Page 86 of Play Nice

“But…?”

“Nah. Never mind. The whole thing is so cliché,” I say, throwing my hands up. “It’s every trope. And I’m that trope of the creepy kid. The kid with terrible vibes. That’s not me. My vibes have been impeccable since birth. And what’s even more frustrating is that the footage, from the paranormal investigators or whatever, is nowhere on the internet. I checked. Mom was telling the truth about the lawsuits against them, that weird married couple. Their scandals are well documented. Plenty of detailed information available on how they took advantage of the mentally ill and financially desperate. But there’s only one mention, one blog post on their website, about their trip to Edgewood. Our suffering must not have been interesting enough for them because it’s a meager three paragraphs. And there’s nothing specific about me. Nothing to prove or disprove how I really was. Woof. My bad. Let’s talk about something else,” I say, finishing my milkshake. He stares at me. “What?”

“Nothing. Just…I’m sorry. That’s shitty. If it helps, I remember your vibes being good. That I remember. One hundred percent.”

“Impeccable,” I correct him. “Impeccable vibes.”

He nods. “Not creepy at all.”

“Thanks,” I say. I always forget that he knew me back then, that he has some context. Limited context, yeah, but still. “It does, actually. Help. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he says, grinning.

He pays the check and takes me back to his house. We have tea with his mom, and the two of them gang up on me for having never seen Game of Thrones.

“I’m just not into hobbits,” I say.

“There’s no—” Dawn starts.

Austin cuts her off. “She knows, Mom. She’s messing with us.”

“Oh!” Dawn blows a raspberry at me, and I give a devious little laugh. I fit in so well here, I wonder how my photo isn’t already on the wall.

Austin and I go to bed around midnight, and it’s the first time we’ve slept next to each other without hooking up. He kisses me good night and that’s it.

He falls asleep right away, but I can’t get there. Panic throbs through my body, rattles my bones, makes my heart ache. Right now, it feels scarier to be beside him than anything else I’ve experienced over these last two months. To be so close to someone who might care about me. Who might be trying to get me to care about them, who might be trying to earn my trust, who might be succeeding in those endeavors.

I’m losing my grip. On this. On the house. On my family. On my mind. My life.

I don’t know how to not be in control.

I close my eyes, and I see the moldy bread, the mess in the fridge, the frowning face on the wall. I hear the echo of that horrible laughter. There’s nothing to drown it out. It’s inside my head.

Austin rolls over and puts his arm around me. He reeks of antiseptic and old lady perfume and diner, and I wish I could bottle it—his scent right now—and the way it feels to be held when I’m afraid.

—

The morning is all sunshine and blue skies. Austin leaves for work, and I go back to the house. The first thing I do is search for signs of mischief, but nothing is out of place. Everything is exactly as I left it. The book is on the coffee table.

My heart sinks.

Wow. Am I…disappointed?

I realize some part of me was hoping for another grand gesture. For more proof. Maybe even more fear.

Fear is new and exhilarating. Addicting.

I walk over to the wall I patched yesterday, run my hand over the dried Spackle. I’ll need to sand and repaint today.

All that awaits me are ordinary chores, ordinary problems.

I change into my paint clothes and touch up the wall in the living room, then start cutting in. I listen to the music Mom used to play for us. Heart, Linda Ronstadt, Sade, Kate Bush, Cher, Fleetwood Mac.

She used to dance around the kitchen while she was cooking, glass of wine in her hand. Back at the old house before Dad left. After Dad left, there was no more dancing. Only more wine.

One time I caught her here at Edgewood with a bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes out on the deck. Not dancing but swaying.

“Ya…ya should be…a…sleep,” she said, slurring, lighting a cigarette with a hot pink Bic.