Chapter 14
The next couple of weeks go by in a whirlwind of construction mayhem.
The Hargraves attempt to sand and restain the house’s original wood floors only for them to prove as stubborn as the walls, which Mom and I both discover when we step barefoot in clumpy, coagulated goo on our way to the coffeepot one morning. (Yes, it felt as gross as it sounds.)
The electricity, though all up to code according to Theo’s dad, keeps flickering unexpectedly, creating strange shadows in the corners of every room, especially after the sun goes down.
Upstairs, there’s so much dust from the construction and years of neglect that even the LED work lights are shrouded in a misty fog that dims their intensity.
On top of that, the moving truck finally arrived, so we had to cram our furniture and other belongings into every open space and crevice on the first floor, amid all the renovation chaos.
We could have rented a storage unit, but Mom and I were both tired of being separated from our things.
I’d been wearing the same five outfits for way too long—especially considering our washer and dryer can’t be hooked up until the kitchen is finished.
Basically, our house has transformed from derelict structure to advanced obstacle course, where Mom and I must traverse old sheets, plastic tarps, a carpet of sawdust, miscellaneous power tools, and towers of suitcases and boxes to reach the basic necessities (i.e.
, coffee, food, the bathroom, in that order).
Theo continues to interpret every construction mishap as a sign of Mercy Harlow’s spirit.
There are now no less than four devil’s marbles, all guarded by cameras, installed on the second floor.
I’m pretty sure he even put one in the bathroom, despite his insistence two weeks ago that the bathroom was void of all spiritual activity.
I get text updates daily about the video feeds, even though the only time any ball has moved was on the Fourth of July, when the one in the closet rolled once.
He was, no surprise, very uninterested in my theory that the fireworks one of our neighbors was shooting off right above my house might have caused the walls to shake enough to shift the object.
Wednesday, before I left for a shift at the library, Theo insisted that I help him sprinkle salt and holy water on the foundation of my house.
(I chose not to ask where he got a huge jug of it.
I’m too afraid to learn that there is some back-alley black market for ghost hunting supplies that he frequents.) The whole time, he guided my arm to ensure that I made a complete, connected circle around the property.
The skin of his palm was warm, with a few rough calluses from his construction work, and the way it dragged against my elbow set off a flurry of wings at my center, hot and forceful like a phoenix just risen from the ashes.
I’m still thinking about that feeling two days later when I meet Theo in my living room. I feel the heat rise to my face as he waves at me from near my mom’s air mattress. He’s crouching, pouring paint into trays.
The kitchen and dining room both have new drywall and fresh coats of paint, and pre-stained hardwood floors have been installed over the old wood.
While there is still detail work to be done, those rooms are starting to feel like real, actual spaces to live in.
After today, the living room should be the same.
“Thanks for helping,” Theo says as he rises to his feet.
He’s wearing one of those tan bib overalls that seem to be a staple of construction guys’ wardrobes.
The thing is streaked in dried paint like he hasn’t washed it since he started working for his dad, and he’s got a navy baseball cap on backward to keep his hair out of his face.
“I’ll do pretty much anything to help move this along.” The sounds of hammers and saws echo above our heads. “How long do you think the work up there will take?” I cut my eyes to the ceiling. Most of the crew is working on the second floor now.
“There’s more to do, so a good month and a half, I’d say, if nothing goes wrong.” He drags one of the paint trays closer to me by using the sheet under it. Not a drip moves out of place.
I frown. That means Taylor and Nadya won’t get to see it all finished. But at least the workers should be out of here before school starts. I’m not sure I could handle the early-morning symphony of power tools when I have class and homework.
Theo turns his back to me, and all other thoughts leave my head when I see what’s embroidered on his hat.
Just one word. I read it aloud. “Pudding?”
He sighs. “I went through a short pudding phase in fifth grade.”
“That’s a choice.” I don’t think I’ve even thought about pudding since my tonsils were taken out when I was twelve, never mind eaten any.
“Not just for dessert. I’d use it like a condiment.” He grimaces. “I was ten and I did it for like a month and no one has ever let me live it down. Matt found this at a bookstore in Plainville last year and had to get it for me.” He shakes his head. “I’ve decided to just own it.”
“Was it a specific flavor?”
“Any would do. I am not a picky boy.”
I snort. “Even like, tapioca?”
“On grilled chicken sandwiches.”
“Heinous.” I select one of the paint rollers leaning against the wall. “Ketchup was my pudding,” I admit.
“That’s pretty normal.”
“On strawberries?”
He makes a face like he’s considering this. “I mean, tomatoes are fruit. And ketchup is mostly sugar. My aunt’s a chef and she once made strawberries savory by soaking them in balsamic vinegar. Ketchup has vinegar…”
“That is a lot of mental gymnastics to go through just to make my seven-year-old culinary choices seem reasonable.” I love his smiles a little more every day, and the one he flashes me now seems extra bright. Like it could chase shadows out of even the darkest corners of this house.
I tap my paint roller on the closest wall. “I guess we should do this.”
Theo has us divide and conquer. He’ll focus on the sections of the room with the windows, so I don’t have to deal with edges. Yesterday, he’d tackled the corners and areas where the walls meet the ceiling. All I will have to do is paint the middle. “You can’t mess this up,” he insists.
“Don’t give me a challenge.”
The low, soft sound of his laugh bounces through my insides.
He adjusts his hat and pulls on some work gloves, then sets to work.
I’m supposed to be doing the same, but I can’t help watching him in action.
He’s got a precise touch like his dad in the Mr. FixIt videos.
With only the angled bristles of the brush and his steady wrist, he creates stark straight lines of paint around the windows.
At some point, I stop focusing on the painting to admire how his back muscles move in the T-shirt beneath his overalls. And the definition of his biceps. And the cute way his wavy hair curls around the edge of his hat.
I don’t know how long I’ve been staring when he glances over his shoulder at me.
With a yelp, I spin around.
And step right into the tray of paint.
Fourteen different swears shotgun out of my mouth. (Until this moment, I had no idea I had such an extensive inappropriate vocabulary.)
As I lift my foot, thick globs of paint drip off the sole of my tennis shoe and into the tray. I can feel the viscous liquid between my toes as it seeps into the pristine white canvas. Without a wall close enough to lean on, all I can do is stand here trying to balance on one foot.
“That’s a new painting technique,” Theo teases. He’s across the room and snaking his arm around my waist to steady me before I can even ask for help.
“My feet are my dominant limbs. I text with my toes when no one’s looking.” Every muscle in my body folds in on itself as I cringe. Why can’t I ever stop saying weird, awkward things?
But he only presses me more firmly to his side. “I will need to see a demonstration of this later.” Our bodies mold together, and I swear my brain glitches. For too long, I idle, letting him hold me up. I don’t remember to laugh at his joke.
What’s stranger is that he doesn’t say or do anything. Like he wants to be this close to me too.
I clear my throat. “Sorry,” I say, even though I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. Clinging to him like a barnacle on a boat? Putting us into this situation in the first place by stepping in the paint? Ogling him earlier?
I reach down and slide the thumb of my free hand into the heel of my shoe to ease it off. Immediately, it drops back into the paint. Splotches of yellow splatter the legs of my sweatpants and Theo’s overalls. Thank god there are sheets on the floor, or our new hardwood would be polka-dotted.
I glance sheepishly at Theo as I set my slightly yellow foot on the sheet. “I’ll…um…go get some other shoes.”
“Good plan.” He offers me a thumbs-up.
By the time I clean my foot, dig my (very washable) Crocs out of one of the boxes, and return to the living room, Theo has disappeared.
I follow the sounds of voices out the front door and onto the porch. Theo and his friend Matt are standing at the bottom of the stairs. Matt’s in a full postal worker uniform, a bundle of mail held to his chest. Apparently he’s our mailman.
Theo’s washing my sneaker with our hose.
They’re both talking excitedly about whatever Matt’s looking at on Theo’s phone.
“Dude, this is twice now. That’s concrete proof. You need to try it on the first floor too. I’ve got more marbles and cameras I can lend you.” Matt’s freckled face is bright with excitement.
I roll my eyes and make my way down the steps. Of course they’re talking ghosts. Matt seems to be Theo’s partner in crime when it comes to this stuff.
He’s at least a head taller than Theo, but somehow Theo spots me behind his friend. “Amity, I don’t think you’ve ever officially met Matt.” He waves me over. “Matt, this is Amity.”
A warm smile breaks out on Matt’s face. “It’s about time.” Then that skyscraper of a boy opens his long arms and steps in for a hug.
He pauses just shy of scooping me up. “Are hugs okay?” His face is so sincere, there’s nothing to do but nod. Saying no would be worse than telling a five-year-old you were canceling their trip to Fableland.
After he hugs me, Matt steps back and holds out the letters in his hand. “Today’s mail.”
I accept the stack, nodding at Theo’s phone. “What were you two watching?”
“Oh shit, you missed it.” I swear Matt’s thrumming like a plucked guitar string. “The devil’s marble in the far bedroom rolled.”
I can feel Theo’s gaze on me. When I glance over at him, he’s chewing on his bottom lip, clearly waiting for my reaction.
“When?” I ask Matt.
“Just now.”
My eyes cut to the windows on the second floor. The broken panes have been removed, and opaque white plastic shields the upstairs from the elements. “So on the second floor, where everyone is working?”
Matt shrugs, as if he doesn’t understand my point. Theo still waits, quiet, beside me.
“Everyone walking around could have caused the floors to vibrate and move the ball. Or maybe someone kicked it.”
Matt’s auburn eyebrows climb up his forehead, but it’s Theo who replies. “These are valid theories.”
That may be the first time he’s admitted I could be right. I need a commemorative plaque for the front lawn to honor this occasion. It should be considered as historically significant as all the places John Adams sat in this town.
“That’s why we’re going to get more proof.” His expression is somewhere between expectant and amused.
“How?”
“With a spirit box. It’s a radio that lets the dead communicate with us,” he explains.
“When?”
“This weekend if you’re free.”
“Fine. Tomorrow, in the afternoon so we’re not influenced by how creepy it is up there in the dark.” I fold my arms. “And if you don’t discover anything solid, you have to admit defeat.”
His eyes narrow. “For now.”
I’ll take it. “And I’m inviting Arden so we have an unbiased witness,” I add.
“Hey, I’ll be there too.” Matt puffs out his chest a little. It reminds me of a bird trying to get noticed. If that bird were…you know…Big Bird. “I’m the one who owns the spirit box.”
“You’re the farthest thing from unbiased.”
He shrugs. “Fair. But I should probably get going, since Big Brother tracks how long I’m at each house.” As he passes me, he half bows, then tips an imaginary hat. “Until tomorrow, milady.”
I salute awkwardly.
Theo offers me my wet shoe and heads back toward the house. “Stick something in this so it doesn’t shrink while it dries. Otherwise, it should be usable again.”
Our fingers brush as I take the sneaker, and another electric current zaps through me. I hang back a little, fiddling with the laces, waiting for the heat to leave my cheeks. There are still weeks of work on our house to go, so I really need to get this…whatever it is I’m feeling…under control.
“Matt’s your supplier, huh?”
Theo laughs. “I guess. He’s the one who introduced me to all this paranormal investigation stuff.” He taps his hand to his leg, sorting his thoughts. His voice is much quieter when he speaks again. “He’s the only one who has ever believed me.”
We both stop. “Believed you about what?”
“That I saw a ghost when I was a kid.”
My eyes drop to the tattoo on his arm. I want to ask him so many questions, but his expression has shuttered.
For the first time since I met him, Theo Hargrave isn’t interested in talking.