward.”

I smile and lay my hand on hers. A persistent alarm sounds somewhere off in the distance.

I shouldn’t be doing this. And not because she won’t like me.

Marisa shifts closer. “I—I wasn’t sure. I’m kind of—I’m never really around boys. Boys like you, that is.”

I laugh. “Really? You don’t hang out with emotionally twisted amputees much? Wow. You don’t know what you’ve been missing.”

“Jeremy. You really should stop putting yourself down like that.”

“It’s just a hobby of mine. I’ve never really considered going pro.”

This time she laughs. “What I was trying to say, and believe me, this is hard, is that I used to watch you run with the team. Those guys—all those guys treated me like I was invisible. A shadow. I know you never noticed me, but I always thought you were different, somehow.”

“I am now. All those guys have two legs.”

“Jeremy!” Her eyes flash with sudden anger. “You aren’t listening. It’s not like I planned to meet you! Like I schemed for you to lose your leg and for your father to hire me as a nursemaid. It just kind of happened.”

“What kind of happened?” My heart is speeding up again. But the alarm in the distance is growing louder. Dark spots are dancing at the edges of my sight. Soon, when I go zombie, she’s going to realize that I am decidedly not boyfriend material.

“You make me laugh.” She moves closer. “Even when you hurt. Your eyes are…” she swallows hard. “so…warm. There’s so much behind them.”

Darkness pulses all around me. The room is getting dimmer. No. Not now.

But now would be exactly when Susannah would come.

Marisa leans in, her mouth parted again, but the room is sucked into a whirling black hole of darkness. She’s gone.

Susannah’s form stands in the center of the room, dark as smoke.

A muffled voice calls from far away. “Jeremy? What’s happening?”

I reach for Marisa, but I can’t feel anything.

You’re just
exactly
like all the rest of them, Jeremy Glass
.

I try to edge away, but I’m numb, frozen in place. I grope for Marisa, but there’s no sign of her.

She’s just using you. Like all of you used me
.

Finally, I find my voice. “That’s not true!”

I search for Marisa in the dark and find her hand.

“What’s going on? Should I call Chaz? Can’t you see me, Jeremy? I’m right here.”

I struggle to block out the dark world beyond the grave and see the real one again.
You brought me here, Jeremy
.

The faint silhouette of Marisa is superimposed against the dark. I’m shaking, tremors jerking my body. My heart shudders and spasms.

A shadow draws closer. Papers fly around the room, caught in a wet wind.

She’ll never love you. No one will ever love you. But me
.

She lunges for me, but I realize too late she’s grasping for Marisa’s throat.

Light slashes through the black void. The room flares into focus. Marisa is sprawled on the floor, unconscious. My mother’s newspaper articles scatter the floor. Susannah is gone.

What the hell did I do?

I stumble to the floor and check her pulse. Normal. Her eyelids flutter, then open. Marisa sits up and rubs her head. “What on earth happened? First, you went limp. It was like you were seeing something that wasn’t there. I thought—I don’t know what I thought.”

She wraps her arms around her chest. She’s shaking and I want to hold her tight to stop it. But I don’t dare.

“Then, it was as if the lights went out. I couldn’t see anything. And then—” Marisa closes her eyes, shuddering, tears dotting her thick lashes. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, Jeremy, but I felt—I felt cold hands. Fingers like icicles. They wrapped around my throat and I couldn’t breathe. The next thing I knew, you were looking down at me.”

Shock pings through my nerve endings.

I’m not crazy after all.

I’m haunted.

C H A P T E R
t h i r t y - o n e

Now

Marisa gets to her feet and helps me climb back onto the bed. “So, uh, you don’t think I’m
loca
do you? Sometimes I get dizzy when I don’t eat enough.”

I stare at her, not a trace of a smile on my lips. “You’re not
loca
. Not by a long shot. Unless there’s a crazy virus around and you caught it from me.”

Marisa shivers. “What’s really going on here, Jeremy?”

I take her by the hands. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

I tell her everything. From the first wave of YouTube links, to the cigar box with the photo of Ryan hinting at what I learned later—that he is in love with another boy—to the package containing the summoning kit, to Susannah’s Death Book. I describe how she re-entered my life, at first a subtle presence, gradually strengthening to an entity that could seize control of my psyche at will.

“Demonic possession. We have legends about that. I just never—” Marisa squeezes her eyes closed and hugs herself tighter. Her eyes snap open. “I’ve just always opted for the rational. But this, Jeremy—I have no doubt it was a hand from beyond the grave around my neck.”

We discuss Susannah’s interest in Kabbalah. Researching online resources, we finally turn up information on a form of disembodied spirit from Jewish mythology called a dybbuk, a soul that will not rest.

“I think that fits what we have here,” Marisa says, matter-of-factly, “And there’s got to be a ritual for dealing with a situation like this. A formula for returning her to where she came from.”

I study the delicate lines of a face that conceals the fire and spark behind it. A thrill rises up inside me. “You make it sound like a science project.”

Marisa folds her arms and purses her lips. “Jeremy Glass, we are two of the smartest kids in Riverton High. If we put our brains together, solving this should be as easy as cracking a differential equation.”

“I love it when you talk calculus to me. Except, I’m probably failing calculus right now. I haven’t been to school since November twenty-first.”

Marisa leans over and rubs her nose against mine. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“I hope that’s not the only thing you’re here for.”

“That’s billable hours. The rest is strictly pro bono.”

I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of her, my heart picking up steam again. “You mean that, Marisa?”

I want to tell her that my heart’s been safely locked up with all my other collectibles. It’s not durable enough to get kicked around without shattering into bits.

She gazes into my eyes. From the close proximity, her two eyes have merged into one massive one. She giggles. “You look like Cyclops. But much cuter. And yes, Jeremy. Pro bono means voluntary. I am choosing to be here. With you. This close.” She snuggles next to me on the bed. “No, this close.”

My breath comes in rapid gasps. I’m generating enough heat to melt my bones. “I hope you mean it, otherwise you’d better call the fire department to hose me down.”

We lean into a kiss, and for thirty seconds, her small frame crushes against mine, I smolder in the fire of pure need.

Until darkness steals the light from the room.

“Don’t let go of my hand,” I shout.

Seeing nothing, I barely hear her muffled response. Wet wind scours my skin, and my hair blows back as gales ravage the room. In flashes of light, I catch a glimpse of Susannah, her back arched, arms splayed at her sides. Her scream pierces like a thousand fingernails on a chalkboard.

I squeeze Marisa’s hand until the light returns.

The room is in shambles—papers scattered everywhere, furniture turned on its side, books splayed all over the floor.

“Well,” Marisa says, hands on hips, surveying the mess. “We’ve got ourselves one hell of a bossy chaperone. No kissing until we solve that problem.”

I nod, too stunned for words, still buzzed with adrenaline. I’ve tampered with things I should have left alone.

We resume our research. Marisa’s called up a long list of sites detailing facts about dybbuks. I hop over, pushing my wheelchair like a walker. I’m so ready to ditch this thing I could slam it through the window.

“Jeremy,” she says. “This says a dybbuk is the discontented soul of someone who died—or more like an angry echo of the person’s soul, with all the better parts taken out. What if Susannah’s ghost wants to punish someone living?”

Her question jolts me like the crack of a whip. “Susannah asked me to solve her murder. Why would a ghost lie?”

Marisa swivels around to look at me, no spark of humor in her eyes. “Wouldn’t the ghost of a liar
be
a liar?”

Squinting, the reflex to defend Susannah sends blood rushing to my face. Maybe I have Marisa wrong. Maybe I just don’t get girls at all. “Susannah’s never been a liar.”

Marisa shakes her head. “If you’re raised by a liar, you become a master of the art form. Mrs. Durban and Susannah lied to each other constantly and asked me to cover for them. What if Susannah’s ghost has been lying to you? What if all these accusations she’s made are just—false?”

I grit my teeth, my face hot. For all my fear of Susannah’s angry ghost, I never for a minute questioned the sanctity of her memory.

But what if Marisa is right?

“Why the hell bother to come back from the dead to tell
lies
?”

Marisa shrugs and slants her head. “I don’t know. Vengeance on her killer? Unfinished business? She may be angry at people other than her murderer. Susannah had secrets. It was like there was something broken inside her that she spent a lot of energy trying to hide.”

I chew on a nail, gazing at the computer screen. “Just like the rest of this town.”

Marisa turns back to the monitor “This website says that a dybbuk is a soul’s cry for help to resolve what’s keeping them here. She may not want to be here at all.” She turns back to me. “So, it’s kind of like you said. The only way to get rid of Susannah’s ghost is to help her to leave.”

C H A P T E R
t h i r t y - t w o

Now (December 31
^st
)

Chaz wakes me at seven AM. Marisa pulls up at seven-twenty. By seven-thirty, we’re hustled into Chaz’s van, headed for Lyle Hoffmann’s Emporium of Legs and Assorted Spare Parts.

My nerve endings crackle with energy. I know I’ll never again really feel the rhythm of both feet hitting the pavement, one after the other, but I close my eyes anyway and recreate the sensation from memory.

Marisa slides next to me in the backseat and my body warms with her touch. But by the time we get to Hoffman’s Prosthetic Center, I’m sweating, my heart palpitating. What if the leg doesn’t fit? What if I can’t get the gait right? A million worries race through my head.

Chaz wheels me in and Marisa holds my hand. Lyle Hoffmann bounds into the empty reception area and ushers us into a room with soothing lights and soft music. There’s a set of parallel bars and a wall of mirrors, almost like a dance studio.

The way Lyle Hoffman sprints around like one of Santa’s strangest elves, it’s easy to forget he’s got a fake leg, too.

“I’ll be back in one minute,” he pronounces. “Please, make yourselves at home.” Lyle Hoffman dashes from the room, his handlebar mustache trailing like facial coattails.