He stares at me, his heavy eyelids drooping over his unfeeling eyes. I know that look; I saw it on my stepfather more times than I can count. Drunk. At eleven in the morning. Disgusting. Shades of that cramped one-bedroom apartment above the deli in Newark crowd in. Combined with the foul smoky air, the effect is quite smothering. When he opens his mouth, I almost expect him to sound like my stepfather. But his voice is his own, not as raspy, higher-pitched. “You’re that fellow.”

It’s not exactly unfriendly; it’s simply stated as fact. But I’m glad when he opens the screen door and lets me pass through. Inside, the smoke mingles with the thick stench of an animal and the salty smell of urine. A cockroach scurries into a crack in the wall behind Mr. Harmon’s head. I swallow. “Yes, I’m—”

“I know who you are.” His words slur together, but not nearly as much as I expect based on his ragged appearance. “I got the whole rundown.”

He leads me up a narrow corridor to another door. Inside, the stench is more putrid than ever. We stand in a small living room with bare walls, threadbare carpet, and nothing more than a misshapen green sofa and a small—what did Chimere call that item? Ah, a television set. Julia has one in her room. This one seems a little worse for wear.

Mr. Harmon holds out his arm, as if presenting a lavish estate. “Welcome to paradise,” he says, chewing on his cigarette.

“Indeed.” I don’t mean to say that aloud, so it comes out as a murmur as I inspect the place.

“You were expecting more?” he asks. Several more cockroaches scurry between his feet. His bathrobe isn’t lush and roomy; it’s thin and barely meets his knees, stretched like a baby blanket over an adult. He is wearing long white socks, and the hair on his calves is so thick it curls over them.

“No,” I say. I suppose that from my attire he has no idea that I was raised in a very similar situation. Though Mama had kept the cockroaches to a minimum; I catch sight of a pile of dishes in the sink and note that Mr. Harmon appears to be breeding them. “This will be sufficient. Thank you.”

“There’s only one bedroom. You can sleep on the couch,” he says, waving his hand at the small misshapen green thing across the room. “When you get back to sleeping, that is. I didn’t for a while.”

“That’s fine,” I say. I lift the lapels of my jacket. “Do you happen to have any—”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I mean, I got a couple of T-shirts you can borrow. I’m not exactly well-off, you know.”

He disappears for a moment and I hear things crashing around, drawers opening and slamming shut. He returns and tosses me a few yellowed, wrinkled rags that I suppose are shirts. I hand them back to him. “I … I think I will manage with what I have.”

He shrugs.

“Sir,” I begin, as gently as possible, “I was told that you’d volunteered to take me in because you—”

I stop when he laughs long and hard, spattering a bit of black smoke-laced spittle in my face. “Volunteered? Like I volunteered to join the Sandmen a hundred and fifteen years ago? Right.”

“I’m sorry. I must have been mistaken.”

“Yeah,” he says bitterly. “So once I get done babysitting you, my debt to them will be fulfilled and I can go on with my life … or death.” He snorts. “Depending on how you look at it.”

I fidget for a moment, unsure of what to say. There are questions I want to ask, but they all seem improper now.

Without a word, he slips into the kitchen and opens the door to his icebox. “You want a beer?”

“No, thank you.”

“You sure? It’ll help you sleep.” He comes back with a bottle, takes a long swig, and jabs a finger at me. “You’re fading.”

I look down. My hand has taken on a ghostlike quality; I can see the floor through it. “What …?”

“Always happens a couple minutes before you go back. You know, to the other side.” He lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers dramatically, then sniffs and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his robe. “Have a lovely trip.”

The next thing I know, everything fades to blackness. When the light dawns again, I’m back in Julia’s tree. The sun is strong, filtering through the leaves above me. Chimere is smiling at me, batting her eyelashes. “Was that first taste of human life everything you remembered?”

I stretch out on the branch, my body relaxing among these more comfortable surroundings. “It will take some getting used to.”

“Oh, of course. But right now,” she sighs, “I need you to attend to your student.”

I study her face. It’s quite serious. “Is something wrong?”

“Perhaps. Considering we don’t know where he is.”

CHAPTER 11

Julia

At the end of last period, I throw my books into my locker and linger there, hoping Ebony will come by and we can resume the conversation about the party without the presence of my hip tumor. I spend enough time there to begin growing roots, which is moronic, considering school is out and most students wouldn’t spend another second here than is absolutely necessary. And I have the late-afternoon shift at Sweetie Pi’s. Which means …

Ugh. Seeing the hip tumor.

I slowly turn and trudge to the doors, thinking, So what if I don’t go with Ebony? I could go with him. He’s one of my best friends. In fact, he is my best friend now. That wouldn’t be so bad.

I cringe, remembering how things were when Griffin was alive. People knew me, yes. He might have made me appear normal, but Griffin and Bret were also like insulation. They made me feel safe, like part of the crowd. I didn’t mind it much then. At least if I was with them, I wouldn’t have to worry about being seen as the victim. I was just Julia. But now … now I can’t stop thinking that as long as I’m with Bret, people will tie me to Griffin. I’ll forever be the dead guy’s girlfriend.

At the food court, I look toward Gyro Hut and see Bret’s reddish hair peeking out from behind the pita-warmer. Quickly, I rush behind the counter, throw my stuff into my locker, and put on my apron. I’m not in the mood for dishing out soft serve today, especially since I know that Mondays are our slowest days and Bret will be over here just the second he sees my—

“Hey, Tzatziki!”

Kill me now.

I can’t pretend I don’t hear him. The mall today is quieter than a library, and he’s shouting at earsplitting volume across the court. I turn, smile, and wave, then pretend to stack plastic cups into a model of the Empire State Building, working with great care and precision, as if this is something my manager asked me to do. As if the future of Sweetie Pi’s depends on this statue. If I look like I am busy, he will leave me alone, right? No luck. He immediately jogs over to me.

“Not funny, not funny at all, Ipster,” he says, wagging a finger at me like I’m a bad toddler.

This raises the question “What are you talking about?” but asking would require me to speak to him more, something I don’t feel like doing. But he’s not the type to go away if I play mute, either. “What are you talking about?” I finally say.

He reaches into his apron and pulls out his Rubik’s Cube. Well, it looks like his, but I can’t be sure, because there’s something very different about it.

It’s completely solved.

“You did it,” I say. “Congrats.”

He gives me a tsk, tsk, tsk noise, still acting as if he’s talking to a two-year-old. “You know I didn’t.”

I shrug. “You didn’t?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

I glare at him. “I seem to think you were the one who told me that when it comes to dumb, I don’t have to play.”

“Touché,” he says with a grin, pocketing the cube again. “But the fact still remains that you and Griffin were the only ones who had the combination to my locker. I left it in my locker over third period and when I got back, voilà.”