When I find the right door, I rush in and quickly shut out the noise of the party. I cross to the sink and rest my palms on either side of the counter, studying my reflection. Next to me the shower curtain sways, and I start. Then I hear the soft sound of a girl crying.
“Are you okay?” I ask, taking a tentative step forward. There’s no answer, and I wonder if I should give her some privacy. But I decide to first make sure she’s not injured. Slowly I pull back the curtain and there, sitting in the bathtub, is a girl about my age with short brown hair, mascara streaked down her face. She turns to me fiercely as if she’s about to cuss me out, but she stops short. Instead she dissolves into another crying fit, covering her face.
I should definitely find her friends. But as I start to move away, I feel it—a pull to help her. A desire to help her. I glance down at the girl and the tingling begins in the tips of my fingers, as if I’m bringing it on myself. As if I’m willing . . . the Need.
A light glows around us and the knowledge hits, flowing through me. I can see her entire life. I close my eyes, terrified that it’s happening again but unable to stop the warm feelings of love coursing through me. Love that’s not mine.
Sixteen-year-old Anahi Cabrone is five months pregnant. She hasn’t told anyone, concealing the pregnancy by eating less to avoid weight gain, wearing baggier clothes. She hasn’t even told her boyfriend, Daniel—a twenty-three-year-old cook—afraid he’d break up with her.
But tonight her father found out about the baby, about her secretly dating Daniel. Anahi’s parents made an appointment at a private clinic outside of town, one that will still do a procedure so late-term. Anahi came here to find Daniel. To tell him. To make him run away with her. But instead she found him with another girl.
“Anahi,” I murmur, my heart heavy with her sorrow. She feels alone and hopeless. She doesn’t think she can go on. I see an image of her mother—when she was the same age as Anahi—pregnant with her.
The light had come to her mother then, helping her to face her own decision. And now it’s back to help Anahi, giving her the comfort she needs. I lower my eyes, the fact that I’m understanding this nearly devastating. I don’t know what this means for me. I don’t know if I can keep denying these episodes anymore.
But the words run through my head, pushing me forward. “I know this isn’t an easy choice,” I tell Anahi. “But it is your choice. Go home; talk with your parents. Make the decision for yourself, but not out of desperation, or sadness. Or guilt.”
Anahi is quiet for a long moment, and then she nods, wiping absently at her cheeks.
The visions in my mind flash forward to Anahi arriving home, her parents waiting at the door for her, having been terrified that she’d never come back. And this time, they’ll listen to her. They’ll talk.
Anahi tries to stand, and I help her out of the bathtub, steadying her. The minute I let go of her arm, the light is gone. Anahi blinks rapidly as if just realizing where she is.
“Oh,” she says, furrowing her brow. “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone else was in here.”
And suddenly I’m back to myself, staring at this girl who is equally alarmed to see me. She touches her stomach protectively, but then quickly lets her arm fall to her side, as if afraid she’d given away her secret. She turns then, confused, and leaves.
I wait a minute; only silence outside the open door. My heart thuds in my chest, and I step forward to look out. The people in the hall are still, the sound on mute. Nothing moves.
The memory floods in.
I can’t fight the Need. I’m lying on the floor of a car, tears streaking down my face. The pain is unbearable—unimaginable. And when I push aside the shoulder of my dress, I see it and it stops my heart. Skin—dead and gray, rotting me from the inside out.
I suck in a breath, falling against the wall, and the party snaps back into motion. The room sways with movement, music in the background, murmurs of conversation. I lean my head against the bathroom wall, squeezing my eyes shut.
This is my life—not whoever these memories belong to. Not the voice that’s inside of me, pushing me forward. Forgotten or not, they can’t have me. I fight my tears, wishing it all away. I want my life back now.
I straighten then, knowing that I’ll have to go see Madame Marceline tomorrow. I can’t wait until Sunday. I’m going to tell her to make the voices go away. Make the memories go away. I’m following my happiness now. Because whoever I used to be—if I’ve actually lived before—is gone. And like my mother taught me, there isn’t time to mourn the dead.
I press back the panic that’s bubbling up and smooth down the front of my dress. I can’t freak out here. Not now. I won’t tell Abe about this.
And something inside tells me I never should.
Abe is sitting by himself on the couch sipping from a red plastic cup, looking bored. When he sees me move through the crowded hallway, he lifts an eyebrow.
I join him on the couch, immediately smelling something minty. Abe brings his cup to his lips, pausing to examine me. “Where were you?” he asks before taking a sip.
“Bathroom.” I meet his quizzical stare. Now that I’m back out in the party, my exchange with Anahi is an afterthought. Abe shifts next to me suddenly, and a splash of beer spills over the lip of the cup and onto my leg. It’s cold, snapping me awake. I groan and slap Abe in the chest. “Abe!”
“Sorry.” He sets the cup on the coffee table. “Here, let me get that.” He starts brushing the alcohol off my bare thigh just below the hem of my dress with the sleeve of his shirt. His fingers brush my skin. “You’re so warm,” he murmurs, taking his time.
“I think you got it all,” I say.
Abe leaves his hand on my leg an extra second before going for his drink. We’re quiet and he leans his shoulder against mine as we watch the party, conversations floating around us like white noise. Just as I’m starting to relax, someone calls his name.
“Abe!” the high-pitched voice yells again. Bridget’s standing in the hallway wearing a red tube top and a short denim skirt. We both get up and she rushes to hug Abe, squeezing him a little longer than necessary.
“Hi, Elise,” she says, turning to me. “Nice to see you.”
“You too.” I can tell that she’d rather I wasn’t here with Abe, but she’s doing her best to hide it, so I try not to hold it against her. I check the time on my phone to see how close it is to curfew.