Wraith (11 page)

“J
ANE, DEAR, COULD YOU
go grab that plate of desserts and put it on the table?” my mother asked as she whirled through the room, energized by her party and guests.

Yep, New Year’s Eve and I was at home with my parents and their friends. It was so pathetic I wasn’t even embarrassed anymore, just resigned to it. I grabbed the tray of chocolate and fruit pastries from the kitchen counter and made my way through the men and women socializing in the house and placed it on the dining room table.

“Those look wonderful,” a woman with short brown hair said from her position next to the table. I think she owned a shop in the retail area near my parents’ gallery.

“They do, don’t they?” I said, not wanting to explain I had nothing to do with them, other than taking them out of the bakery box and arranging them on a plate.

“I’m Camille,” she said, offering me her hand. “I own the book store three doors down from your parents’ shop.”

“Oh! I’ve been in your shop. I bought several books there last fall.”

Did I ever say I was horrible at small talk with adults? In an attempt to not make further eye contact, I looked around the room, trying to formulate the words for a conversation before I escaped. Nothing came, so I settled on a weak grin. Camille, tall and curvy, with the brightest green eyes I’d ever seen, appeared unfazed by my social awkwardness.

“I love your shirt,” she said, eyeing the retro, red velvet shirt I’d paired with dark jeans and boots.

I tugged at my sleeves. “Thanks.”

More awkward silence filled the air between us before she spoke again. “So, what’s a girl your age doing here with us old folks?” she asked, popping a white glazed tart in her mouth.

Did she think I
wanted
to be here? I swallowed back the sarcasm that threatened to explode from my mouth. Instead I said, “I just thought I’d stick close to home—that’s all.”

Truth was I’d tried to make other plans. I called Ava to see if she wanted to do something, but her family was on their annual ski trip. After that I even nervously called Julia, but she was on a date with Brennan. About three blocks over was a party hosted by a girl in my class, and though it was open to everyone (even
I
got a message on Facebook), I wasn’t comfortable going alone. To be fair, I’d also received an invitation to visit and party with friends from my old school. Grace (former BFF and current complicated-friend situation) called and practically begged me to go, but as I listened to her talk about boys I didn’t know and gossip I didn’t care about, I declined, pretending I had obligations here. I stared at this normal, middle-aged woman attempting to make small talk with me, and realized anything would have been better than this.

I waited for Camille to respond with sympathy about my lack of social life, but instead her focus seemed to be on something over my shoulder. I turned, expecting to find Evan, but instead she stared at a painting from Jeannie propped over the fireplace.
“That’s gorgeous,” she said, taking a step closer and looked between the painting and myself. “Oh! That’s you!”

“My aunt sent it to me for Christmas. She’s the artist.”

“She’s wonderful,” she exclaimed and studied me again. “She captured your spirit.”

The large package arrived on Christmas Eve, addressed to me. Inside was a collage, abstract of course, but it was me. There was no mistaking it. Jeannie had not only captured my spirit, but Evan’s as well. Bright colors of red surrounded the primary figure, followed by black. Each a piece of paper with one word written over and over again in heavy script.

I picked up a thick, iced brownie and said, “She’s very talented.”

Camille moved closer to the painting and up on her tiptoes. “What does that say?”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure. I couldn’t make out the word.”

She reached in her pocket and found a small pair of glasses and slipped them on. Smiling back at me she sighed and said, “When you get old your eyes fail,” which caused me to laugh a little because she looked far from old to me. She continued to examine the words, her eyes narrowed and tight.

“Oh, I see…”

“You do?”

“I think it’s just one word, written in different script, torn out of pieces of paper,” she replied, her finger hovering respectfully over the canvas.

“Really?” I asked, surprised. “What do you think it says?”

“It’s an odd word,” she said, worry lines appearing at the edges of her eyes. “I have no idea why she would use it.”

Fear tightened in my chest. What had my aunt seen? “What is it?”

Again, she pointed to the scattered letters. “It says ‘wraith.’”

Wraith. I’d never heard of this word. I shook my head in confusion. “I don’t…what does that mean?”

Camille took off her glasses, slipping them back in her pocket, and frowned a little. “I wouldn’t know either, but I’m a big reader. You don’t own a bookstore without a drastic love of books, but unless I’m mistaken it means, ‘ghost’. I have quite a large section on the occult at the store.” She glanced curiously at me and confessed, “A guilty pleasure.”

My heart lunged into my chest. “Ghost?”

“Yes, or a variation of. Ghost, guardian…spiritual protector of sorts. Strange, don’t you think? Your aunt must be very creative.”

Awesome Jeannie—thanks for the heads up.”Yes, she is. She’s…eccentric. Always creating things that make little sense to anyone else.” My eyes swept the room and I saw several abandoned plates and cups on nearby surfaces. “Excuse me while I clean up a bit; my mother wanted me to keep this room tidy. It was nice meeting you.”

I grabbed the trash and dumped it in the can in the kitchen. Placing my hands on the counter, my eye caught the clock on the microwave and I saw it was 11:30 p.m. The last thing I wanted to experience was a room full of old people locking lips and ringing in the New Year, or even worse, talking to Camille about the painting. Before my mother could put me to work again, I escaped to the front hallway and grabbed my coat, gloves and hat before escaping to the front porch. Outside, I took a huge gulp of air, trying to swallow back the irritation and awkwardness of that moment with Camille.
Wraith?
I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised Jeannie knew more about my secret than I realized.

Tiny, white Christmas lights wound around the porch columns and a big, multi-pointed star hung at the top of the steps. The cooler air was a relief and I sat down on the wooden porch swing and tugged on my hat and gloves. I wrapped the long tails of my scarf around my neck and fought off a shiver from the cold. The swing creaked with the weight of my body, but I didn’t care; everyone else was inside and I just needed a moment to escape. I leaned back into the bench and tried to let the rocking motion soothe me.

I could hear the music drifting from inside and the occasional loud laughter of my father as he told stories to his friends. It was on nights like tonight that I missed the ease of my old friends and I wondered if I should have made more of an effort to reconnect with them. I missed Grace; it wasn’t that I didn’t like them anymore, but my life now was a million miles away from what it used to be.

Over the music, I heard the distinct sound of a heavy shuffle coming up the steps. A loud thud and a mumbled curse announced the late party-goer and I pushed my feet into the porch floor to still the swing, hoping maybe I would go unnoticed.

The figure ascended the top step and lumbered into the dimly lit porch and I realized with absolute surprise it was Connor. Butterflies exploded in my stomach. The swing jerked with my shock, which was enough to betray my whereabouts. He stood, tall and imposing, in a heavy wool coat that came below his waist and a dark cap over his ever-growing hair. Connor’s eyes met mine and a glimmer of a smile ghosted over his lips.

“Hey.”

“Hi?”

He loped in my direction, his hips loose and his feet dragging. Without asking, he landed on the swing, causing the springs to bounce and groan in protest.

I stared at him as he adjusted his black cap over his ears and asked, “Are you drunk?”

He leaned back on the swing and shrugged. “Yeah. I think so.”

I frowned. “What happened to not drinking alcohol while taking medication?”

Again he shrugged. “I’m eighteen. I’m allowed to make shitty decisions every once in a while.”

He rocked his knees, making the swing sway under his weight and his eyes were unfocused and halfway closed. I wanted to be annoyed that he showed up drunk and uninvited but I wasn’t. I found him comforting. Weird, but comforting. I knew it was wrong, because he made my chest hurt and my stomach roll, and we weren’t like
that
. But instead of arguing for once, I settled in next to him.

The music changed inside, to something slower. Between it and the gliding of the swing, I relaxed. Connor shifted and cleared his throat, his voice slicing through the night. “I was at that party—over on Sycamore. I wasn’t going to drink, you know, I just went to have a good time. Just to celebrate New Year’s Eve. Just be normal.” He paused, again fidgeting with the edge of his cap, tucking loose hairs under the fabric. “It was loud and Allison was there, and…and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

Bitterness crept up my throat at the thought of Connor with Allison. I had no claim on him. None whatsoever, but I hurt just the same. “So, what? You just came here?”

“Yeah, I came here.”

“Am I that lame that you knew I’d be alone on New Year’s Eve?” I tried to keep the stink of pathetic-ness out of my voice. I failed.

“Nah. I just hoped you’d be here.”

“Why?” It was my turn to fidget as I pinched the gloved tips of my fingers.

Connor exhaled, causing fog to puff from his lips. “It’s minutes before the New Year, Jane. I didn’t want to spend it there. Not with them.”

If the implication behind his words wasn’t heavy enough, the look in his eyes spoke volumes.

“Oh.” I turned my head toward the road. Loud pops of fireworks echoed against the houses, followed by whoops from kids down the street.

I felt a tug on the end of my scarf. “Is that okay?”

Deliberately swallowing to buy time, I nodded. “Yes.”

The music died down completely inside the house and the party-goers grew louder and
it became clear we neared midnight. I stiffened next to Connor, caught in one of those awkward moments for a boy and girl next to one another, like standing under mistletoe or catching the bouquet at a wedding.

The voices inside became clearer as they counted down the seconds to the New Year, and I wrapped my fingers around the wooden seat of the bench because even though I wanted a kiss from Connor, I didn’t want it like this—out of obligation and under less-than-sober conditions.

There were loud cheers and laughter and the thunder of low-grade fireworks as the moment came. We heard the unmistakable pop of champagne corks as they loosened. Connor giggled drunkenly next to me and said, “God, this is awkward.”

My face flushed warm. “It is. It’s horrible.”

“What would you do if I kissed you?”

Yes! Please! Now? Sure!
I shrugged, keeping my thoughts to myself. Connor pulled the tails of my scarf again so that I had to face him. Damn him and his cute drunken self. “Not now.”

“Not now,” he said. “Another day, then?”

I wanted to say yes, so badly. But I didn’t. “Maybe.”

He stared at me for a minute, his eyes shifting between my lips and my eyes. For a minute I thought he may do it anyway—and I would let him—but instead, he dropped the tails of my scarf and leaned back into the seat with a loud creak. The fireworks continued down the street, and they provided a distraction from the strangeness of the moment. Connor pulled off his hat, ran a hand though his hair, and tugged it back on. “So tell me, what are your resolutions for the year?”

I thought for a moment about how things had changed so much in my life. I wanted to move past this, grow stronger and accept this life that had chosen me. I tucked a wayward lock of hair under his cap, earning me a smile. “Owning it.”

“Good one,” he said, with a lazy nod. His meds and the alcohol must have merged, making him sleepy. I could see the edges of his nails rimmed in black paint when he rested his hands on his lap.