Girl in Snow(19)

Lucinda was dead, and the fact settled over the houses like last night’s snow. It fell gently at first, and soon it would melt carelessly into the way of things. But not for Cameron: Lucinda was dead, and the reminder slapped him constantly, freezing ocean waves against his thighs. He could only wade deeper. Deeper, until the truth bubbled into his mouth, salty, miserable. Deeper, until it was pointless to search for shorelines because he knew Lucinda would not be standing on them.





Day


Two




THURSDAY

FEBRUARY 17, 2005





Jade





Cameron pulls an apple out of a paper bag. Bites into it, tentative. Even from the courtyard, I recognize that familiar self-consciousness as he sits alone at a table by the window.

People have been whispering about it all day: the cops are just looking for evidence now. He was obsessed with Lucinda. Her stalker.

I don’t think it was like that, with Cameron and Lucinda. They were friends. Really. And those people don’t know how he looked, standing pathetic on her back lawn every night. Melted gazes. Adoring.

Once, I heard Beth shrieking some ridiculous taunt about Cameron—she and Lucinda were walking arm in arm down the science hallway when Cameron passed with his head down. “Psychopath,” Beth hissed, loud enough for him to hear. Cameron camouflaged himself easily, disappearing nimbly into the swarm of students.

Lucinda stopped walking, wriggled her arm free, and pulled her notebook protectively to her chest; it had a printout of a Degas painting plastered to the front. A ballerina perched on a bench, tying silky ribbons, with a tutu sprouting from her fairy waist.

“You don’t even know that kid,” Lucinda told Beth. “Leave him alone. He’s not crazy.”



WHAT YOU WANT TO SAY BUT CAN’T WITHOUT BEING A DICK

A Screenplay by Jade Dixon-Burns

INT. JEFFERSON HIGH SCHOOL—CAFETERIA—NOON

Celly approaches FRIEND (15, social pariah) at a cafeteria table. He looks up at the mass of her, doe-eyed.





FRIEND


(startled)

Uh. Hi.





CELLY


We met yesterday. In the principal’s office.





FRIEND


I-I know.





CELLY


Can I sit?

Friend stuffs his half-eaten apple into its paper bag, blushing as Celly sits across from him.

CELLY (CONT’D)

I’m not going to tell on you. For what I saw the other night.





FRIEND


(stammering)

I don’t know what you’re talking about.





CELLY


The night Lucinda died. I saw you on her lawn. I always see you there.





FRIEND


I don’t—





CELLY


It’s okay. You didn’t kill her.

Friend looks around, then into his lap.





FRIEND


You don’t even know me.





CELLY


I’ve got this theory, you know. Every person is just a conglomeration of observations and insights. You can’t ever know someone, not really. Anyway, I don’t think you would hurt Lucinda.

Friend swallows, hard.

CELLY (CONT’D)

I’ve observed. You’re not the only one capable of watching people.

Friend stands up quickly, crumpling his paper bag into a ball. He looks back at Celly.





FRIEND


Thanks, I think.

Friend rushes away, leaving Celly alone. She laughs, shaking her head.





CELLY


God help me if I’ve turned into an optimist.



I don’t approach Cameron. Instead, I sit under the tree in the courtyard, tracing a smelly chemical Sharpie over my tattoo. A dragon with a spiky tail and swirls of fire.

Chapter Two of Modern Witchcraft is all about signs from the dead. You get three signs if someone is contacting you from the afterlife: the Image, the Dream, and the Token.

A man in Oklahoma lost his wife to a serial killer. She sent him these three signs, over and over again, which he recorded carefully on his blog: the Image, the Dream, the Token. The Image, the Dream, the Token. Signs from the dead, he blogged, are really just signs from your own mind. It isn’t possible. They continued, in sets of three, until the man in Oklahoma finally called the cops. Surely someone was fucking with him.

The cops found him hanging from the ceiling fan, one of his wife’s old-lady nightgowns wrapped around his neck. From the placement of the noose, they confirmed it was not a suicide. But all the doors to the house were locked from the inside.

When I first read this chapter I was sitting in my bed, on top of a mountain of dirty T-shirts, reading by the light of my chamomile candle. Everything in my bedroom was suddenly a sign: My moon charts. Troll dolls with wiry pink hair. My obituary collection. My collection of rocks that look like other things (hearts, dogs, Jesus). The Image, the Dream, the Token. The Image: a visual representation of the deceased. The Dream: just as it sounds. And the Token: something of yours that the deceased has claimed for themselves. How can you be sure to recognize a sign when it comes? A fist knotted in my chest—a silly, paranoid fear.