Pale Phoenix (13 page)

"If we were dancing, you wouldn't be holding me anyway," Miranda pointed out. "Not unless you've suddenly learned how to waltz or something." She remembered what Abby had said about kids today not knowing how to dance, jumping around, never touching. She gazed at him across the table, liking the way his dark hair just touched the collar of his flannel shirt and the way his lips curved around the straw. She added boldly, "But maybe we can arrange something anyway."

"Maybe a little private waltz?"

"Yeah, something like that." She looked down and began eating again.

They finished their meal and Dan paid, pushing aside Miranda's offer to split the bill. "My pamphlet says the boy
always
has to pay."

"That was in 1951," she reminded him. "Maybe boys had more money then or something."

"Next time," he said. "We can take turns."

"That's a good plan," she said, taking his hand as they left The Sassy Café, glad there would be more dates like this, just the two of them.

They walked through the quiet, snow-blanketed streets. He tucked both their hands into the pocket of his coat. They passed the high school, where lights burned brightly. When some students opened the doors to the gymnasium and hurried across the parking lot, music spilled out with them. But when the doors swung shut again, the music disappeared. "Who needs it?" asked Dan, and he pulled Miranda into his arms. "Listen carefully," he whispered into Miranda's hood. "I think I hear the strains of a waltz. Don't you?"

She pulled the little statue of the phoenix from her pocket and blew its clear note into the air. "Absolutely."

"You still have that thing?" He grinned.

She nodded. "I told you, it's my good luck charm. I love it." She couldn't explain any better than that why she kept the phoenix with her now all the time. She didn't really know why herself.

In the street lamp light, needing no music at all, they whirled across the parking lot. Then they walked on across town to the common, where they slid on the frozen pond, shrieking with laughter until they both grew tired. "How about stopping for ice cream sundaes before we head back up the hill?" asked Miranda. "This time it can be my treat."

"Sounds good to me," said Dan, and they walked with their arms around each other back to Main Street.

Later, back on Miranda's front porch, they kissed good night. Then Miranda let herself inside and climbed the stairs to her room, filled with happiness. She thought about Dan as she slipped into her flannel nightgown and brushed her teeth, about how comfortable and easy it was to be with him, and yet how exciting at the same time. She peeked into her parents' bedroom to say good night.

They were both reading in bed. "Did you have a good time?" asked her father.

"Just look at you glow!" said her mother. "I guess you
did
have fun, dance or no dance."

"We danced in the snow," Miranda told them. "It was
wonderful.
"

Then she froze, motionless at the side of their bed. The sound of crying, low, dark, and full of a fearful grief filtered into the room.

Abby.

Miranda held her breath, listening. She looked at her parents. Philip was reading again. Helen was looking at her with concern.

"What is it, honey?" Helen asked.

"You don't hear this?" Miranda headed for the door, fear thumping in her stomach, then ran down the hall to Abby's room. She threw open the door. Cries of lamentation, raw and deep, filled the room, but Abby was not there.

Determined to end the mystery, Miranda pressed back her terror and crossed the room to fling open the closet door. Abby's new clothes hung neatly on hangers, her beaded bag lay on the floor, and Helen's metal file cabinet filled the rest of the space.

No Abby.

Miranda grabbed the satchel. She turned and pelted down the hallway as fast as she could. She peeked into the bathroom and into her father's study, then darted back into her parents' room. This time she would make them believe her.

"Mandy, my goodness!" Philip slid out of bed and reached for his robe.

"What's wrong?" demanded Helen.

Miranda dumped the beaded bag onto their bed. "It's just like before—Abby's not in her room, and there's all this crying, and there's something horribly wrong. But this time I can prove it to you!" She fumbled with the clasp on Abby's bag, but broke off as the crying ceased and the toilet flushed in the bathroom across the hall.

Then Abby walked past the open door to the master bedroom.

"Abby!" yelled Miranda, abandoning the satchel. "Wait!"

"What have I done now?" Abby stopped in the doorway. She stared at the bed. "How dare you take my things?"

Philip glanced at Miranda. "Mandy thought she heard you crying again. And you weren't in your room."

"I was in the bathroom," Abby said flatly. "And I wasn't crying." She reached for the beaded bag.

Miranda narrowed her eyes. "You were not in the bathroom! I looked there."

No one could stare more coldly than Abby, and she turned that opaque gaze on Miranda now. "Can't I go to the bathroom around here without you going into hysterics?"

"I wasn't the one in hysterics—you were! Do you think I'm deaf?"

"I think you're out of your mind, Miranda Browne. That's what I think."

Helen ran her fingers through her hair. "Girls, girls." She exchanged an anxious glance with Philip.

Miranda gritted her teeth. "Show them the photos, then," she hissed. "Show them how I'm out of my mind."

Abby clutched her satchel to her chest. "I don't know what you're talking about. Just keep out of my stuff, I'm warning you."

"Are you threatening me?" cried Miranda.

Abby looked away. "I'm going back to bed."

"Wait a second," said Helen. "What photos, Mandy? What do you mean?"

Abby answered before Miranda had a chance to explain. "Photos of my family, that's what. She's been snooping again. She stole my bag right out of my room."

"Mandy, really. Don't you think you owe Abby an apology?" Helen pursed her lips.

"Mither," begged Miranda. "Just take a look at her pictures."

"I'll wait until Abby wants to share them," said Helen firmly. "And so, I think, should you."

Philip nodded in agreement. "What I think is that it's bedtime," he said. Abby stalked away without another word. Philip turned to Miranda. "Come on, Mandy. March will be here soon." He kissed the top of her head.

She spun on her heels and walked out. She heard their low voices murmuring even after their door had closed. Sullenly, she went into the bathroom. She felt flushed and trembly, as if she were coming down with the flu. She splashed cool water over her face, then stared into the mirror a long time, trying to sort out what was going on. She wanted desperately to be with Dan. Was it too late to call him? At least he would listen to her. She decided she would use the phone downstairs. Finally, feeling calmer, she returned to her bedroom to get her robe.

Abby was sitting cross-legged in the center of her bed.

"Get out," Miranda snapped. "Out."

"Listen—I need to talk to you," began Abby in a low voice. "I—"

"I said, get out."

"Please, Mandy." Abby's voice was a whisper, and she bent her head forward so that the curtain of pale hair hid her face.

Miranda grabbed her bathrobe and left the bedroom. She hurried down the hall and down the stairs. Abby trailed along behind her. "Please," Abby persisted. "I don't want your parents to hear. But I have to tell you you were right. I
wasn't
in the bathroom at all. And I
was
crying."

"Of course I was right," snapped Miranda.

"Ssh, not so loud," whispered Abby, glancing up the stairs. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "You've been right all along. But why do you think your parents never heard anything?"

"I don't know," hissed Miranda. "And there isn't much point asking you to explain, is there?" She stalked through the dining room into the kitchen and closed the swinging door in Abby's face.

Abby swung the door open and followed Miranda into the kitchen. "I need to tell you."

Miranda put her hands on her hips. "You'll explain everything? The disappearances? The weird photos? All the yowling?" She was shaking as she faced Abby but made her voice loud and hard. She didn't want the other girl to know how afraid she felt.

"Yes. Everything. I'll tell you because of the crying, Mandy. Because you hear me when no one else in the world can." Abby sank into a chair at the round table.

Miranda sat down across from her. "Go on. This had better be good."

Abby cupped her chin in her hands and smiled slightly over at Miranda. It was a real smile, the first Miranda had seen from her, without a single trace of smugness. Abby hooked her feet around the legs of the chair and spread her hands on the tabletop. "I really don't know how to tell you this. There have been so few people I've ever been able to talk to, and only a few have ever really believed me. But you're different somehow. Special."

"I'm honored," said Miranda sarcastically. But now she was giving Abby her full attention.

Abby sighed and glanced at the closed kitchen door. "Will you listen?"

"Get on with it." Miranda vowed to herself that she wouldn't believe a word, whatever Abby said.

"I'm not who you think I am," Abby began slowly. "I'm not what I said I was...." And despite herself, Miranda found herself listening intently, and her skin felt tingly at the back of her neck.

"Because you have heard my crying, maybe you can understand how it is with me, why I have to pretend to be..."

"To be what?"

"To be a normal teenage girl."

Miranda almost opened her mouth to point out she didn't find Abby normal at all, but the tingly sensation remained with her and she kept silent.

"I have to pretend all the time," Abby said softly. "Not only that, I have to pretend different things at different times. I must be on guard constantly, always watching to make sure what I say is appropriate to the place and the people I'm with. For the
time.
Do you see?"

"Nope."

Abby shifted in her chair and stretched her hand across the table toward Miranda. "Look—how old are you?"

"You know I'm fifteen. Just like you."

"No, I told you I was fifteen, but I'm not. I'm really only thirteen. That is, I mean, I
was
thirteen...."

"Okay, so you lied about your age. But what's that got to do with crying? Or the photos?"

Abby rubbed her fingers through her hair. "When were you born, Mandy? What year?"

Miranda told her. "But so what?"

"So, listen to me. I was born in 1680."

Miranda snorted. "Well now, ain't that amazing!" She stood up. "Thanks for being so honest with me, Abby. I really appreciate it." She glanced at the clock on the wall and put her hands on her hips. "And now it's really too late for me to call Dan, so I'm going up to bed."

Abby jumped up. "You said you'd listen! You're not even paying attention!"

"How stupid do you think I am?" shouted Miranda, furious that Abby was still making fun of her. She didn't care whether her parents heard them or not. "You are the biggest liar I've ever met in my life! Why should I listen to you?" She started out of the room.

"Because," whispered Abby, and suddenly she was sobbing. The sound was so familiar that Miranda stopped and turned back. "Because
you
heard me. Don't you see? I wasn't there. I wasn't in the room at all, just like you said. I was where no one has ever heard me, where no one could have heard me—except for someone who was somehow very sensitive. That's why I have to make you listen." Standing there with her pale hair flowing over her shoulders and her arms outstretched, Abby looked like a little lost girl, a girl much younger than fifteen—or even thirteen, if that were her true age.

"Believe me, Mandy, I don't like you any better than you like me. I've met a lot of girls much nicer than you—I've lived with girls much more friendly than you. But you are the only one—the only one
ever
—who might be able to help me."

Miranda sank slowly back into her chair. "Okay, go on," she said grudgingly.

Abby hitched her chair closer and leaned toward Miranda. Her voice was low, confiding. "I was born in 1680. Honest." She shrugged. "Why in the world should I make it up?"

Miranda did not answer. She had no idea why Abby did anything.

"I lived in Garnet with my parents and my sisters—I had two sisters, named Constance and Faith. I had a brother, too, named Thomas, who was older and married. I was hoping to get married myself in another few years, when I turned sixteen." She traced the woodgrain in the tabletop. "It was different then. People got married earlier, you know."

"You lived in Garnet?" A dozen questions were tumbling through Miranda's head, but this was the only one she could articulate. "You lived right here in
Puritan
times? You expect me to believe this?"

"It was different here then. You wouldn't know the place. Oh, Mandy, it was beautiful. And we were so happy, William and I." Abby's eyes were starry. "We had fallen in love. Maybe we were young, but we wanted to be together every second. It was like—well, sort of like what I see with you and Dan. We were special to each other. Vital to each other."

None of this made sense. But when Abby's voice trailed away, Miranda found herself eager for further details, almost as if she believed what Abby was telling her. "Go on."

"There was—an accident. A fire."

"A fire? And what happened?"

"The roof of our house collapsed. We were inside at the time. It was dinnertime, and William was there, too." She drew a ragged breath. "You see? Not everything I told you was a lie. I said my parents died in a fire, and they did. My sisters and William were killed, too."

Miranda leaned across the space separating them. Of course no part of this wild tale could be true; still, she had to ask. "But you, Abby? You got out."

"Well," she said softly. "Not exactly."

M
IRANDA FELT GOOSE BUMPS
rise on the backs of her arms. "Abby, are you trying to tell me you're a ghost?"