Lizzie Page 9

  That’s the thing about Bridget—she’s never believed she’s anything but worthy.

  I slip my hand into hers and tug her toward the far end of the barn. Her palms are slick with sweat. She stumbles after me, tightening her fingers, squeezing so hard I almost cry out. A light fluttering begins in my stomach and funnels toward my heart. It’s still like this every time we touch.

  “Stay close,” I say. “There’s stuff everywhere. I don’t want you to trip.”

  “Define stuff.”

  I cup my hand over my mouth to trap a giggle at her fear.

  We stop at the base of a ladder, the rusty rungs shimmering under the faint glow of the overhead light. The paint is chipped and scuffed. There’s a cluster of my muddy footprints on the floor. “You go first,” I say.

  Bridget glances up, her eyes wide with alarm. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I shake my head.

  “Not happening.” She drops my hand and stuffs both of hers in the pockets of the gray Star Wars hoodie that she’s slipped over her skirt. Swipe. Han Solo slings his arm around Princess Leia’s shoulder and winks.

  “I’ve got this thing about heights,” Bridget says.

  “You hiked to the top of the Duomo.”

  She licks her lips. “That was different.”

  “What about bungee jumping in Thailand?”

  Bridget kicks at something on the floor, and a cloud of dust spirals like a mini tornado. Her foot barely misses a splat of bird poop.

  “Or diving out of a plane?” My throat gets a lump at the thought and I shudder. “You can do all that, but climbing a ladder scares you?”

  She kind of snorts. “I’d rather swim with sharks.”

  My mind zips back to Cook Pond, where Bridget admitted her fear of maggots and open bodies of water. “I doubt that. You’ve hiked Mount Everest,” I say, winking. In our games of Truth and Dare, Bridget has admitted that not all her adventure tales were . . . truthful. I’m okay with that, since we share so many of the same dreams. It’s easy to think maybe she’s saving those real adventures for when we can do them together. “You’ve had dinner with a Japanese mob boss. Where’s that girl?”

  Bridget pouts. “I’m allowed one weakness.”

  “Fine.” I grip the ladder handles and put my foot on the first rung. “I’ll go first, but you should probably follow me right away. There’s a chance that wasn’t a mouse earlier.”

  Bridget tugs on my shirtsleeve. “What do you mean?”

  I glance over my shoulder and grin like a Cheshire cat. “Rodents of Unusual Size.”

  “You’re horrible,” she says through a smile, and I’m surprised all over again at how easy it is for us to play.

  At the halfway mark, I sense her weight on the base of the ladder. I continue my ascent, ears pointed toward the loft overhead, listening for sounds that are both familiar and foreign. My heartbeat thunders in my temples. What will she think when she sees what I have done?

  I reach the top rung and crawl onto the wooden loft floor. My knees hit the edge of the thin mattress, and a bird coos overhead. “You’re almost there.”

  Bridget grunts. “This had better be worth . . .”

  Her voice trails off as a sharp chirp freezes her in place. I peer down at her, grinning. “Birds,” I say. “Just normal size.”

  “Bats?”

  I chew on the corner of my lip, weighing the pros and cons of fibbing. One look at her pale skin and I decide to tell the truth. “Not even of the vampire variety.”

  Her shoulders visibly slump with relief.

  When she finally reaches the top of the ladder, she folds herself onto the mattress and splays out on her back next to a fleece blanket, sucking in deep breaths as though gasping for air. Her movement stills. “Fuck. Is that a spiderweb?”

  I follow her gaze. “Conceivable. They’re normal-size too, though.”

  She sits upright, the top of her head just barely missing the low-hung overhead beams. “An insect of any size is too big.”

  A small chirp from the corner of the loft draws her attention. She tilts her head. “What in the hell is that?”

  I curl my finger, motioning for her to follow, as I crawl across the mattress to a corner of the loft floor, where a coil of blankets forms a makeshift nest for a family of pigeons. I’ve been creeping into the barn late at night to ensure Mama’s babies are feeding, breathing. Safe from my father. But this single act of rebellion sends a shiver of unease up my spine.

  Bridget leans in close and gasps. “They’re so little.”

  I lift one into the palm of my hand and stroke the downy feathers on its fragile back. Abigail says pigeons are ugly, but I love the silver-gray shade of their feathers, the way they look blue in just the right light. I lean up against the slightly open window and hold the chick up to the overhead glow. “Mom is around somewhere.”

  “You made this for them?”

  The awe in her voice creates a stir in my belly. No one else—not even Emma—could understand what I’ve done. “Everyone deserves a sanctuary.” I set the baby pigeon back in the nest with the others. “And if I don’t keep them safe, I’m sure my father will kill them.” I nudge my head toward the small window. “They scavenge the pears.”

  Precious pears for Abigail’s pies.

  Forbidden fruit.

  Bridget presses her face up to the glass. In the lightly blowing wind, tree branches tap at the window like long, thin fingers, calling for our attention. She points into the darkness. “I think there’s an owl in the tree right now!”

  I know without looking what she means, but my reflection stares back me, urging me to explain. In the spring, I hang plastic owl and hawk ornaments from the branches to deter the pigeons—though, admittedly, it doesn’t always work. “They’re meant to scare them away, but once a pigeon has made its home, they aren’t easily deterred.” They always come back.

  “I can’t believe you did this,” Bridget says, her voice so soft I have to strain to hear it. The pride in her words is like a secret language speaking straight to my bones, and I lap it up. “Actually, I can. You’re basically an angel.”

  My denial comes out in a sharp laugh. “Remind me to dig out my halo.”

  There’s an awkward beat of silence before Bridget reaches into her backpack to pull out an iPad. She presses the power button. “Well, maybe not perfect exactly—but we’re about to fix that.”

  The screen comes to life.

  “You won’t scare me. I’ve seen Friday the 13th,” I say with sarcasm. “Chee-chee-ha-ha . . .”

  Bridget leans back on the mattress and rests the tablet on her stomach. “But you’ve never seen Star Wars.”

  A familiar orchestra tune bellows from the speakers and Bridget’s face relaxes, as though every ounce of tension is released with this music, this moment. Her eyes sparkle in anticipation.

  I curl up next to her, my skin alive with the electricity that dances between us. A script rolls across the screen, and Bridget mouths the words. She catches me staring and jabs at the iPad. “Watch this, not me.”

  It takes all my effort to concentrate, and then at some point near the end of the opening credits, she belches out a guttural animal sound that ratchets up my pulse. “What on earth was that?”

  “Wookiee call,” she says. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it soon.”

  I inch closer, my hand brushing up against her hip. The edge of her shirt has lifted to reveal a thin band of warm flesh. She flinches when I touch her but doesn’t pull away. My heart rate picks up speed.

  “Bridget?”

  Her voice is hoarse. “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry for not introducing you to my sister.” I wait for her to say something. When she doesn’t, I keep talking, an attempt to lessen my guilt. “I wanted to, but—”

  She squeezes my hand. “You don’t need to explain, Lizzie. I already know.” She curls closer and taps the iPad screen. “So, this is technically episode four.”

  I clear my
throat, understanding that the conversation about my sister is done. “Why aren’t we starting with episode one?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Lucas screwed up—that’s the director. He tried to reboot the series and—” Her cheeks burn bright red. “Wow. I am full-on geek. It’s not important, trust—” And she’s gone again as two guys with glowing wands face off against each other. Bridget’s breathing goes shallow.

  My fingers creep across her stomach and flatten against her belly button. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, trying hard to focus on the movie, but my thoughts are everywhere except on Star Wars.

  Later, I poke at her arm. “Those guys in white are Stormtroopers, right?”

  She grins. “You’ve heard of them?”

  I snort out a short laugh. “People have been dressing up like Stormtroopers for Halloween since I was a kid.” I don’t say it, but I’m familiar with Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, and Princess Leia, too. Especially her.

  “One year I went dressed as Han Solo,” she says. “But then, only as Princess Leia ever since. She’s pretty much the most beautiful woman in the world.” Her lips brush against my cheek. “After you, obviously.”

  My words tangle up inside my esophagus. “I’ve never dressed up for Halloween,” I say, stammering.

  Her eyes go wide. “You’re shitting me.”

  “My father considers it a waste of time.”

  Bridget scoffs, “Cheap asshole.”

  For some inexplicable reason, the dig stings. I force a shy smile, deflecting the blame to my stepmother. “Abigail hates kids ringing the doorbell, so she and my father go to the pub. I hand out candy.”

  “Do you give extra to the Stormtroopers?”

  “Maybe a little,” I fib, knowing it will make her smile.

  I’ve come to rely on her smiles—the slight curl of her lip, those toothy grins. They lift me, soothe me, sometimes even take my breath away. I fall into her happiness, like Alice through the rabbit hole, anxiously anticipating each new adventure, always hopeful they’ll lead me far from Fall River, millions of miles from this place.

  But that dream always ends in reality, and it’s enough to darken my mood.

  Bridget senses my sadness—she’s so intuitive that way. “Hey, we’re going to get out of here someday.”

  “How?”

  I have to convince my father that I can make it on my own, without medications and curfews, without an ever-watchful eye. It’s an impossible mission, because even if he loosened his grip, the church would tighten its.

  She snuggles in close, wrapping the blanket around us. Even still, goose pimples form on my skin. “I don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out. I just need some time.”

  I don’t say it aloud, but I’m beginning to think it’s already too late.

  Bridget’s hand slides under my T-shirt and rests on my hip. I can feel her mouth pressed against my arm, lips slack with awe, and my skin tingles like it’s on fire.

  A man in black comes onto the screen.

  “That’s Luke’s father, right?”

  Bridget’s breath hitches. “So you have seen it.”

  “It’s not exactly a spoiler.”

  Bridget sighs. “It’s iconic, really.”

  I don’t disagree. In fact, I say nothing at all. Bridget presses her chest tight against my side, and just as I remember to start breathing again, her hand moves from my hip and gently slides into my palm.

  As ridiculous as it seems, I’ve already memorized the way her heart beats against mine.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Scratch.

  Scratchy, scratch.

  My pen skips across the paper, etching words, letters, symbols. Ink bleeds onto the page. A collection of hearts and broken hearts, famous quotes and infamous sayings, things that won’t make sense later and don’t make sense now. A jumble of thoughts.

  Feelings.

  I shrivel into myself, pulling my knees to my chest. Wrapping my arms around them to rock back and forth, back and—

  Stop!

  The fresh pages of my new journal whisper to me.

  I balance the notebook on my knees and push the pen onto the paper, pressing so hard my fingers go white. Invisible.

  I am a ghost.

  The pen slides across the paper. Scratch. Scratchy, scratch.

  Riiiiip.

  The page tears, shredding one of the hearts in half. Pain spiderwebs across my chest. I drag the torn paper to the edge of my notebook. It curls. Unfurls. Falls onto the carpet, disappearing into the stains, burrowing itself deeper and deeper until it’s—

  Gone.

  Everyone leaves.

  A recent argument flits through the fog of my madness, like slashes of lightning through storm clouds. My father, his fist thump, thump, thumping against my bedroom door. Bridget curling up against me on the bed.

  “Lizbeth, who are you talking to in there?”

  Swipe.

  Abigail’s shrill voice, mocking and cruel. “She’s always talking to herself.” I hear her cackle, imagine her throwing back her head to howl. I shrink onto the bed next to Bridget, begging her to be still.

  So. Still.

  “Just open the door, Lizzie,” Bridget whispered, and my skin cooled so fast a shiver rocked through my core. “You don’t need to be ashamed of me.”

  Not ashamed, scared. Frightened that if Father caught us together, intertwined on the bed, our legs and arms wrapped around each other—

  No. I can’t let him take her away.

  “I’m going to Boston,” he announced. “I expect you to be available for your mother.”

  Step. Mother.

  His voice hardened to cool steel. “And for God’s sake, Lizbeth. Take your fucking medication.”

  “I am taking my pills,” I whispered, voice raw. “They’re killing me.”

  Bridget wiped her thumb across my cheek. “No they’re not, Lizzie,” she said, so softly I had to strain to listen. “Sometimes you just feel like you’re spinning out of control when you bring yourself up instead of down.”

  Father knocked again, and again, until the sound pinged off the walls and tap, tap, tapped against my skull. “Do you hear me?” he bellowed, in a thunderous voice that still, hours later, vibrates through my core. “You have one damn job. Serve Abigail—”

  Abigail.

  I etch her name into a fresh page now, drawing each letter in bold red ink, so thick it is an artery that leads to her invisible heart. I press harder on my pen, drawing over each symbol again and again. Swirls loop around the letter G, and I add drops of blood that trail

  down

  the

  paper

  Pooling at the bottom of the page.

  A.B.I.G.A.I.L. is bleeding out.

  A shrill laugh billows in my throat. I close my mouth to tamp it back. Shhhhh.

  Scratch. Scratchy, scratch.

  Scratch.

  I swipe—swipe—the notebook off my legs and curl myself into a ball. I tuck my calloused heels up against my underwear. They are cold, too cold. A muted gasp escapes as my ankle caresses my naked thigh. I tug at my shirt, pulling it over my bare knees and legs, trying to yank it all the way past my toes.

  Cocooning.

  The thin cotton rips at my sleeve. Cool air seeps in and blankets my chest.

  I shuffle deeper into the closet, ducking my head under the skirts and dresses and aprons that hang like puppets on hangers laden with dust. I am safe in this morgue of memories, laughter, and tears. No one comes here, cleans here, looks in this room where my mother once slept, dreamed—

  Died.

  I am death.

  My tongue slides along my bottom lip, catching on cracks of dry skin that peel, stick, peel away. I pick at the scab with my teeth and it breaks free, falling between my lips and into my mouth. The skin lingers at the back of my throat, scratch, scratch, scratching.

  I swallow the slimy, squishy scab and my gaze returns to the notebook. To Abigail’s name. I study the lette
rs that are etched onto the page with such force they’ve become three-dimensional. Alive.

  There is still not enough red.

  I drag my tongue across the paper, scraping at the letters, coating my lips with ink and pulp and spit. My saliva bubbles the paper, deepening the red. Spreading it thinner.

  Still unsatisfied, I grind my teeth against my lip, aggravating the open wound. It grows. Bleeds.

  I am a vampire.

  Fat tears carve their way through the grit on my face and splatter on the paper. I tear it from the journal, crumple it into a tight ball, and stuff it in my mouth, coating it in saliva and blood. My blood. A.B.I.G.A.I.L. begins to dissolve.

  I chew.

  Suck.

  Roll the soggy paper around and around in my mouth with my tongue.

  I resist the urge to spit it out. I want to swallow her, erase her from my world, this house, from her entire existence. I am empowered. Unhinged. I am—

  Swipe.

  Free.

  You can never be free.

  A knock outside the closet door makes me freeze. I suck in a breath and stay still. So still. Quiet as a mouse.

  Another knock. Softer. Tentative, almost. I slide farther into the closet, covering my face with clothes. Camouflaging myself so that Abigail cannot find me. Hurt me.

  “Lizzie?”

  Swipe.

  My heart crawls up into my throat at the soft melody of Bridget’s voice. I inch toward the closet door and peer out through the thin slats in the frame. Watching. Waiting.

  Bridget is there. Cheeks, nose, eyebrows all scrunched and pinched with concern. She reaches up to caress the scarf wrapped around her neck. I tilt my head to stare.

  I’m here.

  My hand covers my mouth to block the whisper.

  “Lizzie, are you . . . ?” Her voice trails off. “I could swear I heard a noise. Something. Where did you go?”

  Bridget begins to pace. She looks over her shoulder before stooping on one knee to look under the bed. I’m not there. She stands and peers behind the door of Mother’s en suite bathroom. You’re getting warmer. She pauses at the closet. Hesitates. In here, I want to scream. I’m sure she can hear the thump, thump, thump of my heartbeat.