Made You Up(94)

McCoy was already there. He was already standing at the mic in the middle of the gym. Already talking.

But if he was here, who had I spoken to in his office?

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to welcome you to our annual spring sports awards. We’ll begin with our league-winning baseball team, who’ve had a great season. . . .”

My shoe squeaked against the floor. Celia turned and saw me there; she was still crying, but harder than before.

Her mother was standing in the shadow of the bleachers on the opposite side of the gym, with her business suit and her long blond hair. But her face—I had seen her face before. In the newspaper. In the display cases outside this gym. In Celia’s own expression—because when they stood side-by-side, the similarities were unmistakable.

But Scarlet—Scarlet was dead. Scarlet had been dead for years.

“Remember, Celia,” she said, her voice filling the gym, “I’m doing this for you.”

Celia didn’t react.

“Richard and I have sorted everything out. It’ll be over soon.”

Celia didn’t react because Celia couldn’t react because Scarlet was dead.

“You can move on.”

The scoreboard gave an ominous creak. Scarlet smiled. McCoy spoke a little louder at his microphone when the scoreboard creaked a second time. No one noticed. I couldn’t be the only one seeing this. It was happening—it had to be—except Scarlet—Scarlet wasn’t smiling at Celia; she was smiling at me. And she lifted one pointed, cherry-red nail toward the scoreboard.

I looked up. Red paint dripped down the wall. Each letter was ten feet tall; the two words crunched the scoreboard between them like bloody teeth.

CRIMSON

FALLS

The scoreboard screamed too loudly for McCoy to cover it up. Celia jumped away, scrambling onto the bleachers. Miles turned to hiss at her.

The scoreboard’s supports snapped.

My feet stuttered; Scarlet’s high laughter pealed across the gym.

I shoved myself off the doorframe and slammed into Miles’s back.





Chapter Fifty-two




Here’s the thing about dying in a sudden and tragic accident, like getting crushed by a scoreboard:

You don’t expect it.

I expected it. So I think that’s probably why I didn’t die.





Chapter Fifty-three




I forced one eye open. Then the other.

My head had been caught in a vise. My mouth was lined with cotton. The light in the room was low, but enough for me to make out the ridge of my legs and feet underneath the covers of a bed and the dark alcove around the corner, where the door would be. A white-noise machine hummed in the corner, and a sterile smell crept up on me.

I was in the hospital. Bed. Bathroom. Machines hanging from the ceiling. Red-eyed camera by the door. No hallucinations here.

My body was still asleep. I flexed my fingers and toes to make sure I could, then looked around.

The curtains were pulled back from my bed. The bed next to mine was empty. On the other side of me, a figure swaddled in a blanket slept soundly in a chair that looked like it had been designed by a torture expert.

My mother.

I coughed to clear my throat. She jerked awake, stared at me blankly until she seemed to realize I was staring back at her. Then she was right in front of me, brushing my hair from my face.

“Oh, Alex.” Her eyes had already glazed over with tears. She held me carefully, like I’d break.

“What happened?”

“That scoreboard fell on you,” she said, sniffling. “Don’t you remember?”

“Sort of.” I did. I remembered running, then pain, then the light closing off around me like I was being smashed between pages of a book.

“They said . . . they weren’t sure if you were going to wake up.” A sob escaped her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Where is Miles? Is he okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, honey, he’s fine.”

“Is he here?”

“Not right now, no.”

I had to figure out where he was. I had to make sure he was safe. “How long was I asleep?”

“Three days.”

“Mom.” I said it mostly from surprise. The tears were spilling down her face.

“I was so scared,” she said. “When your dad told me you went to school, I wanted to bring you home, but he said you’d be okay. . . .”