BEFORE
Bella didn’t notice him watching her until late in the show. He was off to the side, half his face covered by a black N95. He wasn’t the only one wearing a mask, but he was the only one not moving at all to the music. Not even swaying. When he saw her looking, he nodded, that cowboy thing guys did, like tipping an invisible hat.
It was loud and close in the bar, and the drunk chick next to her kept sloshing beer on her shoes. Bella was tired and kind of annoyed she’d even come out—Heartstop Suckers was her favorite band, but she could barely hear them, and her friends had already ditched her for two older guys whose idea of sexy banter was to scream about how much their trucks could tow. She shouldn’t have even been at the show—her mother thought she was sleeping over at Ashley’s. It wasn’t the first time she’d lied to her mom, but it was kind of hitting her now, along with the sourness of the one beer she’d accepted from the older guys.
She tried to squeeze her way through the crowd on the dance floor, back toward the bathroom, where there was a little more space to breathe. Someone stomped on her foot. She whimpered, the sound swallowed by the drunken audience rendition of “Hothouse Molly.” Not her favorite song—true fans preferred “Killer Cats.”
“I’ve got ya.” A hand curled around her arm and led her out of the crowd. She wasn’t entirely surprised to find that her rescuer was the guy in the mask.
She took a breath, relieved to be out of the crush.
“High risk?” She gestured toward his face. “My cousin’s still masking. She has lupus.”
He shrugged.
“God, it’s hot for it, though.” She wiped her sweaty hair off her forehead. “I couldn’t do it.”
“Then it’s lucky you don’t have to,” he shouted, leaning close.
It was hard to tell in the low light and with the mask, but he seemed on the younger side. Not as young as her—she was fake-ID young—but youngish. He was dressed all in black, with a long-sleeved button-down that she’d have rolled to the elbow in this heat but he kept buttoned at his wrists. He had pretty eyes.
“Well,” she said. “Thanks for the help.”
She brought up her rideshare app. Twenty minutes for the nearest driver? York could suck it.
With a sigh, she booked the ride. Ashley and Camilla would probably beat her back to Ashley’s house, unless they actually went home with those guys. But they’d said they just wanted to check out the Irish pub down the street. At least Ashley’s mom was cool and wouldn’t say anything. Not like Bella’s. She’d be shitting bricks by now if she knew what Bella was actually up to.
“Everything okay?” the guy asked.
She wiggled her phone. “Guess I’m not leaving as soon as I thought. The nearby cars are all booked up.”
A furrow appeared between his brows. He leaned close to yell, “I’m parked around the corner. Need a ride?”
“No thanks. I don’t ride with strangers.” She looked at the time on her phone again. A little buzz of guilt started under her skin. She hadn’t realized it was so late. She typed a quick text to Ashley: you home yet? She should have just stuck with them.
The guy laughed. “You know all the rideshare drivers?”
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“’Course I do. It’s all good. Just thought I’d try to help.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, suggesting a smile underneath the mask. He really did have beautiful eyes.
She gestured to his covered face. “You don’t want my germs in your car anyway.”
He shrugged again. “I can keep my mask on. It’s just a ride home.”
Just a ride home. Bella checked her app—her ride was still twenty minutes away‚ no, twenty-five now. How did that even happen? Ash and Cam were definitely going to worry.
“All right,” she said after a round of applause died down. “It’s only like ten minutes from here. You sure you don’t mind?”
He straightened and offered her his arm, like a gentleman. “’Course not.”
He was high-risk. He wasn’t going to try anything. And she wasn’t actually going home, so he couldn’t, like, stalk her later. Maybe she’d actually beat Ashley and Camilla this way. She could give them shit for their terrible taste in guys. It would be fine.
When they got to his car, she almost laughed. It was an old minivan, looked like something a mom would drive. He opened the passenger door for her and she slid in. She sent Ashley a quick omw.
Once he was settled, he reached over to the glove compartment. “Would you mind wearing a mask too, just to be safe? I have an extra one.”
“No problem,” she replied, taking the black surgical mask. Her voice sounded too loud away from the tumult of the bar. Her ears were still ringing. “Listen, I really appreciate this.”
He shifted the car into drive and pulled carefully out of the parking lot. “It’s my pleasure.”
She tucked the mask around her ears. It smelled so chemical … yuck. But he was doing her a favor. Wearing the dumb mask was the least she could do.
The night yawned before them, and she yawned back.
CHAPTER ONE
It’s happening again, the spinning wheel of internet doom. Great. I tap my pen on the edge of my desk a few times. Tap. Tap. Taptaptap. The last message I wrote to Kellan stays stubbornly unsent on my phone. My fingers twitch. I straighten the stapler on the corner of my desk. I try switching off the Wi-Fi, but there’s not enough cell signal to send it either. I take a deep breath. I am calm. Super zen. Equal to this test of patience.
The message times out.
I push back from my desk and head down the narrow hall to Josh’s room, in the old part of the house. Knocking firmly, I call, “Josh, can you please stop playing your video game? I’ve got a paper to write and you’re sucking up all the internet.”
The door abruptly opens, and Josh leans into my face, partially blocking my view of the absolute disaster behind him. Just the thought of living in that squalor makes my skin itch. The slightly ripe scent of old gym clothes wrinkles my nose. Mom gives him a pass because he’s a guy, but really, shouldn’t that mean he does more cleaning? Guys are gross.
“What are you whining about, Judge Jessa?” Josh asks. “I didn’t steal your—”
“Internet, and yes you did,” I interrupt. “You know the rules. No gaming until after dinner. I’ve got to get my homework done.”
“I’m not gaming,” he says. “Internet’s down for me too.”
“Right. And if I tell Mom and she comes up to check…”
Josh growls and slams the door in my face, shaking the walls. The old part of the house is like that, a little unstable, full of creaks and rustlings. The windows moan in high wind, and once, Dad found a flying squirrel in Josh’s closet.
I pat the wall. “Sorry, Betty.”
Oh, and yeah, the house is also maybe haunted.
I walk back to my room. When I reconnect to the Wi-Fi and refresh the chat window, bam, the message sends. Josh is so full of it.
Kellan’s response arrives a few seconds later: Your parents are leaving you ALL night? And you’re ok with that?
The little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Truthfully, no. I’m not okay with it. At all. But I type of course and pull up the website for my history paper.
Kellan: Liar. I know how much you hate being alone out there. Won’t Josh be home?
I bite back a sigh. Like that helps. But no. He’s got a soccer game. Mom said he could stay at Ryan’s after.
It’s not that I’m scared to be by myself. Well, not exactly. It’s just that this house makes me feel so alone. We live in the middle of nowhere, a twenty-minute drive to the nearest anything, an hour and a half from the opera house and hotel Mom and Dad are going to on Friday night. Behind our house, cornfields stretch to the horizon, and in front, dense woods, with a single narrow road winding along a tiny creek. There are a couple houses around the bend, but I don’t know the people who live there well enough to call them neighbors.
Cars rarely drive past and when they do, they’re always going too fast.
Kellan: You should tell your parents you want to have a sleepover.
Jessa: You know their rules. No friends over when they’re not home.
Kellan: That’s such BS. Ask anyway. You’d keep us all in line. You’re like the rules police.
My shoulders tense a little. My friends are always calling me stuff like that—rules police, teacher’s pet, parent whisperer—and I really wish they wouldn’t. But what am I going to say? It’s not like it’s not true. I love rules. Rules are the best. Order out of chaos. A way to show you respect somebody. A … well, a safety net.
Kellan: I’d have you come here but Mom’s back on her shit. Actually, can’t I stay at yours? Please??
Mrs. Cook’s shit being “building her influencer brand.” Videos of Kellan went viral four or five times before we were even old enough to know what the internet was, including a still very popular GIF of toddler Kellan in a pink tutu trying wasabi. It’s honestly really funny. But none of us ever use it because it’s floating through the cyber-ether without her consent, and we’re not about to cross that friend line.
Jessa: So are you worried about me? Or YOU?
Kellan: Does it matter? I’m willing to brave Betty’s wrath to keep you company. Isn’t that enough?
I roll my eyes as I type my reply: Betty doesn’t do wrath. That’s the whole point. A mad ghost’s a scary ghost. Betty is sweet and kind and occasionally gets stuck in the curtains.
Kellan: Lol. Whatever you say. I don’t think I could live in a house if I knew someone died there. And I definitely wouldn’t TRY to convince myself it was haunted.
Jessa: Oh, come on, you’ll hurt Betty’s feelings.
When Josh found out that a teenaged girl named Betty died in our house—she fell down the basement stairs and broke her neck back in the ’90s—he tried to freak me out. And oh man, at first it really, really worked. For two weeks, I barely slept, and when I did, I had these terrible nightmares of a skeleton stalking me through the house. It didn’t help that Josh kept jumping out at me and pulling “ghost” pranks. But then one morning, I was sitting on my bed looking out the window, and the bright sun started to glitter and wink. Despite the still air, the curtain fluttered, like a little friendly wave.
And just like that, I decided that I was being haunted. All the creaks and groans and weird old-house noises were Betty stubbing her little ghost toes. Josh lost his hold over me, and eventually stopped trying to creep me out. With Betty, at least.
Everyone thinks I keep up the Betty “joke” as a big fat gotcha to Josh, a reminder that he can’t use Betty to scare me anymore. But it’s more than that. Betty was a real person, a girl who died when she was my age, and I find it comforting to imagine she hasn’t just disappeared. That some part of her still lives in the house’s sighs and creaks and flickering lights. I’m not sure what I believe about God and all that, but the thought of dying scares the crap out of me. And somehow, Betty helps.
Kellan: Seriously tho. Talk to your parents. You heard about those girls disappearing up in York, right? They’re saying it could be a serial killer or something. You shouldn’t be by yourself.
My whole body goes cold.
Jessa: Kellan Avery Cook, WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?! Now that’s all I’m going to be able to think about Friday night!
Kellan: Sorry! But seriously …
Another text pops up on my phone screen.
Josh: History paper my ass. say goodbye to the internet. That shizzzzz mine
“Crap!” I say aloud. I quickly type a see ya to Kellan and a jerk to Josh and shift to my laptop, my knee jiggling as I race to finish my research before the wheel of doom finds me again.
* * *
This late in September, it’s dark when my alarm goes off. I beat Josh to the shower (as usual), pull on one of my signature skirt-and-blouse combos, and brush my teeth. I blow-dry my shoulder-length light brown hair until it’s shiny and straight. A little mascara and lip gloss and I’m ready to go. I study my reflection for a moment longer, just to be absolutely sure.
My glasses are a little crooked. I adjust the thin black frames. I used to really want contacts, especially in the pandemic days when masks fogged up my glasses, but Mom thinks I look smarter like this. And Grandma Morgan always says you’ve got to show the world who you want to be.
Two months ago, I knew exactly who that was. Now …
My mouth has tightened. I force it into a determined smile.
My future-lawyer smile.
Just because the law internship this summer didn’t go the way I expected doesn’t mean I have to blow up my whole life plan.
Except you totally want to.
The voice in the back of my head is quiet, quiet enough to ignore. I need to ignore it. Because I am my plan. Jessa Lynn Morgan, future Georgetown graduate, future lawyer, future success. Current straight-A student with five separate extracurriculars, one volunteer commitment, and the prestigious Abrams Law internship on her résumé.
I’ve been working toward this since I was nine. This is my path.
And if you don’t like it?
Too bad.
I can’t afford to be like Josh, with a new life goal every week, hobbies picked up and abandoned, books left half-read, plans forgotten practically as soon as they’re made. The only thing he’s ever stuck with is soccer and that’s because his friends dare him not to quit every year.
I’m not the kind of person who’s only reliable because of a dare. I don’t dare, that’s the point. I stick to the stupid plan.
I’m packing up my backpack when my desk light flickers. Mom probably turned on the coffeepot downstairs, but I whisper, “Morning, Betty,” just in case.
In the kitchen, Mom’s watching the news while drinking from a glass of greenish-brown sludge. The juicer, then.
No sign of Josh yet. He better not make us late again.
I stick a piece of bread in the toaster and grab the milk and a container of hard-boiled eggs from the fridge.
“You’re not eating breakfast?” I ask, eyeing Mom’s drink. Whenever she does a cleanse, she gets super cranky.
“Breakfast of champions!” She raises the glass triumphantly. But when she takes a sip, her smile slips. “Okay, fine. It tastes disgusting. It’s only for a few days.”
I shrug. As long as she doesn’t try to get me on the juice train. Yuck.
I’m about to ask if they’ve shown the weather forecast when she screams, “Josh, if you’re not down here in thirty seconds, I’m coming up there!”
In answer to my unspoken question, a line of mostly cheerful suns with just a single blue raindrop flashes across the TV screen. No rain in the forecast until the end of the week. Nice.
Copyright © 2024 by Tracy Banghart
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