Signs of You by Emily France Page A

ifteen million types of water. Thoughts I don’t want to have start swirling in my head. I think about my mom, the f lapper girl in the auditorium, Jay’s dad. I look around at the other shoppers, my eyes locking on each one to see if any of them look old-fashioned or out of place. Suddenly, I can’t handle being in here. All the strangers start to look sinister to me and the f luorescent lights remind me too much of the grocery store where I saw Mom. I hit the door a little too hard on my way out and the bell above it jangles madly as I head toward the parking lot.
    And that’s when I hear my name. It’s a raspy whisper. Frantic almost. Coming from—
    â€œRiley.”
    I hear it again. I follow the sound around to the left, behind the building. There, sitting on the asphalt, leaning up against a huge dumpster, is a woman who looks homeless. Her face is smeared with grime, and her hair is a tangled brown mess. A bottle of booze peeks out from the ratty handbag she’s holding. She takes a long swig and smiles. We lock eyes, and then, like a f lickering light, I see another woman in her place.
    Instead of a mad nest of hair, this new woman I see has a long, neat braid hanging over her shoulder, and she’s wearing a veil and a white old-fashioned dress—a wedding dress with puffy sleeves and antique, yellowed lace. Her dainty feet are suddenly laced up in white leather boots. And she says something to me. And I hear it, and I understand it, but it’s terrifying, and immediately I try to push it out of my mind.
    As I back away, she changes again—back to the homeless woman in dirty clothes and ripped jeans, swigging booze from a beaten-up handbag.
    I want to run, to scream, but it’s like one of those dreams where you’re being chased but you can’t get away or make a sound louder than a whisper. I back away from the dumpster as quickly as I can, but I feel like I’m moving through waist-high peanut butter—my legs feel thick and heavy, and as usual, a wave of numbness starts crashing over me. I turn and walk to the car in a half-daze, climb into the back seat, and slam the door shut.
    â€œWhoa, you okay?” Jay asks, opening the door.
    â€œYep,” I say, staring straight ahead at nothing.
    â€œOkay, you said yes, but it’s obviously a no.”
    I just keep staring into space; I keep thinking about that wedding dress, hearing the bride’s raspy voice .
    Kate comes back, her arms loaded down with drinks, snacks, and a giant slushie. “Why are you in the backseat?” she asks me. “Oh, god. You look awful. What happened?” She holds out a Vitamin Water for me, but I wave it away. “Did you see someone?”
    I nod.
    â€œYour mom?”
    I shake my head no. “A homeless woman,” I say. My voice is so calm, so f lat, that it scares me. “By the dumpster. She turned into some old-timey bride. In a wedding dress.” My throat catches, and I stop. “But this time it was different.”
    â€œDifferent how?” Jay asks.
    â€œShe said something to me.”
    â€œOMG,” Kate says. “OMG. What did she say?”
    The numbness cracks for just a second, and I feel the closest I’ve come to crying since the day I buried my mom. But of course I don’t. I just shove it down to that place deep inside, to the vast emotional graveyard where all feelings other than “f ine” go to die.
    â€œHelp me,” I quote.
    â€œWe will ,” Kate says, grabbing my hand. “I’m seeing things, too. We’re in this together. We’re here for you—”
    â€œNo,” I say. “That’s what the bride said. Riley. Help me. ”

Chapter 8
    Little Voices
    We’re quiet the rest of the way. Jay drives because I’m in no shape to be behind the wheel. I stretch out in the backseat and try to rest. Except I don’t. At all. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is