Harlem felt bad for the girl.
She'd gone and angered her, and that was always a bad idea. Harlem Tackey was known for her anger, and the things she did to people that caused it. There were so many rumors of people hospitalized and broken that Harlem had lost count about how many existed. She didn't even care that almost every one of them was absurd and a lie, excluding the one about Olivia Newton, who actually had found herself hospitalized. It wasn't entirely her fault, though. Not that anyone else seemed to see it that way.
Harlem was messed up, and everyone seemed to know it.
"I wonder if your mom's death really was an accident," Casey Morrison said, smiling in a way that was probably meant to be intimidating, but was actually far from. It would take a lot more than sharp words and sly smiles to scare Harlem. "Maybe she just wanted to get away from you."
The temperature around them seemed to drop, chilling as though it wasn't the middle of June, and more like it was the middle of winter and all the windows were open. Casey seemed to notice it, as well, as her eyes drifted all around them, searching for an air conditioner, or a really big fan. Neither of which were anywhere near them. Harlem knew what was happening, and it was why she pitied Casey Morrison. Harlem let the rumors spread for a reason; they kept people afraid and away from her, and they kept people safe. Harlem wasn't like other girls, and she couldn't control what she did when she was angry.
Casey Morison was going to understand that.
"Funny you should mention death," Harlem muttered under her breath, just loud enough that Casey was the only one that heard it, despite all of the people that were surrounding them, waiting to see what Harlem could do in person. Harlem knew what she could do; she could disappear into shadows and make people see their worst nightmares. Harlem was dangerous, a real hell on earth.
"That a threat, Tackey?" She said, squinting, making another face. Harlem squinted, doing everything in her power not to laugh at her. That would only make this stretch on longer than she wanted. "Bite m-"
"Walk away, girls." Harlem's attention was directed from Casey to the vice principal as he spoke, and though she frowned, she was grateful. The temperature in the room was still well below average, telling her that she was still fired up. She only calmed down as she was led away form Casey and towards the office.
At this point, Harlem wouldn't be surprised if the Vice Principal had heard all of the rumours, too. At least that would explain why he was only taking her to the office, and Casey was left in the hall without so much as a stern word. She couldn't really blame him either. His choices were either a three-time suspendee or a cheerleader and school representative. "Harlem, I'm going to give your parents-"
"Mary and Finch." Harlem corrected, scowling. After all the times she'd been in this situation, she'd have thought he would have remembered. Mary and Finch weren't worthy of any title with the word parent in it, even with the foster part. She and everyone else in the tiny apartment complex on sixth street knew it, being as they couldn't seem to go an hour without screaming at one another. Thankfully for them, they very rarely took their anger out on her. Half the time, she was sure they forgot they even had a seventeen-year-old kid living at the end of the hall, and that was the point. Aside from mealtimes, which were 7am and 6pm sharp, Harlem was invisible. To them, she was a ghost.
"Right," he said, clearing his throat as he realized his mistake. Harlem thought maybe he felt a little guilty about calling them her parents, and maybe it'd earn her less time with suspension. Teachers almost always fell for the orphan in foster care. It was emotional gold. He turned his desk phone towards her and she sighed. She'd been in that position enough to know that she was being asked to dial their number and hand it back to him. Harlem did as I'd done a million times before, typing in the 10 digit number that would direct him to the old house phone that hung on the kitchen wall back home. She pictured Mary answering it and listening half-heartedly to what Vice Principle Morgan was saying, asking him to repeat words every now and then because Finch would say something to distract her.
Harlem pictured Mary hanging up after simply telling him to let me walk home, giving him no time to object. That's just what happened, and people never seemed to learn. Harlem was already slinging her backpack over her shoulders when he hung up the phone and let out a heavy sigh. She shrugged, "When am I back to school?"
"Next week," He said, shaking his head. "And Harlem? Quit getting yourself into trouble."
"Will do," Harlem said, giving him a mock salute before she left his office, walking into the newly emptied halls. Harlem looked at the clock on the wall. Lunch had just ended, and everyone would be back in their classes by now, some ready to learn, others ready to aim and let spitballs wreak havoc. Her feet clicked against the floors as she walked, every step seeming to echo against the lockers and closed doors as she neared the exit at the end of the hall. Through the glass, she could see sunlight, and as she stepped out into it, it bathed her skin in a blanket of warm, almost immediately; a refreshing feeling against the sudden cold she'd been graced with inside.
She shoved her hands into her pocket and made her way down the stairs and towards the street, only to hear someone calling her name far behind her. "Harlem! Harlem, wait up!"
She stilled, turning to see who was running out the door and down the sidewalk after her. Ana ran with a jump in her step, her backpack swinging around on her shoulders as she neared Harlem. She was awkward and stumbled, but that was just Ana, clumsy as ever. If you didn't know she was a twelfth grader, you could easily mistake Ana for someone half her age, with her big, black-rimmed glasses and short figure, the only thing that stood out about her was the fiery red hair that always reminded Harlem of a flickering flame. She stopped just in front of her, short of breath, and Harlem gave her a small smile, "What are you doing? Don't you have math class?"
"Yeah," She said, shrugging. Ana stood up straight, "Math's boring, though. I'd rather go with you."
Harlem snorted, "I guess I can't argue."
"So," Ana said, holding the 'o'. "Heard you and Casey Morison were going at it at lunch. I heard from Thommy that it was a full blown chick fight."
Harlem rolled her eyes, though she was far from surprised. "Lie, but she did try to pick a fight. She better be counting her lucky stars that Morgan showed up when he did."
"I second that," Ana said, laughing, "How are you feeling?"
"Fine?" She said. "Why?"
"Just wondering," Ana said. "We heading back to yours, then?"
"That's the plan," Harlem said, sighing heavily. "Back to Satan one and Satan two."
Ana choked on a breath and said nothing back. Harlem frowned, looking over at her. Ana wasn't usually one to keep quiet. For a moment, she worried that maybe she thought calling them "satan" had been to harsh, but Harlem wouldn't have been surprised if the pair of them drew a set of dollar-store horns in their skulls.
After a few minutes passed without a word said, Harlem shrugged her worry off. She hated to think it, but really, it was refreshing to be with Ana and not have her talking. It seemed all her friend ever wanted to do was talk. Ana cleared her throat as they neared the turn alley next to Mary and Finch's apartment, and the two fo them ducked into it and speed walking to the other end. It was a small, dark space between the apartment building and the laundromat next door, but Ana and Harlem had both never been fans of spending too much time there. It was covered in litter, and every now and then there'd be a stray cat that would knock something onto the ground. Harlem wasn't scared of it, but Ana always was.
"Can I come up with you?" Ana said when they stepped inside, wincing at the smell that filled both of their noses. It was disgusting and putrid, but it always seemed to be there, and they could never pinpoint exactly what caused it.
Harlem frowned, "Uh, I don't know. Maybe not today."
"Okay," Ana said, brushing it off. She took a step forward only to stop again. She froze, going still, and Harlem frowned.
"Ana?" Harlem said, moving in front of her. Her eyes were unfocused and her body frozen in place. Harlem began to feel a little bit worried, and so she reached out and poked her, digging her finger into the frail girl's shoulder.
Ana jumped back to her senses, shaking her head as if it'd been numb, "Oh, sorry."
"What was that?" Harlem questioned, and Ana just waved her off.
"Nothing," Ana said, clearing her throat. "How 'bout... how about you come over to my house tonight? Hm? We can have a sleepover, it'll be fun."
Harlem sighed. She wasn't feeling the sleepover thing, mostly because it usually meant a whole night of Ana talking about the boys in her classes. Harlem just wanted to get home and lie in bed, the one thing she looked forward to every day. Ana looked at her pleadingly, and she almost felt bad. Over the years, Harlem had proved to be Ana's only friend. "Not tonight, okay?"
"Oh, uh," She paused, "You sure? I can make brownies? Hmm?"
Harlem forced a smile, running a hand through her hair. "Not tonight."
Harlem may have felt guilty about shutting Ana down, but the more she looked at her, the more she realized Ana looked more than just pleading. She looked afraid. "Okay, well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow then. Oh, wait... No I won't, you won't be at school."
Harlem smiled again, "Yeah, I'll call you though, okay?"
"Sure, sure," Ana said, starting back down the street. As Ana left, Harlem stood in the doorway for a second longer before she started the climb upstairs, only stopping when she reached the third floor. When she pushed open the door to the apartment, she found Mary seated in front of the T.V. with her feet up on the coffee table and a glass of wine in her hand. Harlem rolled her eyes, walking right past her and down the hallway into her room. She closed the door behind her, completely undetected.
Her room was just as rundown as the rest of the building, with wallpaper that was peeling off of the walls and floorboards that creaked under any weight at all. It was barely big enough to fit her bed and dresser, but she supposed she'd never needed much. It worked, and that was all that really mattered. Above her, she heard the familiar sound of someone jumping on their floor, and she scowled. The apartment above theirs housed five kids who all had yet to reach age ten, and so more often than not, there always seemed to be something going on in the room above.
She sighed, dropping her bag onto the ground and falling back onto her bed. She only sat up again when the room chilled, growing far colder than it'd been when Casey Morrison had called her out.
Harlem's mom had died just over six years ago, when she'd been barely eleven. Before that, the two of them had moved through almost every state on the east coast of the country, never staying in one place for too long. When she was old enough to realize it, Harlem realized that they were running from something, but she'd never gotten the chance to figure out what. Whatever her mom was so scared of had chased them out of Florida and the Carolinas, all the way up to New York. Harlem had never really been sad about moving, though; if anything, she liked it. With every new city, she got to reinvent herself. When she was six, she threw on a hat and put her hair up under it, and she pretended to be a boy names Xander for an entire month before they moved on. When she was 9, she pretended to be a girl from Texas named Sue with a killer southern accent. When her mom died, she was being herself, boring old Harlem Tackey.
That day had always haunted her, and it probably always would. She remembered eating breakfast at a diner before being dropped off at a public school down the road from their hotel. She'd watched her mom drive away, leaving her outside her class with all of the other sixth graders. She'd gone to work, and she never came back.
It was close to then that Harlem had realized she was different. The room would freeze over when she was mad, something she was used to by now but hadn't been when she was a kid. If she stood perfectly still in a shadow, she could go undetected by even the keenest of eyes. It'd come in handy once when she'd been fostered by a drunk old woman who came looking for someone to use as a punching bag in the dead of night. She could look into someone's eyes and make them see their worst fears, be it spiders or snakes or a gun to their head. And best of all, she could talk to the dead.
She'd asked her mom about it a few times before, trying to get answers for why she could do the things she could. But no matter how many times she asked, she never got her answer.
Harlem sighed, looking over at the woman who stood in the corner of her room. She still looked exactly as she had all those years ago.
"Hi, mom."