Towering - By Alex Flinn Page 0,71

so beautiful that you need to read it aloud?”

“Of course it is, my darling.” She stroked my hair. “And I should not have doubted you.”

“I forgive you, Mama.” Though I did not.

“I’m glad.” She opened the hamper she had brought with her. “And if you have not, you will when you see what I’ve brought—your favorite roast chicken!”

This did cheer me somewhat. How sad that, before I met Wyatt, food had been my only pleasure.

“And I thought,” she continued, “that, after dinner, we could play a round of Rummikub!”

41

Wyatt

I couldn’t call Rachel because, of course, Mama might still be there. The phone was on vibrate, but around here, it was so still, so quiet, that even vibrate was loud. So, instead, I went upstairs. Through Mrs. Greenwood’s door, I could hear the TV, still blasting, another sitcom. How could she sleep through that? But maybe her hearing wasn’t good. I thought about going in and turning it off, but seeing her in her jammies would be . . . awkward.

I couldn’t sleep anyway. What had the letter said? And what would I say to Zach when I met him. “Hey, dude, you know you fathered a child seventeen years ago, and she’s, like, locked in a tower?” Maybe he was a total waste case from all the drugs he’d taken.

In the darkness, I swore I could hear Rachel singing. I wondered if she ever heard me.

It was weird, when you thought about it, my mother moving to Long Island and getting pregnant at almost exactly the same time her dear friend Danielle. Rachel didn’t know her birthday or anything about her parents, but if the dates in Danielle’s diary—the date her mother had met Zach and the date he’d left—were true, her birthday was very close to mine.

I thought about that a while, listening to a late-night show with a comedian who must have been hilarious. Then, the audience laughter turned into the drone of an infomercial which, thankfully, I could only hear if I tried. Finally, Mrs. Greenwood must have gotten up and shut off the TV because I couldn’t hear anything.

I could not sleep. I fell asleep, then woke an hour later, slept then woke again. Outside my window, the wind howled and rattled the glass. When I finally went into something approaching REM sleep, I was roused from it once again, violently, like my mother shaking me when I was late to school. I heard a tapping noise, like someone banging at the window, and a voice crying. Was it Rachel? No, just the wind. I pulled my pillow over my head, ignoring it.

The voice said, “Let me in!”

Imagination! Way too vivid, for sure. With one hand, I searched the nightstand for my earbuds, to muffle the sound. I couldn’t find them. In doing so, I knocked over a glass of water, soaking my bed and probably the earbuds I was looking for. I stood and walked across the room, searching for the light switch for the ceiling lamp.

Across the hall, the banging continued, and the voice. “Let me in!”

I crossed the hallway to Danielle’s room. I didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t need to. The room was illuminated by a strange bluish-white light. As I entered, I heard glass breaking. I looked to the window.

It was Danielle. She looked just as she had the first night I had arrived. But, this time, she didn’t wait for me. Instead, she reached through with one glowing hand, unlatched the window, opened it, and stepped through.

“Whoah!” I said.

She shook her head, then pressed her finger to her lips. She started toward me.

Instinctively, I knew I must step aside, must follow her. Now, I would pursue wherever she went. I felt an icy chill as she passed, but maybe it was just the wind through the broken window.

She went only to my own room. Once there, she surveyed the unkempt bed, the messy desk, the spilled water, until she found what she sought.

Beside my bed was the plain brown bag from Hemingway’s. She slid her hand inside it and brought out the hairbrush. She ran her finger across the flower pattern, as if to make certain it was the right brush.

Then, she began to take down her hair. It had been in a ponytail, but once down, it was very long, almost as long as Rachel’s hair, but dark instead of blonde.

She brushed her hair. As she did, the hairbrush opened to reveal that it was, in fact, a