Eliza and Her Monsters(64)

I lower myself onto the cool grass and look up at the sky. Stars puncture the darkness. For all the Nocturnian constellations I know, the only real ones I remember are the Big and Little Dippers. Oh, and Canis Major, of course—headed by Sirius, the Dog Star, the herald of the dog days of summer. It’s been brought up so many times on the show Dog Days it’s now the longest-running title-reference joke. But Sirius isn’t even in the sky right now.

Four-year-old Eliza would be so disappointed in me.

Four-year-old Eliza would be disappointed in me for a lot of things. For hiding, for making it most of the way through high school without anyone to sit with at lunch, for letting myself sink to this place. Four-year-old Eliza tried, at least. She wanted to be good at things. She did things because she wanted to do them, not because other people made her. She had no masters. I don’t think any four-year-olds do.

But I’m not four anymore. I can’t be her. I can’t be my four-year-old self, I can’t be LadyConstellation, I can’t even be Wallace’s girlfriend. Right now I can only be Eliza Mirk, human being.

I tangle my fingers in the grass. A bat flits by overhead, making stars wink off and on again.

Wallace’s dad died here. It seems too calm for a car careening toward a fatal crash. I bet Wellhouse Turn was serene while it was happening too. Wellhouse Turn doesn’t kill people; bad weather, poor decisions, and unfortunate accidents kill people. Wellhouse Turn doesn’t advertise that people die here; the Westcliff Star does that. Because Wellhouse Turn, this little clearing, is nature, and nature doesn’t care. Nature doesn’t care if we throw ourselves against it and break a few bones. Nature doesn’t care if we feel so heavy we might sink into the ground and never be able to pull ourselves out again.

Nature doesn’t care who I am, online or off, and it doesn’t mind if I need to lie here for a while.





CHAPTER 36


Wednesday, two weeks after my unfortunate incident in the cafeteria, I am lying on the floor of my bedroom, staring at the ceiling and letting my wet hair soak the carpet, when the doorbell rings.

I listen to Dad’s steps march down the hallway. The soft crack of the door swinging away from its frame. His muffled voice saying hello, then more I can’t make out.

Then footsteps up the stairs. Dad’s. My heart picks up. Why’s he coming up? I’m the only one upstairs right now.

A knock on my door.

“Eggs? Wallace is here.”

Wallace is here.

Why is Wallace here?

“I don’t want to talk to him.” The answer is immediate and strong. There is no doubt in my mind. I cannot talk to Wallace. I can’t see him.

“Are you sure?” Dad still doesn’t open the door.

“Yes.”

“Okay then.” He goes back down the stairs, back to the door. His muffled voice says something that sounds regretful. I don’t hear a response, but if Wallace is talking, it might be too soft to hear.

The door closes.

I scramble to my window. It looks down on the front lawn and the driveway where Wallace’s car is parked.

Wallace tromps down the front walk. From up here he’s a head of dark hair and a Colts jersey. I press my forehead to the screen. How can he not feel me here? How can he not feel how much I want him not to hate me, how sorry I am? I don’t care if I never look at Monstrous Sea again, but I do care if I never see Wallace again. Right now, I care a lot.

He fumbles with his keys, then stops, like he remembered something. He walks to the end of the driveway and turns to look up at the house.

He finds me right away. I fall back from the window, breath caught in my throat. Of course he knew I was here—he had to know I was here. I peek over the windowsill again. He’s pacing. Every time he passes back, he glances up at my window. One pass, two passes, three passes.

He’s psyching himself up.

Psyching himself up? What does he need to psych himself up for? Is he going to charge the front door?

Finally he stops and reaches into his pocket for his phone. Types something. Looks up at my window again.

I grab my phone from my desk, where it has been collecting dust. Message upon message appears when I turn it on, but Wallace’s text is at the top.

We need to talk.

He doesn’t wait for me to respond before he starts typing again.

We really need to talk and I don’t want to text outside your house.

And again:

If you don’t let me in today, I’ll just come back tomorrow.

My stomach clenches. He wants in here so he can yell at me. So he can tell me how wrong I am, how awful, how badly I’ve treated him. Maybe then I can yell back at him that I know, that I feel it in the marrow of my bones like someone pumped me full of guilt.

I sit and hold myself for a moment, arms wrapped around my legs, forehead against my knees. Then I force myself off the floor, out of my room, and down the stairs one stiff step at a time. I throw the front door open and fly back upstairs, into my room—leaving that door open too—and curl up on the bed with my back in the corner and my pillow locked between my arms as a shield.

The front door clicks shut. I drop the pillow. Fling it across the room.

Heavy feet climb the stairs. I stand and put my back to the window. Close my eyes and press my phone into my stomach until I can feel his gaze on me, and I look up to find him framed by the doorway.