Other (11 page)

“I don't want to hear it, Zack. I don't want to see you again.”

His back stiffens as if my words have hit him like bullets. Without a word, he runs down the stairs, nearly colliding with Mum at the bottom.

“Zack?” she says. “Leaving so soon?”

“Goodbye,” he says, loud enough for it to be meant for me.

I stand at the top of the stairs and watch him slam the door. Mum stares at me, her mouth and eyes an “O.”

I sit on the top step and begin to sob.

“Gwen!” Mum rushes upstairs. “What happened?”

“We broke up.”

She sighs and wraps her arm around me. “Oh, Gwen. I know how hard that can be.”

I glance downstairs. Though I can't see Megan or Dad, they can probably hear me. Mum guides me into my bedroom, shuts the door, and sits with me on my bed. I rest my head in her lap and keep crying.

“Why did you break up?” Mum says.

“I … we …” I lower my voice to barely above a whisper. “We had sex.”

Mum doesn't seem as shocked as I expected. “And?”

I draw a shuddering breath. “I tried to tell him before we did it, but he thought I was talking about my virginity.”

“Tell him what?”

“That I'm Other.” I moan. “Now he knows.”

Mum exhales slowly. “It's not your fault. Some people are just like that.”

“But why does it have to be him? Why Zack?” My jaw trembles. “I thought I knew him.”

Mum just sighs and holds me close until my tears die to sniffles. After about five minutes, she says, “I'd better start lunch.”

“Okay.” I pull back and rake my fingers through my hair.

“Macaroni and cheese. How does that sound?”

I manage a wobbly smile. “You know it's my favorite.”

Mum stands, smooths her clothes, and heads for the door. “You'll feel better later. And remember, Mr. Right is still out there, waiting.”

“He'd better be,” I say, pretending to shake my fist.

Mum smiles and shuts the door behind her.

I hunch on my bed. The tears washed away some of the ache inside me, but I can't stop thinking of Zack. One minute I wish I'd hit him; the next, my mind races through all the possibilities of us getting together again.

Through my closed bedroom door, I hear muffled voices. I tiptoe over.

“Whoa,” Megan says. “What happened?”

“She broke up with Zack,” Mum says. “It's best to leave her alone.”

There's some quieter comments I can't hear, then silence. I crawl back into bed, intending to stay there forever.
Mum brings the macaroni and cheese up to me. When night falls, I keep drifting into sleep, then lurching awake. By morning, I'm emotionally exhausted.

I need to talk to Chloe. When I try calling her, I get no answer. Maybe her cell phone's broken. Instead, I call the B&B.

Alison answers the phone. “Hello, Bramble Cottage.”

“Hey, Alison,” I say. “It's Gwen. Is Chloe there?”

“No, actually. She was supposed to be here this morning. I suppose she's just late.”

My stomach sinks. Chloe's very rarely late. “Okay, thanks.”

When I hang up, I decide to just go over to the B&B and see what's going on myself. On the bus, I lean my forehead against the cool windowpane and try to block out the chatter of excited friends. A couple cuddles on the seat in front of me, and their quick kiss feels like a needle pricking my heart.

I get off at Bramble Cottage and step into the lobby. Alison's distracted by a customer, so I slip upstairs, stepping over a rope with a sign that says
Employees Only
, and head for Chloe's attic bedroom.

Her door's locked. I rap on it. “Chloe?”

Silence.

She's probably still in the forest, enjoying her time with the trees. Or … maybe she made up with Randall, and they're together somewhere. Frowning, I glance out a narrow window. Somebody's standing in the garden.

Randall. I guess that rules out one of my hypotheses.

I peer at his shaggy brown head. He's holding a pair of small gold items. He tilts his hand, and they glint in the overcast light. I squint and lean closer. Are they … Chloe's maple-blossom earrings? Randall lifts them to his face—kissing them? He drops them into the pocket of his jeans and steps into the B&B.

My heartbeat thumping, I hurry downstairs before he can come up. We jostle shoulders in the doorway to the lobby.

“Hey,” I say. “Have you seen Chloe?”

Randall shakes his head, his eyes dark. I shiver and hurry to catch the bus home.

No, Gwen. It can't be what you're thinking, what you have been thinking all this time. Werewolves are bad, in general, but not by default … and would Chloe really be that naïve? A weight sits in the pit of my stomach.

It's almost too obvious. And I don't want it to be true.

I play dead on my bed, curled around a clump of quilts, and stare out the window. Afternoon clouds curdle, souring the sky. The scent of coming rain dampens the air. I shove open the window and get ready to shapeshift. Should I tell Mum? But it's not like I usually tell her. Besides, she only banned nighttime flying.

With clumsy fingers, I tug off my clothes and toss them aside. My skin prickles as glossy black feathers unfurl. Now a crow, I pump my wings, glide through my bedroom window, and ride the wind toward the Boulder River Wilderness. A chilly breeze fingers my feathers. I can feel it in my hollow bones—a storm soon.

Soon I reach the Kliminawhit Campground. It's not far from my house, as the crow flies. Lame joke, but the truth. Hardly anybody is camping today. I suppose nobody sensible would, given the murders and the werewolves.

I glide low over the trees. I hear the whispery pattering of beginning rain, hopefully not the prelude to a downpour. Wet feathers don't fly well, so I dive between a gap in the canopy, flare my wings, and land on the ground.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I change into a girl. Naked, I shiver. I feel huge and heavy, and plod through the forest until I settle back into my bones. Chloe's favorite maple looms ahead. Rainwater rolls from its leaves. Silently, I walk around the maple's trunk.

A scream snags in my throat.

Chloe hangs from a branch by a noose, her eyes closed, her face white. A pine-tree air freshener dangles from her neck, horribly ridiculous. Pale gold liquid oozes from her slashed throat. I never knew her blood was like sap.

My legs crumple, and I crawl forward.

“Chloe?” I whisper, so faint that she wouldn't hear me even if she could.

I touch her hand—her cold hand. I yank back as if she's disgusting, then immediately feel ashamed. The wind blows tears slantwise across my face, and rain washes them away. I shake my head. Chloe can't be dead.

Who killed her?

Fury flames inside me, igniting my magic. I double over, wracked by transformation. Spikes of fur bristle along my spine—talons sweep from my fingers—fangs pierce my lower lip. I taste blood. I stare at my hands. Scales, striped fur, black insect armor. My size shrinks and swells out of control.

What's happening? What am I becoming?

Panic constricts my chest. I have to stop. I dig my claws—hooves—fingers—into the dirt. I shut my shifting eyes. When it stops, I gasp. Human again, I climb to my feet, shaking so violently that I have to lean on the tree.

Chloe dangles beside me. Vomit rises in my throat. I turn away, then turn back.

The pine-tree air freshener twirls in the wind. I yank it off her neck. What kind of sick joke—oh. Whoever killed her knew. That she's a dryad.

I climb partway up the tree and brace myself in a fork of the trunk. I attack the knot in the rope with desperate strength. It scratches my fingers and rips a nail, but at last it gives way. Chloe crumples face-first on the ground, her rain-wet hair shining on the leaves like liquid gold. I jump after her and land on my knees.

I can't do anything but stare. Rainwater trickles down my skin, and I feel so cold.

eleven

I
sit on my couch, flanked by Mum and Dad, and stare at Officer Sharpe. Rain trickles from my hair and slides down my face.

The policewoman clears her throat. “So I understand you found the victim hanging?”

I can't stop trembling. I nod.

“But then you took her down? And removed a …” Sharpe glances at a notepad. “An air freshener from her neck?”

I nod. If I answer her questions, maybe she'll go away faster and leave me alone.

Sharpe purses her lips. “You shouldn't have tampered with the evidence.”

“I couldn't just leave her hanging there,” I rasp. My throat feels raw.

“You should have.”

I stare at her with undisguised revulsion. Dad squeezes my arm.

Sharpe flips through her notepad. “This is the third victim you discovered, correct?”

“Yes.” What is she getting at?

“And I understand that a certain Mr. Quigley shopped at the hardware store where you worked. Can you verify this?”

“Yes,” Dad says, frowning. “Mr. Quigley was a customer at my hardware store.”

“Gwen Williams.” Sharpe stares at me with her gunmetal gray eyes. “Did you interact with Mr. Quigley prior to his death?”

I start to nod, then cross my arms. “Are you implying—”

“Please answer the question, Ms. Williams.”

“Yes, I
interacted
with Mr. Quigley. I interacted with Chloe, too. She was my friend.” My voice cracks on the last word.

Sharpe's face looks masklike. “Can you describe how you last saw Mr. Quigley?”

“Ms. Sharpe,” Mum says, in a tone I recognize as dangerous.

“Officer Sharpe,” she corrects.

Mum plows on. “Gwen's been through a lot. Do you really need to question her now?”

“I'm afraid so,” Sharpe says. “We have to act fast.”

“Will you?” I say, my eyes still locked on hers.

The officer dips her head. “Of course.”

My teeth chatter, though anger burns inside me. “Even though she's Other?”

Sharpe lifts an eyebrow. “Why do you think that?”

“Her blood's not red,” I say. “Can't you see she's—was—a dryad?”

“Did she tell you that?” Sharpe says, scribbling on her notepad.

“Why the hell does that matter?” My voice cracks. “Why do you care?”

“Gwen!” Mum says, eyes wide.

Sharpe looks mildly interested by my outburst. “We care because we're the police, and it's our duty to handle these matters.”

I get to my feet. “So this is how you handle matters?”

“What do you mean?” Sharpe says, still calm.

“You hush things up when Others are murdered?”

“Gwen!” chorus my parents, both trying to drag me down.

“She's obviously upset,” Sharpe says. “It's understandable.”

“I'm still in the room,” I say, my teeth bared.

Sharpe ignores me. “Maybe I should come back later.”

“Yes, of course,” Dad says. “Thank you for trying to help.”

“Help?” I laugh harshly, then cough. “If that's help, we're all doomed.”

I break free from my parents and storm outside. Officer Sharpe's shiny cruiser sits in the driveway. I kick a tire so hard my toes sting.

“I hate this!” I scream to the sky.

Rain pours onto my face. I feel like somebody picked up a chessboard and tilted it so all the pieces are sliding off the edge. I grab a rock, ready to smash the police cruiser's windshield. I think better of it, and hurl the rock at the ground. Pathetic. Mum and Dad and Officer Sharpe watch from the windows.

My legs numb, I stalk into our backyard and sit behind a rhododendron where they can't see me. I dig my fingers into the lawn and tear out hunks of grass, like I'm yanking hair from a scalp. I throw dirt clods toward the forest.

A car door slams, and I glimpse Officer Sharpe driving away.

“Gwen?” Dad calls.

I don't reply.

“Gwen, we know you're out there. Come inside!”

“I don't want to.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Dad says. “You're going to catch pneumonia.”

“Maybe I should.”

Footsteps swish across the wet grass, and Dad stops in front of me. “Come on.”

I shake my head and fold my arms.

“You have to come inside,” he says. “We're worried about you.”

I stare at his knees.

He hauls me to my feet with a grunt. “You're not so little anymore, Gwenny,” he says, a lame attempt at a joke.

I sniff, but let him steer me into the house.

Mum is waiting by the back door. She starts toweling me with excessive force.

“Ouch, Mum!” I say, trying to fend her off.

“Hold still,” she says.

I grimace and let her wring out my hair.

“Now go upstairs and change your clothes,” Mum says.

Too tired to argue, I trudge upstairs. As I stand naked in my bedroom, I stare at my reflection. My puffy red eyes and pinched face look ugly. I curl my lip, turn the mirror toward the wall, and get dressed.

What now? I stand in the middle of my bedroom, my arms limp by my sides. I can't just go on living my life as if nothing's different. I want to think of something—anything—to get rid of the empty gnawing inside. My mind circles back to the thought of Zack, and I flush with anger, then shame.

I sit on the carpet and curl into a ball, feeling small and vulnerable. I imagine Zack seeing me like this, hesitating in the doorway, then kneeling by my side, unable to hide the way he really feels about me.

I laugh harshly, willing myself to cry, but the tears don't come.

My computer catches my eye. I turn it on to delete my desktop wallpaper: a photo of me and Zack, smiling and hugging. As soon as I delete it, I regret it, then tell myself I shouldn't. Might as well delete his number from my cell phone, too. I can't bear to touch Chloe's number, though of course she's never calling again.

I don't eat anything for dinner. Mum doesn't say anything, and lets me go to bed early.

As soon as I turn off the lights, the darkness feels suffocating. I turn on my desk lamp and huddle inside its pool of light. Shadows loom on the walls around me. I'm not afraid of the dark. It's more the … nothingness.

I drag my desk lamp closer to my bed and crawl back under the covers. Rain lashes against my window and drums on the roof. Usually it lulls me, but not now. I don't want to sleep. What if I dream of her?

But I don't sleep that night. I cry so much my pillow grows cold and wet with tears.

When I don't eat breakfast the next day, Mum frowns. “Aren't you hungry, Gwen?”

“No.” I slump in my chair and stare at the pancake on my plate.

Megan won't look at me. She seems scared of me. Quietly, she gets up and opens a kitchen cabinet. I stare at my hands, clasp them to stop their shaking, then look up again. Megan drizzles maple syrup on her pancake.

Pale golden blood. I can't look away, though I desperately want to.

“What's wrong, Gwen?” Mum says, her voice tight.

I shake my head.

“Gwen? Are you all right?” Mum grips my arm.

“That.” I point at the maple syrup. “It—looks like—her blood.”

Megan gapes at the bottle in her hand.

“Put it away,” Mum says.

Megan hurries to shove it in the cabinet. Mum whisks away the pancake.

“No,” I whisper, “It's okay. I'll just go upstairs.” I shove my chair from the table and leave. Try to, anyway.

Mum catches my wrist. “Gwen, do you want to talk?”

“Not really,” I say, which is halfway a lie. “Maybe later.”

Time flows past me. I scarcely eat. I often feel faint enough that I have to lie down. At night, I become good friends with my clock, watching the red digits blink past. My sleep cracks into shards of dreams.

The police, as usual, prove to be useless. Fifteen seconds on the news. No mention of Chloe being Other. I hide in my house like a rabbit in its burrow, waiting for the killer to strike again, amazed that we remain safe.

I don't talk to anyone about her. How can they understand something even I don't? Sometimes I hate her for going into the forest, for not being safer, for making me feel so bad. Every night, I hope and dread to dream about her, but she never comes to me. It's stupid, I know. I never believed in ghosts before.

The day before the funeral, I drift through my house in a daze.

“You look exhausted,” Dad says. “Take a nap, Gwenny.”

Like a zombie, I shuffle upstairs. My bed holds no comfort for me.

The morning of the funeral, we climb into our sky blue sedan. The color looks too cheery. I huddle in the back and shut my eyes. A warm hand finds mine. I peek out and see Megan touching me without looking. I shut my eyes again and clasp her hand. We reach the church—not the white clapboard one in downtown Klikamuks, but a stone Victorian one, with Gothic arches and ivy, in the older part of town.

Inside the church, less than a dozen people sit in the pews. A soft Enya song comes from somewhere I can't see. Dad keeps tugging on the knot of his tie, his face pale as he sits in a pew. Mum and Megan follow, equally pale. I stand beside them. I feel numb and shivery all over, as if my whole body got a shot of novocaine.

Then I spot a familiar face: Tavian, strangely out of place. Why is he here?

Mum glances at me, then whispers, “You don't have to look if you don't want to.”

But I do. I plod up to the open casket like I'm wading through a dream. Chloe lies there peacefully, as if she might wake up at any moment. She's wearing a white dress with a high collar. To hide her torn throat, I guess. I wonder if they stitched it up.

My numbness vanishes, and the icy reality sweeps over me.

I turn away from the casket and walk back down the aisle. Mum is waiting for me in the pew, smiling through her tears, but I pass her.

“Gwen?” she calls.

I pick up speed, throw myself at the heavy doors, and burst outside like a breath held too long. I flee. My throat is on fire. Gasping, I run down the street, where everything is bright and noisy and alive. People stare and point.

“Gwen!” I hear the church doors thudding shut behind Tavian. “What's wrong?”

I clutch a stitch in my side and try to answer, but I can't breathe through my sobs. Am I hyperventilating?

Tavian runs to me. “Are you okay?” He hovers beside me but doesn't touch me. “Are you okay?” he repeats, louder.

He looks so scared I laugh.

“Gwen!” He tries to catch my eye. “Do you want me to get someone?”

I shake my head.

The world spins. I feel like I'm going to fall; I am falling. Tavian catches me and I cling to him, my eyes squeezed shut to block the spinning and the sights I will never be able to unsee. He holds me as if I will shatter.

“I'm sorry,” I gasp.

“Why?” He sounds dumbfounded.

“I—can't—stop.”

“What?”

“Crying.”

He exhales and draws me closer. “It's okay.”

I withdraw and wipe ineffectually at my face until he offers a crumpled tissue.

“Thanks,” I whisper. I dab my face. “Why are you here?”

Tavian stares at me, his face tight. “I heard what happened, and …”

“Were you not invited?” I try to frown, but I'm glad he's here. “Did you know her?”

“I …” A shadow of an emotion crosses Tavian's face. “I knew her, but not as well as you.”

“What do you mean?”

Tavian looks away. “It's hard to explain.” He steps back from me. “I should go.”

“Why?”

“I need to get back to work. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah.” I heave a shuddering sigh. “Goodbye.”

He slips away, and I linger near the church, unwilling to go back inside so soon. I wish I didn't have to look at Chloe again. Then worms of guilt wriggle in my gut. What am I thinking? She was my friend.

After staying outside as long as I can, I trudge back up the stone steps to face death. But they're carrying the casket out the door now. I don't recognize any of the pallbearers. Two of the men have green eyes like Chloe, but darker skin. Dryads? I never knew her family, though I suppose someone must have made the funeral arrangements.

Mum is standing to the side, a tissue pressed to her mouth. She sees me and hurries down the steps, her shoes rapping. “Gwen!”

“I'm sorry, Mum,” I say.

“Don't be,” she whispers.

I let her hug me, and then we follow the casket to the graveyard behind the church. I pass tombstones with faded, forgotten names. Stone angels stare at me with faces as peaceful and blank as Chloe's is now.

I watch them lower the casket into the ground. It seems fitting for someone who lived in the trees. She will be taken into their roots again—but it all looks too somber. Chloe liked laughter and sunshine, not a reverend droning prayers over her body. I want to rip the clouds like a scab from the sky.