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Footsteps were thumping up the stairs.
I dashed into Kasey’s room, nearly tripped over a shoe on the way to her desk, and slammed the page back onto her notebook.
But there was no time to get out.
I hurled myself into the closet.
It was practically impossible to keep my breathing quiet, especially when Kasey came sauntering in and looked around. I watched through the slat as she stretched her arms like a cat and then sat on the foot of the bed, looking around the room.
She didn’t seem to know I was there.
Come on, come on.
The print was cooking in the developer right now. I’d be lucky if it wasn’t just a solid square of black.
But I had more immediate problems.
Kasey pressed her hands to her temples and shook her head like she was trying to shake something off. She squinted her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Then her whole body jerked, and just like that, the struggle was over.
Her movements became fluid, deliberate. She smoothed her hair down and looked around the room.
I felt nauseated.
It wasn’t Kasey anymore.
She froze, and her hazy eyes focused, hardened with the effort of listening.
Don’t look in the closet, don’t look in the closet—
She stood up, tilting her head to one side.
I held my breath.
She took a half-step toward me—
The bedroom door opened.
Kasey drew back and blinked as she looked toward the hallway.
“Kasey, honey, I need you to get your clothes out of the dryer.”
“What?” Kasey asked. Her hands fidgeted and tugged at a belt loop on her jeans.
“Your laundry” Mom said. “The laundry you were supposed to fold?”
Kasey sighed, took a last wary look around, and left. As soon as I heard her feet on the stairs, I ran back to the darkroom, yanked the page out of the developer, and slipped it into the stop bath.
It was dark, but legible. And, as an added bonus, the words that had been backward on Kasey’s page were now normal—lists and lists of names in unsteady handwriting.
There would be time to read them later. I did a rushed version of my usual cleanup, stowed the photo paper back in the drawer in case I needed it again, and went back to my room with the print hidden under my shirt.
I sat on my bed, trying in vain to make a co
A series of quick taps on the door made me jump and drop the slide.
“Alexis?” Mom called.
“Hold on,” I said. “It’s locked.”
I opened the door to see her standing in the hallway with her jacket on and briefcase in hand.
“So listen,” Mom said. “I have to go back to the office for a while and try to make up some work from yesterday. Just an hour or so. The new senior VP is coming Friday, and I really want to be prepared….”
I could hear the excitement in her voice.
Suddenly I felt bad for Mom, really bad. Imagine working for something for years, watching people get hired below you and then promoted to be your boss. Imagine your family never saying thank you, or even telling you they’re sorry you work so hard and nobody acknowledges it.
What was this, Challenge Alexis’s Long-Held Assumptions Day?
“Can you hold down the fort for a while?”
“Um…sure.”
Alone with Kasey. I tried not to think about it. Mom shifted her briefcase to her other hand. “Mom,” I said. “Hm?”
“I know you really want to get promoted, but…” Uh. “Even if you don’t, you know, you’re still…” Hmmm. Ru
She smiled. “That means a lot to me.” Then she touched my shoulder and left.
***
I settled onto my bed and stared at the bookshelves across the room. I couldn’t bring myself to put the vandalized yearbook back in its place, so I’d stuffed it into the bottom drawer of my desk.
No sound came from Kasey’s room, but I could imagine what she was doing: sitting hunched over her desk, making lists and more lists and randomly copying names down into her notebook.
I fell back against the pillows and closed my eyes, too weary to sit up. I tried to clear my thoughts, but I kept remembering Megan’s face as she read the article and learned the horrible truth about her mother. Then I thought of i
How long had Shara pla
But how could you take such a photo, hating your subject? How could you wait until the light shined perfectly on the water behind her, catching the windswept flyaways of her baby curls, the deep thoughtfulness of her tiny eyes? There was love in that picture.
I thought of the charm bracelet Megan had worn that day, the one she still wore every day, hiding her past beneath her expensive sweaters and cheerleading uniform.
Then I realized with a start: my charm. It wasn’t just any charm: if Megan had actually lived here, that meant mine was probably the other half of hers.
Our house before this one had been tiny and cramped—so the Gothic expanses of the new one towered over me. I was seven years old. (It took me two years to figure out that we didn’t actually live in a mansion.)
That first night, after Mom tucked me in and gave me a kiss, I lay staring up at the ceiling.
And that’s when I heard it:
The whispering.
At first I thought it was coming from the hallway, but when I peeked out, nobody was there. I dove back under the covers, and the whispers seemed to get louder. Even with my hands over my ears, I could hear the voice slithering and hissing like a nest of snakes in my head, until finally I could make out two words:
Come play.
It must be Kasey, I decided. But it was too late to play.
Thanks to Kasey’s daylong series of screeching temper tantrums, the whole family was drained. Our parents were Exhausted with a capital “E” and any little girl caught sneaking out of her bedroom would be in Trouble with a capital “T.”
Come play, the whispers begged.
I folded the pillow over the sides of my head to block out the sound, but it didn’t work.
I was determined not to go to my sister’s room, but I felt myself drawn to the window and figured that wasn’t breaking any rules. I gave in to the urge and went to the cushioned window seat, pressing my hands flat against the panes of glass. Then I reached down and unlatched the window, pushing it up and letting in the cold night air.
Come play.
Something rose up inside me, a burst of bravery, and for some reason I decided that I must climb out the window. I must climb the giant tree. I had to do it to prove to myself that I wasn’t afraid of the new house.
As I knelt and began to stick one foot out the window, the whispers grew louder and more excited, and I grew more confident that what I was doing was absolutely the right thing. Think how proud Mom and Dad would be the next day. Think how impressed Kasey would be.
I set one foot lightly on the roof and shifted a bit of my weight to it, but my foot slipped a little on the loose shingles, and I thrust a hand toward the wall behind the curtain to steady myself.
I got my balance back, but as my hand pressed against the wall, panic surged up inside of me. The whispers became slower, angrier, as I stared down at the twenty-foot drop off the edge of the roof.