The Love That Split the World(10)

“Did you see him?” I ask.

“Who?”

“That guy on the field?”

Her blue eyes dart over to Coach, and she maneuvers her posture to see around either side of the podium, but when I look back to the field, the boy’s already gone.

“I’m going crazy.”

“You are not,” she whispers back. “You said Grandmother’s in town. Couldn’t it be one of her friends?”

“I don’t know if she has friends.”

“Of course she has friends. What do you think angels are?”

“I’m not sure she’s like that God.”

“She tells you stories from the Bible, doesn’t she?” Megan’s always acted like Grandmother is Jesus in a mask. I, on the other hand, have never known what to think about where her God ends and where mine begins. Sometimes when Megan talks about her faith, I think yes, exactly, but Grandmother’s stories have made me feel like the concept of God is too big for a book or a group of bodies lined up in pews or even a world religion. God is a thing I know when I see, and I see It all over, in Megan, in the night sky and the morning sun, and especially in Grandmother.

“Yeah . . . sometimes. But she also tells me stories about people named Squirrel and Chipmunk. Are those people from the Bible? Did Grandmother Spider steal fire in the Old Testament or New, because I thought that was a Choctaw story.”

Megan knocks her elbow into mine. “Fine, I don’t know how all this stuff fits together, but the point is, I know you. You’re not crazy. Grandmother’s real, and whatever’s happening to you now isn’t just a figment of your imagination. We’ll figure all this out, okay?”

I dig my teeth into my lip and nod. I slide my phone out of my purse to pick up where I left off on the ongoing Google search, and the battery icon onscreen practically frowns at me. Just then I remember the charger I left in my locker, with the rest of the stuff I planned to clean out next week.

I’m about to tell Megan I’m going to run up to the school and plug my phone in when Coach finishes his awards and the crowd erupts into applause. As soon as the football players start filing back up to the bleachers, everyone else stands to fan themselves and shake out their sweaty shirts. Matt bounds up the steps to us and hooks an arm around our necks, kissing the sides of both of our heads, though I can’t help but notice how long his friendly forehead kiss lingers on mine.

“Ew, you’re sweaty,” Megan says, pushing him off.

Ignoring her, he says, “You guys wanna go get food?”

“Sure,” I say. “I just need to get something from my locker first.”

“Better hurry; they’re gonna lock up as soon as they’ve got the podium back in the gym.”

Mom and Dad have made their way down the steps to us now, and they’re hugging Megan and Matt. “Oh, how fun to see the three of you together again,” Mom says, squeezing Megan’s elbow and putting on that smile that earned her the real estate license. “Isn’t that fun, Patrick?”

Dad nods, says nothing. Coach thinks he’s a man of few words, but I’d like to see him spend a day at the stables with Dad. Mom turns to me and assumes an expression filled with so much empathy I think her soul must hurt to make it: “Was that hard for you, to watch the dance team perform?”

“It was hard for me,” Dad interrupts quietly. “I thought Rachel Hanson’s eyeballs were going to pop out of her head. What do they call that stuff she does with her face?”

“Facials?” Megan says.

“I think they call that particular facial ‘sharting while doing a grand jeté,’” I say.

“Natalie,” Mom says.

“When a horse makes that face, you know she’s in fight-or-flight,” Dad muses.

“When Rachel dances, everyone’s in fight-or-flight,” Megan agrees thoughtfully.

Mom buries her face in her hands. “She comes from a broken home.”

“Yeah, so did War Horse and Seabiscuit, Mom. That’s no excuse.”



The school’s pitch-dark and cool, though still heavy with humidity. I look over the balcony down to the cafeteria and the wall of windows overlooking the lawn, and then, remembering this afternoon, I do a quick once-over of the shadowy foyer before taking off through the too-dark halls.

The farther I get from the doors, the more terrified I am to be alone in the dark. Grandmother’s voice echoes in my head with every step. You need to be prepared for what’s coming.

I spin through my locker combination, dig through the obsessively ordered rows of binders and memorabilia still left in there, stuff the phone charger into my purse, and turn to leave before the inevitable axe murderer arrives.

Something stops me.

Beautiful music, spilling down the dark hall from the band room.

I’ve been hearing the myth about the Band Room Phantom for the past four years, but whenever I’d thought about what I would do if confronted by its siren song, I certainly hadn’t pictured myself venturing toward it.

But there’s no ghost, I remind myself. There’s just a sneaky senior, whom I must know, and a hauntingly beautiful song trailing un-self-consciously across the keys of a piano.

I creep down the hall and stand outside the wooden doors, just listening for a while. The song is sad, heartbreaking even, and I’m overcome with frustration that I don’t have a better word to describe it. It occurs to me then that Grandmother would. She’d have a whole story that would sound exactly like this song. I open the door as quietly as I can and slip inside.