story, for making us do the ritual, for pretending she was real and making me think she was. I wasn’t going to help her. No matter what.
* * *
Because of the humidity, sitting outside felt like breathing underwater, even early in the morning, but I didn’t want to stay inside. I walked the neighborhood, kicking pebbles out of my way, ending up at the edge of the field. When I got to the top of the little hill, Becca was on the other side. Once she was gone, I ran after, crouching next to the open spot in the hedges.
She darted across the lawn, bent over like an old lady. She was carrying her backpack by one strap, practically dragging it on the ground, and when she reached the front door, she shot a glance over her shoulders. I tensed, but she didn’t see me. Once she slipped inside, I crept from my hiding place and knelt near the basement window with the curtain gap. I couldn’t see Becca, but I heard her moving. A heavy thump sounded, close to the window.
I felt light-headed and everything went gray, like I was caught inside a raincloud with no way out. I didn’t panic. I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t. When the fuzziness vanished, there was a circle of mist on the glass with HELP HER scrawled across it, already beginning to fade. The fog was on the outside, and I recognized the handwriting.
I scrambled to my feet, but my ankles tangled and I landed on my butt, a branch scratching my upper arm. With a yelp I couldn’t bite back in time, I scrabbled away from the window as the mist disappeared. On rubbery legs I took off.
Once I turned onto my street, I slowed down, trying to act normal, but my chest hurt. Sweat poured down my back, ran down my forehead and into my eyes. My fingers were shaking and I held them out as though they were strange, disconnected things with minds of their own. On my index finger, a smear of grime. I scrubbed it on my shorts. Scrubbed it again and again, long after the dirt was wiped away.
I hadn’t written on the window. I knew I hadn’t. I kicked a stone from the sidewalk. And what was I supposed to do anyway? Becca didn’t want to be my friend. She didn’t want my help.
But what if she did? What if she hadn’t been faking at all when she called? I bit the side of my thumbnail. It wasn’t my fault. What was I supposed to think? She shouldn’t have shut me out. She shouldn’t have acted the way she did. Most of all, she should never have told us about the Red Lady in the first place. And if the Red Lady was real, if she was so powerful, then she could help Becca. They didn’t need me.
When I got home, Mom was going to the grocery store for milk, so I went with her. In the magazine aisle they had a shelf of paperbacks, and I thumbed free a copy of The Shining.
Mom glanced at the cover when I asked if I could get it. “I thought you had that one?”
“I did. I dropped it at the playground and a bunch of pages ripped.”
“Toss it in the cart. And sweetheart, your finger’s bleeding again.”
A narrow strip of my cuticle from the side of my nail was peeled all the way back, past the top of the nail. When I licked away the pearls of blood, she made a small sound and rummaged in her purse.
“Here,” she said, offering an adhesive bandage. “You know, staying mad isn’t always the best thing to do.”
I pushed the cart down the aisle. “I thought you just needed milk.”
“Yes, but while I’m here I thought I’d pick up a few more things.”
One of the wheels squeaked as I turned the corner into the next aisle. My mom grabbed a few cans of soup, then fixed me with a pensive look. “You know, you could call her first.”
“Mom, stop,” I said, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She glanced at my finger long and hard enough that I tucked my arms behind my back. Home, with the groceries put away and Mom upstairs, I picked up the phone. But after I dialed the fifth number, I hung up. I wasn’t the one who’d decided we weren’t friends. She was. She