I drop to my knees on the ground, and Brooklyn collapses next to me. For a moment I just rest my forehead against the cool grass, gulping down fresh air. Behind us, the fire licks and crackles and spits. Listening to it, I sit back up and look around.
The sidewalk and road are empty. Riley and Grace are long gone. I swallow the bile that rises in my throat as I picture them stumbling out of the house, ignoring my screams. But I can’t think of that now. We don’t have a lot of time. This part of the neighborhood might be abandoned, but eventually the smoke will stretch high enough that someone will see and call the police. And then . . .
I turn to Brooklyn, surprised to see she’s already watching me. Her black eyes reflect the light of the fire. She pushes herself to her feet and offers me her hand. Once I’m standing, she pulls me close to her and leans in to whisper in my ear.
“Tell no one.” Her breath smells like blood and smoke. She steps away from me, then nods once. Without another word, she starts to limp away.
For a long moment I stand there, watching the house burn. I laugh out loud, and the sound is so shocking and wonderful that my eyes well with tears. I didn’t die. It’s over. I’m free.
The fire moves through the house like a living thing—wild and desperate and hungry. By the time it’s done, all the evidence of last night will be destroyed. I think about what Brooklyn said—tell no one. If we go to the cops, it’ll be her word against Riley’s.
I swallow and turn away from the fire. Then I head down the sidewalk, toward home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
My front door creaks open, and I step into the hallway, listening. Silence. Mom isn’t out of bed yet. I hold the knob to keep it from clicking and ease the door closed without a sound. I slip my sneakers off and carry them up the stairs so she won’t hear my footsteps on the carpet.
I spent the entire walk home debating what I would tell my mom. I want to blurt out the whole story, but Brooklyn’s words echo through my head, warning me. Tell no one. Besides, if I tell her, she’ll just call the cops, and they’ll ask questions I’m not sure how to answer. Best to just pretend nothing happened.
I make my way to the bathroom and turn the shower on as hot as it will go. I strip down, and my clothes fall to the floor in a heap of blood and smoke and sweat. I shiver as I stare down at the faded pockets of my jeans, then kick them away from me. I should burn them.
Turning this thought over in my head, I step into the shower—gasping when the hot water hits me. It’s painful at first, but as the water runs over my skin, I start to relax. It stings the raw patches of my arms where the ropes rubbed my wrists, and the mangled cuts around my knuckles burn as water soaks the dead skin, washing away clotted blood and dirt. I tilt my head back and fill my mouth with water, then spit it out to get the blood off my teeth and tongue. The water circling the drain is stained a deep, muddy red. I watch it slip away, feeling the horrors of the night disappearing down the drain with it.
Nothing happened, I remind myself. It was a nightmare, that’s all.
Somewhere in the house a door opens, then shuts. I freeze. I wrap my fingers around the shower curtain, trying to remember whether I locked the front door.
“Sofia?” my mom calls. “Are you up already?”
I shut off the shower and hurriedly dry myself off. I don’t remember ever feeling so relieved to hear my mother’s voice.
“Just taking a shower.” I duck out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, where I quickly change into fresh clothes. I grab a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and my faded gray hooded sweatshirt. Since burning them isn’t really an option, I roll my dirty clothes into a ball and shove them all the way to the bottom of the trash can beneath my desk.
I step into the hallway, tugging my sleeves down over my hands so Mom won’t see the raw skin at my knuckles. Mom is easing Grandmother’s door shut. She glances over her shoulder at me, lifting a finger to her mouth to tell me to keep quiet.
“She’s still sleeping,” she says. I cross my arms over my chest, cringing when my torn fingers brush against the fabric of my sweatshirt. My mom cocks her head, considering me.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “It’s so early. I’m surprised you’re awake.”
I nod. “I’m fine,” I say, but the word cracks in my mouth. Tears pool in my eyes. I try to blink them away, but they spill onto my cheeks. So much for pretending nothing happened.
“Sofia?” My mom crosses the hall and folds me into a hug. For a moment I just let her hold me. The tears come faster, until I’m crying so hard my shoulders shake. Mom smoothes the still damp hair off my forehead.
“Shh,” she says. “Shh, it’s okay. Tell me what happened.”
“I . . .” I choke back my sobs and pull away from her, drying my tears with the sleeves of my sweatshirt. “I just heard that a friend of mine committed suicide.” I stare at my bare feet, certain Mom will know I’m lying if I meet her eyes.
“Oh, Sofia.” Mom pulls me to her chest again, resting her chin on top of my head. She rubs a hand over my back in slow, comforting circles. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”
I close my eyes, allowing myself to relax into her. For the first time in days, I feel safe.
• • •
Fifteen minutes later I’m perched on a stool in the kitchen, the heavy smell of French toast filling the air. I actually smile as I breathe it in. Mom’s never been the best cook, but she’s perfected her French toast over the years. She uses only the thickest, crustiest bread and always mixes brown sugar and a pinch of cinnamon into the batter. She takes the frying pan off the stove and slides the toast onto a plate.
“I know it’s been hard to make friends,” she says, pulling the maple syrup and butter from the fridge. “And after what happened at your last school . . .” She shakes her head, and under her breath, she mutters, “Such a needless tragedy.”
I shift uncomfortably on my stool and push the French toast around on my plate. I don’t want to think about what happened at my last school, not when my wrists are still raw from Riley’s ropes. But now that Mom’s brought it up, I can’t help seeing the similarities. Both times I thought I knew someone, I thought she was my friend, and in the end I was wrong.
Maybe there’s a reason these things keep happening to me. Maybe I’m defective.
Mom sets the pan in the sink and crosses over to me, brushing one of my damp curls aside. “But you can’t give up, mija. I believe in you,” she says. “I know you’ll find your way.”
It’s the exact right thing to say at the exact right moment, and I blink furiously to keep from crying. Mom places the plate on the counter in front of me, and I cover the toast in a thick stream of syrup. I can’t give up.
• • •
I stay awake for as long as I can, but by noon my eyes are so heavy I can barely keep them open. I tell Mom I’m not feeling well and crawl into bed, falling asleep as soon as I pull the comforter up over my shoulders. While I sleep, I dream.
• • •
Riley and I are sitting on the train tracks, passing a bottle of red wine back and forth. Red-and-orange light bleeds into the sky. Clouds race above us, their shadows flickering over Riley’s face. Her skin turns dark, then light again. The ground below us trembles—a train’s coming.
“Truth or dare,” Riley says. She looks perfect, like she did the first day I met her. Her hair pools around her shoulders in flawless spirals, her eyebrows arch high above her eyes. Her cheeks burn pink, so glossy she doesn’t look real. The strange light makes everything about her glow. She takes a drink, and a thick drop of wine oozes out of the bottle and over her chin.