in, hold the slack of my coat, and slip through as cleanly as possible to avoid making any noise. But, on my second step through, I hear a loud, cracking noise. I stop.
Look down. It came from the ground. A long, dry branch, cracked in half, my faux Doc Marten pressed down on the broken pieces.
118
n8
My heart starts beating so hard I think he must hear that too. I click my flashlight off and do my best to hold my breath.
119
^ighte.-e.n
I close my eyes and squat as far down into the bushes as my knees will allow.
"Who's there?" he calls, taking a step.
I'm breathing so hard I can barely think straight. I scrunch myself up even further, burrowing my head into my knees, waiting for him to turn around like he's made some mistake.
120
¦ ¦
120
I can hear him moving toward me, his body shifting through the brush, his footsteps snapping fallen twigs--just a few feet away now.
Still, I don't move. I envision myself as part of these bushes, blending into them, imagining my arms like thick branches, my back like a stump.
He takes another step. And then another. I peek out through my fingers, but I can't see much from this angle; there's just brush, scratching against my face.
"I know you're there," he says, just inches from me now; I can hear the closeness of his voice.
I take a deep breath, muster up the courage of the moon, and straighten up. He's standing right in front of me. I click my flashlight on and shine it toward him. He does the same.
"Stacey?" he says. "What are you doing here?" He stares at me hard, his eyes wide, almost glinting. The color is visible in my flashlight beam, caught somewhere between gray and the lightest blue.
"How do you know me?" I ask, the flashlight shaking in my grip.
There's a mark on his face. From the spell, I presume. A thick and shimmering line down his cheek.
"We've met," he says.
My voice cracks. "Where?"
"Don't you remember?"
I tighten my grip on the flashlight to steady the shake and clench down on my jaw, conjuring up the other night in the boiler room. The guy chasing after me, up the stairs, calling out my name.
121
"I wouldn't exactly call it meeting," I say through gritted teeth.
"What do you mean?"
"Breaking into the boiler room of a girls' dorm in the middle of the night and scaring me half to death is hardly meeting."
"We met before that. Don't you remember?"
I study his face a moment--tawny skin, I think; darkish hair, sort of longish on the top. I try to recollect the voice from my nightmare, the one behind the weathered gray door in the basement, to decipher whether it's the same. But I just can't tell.
"We bumped into each other," he says. "In September, during orientation."
"I don't think so," I say, stepping back.
"Really," he says, moving forward. "I was coming out of the bursar's office. You were hiking up the stairs, two at a time . . ."
It takes me a couple moments, but then I do begin to remember bumping into someone, some faceless person. The avalanche of textbooks out of my backpack and down the stairs, the spill of pencils and other assorted school supplies. I remember being in such a rush, just scrambling there on the ground, trying to pick everything up and cram it back into my bag. Vaguely, I recall somebody trying his best to help me.
'Are you the one who sent me that e-mail?" I ask, changing the subject.
"We need to talk, Stacey," he says.
122
'Are you the one who gave me this?" I hold the crystal 0)ut for show.
"Is that okay?"
"Okay?"
"Yeah," he says. "I wanted you to have it. I was gonna gjive it to you myself, you know, instead of just leaving it trhere at the door. But then I saw your friends coming and didn't feel like a party. It was that way at the Hangman, too. I wanted to talk to you alone."
"So we're alone now," I say. And just as soon as I say it, I w/ant to take it all back. I don't want him to know I'm ajlone. I tighten my hand around the crystal, making a hardened fist, just in case I need to
Look down. It came from the ground. A long, dry branch, cracked in half, my faux Doc Marten pressed down on the broken pieces.
118
n8
My heart starts beating so hard I think he must hear that too. I click my flashlight off and do my best to hold my breath.
119
^ighte.-e.n
I close my eyes and squat as far down into the bushes as my knees will allow.
"Who's there?" he calls, taking a step.
I'm breathing so hard I can barely think straight. I scrunch myself up even further, burrowing my head into my knees, waiting for him to turn around like he's made some mistake.
120
¦ ¦
120
I can hear him moving toward me, his body shifting through the brush, his footsteps snapping fallen twigs--just a few feet away now.
Still, I don't move. I envision myself as part of these bushes, blending into them, imagining my arms like thick branches, my back like a stump.
He takes another step. And then another. I peek out through my fingers, but I can't see much from this angle; there's just brush, scratching against my face.
"I know you're there," he says, just inches from me now; I can hear the closeness of his voice.
I take a deep breath, muster up the courage of the moon, and straighten up. He's standing right in front of me. I click my flashlight on and shine it toward him. He does the same.
"Stacey?" he says. "What are you doing here?" He stares at me hard, his eyes wide, almost glinting. The color is visible in my flashlight beam, caught somewhere between gray and the lightest blue.
"How do you know me?" I ask, the flashlight shaking in my grip.
There's a mark on his face. From the spell, I presume. A thick and shimmering line down his cheek.
"We've met," he says.
My voice cracks. "Where?"
"Don't you remember?"
I tighten my grip on the flashlight to steady the shake and clench down on my jaw, conjuring up the other night in the boiler room. The guy chasing after me, up the stairs, calling out my name.
121
"I wouldn't exactly call it meeting," I say through gritted teeth.
"What do you mean?"
"Breaking into the boiler room of a girls' dorm in the middle of the night and scaring me half to death is hardly meeting."
"We met before that. Don't you remember?"
I study his face a moment--tawny skin, I think; darkish hair, sort of longish on the top. I try to recollect the voice from my nightmare, the one behind the weathered gray door in the basement, to decipher whether it's the same. But I just can't tell.
"We bumped into each other," he says. "In September, during orientation."
"I don't think so," I say, stepping back.
"Really," he says, moving forward. "I was coming out of the bursar's office. You were hiking up the stairs, two at a time . . ."
It takes me a couple moments, but then I do begin to remember bumping into someone, some faceless person. The avalanche of textbooks out of my backpack and down the stairs, the spill of pencils and other assorted school supplies. I remember being in such a rush, just scrambling there on the ground, trying to pick everything up and cram it back into my bag. Vaguely, I recall somebody trying his best to help me.
'Are you the one who sent me that e-mail?" I ask, changing the subject.
"We need to talk, Stacey," he says.
122
'Are you the one who gave me this?" I hold the crystal 0)ut for show.
"Is that okay?"
"Okay?"
"Yeah," he says. "I wanted you to have it. I was gonna gjive it to you myself, you know, instead of just leaving it trhere at the door. But then I saw your friends coming and didn't feel like a party. It was that way at the Hangman, too. I wanted to talk to you alone."
"So we're alone now," I say. And just as soon as I say it, I w/ant to take it all back. I don't want him to know I'm ajlone. I tighten my hand around the crystal, making a hardened fist, just in case I need to
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