The Summoning

Nine

I'M NOT KEEN ON ROMANTIC comedies. This may be like a guy admitting he doesn't like car chases, but Rae nodded off a few times, too, so I guessed this wouldn't have been her choice either.

I stayed awake by deconstructing the screenplay, which was so predictable I'd bet my college fund the writer was a student of screenwriting guru Robert McKee.

But as I watched the silly movie and munched popcorn, I finally relaxed. Talking to Rae had helped. She'd didn't think I was crazy. She didn't even think I was schizophrenic.

For the first time since my breakdown, things didn't look so bad. Maybe life as I knew it hadn't really ended in that classroom. Maybe I was overreacting and going all drama queen.

Did the kids at school know what had happened to me? A few saw me run down a hall. More saw me carried out on a stretcher, unconscious. Big deal. I could return in a few weeks and most probably wouldn't even notice I'd been gone.

Tomorrow, I'd e-mail Kari, tell her I was sick, and see what she said. That's probably exactly what she heard, that I had something like mono.

I'd get through this. Whatever I thought of their diagnosis, now wasn't the time to argue. I'd take my meds, lie if I had to, get released from Lyle House, and get on with my life.

"Chloe? Chloe?"

Liz's voice echoed through the deep caves of dreamland, and it took me a few minutes to find the way out. When I opened my eyes, she was leaning over me, bathing me in toothpaste breath, her long hair tickling my cheek. The hand clutching my arm kept trembling even after she stopped shaking me.

I pushed up on my elbows. "What's wrong?"

"I've been lying here for hours, trying to think of some way to ask you, some way that won't sound weird. But I can't. I just can't."

She backed away, her pale face glowing in the darkness, hands tugging at her nightshirt neckline, like it was choking her.

I scrambled up. "Liz?"

"They're going to send me away. Everyone knows they are, and that's why they're being so nice to me. I don't want to go, Chloe. They'll lock me up and —" She hiccupped deep breaths, hands cupped over her mouth. When she looked at me, her eyes were so wide the whites showed around her dark irises. "I know you haven't been here long, but I really need your help."

"Okay."

"Really?"

I stifled a yawn as I sat up. "If there's anything I can do —"

"There is. Thank you. Thank you." She dropped to her knees and pulled a bag from under her bed. "I don't know what all you need, but I did one at a sleepover last year, so I gathered up everything we used. There's a glass, some spices, a candle —" Her hand flew to her mouth. "Matches! Oh, no. We don't have any matches. They keep them locked up because of Rae. Can we do it without lighting the candle?"

"Do what?" I rubbed my hands over my face. I hadn't taken a sleeping pill but still felt that weird fogginess, like I was swimming through a sea of cotton balls. "What exactly are we doing, Liz?"

"A stance, of course."

The sleep fog evaporated, and I wondered if this was a prank. But I could tell by her expression that it wasn't. I remembered Tori's words at lunch.

'The . . . poltergeist?" I said carefully.

Liz flew at me so fast I smacked backward into the wall, hands flying up toward her off. But she only pounced down beside me, eyes wild.

"Yes!" she said. "I have a poltergeist. It's so obvious, but they won't see it. They keep saying it's me doing all this stuff. But how would I throw a pencil that hard? Did anyone see me throw it? No. I get mad at Ms. Wang and the pencil flies and hits her and everyone says 'Oh, Liz threw it,' but I didn't. I never do."

"It's the . . . poltergeist."

"Right! I think it's trying to protect me because every lime I get mad, things start flying. I've tried to talk to it, to make it stop. But it can't hear me because I can't talk to ghosts. That's why I need you."

I struggled to keep my expression neutral. I'd seen a documentary on poltergeist activity once. It usually did happen around girls like Liz —troubled teens desperate for attention. Some people thought the girls were playing pranks. Others believed the energy the girls gave off—hormones and rage—actually made things move.

"You don't believe me," she said.

"No, I didn't say —"

"You don't believe me!" She rose to her knees, eyes blazing. "Nobody believes me!"

"Liz, I —"

Behind her, the hair gel bottles rocked. Empty hangers in the closet chattered. I dug my fingers into the mattress.

"O-o-okay, Liz. I s-s-see —"

"No, you don't!"

She slammed her hands down. The bottles jetted into the air, smashing against the ceiling with such force the plastic exploded. Hair gel rained down.

"Do you see?"

"Y-y-yes."

Her hands flew up again, like a conductor hitting the crescendo. A picture leaped from the wall. It smashed onto the hardwood floor, glass spraying. Another fell. Then a third. A sliver of glass shot into my knee. A button of blood welled up and streamed down my leg.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the picture above my bed quaver. It sprang from its moorings.

"No!" Liz cried.

I dove. Liz hit my side, shoving me out of the picture's path. It struck her shoulder. She twisted. We both rolled from the bed, hitting the floor hard.

I lay on my side, catching my breath.

"I'm so sorry," she gasped. "I didn't mean — Do you see what happens? I can't control it. I get mad and everything . . ."

"You think it's a poltergeist."

She nodded, her lip quivering.

I had no idea what was going on. Not a poltergeist though —that was nuts—but if she thought it was, then maybe if she thought I'd told it to stop, it really would stop.

"Okay," I said. "Get the candle and we'll—"

The door shot open. Mrs. Talbot's bathrobed form stood silhouetted in the doorway. She flipped on the light. I drew back, blinking.

"Oh my God," she breathed, barely above a whisper. "Elizabeth. What have you done?"

I jumped to my feet. "It wasn't her. I —I—I—"

For once, I wasn't stammering. I just couldn't think of more words. Her gaze swept across the room, taking in the glass littering the floor, the hair gel dripping from the ceiling, the exploded makeup painting the wall, and I knew there was no reasonable explanation.

Her gaze fell to my leg and she let out a squeak. "It's okay," I said, drawing my leg up and swiping the blood. "It's nothing. I cut myself. Shaving. Earlier."

She picked her way past me, eyes fixed on the glass-carpeted floor.

"No," Liz whispered. "Please no. I didn't mean it."

"It's okay, hon. We're going to get you help."

Miss Van Dop strode in, carrying a needle. She sedated Liz as Mrs. Talbot tried to calm her, telling her they were only transferring her to a better hospital, one more suitable, one that could help her get well faster.

When Liz was unconscious, they shooed me from the room. As I backed into the hall, a hand walloped me in the back, slamming me into the wall. I turned to see Tori looming over me.

"What did you do to her?" she snarled.

"Nothing." To my shock, the word came out clear, defiant even. I pulled myself up straight. "I'm not the one who told her I could help."

"Help?"

"By contacting her poltergeist."

Her eyes went wide, with that same horrified expression as when Simon told her to stop acting like a bitch. She turned away and stumbled into her room.