Chapter Eleven

For the first time in over a year, I wear a skirt to school.

The cold, smooth satin material hugs my hips. Chills run up my legs from the breeze, but I'm so nervous that I sweat. As wrong as it feels to admit, I wore this skirt for one person, and that person isn't me. Gemma grins from ear to ear when she spots me.

"Don't," I say, before she can even open her mouth.

I make it to Mr. Ruse's classroom before Elliott. Some people stare. Ugh. Too obvious? Fighting the urge to sprint into the girls' locker room and change into my P.E. uniform, I droop my jacket over my bare legs to hide the goose bumps. I can practically hear every feminist that ever lived rolling over in their graves.

Two minutes before the bell, Elliott slips through the door of Mr. Ruse's classroom. His injuries look much less gruesome than last night, though that's partly thanks to the navy blue beanie covering the scrape on his forehead. He smiles when he notices me, and I smile back. I open my mouth to say something, but before I can get a single word out, he turns his chair to face Maddy.

I'm an idiot. Why did I think that things between us might be radically different now? He's still Elliott King, and I'm still Psycho. Not exactly in the running for most likely to get together.

"Hey."

Elliott lurks next to the door after class. Maddy is halfway down the hallway, and there aren't any other girls beside him.

"Hey," I respond.

"You want a ride later?"

One second he's ignoring me, and the next, he's offering to drive me to practice. I want to slam my head into the wall.

"Sure," I reply.

"Sweet. Meet me in the lot after last period."

I nod. During lunch, Gemma and Nishi pester me with questions about Elliott, none of which I have answers to.

"I ran into him last night," I lie. "I went to the gym to practice alone, and he was there. We talked about his family and his tattoos. I thought maybe . . ."

My voice trails off. Elliott slipped out of the bathroom before anything happened between us. "But nope. Nothing. And today he's still all over Maddy."

"There's a simple solution to this problem," Nishi states. "You have to play hard to get."

"But I'm not hard to get. I'm literally the least hard to get person at this school."

"Who cares? Just don't let him know that he has so much power over you. He'll be crawling at your feet in no time."

I lower my head. "I already agreed to let him drive me to boxing."

"Act like hot guys take you to practice every day."

Nishi's right. Elliott gets anything and everyone he wants. I don't want to be the girl fawning over his every word.

I bite into the apple in my hand. "You make it sound so easy."

"Hey, you're a good actress," Gemma counters. "Remember middle school theater?"

She has a point. At this point, I can lie as easily as I tell the truth.

"Fine," I concede. "I'll try."

When school ends, Elliott's waiting inside of his convertible. Following Nishi's advice, I smile as I sit down, but I don't say anything. Neither of us speak as he drives out of the parking lot. After only a minute, the awkwardness becomes too unbearable to stand.

"Nice weather outside," I whisper.

Really, Rose? You may as well jump out of the car.

Elliott taps his scabbed fingers against the steering wheel. "Yep."

When we arrive at the gym, Andre greets both of us with a knowing smile. I fight the urge to pull him aside and demand he answer all my lingering questions. For starters, why the hell create an underground fighting ring in the first place?

I wrap only my left hand, dressing it in my pink boxing glove. The gym is spotless, floors sparkling from what I can only imagine took hours of work and at least a gallon of bleach. As usual, I'm partnered with Elliott. I begin to exercise with my left hand, but then I position myself so I'm leading with my right.

"No," Elliott declares. "You'll hurt yourself."

I grumble, annoyed. "It's going to get weak. I can't fight with one hand."

"I didn't know you had plans to fight anyone."

"Well, you made it look so fun."

My voice drips with sarcasm, but Elliott still shoots me a death glare.

After a few rounds of jabs and stretches, Andre breaks us up into sparring partners. To my surprise, he pairs me with Sofía and Elliott with Riley. Approaching Sofía with caution, I remind her of my injured hand before she can accidentally (or purposefully) break it.

"How did it happen?" she asks.

"I punched a mirror," I admit since I don't have to worry about Sofia reporting me to Dr. Taylor. "It was a shitty day."

She's the first person that I've ever sparred with, and after only one round, my confidence is destroyed. She's too fast for me to keep up with and strategic in a way that only someone with years of training could be. Her glove clashes into mine. I pause, heaving, to reach for my mouthguard.

"You know, you're not too bad at this," she says. "But you'll never improve if you don't believe you can."

"You don't think I want to get better?"

"I didn't say that. I said you want to get better, but you're convinced you can't. You keep stepping backwards so I won't hit you. That's not how you improve."

"Sorry," I stammer.

"Don't apologize," she replies, unflinching. "Take a hit. You'll feel better."

And I do. Many. By the time Andre ends practice, I've been punched in the forearm, shoulder, and abdomen more times than I can count. But Sofía was right. After so much falling on my face, my only option is to get back on my feet and try again. I almost tied a round before I tripped on my own shoelace and landed butt first on the floor.

"You're brave for going against Sofía," Elliott comments, joining me on the bench after practice ends. "Your first sparring partner is a professional."

"Trust me, I know." I moan, stretching out my sore arm.

I gulp down my entire bottle of water, choking on the last sip, which makes Elliott laugh. I'm really not doing the best job of playing hard to get.

"I want to remind everyone about the competition in Savannah this weekend. If any of you aren't going to be able to make it, please let me know by tonight," Andre announces.

Crap. I completely forgot to ask my dad.

Elliott glances at me. "Are you going?"

"Hopefully. You?"

"Yeah."

Swinging my backpack across my shoulder, I leave the gym. Elliott follows a few paces behind. The sun sinks beneath the horizon, lighting up the sky in gold and orange hues.

"Want a ride home?"

He's not making this easy.

"No, thanks."

He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights up. He speaks through a mouthful of smoke, "There's a match coming up. You should come."

The way he emphasizes match clues me into the fact that it's not a legal one.

I straighten my spine. "Where is it?"

"Savannah."

"Like . . . the competition?"

Elliott smirks. He takes another hit of the cigarette, blowing out the puff of smoke in one fluid motion.

"Andre's clever. This one will be big. People will travel from far away for it."

If Elliott doesn't classify the fights at Midtown Ring as big, then I'm not sure I want to find out the scale of this one. I picture the usual crowd at Disney World crammed inside of a large gym.

"Oh," I murmur. "Well, I'll let you know what my dad says."

He nods, then turns toward his car, clouds of tobacco smoke following his broad footsteps. As his convertible exits the parking lot, the remnants of the orange sunset fade into darkness. I spend the train ride home trying to come up with the best strategy to convince my dad to let me go to Savannah. I decide on a combination of flattery and begging.

My father is standing over the stove when I get home. The house smells like broccoli and cheese. I turn my nose, holding in a gag. Even though I've told him a thousand times that I hate broccoli, he cooks it anyway. Mom remembered those things—never him.

"Hi," he says as I step into the kitchen. "Are you hungry?"

"My coach signed us up for a boxing competition next weekend in Savannah. We would leave Friday, so I'd have to miss a day of school, and we'll get back Sunday. Andre already booked hotels. I don't even have to pay anything," I blurt out, tripping over my own words.

So much for strategy.

My dad puts down the spatula. He inspects my injured hand. I know what he's thinking—letting me go anywhere alone is a bad idea. Considering there's an underground fight club in Savannah, his instincts are right.

"I'm only an alternate, so I won't be competing," I plead. "I want to go to support everyone, and Andre thinks it will be a great learning experience."

I wish my name was on the lineup, but Andre is right. I need more preparation before I can fight in any sort of tournament. This weekend could be the learning experience that I've been waiting for. I don't want to miss it.

"Rose, I don't want you to feel like you're jailed, but it's hard for me to know that you're safe when you're so far away."

This is a big ask. I haven't been allowed to spend much time away from home since my mother died. And after my hand injury disaster, I doubt my father wants to make an exception. He runs his hand through his curls and lets out a sigh that destroys any sliver of hope I had left.

"I know," I respond, defeated. I take a seat at the dinner table.

My dad sits down next to me. "You have to text me every few hours with updates. Get your homework done early. And I want Andre's number, just in case."

"Yes!" I shriek, standing back up and wrapping my arms around his body. I squeeze, practically lifting him off of the chair as I do.

"Damn!" he exclaims. "You are getting stronger."

I flex my biceps with a giggle. We discuss more details of the competition over dinner. I text Elliott to let him know about my dad agreeing.

ELLIOTT: Cool. I'll drive.

Four hours alone in a car with Elliott. The opposite of distancing myself from him. Gemma and Nishi might kill me, but I can't bring myself to care. This road trip is the perfect excuse to ask him the questions that I've been sitting on.

"Rose?" my dad interrupts. "Are you okay?"

I snap out of it. This is probably one of the only times that my zoning out has nothing to do with anxiety. As much as it kills me to do, I pull out my phone from beneath the table and hold it up to him.

"I was texting Elliott," I admit. "Hence the distraction."

His face turns as red as a tomato. My father is the last person in the world that ever wants to discuss boys. I think he'd rather me wrestle an alligator than go out on a date.

"Well, then," he states. "That's . . . good."

My poor dad. I wish my mom were here to let him know that everything was going to be fine. I would tell her all about Elliott over one of the small tables at Simone's Chinese Restaurant. She would've adored him. She had a soft spot for people who needed it most.

*

The next two days pass by in a blur. On Thursday night, I pack a bag with clothes for every possible occasion, because who's to say there won't be a ballroom dance after the underground fight club?

I'm hardly able to sleep, kept awake by imagining a thousand different scenarios of how this weekend will play out. I'm deep into a version where Elliott's car breaks down when my alarm goes off. As nervous as I am for this trip, I've been looking forward to it ever since Andre first brought it up.

I throw myself out of bed and start getting ready. Twenty minutes later, Elliott texts me to let me know that he's on the way. I tuck the front of my black T-shirt into a pair of high waisted blue jeans. Then, I grab my backpack and head downstairs. My dad passes me a granola bar and a banana.

"I'll text you when we get there," I say.

"Be safe, Rose. Call me if you need anything at all."

"Will do. Love you!"

I plant a kiss on his cheek. Elliott's convertible revs from outside. He's right on time. My father peers out the front door, taking in the sight of the BMW with a disapproving frown.

"Is he a safe driver?"

Nope.

"Yes. I'll be fine. Please don't embarrass me."

He hesitates, and I know that it's taking every bit of his willpower to let me exit the front door. I inch my way toward it, and to my surprise, my father remains in the kitchen.

"Morning," Elliott yawns.

We're wearing almost the same thing. His black V-neck sticks tightly to his chest.

"Nice outfit," I tease.

I toss my backpack on the floor of the passenger's seat and grab the aux cord without asking permission. I've been working on a playlist ever since my dad approved the trip. I don't know anything about Elliott's music taste apart from the horrible stuff he blasts when he drives by my window, so I chose a variety of artists from Frank Ocean to Florence and the Machine.

"The best part of all of this was getting out of school. I was supposed to give a presentation in history today," I say.

"You have Dr. Jules?"

I nod, and Elliott groans. "Hate her. She failed me twice."

"Twice? Wouldn't the school hold you back for that?"

"Not if you pay them enough."

He relaxes against the driver's seat, unafraid despite the hours of alone time ahead of us. Meanwhile, I might explode from anxiety at any given second.

"So, we're friends now, right?"

I contemplate his question. "I know your darkest secret but not your favorite color. Does that make me a friend?"

"Blue," he answers with a smirk. "What's yours?"

"Purple."

Not exactly the conversation that I was hoping we would have, but I'll take anything at this point.

"What's your favorite book?" he asks.

I have to think about the answer to that one. I've read so many in the last few months that the titles blend together. The escape from reality that books offer kept me relatively sane after my mom died.

"Probably On the Road. What about you?"

"The Things They Carried," he replies. No hesitation.

"I haven't read it."

He half smiles. "It doesn't feel like a book."

I make a mental note to get my hands on a copy. Elliott turns onto the highway that leads out of Atlanta, and I silently pray that nothing crashes and burns while I'm gone. I want to focus on learning from the competition; maybe even have some actual fun. God knows I need it.

"Are you into any sports apart from boxing?"

"My dad made me join the swim team when I was kid," Elliott responds. "I sucked. Kept feeling like I was going to drown even though I could swim. I'm kind of terrified of water."

"What about your mom? Did she have any say?"

It's a delicate topic, I know. Elliott hasn't spoken a word about her to me. He pulls out a cigarette from the package in the cupholder and holds it up against the lighter, smoke covering the frown on his lips.

"Drugs. My dad got custody when I was young."

I think back to the line of cocaine on the table at Elliott's party. He told me the other night that drugs were what got him into fighting in the first place. It's strange that he would try something that ruined his life so much already.

"Where is she now?"

"Last I heard, somewhere in Florida with a new boyfriend."

He takes a hit of the cigarette. The smoke floats out of the window and into the morning air.

"Have you ever been to Savannah?" Elliott asks.

I tell him the story of the one time that I went for my tenth birthday. I begged my parents to take me after learning that one of the most haunted cities in America was only a few hours away from our house. My dad thought I was mad for wanting to go, but my mom was thrilled. We spent most of the trip trying to photograph ghosts. My mom was convinced that we had seen a few by the end of the trip.

"Do you think you did?"

"At the time, yeah. But now I think she was probably imagining shit."

"You haven't told me much about her," he prompts.

I rub some of the sweat on my palms onto my jeans. Talking about my mom is never easy, even when the questions are innocent. I always learn something new about her when I do. Those discoveries are rarely good.

"She had anxiety like me, but it became more severe as I got older. She started feeling . . . disconnected. Talking nonsense or locking herself in her room for hours staring into space. We took her to an inpatient psychiatric facility during my freshman year. She was only there for a week until she escaped."

Elliott throws the remainder of the cigarette out the window. His grip on the wheel hardens.

"I found her at home," I whisper.

Most of that day is still a blur, but I remember an empty pill bottle and ambulance sirens as EMTs rushed her to the hospital, only to report hours later that they weren't able to save her.

"How the hell did she get out of the facility?"

It's the million-dollar question that my dad and I still haven't gotten an answer to. At first, I put all my energy into hating her caretakers, drawing up elaborate revenge plans where I would storm their houses or get them fired. But Dr. Taylor talked me off the ledge. "Rose, giving them your energy won't change the past. What's done is done. Your mom would want you to focus on healing."

I shrink into the seat. "No idea. I try not to think about it."

Elliott turns down the music as we merge into the lane that leads to Savannah. The sky above us is clear, but there are patches of dark clouds ahead.

"What did she like to do?" Elliott asks.

I grin, grateful for the question. "She was a writer. A really good one. She loved gardening, but the plants usually didn't make it more than a month."

My dad and I joked that she couldn't keep anything alive.

"What about the rest of your family?" Elliott continues. "Grandparents?"

"I see my grandparents on my mom's side sometimes, but they're all the way in Maine. My dad's family doesn't speak to us anymore. My dad's Baptist, but he knew raising me Jewish was important to my mom, so he tried—well, he's trying his best. They don't really approve."

"My family isn't much of anything," Elliott says. "I don't know about my mother's parents. My father's are dead."

I stare out the window, entertained by the colors of the changing leaves on the trees. We talk about little things that feel like big things to me. Elliott has a story to tell about any topic I bring up, but usually it involves drugs or alcohol of some kind. I honestly don't know how he's managed to stay alive this long.

"You did what?"

"The opportunity was there, so I had to take it," Elliott states.

"You partied with Conor McGregor?"

He presses a finger to my lips, shushing me. The clash of his skin against mine is unexpected but tender and comfortable. I smile through the touch.

"This is classified information, Rose. If you tell a single soul, he'll come after you."

I burst out laughing. Elliott leans his head against the back of his seat, the convertible coasting through the Savannah city limits sign. By the time we arrive at our hotel, I feel like I know Elliott better than I did before, yet I still have a thousand more questions prepared. I'm tempted to bring up the fight club, but I hold off. I'm sure most of my questions—and some that I don't even know I have yet—will be answered this weekend.

The hotel, a shining example of old Southern architecture, is only a few streets away from the Savannah River. With its Colonial style windows and columned doorway, it's straight out of the eighteenth century.

"You made it!" Andre declares, meeting us outside of the hotel entrance. "Everyone's here except for Max. Stomach flu."

Yikes.I hop out of the car, grateful to stretch my legs. Andre passes us both a set of keys.

"Rose, you're rooming with Sofía. Elliott, you'll be with Riley."

Sofía. Great.

With a huff, I lug both of my bags out of the trunk.

The interior of the hotel is stunning. Antiques and old paintings line the walls, and the ceiling is painted a royal gold. When I arrive at my room on the fourteenth floor, Sofía is seated on the bed closest to the window. The wallpaper, an unappealing floral pattern, is peeling in several sections. The furniture is a deep, imperial red. It smells like cheap wilderness scented air freshener.

"Are you going out with us tonight?" Sofía inquires.

Glancing in the mirror on the wall, I don't appear a day over seventeen.

"I doubt I can get into any bars."

"Mierda. I completely forgot," she mutters. "We could try to sneak you in?"

"It's alright. Not worth getting everyone in trouble."

We sink back into silence as I unpack my suitcase, placing my gloves and hand wraps onto the desk so I don't forget them tomorrow. Then, I pick out the cutest outfit I brought with me: a forest green T-shirt dress and white combat boots. The dress brings out some of my few curves.

Sofía smirks mischievously. "Estás buena. You'll definitely get in with that outfit on."

She's not the type to throw around compliments, so I take her word for it. I carefully braid my hair down my back, then pull out a few stray pieces to frame the round shape of my face. Sofía adorns a pair of black baggy jeans and a silky red tank top. She looks glamorous, the opposite of how she's usually dressed at Midtown. We meet up with the rest of the group in the lobby. Tourists buzz around the hotel, chit-chatting about their plans for the night. Riley has a drink in his hand.

Elliott's lips part when I approach him, scanning my body up and down.

Andre chuckles at Elliott's surprised expression. "You look great, Rose," he states, breaking the silence between Elliott and myself. I thank him.

"Yeah," Elliott agrees. "You do."

Andre calls the group together. It's weird to see everyone dressed in non-athletic clothes. Riley's wearing a red button up, and Andre is sporting plaid pants and a fitted T-shirt.

"I want us all to have fun tonight, but keep in mind that we have to be up at six in the morning. I don't want any of you hungover. Got it?"

Spoken like a true coach. I nod, even though I have no intention of staying out late or drinking.

"Aye, captain," Riley says, saluting Andre.

"There's a strip of bars down the street," Andre continues. "I say we hang out there?"

Everyone escapes out of the revolving door. I skip to Elliott's side.

"I can't get into any bars. Neither can you, right?"

He pauses, confused.

"What?" I raise an eyebrow. "You can?"

He opens his wallet and passes me a Connecticut driver's license with his picture on it. The date of his birthday is printed in a bigger font than the rest of the ID. I've done better work in Microsoft.

"Nobody will ever believe that's real."

"You'd be surprised."

"Well, real or not, I don't have one," I murmur. "Can you tell the rest of the group I'm sick, and I'll head back upstairs?"

"I'm not leaving you alone in that shitty room all night," he says, as if I've suggested something totally nonsensical. "Why don't we go spot some ghosts?"

All of a sudden, I'm a child again, believing my mother's stories about hauntings and spirits. Elliott lights up at the innocent smile plastered across my face.

"Really?" I exclaim.

"We're here. Why not?"

We wave goodbye to the rest of the group before wandering in the direction of the harbor. The streets are alive with children licking ice-cream cones and parents snapping photographs.

"I haven't seen the harbor in the daytime," I tell Elliott.

During my family trip, we were always hopping from one place to the next, never actually stopping to take in the views. Anything that kept her mind distracted was my mother's idea of a perfect vacation.

"We'll come back tomorrow," Elliott demands. "You have to see the colors."

I don't argue. One of the promises that I made after my mother's death was that I would try and see everything that she never got the chance to.

"There's a cemetery nearby," Elliott states, pointing down at a map of the area he grabbed from the hotel lobby. Bonaventure Cemetery. We're only a block away. "Want to go?" he asks.

I nod. We leave the harbor behind us and snake down one of the cobblestone alleyways, following a few steps behind a ghost tour. Some of the headstones scattered throughout Bonaventure are twice my height. One in particular stands out. My father took a picture of the inscription on the stone.

"I've been here before." I realize.

Two security guards approach, informing us to be quick since the cemetery is closing in half an hour.

"Not a problem," I reply. "I know where to go."

I lead Elliott to a stained glass crypt positioned at the bottom of the hill. The exact details are hard to make out, but the streetlamps are bright enough to illuminate the biggest words on the headstone. Elliott's bruised lip curls as he reads it out loud.

"Rosalyn Berman. Died in 1825. Beloved daughter and friend. You were reincarnated?"

"I was so surprised to find somebody with my name here," I recall. "It was one of the first times I really thought about death."

Walking to the side of the structure, I pause in view of the stained glass design. The image of a cross surrounded by several wilting roses stares back at me.

"I think about death all the time now."

Elliott takes a step closer. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his black skinny jeans.

"What do you mean?"

I take a seat on the curb. "There was a version of myself that I liked a lot more than who I am now. I've been trying to go back to her."

The Rose who existed before my mother's death had less fear. She was careless and impulsive and compassionate to a fault. Now, I can't do anything without hesitating. I'm afraid of everything, it seems like.

Elliott pulls a cigarette out of his pocket. His sharp jaw turns as he stares down at me. "You shouldn't let yourself get stuck in the past. Shit happens and it changes you. You can be the person you want to be right now."

"But I don't know how to get unstuck. Every time I see an old picture of myself, I remember how much happier I was, and I can't let it go."

"Let's bury her then," he suggests. "The old you. So that perfect life doesn't haunt you anymore. Start a clean slate."

Elliott steps up to the structure, lighting the cigarette in his hand as he moves. I stand and follow at his side.

"Pretend this tomb is yours. The old you. What do you want it to say?" he questions.

"Here lies Rosalyn Berman, so pale we mistook her for a vampire."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm serious."

Elliott takes my hand, holding the cigarette in the other, and slips his fingers in between mine. His skin is warm. I inhale a sharp breath as he applies steady pressure to my palms.

"Tell me what you're thinking," says Elliott.

Nothing now, except for your hand on mine.

"I wish I didn't feel like I'm on the edge of losing it all the time," I admit. "I miss the person I was when I was here with my mother."

Elliott releases my hand and kneels down to the ground. He puts out the cigarette on the ground, then passes me a handful of dirt. Some of it escapes through the cracks between my fingers, unraveling right in front of me. I sprinkle the remainder on top of the grave.

"Here's to burying who I was and appreciating who I am now," I whisper, this time more to myself than Elliott.

He nods approvingly. I remain still for a long, quiet moment. The wind rushes through my hair, slipping through the thin material of my dress, but I'm not cold.

Elliott doesn't take my hand again, but he doesn't need to. I can stand on my own.

"You should go find the rest of the group," I suggest. "I think I'll go back to the room for the night."

"Are you sure?"

"I want to be alone, if that's okay."

He guides me back down the main road, tourists and families laughing with each other as they pass us by. Elliott stops at the doorway to the hotel. He looks older and more intimidating in the darkness, but I still feel comfortable next to him.

"Call me if you need anything."

"Thanks." He turns in the direction of the strip of bars down the street as I slip back inside of the lobby. Without Sofía around to make fun of it, the vintage décor is spooky. I take one of the portraits down from the wall and turn it facedown on the table so the man in the frame isn't watching me.

I can't get Mom out of my head.

An image of Doris Berman is plastered there, frozen in time like the man in the portrait. She isn't afraid, or tired, or suffering. She's the person I grew up loving, who loved me more than I ever could have known.

I spent weeks after her death regretting every rude comment I ever made. I shunned myself for not appreciating her more while she was around. But she must have known that I loved her. I'm not that good of a liar, even now.

She didn't kill herself because of me. I've been trying to come to terms with that truth every day since I found her body in the bathroom. Blaming myself rather than her invisible illness was so much easier, especially when acknowledging that illness meant accepting that I might be suffering from it, too.

Tears well in the corner of my eyes. Sometimes, I cry when I crave the warmth of her arms around me, comforting me, promising me everything will be fine. That longing has vanished. Right now, I feel her next to me. She's inside every crevice and corner of this town. She's the ghost we were chasing.

"I love you," I whisper, holding onto the hope that she might be listening.