After some convincing and a promise to fill up the gas tank, Rosie’s dad agreed to let her take the car to the movies. Rosie had a good feeling about the evening as she drove over to Omar’s house. Omar had seemed genuinely excited about the prospect of getting out of Middleton for the night.
Rosie pulled up to the well-kept, white stucco house and honked. Omar bounded out of the front door, making it across his front lawn in six big strides. He threw open the passenger door. “Hey, New Girl,” he greeted her.
She drove out on Zumbay Road, past the church and the graveyard. Omar stared intently out the window as if he were looking for something. Or someone. The memory of seeing Omar in the graveyard earlier that week flashed through Rosie’s brain.
“What’s out there?” she asked and immediately regretted it. Of course, his best friend was out there.
“Mackie. He was telling me to—” Omar broke off, thinking. “Maybe if I go . . .”
“Maybe if you go, what?” Rosie prompted him to continue, easing around bend in the road—the spot where Mackie fell. Omar went silent as he closed his eyes and leaned back until she was a mile or two past the curve.
“So, what do you think is going to happen in the movie?” she asked, changing the subject. “I heard they’ve already started filming a fourth one.”
The next forty minutes to the theater seemed to fly by as they got into a heated conversation about the plot twists in the first two movies in the series, who was evil and who was good, and what it all really meant.
At the theater they took two seats toward the back. The previews flashed on the screen.
Omar smiled. “You ready for this?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in mock seriousness.
“Yes. Because I already told you how it’s going to go down and you, sir, are going to owe me a piece of pie from Dina’s.” She smiled and poked his bicep.
“We’ll just see about that,” he said, sliding his arm around her shoulder.
“This is fun.”
“Yeah, it is.” Omar jostled her arm good-naturedly.
“You seem better.”
“I’ve got a good distraction.”
It was true, here at the theater Omar seemed more normal than she had ever seen him. He even gave Rosie a hard time about her dishwater-blond roots showing.
But then her stomach let loose a tremendous growl. Omar turned to her with wide eyes. “You eat a tiger today?”
She giggled. She’d been so distracted by thoughts of the weird things that had happened since she’d arrived at Middleton that she hadn’t eaten all day. But it seemed like it was going to be okay. Her plan was working! So now she needed a soda and some popcorn or she might just pass out, if not from hunger, then from pure exhilaration.
“Popcorn?” she asked. Omar nodded enthusiastically.
“I’ll be right back.” She stood with her purse and shuffled out of the row. The line for concessions seemed to take forever, and some of the soda spilled on her top as she navigated opening the heavy cinema door.
Rosie stepped into the dim theater. Someone was babbling, back to the left, near where she and Omar were sitting. “In that black jersey, I couldn’t see you. It was night, bro.”
She stopped. The vents hummed as they came on. The dark red curtains that ran along the wall rustled and billowed.
“Omar?” she called as her eyes adjusted to the dark. She took a tentative step towards their seats.
He turned to face her, eyes wide, his face glistening with sweat.
Rosie’s heart thudded. “Who are you talking to?”
“You didn’t see him?” Omar pointed to the curtains.
“See who?”
“Mackie. He was here. Just now. Coming for me.” Omar shook his head, the rest of his rambling words too jumbled for Rosie to understand. The movie screen filled with light.
“Sit down, you’re blocking the view,” a man said gruffly from a few rows behind her.
Rosie slid into her seat next to Omar. She touched his arm. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t you smell it?” Omar whispered.
“Smell what?” Rosie asked and sniffed. The normal movie theater smells of stale popcorn and sugar were gone, replaced by a faint pine smell.
“Mackie’s forest fresh cologne. He always wore it.”
“That’s why you think Mackie was here, because of the pine smell?”
Omar shook his head no. “He was just here, Rosie. He came out from the curtain. I tried to explain. But he said I needed to go—to go to him—like change places I think. He wants me to go to the graveyard. At midnight. I need to . . .”
“I didn’t see anyone,” Rosie said as she glanced at the still-moving curtains. “Mackie isn’t here, Omar.”
The loud clash of swords filled the air as the movie started. Music and screams and the whir of flying machines filled the theater.
Throughout the movie Rosie glanced at Omar, but he stared at the screen zombie-like, barely blinking.
When the houselights came on, they both stood. Rosie turned to him. Was he truly so guilt-ridden that he was losing his mind? But he wasn’t imagining all of it; she had smelled the pine too. What was happening?
“So, um, how do you feel now?” she asked. He’d obviously been seriously freaked out. But he hadn’t bolted—he’d stuck it through. That was progress.
“Sorry,” Omar said. “I guess I’m still dealing with it all.”
“It’s okay,” Rosie said. “I understand. My mom . . . well.” She didn’t need to air all of the family’s dirty laundry, did she? She didn’t need to tell him about how her mom spent some time “recovering,” as her mom’s therapist called it, after Jessica died. Maybe it was enough that Rosie was standing by him while he got through this. She touched his hand and he grabbed hers. “Thanks,” Omar said, as they walked out of the theater into the parking lot.
“I wish you would have known me before.” He looked over at her.
“Oh yeah?” She leaned into him. “What did I miss?”
“Well, I actually had a pretty good sense of humor,” he said. They walked through the cool twilight and passed a sleek, new SUV with a woman reorganizing some plastic bags in the car’s open back. Her husband leaned against the side of the vehicle, holding her big, green purse.
“How’s it going?” the man said, nodding to Omar and Rosie.
“Check it out,” Omar whispered to Rosie and then turned to the man. “Sir,” he began, “sorry, but in my humble opinion, that outfit requires a smaller purse, perhaps in a neutral tone.”
The man shook his head, laughed, and repeated the joke to his wife. The wife’s soft chuckle joined her husband’s.
“See?” Omar flashed a grin at Rosie as she retrieved the keys from her purse.
“Does my purse meet the high demands of your inner fashion police?” she asked, holding up her fuchsia bag.
But Omar was standing statue-like in front of her convertible, staring at the bumper.
“Omar, what is it?”
His arm raised, a finger pointed to a red smear across the beige front of the car.
“You hit somebody!” he said and took several quick breaths.
“No, Omar, this must be from a cart at the store. Those red plastic carts?” She bent over and ran her hand over the mark. “See?”
Omar shook his head. “It’s blood. He was here. Mackie. He was here.” He gripped her arm, hard. “It was him. I told you I was talking to him in the theater. He’s been following me. He thinks I hit him. Killed him. But,” a cry came from his lips. “I didn’t. I swear.” Tears fell from his eyes in relentless streaks.
“Omar.” Rosie’s hands found his shoulders. “Look at me.”
Slowly, his gaze left the bumper and moved to her eyes.
“I didn’t hit anyone with the car. Mackie is not here. It’s okay. You’re just panicking. I’m going to take you home now. Let’s just get in the car.”
Shaking, Omar got into the passenger seat. He was obviously traumatized and sleep deprived. If he didn’t calm down on the way home she might have to detour to the hospital. He snapped on his seatbelt.
Rosie moved to her door and bent low. There was definitely something red on the car. But as she looked closer, even she could see that it couldn’t have been from a shopping cart. The red smear wasn’t a red shapeless blob—it was three words. Someone had scratched “Go to him” on the bumper. She felt a cold breeze on the back of her neck as she stared at the letters.