Love is Hell. Melissa Marr

in his forehead is no longer there.

      My mouth trembles open, surprised at how good he looks, at the broadness of his shoulders and the intensity of his stare. I look away, wondering if anyone else can see him, but it appears that we’re alone, that all the other kids have already been let off at their stops.

      He leans forward and rests his hand on the back of my seat, revealing the muscles in his forearm and the scar on his thumb. “You’ve been doing some research about me,” he says.

      I manage a nod and slide my hand away, afraid he’ll try to grab it, like in my dreams.

      “Have you found what you were looking for?” he continues.

      I shake my head, knowing that I haven’t. When Emma appeared to me that day, she had one goal in mind: to say goodbye. I have no idea what Travis’s goal is.

      “What do you want?” I ask, wondering how this is even possible, how he’s even sitting here right now.

      He smiles as though amused by my confusion. “First,” he says, leaning in even closer, “what I don’t want is to hurt you. But I do need your help.” His hand glides along the back of my seat, just inches from mine again. “I can’t force you to stay with me in your dreams; it obviously doesn’t work and I was stupid to even try.” He glances at my wrist. “The truth is I need you to want to stay with me, to want to help me and hear me out. I won’t be able to rest until you do.”

      I take a deep breath, thinking about my sister, Emma. In some ways, I’m not at rest, either.

      Travis swallows hard, continuing to study me. “I could help you, too, you know.”

      “I don’t need any help,” I say, my voice quavering over the words.

      “Not at all?”

      I glance away, avoiding the question, feeling the heat of his breath at my chin. He smells like baked apples.

      A second later, the bus pulls up to my stop.

      Travis moves his hand so that it rests on top of mine, making my heart thrash around inside my chest.

      “Will you help me?” he asks.

      My lip quivers, noting his urgent tone. Part of me wants to tell him yes; another part wants to wake up out of this dream and never sleep again.

      “Getting out?” the bus driver asks.

      I meet Travis’s eye, watching him watch me, focusing a moment on his full, pale lips and the tension in his jaw.

      “Hel-looooo?” the driver shouts.

      A moment later, I feel my body being shook. I reluctantly open my eyes, only to find some blond-haired girl with huge green glasses standing right over me, trying to shake me awake. Everyone on the bus turns to look at me—there are at least twenty kids. The bus driver glares in my direction from his rearview mirror. “Getting out?” he repeats.

      I nod, grab my book, and then scurry out the door.

       Seven

      LATER, AT HOME, I struggle to fall asleep, to pick up where my last dream left off, but my visit from Travis has left me more mentally awake than ever. Even though, physically, I’m beyond exhausted.

      At breakfast the following morning, my mother serves me a heaping stack of pancakes, insisting that I need to eat, and that my pale complexion and bloodshot eyes have her and my dad worried. But after a night of maybe two hours of sleep tops, I have no appetite, and so I end up making roads in the pool of maple syrup on my plate, unable to get my mind off Travis.

      And unable to stay awake.

      Finally, after three bites and a good fifteen minutes of maple syrup tracks, I excuse myself from the table and head upstairs to the bathroom. I close and lock the door behind me, feeling a chill pass over my shoulders.

      It’s not like I haven’t been in here before. It’s just that ever since I learned about what happened in this house, I’ve been avoiding it like the proverbial plague, opting instead for the bathroom downstairs.

      I glance around, wondering what it looked like twenty years ago. Were the walls butter-colored like now? Are these the same ceramic floor tiles? The same chrome-plated sink faucet?

      And what about the tub?

      I look down at it, my heart pounding so loud I can almost hear it in my ears. Images of that day from twenty years ago flash across my mind—even though I wasn’t here; I hadn’t even been born yet. I can picture Travis’s face and the look of surprise when the crowbar came at him. And I can see him falling back, headfirst, against the bottom of the cast-iron tub.

      I turn away, resisting the urge to be sick and noticing how cold I feel. The temperature in the room must have dropped at least ten degrees.

      “Brenda?” my mother calls out, knocking on the door. “Are you okay?”

      “Fine,” I say, zooming in on the radiator beneath the window, wondering if it’s working right.

      “Do you want more pancakes?” she asks.

      I tell her I don’t, baffled that she would even ask. I mean, did she not notice my unfinished plate?

      I move across the room to check the heat, holding my palms out by the radiator. But all I feel is coldness—a sharp penetrating chill that crawls over my bones and makes my skin itch.

      At the same moment, something touches my back and snakes up my spine. Startled, I turn to look. But no one’s there—no one’s by the sink or in the tub, even though it feels like someone’s watching me.

      “Mom?” I call, wondering if she’s still outside the door.

      She doesn’t answer.

      I turn back around, telling myself that it’s just my imagination and that I need to get a grip.

      The rungs of the radiator are as frigid as the room. I squat down and place my ear up against them. I want to see if I can hear the rush of heat rising up through the pipes, but it’s eerily quiet.

      A moment later, I spot something shiny between the rungs. It looks like a chain of some sort, maybe a necklace. I try sticking my fingers in to retrieve it, but the chain is several inches away.

      “Brenda,” my mother calls, from behind the door again.

      I take a deep breath. The smell of mulled apples is thick in the air. “Travis?” I whisper.

      “Brenda,” my mother repeats. “Get up NOW!” She smacks something hard near my head. The impact of the noise wakes me up.

      I’m no longer in the bathroom. I’m in the kitchen, at the table, and my head rests on a pillow of napkins. There’s a plateful of pancakes in front of me. “I’m sorry,” I say, sitting up straight. My mother is standing over me, a fry pan clutched in her hand—obviously what she used to wake me up. “I must have fallen asleep.”

      “Your father and I are really worried about you,” she reminds me.

      “I’m sorry,” I repeat.

      “Are you using drugs?” Her mouth is a thin, angry line.

      I shake my head, too tired to even entertain her stupid theory. Instead, I grab my butter knife, excuse myself from the table—for real this time—and head straight for the upstairs bathroom.

      The cast-iron radiator is in full view. Just like in my dream, it’s been painted a metallic silver, but you can still see the hunter green shade underneath where the paint has chipped in spots. I approach it slowly, noting the chill in the room, feeling the gooseflesh sprout up on my arms. I squat down and peek between the rungs.

      And that’s