Touch (11 page)

“You’re right,” Emma said.

“Of course I am. Which particular flavor of right?”

“It’s an emergency.” And in a peculiar way, Emma felt grateful for it. It didn’t involve
dead people. It didn’t involve the near murder of her best friend. “Have you talked
to Mr. Hutchinson?”

“Not yet. Heading that way.”

“I’ll come with you.” She turned to Allison, who wasn’t on the yearbook committee
but was well aware that Amy was in a foul mood. “I’ll see you in class?”

Allison nodded.

* * *

Mr. Hutchinson was the principal. Amy believed in going straight to the top when she
wasn’t happy with a situation. Since it was impossible to teach at Emery—or to be
breathing anywhere in its vicinity—and
not
know Amy Snitman, most of Amy’s friends were assumed to be caught up in Amy’s tide.
Teachers might hope for and expect a certain amount of intellectual independence,
but they weren’t idiots; they knew that peer pressure counted for a lot. Emma had
never been on Amy’s bad side.

Then again, you didn’t land on Amy’s bad side unless you were extraordinarily stupid
or thoughtless. If it weren’t for the social pressure exerted by Amy Snitman, Michael’s
life might have been a lot harder at Emery. If you were the idiot who was stupid enough
to bully Michael, that spelled the end of your social life for a few weeks.

And the petty pleasure of bullying Michael was not worth the price.

Mr. Hutchinson was in his office; he was eating lunch there. His desk was a fabulous
clutter of slips. Emma caught sight of an application for transfer floating on top
of them. The principal was almost as old as Mr. Goldstein, but on Hutchinson, the
age didn’t show. He met all of Emery’s many inhabitants as if they were people, rather
than excuses to draw a paycheck.

“What can I do for you, Amy?” he asked. He nodded at Emma, but he was busy, and he
knew who was in charge. Emma didn’t resent this. One couldn’t and remain Amy’s friend.

“I’m here on behalf of the yearbook committee.”

His smile faded. “Yes?”

“I’ve heard rumors that Mr. Goldstein has volunteered to oversee it.”

“He has.”

“If I can find you another teacher, will you take him instead?”

“Amy, Mr. Goldstein—”

“Yes, I know. He’s experienced and well-respected.” She folded her arms across her
chest.

“As it happens, I’ll be interviewing the temporary replacement for Mr. Taylor. He’s
new to teaching, and he’s been working as a substitute; he could start, without causing
difficulty for another school, within the week. He’s indicated a willingness to undertake
Mr. Taylor’s extracurricular activities within the school.”

Amy’s arms tightened. She couldn’t exactly demand to be present for the interview.
She could find adults who served as trustees, and they could bring pressure to bear
where necessary—but it wouldn’t be immediate.

“Give him a chance, Amy. If you have concerns after you meet him, we can talk about
a suitable replacement.”

“Fine.”

* * *

By the time school dragged its way to a close, the entire student body had heard of
Mr. Taylor’s accident. Michael was concerned because he took a class with Mr. Taylor,
and he was comfortable in that class. A new teacher often created a mess of subtle
problems until he or she was accustomed to Michael.

It was Emma’s job to speak with whoever the replacement was about Michael’s current
classroom needs—not that Mr. Hutchison wouldn’t have most of them covered. Pippa had
offered, but Amy turned her down; she felt that the replacement was likely to listen
to Emma because it was already Emma’s job to get Michael to school on time.

Not that he needed it anymore. But he clung to the familiar when things got strange—and
given Necromancers and dead people, they were pretty damn strange at the moment.

Emma almost headed home but remembered at the last moment that her efforts to avoid
talking about Jon Madding had her “eating dinner at Allison’s.” She walked Michael
and Allison home and paused at the foot of Allison’s drive, waving once to Mrs. Simner
before she walked away.

What she wanted, even though it was November and it was cold, was to see Nathan.

And Nathan, as always, knew.

E
MMA LOOKS LOST AND A LITTLE FORLORN. It’s an expression that’s not at home on her
face, but it’s also a gift: it gives Nathan something to do. He slides an arm around
her shoulder, but it passes through her jacket, stopping at nothing solid in between.

But she can see him; she can hear him. She was never big on public displays of affection.
He can pretend—if he tries hard, and he does—that things are almost normal.

“What happened?” he asks, falling in to her left, on the road side of the walk.

“Mr. Taylor was in a car accident. They say it’s lucky he survived.”

He steers by walking ever so slightly ahead; he can tell by the flush in her cheeks
that she’s cold. They used to spend time at the local Starbucks, and it’s close enough
to dinner that it won’t be crowded. He doesn’t ask her why she’s not at home; he knows.

He doesn’t go home either. The reasons are different, but the end result is the same.

He passes through the door; he tries to open it and fails. It’s frustrating. On a
normal day—for a dead person—he’s now used to the idea that everything is permeable.
When he’s with Emma, he regresses. He hates being dead.

Emma doesn’t seem to mind that he can’t open doors anymore. He can’t buy her coffee.
He can’t do anything but pretend to sit in the seat across from hers and watch her
while she drinks. The latte cupped between her palms steams, curls of white between
their faces.

She starts to talk, but she realizes that while he’s listening, so is half the cafe.
Nothing about their conversation would be forbidden or embarrassing in public—but
having one half of a conversation, no matter how innocuous, would be. She drinks her
latte while it’s still on the edge of too hot and then smiles at him. The smile is
shadowed by death—his.

He often wanted to be alone with Emma, but he’s sharply aware that there’s a difference.
The only time she can respond to him without causing concerns for her sanity is when
they’re alone. But most of her life isn’t spent in isolation. She’s isolating herself
now.

She’s doing it because of him.

If he were a stronger person, he’d leave. He knows Eric’s right. He’s seen enough
of the Queen of the Dead to know his presence here can’t be a good thing, not for
Emma. But she’s his entire world right now. There’s no school. There’s no worrying
about college. There’s no parental disapproval. There aren’t even other friends. The
friends he did have, he can’t reach without Emma. She’s the gate that stands between
Nathan and the pain of eternity, and she is incandescent.

Even in her pain or her fear.

He wants to touch her. He wants to take her in his arms. He wants to kiss her. You’d
think being dead would get rid of all that; it doesn’t. It hones it, makes it sharper.
When he was alive, Nathan thought Emma was the most important person in the world.
Now he
knows
it.

But he also knows that if her touch warms him and makes him feel alive, it has the
opposite effect on her; it chills her. It’s like he’s frostbite. What Eric said bothers
Nathan, and it’s hard not to drown in the worry; there’s not much he can do to distract
himself.

He can read over someone’s shoulder. He can slide into a movie theater and watch.
He can’t talk while he’s watching it, which is probably a good thing—but he can’t
talk to anyone about it afterward. He can’t drink, not that he did that much drinking
while alive; he can’t drive. Driving was one of his refuges.

But mostly he drove to get Emma or to take her home. Now he can only walk beside her
as she leaves Starbucks.

“Em,” Nathan says. “It’s cold. You should go home.”

She’s silent for half a block, but she doesn’t change direction.

“Em—”

“Do you want me to go?” she asks.

The truth is he never wants her to leave. He never did. But he had homework and parents,
and so did she.

“I don’t want you to freeze to death,” is his compromise.

“Then I’m staying. I don’t mind the cold.” Her teeth are chattering. “I know I’m being
unfair. But I don’t want to see a stranger’s car in the driveway. I just need a couple
of days to get used to the idea. Is that too much to ask?”

“No.” He watches the wind shuffle strands of her hair. He sees her breath in the white
mist that dissipates. He’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans. “No, it’s not. But—”

“But not more than a couple of days?” Her smile is rueful.

“Not many more. Your mom’s not an idiot. If you give Jon a chance, he might surprise
you.”

“He’s like olives?”

Nathan laughs. He hates olives.

* * *

Emma returns home sooner than she’d planned, but it’s not an act of kindness, not
that way. She doesn’t want to go home, and starts walking in that aimless way they
often had. Nathan follows. He knows he should tell her to go home, but he doesn’t
want her to leave, not yet. Instead, they walk down roads where houses and lots get
larger, and from there, they walk down sloped streets toward the ravine that occupies
a large chunk of city real estate.

Emma’s breath comes out in mist, adding visual weight to the sound of her breathing.
Even though they’re alone on the stretch of street that girds the ravine, it’s not
the only sound they can hear.

“Nathan?”

He frowns. “You’re not imagining things. Someone’s crying. I think whoever it is isn’t
very old.”

“I don’t suppose you have a flashlight?” she asks, with a grimace.

He smiles and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Next time, I’ll try to die prepared.”

She is silent for one frozen moment, and then she spins around to punch his shoulder.
“That’s not funny!”

“You’re laughing.” So is he.

“Because I have to laugh or I’ll cry.”

“Laughter’s better. Do you want me to go down there and take a look?”

“You can come down with me.”

“
I’m
not likely to slip, fall, and break anything on a tree I can’t see. You might have
noticed the snow in the ravine.” Most of the snow on the roads has turned to salty
slush, but in the ravine there’s a thin blanket of white. It’s the type of snow that
often covers patches of ice.

“Neither am I.” She laughs at his expression. He loves the sound of her laughter;
he doesn’t hear it so much anymore. “Okay, maybe. But you can’t talk to the child
if you do find him—or her; you can’t help if he’s lost or stuck.”

“I could at least tell you whether or not he’s
there
.”

She shakes her head. “Come with me,” she tells him, in a final-offer tone of voice.

“Em,” he says, shaking his head in a way that once made his hair fly, “Don’t change,
okay? And be careful—I don’t want to be with you so badly I want you to—”

She touches his lips. It sends a shock through his body, and he leans into the tip
of her finger.

* * *

It’s the dark gray that means night, but the moon is still silver. Emma begins to
navigate her way through the snow, heading in the direction of the voice.

She freezes when the crying stops. She fumbles in her pocket for her phone. “I don’t
know where he is, but he can’t stay out here. Not at this time of night.”

“He might be with his parents—”

She gives him a look and turns back to the phone. The crying starts again, and she
snaps the phone shut. “That way,” she tells Nathan.

* * *

The trees don’t so much open up as follow the line of a small stream that sometimes
floods in the spring; Emma finds it easiest to follow the twisting line of the buried
brook.

Cupping her hands over her mouth, she takes the risk of shouting. “Hello!”

Silence. The crying stops.

“I’m here to help you. Stay where you are, and I should be able to find you. I’m Emma,”
she adds. “Emma Hall.”

Silence again. Emma bites her lip. “I know you’re not supposed to talk to strangers,”
she says, in her loud, clear voice. “But it’s very,
very
cold outside, and I think tonight, just this once, it would be okay.”

It’s a good guess. It’s not a guess Nathan would have made.

More silence. Emma swears under her breath. “I should have gone home for Petal,” she
says, forgetting Jon Madding and her mother. “He could have found the child.” She
inhales and exhales a cloud, squaring her shoulders as she tries again.

Emma never gives up. Not when it’s important.

“I was walking home from a friend’s house when I heard you,” she tells the invisible
child. “I can just go home, if you want.” She’s lying. She isn’t leaving until she
finds this child, one way or the other. “I have a phone if you want to call your mom.
You don’t have to talk to me at all if you don’t want.”

Silence.

“But I’m freezing out here. It’s
really
cold. I need to go home.”

More silence.

“My mom won’t let me talk to strangers either. I got lost on the subway once, and
I was really afraid. I thought I’d never, ever get home again. I started to cry. But
a woman noticed I was crying, and she stopped and asked me if I was lost. I answered
her, even though she was a stranger and my mom had told me not to speak to strangers,
because my mom had
also
taught me I should be polite to strangers.

“I never understood how you could be polite if you weren’t allowed to talk at all.
But that woman? She helped me get home. She was going home, too, and she was going
to the same station I was supposed to go to.

“When I got home, I was very late, and I thought I’d be in a lot of trouble when I
told my mom what happened. But my mom wasn’t mad at me. My mom was grateful that someone
was there who could help me.

“Your mom would be grateful, too. I’m sure she would.”

Silence.

“Emma,” Nathan says softly, nodding toward the trees on the far, far left. “Keep talking.
I think I saw movement. I think he’s following your voice.”

Which is technically not breaking any rules about strangers. Children have the oddest
notions; they take things so literally. Emma is sort of used to that, because Michael
does it as well.

“My mom told me, afterward, that not all strangers are dangerous. In fact, she told
me that
most
strangers are just like me—they want to help. They’re nice people. The lady who helped
me was a very kind person.” Emma looks helplessly at the trees that Nathan indicated;
she can’t see what he saw. There is no movement of branches, no definitive crunch
of icy snow—just the silence. The silence has become almost unbearable. She’s stopped
talking.

She picks it up, kneeling in the snow, trying instinctively to make herself seem smaller
and less threatening. Her coat is long enough to cover her knees as she does.

“Because I remember that lady and how much she helped me, I try to help other children
if I see them crying. I try to help them if I think they’re lost. I think you’re lost,”
she adds. “And I want to help.”

She holds her breath as she finally sees what Nathan has seen: a flash of movement,
a small change in the darkness to the left. She still can’t hear much—the child must
be really light or really small—but the glimpse gives her hope. She holds out both
of her arms, and as she does, the child begins to cry again. The crying is different
this time; the child is still frightened, but the fear has shifted from hopeless despair
to something less heartbreaking.

“I’m lost,” the small voice finally says. “You can take me home?”

But Emma, arms out, freezes completely as the child finally peers out from behind
the trunk of a leafless tree. She finally understands why she’d heard the child so
clearly from so far away: It is far too late to take him home. He is already dead.