She was standing over him now, close enough to be certain that she didn’t recognize him from school, although there was something vaguely familiar about him. From here, she could see that he was, in fact, breathing. And there didn’t appear to be any blood. He was fair-skinned, with shaggy hair dyed a weird shade of red-orange, although it appeared blond at the roots. He seemed to be made up entirely of angles, with bony limbs and sharp, pointed features.
Tentatively, she nudged him with her toe. “Hello?”
To her relief, he groaned, rolling onto his back and rubbing his eyes. He mumbled something that sounded a little like Lisa.
“You know Lisa? I’m Rose, her sister,” she said, tapping her chest.
“Huh?” He blinked at her, frowning. Slowly, he pushed himself to a sitting position, wincing as he did. “Alyssa doesn’t have a sister.”
“Oh, I thought you said—never mind. Are you okay?”
“I’m . . . not sure.” After a couple of false starts, he managed to get his feet under him. He looked around, bewildered, hands linked behind his head. “Where’s my car?”
Rose shrugged helplessly. “I was just driving home from the bonfire and saw you on the bridge.”
“What time is it?”
“A little after eight.”
He seemed disoriented, looking up at the sky, then down at the pavement, before walking a little unevenly to the railing and peering down into the river. “What the hell?” he muttered.
Rose couldn’t agree more. “What’s the matter?”
Instead of answering, he squinted at her again. “Can I use your phone? I think mine was in my car . . . Are you sure you haven’t seen my car?”
He didn’t look like he’d been hit by a car, but she was starting to think he had a concussion. “Do you want me to take you to the hospital or something?”
“No, I just need to figure out what happened to my freaking car.” His head swiveled in all directions, as if a car might magically appear if he caught it at the right angle, then groaned, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I’m never drinking again,” he said under his breath, although Rose didn’t think he was talking to her.
“Well,” she said hesitantly, “where was the last place you saw it?”
He laughed, shaking his head. Despite the strangeness of the situation, Rose couldn’t help but notice that he had a nice smile. “I could’ve sworn I drove it into the river, but”—he spread his hands wide, gesturing to the empty road—“clearly that didn’t happen, so I sincerely hope it’s still at the bonfire.”
“You were at the bonfire? Do you go to Stone Lake High?” She’d never seen him before, which may have seemed normal at a bigger school but was strange at Stone Lake.
He gave her an odd look, like she was the one acting bizarre here. “You mean Warren High?”
“I think I know the name of my own school.” She was beginning to think this guy was on something. How could you tell the difference between a concussion and someone who was just high? She didn’t have much experience with either.
“Clearly not, since there is no Stone Lake High.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about? It’s been Warren High for decades now. Ever since the fire.”
“The bonfire?”
“No, the one that killed . . .” He trailed off, tilting his head to squint at her like she had sprouted a third eye. “You seriously don’t know this? It’s, like, common knowledge.”
“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Half the school burned down in 1985. Killed two people. They renamed the school.”
Rose shook her head, utterly lost. “There hasn’t been any fire at the school this year.”
“Who said anything about this year?”
Maybe he was high and had a concussion.
“You did. Just now.” Her brows knit together. “1985.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
JUSTIN
“What?”
“What?”
For a minute, we just stare at each other. I cannot figure out this girl’s deal. I don’t recognize her from school, making me wonder what she’s doing out here. She’s Asian, with dark hair that falls past her shoulders and a heart-shaped mouth that is currently pinched in confusion. At first, I thought she’d genuinely stopped to help me, but now I’m thinking she must be pulling some sort of weird prank, although I have no idea why some girl I’ve never met would try to mess with me.
Also, where the hell is my car? Did I seriously hallucinate the entire accident? I clearly hallucinated the rain, considering the pavement is bone-dry. And if I imagined it, how on earth did I get here? Did I walk?
Memories flash through my mind. Mom stumbling around our house after a drunken night out, insisting that the stories Stan or the police or the neighbors were telling weren’t true, that she didn’t do what they said she did, that she couldn’t have been where they said she was.
Oh god, am I turning into her?
But . . . every time Mom has ever lost her grip on reality, it has been accompanied by vomiting, headaches, a general inability to move or speak or do anything resembling healthy human behavior. If I was so drunk that I hallucinated everything since I left the bonfire, why do I feel fine?
“Look,” I say, needing this night to be over, “can you please just let me use your phone? I’ve had a really sucky weekend and I just—”
“I’ll take you to the hospital, but I’m not taking you to my house.”
“Who said anything about your house?”
She doesn’t look like she’s messing with me. Her eyes are narrowed, her body tense, like she’s waiting for me to attack her. “You asked to use my phone.”
“Not your house phone.”
“Well, I don’t have a car phone!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, the last drops of my patience draining away. “How about you just take me back to Dave’s, and I’ll see if my car’s still there or get a ride with one of my friends?”
“Who’s Dave?”
“Dave Derrin. The bonfire’s at his house?” Who is this girl? How does she not know whose house she was just at?
She shakes her head. “The bonfire is at Charlene Derrin’s house.”
“Fine, whatever. I don’t know his sister’s name.”
“Charlene’s brother is named Karl. And her dad is Jack.”
This whole conversation is so deeply weird that I almost feel stupid trying to make sense of it. Especially when my brain sluggishly circles back around to the bizarre thing she said a minute ago, and I realize that I am not the problem here. Or at least, not the only problem. At least I know what year it is, unlike this strange girl, who has apparently suffered some sort of break from reality.
“Can I just ask . . . What do you think the date is?” I feel a little dumb that it’s taken me this long to realize that this girl may be more than a few bricks shy of a load.
“September twenty-eighth.”
That’s not right—it’s the thirtieth—but that’s not really what I’m getting at. “What, uh, year?”