Prom Dates From Hell

by Rosemary Clement-Moore

  He pointed toward a cabinet where I found a handheld lamp. I turned off the overhead; even with the residual light from the windows, we could see the eerie phosphorescence under the ultraviolet glow. “I sat on something.”

  “Obviously.” He scratched his chin. “I’m loathe to think in what sort of seedy places you’ve been spending your time.”

  “Okay, that’s just…eiew.”

  “No Dumpster diving recently? Well, smells can be deceiving.”

  “There’s a test to figure out what that stuff is, right?”

  “Certainly. Gas chromatography.”

  “So can you work some CSI magic on those pants?”

  “Not here. This is a high school chemistry lab. I have difficulty getting money to buy paper towels.” Brow furrowed, he drummed his thumbs against the slate lab bench. “We could send it to Dr. Smyth at the university. She owes me a favor.”

  “Excellent!”

  “They may have to take a sample from your trousers, though.”

  “You mean cut a hole in them?” I really liked those jeans; they made my butt look great. Honestly, the sacrifices a detective has to make. “When do you think she can do it?”

  “I’ll take them to her after school. She’ll have to work it into her schedule, though.” He bundled the jeans back up, then put the grocery sack inside a small trash bag and tied it closed. I didn’t blame him for doubling up. I’d thought the stench was bad in my dream, but smelling it through my real, live nose was the difference between a cheap pair of headphones and a symphony orchestra of stink.

  “Hey, Professor Blackthorne.” I followed him to the chalkboard. “Is that what sulfur smells like?”

  Hexagon chemical bonds had his attention again. “Hmm? No, sulfur doesn’t have a smell.”

  “I thought it did. That whole ‘stench of brimstone’ thing.”

  “Burning sulfur gives off sulfur dioxide, which is probably what that phrase means. It’s noxious and extremely irritating to the lungs.” He added a few more notations to the diagram on the board. “Though you may be thinking about the thiols—the sulfhydryl group. They are quite odiferous. In fact, ethanethiol is added to natural gas so that leaks can be detected by the ‘rotten egg’ smell.”

  “So maybe that’s what’s on the jeans?”

  “Do you want to open them back up and take a whiff, or wait for the chromatograph?”

  “Um, no. I’ll wait for the test.”

  “As you wish.” I shouldered my backpack and started out. His voice stopped me at the door. “If you want my opinion, and not a scientific fact, I’d lay money that either putrescine or cadaverine will be in the mix.” He went back to writing, talking more to himself than to me. “Yes. I think I’ll make a bet with Dr. Smyth. See if the nose still knows.”

  Boy, I could have gone my whole life without knowing I’d gotten something named after a putrid cadaver on my butt. On the upside, though, I was no longer ambivalent about destroying those pants.

  10

  i knew that my personal humiliation had a limited comedic lifespan, but I didn’t expect to have turned invisible before second period.

  “What’s up?” I asked Jennifer Fitzwilliam, catching up to her on the way to class. She was the most reliable source of gossip in the entire school. If someone bought someone else a Coke at lunch, five minutes later Jennifer would have the scoop on when they’d met, whether they were going out, and if they were, how many dates they’d had before going all the way.

  “Jess Michaels”—translation: Jess Minor—“showed up wearing a knockoff Donna Karan top, and Jessica Prentice”—a.k.a. Prime—“spilled the beans in front of everyone. Jess threw her Snapple in Jessica’s face, and we were all set for a catfight, but Brian Kirkpatrick got between them and broke it up.”

  “Brian Kirkpatrick?”

  “You know. Swim team, baseball team. The guy who carried your books into school today,” she added with a coy look.

  So that was his real name. He was Brian Baywatch, not Bobby. I had to admit, Bob would be a sad name for anyone in the lifeguard profession.

  “Was it really a knockoff?” I asked.

  “Seems to be. Ironic, isn’t it?” We’d reached the journalism room, which was buzzing with a frantic kind of schizophrenia as students bounced from being reporters, to editors, to publishers, trying to get the paper laid out in time to send to the printer.

  “What’s ironic?” I dropped my backpack beside my desk.

  “Well, Jess Michaels is something of a fashionista, isn’t she?”

  “True,” I answered, but I was losing interest in the Jessicas and their drama, and I was glad when Jennifer continued to her own desk so I could get to work on more important things.

  In addition to the little piece about the Big Spring Musical, I’d written a few inches about Karen and her fall. Besides being newsworthy, it gave me the excuse to look into the history of the “natatorium” to see if there was any kind of trend of suspicious accidents. The building wasn’t very old, especially compared to the parts of the school that dated back to the 1940s. I found nothing in the paper’s online archives, which only meant that I had to broaden my search.

  “Quinn!” Phillip, the student editor, had watched too many movies with irascible newsmen bellowing for their errant reporters. All he lacked was the cigar and the beer belly. “Where’s your copy!”

  “On its way, Chief.” I knew he’d miss the sarcasm in the title. Ghosthunting would have to wait until the paper was put to bed. I wonder if Brenda Starr ever had this problem?

  By lunchtime a rampant rumor was circulating that Jess Minor shopped at Wal-Mart. In P.E. the tension hung thick in the air. Jess and Jessica ignored each other with an acid deliberateness, and Thespica tried to act as though there were nothing wrong. A few hangers-on were quick to exploit this possible opening in the inner circle. When Jessica Prime snapped her fingers, one sycophant supplied a hairbrush. When she needed a nail file, another one appeared. And when she said, “I look so fat in this” (at least five times), all the toadies were quick to reassure her it wasn’t so.

  I ignored this, or tried to, while I searched for the Get Out of Diving Free note Dad had written. It turned out to be unnecessary. Coach Milner came in and announced:

  “I want you all to know that I believe we should get right back on that horse and not give up the ship. But the administration has decided that we will finish up the aquatics unit by practicing our racing dives in the lap pool.”

  Oh fabulous day! No more diving board, and soon, no more swimming pool, either. Things were looking up.

  Despite organic compounds in chemistry and a film in civics that was so old, Chief Justice Rehnquist was alive and well and still had a full head of hair, my good mood carried me all the way to the parking lot that afternoon. There was a cherry limeade in my future, and research in the city newspaper archives, but first…

  But first, furious Jocks. My steps slowed warily on the asphalt as I saw a familiar threesome, the Jessica’s masculine counterparts—Biff/Brandon, Brian Baywatch, and Henchman Jeff—in a taut group, the air around them blue with curses. Jeff authored most of the profanity, aimed at the rassin’, frassin’, son of a gun who had scratched the beautiful, cherry red, vintage Mustang. I paraphrase, of course.

  The entire school knew how Jeff Espinoza lavished love and attention on that car. And he was a big guy. I had to say, that was one brave rassin’ frassin’ son of a gun.

  “What are you looking at, Quinn?” Jeff was eager to transfer his rage to a handy target.

  “Yeah,” Brandon echoed. “Where’s your camera? You could take a picture. It would last longer.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Originality. But some people I’d rather forget.”

  He took a menacing step forward, but Brian grabbed his arm and redirected his attention to the car, and soon they were once more cursing the walking dead man who had damaged Jeff’s manhood.

  I left them to it and hurried to my own car. The phone r
ang just as the engine grumbled to life. “Hi, Gran.”

  “What is this about a ghost? Why do I have to hear from someone else? Have you lost my phone number? Do I have to draw you a map to my house?”

  “I’m well, thank you for asking. How are you?”

  “Madder than a wet hen.”

  “I guess Justin MacTattletale called.”

  “He’s here now. I knew something otherworldly was at work near you. Come over this instant.”

  “I have to stop by and see my friend in the hospital.”

  “Are you coming over after that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” This seemed to appease her. “Put the fink on the phone.”

  “Justin is a nice young man. You should be glad he told me what you were up to.”

  I plucked at my T-shirt; it was hot with the late April sun bearing down on the roofless Jeep. “Just put him on. I’ll see you in an hour, tops.”

  She murmured dire predictions if I didn’t make good on that, and a moment later I heard a baritone voice on the line. “Hello?”

  “Go in the other room.” I fished in the glove box for my headset so I could drive and chew him out at the same time.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to yell at you and I don’t want Gran to hear.”

  “If you had given me your number…”

  “Oh, don’t even go there. You could have just asked her for it.”

  “Yeah. I could have.” But then he couldn’t have needled me. He left that part unspoken, but I heard his amusement.

  “So what do you want?”

  “I brought you some books on…” I heard Gran banging around in the background. “On what you asked me about yesterday.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I didn’t want you using Ghostbusters as a definitive source.”

  “Thanks.” I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the drag. “I need to stop by to see my friend. You want to wait at Gran’s, or what?”

  “I’ll wait. There are cookies.”

  “Those are my cookies. There had better be some left when I get there.”

  “No problem.” His voice dropped in volume. “I think your grandmother cooks when she’s worried.”

  “She’s not worried, just irked I didn’t tell her first. See you in an hour.”

  Was it weird that I was more pleased than pissed that he’d tracked me down through Gran? If he hadn’t gotten her worked up, I wouldn’t be upset at all that a college guy wanted to help me bust ghosts.

  Karen was alone when I tapped on the hospital door. “Boy, you must be bored if you’re doing homework.”

  She looked up from a dog-eared copy of Animal Farm and grimaced. “Trying to stay caught up, remember.”

  “You are an inspiration.”

  “Not really. I can only read a little at a time before my head starts to hurt. I haven’t even started the calculus homework that Stanley brought me.”

  “Speaking of Stanley—” Because it seemed like I was doing that a lot lately. “Has he seemed a little…gruff to you?”

  She shrugged. “We’re all ready to be done with school.”

  “Good point. Any word when you get to go home?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. They sort of freak out when you lose consciousness, even for just a minute. And they’re worried about pneumonia from inhaling pool water.”

  I touched her hand. “I’m so sorry, Karen.”

  “You keep saying that.” Her smile was gently quizzical. “It’s not your fault.”

  How weird that this morning I’d been on the other side of the exact same exchange with Brian. Maybe I was having the same kind of guilt that my inaction had somehow put Karen in harm’s way. “It isn’t logical. But you took my place in line and…” I took a deep breath. It seemed as good a time as any to ask to perform my little experiment. “And I keep thinking about your shadow. The one you mentioned yesterday.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You mean the one you said was probably an optical illusion?”

  “Uh, yeah. But, well, this is going to sound crazy, but…”

  “But you don’t think it was my shadow.” I must have looked surprised that she said it so plainly and so calmly. She smiled ruefully. “I haven’t had anything else to do but think about it, Maggie. I know my own shadow, and I know when something is…” She struggled for the right word. “Foreign.”

  I let out a pent-up breath. This was going to be easier than I’d thought. “Do you mind if I do a little experiment?”

  “Nope. I’m relieved you don’t think I’m off the deep end.”

  I dug into my backpack and took out the blacklight I’d borrowed from the chemistry lab. I did ask. I’m not sure that Blackthorne really heard me—he’d been happily explaining carbon bonds to a glassy-eyed student—but I did ask.

  I had a distinct memory of the way Karen’s leg had shot out from under her, as if it had been yanked. Flipping off the light, and feeling ridiculous, I shone the lamp on her ankle, and saw a familiar fluorescent glow.

  “Oh my God.” Karen stared at her own foot as if it belonged to someone else. “What is that? And why didn’t it come off when I washed?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.” I didn’t see a reason to mention putrescine or cadaverine. “I found it on the diving board, too.”

  “What do you think it is?” Her brown eyes searched mine, avidly curious. I still hesitated.

  “It sounds kind of crazy.”

  “I promise I won’t laugh.” I gave her a narrow-eyed look and she raised her hand, as if taking an oath. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Okay. Have you ever seen the movie Ghostbusters?”

  11

  i arrived at Gran’s house with fifty-nine seconds to spare. Justin sat at the kitchen table, books spread around him. He was wearing jeans today, and another oxford shirt, untucked this time, and there was chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth.

  “How’s your friend?” he asked as I came in.

  “Pretty amazing, actually.” I was stunned at how easily Karen had accepted the idea of the supernatural, and more to the point, how non-freaked-out she was at having been touched by it. I’d only dreamed about the shadow and I was kinda wigged.

  “Have you ever known someone for years, and then something happens, and all of a sudden you realize you’ve never really known them at all?”

  “I think we’ve all done that.” He didn’t look particularly freaked out, either. Was I the only one who was dizzy from spinning back and forth between “this is real” and “this is crazy”?

  I picked up one of the books: Ghosts and Specters: An Empirical Study. Another one was, A History of Paranormal Experience. And another: The Literature of the Supernatural.

  “I thought you were a history major.”

  “I’m getting my bachelor’s in history. I want to do graduate studies in the anthropology of myth and occult experience.”

  “That should open up a world of career choices for you.” I set the book down. It was the size of a toaster but considerably heavier. “What made you choose an advanced degree in creepy?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve always been interested in the theory of the supernatural. My upbringing wasn’t exactly conventional.”

  “Do you have a nutty grandmother, too?”

  Her voice came from the other room. “I hear you!”

  “I love you, Gran!” I called back, then poured myself some tea and sat down near the plate of cookies. “Anything on ectoplasm?”

  Justin folded his arms on the table. “Let’s back up a bit. Tell me why you think you’ve encountered a ghost.”

  Gran bustled into the kitchen, carrying a load of laundry. “I want to hear this. Since it’s the only way I’ll know what my granddaughter is up to.”

  Sighing, I took a chocolate chip cookie for fortification. While Gran folded towels and Justin made notes, I told him about my frustratingly vague dream, and the unease I couldn’t shake. I described the strange awkw
ardness of Karen’s fall, and the smell I might have just imagined. I related her glimpse of a shadow moving over the water. When I finished describing my impromptu detective work, they both stared at me.

  “What?”

  “I’m just stunned,” said Justin. “Because yesterday you seemed very, um, resistant to the idea that you might have some extrasensory perception. And now you’re tracking down a ghost.”

  “First of all, I don’t have ESP. I don’t bend spoons or see dead people, or any of that freaky stuff. I just have good intuition.” From the corner of my eye I saw Gran roll hers, but she didn’t say anything. “Second, I’m not tracking a ghost. I’m investigating the possibility it might be a ghost.”

  He gave me a look I was starting to recognize. It meant he thought I was funny but didn’t want to piss me off by laughing. “Okay. Let’s be logical about this, then. What makes you think it’s a ghost?”

  “Well, the shadow, I guess.” The evidence seemed sparse, once I tried to lay it out. “And the spooge it leaves behind.”

  “Which we don’t know is related.” He wrote down “shadow” but not “spooge.” “It could be nothing more than a strange sort of mold or mildew.”

  I snapped, irritated at his skepticism. “You’re the Mulder here. I’m the Scully.”

  “I’m just helping you be objective.” He tapped his pen on the pad. “What else?”

  “The smell,” I said. “There’s that awful smell.”

  “Okay.” He jotted it down. “That’s good. What about a feeling of cold or dread?”

  “No cold. And I was faced with a bottomless well of dark water, so I wouldn’t have noticed any extra dread.”

  “A sense of another presence?”

  “Lots of people were around when Karen fell.” I thought a moment. “But I did have a weird feeling later, when I went back.”

  “You can’t be more specific?”

  I raised my hands in a shrug. “It’s not like telling if the lights are on or off. It’s ambiguous. I was nervous about getting caught.”

  Again the pen tapped, an aggravated rhythm. “Your perceptions aren’t a lot of help.”