Free Return to the Dark House by Laurie Stolarz

that stairwell. But call down here if you need anything, okay? I wouldn’t let you go down in flames. I’m totally Team
Ivy.” She extends her fist for a bump.
    “Thanks,” I say, leaving her hanging, already making my way upstairs.
    My heart pounds with each step. Blood rushes from my face, leaving me a little woozy. I reach the second-floor platform and breathe through the racing sensation, remembering that I haven’t
taken my meds. I swallow down a couple of pills with a swig of my water bottle, and then swing the door open.
    Taylor is already there, standing at the end of the hallway. She looks so much different than the way I remember from the pictures on her phone. Gone are the pretty dresses and the megawatt
smile, replaced by baggy sweats and a subtle grin.
    “Ivy?” she calls out.
    I quicken my pace, past several more rooms, until I finally get to her.
    “Is that really you?” she asks, wrapping her arms around me.
    My face gets buried in the strawberry-scented mass of her thick blond tendrils, but oddly it feels good—like hugging a long-lost friend.
    The embrace breaks, and I take a deep breath, feeling a melting pot of emotion stir up inside me. “This just feels so surreal.”
    “For me too.” She takes my hand and leads me inside her room.
    My eyes zero in on her leopard print bedcovers. They match the luggage she brought to the Dark House, as well as the cell phone I found in her bed that first night.
    “Everything okay?” she asks, following my gaze.
    I nod and take yet another deep breath, willing my medicine to work.
    “I’m stoked to finally meet you.” She squeezes my hand and motions for me to take a seat on her futon.
    I drop my bag and sit down, wishing I could relax. There’s a sour smell in the air that makes me think of salad dressing. “How did you manage to score a single room?” I
venture, opting for small talk. “I thought perks like that were only reserved for resident staff and upperclassmen.”
    “It’s sort of a long story,” she says, plopping down on the leopard print covers. “And not exactly my idea of a perk.”
    I glance toward her shoe rack, where she’s got an elaborate stash of ballet slippers. “Are you studying dance?”
    “Another long story—one that requires at least a few squares of chocolate to tell. Feeling munchy?” She gets up and grabs a supersize bar of chocolate from her shelf. She opens
it up and breaks off a piece. “Help yourself,” she says, passing me the bar. “God knows that I do.”
    “What changed your mind about meeting?” I ask, steering the conversation.
    “My life has been utter hell here, Ivy.” She lies back on her bed and stares up at the ceiling—at a poster that says DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY. “But who am I to
complain? I mean, I’m still breathing, right? Not all of us Dark House Dreamers can say the same. Nobody here lets me forget that.”
    “Okay, so you changed your mind about meeting,
because
…”
    “Now
that
answer requires something salty. Hungry?” she asks, taking me off guard.
    I look down at the piece of chocolate melting in my hand.
    “Because I have a serious hankering for pancakes and french fries right now.” She rolls over to face me. “Oh, but wait, you’re a real foodie, aren’t you? You
probably have a way more sophisticated pal—”
    “French fries and pancakes actually sounds perfect right now,” I tell her, feeling somewhat hungry too, and more intrigued than ever by what she has to share.

I VY IS INTENSE — LIKE A WALKING ad for Valium or something. She barely says two words on the walk over to the student
center, but I can tell that her brain is going—I can see it in her eyes: wide, yet unengaged, as if she’s someplace else entirely. Plus, she keeps fumbling with something in her pocket.
Car keys? Spare change? A cell phone? A stress ball?
    The student center is mostly dead at this hour—too late for dinner, too early for post-party pigging out. I point out the