never known him to pass up a chance to gossip.
I tried again. âIâll put on your
Bone Songs
mix disc so we can dance.â
âIâm not in the mood.â
âWe could watch
The Nightmare Before Christmas
.â
âNo, thanks.â
Passing up music and his favorite movie. âCome on, Sid, I want to talk to you.â
âI told you Iâm reading.â
I bent over to check the crack under the door. âWith no light on?â
âAre you worried Iâll ruin my eyes?â
It was an invasion of his privacy that I knew Iâd feel guilty about later, but I tried the doorknob anyway. Alas, it was wasted guilt. Locked. âUnlock the door and come out or else!â
âOr else what?â
âOr else Iâm going to get the screwdriver and take the hinges off the door, probably breaking every one of my fingernails in the process and getting half a dozen bruises.â
âYeah? I donât have much trouble with fingernails and bruises.â
âIâll never get the door back up by myself, which will mean that youâll have to hide if Madison comes near the attic, which means that you wonât be able to eavesdrop. And weâll either have to get Deborah to come fix it, which she wonât make a priority, or wait until my parents get back from sabbatical, or hire somebody I canât afford to pay. Is your sulk really worth all that trouble?â
A few seconds passed, but finally Sid unlocked the door and opened it.
âIâm not sulking,â he said. âIâm thinking.â He turned to go back up.
Now I knew something was wrong. When Sid was in a good mood, all his bones were tightly connected as if still fastened by invisible tendons, but when he was down, the connections were loose, as if it werenât worth the trouble it took to hold himself together. He occasionally left behind a metatarsal if upset, like when I went to Europe for a month, and the day Deborah announced that she didnât want to talk to him anymore, he left two finger bones on the couch. This time, as I followed him up, I saw no fewer than a dozen tiny bones left on the stairs. I collected them as I went.
When I got upstairs, heâd collapsed on the chair, looking more like a pile of bones than heâd been when stuffed into his suitcase. I put the pieces heâd dropped next to him, but he didnât even bother to put them back into place.
âTalk to me, Sid. Why are you upset?â
âWho said I was upset?â
âCome on, spill your guts.â With his love of straight lines, he should have responded
Theyâre already spilled
, or maybe
Thereâs nothing left to spill
. Instead he just shrugged. Given that heâd been acting odd as early as Saturday, I made an educated guess. âDid something happen at the con?â
âNo,â he said in a tone that any parent would have recognized as a lie.
âWhat happened?â
âNothing happened.â
I waited him out.
âItâs something I saw. Some
one
, I mean. I recognized somebody.â
âOkay. Was it one of Mom and Philâs friends or what?â
âNo. I remember her from before.â
âFrom before what?â
âFrom before I was . . . like this. Georgia, I recognized a woman from when I was alive.â
10
âF rom when you were alive?â I said stupidly. âAre you sure?â
âI think so. Yeah. Only she looked older.â
âThat stands to reason. I mean, youâve been living with us for thirty years.â
âMaybe Iâve been here that long, but I havenât been living here. I am dead, you know.â
âMom always says youâre in a different state of consciousness.â
âYeah, the dead kind.â
âWhatever you call it, youâve been part of this family for that long, so if you remember that woman from before, she would have to be
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