Willow Page 2

  “Right.” Guy laughs. “And then he pretty much goes ahead and writes one.”

  The lights click off suddenly and they stand in the darkness for a moment before Guy reaches out and presses the timer. Then he sits down on the floor as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if the only thing that he could possibly want to do with his time is talk to her.

  Willow is a little unsure of what to do. She feels comfortable talking to him, but the way she felt when he touched her, that wasn’t comfortable at all. She searches his face. He doesn’t look as if there’s anything on his mind besides books.

  After a second Willow sits down next to him.

  “Why do you need this?” She gestures toward Tristes Tropiques. “What happened to the copy that you bought at that used bookstore?” Of course she doesn’t really care about what happened to his copy, and it’s kind of a stupid question, stupid and boring, but she doesn’t know what else to say, and she doesn’t feel relaxed enough to sit there with him in silence.

  “Lost it on the subway.” Guy shrugs. “I should buy another, but I’m kind of low on cash right now. Do you know the place I’m talking about?” He puts the book down and turns to look at her. “I figure your brother’s had to have dragged you down there about a thousand times. It’s always packed with professors whenever I go.”

  Willow thinks for a minute. “Is it way downtown?” she asks. “And even though it’s huge, it’s really cramped, right?”

  “Right.” Guy nods. “There’s hardly room to move. It’s like the books have taken over. They’ve spilled off the shelves and there’s so many piled all over the floor that it’s almost impossible to walk.”

  “And it kind of smells,” Willow says. “But not in a good, old, bookish sort of way, but in a kind of . . .” She pauses for a second.

  “A kind of unwashed and dirty way,” Guy finishes.

  “That’s right.” Willow laughs. “And the staff are really rude.”

  “If you ask them something, they act like you’re bothering them.”

  “And it’s almost impossible to find anything on your own, because they don’t arrange things in any logical order.”

  “And the whole place is so far out of the way to begin with, you wonder why anyone even bothers to go there. But still, it’s actually really . . .”

  “Fabulous,” Willow chimes in.

  “So you do know it.” Guy smiles. He stops talking and studies her face carefully. Willow shifts uncomfortably. She’s suddenly acutely aware of how quiet the stacks are, how quiet and how empty.

  “You don’t really look that much like your brother,” Guy continues after a few moments. “I mean, I don’t think that’s why I recognized you.”

  Willow isn’t sure where this is leading, but she does know that she feels distinctly less relaxed than she did a few minutes ago.

  “I’m such an idiot!” Guy exclaims. “I can’t believe this. You go to my school, don’t you? That’s why I know you. I’ve seen you around the halls. You just transferred there this year, right?”

  Willow is much too startled to answer this. They go to the same school? He knows her? Does he know abouther?

  She scrambles to her feet. “I have to go,” she says in alarm. “I shouldn’t have been up here this long anyway.”

  “Well, sure.” Guy stands up and starts to follow her as she practically runs to the elevator.

  Willow can’t bring herself to look at him. She stares at the elevator floor, the ceiling, anything but his face. It’s as if their pleasant little interlude had never even occurred. She feels used. Used and stupid. Had he known all along? Had that entire conversation been some act so he could report back to his friends at school that he’d actually managed to talk to the new girl? The strange girl, the girl who killed her parents?

  The desire to cut is palpable, even stronger than it was back at the circulation desk. She has to get away from him. She has to be alone.

  “So listen, do you think . . .”

  “I have to go,” Willow says. She bolts out of the elevator, leaving Guy behind, and rushes toward Miss Hamilton. For once her scowl is welcome.

  “You certainly took a long time.” Miss Hamilton seems suspicious.

  “I . . . I had a hard time finding what he was looking for.” Willow joins her behind the desk.

  “You need to be more familiar with the call numbers,” Miss Hamilton says. Excuses carry no weight with her.

  “Hey, c’mon, it took me forever to figure out the stacks.” Carlos flashes Willow a sympathetic smile.

  “I suppose.” Miss Hamilton looks back and forth between the two of them. “All right then, you’re done, Willow. I’ll see you in a few days.”

  Willow glances at the clock in surprise. She had no idea that her shift was over. Miss Hamilton was right, she had been gone for a while. She didn’t realize that their conversation had lasted that long.

  Well, that’s one more day I don’t have to live through again,she thinks as she grabs her bag and dashes out the door.

  Willow pushes past the students clustered around the library entrance, filthying the air with cigarettes, and heads toward the rack where everybody stows their bikes. It takes her a second to remember that she doesn’t have a bike anymore, that it’s still back in her parents’ house, leaning against the garage wall. Too bad, really—it would make the trip back and forth from work much easier.

  But why should her life be any easier anyway?

  She heads off campus and onto the street. Just two blocks and she’ll be in the park. Somehow the trees make her feel better.

  But not good enough,she thinks as she pats her bag. Never good enough.

  Without a bike it takes about twenty minutes to walk to her brother’s apartment. Her brother, his wife, Cathy, and their baby daughter’s apartment. It’s not such a bad place. David, Cathy, and Isabelle live downstairs and she has David’s old office, the maid’s room at the top. It’s much better than it sounds, actually. Her room is very small, but kind of special, like something out of a fairy tale, or a movie about Paris. It’s got a great view of the park, and Cathy made it pretty just for her, hanging lace curtains and painting the walls a pale apple green, not that Willow really cares about things like that anymore.

  “Which way are you going?”

  Willow whips around in alarm. She had no idea that Guy was behind her. Has he been following her? Hoping to hear more, maybe get her to tell him some juicy details?

  “Are you headed toward the park?” he asks, his steps falling into place beside hers. “I always walk that way.”

  Willow wants to ask him what he knows about her, but she’s not quite sure how. She wants to ask him if he was deliberately stringing her along before, or if he truly didn’t recognize her at first. She supposes that it’s possible—after all, she didn’t recognize him. But she’s been lost in her own world. Nothing makes any kind of impression on her these days. As the new girl in school, she’s bound to be noticed, even if she didn’t come with a scarlet letter K embroidered on her chest.

  “Hey, Guy, hold up!” a tall dark-haired student calls to Guy from across the street. He hurries over, a pile of books under his arm.

  “Adrian, what are you doing up here?” Guy stops for a second.

  “Looking into some AP stuff.” Adrian glances back and forth between Willow and Guy.

  “Oh, sorry, Adrian this is Willow. She goes to our school.”

  “Oh yeah?” Adrian smiles at her. “Are you new? I haven’t seen you around before.”

  “Yes. I’m new,” Willow says. She looks at him carefully. He seems like he’s being straight with her, and she feels a little better. Maybe she doesn’t stand out quite as much as she thought she did.

  “We should definitely talk if you’re thinking of taking classes here. I’ve already picked out a couple of possibilities.” Guy hands Adrian a piece of paper scribbled all over with course numbers and descriptions.

  “Yeah, you know, I probably s
hould take one of these.” Adrian glances at the paper. “But on the other hand, the idea of a really easy senior year is pretty appealing.”

  The spotlight’s off of her. Willow breathes a sigh of relief. She should go now, while the going’s good.

  “Listen, I have to get out of here.” She offers a glimpse of a smile.

  “Oh, sure. Adrian, I’ll call you later.” To Willow’s surprise, Guy says good-bye to his friend and continues walking with her. “So, where are you off to now?”

  “I’m going home.” Even as she says the words, Willow is struck by how misleading they are. Her brother’s apartment may be her home now, but it doesn’t feel like it. It doesn’t feel like it at all.

  “Want to stop on the way and get some coffee?” Guy asks.

  No.

  She does not want any coffee. She wants to be alone. Still, Willow can’t help thinking that any of her friends from back home would be thrilled to have someone like Guy ask them out. She wonders how she would have felt if he made the offer, say a year ago. Would she have been flattered? Would she have liked the idea? Would she have liked him? Willow squints trying to see herself as she’d been the fall before. Of courseshe would have liked him. Why not? Cute and reads books too. Too bad last year’s girl is dead.

  “So how about it?” He shifts his backpack to his left shoulder and flashes her a smile. “There’s a great place a few blocks from here. Best cappuccino you’ve ever had, and the pastries aren’t bad either.”

  First coffee, then a movie. Then a few more walks in the park. Willow knows how this kind of thing works. Then feelings. Just the thought of it makes her flesh crawl. She’s done with feelings. She doesn’t ever want to feel anything again.

  “No thank you.” Even to her own ears her voice sounds cold and unfriendly. Perfect.

  Guy shrugs. He looks a little disappointed.

  Life’s full of disappointments, Guy. Willow kicks a stone out of her path.

  “Okay, sure, maybe another time.” But he doesn’t say good-bye, he just keeps walking alongside her.

  Why doesn’t he go away?Willow thinks fretfully. Maybe he likes what he’s been hearing. Maybe he just likes a challenge.

  She wonders briefly what he would think if he saw the blade marks on her arm. Would that be enough of a challenge for him? She’s never shown anyone, and he certainly won’t be the first. Still, how can she get rid of him?

  “So how come you’re living with your brother?” Guy asks. “Are your parents on sabbatical? Because I remember your brother saying that they were in the field too.” He smiles again, completely unaware of the effect he’s having on her.

  Is he like Adrian? He really knows nothing about her? Or is it that he wants to hear her say the words?

  In any case, he’s given her an out. She knows how to get rid of him now.

  “They’re not on sabbatical.” Willow’s voice is hard. She stops walking and turns to face Guy head-on. She looks him straight in the eye. So closely, she can see the brown flecks in among the hazel. His eyes are beautiful, but that hardly matters to her. He returns her gaze. He’s not smiling now, but looking at her just as deeply. Anyone passing by would take them for a romantic young couple. They must make a pretty picture as they stand facing each other under the leafy bower of trees.

  “But your parents are profs, right?” He breaks the silence. “Your father’s in anthro and your mother’s an archaeologist? Because I once went—”

  “They’re dead.” Willow says the words coolly, dispassionately. She enjoys seeing Guy’s face turn pale. “They’re dead,” she repeats just to make sure he gets it. “And I’m the one who killed them.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  How come you’re living with your brother?

  But your parents are profs, right? Because I once went . . .

  Guy’s questions ring in her ears. His pleasant voice is distorted by memory into something querulous and insistent.

  But your parents are profs, right? Because I once went . . .

  All right, all right, set it to music already!

  Willow rolls onto her stomach, the book she’s been trying to read for the past half hour tumbles to the floor as she buries her face in the pillow in a vain attempt to shut out the chattering in her head.

  But it’s useless. His questions keep repeating themselves and far, far worse than any question he could think to ask, is her own response:

  I’m the one who killed them.

  How many times throughout the coming years will she be called upon to say those words?

  She can barely even remember it. It was raining, that’s all she knows. They’d been out to dinner and her parents had wanted to have a second bottle of wine, so they decided that Willow should be the one to drive. She remembers her father tossing her the keys, the slickness of the road, and the sound of the windshield wipers.

  Sometimes in her dreams she hears the sound of the rain.

  Willow turns her head listlessly to look out the window. There’s a faint breeze stirring the lace curtains. The dying rays of the sun filter through them and make beautiful patterns on the floor.

  The view outside her window is particularly nice, and if she could bring herself to be interested in anything, it would be that. In the morning and evening the park is filled with joggers. In the afternoon young mothers take over and there are always plenty of lovers winding their way down the leaf-strewn paths. It’s like a living painting. Back before the accident, when she used to care about things, Willow used to spend a lot of time doing watercolors. Back then she would have liked nothing more than to sit by this window for hours and try to capture the changing scene outside.

  Willow glances over at her desk, at the box of watercolors and assortment of brushes that Cathy bought for her. Like her bike, like most of her things, she’d left her painting supplies at home. It was incredibly thoughtful of Cathy to replace them for her, and she should repay that thoughtfulness, by at least attempting to use them, but somehow she can’t summon the energy.

  Of course Cathy has been kind in so many ways. She’d worked hard to make this room nice for Willow, and with its soft colors and pretty furniture, it is especially lovely. Far nicer than anything she had at home. At home she’d moved into David’s old room because it was the biggest. The walls were black, a leftover from his heavy metal days, and Willow and her mother had always promised each other that they’d get around to changing them.

  Who knew that four black walls could feel so safe?

  Willow sits up abruptly, opens the window, and sticks her head out. The air is soft with just the slightest breeze that ruffles the hair around her face. This is her favorite time of day, just before the evening becomes the night.

  If she were back home now, she’d probably be talking on the phone with one of her friends. That’s the way things usually went: She used to hang out with her friends after school, come home and get her work done, gossip on the phone before dinner, or maybe, if she didn’t have a lot of homework, go for a bike ride on the trails behind her house.

  Now the pattern of her days is different. She sleepwalks through school, has no friends to speak of, goes to the library, tries and fails to do her homework, and eats whatever Cathy orders in—all to the accompaniment of the razor.

  She’s left her old friends behind as surely as she’s left her old life. They all belong to another world, one she has no intention of visiting again. She never takes their calls, deletes their e-mails, and one by one they’ve all stopped trying to get in touch with her. The only person who still makes an effort to contact her is Markie, her best friend, and Willow knows that it will only take a few more unanswered messages before she too stops trying.

  She shuts the window with a sigh. If she does nothing else, she should at least make an effort with her homework.

  Willow picks up the book she’d been reading. Bulfinch’s Mythology. She’s supposed to get through fifty pages for tomorrow. After that she has to get started on a paper for the same
class. It should be easy too. The book is one she’s read a thousand times before. She flutters the pages of the cheap paperback as she recalls the first edition that used to rest on her father’s desk, the flyleaf inscribed by him in his favorite deep blue ink.

  Of course it’s probably still there. The house stands just as it did, it hasn’t even gone on the market yet.

  At first Willow had thought that she would be staying there, that David, Cathy, and Isabelle would join her. In some ways it would make the most sense. After all, this cozy apartment, while just the right size for two adults and an infant, feels somewhat cramped now that she’s moved in. But David had vetoed the idea from the start, claiming the commute would be too difficult. Willow’s parents took the train in for over twenty years, but that was only twice a week, and while David’s teaching schedule is similar, Cathy’s job would require her to make the trip every day.

  Still, as uncomfortable as things sometimes get, Willow has to agree with her brother. Although their house may be large and roomy, living there would be far from easy, and not because of the traveling involved. The house is simply too crowded with memories and reminders. It is too crowded with ghosts.

  She’s only been there a handful of times since the accident. The first occasion had been when David wanted to pack up their parents’ books and move them to the apartment. That had proved to be a disastrous idea, which they abandoned before they even got halfway through. In fact, that excursion had affected David so badly that he refused to enter the house again. So the next time they went, he and Cathy waited outside in the car, while Willow, feeling like a refugee, a displaced person, fleeing her country for unknown territory, had run around grabbing whatever clothes would fit into her backpack. Now she wishes that she had taken the time to think about what she was packing. Her bag hadn’t held much, and she’s constantly borrowing things from Cathy anyway. Wouldn’t she have been better off taking some of the books that she cared about instead of three pairs of jeans, a couple of shirts, and a skirt? She would love to be reading her father’s copy of Bulfinchinstead of this flimsy paperback that she bought at one of the chain bookstores around the city.