Cara Shultz: The Dark World

I’d been doing so much better lately in my parents’ eyes—but they still insisted on babysitting me, even though I should have been wrapping up my high school career and planning for college by now. After a few too many one-sided conversations, Dad had changed his hours at work—he was a driver for a car service, which meant he drove rich people all over town in fancy leather-upholstered town cars—and switched to the night shift so he could be home when I got out of school. But lately, he’d been talking about returning to his old schedule. Which meant my parents were beginning to trust that I could be left alone without cracking up. Which meant—cue the chorus of singing angels—no more ’round-the-clock supervision. I forced a bright smile on my face as I entered the living room, where I promptly began coughing.

“Cooking again, Dad?” I asked, waving my hand in front of my face to dispel some of the acrid-smelling smoke. I crossed the living room and pushed open the narrow window, in spite of the frosty temperatures outside.

“I know it smells funny, but I promise it’ll be delicious,” my father called from the kitchen, his shock of red hair visible even through the thick smoke billowing up from the stove. Richard Kelly had two weaknesses—cooking and complimentary crap. He’d sign up for a new credit card or take a customer survey faster than you could say “freebie” if it meant he got a T-shirt or towel...or tickets to some horrible play that he’d usually force me to attend with him. I headed into the narrow kitchen, and sure enough, he was wearing an apron splattered with fresh stains that nearly obscured the name of an already-defunct barbecue sauce company on the front, and stirring a pot filled with something that looked like it still had a pulse.

“Food’s supposed to make my mouth water, not my eyes,” I teased, leaning my back against the scratched white counter where a Thai cookbook was propped up. He rolled his eyes at me, and I grinned. I’d inherited my dad’s blue eyes—and his penchant for sarcastic eye rolling—but I had my mom, Anna’s, hair, which was thick, wavy and such a dark brown it looked black. I quickly changed the subject—Dad was touchy about his creative Franken-meals, and I didn’t want to put him in a bad mood, especially if he was thinking about releasing me from Overprotective Parent Jail.

“What time do you have to be at work tonight?” I asked, stealing a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the counter and popping a few into my mouth. My dad playfully smacked my hand and grabbed the rest of the nuts, stirring them into the pot. I eyed the creation cautiously. I think he might have invented a new color.

“I was thinking about watching a marathon of old movies to celebrate the end of finals. Watch with me before you’re off to work?”

“Probably not, kiddo,” Dad said, giving me a wistful smile. “I have an airport pickup, so I have to leave right after dinner. But how did it go today? Any surprises?”

You could say that. My odd encounter with Logan flickered through my mind—“I’m not laughing at you...I don’t think you’re crazy”—and my forced cheerful smile fell a miniscule amount before I brightly said, “Everything was fine.”

My father, of course, didn’t miss the slight crack in my facade.

“Everything okay?” he asked, searching my face.

“Yeah, everything’s great.”

“Paige, be honest,” my father ordered, setting down his wooden spoon on the counter.

“I am being honest,” I insisted, then jerked my chin toward the spoon. “You might want to move that. It looks like your science project is burning a hole in the countertop.”

“Don’t try to distract me. You looked troubled.”

I flinched. I hated that word. There’s nothing medically wrong with Paige, she’s just troubled. Take these pills. It was a warm and fuzzy term for crazy. And I wasn’t crazy. I spoke to ghosts. There was a difference.

“Did something happen at school, Paige? Did you, um, have one of those conversations? I know it’s been several months since you’ve had an episode—”

“Everything’s fine,” I interrupted him, agitated. “I just finished a week of midterms, Dad. What do you want from me, jazz hands? Show me someone who gets thrilled about midterms and I’ll show you a masochist.”

“There’s no need to get snippy, young lady,” Dad scolded me before softening his tone, adding, “You just seem a little...upset by something.”

I pursed my lips, contemplating how to handle this. I was not about to tell my overprotective father I had been mulling over a confusing conversation with a boy. I’d rather tell him I talked to the mailbox for an hour. He’d probably prefer that, too.

“I had a hard time with a few questions on my history final. I’m just nervous about how I did.”

“I’m sure you aced it, honey,” my dad said, exhaling in relief. Sure, I aced it, only because my ghost best friend sauntered over to Mr. Malhotra’s desk and read the answers over his shoulder.

Whatever was in the pot triggered another coughing fit, so I excused myself and retreated into my bedroom. I stripped off my boxy, blue plaid uniform skirt in favor of black yoga pants and a bright yellow sweatshirt my dad had gotten from some insurance company, and flung myself on the bed. My black-and-white cat, Mercer, curled up at my feet, his chin resting on my ankles.

“At least you don’t think I’m crazy,” I murmured, and Mercer—named after the street where I found him wandering as a kitten—continued to purr, his throat vibrating against my socks.

I managed to play the part of the perfect, untroubled daughter over dinner—fortunately, my mom brought home Fat Sal’s pizza when she returned from her secretarial job, so we didn’t have to eat whatever maniacal creation my dad had made. I’m pretty sure it screamed when he threw it in the trash—and I told him so over dinner, which made my mom laugh and my dad pretend to pout before laughing along with us. Paige is making jokes, look at our funny, witty, un-crazy daughter. My dad even mentioned he was considering taking my mom to the play on Saturday instead of me, which would leave me with a rare, unsupervised night at home.

I went to bed with a blissful smile on my face, my head filled with the possibilities of being home the day after tomorrow, alone and unsupervised, for the first time in nearly three years. I could dig out my old art books and sketch or paint. At Therapist Number Three’s orders, my parents had confiscated my artwork as if it were evidence in a criminal case. They’d inspected it for telltale clues of what was making me insane. I guess they were looking for grisly illustrations of car accidents and bloody murder scenes. Instead, they just found a bunch of pencil portraits and detailed sketches of old buildings around the city that I thought looked cool. The only thing killed was my desire to continue painting or drawing. But this coming Saturday, I could sketch for hours, uninterrupted, without anyone checking on me or looking at my drawings to make sure I wasn’t creating some macabre scene. Or I could watch TV in my pajamas. Win-win, if you ask me.

It snowed overnight, dusting the streets and sidewalks with a fine, slippery coat, and my walk to school took longer than usual, so I didn’t have the chance to rehash things with Dottie first thing in the morning. My first class was gym, and I barely had time to stash my jewelry in my locker and change into my shorts and T-shirt before the first bell. I didn’t wear piles of jewelry, but we weren’t allowed to wear any during gym. It made Fridays living hell for Tabitha Nakamura, a junior with about ten piercings in each ear.

Aside from a couple of studs in each ear, the only jewelry I wore on Fridays were a ring and the platinum filigree bracelet given to me by Melody, the mother of the kid I saved. It had belonged to Mel’s great-grandmother, passed down through generations in their family. I’d insisted that Melody didn’t owe me anything, but my mom said it was important to her to give me something.