Between by Jessica Warman Page A

neighbors’ house; and one in the back, which allows Richie a clear view of the Long Island Sound and the Elizabeth . “Why would you ask me something like that?”
    “Because,” he says simply, “it looks like he sure has moved on quick.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean they look awfully friendly. Don’t they?”
    Before I can argue with Alex, I notice that Richie has closed his bedroom door. Josie stands close behind him, beside his bed. She has her hands on his shoulders. She tugs him closer to her.
    He turns around. He stares at her for a moment. And then he kisses her.
    I didn’t know it was possible, as a ghost, to feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. But as I stand just inside Richie’s doorway, watching the two of them together, I actually feel like I’m going to be sick.
    Richie’s room is practically a shrine to the two of us. On his desk, below the back window that looks out over the Sound, are several framed photographs of us at different ages. There’s one of him and me standing at the bus stop together on our first day of kindergarten. We’re holding hands, both of us wearing those backpacks that look like stuffed animals. Richie’s is a lion; mine is a unicorn. Our fingers are laced together.
    In another photo, we’re sitting on the bleachers after a cross-country meet. Richie isn’t a runner, but he was always there to support me. In the picture, I’m wearing my running uniform, my long hair falling over my shoulders in two braids. I’m flushed and sweaty, obviously exhausted, but I’m smiling. So is Richie. His arm is slung casually around my tanned shoulders. It was Josie, I believe, who took the picture.
    The last photo—the biggest one, in a shiny silver frame—is of the two of us at homecoming last year. We look so happy. We loved each other. Like plenty of events, I don’t remember any details from the evening. But I’m willing to bet it was one of the best nights of my life.
    And now here he is—my boyfriend kissing my stepsister. They wrap their arms tightly around each other. Richie is crying a little bit. Still kissing him, Josie reaches for his face and wipes away a tear. Her hand lingers on his damp cheek. Josie’s fingernails are painted a sparkly shade of deep purple, which I happen to know matches her toes exactly. I was there with her, the week before, when my friends and I went to get our nails done. My own nails are the same exact shade—but not my toenails, of course.
    We’d chosen it on purpose—the nail polish, I mean. We were always coordinating like that. We loved being sisters.
    “This can’t be real,” I whisper, wiping my eyes. I don’t want to see what’s happening, but it seems impossible to look anywhere else. The kiss goes on for what feels like forever. With his open mouth against Josie’s, Richie begins to back her toward his bed .
    “I’m going to be sick,” I say, finally turning away, putting my arms around Alex and burying my face in his chest.
    He shrinks from my touch. “No, you’re not. You’re a ghost. You can’t throw up.”
    “I’m not so sure.”
    I squeeze my eyes shut. For a moment, there’s darkness. Then something changes.
    I’m in the past, standing in a corner of Richie’s room. He’s lying in bed, on top of the covers, in nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts. He is pale, hair plastered to his face with sweat. His breathing is deep and ragged.
    I know this day. Seemingly out of nowhere, the memory comes into sharp focus as I watch it unfold before me.
    It’s the spring of tenth grade. Richie’s parents are in Prague. They have been there for almost two weeks. The Wilsons left money for Richie to buy food while they were gone, and he’d stocked up on bread and lunch meat from the supermarket. Three nights ago he accidentally left a package of turkey on the counter overnight. He ate some anyway the next morning, and now he has food poisoning. He hasn’t been to school in two and a half days.
    The