Читать книгу Love is Hell - Melissa Marr - Страница 8

AT LUNCH THE FOLLOWING day, instead of sitting by myself, I’m flagged down by Raina and Craig, which is definitely a blessing. Social roadkill aside, I’m in serious need of a diversion. I just can’t stop thinking about my dream last night.

I wish there were someone I could talk to about everything, but it’s sort of like when my sister died. I tried to explain what I felt then, too—what I knew had happened—but no one understood.

And how could they?

How can anyone make sense of something so nonsensical: the sight of my sister, Emma, in her Girl Scout uniform—the one she always insisted on wearing to bake sales, cookie sales, troop meetings, or just around the house. She’d been in a coma for six full months.

But I still saw her that day. She opened the front door of our house, crossed the living room to kiss me goodbye, and then vanished without a word.

I knew it was her ghost that appeared to me. I knew that she had died. When I tried to tell my mother, she buckled to the ground, refusing to believe me, telling me I was cruel and insensitive for making up such horrible lies. But then, not even five minutes later, my father called from the hospital and told us—Emma had passed away.

Craig slides a bowl full of crinkle fries and ranch dressing toward me. “How’s it going?” he asks.

Raina frowns at the offering. “You really want to nauseate the girl on her first day of lunching with us?”

“Actually,” I say, “this looks great.”

Craig seems to like the answer. His smile grows wide, showing off the tiny—yet adorable—gap between his two front teeth. “I knew this girl had taste.”

We end up trading lunches like in grammar school—a few of his fries for a couple of my peanut butter–stuffed celery sticks. And then Craig suggests that we all get together this weekend. “Raina and I can give you a tour of the town,” he says.

“Should take all of five minutes,” Raina jokes, glancing at the bruise on my wrist.

I tug my sleeve down to cover it over, and then give them a thumbs-up for the tour. We end up making plans for Saturday night—at 7:00 P.M. sharp. Craig offers to come pick me up, and that’s when I tell them my address.

“Are you kidding?” Raina gasps, nearly snorting out her strawberry milk. “The bloodbath house?”

“What are you talking about?” I pause mid-chew.

“No big deal,” Craig says, trying to make light of it. “Just your typical friendly neighborhood—”

“Bloodbath!” Raina bursts out, finishing for him. “Didn’t the real estate agent tell you the history of your house?”

I shake my head as they give me the details: a seventeen-year-old boy was murdered there, the police found his body in the bathroom, and it was the mother’s boyfriend who did it.

“Apparently, a blow to the head,” Craig explains. “The boyfriend hit him with a crowbar and he landed hard against the cast-iron tub.”

“Hence the bath of blood,” Raina offers.

“Lovely,” I say, thinking about the boy in my dream—he had a gash in his forehead.

“Seriously,” Raina continues, “I don’t even know how you can sleep at night. People say the place is crazy-haunted.”

“I can’t sleep at night,” I say, feeling my stomach churn. “I mean, not usually.”

“Well, that would explain it,” she says. “I mean, I hate to be rude, but you’re packin’ some serious baggage under those peepers, and I’m not exactly talking Louis Vuitton.”

“Nope, not rude at all.” Craig sighs.

Raina hands me a stick of cover-up, explaining that it’s “the good stuff,” reserved only for after her late-night study marathons.

“Which is why it’s never been used,” Craig clarifies.

While they continue to bicker, I slide back in my chair, fighting the urge to toss up my french fries right on the spot.

“Are you okay?” Craig asks, probably noticing the sickly look on my face.

“Yeah,” Raina jokes, “your head isn’t going to do a three-sixty on us, is it? All I need right now is a hunk of spew to land in my duck sauce.”

“I have to go,” I say, getting up from the table. I grab my books and bolt out of the cafeteria, foregoing Raina’s stick of cover-up, since it’s obviously going to take a whole lot more than makeup to fix what’s going on inside my house.

And in my dreams.