Wake the Hollow Read online

  Suddenly, the door to the room opens, and everyone glances back to look.

  “You’d do well to listen to every word he says. He’s quite the specialist in author biographies, especially Mr. Irving of hometown fame. Ah, here he is now. Say hello to Mr. Boracich.”

  I watch, in slow motion, as the spindly weathercock of a man bustles in and waves at the class. My heart races like I’m suddenly contending for the Triple Crown. Bizarre thoughts shoot through my mind—rumbling blue steel, pale hands jotting down notes, a slow and guttural voice muttering something between my ears.

  “Oh my God,” I say, eliciting a few wary looks from students. “That’s him,” I whisper.

  Bram leans in to me. “Who?”

  “The guy I was telling you about, the one who went to see my mother’s house.”

  “That guy?” Bram sizes up the student teacher and smirks.

  Dane Boracich soaks in the welcome with a happy-to-be-here smile. But just before taking his seat, he pauses. Everyone follows his gray-blue gaze as it lands on…who else? The new girl—Micaela Katerina Burgos. I glance back politely, noting Bram’s baffled expression.

  What? I shrug at him.

  Bram faces the front again, his widely set legs bouncing nervously. I try to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary just happened, that the new teaching assistant didn’t just single me out with his puppy dog stare, but it’s futile. Like trying not to notice that someone’s head’s been shot off by a cannon.

  Chapter Six

  “She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy cheeked as one of her father’s peaches…”

  “I can’t believe it’s him.”

  “So it’s the same dude you saw yesterday. Big deal.” In the courtyard, Bram pops open a can of Coke and sucks the rising foam noisily.

  “Big deal? Bram, I saw his car at the train station, I saw him on Broadway, then I saw him at Betty Anne’s house, and now I find out he’s my teacher? Don’t you think that’s a little weird?” I rip open my spork-salt-pepper packet with so much force, the contents go flying all over our table.

  “Nice.” Bram picks a salt packet off his sandwich. “It’s Tarrytown, remember? You see the same faces everywhere. Funny coincidence maybe, but definitely not weird. Besides, maybe you keep noticing him because you think he’s hot?” His added smirk means he’s fishing to see if I’ll agree or not. I remember this strategy to get me to talk from our old days together.

  “Maybe, but it’s still weird the way he looks at me like he knows me. Then boom, he’s in my neighborhood, then boom, in my classroom. Weird.”

  “Weird. Very weird. Now can we stop saying weird?” Bram brushes off the topic and takes a huge bite out of his sandwich.

  I narrow my eyes. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  “Of what?” he mutters, mouth full of food.

  “I don’t know.” I put down my spork. My salad is old and wilted. I think about the teaching assistant staring then smiling at me in front of the whole class when Bram told me just minutes before that being “only friends” was a problem. I drop my head into my hands. Suddenly not hungry.

  I feel Bram’s warm guy hand rest on my arm. “Hey, you okay?”

  I try rubbing my face awake. “Yeah. I just need more sleep. And to figure out what my mom wanted from me so I can go home.”

  “You just got here a day and a half ago, dude. Give yourself a break.”

  “Sorry, I just—”

  “Why leave so soon?” he asks, sounding mildly offended.

  “Bram, you don’t understand. Right now, I’m missing my senior year at home with my friends. I’m missing Columbus football games, I’m missing Homecoming…” I’m stuck in the town that made me want to leave in the first place. “Can you tell me something?” I ask, dying to change the subject. Die-hard locals never understand why anyone would want to get away from here anyway. “What did you mean about my mother moving things at Sunnyside? And tell me what Jonathan and that guy in class meant about a stolen journal.”

  He swallows slowly. “All right, don’t get mad, but my mom and Aunt Janice said that just before your mom died, she would move things around Irving’s study, which you know you’re not supposed to do unless you’re a curator. Janice had to tell her a few times to quit it.”

  Why would Mami purposely annoy Janice Foltz, the office manager at Sunnyside? She wouldn’t want to get fired. Why would she break any rule, for that matter? “Did she get in trouble for it?”

  He shakes his head. “I think they let her go with a slap on the wrist, because she was…” He glances from his food to my face, hesitant to say something.

  “What? Just say it.”

  “Mica, you should know that by the end there, your mom wasn’t the same anymore. In fact, she was considered kind of…” He points the sandwich at his head.

  Oh. So that’s it? Mami had gone officially nuts. That would mean that the note she sent me was merely evidence of that. I don’t know how to feel about this. It’s true that during my last year here, Mami had become less and less concerned with what people thought of her. She went around talking to herself. She stopped hiding her dolls in the sewing room and started putting them on display instead. Still, lots of people are eccentric without actually having a mental illness.

  “Hey.” Bram looks up into my eyes. “I’m not saying she was. I’m just letting you know what others said about her. She rarely talked to anyone much after you left. Only Ellen at work and that neighbor lady of yours, so it was easy for people to think that.”

  “She was just passionate about her interests. A bit of a loner. But she wasn’t crazy.”

  Then again, I remember times when I went into the basement to say good night to Mami and found her at the sewing machine, whispering to herself. She’d pause, whisper again, as if having a conversation with nobody. Didn’t I talk aloud to the voices yesterday, too?

  The thought of becoming like my mom makes me shiver. Another reason I need to get out of Sleepy Hollow—ASAP. This town will suck you in and not let you go.

  “I didn’t think she was,” he says. “Just felt maybe she was kind of…obsessed.”

  Obsessed. Mami, living alone, distraught, only Coco to keep her company, moving items around Sunnyside like a madwoman. Not to be mean, but she brought it upon herself. She could’ve joined us in Miami instead of staying with the very people who hated her.

  Bram reaches out and swipes a thumb across my eye, then the other one. He dries it on his napkin. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I haven’t really thought of these things until I got here, so I guess it’s all kind of hitting me. So, tell me about the missing journal.” I fold my hands on the table and regain my composure. “Please.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, I need to know.”

  Bram extends his legs, bouncing his knee nervously. “You know how, for years, people have talked about Irving and his private journal?”

  “Yeah, so? All the great authors of the time kept them. His journal is totally public and easy to find online. His private writings are even on display.”

  He scoots closer to the table and whispers, “Not those. A different one. At the Engers’ library, in the rare collection. Not even the rare collection, more like the never-to-be-shared collection. Not-even-with-an-appointment collection. It’s all hearsay, Princess. For all we know, it doesn’t even exist. I know I’ve never seen it.”

  “Seriously? I think I would know about this. My mom would’ve talked about it incessantly. What does it say?”

  “Well, assuming it wasn’t staged, like the fake stuff he knew everyone would read and analyze about him after he died, it would contain real bits about him, things we never knew—the dirt. That’s all. You know how locals here feel about their Irving history.”

  “Yes, but I still don’t see why it would be a big deal. So we’d learn he really liked brunettes inst
ead of blondes. Wow, call the New York Times.” I shake my head, glancing at my phone. Lunch is almost over.

  “I agree. He’s long dead, and that’s why I told you don’t worry about it. Hey, can I ask you something?” He takes a big sip from his soda. “Are you coming with me to the meeting Friday? I need someone to spray paint the oversize door knockers.”

  I stare at him. How can he think about HollowEve when I’m asking about a missing Irving journal and why it was important enough for Jonathan to insinuate I’d know anything about it? Is he that insensitive or brushing me off? “Way to change the subject, Bram.”

  He smiles sheepishly.

  “Fine, I’ll help you at HollowEve.” I watch him carefully. Being around him and Jonathan and other locals might clue me in more if he won’t be straight up with me.

  His dark eyes flare. “Yeah?”

  “But only if you help me get to the bottom of my mom’s issues. Anytime I need it. Until it’s done. Deal?”

  He clucks his tongue, impressed by my persuasive skills. “Deal.” He winks, and a lingering smile slides across his face, making me fight some unexpected tummy butterflies. Two seconds later, he throws his charm into high gear as I watch him recruit three more volunteers for HollowEve right there in the courtyard.

  Everyone’s obsessed with something, Bram. Even you.

  ...

  After school, I rush out, eager for fresh air. I book it toward the police department and call the realtor again. I get the same annoying voicemail beep without a greeting. What kind of realtor doesn’t want to talk to a potential client? “Hi, this is the second time I’ve called about the house on 150 Maple Street. Please call me back as soon as you can.”

  I hang up and take two shortcuts, but I’m still out of breath by the time I get to the Tarrytown Village Police Department. Inside, the station is empty, except for a receptionist playing a word game on her computer. She has brown hair and bored eyes. “May I help you?”

  “I need to speak with someone about my mother’s death in August, whoever dealt with it, I guess.” On a bulletin board beside me, a posted flyer reads: Historic Hudson Theft TIPS? Contact Officer Stanton, along with a number and extension.

  “Nobody’s in. Come by in the morning.” Word Puzzle Girl focuses back on her screen.

  “But this is the only time I can come. I’m in school in the morning.”

  “I understand, but you need to talk to Officer Stanton, and he’s only here in the mornings. Who was your mother? I’ll make a note.” Reluctantly, she picks up an actual pen.

  I clasp my hands in a tight grip. “Maria Burgos.”

  Her lazy eyes pause on me. She places a notepad and the pen on the counter. “Leave your information here. I’ll have someone contact you.”

  I stare at the pen a moment, wondering if I should go Miami diva on her and demand to speak with someone immediately or play by small town rules. I decide to go with sugar over vinegar. I write my name and number, underlining them twice. “Thanks. It’s important.” I tap the notepad.

  “Mm-hmm.” She places the note on a pile of papers. Then, without even looking at me, she returns to her screen and clicks on letters and blank squares. Really? Miami Beach Police would’ve been buzzing like a beehive already and offering me a mango soy latte.

  I drum my fingers on the smooth counter. “Thanks so much. You’ve been a super huge help.” I turn on my heels, wondering how long “mm-hmm” really means, assuming they even get the message. Right before exiting, I pause at the Historic Hudson Theft poster, swipe my camera phone on, and snap a pic of it.

  ...

  On the way home, I make use of my long walk and bring up the poster photo, dialing the number shown. Of course, I don’t expect Officer Stanton to actually answer if he’s only there mornings, but there’s no harm in trying. The line rings four times before voicemail picks up.

  “Thank you for calling Historic Hudson Theft Tips Hotline,” a gruff voice announces. He sounds like the cop who called me in Miami after my mother died. “Please leave any information you wish, anonymously or not. If you leave a phone number, we will call you back. Thank you in advance.”

  I prepare my chirpiest voice while waiting. Beeeep.

  “Hi, Officer Stanton? My name is Micaela Burgos. Could you please call me, like, when you’re actually in the office, or…whenever? Thanks.” I sound so stupid, but I leave my phone number, then hang up, satisfied that I did everything I could to get through to the guy.

  Entering the townhouse, I hand Nina the thick, customary packet of parent paperwork. She drops her head in exasperation, then I head back to my room for a quick recharging nap before moving on to Plan B. No such luck. Petticoat ghost woman is back. She doesn’t speak this time, only stares ahead with her smoky face. In the corner of a dark room, she sits in a rocking chair, rocking back and forth absentmindedly.

  Micaela, she finally says, turning her face toward me. I'm so incredibly sad.

  I’m sorry, I tell her, but I can’t help you…

  I can’t. I truly, honestly cannot help the dead, nor do I want to. I’m not in deep sleep yet, so luckily, I’m able to rip myself right out of the dream and sit up in bed, sweating.

  Bare white walls of my temporary abode remind me of everything I don’t have right now—the salty ocean breezes, my bike rides on Ocean Drive, my friends… Same as has been happening since I was little, I get that familiar feeling the phone is about to ring. A moment later, it’s a text from Emily—a kissy face emoji:

  So? How’s it being back?

  Weird. Familiar. Distant

  Bram treating you ok?

  Yes tho I think he’s getting heat

  for being around me.

  Anyway he’s not the prob

  What is the prob? Mica u gotta

  open ur chakra

  Em, chakra-opening doesn’t work

  with me. I’m in a stress fog all the

  time. I desperately need sleep.

  Ru breathing? Be aware of ur

  breath

  I try but it’s hard to tell when I’m

  awake and asleep sometimes

  Turn inwards, Mica. If you tune

  out ur brain, u will fall asleep

  I wish it were that easy. But I hear

  voices whispering around me. I

  can’t see anyone but I hear them

  warning me.

  Like with ur mom’s note?

  I stare at her words for a long time. I appreciate her concern and willingness to help me, but her yoga chakra breathing stuff has never solved my problems. I feel perpetually worried. Her speech bubble waits expectantly. With Emily, I can’t really tell her everything. I decide on giving her what she wants, finally typing:

  Exactly.

  ...

  After another few chapters of Wuthering Heights, I head out to clear my head. I cut through the college at the heart of town on a gorgeous moonlit night, enjoying the cold air over my nose and mouth, the lake, brick buildings, iron benches, ornate lampposts, and other things I’d missed while living in Miami. Above the trees, the full moon is just visible, creating shadows along the cracked sidewalks.

  Can you see me?

  I rush past a couple sitting on a bench, canoodling and whispering closely. Conceivably, the voice could be coming from their quiet conversation, except…I know it’s not them. “I need sleep, I need sleep, I need sleep,” I chant in rhythm with my footsteps. “Go away, go away, go away.”

  I turn onto University Avenue where Ye Olde Coffee Shoppe glows like a beacon of caffeine for the under-rested. At least six bikes are parked outside. I pull on the wooden handle, the chimes sound, and the aromas of fresh brewed coffee and baked goodies kiss me hello. I slip into the warmth and spot Jonathan in the back, wiping down a counter. “I see you’re quite the cashier.”

  He stares at my boobs and body then back to my eyes for a fraction of a second before looking away. “I’m not on register tonight. He has me slaving away.”

&n
bsp; “Well, you have to jump on the corporate ladder somewhere,” I joke.

  “Or, you could just have it handed to you.”

  I ignore his jab. “Is Bram here?”

  “Should be soon. You want me to tell Sir Fudge you’re here to see him?”

  “Who?”

  “The manager. He’s always saying ‘fudge’ instead of ‘fuck,’ so that’s his nickname. You sure you don’t want to work here? It was always your dream. The benefits are awesome…free skinny lattes.” He slaps on a fake smile.

  I don’t know why he feels so compelled to force work on me. Did he not hear the part when I said I wasn’t staying in town for very long? “No, thanks, John. You know I’m here to settle my mom’s stuff. But I appreciate your looking out for me and all.”

  “Suit yourself.” He shrugs and returns to counter-wiping.

  What’s his problem? I get in line to order, and a girl’s voice speaks next to me. “Micaela?” I turn and find Natalee Torino from middle school, mouth agape, green eyes blasted right open. “Oh. My. God!”

  “Hey, Natalee, how’s it going?” I give her a quick hug. She’s still short and pretty, a little taller than when I last saw her. An aura of vanilla-smelling body spray surrounds her.

  “Good! Really good! Was that you with Bram in Dr. Tanner’s class? Were you the one the new assistant kept staring at? I knew it! Well, that would make sense.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Wow, you were there? I was so nervous. I’m sorry, what would make sense?”

  “Just, you. You know…Micaela, blond, pretty, hooked to Bram’s hip.” Natalee’s smile fades slightly like she might have said too much.

  When we were in elementary school, some kids had a hard time understanding that Bram and I were just friends. They’d say that boys and girls who were friends as kids would one day end up married. It was an innocent assumption at the time, but some girls really like him. My being back in town could possibly be a threat to girls like Natalee and Lacy.