“What about Nora? I’m sure she’d like to get together. Or Cecily? Holden said she was back from college. You could invite her over for a movie night.” Mom is trying. She’s been trying. Playing friend matchmaker and nudging me out of my cocoon like I’m a butterfly and not simply broken.
“Maybe I’ll ask,” I say, but the frown that tugs on her lipsmeans she knows I won’t. Before she can pepper me with any more questions, I turn, stopping when she says my name again.
She seems to toss the words over on her tongue, and a long moment passes before she says, “There are leftovers in the fridge.”
I give a thin-lipped smile and nod.
I look to the fridge, my gaze stalling on the magnetic letters across its door, the kind little kids use to learn to spell. A handful of the letters have been lost over time, so anything we try to spell out takes creative liberties.
Tonight, it saysCrful Aft Drk. I frown.
I open my mouth to inquire, but before I can, my mom says, “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Ihmmsoftly. “Careful after dark?”
My mom squints at the letters. Nods. “Could be.”
“I guess the spirits take curfew seriously.”
She laughs, and I force a smile, but too quickly the characteristic quiet slips back into place.
Mom doesn’t add anything else, but whatever she wants to say hangs heavy in the air between us. I don’t ask, and she doesn’t push, so after three seconds, I head back through the kitchen and toward the stairs before she changes her mind.
The lights overhead flicker as I ascend. I pause on the third step from the top and the flickering stops, too.
I know that this house is wood and nails, old and crumbling in places, but no matter what I do, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. Like the walls have eyes that catch every movement.
I almost expect a response out of the foundation, but the house stays quiet. Maybe it has nothing to say. Maybe I don’t know how to listen. Or maybe it really, truly is just a house.
Two
The park should be full.Halfway through June, the sun sweltering overhead and the town pool closed for maintenance all week, the town’s kids—or, technically, their parents, probably already wishing for fall and school to start back up—should naturally gravitate toward the bright plastic playground.
Apart from my siblings, the only other occupants of the playground are a young mom with a baby strapped to her chest and her toddler, who happily digs through the mulch at the base of the slide. Golden hour is on its way out, and the beginnings of a sunset kiss the horizon with traces of deep oranges and reds.
The mom watches her son, his little hands flecked with dirt, with an intensity that makes me look to my brother, Jasper, on the swing beside me, verifying he’s still there.
“Look how high I am!” Jasper calls, kicking his legs out hard as he swings back up. When he reaches the top, there is a millisecond where he hangs in the air, suspended, his overgrown hair standingup. He’s overdue for a cut; I’ll have to drag him to a barbershop sometime soon. My mom is too busy with the move and taking over the finances for the family bookstore to notice something like too-long hair. The minutiae have never been her specialty anyway.
I flash him a smile and let it fall as soon as he rises too high to see my face. I push off against the mulch, my swing a tenth of the height my little brother reaches. Seven years old and braver than I’ve ever been. I almost envy the innocence of him. Swinging as high as he can, unaware that falling is a possibility. Oblivious to how much it would hurt.
I’ve never been brave. As a kid, when my classmates on the playground competed at recess to see who could land a jump from the highest point or climb up the outside of the jungle gym the fastest, I kept my feet safely planted. The other kids saw victory at the far end of their trek. All I saw was the fall.
“Margot!” Jasper calls. I tear my gaze from his blurry form before it makes me nauseous.
On one of the benches across from us, Margot makes a noncommittal noise. She’s barely looked up from her phone since we got here. Why she agreed to come along, I have no idea. Maybe it’s for the same reason I volunteered to drag Jasper the three blocks—which is like a mile when you’re with Jasper, who is notorious for stopping to smell every single metaphorical rose. To escape for a little while.
“Margot, watch!” Jasper yells again, unsatisfied with only me as a witness. I can’t say I’m the most enthusiastic on the sidelines.
Margot huffs, lifting her head, blowing her dark bangs out of her eyes. She cocks a brow, giving her head a little shake.
“I’m watching!”
“I’m gonna jump,” Jasper says.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn.
“Bet you won’t,” Margot calls. I shoot her a glare, but her attention is already back on the phone.
