Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Frannie turns the key and pushes open Henry’s front door, heart heavy.
She’s not ready for Henry to come back next week.
These two months have been like a time out of time.
Full of fun, and creativity and … the little ghost boy sitting at Henry’s dining room table, schematics stretched out in front of him.
His electrical schematics.
“Oh my God,” Frannie whispers, closing the front door.
Brad said ghosts who died being electrocuted are trapped inside the electrical system that killed them. But what if that system also went elsewhere?
Maybe she doesn’t have to leave them here. Maybe the ache in her chest that’s been there since she and Elsa stood on the roof could—
“You’re trying to get out,” Frannie mutters.
She looks at Michael and finds him staring back, face lit up. Her bag drops to the floor and she’s sitting down next to him before she even thinks about it.
“How do we do it?” Frannie asks.
Michael’s eyes widen and he takes a deep breath before spreading his hands out over the schematic.
“The original wiring connected the Dakota to three brownstones on Seventy-Third Street,” he says, voice cracking.
“They got rid of the dynamo when Edison ran electric up the West Side, but they didn’t dig up the power lines.
I’ve been thinking that if we threw the right breaker and made sure we were on the right power line, we might be able to send a spark along one of the latent lines and shoot ourselves across the street. ”
His words come out in a rush, and Frannie sits there trying not to get her hopes up too high. “What would you do once you hit Seventy-Third Street? Wouldn’t you be trapped there too?”
Michael nearly vibrates in his seat. “Yeah, but then we’d be trapped in one of the brownstones. All we’d need would be an apartment. You could get that for us, couldn’t you?”
Frannie swallows hard, caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to vomit. “Wouldn’t you get bored in such a little space?”
“No! We could all live there together. It could be like this all the time.” He gestures to the apartment. “We could watch movies together every night, and Bridgette and I could have our own room. Like a real family!”
Frannie’s chest clenches and she reaches out, covering Michael’s hand there on the table. “Michael,” she says gently, her voice breaking.
“Don’t you want to?” he asks, his little angelic face beseeching. “Don’t you love us?”
“That’s a lovely idea,” she manages, squeezing his hand. He nods at her, so eager and excited, with his fragile, trusting heart. “But I don’t have the money to buy an apartment across the street, or to even rent one.”
She’s never seen hope literally die in someone’s eyes before.
“Right,” he whispers, reaching out to roll up the schematic. “Sorry. I should go. Mom’s probably—”
She puts her hand on the stack of Dakota books holding down one corner of the schematic before he can pick them up. She can’t let him leave like this. She can’t break his heart.
“I can’t buy an apartment, but maybe we can brainstorm every morning when I come into work while your mom and Bridgette do … whatever it is they do in the mornings.”
“They’re making sure Mr. Wurch’s toast is burnt and loosening every connector in his bathroom so it’ll keep leaking,” Michael says as he pulls one of the books toward him, the schematic a rolled-up tube on the table.
He stands up and meets her eyes, clutching the book to his chest. “I’m gonna read in Henry’s chair. ”
“Okay,” Frannie says.
She takes a deep breath, so relieved to see his smile come back. She watches him walk through into the living room, where he curls up in the armchair, the light from the window hitting him just right to make him semitransparent.
What did she just promise? Brainstorm what, exactly? How to get them out? How to break the laws of ghostly physics? How to give them both false hope?
Slowly, Frannie rises and walks over to Henry’s desk. She unpacks her bag and slides into the desk chair, staring blankly out at Central Park. What if there isn’t a solution? What if they talk and talk and talk and there’s no way to get them out? What if this is all there is for them?
“Morning.”
Frannie turns slowly and looks up at Elsa. She’s leaning against the corner of the desk, arms crossed over her chest, a sly smile on her face. Frannie can hear the sound of the Nintendo booting up.
How long has she been sitting here?
“You’re a bit out of it today,” Elsa says.
“Am I?” Frannie says, shaking her head to try to clear it. “You burn Mr. Wurch’s toast?”
Elsa sighs and glances into the living room. “Little fink.”
Frannie forces herself to laugh, forces herself to push her conversation with Michael from her mind. She’s sure Elsa wouldn’t appreciate Frannie meddling in the boy’s research, especially since he’s not supposed to be doing it.
And why is that? Does it all come down to hope? Elsa knows there’s no way out, so she doesn’t want Michael trying to find one? Doesn’t want to hear about it?
“We only burn his toast on Thursdays,” Elsa says, looking back at her.
“Why?” Frannie asks.
“It confuses him. We throw in a Monday every two months, though, to keep him on his toes.”
Frannie can’t help but laugh, genuinely. Elsa smiles down at her, her eyes sparkling, and Frannie’s heart actually skips a beat. There must be a way to get them out. To stay with them, somehow. She’s not ready to give them up.
“That’s devious,” she says.
“Thank you.” Elsa gives a little bow. “It’s, well, retribution, but really it’s just something to do with Bridgette every week. Keeps a bit of a schedule, you know?”
Frannie nods and looks into the living room, where Bridgette’s now sprawled over the couch upside down, playing Mario Kart against Michael, tongue between her teeth.
“She can’t possibly win like that,” Frannie mutters.
“Oh, she will,” Elsa says, laughing a little. “Something about the inverted view makes her more precise. I don’t pretend to know why.”
“Some kids you have,” Frannie says, looking back up at Elsa.
“I’d take credit, but I’m still shit at those games, no matter how many times I try.”
“Me too,” Frannie says. “But every game needs a loser. I’ve decided it should always be me.”
Elsa giggles and the lights above them flicker. “That’s very well adjusted of you.”
“Well adjusted, or tired of feeling bad when I lost every single video game in college, sure,” Frannie says.
She doesn’t mind losing now. Minds losing even less to Bridgette and Michael, who always seem so happy to beat her, even though they know she never had a chance of winning.
“We’ll have to see which one of us is worse sometime,” Elsa says.
“Which one of us is really the loser? Sounds like it could hurt some feelings.”
Elsa scoffs. “My ego could easily survive you beating me, but I doubt you will.”
Frannie meets her gaze, straightening her shoulders at the challenge in her eyes. “Oh, yeah? You think you suck just a little less than me?”
Elsa blinks and then smirks. “Given you’re bisexual, I’d say I certainly do.”
Frannie snorts and coughs at the same time, flabbergasted.
“What?” Elsa says, arching that perfect eyebrow. “It’s the truth.”
“It … I …” Frannie starts, glancing back at the kids.
“Oh, they’re not paying attention,” Elsa dismisses.
“It was only twice and I wasn’t … particularly good at it,” Frannie says, looking back up at her. Shit. That’s not what she meant to say at all.
“Do you need to be for them to enjoy it?” Elsa asks, looking perfectly serious.
“Being eaten out badly is not at all the same as being eaten out well. I imagine it’s the same for blowjobs,” Frannie says.
They stare at each other, the words just …
hanging around them, punctuated by the sounds of the Rainbow Road from the living room.
Elsa’s cheeks are a little bit pink, and Frannie’s sure her own have gone bright red.
She’s definitely not thinking about Elsa’s head between her legs, and certainly not about throwing Elsa down on the dining room table and burying her face between her gorgeous thighs.
She watches the bob of Elsa’s long, delicate throat as she swallows. “I’m certain it takes less skill for a blowjob, and the recipient is much more assured of a happy ending.”
Her voice is tight and low and Frannie shifts in her chair, ignoring the way her whole body feels like it’s on fire. “I don’t have any recent references,” Frannie says, forcing a casual shrug.
Elsa’s jaw clenches and Frannie bites at her lip.
She keeps telling herself she just wants to be friends with Elsa, that all she feels is platonic affection.
But she wants to see how much she can make Elsa blush, wants to hear that raspy voice calling out her name, feel her long fingers in her hair—
“Good,” Elsa says, the word coming out hard and fast. Frannie watches in fascination as Elsa’s eyes widen. “How, ah, are you feeling about Henry being back after the weekend?”
Frannie blinks. What?
“Are you done with the edit?” Elsa continues, cheeks a brighter pink, but clearly trying so hard to seem collected.
Frannie wants to push back, to continue their discussion, but she knows it’s safer to simply shrug and slump in her chair. They can never be whatever it is she really wants. Even if sometimes it seems like Elsa may want it too.
So she pastes on an unaffected smile. “The edit’s done, and I feel pretty confident about it, so that’s something, I guess.”
“Much more than something,” Elsa says firmly. “And it seems like you’re getting close on your book?”
Frannie nods slowly, fighting the urge to fidget in her chair. “I am. But I’ve still got two weeks until he wants to see a draft, so … no pressure or anything.”
Elsa smiles. “He wouldn’t be Henry without an unreasonable time frame, would he?”
Frannie forces a laugh. “I guess not. It’ll be harder to hang out with you guys once he’s back, but you’re always welcome in the storage closet. Though I’m sure you’ve got better options,” she says, eager to change the subject.
And it’s not like she practiced casually offering her office as somewhere to hang out in the mirror this morning for, oh, twenty minutes or anything.
“I think the four of us could make that office into a nice space.”
“Really?” Frannie wonders.
“Get a couple rugs, drag a chair or two in there, set up a little projector—it could be lovely, if you put in a little effort.”
Frannie frowns. “I don’t really want to pay anything to improve Henry’s storage closet,” she says, knee-jerk and defensive.
Elsa shakes her head. “People throw out all kinds of things here. Catch ’em before they make it to the dumpster, and they’re yours. You could probably do a decent resale business, too, if you wanted to.”
Frannie laughs and rolls her neck to loosen herself up. “I’ll keep it in mind. And, yeah, you guys are welcome to spruce up the office if you want.”
Elsa smiles and leans forward. Her hand brushes Frannie’s cheek as she tucks one of her unruly curls behind her ear. Her fingers linger, gentle against Frannie’s jaw, and Frannie’s breath stalls in her chest. The static tingle of Elsa’s touch sends shivers down Frannie’s spine.
Elsa pulls her hand back a moment later and smiles almost sheepishly, then pushes off from the desk. “Kids, we should let Frannie get her work done,” she calls. “We can come back at lunch.”
There’s a collective groan from the living room, but Frannie doesn’t turn to watch the kids trudge out. Instead, for just a moment, she keeps her gaze fixed out the window, until it stops feeling like she might melt into a puddle the second she looks at Elsa.
“See you guys later,” Frannie says, smiling at Bridgette and Michael.
They smile back, bright-cheeked and still giggling over their game. It never gets old, watching them walk through the door or the walls. Strange, sure, but never boring.
Elsa stands for a moment in the kitchen, watching Frannie, her head tilted, lip between her teeth. Frannie tries to look back at her like everything’s normal. Like she’s not still pent up, confused, elated, besotted.
“We’ll be back,” Elsa says, almost like a promise.
Frannie nods and watches as she walks to the door, opens it, walks through, and closes it behind her. Like normal. Like she’s not a ghost. Like they’re—
Frannie blows out a breath and closes her eyes. Whatever she and Elsa are to each other, whatever she is to the kids, she wants to save them. She just has to figure out how to do it.