The Throne

by Beth Goobie

  With that, he sat down and returned to studying the musical score on his desk. Perched high above most of the class, Meredith watched her perplexed peers swivel in their seats and glance back at her. For a second, she was tempted to raise one hand in a royal queenly wave.

  “What gives?” demanded Morey, looking aggrieved. “It’s been less than a week.”

  Meredith shrugged. “I never wanted to be class rep,” she said. “No one asked me—you just all voted me in.”

  To her right, Gene frowned, reviewing the incident in his memory. “I guess,” he conceded. “Too bad. That means we’re going to have to strain our brains all weekend, trying to figure out how to convince Seymour to put in one more year as our esteemed representative.”

  One riser down, Seymour grimaced. “Nah,” he said tersely. “I’ve put in my time—three years. Been there, done that.”

  “Morey?” probed Gene.

  Morey shook his head. “My dad’s on my back to bring up my marks,” he said. “I can only join one club this year and that’ll be badminton.”

  “Tell him it’s not a club,” persisted Gene. “It’s your civic pride—training for your future career.”

  “More like my future going down the toilet,” grumped Morey. “If my dad ever found out. Nah, this year it’s one club and one club only—and badminton’s better for letting off steam.”

  Defeated, Gene sighed, and Meredith was briefly tempted to withdraw her resignation. But another glance at Seymour kept her resolute. Leaned forward, his eyes glued to the door, the guy was practically poised to leap out of his seat—a position he had taken up only after Mr. Woolger had announced her resignation. Something about that announcement had made Seymour restless—as restless as it had left her feeling relieved. When the bell finally went, signaling the end of home form, he was a released cannonball, shooting to his feet and leading the rush for the door.

  And then he was gone, leaving her with the throne and a gum-free butt ... for the present. Taking a deep breath, Meredith stood up. Take nothing for granted, she told herself. Just keep checking—every seat, every chewing mouth, every da-ffy-dil-do jerk that’s out there.

  It was late into the lunch hour. Chair tilted against a large filing cabinet at the back of the school library, Meredith was perusing “Leiningin Versus the Ants,” a short story her English class had been assigned to read. Caught up in the details of Leiningin’s desperate sprint through a horizon-wide invasion of soldier ants, Meredith had lost all track of her surroundings. Whatever was coming, she thought excitedly as she turned a page, with this kind of lead-in, it had to be good. Glancing at a wall clock, she noted she had fifteen minutes until her next class and was swiftly reabsorbed into the story. A paper ball sailed within centimeters of her nose and she ignored it. Someone sat down at a nearby study carrel and she barely noticed. A vaguely wet sensation came and went on the top of her head; frowning, she shifted in her seat and forgot about it.

  The vaguely wet sensation came and went again, and again. Eyes still riveted to the page before her, Meredith raised a hand and patted the crown of her head. It was damp, but not as damp as the drop of unidentifiable fluid that had just dripped onto the back of her hand. Leaping to her feet, Meredith scanned in every direction. Nothing! she thought with relief. Just the filing cabinet—no bum gum, no laughing, shoving girls, but wait a sec ... There, out of the corner of her eye, came the flash of a single dark-colored drop of fluid splashing down onto the chair she had just vacated. Following the drop’s trajectory upward, Meredith spotted a large 7-Eleven Slurpee cup that had been placed on top of the filing cabinet so a small section of its base protruded over the edge.

  The drips were coming from the bottom of the cup. With a hiss, Meredith grabbed the cup and examined it. Almost at once, she located the small hole that had been poked into the bottom. Only a bit of the original slush still occupied the cup’s base, most of the contents presumably having been slurped before the cup had been placed on the filing cabinet. Was it there before I sat down? wondered Meredith, staring at the cabinet. Nah, there’s still unmelted slush in it—it hasn’t been there long.

  “Did you get a soaker?” asked the guy who had sat down earlier at the nearby carrel. Probably in Grade 11, he looked familiar—a hallway face. “Looks like you’re wearing your rain hat in the wrong place.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” snapped Meredith, giving him a hard glance. When he had first sat down, she hadn’t spared him a thought, but now ... Was it him? she wondered, anger flaring in her gut. Maybe. But if it was, what was she supposed to do about it? Lace into him? Laugh? Treat it with the cool disdain it deserved?

  “You could’ve let me know,” she added curtly.

  The guy’s grin vanished. “I didn’t notice,” he protested. “Or I would’ve.”

  Maybe, thought Meredith, but let it pass. “You haven’t seen Seymour Molyneux around, have you?” she asked, faking casual, and the guy shrugged an equally casual no. So, with a grimace, Meredith tucked “Leiningin Versus the Ants” under one arm, dropped the offending Slurpee cup into the nearest wastepaper basket, and headed toward the library exit. Sure, there were other kids around that she could have queried about the incident, but after yesterday’s change room episode she knew better. Without proof, an allegation was a live grenade. Even with an eyewitness of unquestionable integrity like Reb, that kind of situation was likely to blow sky-high. All things considered, it wasn’t worth the effort.

  You never know, Meredith told herself half-heartedly. It could’ve been just a random thing—like a bird flying by, or a meteorite.

  Yeah, right, came the answering thought. A nuclear meteorite.

  Giving her rain hat strings a tug to ensure its daffodils were in place defending her honor, she headed out into the halls.

  Later that afternoon, Meredith was making tracks along an empty tech-wing hall. Minutes into her history class, she had realized that she’d forgotten the homework she had completed the previous evening, and had asked permission to fetch it from her locker. Her history class and locker were halfway across the school from each other, but as everyone else seemed to be in class, she was making good time. Putting on a burst of speed, she passed the music classroom and veered around the last corner leading to her locker.

  Well, not everyone, she realized. A third of the way down the corridor, approximately ten meters from her locker, lounged a clutch of male students. Leaning against a wall or sprawled on the floor, they were discussing something in low tones. The three standing had their backs to her, and the two seated were blocked from her view. None of them appeared to have noticed her and, after registering their presence, Meredith didn’t pay them much mind. As she drew close, she noted casually that the three standing students were seniors. Either these guys all had a spare in the same time slot, she thought, or they had been allowed out of class to discuss a shared assignment.

  She was wearing soft-soled shoes; it wasn’t until she was almost on top of them that she was noticed. The nearest standing guy glanced over his shoulder and spotted her; one eyebrow shot upward and he turned back to the group. What he said then was too low for Meredith to make out, but the rising eyebrow put definite brakes on her pace. She didn’t know the guy’s name—even if her life had been on the line, she wouldn’t have been able to cough it up—but he knew hers ... or at least he knew her face. In some way, she was significant to him—it had been written all over his expression.

  The three standing guys turned to face her; as they did, they shifted, revealing the two who were seated—Seymour and Neil Sabom. As Meredith’s gaze connected with Seymour’s, she came to a dead halt. Furthest from her, the Mol sat with his elbows propped on his knees, dark eyes fixed on her. Eyebrows raised, he looked slightly amused; otherwise, his gaze remained as remote as ever. Certainly his heart wasn’t racing, she thought distractedly, nor were his hands clenched, palms sweating like hers.

  All five, seated or standing, had now fallen silent, their collective ga
ze fixed on her. Swift as a heartbeat, Meredith scanned their expressionless faces; as she did, a weakness swept her—without form or meaning, but unarguable, absolute. The thought came to her to say, “Hi!” and continue onward as if nothing unusual was happening, but then the thought vanished as if snatched, leaving emptiness in its place. As Meredith stood staring at the five seniors, none of them spoke—the silence so dense, it was like a seventh presence. The instinct to turn and skedaddle back the way she had come was overwhelming and, for a moment, Meredith almost gave in to it—almost let her feet turn her body in the direction it wanted to flee.

  But then she got a grip, set one foot in front of the other, and shifted into forward momentum. It was awkward—under that silent scrutiny, she felt oversized, a clunky machine composed of ill-fitting parts. This, of course, added to her growing sense that she could actually feel the guys’ gazes on her ... especially on the daffodil rain hat. As Meredith began to pick her way carefully over various splayed legs, she thought she could hear the rain hat crinkle with every step she took. Da-ffy-dil-dos, she thought, cringing. The phrase was probably singsonging itself mockingly inside each of their minds.

  Warily, she stepped over Neil’s left foot, and his right. Almost there—the thought swept her, leaving her slightly giddy. Then, as she was rigidly bypassing Seymour’s feet, the sound began—a repeated clicking that had to be coming from somebody’s mouth. Loud and rapid, the clicks were startling after the intense quiet, and instinctively Meredith quickened her pace. As if on cue, the other guys also took up the jarring rhythm; while no one moved physically, it felt to Meredith as if something invisible had reared up from each one of them and was coming straight at her.

  Arriving at her locker, she had to grip tightly onto her lock to regain focus; then she spun it shakily, but her nerves were so shot, she miscalculated and was forced to redo the combination. The clicking had now stopped, but this didn’t help much. Without glancing back, Meredith grabbed her history notes, jammed her lock shut, and headed north along the corridor. North wasn’t the route she needed to take—the only classrooms between her locker and the school’s north exit were for shop, and her history class lay in the opposite direction. That she had headed this way in order to avoid further contact had to be as obvious to the five guys, currently lounging silently, as it was to her. But the only option was to turn and walk a second time through that dense, hostile scrutiny, and if she did, Meredith knew she would shit herself. She didn’t have the guts—it was that simple.

  Quickening her pace, she scurried on down the hall.

  chapter 10

  Friday morning, Polkton’s main library branch was busy, its cavernous ground floor resonating with the many small sounds of patrons coming and going, dropping books into Returns slots, and clicking away at computer keyboards. Ensconced at a microfilm reader in a shadowy cubbyhole next to Information Services, Meredith was scrolling through back issues of the Polkton Post, specifically issues from the month of August, one decade previous. Last night, while she had been lying awake, studying her parents’ wedding picture in the moonlight, it had come to her that in the ten years since their deaths, she had never seen an official account of the car crash that had killed them—including their obituaries. Even her personal recollections of their funeral drew mostly blanks. All she could remember of the event was sitting on Aunt Sancy’s lap in a church pew, her aunt’s arms wrapped protectively around her.

  Those arms were still wrapped protectively around her, but, as Aunt Sancy had repeatedly made clear over the years—she wasn’t talking. And so, rather than send Sancy Goonhilly into a pointless, three-day funk, Meredith had decided to check out back issues of the Polkton Post for the desired information. She had an hour and a half to complete her task, having made plans to celebrate the school-free day by meeting up with Dean and Reb at the Burger King for lunch. No one knew she was here—not her friends, and especially not her aunt. In response to Aunt Sancy’s breakfast queries, Meredith had said merely that she would be meeting Dean and Reb for lunch, and had left it at that. It had been the truth, more or less, and her aunt had appeared satisfied with her reply. So why, wondered Meredith as she scanned the microfilm reader’s screen, was she feeling guilty—guilty because, one decade and one month after her parents’ fatal accident, she wanted to know the basic facts concerning their demise?

  Because she did feel guilty, obviously guilty, her shoulders in a defensive jut and her head ducked as if to conceal her profile from possible passersby. That it was ridiculous to be feeling this way, she was well aware—reading past issues of the Polkton Post was hardly a crime. Still, she couldn’t shake it, the sense of the betrayal she knew her aunt would feel if she found out—a betrayal Aunt Sancy would never voice aloud, but nevertheless make known in every weighted sigh and drawn-out silence. Hunching closer to the microfilm reader, Meredith pushed the image of her aunt’s disapproving face from her mind and focused on the film advancing across the screen.

  The problem was that she wasn’t certain which day her parents’ obituaries had appeared in the Post. They had died on August fourth, and the funeral had been held on the ninth, but an obit could have appeared any time between the two dates. Or even after that, she thought, studying the screen. So here she was, scanning every page of the Post, starting on August third, just to make sure. Front-page news on that day had been a provincial heat wave. Next came the Arts and Lifestyles section, followed by Sports, Business, and classified ads. As the latter section advanced onto the screen, fronted by the obituaries, a trembling passed over Meredith, surprising her with its intensity. Deliberately, she clenched both hands, digging in her fingernails to fight off tears. Not yet, she thought, her eyes skimming pictures of smiling, elderly faces. At this point, on August third, the accident hadn’t taken place; the world was still innocent, without the slightest inkling of what was portended.

  Carefully, she advanced the film to the August fourth edition, where she encountered headlines concerning a major drug bust in nearby Toronto, with possible local connections. Centimeter by centimeter, she scrutinized each page, her heart thumping uncomfortably as she passed through the Sports and Business sections, thinking, This was when it happened. This was the day—people sitting around and maybe reading this very page ...

  Again her eyes skimmed Obits snapshots of unfamiliar elderly faces, and she quickened the pace through the classified ads that followed. And then, suddenly, there it was—the August fifth issue, with its front-page headline: DEADLY CAR CRASH KILLS TWO. In spite of the fact that she had been expecting it, Meredith felt broadsided by the words—as if they had collectively leapt off the page and tackled her. Shakily, she forwarded the film and spotted a color photograph of a small bridge that spanned the river just outside Polkton, its guardrail mangled, and the back end of a car just visible above the waterline. Breath stopped, her mind almost uncomprehending, Meredith stared at the photograph. She hadn’t known the accident had happened at this bridge ... nor, for that matter, at any bridge. No one had ever told her where the event had occurred, and over the years, for some reason, she hadn’t thought to ask. How many times, she wondered now as she gaped at the image on the screen, had she and Aunt Sancy driven across this bridge and her aunt had never commented on its significance, never flinched or given any sign of distress.

  Blasted—from the inside out, Meredith felt blasted—torn open like the bridge’s guardrail. It wasn’t just the photograph of the mangled bridge—she had been betrayed, it was as simple as that. For Aunt Sancy not to tell her something like this, to act as if something of the utmost importance hadn’t taken place where it so obviously had ... Well, Meredith thought bleakly, it was the same as telling a lie. How was it possible her aunt could have kept this information from her—this basic, mundane, killer aspect of the Polkton landscape?

  The trembling was back, Meredith’s head buzzing as if she had been wearing earbuds too long. When she had decided to look up her parents’ obits, she hadn’t realized th
e information would hit her like this; the incident had occurred so long ago, she had assumed she had adjusted to the loss, and it had become a fact like any other fact. Pressing fingertips to both temples, she breathed raggedly, trying to slow her thoughts. Gradually the buzz in her head diminished, and she found herself able to refocus on the screen. As she did, details she had always known about the accident came back to her—the day had been sunny, without rain or cloud, and the crash had taken place mid-afternoon and midweek, when traffic could be expected to be sparse. In the trees along that quiet, secondary road, birds would have been chirping lazily, cicadas keening in response. Nothing and no one could have foreseen how fate was about to intervene, take hold of the fundamental fabric of life and tear it irreparably asunder.

  How, thought Meredith, reviewing her memories of the bridge, did it happen? How did a perfectly competent driver like her father—in his mid-twenties, a family man who had just graduated with a law degree—drive off a safe country bridge on a day with clear weather conditions? The bridge was small, sure, but the road leading up to it had no turns or blind angles. Anyone with a minimum of driving experience—heck, a student driver with a learner’s permit could be expected to make it across easily. Advancing the film, Meredith scanned the article beneath the photograph, phrase after phrase leaping out at her: James Polk and his wife Ally ... only child of Dave and Johanna Polk and direct descendant of Polkton’s founding father ... promising law student articling at the law firm of Loye and Twemlow ... survived by a five-year-old daughter.

  And that was it, the sum total of what had been reported. Wait a minute, thought Meredith. Check the obits. Swiftly, she forwarded the film to August sixth, then the seventh, where she found what she was seeking. The picture displayed in the obituaries section was the familiar wedding photograph that graced her night table. All of the information listed was known to her—birth dates, school and work experience, surviving family members, and upcoming funeral details. Intently, Meredith read and reread the obit, her eyes sucking the words off the screen. When she had reread it a third time, she sank back into her chair, a feeling of defeat caving in around her.