“I wanted it to be,” he says quietly. “Selfish on my part.”
I release a small laugh. “I can live with that kind of selfishness.”
“But it’s all we can have. You need to merge.”
I nod jerkily. I have so many memories with Nick to take with me, so few with Thatcher. It’s not fair. I want more.
I lean forward, stopping our slow rock in the swing as I look out at the near-full moon shining in the distance. For a moment I feel alive again, like I’m sitting on a front porch with a guy I like, trading stories and telling secrets. It’s nice, familiar.
“Carson kissed Nick,” I tell him. It just comes out, before my brain even knows I am going to say it.
“What?” Thatcher turns to me, his eyes widening. “Really?”
I feel a fresh wave of hurt as I see the scene in my mind again. “Yes,” I say.
“But she’s your best friend. Is she the reason he was going to break up with you?”
“I don’t think so. Otherwise, wouldn’t she have known that he was going to break up with me?”
“How do you feel about her kissing him?” asks Thatcher. It’s such a non-guy question, and I appreciate that. He’s listening.
“Angry,” I say. “Sad. Hurt. Confused.”
Nodding, Thatcher puts his hand over mine resting on the wooden slats of the swing. I welcome the spark it creates, because it’s comforting, soft, safe. I touch my toes down to the porch again and rock us back and forth, back and forth, making the creak of the swing a little louder. It almost feels like it would feel if we were still alive.
I flash back to the peach room at Tim McCann’s party. “It was right after he confessed that he was going to break up with me.” I shake my head. “She seemed triumphant, like she was someone I didn’t know at all.”
“Grief can make people crazy,” says Thatcher, his brow furrowed like he’s trying to figure it out along with me.
“I know,” I say, still playing the scene in my head. “But there’s something else. Right before they kissed, I thought I saw . . .”
I shake my head, feeling silly.
“What?” asks Thatcher.
“Carson’s face was blurred, and I saw . . . I don’t know, I thought I saw Reena there for a second.”
Thatcher puts his feet down and stops our rocking abruptly, turning to me. “You saw Reena? In the room?”
“That’s what’s so weird,” I say. “I thought I saw her in Carson, like her face flashed over Carson’s for a second. Like she was doing that shadowing thing.”
“What shadowing thing?”
“I don’t understand it exactly. It’s a game they play where they try to line themselves up with people and follow their actions.”
“And this was before the kiss?”
“Yeah, just before she leaned over Nick,” I say, realizing that the moment is burned into my brain in excruciating detail.
Thatcher stands up abruptly and traces a portal.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
And then I notice that he’s shaking, he’s weak. He reaches out his hand to me, but quickly he sinks back down to the swing. “My energy is low,” he says.
I bite my lip, worried that the strain of rescuing Nick drained him beyond what he can handle. “Take some of my energy.”
“No, you need to hold on to it.” With a great deal of effort, he shoves himself to his feet. “You stay here, make sure Nick is okay. Can you get back to your prism?”
“Yes. Will you come find me there?”
He nods. “I have to talk to the Guides—tell them what you saw.”
“What I saw?”
“Listen, Callie—Carson didn’t kiss Nick. Reena did.”
Twenty-Three
IT’S HARD TO MAKE OUT WHERE I am at first, in the darkness. The air is thick with humidity, and the only lights are the stars above. Before my eyes adjust, all I can sense are shapes and sounds—echoing voices that sound like they’re muffled by shadow. But then I see the glimmer of the train tracks in the distance, and I know I’m back at Lyndon’s Crossing.
I’m going to find her. All this time I thought Leo was the dangerous one, but Reena was manipulating me so much more.
I felt confused for a moment, stunned, when Thatcher told me what he thinks Reena did. That she actually may have possessed Carson. But he was so weak that he had to go before he could tell me why, or what it meant. So after I made sure Nick was in good hands and on his way to the hospital, I created a portal.
Thanks for showing me how, Reena.
First I summoned all the pieces of her—the long black hair, rosebud lips, doll cheeks. Then I thought of the way her strong stance belies her height, the sideways hook of her smile, and the way her eyes flash gold sometimes.
The portal I traced pulsed with light, and I stepped through it. I’m sorry, Thatcher. I have to do this.
And now I’m here, by the tracks. As my eyes adjust, I see the glow of the poltergeists in the distance about twenty feet away—they haven’t spotted me. The trees around them seem to wilt in their presence, bowing down in the humidity. I watch them for a moment, these ghosts I thought were my friends, wondering what they’re capable of.
Just as I’m about to call out to Reena and face the poltergeists, I hear voices coming up over the hill toward the tracks.
“Oh, great,” says Leo.
“Gotta love a Southern Saturday night.” Delia rolls her eyes.
“I don’t know.” Reena’s face glows with anticipation. “This could make the evening even more fun.”
A crowd of people—mostly guys—emerges over the hill. I recognize them instantly. Tim McCann is here, and so are Eli, Brian, and Hunter—the soccer guys from the bonfire. I scan everyone’s faces and spot Gina O’Neill and Molly Raider, who’s been in love with Brian since third grade. This must be Tim’s after-party.
They all settle at the edge of the tracks, where they stand around and take pulls on a bottle of vodka that they probably hoisted from Tim’s father’s stash.
“What was that kid’s name again?” asks Eli. “Norbert or something?”
Norris throws up his hands. “Norbert?” The rest of the poltergeists laugh. They’re nearing the group now, approaching the Living. I watch their glow start to flicker all around my classmates, and it must be a light that only those of us on the other side can see. No one reacts to it, even as Reena, Leo, Norris, and Delia surround them, standing outside the perimeter of the gathering. I stay back, watching, wanting to see how they’ll interact, waiting for something bad to happen. I see them now the way Thatcher has seen them—poltergeists, enemies of the Living, and of ghosts, too.
“It was Norris,” says Molly quietly. “He was friends with my older brother.”
“Yeah, well, he must have been a total idiot,” says Eli, passing the vodka after a long drink. “Who doesn’t have time to jump out of the way of a train? They only go, like, forty miles per hour.”
“The idea is to let it get as close to you as possible, big shot,” says Brian.
“Yeah, without letting it hit you.” Eli laughs.
Seeing them gathered here, I feel like I’m witnessing a moment from my former life. Sitting around, talking about nothing, but feeling on the brink of something exciting, some new possibility. Except now my life has taken this horrific turn—their circle is lit up with the ghostly glow of poltergeist eavesdroppers, and they have no idea.
I took nights like this for granted, found them boring even. When Carson would linger with other friends, talking and laughing and hanging out just to be out, I’d be the first who was ready to leave, wanting to get to something more exciting, some new thrill. I couldn’t recognize the value of simply being with friends. My skin prickles with emotion, a wish that I were on the other side of this scene. But I’m not. I’m with the ghosts.