He places a kitchen chair next to mine, then begins nervously playing around with the wires behind the monitor.
“You know . . . ,” he starts. “I’d, uh, never try something with you or nothing like that.”
I frown at him. “Huh?”
He doesn’t meet my eye. “That’s why you didn’t want to sit on the bed, right?”
Seconds pass before I let out an exhausted laugh. “Dude, it’s not that. I’m . . . afraid of bedbugs.”
He cocks his head to the side. “What?”
As he sets up the GoPro, I give him the rundown on my bug phobia, and honestly, it feels like a weight off my chest, telling the truth, sharing a glimpse of the world through my head.
Change is good. Change is necessary. Change is needed.
“But I don’t get how weed helps you. Doesn’t that make you more . . . paranoid?”
I shake my head. “There’s two strands: sativa and indica. Indica is good for relaxing and pain relief. Doesn’t have the hallucinogenic effect.”
“You sound like a professional,” he muses. “Never tried the stuff.”
“Yeah. And I don’t blame you for hating it. It’s not right, what happened here, with your family. Especially when weed is legal everywhere else. I should’ve been more sensitive to that. I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget what’s important to me. Or . . . who.”
Yusef blinks back surprise, and just as he opens his mouth, an image pops on the screen.
He frowns. “Isn’t that your kitchen?”
The camera gives a bird’s-eye view of the kitchen and family room in the background, part of the fridge blocking the hallway. Yusef nods, impressed.
“Yo, you ever see that movie Paranormal Activity?” he chuckles, leaning back in his chair.
“It’s one of Sammy’s favorites. He loves the whole series. Too boring for me. It’s like watching paint dry, waiting for something to move every fifteen minutes.”
Yusef cackles. “It speeds up at the end.”
Thinking of Sam, I glance at the GoPro and catch a sob in my throat.
“I always miss the ending. We . . . Sammy and I . . . we used to watch movies every Friday night. Ever since he was five, Sammy would always pick horror movies since he never wanted to watch them alone. He needed others around to feel safe. Last year, I started missing movie nights, ’cause of track meets or whatever. Truth is, being at home was . . . uncomfortable. I’d see black spots everywhere, finding bites no one could see, scratching all the time. Felt like I was going crazy. You know, I haven’t slept more than four hours a night in years. It’s why I always fell asleep during movies. That and the Percs, made me so damn sleepy. Then, one day, Sammy made me promise that I’d do movie night with him. And I wanted to keep that promise, so I went the whole day without taking one pill. But . . . by the last bell . . . I felt like I was ready to fling myself into the sun, I was so itchy. So I thought, no Percs, I’ll just smoke some weed. Figured, if I just take a quick hit then maybe I could last through the entire movie for once. I was out of my stash and my connect got pinched. My ex . . . said he knew a guy and I trusted him. Last thing I really remember was walking into my room. Sammy found me foaming at the mouth. Turns out the weed was laced with fentanyl.”
“Damn,” Yusef mumbles.
“School expelled me pretty fast after that. My ex said he was going to come clean, say I got the weed from him, but . . . he never did. My parents dumped their entire savings into helping me get better. People started treating us like social lepers. Parents wouldn’t even let their kids come over to play with Sammy and he was already so . . . alone.”
Yusef stiffens, setting down the camera. On the screen, the kitchen is still empty, no movement, and no sign of Piper. I sigh.
“OD’ing is the type of mistake you never shake. Because the only person who believes you’re really better is you. But I guess I deserve it. ’Cause at the end of the day, I wanted to be high more than I wanted to be home hanging out with my little brother. I chose the high over Sammy. I embarrassed my family, put us in debt, forcing us to move here. So I don’t deserve nice things like colorful dresses, friends, boyfriends, or even track. I deserve to just be miserable. But . . . when we were still in Cali, all those days of me doing homeschooling and rehab, locked up in my room, Buddy and Sammy they were there for me, you know? They never treated me like a fuckup, even though that’s how I felt. Well . . . feel, even now.”
Yusef nods slowly, inching forward as if to catch me.
“I can’t lose Buddy.” I cough out the sob, the dam crumbling. “I can’t lose Sammy. They’re the only ones who don’t care what kind of fuckup I am. They think I’m awesome! Do you know what that’s like? Someone who thinks you’re hella dope no matter how many times you screw up?”
Yusef sighs. “I don’t think you’re a screwup.”
“Yes you do,” I cry. “You hate me! And I deserve it.”
“I didn’t say all that. Just ’cause I’m not feeling you, don’t mean I ain’t feeling you, feel me?”
I blink. “That . . . makes absolutely no sense.”
We laugh, his forehead leaning against mine.
“You’re not a screwup, Cali,” he breathes, tracing a finger along my jaw.
I shudder at his touch, shutting my eyes as fresh tears well up.
“Yusef . . . I don’t deserve someone like you.”
“Why do you keep trying to punish yourself just because you made a mistake? That’s the opposite of what anyone who cares about you would want you to do.”
“How do you know that?” I whisper, desperate for answers.
“Because I . . . wait. Wh-what was that?”
“Huh?” I say, eyes fluttering open.
Yusef stares at the monitor, examining it closely.
“Yooo,” he whispers, a fist to his mouth, pointing, and I follow his finger.
Back in the kitchen, everything remains seemingly still. But in the far left corner, the bottom cupboard door near the sink waffles slightly before opening on its own.
I gasp, grinning at Yusef. This is it! The proof we need to show Mom that there really is a ghost. That I’m not seeing things or just being a nutcase. Yeah, it’s hella creepy, but I could almost burst into tears the relief is so sweet. I gotta call Sammy and tell him we did it!
“Wait a second,” Yusef mumbles, squinting. “What’s that?”
At the top edge of the cupboard door, a small hand appears, gripping the wood tight. My heart flies up to my throat. I recognize that hand. The gnarly knuckles, the dark burnt skin, the fingernails . . .
“What the fuck?” I mumble, leaning closer.
Another hand appears, then a bare foot touches the floor, as if steadying itself, crooked toes drumming . . . before an old woman crawls out of the cupboard, limb by limb.
“Oh shit!” we shout in unison, flying back in our chairs.
The woman is small, her thin hair choppy sprouts of gray, face haggard and back hunched. She glances from left to right, stretches, then moves gingerly in tattered rags posing as clothes. On the apron tied around her bony frame, you can just make out the pie stitched on the front.
“She’s wearing my sweater,” I mumble in absolute shock. The cream cable-knit one I thought the laundry had eaten, so filthy it’s almost unrecognizable.