Wink Poppy Midnight - April Genevieve Tucholke Page 0,32
it met her tight black T-shirt. I stepped back to let her enter, but she didn’t move from the doorway.
“Are you still afraid of this place, Poppy?”
She was quiet. Poppy, without a comeback.
“Why did you choose it for the prank, then? Why here, if it scares you as much as Wink?”
Poppy shook herself, so quick I almost missed it. She cocked her head, eyes hooded, nose in air. “I chose this place because it’s isolated. I’m not afraid. This is just a stupid, dirty old house that smells like death. I don’t believe in ghosts and even if I did, I wouldn’t care if I saw one and I wouldn’t be afraid.”
She tossed her blond hair and took a step. Then another. She was in.
She laughed.
Poppy held out her arms in the Roman Luck hallway, wide. She twirled around in a circle, the floor creaking beneath her. “Come and haunt me, ghosts. I’m right here. Come on. Show me you’re real. Show me what you can do.”
She paused. Smiled at me. “See? Nothing.”
She looked so young, right there with her arms spread out between the two wood-paneled walls. She looked so brave and full of life amid the groaning floorboards and the dust and decay that I felt, just for a brief second, like she could make it all vanish, just with a wave of her hand, a blink of her eye, a flash of light. Poppy would twirl her arm above her head and the house would lift itself up and shake off its dirt and squeeze itself back together and be like new again. And then Roman Luck would come strolling back through the door, stroking a long beard because he’d tasted some Dutch ale and fallen asleep on the mountain for twenty years, and that’s all it was, that’s all that had happened, mystery solved.
We both heard the noise, and jumped. Clawing, scratching, scrape, scrape, scrape.
Poppy dropped her arms.
It was just the branches rubbing up against the windows, but Poppy didn’t know that.
I nodded down the hall. “Come on, let’s go to the music room. Lead the way.”
She didn’t say anything, no snappy retort. She just went.
Creak-creak went the floorboards.
Poppy stopped in the doorway. I gave her my flashlight, and she switched it on. She walked to the center of the room, and then spun around, the light going with her. It made a long, pale arc. Poppy shivered. Hard. Her limbs shook.
This wasn’t the Poppy I knew. It wasn’t even the Poppy from the hallway, arms in the air, daring the supernatural to come and get her.
She wasn’t being mean. She wasn’t hurting someone. She wasn’t ordering anyone around. She wasn’t getting naked and climbing on top of me.
She was just scared. She was genuinely scared.
I wanted to take her hand and lead her back outside. I wanted to walk her home, and tuck her into bed, and make her feel safe.
But I couldn’t.
I was the hero.
“You should put your hands on the keys,” I said. “It’s tradition. The first time you go in the Roman Luck house, you put your hands on the keys.”
Poppy walked to the piano. She set down the flashlight, put her fingers on the chipped ivory, and pressed, plunk, plunk, plunk. She rested them there for one breath, two. Then snatched her arms away, turned back to me, and smiled a cocky half smile.
“There, I did it.”
“You know,” I said, lazy and cool, like Alabama, “I think you should call out to the ghosts again, here in the music room. Dare them to haunt you. See what happens.”
“You first,” she said, but the words didn’t come out bossy and vain. They came out as a whisper.
Poppy hugged her arms across her chest and didn’t look me in the eye.
“Well, you should at least go upstairs and lie down on the bed. That’s the way it’s done. Piano keys. Bed.” I reached out my hand. She hesitated. I wiggled my fingers. “I’ll go with you.”
Out into the hall, up the stairs, first door on the right. The master bedroom. Seven black suits in the wardrobe. Two wooden nightstands. White radiator. A dusty tie on a dusty walnut dresser. And the bed, sheets still tucked in, covers still pulled up, even after all of us kids had been on it through the years. The striped black-and-gold quilt was spitting out stuffing from where the rats had gotten into it, but you could still tell it was silk. Still see the Made in Paris,