When I got to lunch that day, Samantha was sitting on Scotch’s lap. Everyone at their table followed me with their eyes as I grabbed a plate and filled it with some spinach leaves and croutons and ranch dressing. I sat at an empty table near the windows. That was when Archie—well, Rollins—sat down across from me. He had a bag of Doritos and a can of Mountain Dew. He looked at me easily, like there was nothing out of the ordinary, like he sat with me every day.
“What’s up?” he asked, and we’ve been best friends ever since.
I didn’t tell anyone what happened to me that night. Maybe I should have. Probably I should have. But I didn’t, and even thinking about talking about it makes my skin crawl. It seems easier to pretend it never happened. The problem is . . . it did happen. And I carry it around with me every day of my life.
I don’t even bother to undress, just lie on top of my covers, replaying my conversation with Rollins over and over again, wishing it had gone a different way. What if I’d told Rollins the truth? What if he’d believed me? Does the fact that I couldn’t be honest with Rollins mean I don’t really value his friendship?
I sigh and turn onto my left side. The Clockwork Orange poster on my wall is illuminated by the streetlight. I get into a staring contest with it, but it’s no good. The eyeball with the thick black lashes always wins. I haul myself out of bed and pad across the room, to the window. My mother’s old telescope waits for me.
She loved the stars. Even though she’d majored in English literature, my father said, she took so many classes in astronomy she was able to pick it up as a minor. Though so much about my mother seems intangible now—the way she smelled, the things she’d whisper to me before I fell asleep at night—this seems real to me. I’m able to look through her telescope and see exactly what she saw. It makes me feel close to her.
Stooping down, I look through the eyepiece. Despite the light pollution in our neighborhood, I’m able to make out Polaris, the North Star, and from that I’m able to identify Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. Mama bear and baby bear. There’s something so comforting to me about the constellations, the mother and baby, cradled in the sky for all eternity. I stare until the stars go blurry and my breath goes soft.
Something in my pocket pokes me. I pull it out and smooth it against my jeans. It’s the page from the calendar that Sophie taped to our door earlier. I start to feel woozy, like I might slide. Oh no. Not again. My vision pulses, and my knees go out, and I fall deep, deep down, into a hole.
I’m sitting at a white desk, a pad of fancy stationery angled before me. Words crawl like spiders across the page, flowing from the pen in my gloved hand.
Who am I?
And why am I wearing gloves?
The words I’m writing say: I don’t deserve this.
As I stand, I notice the pink walls and the pictures of ballerinas. Sophie’s room.
There is no sound.
I turn away from the desk, and I see the bed. It’s definitely Sophie’s bed, but it’s a different color now. Earlier, the bed was covered with a pristine white comforter. Now, the bed is dark maroon. And wet. So wet. There’s something on the bed. It is Sophie. Her inky-black hair frames her white face. Her arms lie helpless at her sides, a long slash in each wrist.
No.
No.
This isn’t happening.
That’s when I see what I’m carrying in my gloved hands. A long, silver blade.
Oh. Shit. Oh. No.
Who did this to her? Who did I slide into?
But, before I can figure it out, I am gone.
My eyes fly open, and I sit up, grabbing at my legs, my head, my face, to make sure I’m really back. The light from the streetlamp shines in my eyes, blinding me for a moment until I dodge out of the way. I pull myself to my feet and look around. Telescope, rocking chair, heap of dirty clothes. I’m back in my room.
What happened?
My eyes fall on the small piece of paper on the floor— the one I thought Sophie had taped to our door earlier. If she’d been the one to put it there, I would have slid into Sophie just now.
But I didn’t.
I slid into someone else. Someone bad. Someone with a knife.
The memory of Sophie and her open wrists spurs me into action. I have to call, make sure she’s okay. The only problem is that I don’t have her number.
Mattie and Amber do.
I dash out the door and down the dark hallway to my sister’s room. But there’s no one there. Her bed is empty, the wrinkled sheets nestled around no one. Mattie and Amber are still out.
I look at the clock. It’s nearly midnight.
They should have been home by now if they were just going to a movie. As I return to my room to find my phone, I wonder what happened to them. Most likely they just crashed at Samantha’s house for the night.
They’re fine, I reassure myself. Mattie is fine.
I dial Mattie’s number and wait. No answer. I dial again. No answer.
I make myself sit down and breathe. Just breathe.
For a moment, I think about calling my father. It’s odd that he’s not home by now. The only reason he’d still be at the hospital is if the conjoined twins are having problems, in which case I can’t really call him up and bother him.
What do I do?
If I look up Sophie’s home phone number, I can call her parents. The number on my clock says 12:03. It’s so late. They’ll be angry.
Shaking my head, I realize that of course I have to call them. If what I saw was real, someone has to help Sophie. Now.
I fire up my laptop and type in Sophie’s last name. Jacobs. There are six listings under that name in our area. I have no idea what her parents’ names are. I’m going to have to try each of them.
I call the first number. No one picks up.
On my second try, a groggy-sounding woman answers.
“Is Sophie there?”
“You must have the wrong number,” the woman says angrily, and hangs up.
Please let the third time be the charm. Please.
The phone rings.
“Hello?” a man asks cautiously.
“Is Sophie there?”
“She’s asleep, like I was just a moment ago.”
“Please, sir. Please go check on her.”
“What is this about—”
“Please, I don’t have time to explain. Please go check on her.”
I hear the man set the phone down. A second passes, stretching out into forever. Another second. Another.
And then the screaming begins.
I sit up, groggy and confused. After swiping my hand over my eyes, it comes away smeared with black eye makeup.
My alarm clock says it’s noon.
All at once, the night before rushes back to me like a bad dream. Blood on white sheets. Sophie’s blood. The screams. The terrible screams.
The phone had gone dead after only about a minute, but I