Famous Last Words

I racked my brain for a way to tell her that I’d been uninvited from Marnie’s house, but the right moment never seemed to arrive.

So instead, I came up with a foolproof plan, which was: Don’t tell her.

After all, I was seventeen years old, practically an adult. Plenty of people my age stay home alone all the time. And I wouldn’t even be truly alone — I had the ghost, right?

I was in my room trying to catch up on English Lit reading when there was a light knock on my door.

“Willa?” Mom said.

“Yeah, come in.”

She carried in a small empty suitcase. “Did you pack yet? I thought you might want to use this.”

Oh, right. As far as she knew, I was going somewhere. “Thanks,” I said, taking it and setting it on the floor next to the bed. “Are you excited?”

She smiled, shrugging. “I guess. I feel bad for leaving you. Maybe we should have done a familymoon.”

“First of all,” I said, “familymoon is a totally disturbing word, and an even more disturbing concept. Second of all, go have fun. Relax. Stop worrying about me for a couple of days.”

“I’m a mother,” she said. “I know it’s a cliché, but I’ll never stop worrying about you.”

I made a face. “Do I seem that helpless?”

“Oh, Willa, of course not.” Mom reached over and rubbed my back, like she used to when I was a little girl. “You’re the opposite of helpless. You’ve been growing so much lately. But … they say when you become a mother, part of your heart walks around outside your body.”

“That would be me, huh?” I asked. “The mobile segment of one of your bodily organs?”

She shrugged. “I’m not going to apologize for loving you more than anything else in the world.”

I leaned my head on her shoulder. “You really think I’m growing?”

“Oh, yes. Don’t you feel it? Since we got here, you’ve developed this … I don’t know, this aura of confidence.”

“That’s totally ironic,” I said, “because the stuff that’s happened to me here is so non-confidence-aura-making.”

“You’ve had a hard time at school?” Mom asked, sounding slightly heartbroken.

I didn’t answer.

“But, honey, don’t you see? Even if it’s tough now, those are the things that are making you stronger. Facing difficult circumstances. Getting through them. And look, you have Marnie — and you’re friendly with Reed — and you’re coming out of your shell a little.”

I was incredibly glad that we were sitting next to each other so she couldn’t see how red my face turned when she mentioned Reed.

She sat up and gave her hair a little shake. “I’m proud of you. And I’m sure your father would be, too.”

Tears stung my eyes. “Stop. You’re going to make me cry.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such a drama queen.”

“We’re both drama queens,” I said. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”

She stared out the window. “I guess you’re right. Poor Jonathan, having to live with us.”

“Poor Jonathan? What about poor you? And poor me? Why is Jonathan the only one whose suffering is considered legitimate?”

Mom sighed. “That’s not what I meant —”

“I’m tired of feeling bad about everything,” I said. “And you should be tired of it, too.”

Mom shrugged. “I feel selfish. I wanted to marry Jonathan — you didn’t get a say in that. And then you got dragged out here, also without a say. And now that I’m here, honestly, I don’t even know what to do with myself all day.”

I looked at Mom, who was staring at the floor. “Really?” I asked her softly.

“Yeah,” she said. “And I know I should go back to work, but what if I can’t get a job? What if I’m not good enough?”

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “Of course you’re good enough. You think the people here are so special? They’re normal people. You’re probably smarter than ninety-nine percent of them.”

Her left cheek dimpled, the way it always did when she was trying not to smile.

“Start applying,” I said. “You’ll get something right away. Or you can have Jonathan call in some favors.”

She laughed. “I couldn’t do that.”

“Mom,” I said. “He married you. He puts up with your nutso daughter. You think he won’t make a few phone calls, if it would make you happy?”

She sighed. “I just wish I knew how long it would take for me to feel like myself again.” Suddenly, she grabbed her head with both hands. “Like this! I mean, how did I end up blond? I swear, Willa, sometimes I look in the mirror and it’s like I don’t even recognize the person looking back at me.”

I rested my head on her shoulder. “I recognize you.”

She smiled through her tears and rubbed my upper arm before pulling me into a giant Mom-hug. “You’re one of a kind.”

“That’s probably for the best,” I said.

She kissed me on the forehead and then stood up. “Oh, look, your sink is ru

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

“Di

I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling for a while, feeling oddly at peace.

Later that night, as I brushed my teeth, my whole body suddenly felt warm and clammy, and my head began to ache. I took this as a not-so-great sign.

I closed my door and climbed into bed. Even though I was already hot, I didn’t push the blanket off. I wanted protective layers between myself and whatever the night had in store for me.

As I reached over and switched off my bedside lamp, I heard a short, sharp shattering sound.

I forced my eyes shut so tightly that they ached immediately.

I’m ignoring you, Diana, I thought. La la la, I can’t hear you.

Except of course I could.

Through the darkness came another sound:

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

I sat up and walked over to the bathroom, gave the door a tiny shove, and reached in to switch on the light.

Nothing happened.

Pushing the door open a few inches farther revealed what must have been the source of the first sound — a lightbulb in a thousand pieces on the floor.

That didn’t explain (a) why the lights hadn’t come on at all, because there were two bulbs, and (b) the source of the second sound, which was now poking me in the brain with a fiery-hot knife.

SQUEEEEEEEEEAK.

Could it be a mouse? But it seemed to come from up high. Then my eyes went to the lone lightbulb that remained in the fixture over the vanity.

Ever so slowly, making the faintest squeak, squeak, squeak, the bulb was spi

The ghost was there. Right now. With me.

In a panic, I backed away, staring in horror into the darkened room.

“What?” I asked, my voice trembling. “What do you want, Diana?”

Another crash. The towel bar fell, leaving two patches of torn plaster in its place.

Then the bathtub faucet and shower both turned on at once.

Was it going to destroy the whole bathroom?

Feeling utterly helpless, I sank to the floor, ducking my head and squeezing my eyes shut. Like a little kid making herself as small as possible.

“Please,” I said. “What do you want?”

The faucets turned off. The room fell quiet.

I opened my eyes and glanced around.

In my bedroom, on the wall opposite the bathroom, in huge black letters, was written:

WRONG

Behind me, the sink faucet turned on again.

Suddenly, the word wrong was appearing on every inch of the wall, and floor, and ceiling of my room. WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG.

The closet door burst open. Thousands of rose petals flew out, swirling in midair.