“Then tell me what it is!”
Imogen let out a slow groan. “Listen, Darcy. Back in college I wrote a lot of stuff for this indie blog. It was basically a diary: everything I was thinking, everything I was doing . . . everyone I was doing. And after Paradox bought my book, they asked me if I wanted to use a pen name. When I googled myself that night, I didn’t love what I saw. So I decided to keep all that separate from my novels.”
“Okay, sure. But separate from me, too?”
“For the moment, yeah.”
Darcy sat there, wide-eyed, until Imogen took her hand.
“That’s not who I am right now, is all.”
“But you didn’t change yourself,” Darcy said. “You just changed your name.”
“At first, maybe. But it’s a chance to start over, without having to go into witness protection or whatever. Having a pen name gives me a new identity: novelist Imogen Gray. And now that identity is me. Why are you staring?”
“I don’t know.” Darcy dropped her stare to the futon cover, but had to look up again. It was as if Imogen had announced she was an alien, a shape-shifter, or a flat-out impostor. “This is so weird. I’ve been calling you the wrong name this whole time.”
“No you haven’t. Imogen Gray is my name.”
“So you changed it legally?”
Imogen groaned. “No, but it’s my name.”
“If I promise not to google it, will you tell me what your real one is?”
“No. And it’s not any more real than this one.”
“I thought you wanted me to trust you!”
“You can trust me, even if I don’t tell you my name.”
“Can you hear how weird that sounds, Imogen? Or whatever your real name is!”
“Listen, Darcy.” Imogen let out a slow, exasperated sigh. “You know how it hurts when characters die?”
This felt like a trick, so it took Darcy a moment to say, “Sure.”
“That’s because characters are real. Because stories are real, even if they’re fictions. Which means pen names are real too, because novels make their writers into different people. So Imogen Gray is real. That’s who I am. Okay?”
“It still feels like you’re hiding something.”
“Not any more than you are.”
“Me?” A laugh bubbled up in Darcy. “I never even kissed anyone before you, Gen. There’s nothing to hide!”
“Really? So how come when you showed up in New York, you didn’t tell anyone your age? How come you didn’t bring any stuff? At your party Johari asked why this apartment was so empty, and you let her think it’s because you’re some sort of mad author-monk. But it’s because you want to start over.”
Darcy had to turn away from Imogen’s intensity, and her eyes fell on the select and perfect row of novels on her shelves. There were no books she’d been forced to read for school, no manga series she’d given up halfway through. The bedroom walls were bare of old selfies and boy band posters, shorn of all the flotsam of childhood. Every morning when she walked out into the big room, Darcy breathed the air of a life made from her own choices, without leftovers or hand-me-downs. Nothing here was someone else’s idea.
Apartment 4E was a blank page.
“You wanted to rewrite yourself,” Imogen said.
Darcy stared down at Imogen’s hands. They were twitching, as they always did when she ranted about writing and books. It was crazy to fight with her about this stuff. It was like arguing with someone’s religion.
“Okay, I get it.” Darcy took a slow breath. “But will you tell me one day?”
“Of course,” Imogen said. “But right now I need you not to know, because you’re part of what’s making me.”
“Making you what?”
“Just making me.” The faintest blush played across Imogen’s cheeks. “I’ve only had this name a year. I’m still a work in progress. You’re part of that now. Maybe the biggest part of that.”
“Okay.” Darcy took one of Imogen’s tight fists in her hands, and stroked it until the fingers opened. This had been their first fight, she supposed, and now that it was over, something was left bubbling inside Darcy. Relief that the argument was finished, but also a hunger that its passage had opened up. “You’re part of what’s making me too, Gen.”
“I hope so,” Imogen said, and drew her closer for another kiss, deep and slow and fervent. Darcy felt something kindling inside her, and for the first time wished that they weren’t taking things slow. But she didn’t want to risk two arguments in one day, so she kept that thought to herself.
CHAPTER 22
“JUST DON’T THINK ABOUT THE wall,” Mindy said again.
“You know, that might be easier if you didn’t keep mentioning it.”
Mindy frowned. “How can I not mention it? You’re trying to walk through it.”
“Right,” I said. “And how can I not think about it when I’m trying to walk through it?”
Mindy looked genuinely puzzled by this, and I was reminded again that she was only eleven years old. She’d never mastered the subtleties of psyching herself out. Though, at the moment, my own mental focus was nothing to brag about.
I stared at the graffiti-covered wall at the edge of the old playground near my house. I’d spent the last hour trying to walk through it the way Mindy could, as easily as strolling through an open door. But all I had to show for my efforts was a bruised knee and a short temper.
“Maybe if you close your eyes?” Mindy suggested.
“Tried it.” I pointed at my knee.
She didn’t answer, just sat there on the wall, deftly managing to look perplexed and smug at the same time.
Now that I’d spent the last hour trying to do it, ghosts walking through walls made no sense. If you could go through a wall, why wouldn’t you fall through the ground beneath your feet? And then keep on falling through the water table, the earth’s crust, and a few thousand miles of magma until you wound up at the center of the planet?
But there was Mindy, sitting on top of the same wall that she’d strolled through a moment before. She seemed to make unconscious decisions every second about which objects were solid and which weren’t—the key word of which was “unconscious.” Every time I thought about it, I wound up crashing into things.
And the problem was much bigger than my bruised knee. Here on the flipside, I was just like a ghost. I couldn’t move anything in the real world, which meant no opening doors. Walking through walls was necessary simply to get around.
Even if Yama had offered to teach me the ways of the afterworld, I wanted to master some skills without his help. Besides, if I was ever going to find out more about the bad man, I needed to learn how to do this, or stand around waiting for him to open his door to me.
“Come on, Lizzie. You’ve done it before.” Mindy was swinging her legs, bored now. “You ran through that fence around the scary school.”
“But that school was from the old days, when there was no fence.”
“So maybe you should think about the past.”
“Like, I should imagine dinosaurs in the playground?”
“Not that far back, silly.”
Mindy was right—T. rex didn’t haunt. Ghosts emerged from the minds of the living, so only things in living memory could exist in the flipside.
I turned to face the wall again. It was covered with graffiti, mostly a long mural of a monster eating its own tail, impressive even in shades of flipside gray. The monster wasn’t quite a dinosaur, but it gave me an idea. I took a step closer and placed my hand against the wall, trying to imagine its surface new and untouched.
For a long moment, nothing happened that I could see. But beneath my palm the texture of the brick seemed to change, the smooth coat of latex paint replaced by something grittier. I pulled away.
“Whoa,” I said.
Through an outline in the shape of my hand, I could see an older layer of graffiti, worn and softened by time. As I stared at the hole I’d made, the entire surface of the wall began to simmer and seethe. The monster boiled away, replaced by other images—a glowing pyramid, a laughing clown face, a giant unreadable word in five-foot-high letters—each dissolving in turn, as if the old layers of paint were being peeled away. Across the images danced the tags of a hundred street artists, squiggled signatures piled one on top of another, all of them rewinding backward in time.
For a brief instant the wall was bare, the mortar still wet and shiny between the bricks. Then at last it faded, and I could see through it to the grassy vacant lot beyond.
“That actually worked,” I murmured.
“Make sure not to look at me,” Mindy said.
I glanced up—and there she was, floating in empty space. For a moment my brain tried to reconcile the realities of past and present, and the bricks shimmered halfway back into place, a mirage uncertain of its own existence.
“I said don’t look at me!”
“Shush.” I forced Mindy from my mind and strode ahead.
For a moment the wall pushed back at me, like a gust of wind tugging an umbrella, and then I was on the other side.
“You did it!” Mindy shouted.
I turned back to her with a cry of triumph in my mouth, but madness had erupted behind me. The whole playground was bubbling over into chaos. The poured rubber surface churned, shifting into asphalt and then sand, weeds rippling in its cracks and edges. I saw ghostly streaks of movement, heard peals of laughter and cries of pain. The history of the playground rushed past in a torrent, sounds and smells and emotions. Broken bones and childhood humiliations crackled in the air—everything at once, decades jammed together.
For a moment I felt something akin to Yama’s electricity coming from inside me, like a battery pressed against my tongue, sparks dancing on my skin. My heart skidded in my chest, and I had to breathe slow and easy to keep myself on the flipside.
“You okay, Lizzie? You look weird.”
“I’m fine.” The vision was already fading, the afterworld returning to its usual flat, gray stillness. But the sparks were still there, glitter on my hands.
I wondered if the things I’d seen were actual scraps of buried history. Were we psychopomps like psychic gravediggers, exhuming memories and giving them form? Or had the vision been a hallucination?
It had been a week now since I’d slept. The old man had been right; I didn’t need it anymore. Sleep was just a slice of death, and I’d already eaten my fill. But my dreams were piling up undreamt, sometimes spilling out in daylight. Old taunts and jealousies lurked in the corners and stairwells of my school. I never knew which noises came from the spirit world and which from my imagination.
For a moment I thought of going home, lying down, and closing my eyes. But I was still buzzing from my vision, too full of energy.
And I could walk through walls now.
“We should go somewhere, Mindy.”
She hopped down from the wall. “Like where?”
“Someplace far away. Like the Chrysler Building!”
“But that means going down in the river. It’s too scary.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” I said. “You’re always saying how bored you are. This would be fun!”
She shook her head.
I sighed. “The bad man’s still alive, Mindy. He’s not a ghost. He can’t hurt you.”
“So what?”
“So what? You were so happy when I told you!”
Mindy turned away. “I was. But maybe it would’ve been better if he’d died a long time ago. Because then he would have faded by now.” She turned to stare up at me, her gray eyes glinting. “He must be old, right? Livers die all the time.”