chapter thirteen.

Simon - present day

Being in my old bedroom should be comforting, or at least nostalgic, but instead it's really, really weird.

I wake up sometime in the middle of the night, and the house is still. I ease myself upright, scrubbing a hand through my hair and blinking into the dark. In the shadows, I can make out my cork board, littered with postcards and snippets of poems I never finished. There's my trophy case, which is relatively bare, save for some first grade soccer participation awards and a spelling bee trophy. Then there's my bookshelf, which I pretty much scraped bare when I left for university, save for a few framed photos. My face varies in these photos. The only constant is my family, really.

My mind is awake and kicking, so there's no way in hell I'm going back to sleep. I don't try. I just swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the bottoms of my feet meet cold, cold wood. The air conditioning is whirring, faintly, and when I step out into the hall, it smells like lavender air freshener.

My body carries me in the right direction before I very much know where I'm going. I pass my parents' bedroom, Abbie's bedroom, Noah's bedroom (whose door is wide open, for some reason). At the end of the hall is a rickety staircase, closed off by narrow, yellowing walls. Sawdust scent twitches at my nostrils as I climb the steps on the tips of my toes.

At the top, I pause. A cool breeze wafts in from the open window, pricking goosebumps on my skin. Sitting before the window, as if soaking in the moonlight, is my brother. He's criss-cross applesauce at the sill, half his body leaned over it. Beside him is what looks to be a mug filled with tea, the tea bag's label dangling over the cup's side.

I smile a little to myself, switching it on. Stretching my fingers till they're as long as Noah's. Shortening my hair, bleaching it blond. Squaring my shoulders, lifting myself a little taller. Giving myself a slight, sun-kissed tan, puncturing a dimple in my cheek.

Then I say, in Noah's voice, "Boo."

Noah jolts, turning around. He squints at me for a moment, then says, his voice trembling a little, "Simon, you asshole. Stop that. That's creeping me out."

"What?" I say, leaning against the doorjamb. "You're just talking to yourself."

"Yeah, but that's—that's my face. You're wearing my face and you're talking to me and it's weird," Noah says, cringing away from me. "No. Scratch that. You're wearing my skin. My voice. Me. And I did not consent."

"Fine," I say, and catch Noah let out a breath as I morph back to myself. It's certainly more comfortable. My body feels strange when it's as tall and broad as Noah's. "I was just joking with you."

"Fuck you," Noah says, though he scoots over to allow me space beside the window.

"Careful," I say, resting my hands on the sill. The moon is a waxing crescent tonight, a sliver of white that somehow seems bright enough to blind. "If Mom hears you talk like that, she'll kill you."

"Please. She'd understand as soon as I told her how you were messing with me."

I chuckle. "That still bothering you?"

"Yes," Noah says, throwing up his arms. When he looks at me, his eyes are wide, more a pale gold than brown in the washed moonlight. "It's hellish! Demonic! Have you ever had someone that looked like you that wasn't you talk to you?"

"No."

"Well, it's weird."

"I'm a shapeshifter," I say, more to the sky than to him. "Everything I do is weird."

Noah harrumphs, cradling his tea against his chest. He's wearing what looks to be one of Dad's old golf T-shirts, which is twice his size and has a hole in the collar. Even dressed like a hobo, he still looks he belongs on a magazine cover. "Why are you up?" Noah asks.

I turn, positioning myself against the wall. It's all the same as it was, as it used to be when I was young and bored and came up here to get away from everyone else in the house. The wallpaper's peeling, but it's the same warm, burnt orange. The hole in the ceiling fan has yet to be patched. The few stuffed animals I ever owned—a bunny I named Hopskotch, a tiger that I named (creatively) Stripes, and an elephant I never named at all that's missing one of his eyes, thanks to Abbie—are still shoved against the far wall. The only thing out of place is Noah.

"I could ask you the same thing," I say, squinting at the analog clock beside the window until I make out the time. Just past two in the morning.

"Yeah, well," Noah replies, slurping his tea in a way that's annoyingly loud. "I asked first."

"I was bored."

"Of sleeping?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

A cool rush of air through the open window pricks more goosebumps on my arms, makes me shiver. Without hesitation, Noah fishes around behind him for one of Mom's old quilts, grabs one, and tosses it at me. I thank him under my breath, wrapping it around my shoulders.

"You were really quiet at dinner," Noah says. His eyebrows are drawn in, just slightly, bottom lip sucked underneath his teeth. He's looking at me like he looks at his motors and fans and circuit boards, like I am a jumble of wires that desperately needs figuring out. I pretend it doesn't bother me, but it does. "Any reason for that?"

"You know me, Noah. I'm just a quiet person."

"Yeah, not around us, Ginger Snap," he scolds, pulling on my ear until I swat his hand away. A smile crosses his face, briefly, but it's gone just as soon as it was there. "Is everything okay with you?"

I exhale. Mom told me, later, not to mention the whole Larry thing to anyone else yet. She didn't want to worry any of them—especially not Noah, we agreed, since he would get way too flustered and overprotective. Now, however, in this narrow room and with him looking at me like that, I feel terribly cornered.

"Simon," he prompts.

Screw it. "Mom told me Larry's back."

Noah jumps to his feet, so suddenly I seem to have missed the moment between when he was sitting and when he's standing. His hands curl into fists. "Larry! Larry's back and you didn't think to tell me immediately? I swear to God, just watch that bastard come around, I'll kick him, I'll kick his ass—Jesus Christ, Simon! Why didn't you tell me?"

"This," I say, calmly. "This is precisely why I didn't tell you."

Noah glares at me.

He sits down. "But you're thinking the same thing I am, right? That if he's coming back, he's probably coming back with a goal."

Wrapping myself tighter in my quilt, I lean backwards until I'm against the floor, eyeing the broken ceiling fan. "I don't want to think about it."

"But we have to! If he really is looking for you, we need to have a plan."

I feel around with my foot until I locate Noah's ankle, and then I kick it. Though I'm not looking at him, I know he's giving me the finger. I just know it. "I said I don't want to think about it, okay? We all know Larry's the curse of the St. John family, and we all know we don't want to deal with him. The conclusions have been made. There's nothing else to discuss."

I close my eyes. Noah lets out a ragged grunt. "Simon, I just want to protect you."

"I know," I say. "But one of these days I've got to protect myself, right?"

For a moment, Noah's silent, for long enough that I sit up, as if to make sure he's still there at all. He is, just sitting there and looking at me, the heat of his previous frustration evaporated from his face. Now he just looks concerned.

"Noah?"

He exhales, hugging his knees to his chest. Here, curled in on himself, in the failing light, he looks smaller, quieter, than he has in a long while. "As much trouble as you cause me, you know that if anything at all were threatening you, I'd fight for you. You know that, right? I'd take so much shit for you, Simon. So much."

I scoff. "Touching."

Something in his eyes hardens, enough to startle me. "I'm serious."

"Yeah," I say, nodding my head, the barest of smiles at my mouth. "I know. Thank you, Noah."

He clicks his teeth, holding out his fist to me. "Pound it."

We bump knuckles, and then he gives me the rest of his tea.