Imaginary Girls(23)

Because girls can’t come back to life. Not here and not anywhere. Any second now we’d see—

Pete was a breath away from me now, his clammy hand grabbing on to my knee. He gave an awkward shake to my knee and said, “Seriously, kid, you all right?”

“You’re asking for it, Pete,” said a voice. A girl’s voice. As she stepped toward us, the light from the fire made more stripes blaze up all over her skin. “You know that’s Ruby’s sister, right?” London said. Then she added, “So how’s it going, Chloe?”

I didn’t answer. When a dead girl says your name it’s shocking. A brick thrown at you, a brick through your bedroom window.

The light was behind her, hiding her face. “You need some help getting up?” she asked. She put an arm out, dangling one of her two hands before my face. The hand was so close, I could see all five fingernails. Even in the dark I could see them.

She locked her eyes on mine. (The whites of her eyes staring up at the half moon.)

She cracked a smile. (Her lips drained of color.)

I looked away. “Don’t touch me,” I heard myself say. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” she said.

And you don’t look dead, I didn’t say.

“Just let her help you,” Pete said. So he could see and hear her, too.

The hand was still there, the fingers waggling. Her nails were painted a few different colors. Three were black, as they would be if left to rot in the ground. But three were magenta. Others were yellow. It was all so random.

I grabbed the hand. Her warm, living hand. It grabbed mine back. As it did a hiss of vapor didn’t pass through my flesh to reveal I’d grabbed on to nothing; I didn’t fall facefirst into gravel and lie there spitting up rocks. I was definitely touching something. And this something used its weight to get me up.

She was no ghost. She could be seen by others. She could be touched; she spoke full sentences; her breath reeked, but not with maggots, with plain bad beer. There was no smoke, no mirrors. If Ruby had made this happen, it was really and truly happening, not just to me but to every single person here.

Ruby reappeared once I got to my feet. She was there for me to lean on, there as if she’d been at my side all along and always would be. The wind played with her hair, making it sway over her bare shoulders. Her lips were painted her color—without a smudge. Her eyes borrowed stars from the sky, or seemed to. Even the fireflies came to lend her their glow, blinking sweet nothings all around her.

I wasn’t the only one staring.

“Hey there,” Pete said.

“Hi, Ruby,” London said meekly, eyes flicking to me as if she didn’t think she’d be allowed to tell my sister hi.

Ruby ignored them both. “That took forever,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Chlo.” She held out a water bottle for me and watched carefully as I twisted off the cap and took a long swallow.

When I was done, Ruby grabbed my hand in hers, so everyone could see. Then she asked, projecting as if she were wearing a wire hidden inside her dress, “London, how are you? My sister was wondering. Tell her. Tell her how you are.”

I was? But I was. Ruby knew I was wondering that and way more.

London gave Ruby an odd look. Then she turned the same look on me, seeing as I could have asked her how she was myself, and said, “I’m fine, thanks.” Her words wavered, like she wasn’t sure. Like Ruby could say no, she wasn’t fine, and then she’d have to change her answer.

“See?” my sister said to me. To London, her voice shifted and she said, “What are you doing over here with Chloe? What happened to the keg?”

“It’s empty,” London said.

“Damn,” Pete could be heard muttering behind us.

London was shifting from foot to foot. “I should go back to the fire,” she said, taking a step toward her friends.

“Should you?” Ruby asked this question with great concentration. Her gaze needled into two thin points, aimed with precision at London.

I saw the stabs. Saw how London flinched and then in one last-ditch effort to defend herself squeaked out, “I told them I’d be right back.”

“You did?” Ruby said. She had control of the conversation, tossing it high, bouncing it back and forth between her palms.

London’s forehead creased up. She put a hand to her head, thinking. The fireflies seemed drunk, glowing haphazardly in downward spirals toward the ground.