Warning: Objects in Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

Speaking in French

         "Nothing," I say, and try to get past her, but she stops me. I look up at her and say, "Nothing!"

         "Doesn't look to me like nothing," she says, crossing her arms. Waiting for a response.

         I look at her and wonder what Nico's last words to his mother were.

         "Have you heard about this history writer?" I ask her. Mom shakes her head. I sigh and say, "She came by here today."

         Mom's face changes from angry to surprised. "Here, or--"

         "Here," I say. "This street. This house. Her name is Jocelyn Parker. Mom, she's after the mansion."

        Mom's gracious enough not to say something vicious, say something about the house. "How long have you been worrying about this?"

         Because of course I'd be worrying about this. "Her family came up with her. There's a grandmother, a sister, and her sister's daughter. They came by Jacqueline's shop last Saturday and talked to us. They found out that I live here, so I guess I've been preparing since then."

         "So what happened today?" Mom asks.

         "Cameron drove me home, like I said," I tell her. "When we got here, she was sizing it up. We talked with her for a little bit, then she went on to do her business and I went over to Cameron's to talk. She was still here when I left his house, so I hid in the trees between the houses and tried to figure out what she was doing. That's why I'm so dirty."

          As it turns out, I'm pretty good at lying. I guess I've been doing a lot of it lately.

         Mom raises an eyebrow. "Why didn't you just tell me that first?"

         "I didn't want you to know I was worrying about it," I say. "Can I go take a shower now, or . . .?"

         Mom, reluctantly, moves out of the way. I go past her and climb up the stairs, throwing a hand up over my mouth to stifle the sounds coming out of my mouth, trying to keep me from crying, and try to get to the bathroom before I have a full mental breakdown.

The hot water clears my head. I come out and get dressed in dry, warm clothes. I closed the door to my room, so now I creak it open.

         My room is blatant warmth and cozy temperatures, red walls and carpeted floors. My curtains are drawn--have been ever since Halloween--and I'm tempted to pull them back, but I stop myself. Instead, I grab the home phone off my nightstand. Before I even know what I'm doing, muscle memory punches in Fran's number: 2-7-6 . . . 2-9-1-4.

         I just look at it, and it dials itself. I keep staring at it until someone at the other end picks up--"Hello?"

         "Fran!"

         --Click--. I stare at the phone, surprised and sort of detached. She hung up on me. I immediately dial it again. It rings once . . . twice . . . three times. . . . Fran answers and immediately hangs up. So I dial it again because that seems to be the only thing I can do.

        This time, Fran just lets it ring. It goes to her voicemail--Hey, you've reached Fran Montgomery's cell! Since I'm probably busy doing super-cool things like being on tour or jumping out of a plane, I'll let you leave a message, and I may or may not get back to it. Catch ya on the flip side!

         She's had that same voicemail since seventh grade. She sounds like she's four.

         "Please, Fran. I know you're not really happy with me right now. No, I know you're extremely mad at me right now. But, please, please pick up. I . . . I can explain." Maybe I should keep Nico a secret--after all, it's what I've been doing--but Fran is my best friend. "Please, call me back. Or--just talk to me. Fran, please don't do this. I know I've been weird lately, and I haven't been a good friend, but . . . I'll explain. Please. Just call me back." 

         I hang up and pull my knees to my chest. The phone slips from my fingers and bounces onto the bed in front of me. For some reason I expect it to taunt me, or haunt me, or both, but it just sits there, an indention in my duvet, as cold and emotionless and dead as I am. I stare at it and it stares at me, both having no idea what to say or who to be or how to feel. I've cried too much and I've felt too little. I feel sleepy, but I must be awake.

        I let my eyes fall closed, listening to the faint sound of the air conditioner and leftover rain drops fall from the drain pipe outside my window and insects tap out sleepy, dismal songs. It's times like these when people sing to themselves or reread old books or pray, but I can't figure out what to think or say.

         The lights overhead flicker and start to dim. My eyes pop open, my heart going a million miles an hour. But a soft, cool breath touches my forehead and eyelashes and cheeks, and the light switch flicks off, and the cold air retreats with a small, whispered, Sorry . . . and the air is warm again, not hot but warm. The only light in the room trickles in from under the cracks of my door, and my phone and this day and my mess are forgotten, if only for a moment, and I close my eyes, and stay like that, until all becomes morphable nothingness and sleep.