Sometimes it’s not so much a shout, but a poorly-timed smirk or glance that signals my social failures. The older girls from the café line arrive at the intersection with this morning’s confirmation. They chuckle on approach. I transfer the second cup back to my hand to stop the scratching and will the yellow light to reappear. The two girls look identical. Both have ripped jeans, gray sweaters, dark hair that hangs to their waists in loose waves, and heavy makeup, the kind that has been layered to cover any evidence of actual skin. The only obvious difference between them is their height. One is taller by a couple of inches and no doubt flaunts that fact as though it were a badge of honor. She presents as the leader, with more confidence and security.
You’re staring, Thea. I take a sip from my tea and wait for them to cross ahead of me.
“Hey, Vanya, look.” The shorter girl points to the half-mast flag on the pole at the front entrance.
“Ah duh, Dhalia. That’s what they do when someone dies,” Vanya responds. “It’s creepy to think we just saw Malin on Friday.”
We cross the street, heading toward Ridgefield and the red-and-white material hanging lifeless against the pole. Our school is in mourning.
Do I know a Malin? Why does that name sound familiar? This must be the girl from the accident I’d read about in the paper. Our school has about a thousand kids in it, so it’s possible she’s a student here in a different grade.
My curiosity gets the best of me, and I have to ask.
“Hey, does ...” I falter. Both girls twist and glare at my attempt to keep pace with them. “Did Malin go to Ridgefield?”
Vanya’s bronzed forehead wrinkles. “Uh, yeah. Everyone knew her from being on Show Choir.”
“Right. How could I forget that?” I say with perhaps too much enthusiasm.
That’s how I know her name. Malin had her fifteen minutes of fame when she auditioned for the reality TV show a few years ago and managed to get on the first couple of episodes. We’d also done a drama camp together when I was in grade seven and she was in grade eight. I recall being insanely jealous of her voice, her dancing, her confidence. She had wisely gone on to musical theatre, and I had wisely stuck to not dancing and singing.
Silence fills the air. Vanya’s look of mild annoyance has changed to a death stare.
Heat flares in my cheeks. “Sorry. I, uh ... read about it in the newspaper and—”
Dhalia leans close to Vanya and whispers loud enough for me to hear, “The newspaper? It’s like she’s from the ’90s.”
I pretend not to notice the verbal slap. “The newspaper didn’t say … I mean, I didn’t know who it was at first. I remember her now. She was … uh … she was really nice.” It’s a lie. Memories tramp through my mind of her sauntering past me the entire week of camp, despite my subtle pleas for friendship.
The girls stare at me and then at each other, as though they are telepathically connected by their twin wardrobes. Thankfully, the thought they appear to have communicated to each other is to not waste any more of their time on this lesser-known social hermit.
Without another word to me, the two of them quicken their pace up the stairs to the front doors. I take another sip to let them get a few steps ahead before I meander after them. I wouldn’t want them thinking I’m eavesdropping again, even though that’s exactly what I intend to do.
“I heard from Hope that Malin was signed by an agent in Toronto. She could’ve been so famous.” Dhalia bounces up another step.
“Yeah, well, now she’s going to be famous for another reason. I can’t believe she would do that.” Vanya shifts her bag to lean in closer to Dhalia. “If I had her life, I never would’ve thought about—”
“You don’t know that she did.” Dhalia’s voice lowers, and I tilt forward to hear. “She could’ve slipped or been pushed.”
“Yeah, pushed by a ghost. She was by herself,” Vanya says.
Suicide? I didn’t know Malin that well. I’d only run into her a couple of times around town since that summer in middle school. When I did see her, she always seemed happy. Maybe looking happy doesn’t always equate to being happy. But she didn’t seem like the kind of person who would voluntarily take her own life. She had a normal family from what I remember; they came to our end-of-summer performance and brought her roses. A lot of roses. She seemed to get along with her parents and made it appear like she had it all together. But then, I don’t look like the kind of person who would need counseling or experience hallucinations or have parents who likely didn’t sleep in the same bedroom last night. Looks can be deceiving.
I trip on a step, barely catch myself before my drinks go flying, and create more distance from the twins than I want. Mind you, we’re almost at the school entrance and there is no longer a need to eavesdrop. Every conversation is the same, an ironic rhapsody of infectious gossip.
“That girl from TV was killed.”
“Did you hear what really happened?”
“She was my friend in primary school.”
“Malin Porter is dead.”
Through the thickening crowd of students entering the school, I search for any of my friends. Nobody I know well enough to stop and question. The wave of bodies bottlenecks at the doors, and I hold my tower of tea high to avoid having the cups bumped from my hands. I move with the flow of energy and voices through the main foyer. Pushing my way to the left, I escape into the grade eleven hallway and make a beeline toward my locker. Ahead of me, my longest-known friend Jade’s jet-black bob hovers above the rest of the students. She closes her locker and veers off in the opposite direction. I need to talk with someone before first period, even if it’s just to hear the same gossip from a familiar voice and then to unload a little of my crazy morning. Without my cell phone, I feel disconnected from everyone.
“Jade,” I holler. “Wait up.”
Obviously failing to hear me, she trudges away in her typical stooped fashion. She is one of the most beautiful people I know, and yet she holds herself as though she wishes she could disappear. I try again. “Hey Jadiac!”
This time she turns around, looking a tad annoyed. Once she spots me, she sticks her tongue out and then lugs off again.
I break into a light jog to catch up to her. “You know I hate when you don’t wait.”
“You know I hate when you call me that.” She stops and raises a plucked-to-perfection eyebrow. “You’re surprisingly late today, and you haven’t found a recipient for your second tea yet. Is the whole Malin thing getting to you?”
“Yeah, I guess, but something else happened this morning that is totally freaky.” I hesitate. Should I tell her? Maybe she’d think me shallow for wanting to talk about something other than Malin.
The first bell chimes out our two-minute warning. Jade holds her position, despite the sudden flow of students around us, and cocks her head slightly to the side.
“I had this weird ... um ...” How exactly do I describe it without sounding completely crazy? “… experience.” I stumble to one side, pushed by backpacks and overly scented bodies.
“Experience? Can you give me a little more?” Jade crosses her arms, oblivious to the traffic.