Towering - By Alex Flinn Page 0,4

into the snow. I knelt to fumble for it and felt the distinct sensation of being watched. I glanced up and saw a small, dark movement in the upstairs window. My imagination. I heard a rustling in the trees. Just squirrels. I returned to my fumbling and finally found the key, which had nearly turned to ice.

I rose and climbed the steps to the door. The key fought against the lock, as if it was not much used to working. Finally, it turned. I tugged the door open.

A scent met my nose, not one I associated with the elderly. I had expected mothballs or powdery perfume, but this was something different, some rare spice. The room was pitch black. I felt for the light switch, but when I flipped it, the bulb flashed bright then died instantly. In the moment it was on, I saw the staircase ahead of me. With still-frozen hands, I pulled my bag up and climbed the stairs, feeling along the wall as I walked, looking for another light. Finally, I found one as I reached the upstairs landing.

The hallway before me looked from another time. Old photos of long-dead people lined the walls of the staircase. A couple posed formally, the woman wearing a 1920s wedding dress; a little boy by a boat. The spicy scent strengthened. I didn’t know which room was mine, but all the doors but one were closed. One was open barely a crack. I chose that one. The light there worked, and as I entered, I saw there were photos there too, all of a young girl with long, dark hair and an impish grin. Was this Danielle? My question was answered as I studied the room, finding more photos of the same girl. In a Girl Scout uniform. Dressed in an old-fashioned gown in a school play. And, finally, arm in arm with a blonde girl whose face I knew well. My mother. In the photo, my mother was laughing. Danielle stared at something in the distance. I had dozed on the train, and now I felt too awake to sleep, so I examined the books on the shelves. Mostly, they were romance novels with open-shirted guys staring at heaving-breasted women in Victorian dresses. But finally, I found something interesting. A yearbook. It had The Centurion emblazoned in gold letters on a black cover. I drew it out and turned to the index, searching for my mother’s name, Emily Hill. The first page number led me to the student photos, black-and-white faces, all with the same stick-up bangs that had been in style back then, the same dopey smiles. Danielle was on the same page, her long, straight hair a darker shade of gray than the others. I wondered what had happened to her. Then, I remembered she was probably dead.

Without thinking, I turned the pages. The book was thinner than my yearbook at home. It looked like there had only been a few hundred students in the whole school. I found another photo of Danielle, a candid shot of her in a winter coat, about to throw a snowball. Danielle hadn’t collected friends’ signatures in the yearbook. Only one page had an inscription, and that inscription was from my mother, a long block of text about “weird Mr. Oglesby” and “that day in chemistry class.” Instead of the usual “Stay sweet” or “Have a good summer” before her signature, Mom had written, “Don’t worry. It will be okay.”

The date was eighteen years ago. Weird thought that, only a year later, my mother had been pregnant with me. And Danielle, she’d disappeared.

I flipped through the other pages. Finding no more inscriptions, I returned the book to the shelf.

But when I tried to push it in, it wouldn’t go. Something behind it blocked its way. With my almost-thawed fingers, I pried the books apart. Suddenly, I wondered if maybe I should put everything back the way it had been. Exactly the way it had been. Maybe the old lady was keeping the room as a shrine to Danielle. Maybe I shouldn’t even be in here.

But when I reached between the books, I found the obstruction, an old, green notebook with crooked spirals. Was it a diary? No, I had no idea why I’d thought that. It was a notebook for school. Still, I wondered why it was hidden. Probably, Danielle had shoved it on to the shelf when her mother had told her to clean her room. I did that