Tigers, Not Daughters - Samantha Mabry Page 0,31

hard breath burst from Iridian’s lungs.

“Ana,” she whispered.

Those words were Iridian’s words—from the story she’d just been working on. The writing, though—especially the letter a’s, handwritten in the typed-out style, with the little umbrella-curl on top—was Ana’s, without a doubt.

Iridian didn’t know how long she waited for her sisters to come home—minutes? an hour? She also didn’t really remember going downstairs. Mostly she remembered sitting on the couch, her spine too straight, and being haunted by the smell of oranges—so strong it was making her sick.

When her sisters did come home, Rosa rushed to Iridian’s side. The fabric of her dress was soggy from the rain, and Iridian gripped it tight, squeezing out water. Jessica stood by the end of the couch. Her hair was in a ponytail, but it didn’t look right. It was lopsided, puffed, like she’d been running through the woods and branches had snagged her long locks. A dark splotch the size and shape of a peanut shell stood out on her cheek.

“My words,” Iridian told her sisters. “Ana’s writing. Upstairs.”

“I’ll go look,” Rosa said.

While Rosa was upstairs, Jessica just stood there, doing nothing and saying nothing. Iridian gazed at the blank television screen. She tried to swallow, but it felt like her tongue was a wad of cotton.

“I saw her hand,” Jessica eventually said.

“It smells like oranges,” Iridian said. “Do you smell it?”

There was a pause. “No,” Jessica replied.

“Why is she doing this?” Iridian asked.

Jessica didn’t respond.

After a while, Rosa came back downstairs.

“I taped up a piece of paper,” she said. “You can’t see it anymore.”

That was a fine fix, but Iridian knew it would be a long time before she went upstairs again. She was under attack, and the only thing she knew to do was hide.

The First Time Ana Torres Came Back as a Ghost

Some nights, before Ana would undress at her bedroom window, she’d go out into the street. Wearing white Keds, a long T-shirt, and short shorts, Ana would march under the light of the street lamps. She was practicing to be a majorette, which was something we’d heard her mom had done back when she was in high school.

We’d watch Ana hurl a silver baton into the dark sky, and then spin around with her gaze up. Over and over. Ana could spin. She had that down. She could march. She could toss her baton so high it nearly grazed the telephone wires, but the problem was, she could hardly ever catch it once it came back down. Something about her aim was bad. Her fingers always grasped but never caught. The baton would ricochet off her hand, bounce against the asphalt, and skitter away. Ana never gave up, though. Again and again, she’d snatch up the baton and head right back into the middle of the street. Once there, she’d tick up her chin, press one fist against her waist, cock out her elbow, and prepare to lead the vast, invisible band behind her.

We were the first people to witness Ana come back as a ghost, and we considered ourselves lucky. She died in June, and we saw her again in August. It happened at night, when hauntings typically happen. We were in Hector’s room. It was late, way past midnight, when we heard thumps at the window—not like rocks being thrown because that sounds like ping, ping—but actual thumps, like the soft knocking a knuckle makes on wood. This was particularly weird because Hector’s bedroom was upstairs.

Calvin was closest to the window. He crawled up on his hands and knees and slowly pulled the curtains back. There was no one on the other side, of course, just the night sky and the light coming in from the street lamps. He looked over his shoulder and laughed.

“You’re all such pussies,” he said.

Just as he was about to release the curtain, Calvin turned back to the window, this time looking out and down, toward the street. His expression spun from humor to horror, and for a moment he was frozen. He made a choking sound and then fell backward.

Jimmy vaulted over