Laura Kasischke - The Raising

She stopped before saying “killed him,” but they both knew it was what she was going to say. They’d talked for hours. Never once had she called what had happened to her an “accident,” but the one time she’d spoken the words killed him aloud, she’d had to run from the room to the bathroom, where Craig had heard the water running in the sink for a long time.

“So it was easy to think that every guy about that age, blond, skinny, was him. And every time I saw a guy on a bike. Even still.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Craig reached over and put his hand on her shoulder.

“I didn’t really think it was him,” she went on. “I didn’t think he was haunting me or anything, but it was like what you described tonight. It would just happen. I’d think I’d seen him, and suddenly everything would be different. Like, the whole world. My whole life. In that second. Instead of being horrified, I was happy, and the universe was suddenly operating with these completely different laws, and—”

Craig said, “I know.”

“And all the consequences, they were just nothing. It was like, for those two seconds, I was free, and—”

“I know,” Craig said. He was laughing now, despite himself, but she was shaking her head.

She said, “Except that I’d be wrong. It wasn’t him.”

Craig nodded. He took a sip of the tea. It was minty, green. It tasted to him like something a witch might have come up with to cure a broken heart or a bad case of hives. It tasted like a supernatural garden. He had always hated the herbal teas his mother tried to convince him to drink, but he loved this tea.

He inhaled, looked up from the mug, and said, “Except, Debbie, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but this is different. I saw her. I truly saw her. This was Nicole.”

Deb gave him a sad little smile. Not happy, but not surprised.

“I’m going to go back there tonight,” he said. “If I have to sit outside the OTT house for five years, I’m going to talk to her. I’m going to ask her what the hell—”

Then, Perry opened the door, and Craig stood up, went to him, took him by the shoulders, and said, “I’ve got something to tell you, man. Something huge.”

“Yeah,” Perry said, sounding weary. “I’ve got something to tell you, too.”

“Hey, Perry.”

He could feel it, just like in the clichés, his heart sinking, his heart leaping. Was he ever as aware of that muscle at the center of his body as he was when Nicole Werner stood in front of him?

Now he could feel all four chambers, and the blood traveling in and out of them, and the valves squeezing open and shut.

She was wearing a grungy sweatshirt tonight, like that night he’d found her on the front steps of Godwin Hall feeling homesick, getting ready to cry. Now her hair was in a messy ponytail. Bits of it hadn’t been pulled back and gathered with the rest, and they fell around her face—but not artfully, not the way they would if she had, as he sometimes sensed she must have, spent hours at the mirror loosening just the most golden strands.

She wasn’t wearing her usual pearl earrings, either, and the tiny empty holes in her earlobes looked pretty, he thought, and strange. He looked at them.

Pierced ears: one of the hundreds of the odd customs of girls. He remembered asking Mary if it had hurt, getting her ears pierced, and how she’d rolled her eyes back, fluttered her eyelashes, and said, “Oh, my God, Perry. I can’t even tell you how much it hurt.”

“Can I come in?”

“Why?”

She shrugged.

“Okay,” he said, “come in,” and stepped out of the way. He turned, and sat down at his desk, and sighed. She sat across from him at the edge of Craig’s bed.

“What’s the point of this?” he asked her without looking at her. “Why are we doing this?”

She was silent so long he finally turned around. She was staring at the floor, but he could see that she was smiling.

“Are you sick or something, Nicole?”

She looked up at him then, and seemed to tuck the smile away so he couldn’t see it. She said, “You mean, like, mentally ill or something?”

Perry shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe. Like mentally ill.”

“Or, do you mean like evil ?”

“Okay,” he said. “That sounds good, Nicole. Let’s say evil.”

The anger in his voice seemed to make her flinch, and he was immediately sorry, but it was too late to take it back.

She stood up. She took a step toward him. She said, “What about you? Are you? Are you mentally ill, or evil?”

Perry turned his back to her again and put his elbows on his desk, put his head in his hands. As he’d known she would, she came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders.

He could feel the cool, smooth fingers near his neck.

And his heart—that pleasurable pain, all anticipation and dread.

When Mary had forced him into such places, he’d seen those girls at the mall (what was that store called? Claire’s?) having those little pistols held to their earlobes, flinching and crying out, and the stinging tears in their eyes, the smiles on their faces.

He felt her breath on his neck just before he felt her kiss, and when he stood and turned to her, for just a second he thought he saw what it was—in her eyes, in her face. It almost knocked the breath out of him.

He remembered (or was he imagining it?) turning once in the hallway at Bad Axe High. Mary’d had her arm slipped between his elbow and his side, and she was pulling him toward her, but he’d seen a shadow behind them, and for some reason it had made him turn, and he saw Nicole there, holding an armful of books in her arms.

She was just standing there, watching them with what looked like an expression of complete grief on her face, as if she were witnessing her own death, or the death of something she’d loved all her life.

He’d nodded to her, and the expression was instantly gone, replaced with that pretty little smile. Perry had been watching those expressions pass over her face like the moon’s phases for as long as he could remember.

And then she’d turned and walked in the opposite direction, and he realized that Mary had spun around to look at her, too. She huffed. She tugged Perry’s arm closer and leaned over to whisper to him, “That girl’s in love with you. She always has been.”

Deb said, “This is the worst idea I’ve ever heard, you guys. You can’t go sneaking into a sorority looking for a dead girl. You already know they’ve got an EMT living there. Who knows what else? I mean, if they’re hiding dead girls there, there’s got to be, like, a rent-a-cop there, too. There’s going to be weapons and alarms and—”

“Yeah,” Perry said. “I heard somebody crack a rifle on the porch the other night.”

Craig looked at him, but Perry didn’t say anything more.

“You mean you’ve gone sneaking around there in the dark before?” Deb asked.

Perry didn’t answer. He was sitting on the edge of the couch beside her, staring into his hands. Craig’s heart was beating so hard he was afraid to sit back down. He paced back and forth in front of Perry and Deb, and felt that if he sat back down on the couch, his heart might actually explode from the pressure of trying to slow it down.

“Something’s going on here,” Perry said, more to himself than to either of them.

“We’ve got to go to the house,” Craig said. “We’ve got to go to the house.”

“You guys are crazy!” Deb said. She leapt up and grabbed Craig’s arm. “She’s not there! She’s not in Bad Axe! She’s not on this earth because she’s dead !”