by Beth Goobie
“It happened a long time ago,” she said hastily, smoothing over the moment. “I live with my Aunt Sancy. And she has a cell.”
“Ah,” Gene said knowingly.
“She’s not a Polk,” Meredith added, watching her feet scuff through the leaves scattered along the curb. “Being a Polk is ...” Her voice trailed off, and she considered ditching the thoughts coming at her. But beside her Gene remained silent, as if waiting her out, and so, tentatively, she continued. “Well,” she said, “I’m not proud of being a Polk. People think I should be because of ole Gus, my ancestor, but from what I’ve heard, the Polks were actually pretty pathetic—at least my dad and granddad were. My aunt pretty much hated them when they were alive. She still does, really.”
“How come?” asked Gene.
“Because she’s decent,” said Meredith, the answer coming to her firm and concise. “She’s got a clear head, and she can see straight, and she’s tough to fool. She knows scum when she sees it, and that’s pretty much what my dad was—scum.”
“Huh,” Gene said cautiously.
“But, y’see,” Meredith added, just as cautiously, “he was also my dad. And ...” A frown crossed her forehead; without warning, she was blinking back tears. “Well,” she said hoarsely, “I want a dad, y’know?”
“Yeah,” nodded Gene. “Good dads are worth anything. Mine’s pretty decent. I don’t know where I’d be without him.”
“What’s he like?” asked Meredith.
Gene hesitated, then said, “Someday I’ll tell you. When we have more time. Right now, I’m late for band practice and I’ve got to run. Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Meredith assured him. “Thanks for showing me the rain hat.”
“No prob,” said Gene, and headed toward the tech wing’s north entrance. Meredith stood, watching the door close behind him, then turned left and headed down the short slope that ran along the northwest corner of the school’s practice field. Crossing the field, she continued around the school to its south face, where she found Reb and Dean sprawled on the front lawn, halfway through their lunches and soaking up the sun.
“Hey,” she said, settling down beside them. “Listen to this.” And, pulling out her own lunch, she told them about the bomb sketch and the kidnapped rain hat.
“It’s Seymour!” declared Dean when she had finished. “All of it—the drawing and the clicking. It’s got to be.”
“The sketch sounds more like Ronnie to me,” demurred Reb. “Wha—”
“Hey, Meredith!” interrupted a voice. Turning, Meredith spotted a guy named Hamza from her history class jogging toward her. “Hiding out from Ronnie Olesin?” he asked as he passed.
“Ronnie?” asked Meredith, straightening in alarm. “What d’you mean?”
“She’s looking for you,” Hamza tossed over his shoulder as he continued toward the curbside smoking crowd. “On the warpath—her and Lana Sloat.”
“Where did you see her?” Meredith shouted at his receding back.
“Cafeteria,” Hamza replied carelessly, intent on his date with nicotine heaven.
Aghast, the three girls sat staring after him. “Well,” Reb said weakly. “So much for it being Seymour. Ronnie must’ve drawn that bomb.”
Distractedly, Meredith lifted a sandwich to her mouth and set it down again. “I guess,” she muttered.
“What’re you going to do, Mere—tell Ms. Bishaha?” asked Reb.
“What’s there to tell?” asked Meredith. “Ronnie hasn’t done anything yet.”
“Yeah, but she’s threatened to,” said Reb. “And, y’know … with her track record ...” Her voice trailed off and the girls sat silently, tasting fear. “I feel sick,” mumbled Reb. “Like I’m gonna throw up.”
“But you’re not,” said Dean, taking a quick breath. “You’re not going to throw up because you can’t. None of us can. Meredith is in trouble and we’ve got to stick by her. More than that—we’re gonna take up space, exactly the way we want to ... just like we said. Right?”
Startled by the fierceness in Dean’s tone, Meredith and Reb just looked at her. Wide-eyed, Dean stared back. “Beware,” she reminded them hoarsely. “Beware, Polkton Collegiate. We are going to take up massive space.”
“Yeah,” muttered Reb. “That was okay under the willow. But in real life, you hardly ever get things exactly the way you want them.”
“Well, I’m with you, Mere,” said Dean, ignoring her. “After school, I’ll meet you at your locker. Don’t take a step off school property without me. We’ll go to my place, and if Ronnie follows us, we’ll call the cops on our cells.”
“Sure,” said Meredith, her heart slow-thundering in her chest. Then from her other side came a deep, gulping sigh.
“Okay,” said Reb. “I’ll admit it—I’m scared. And I’d probably be useless if ... well, if anything happened. But I’m your friend for sure, Mere. I’ll be at your locker after school, too.”
Intense chills swamped Meredith; she felt exhausted and dazed. “Thanks,” she heard herself say as if from a long way off. “Thanks a million, and a million times more after that. It’s just today, I think, that there’s anything to worry about. It’s Friday, and over the weekend, Ronnie’ll cool down. When she does, things’ll be okay again.”
“Over the weekend,” Reb echoed softly, as if reciting a prayer.
“The weekend,” agreed Dean. “All we have to do is make damn sure about today.”
chapter 17
The afternoon passed in a nauseous blur. Everywhere Meredith went, she heard clicking, and though she would have been the first to admit this was mostly in her head, still her stomach went into a queasy lurch every time she had to round a blind corner. It didn’t help that the real clicking she encountered in the halls was all anonymous, there and gone before she could identify the perpetrators. And while the clickers in her gym class were easily identifiable—Penny Gugomos and Sandra Clulee, the Chiclets girl—their schoolgirlish smirks did little to calm Meredith’s nerves.
Then, a half hour later, as she was coming down a corridor en route to her history class, she caught sight of Seymour at the opposite end, and though he gave no sign of noticing her, the moment was far from inspirational. While she hadn’t spotted Ronnie anywhere, several students had passed on versions of the bloodthirsty threats she was apparently spewing, and Meredith felt the other girl’s presence continually, like a storm flickering along the horizon. By her late afternoon class, she was leaving sweaty palm smears on her desk top, and by the time she reached her locker at 3:30, a headache was brooding deep inside her skull. When she spotted Dean, determinedly waiting for her, Meredith had to fight off the urge to cry.
“Hey, Mount Matsumoto,” she said weakly.
“Ready to blow,” replied Dean.
Minutes later, Reb arrived, flushed and apprehensive. Hastily, Meredith stuffed her weekend homework into her knapsack, and checked to ensure her cell phone was in her jacket pocket. Before starting down the hall to the north exit, she glanced uncertainly at her two friends. There was so much that could potentially take place in the next ten minutes, and they had no plan other than to stick together. Steadfast, Dean met her gaze; Reb’s flickered once, then hung on.
“Come on,” said Dean, turning toward the exit. “We’re outta here.”
As they came through the doors, there were easily one hundred students within calling distance—playing hacky sack, unlocking their bikes from a nearby bike rack, or simply hanging around. Giving the crowd a quick scan, Meredith felt relief lift through her on electric wings. “She’s not here!” she gushed, turning to her friends. “She must be waiting at a different exit.”
Without hesitation, they started down the walkway that led to Quebec Street. To their right, students sat chatting on a waist-high wall that extended halfway to the public sidewalk; as the three girls reached its end point, a guy from Meredith’s English class called out to her, asking about the day’s quota of gum wads. Reflexively, she turned to repl
y, then froze in alarm as two shouting figures burst out from behind the wall and grabbed her arms. Faces leering, Ronnie and Lana shoved her roughly off the walkway so Meredith was suddenly bent double, tripping over her own feet. Dimly, she was aware of Dean launching herself, followed by the abrupt disappearance of the hands gripping her right arm. But then another shove sent Meredith staggering forward until she fell heavily onto her side. Landing on the grassy slope that buttressed the practice field’s northwest corner, she began rolling downward, with someone clinging to her shoulders and cursing.
Bleached blonde hair whipped Meredith’s eyes and mouth, but it was the voice she tuned into—Ronnie’s, without a doubt. Dizzy, the breath knocked out of her, Meredith tried to pull free, but each time she rolled over, the textbooks in her knapsack jammed themselves painfully against her back, and Ronnie had both her arms pinned. Finally, the world stopped rotating and the two girls came to a halt, Meredith flat on her back and Ronnie glommed onto her and panting into her face.
“Think you’re so great,” sneered Ronnie as she levered an elbow across Meredith’s throat. “Little Miss Polk. Think your name gives you the right to run this school—even the vice-principal jumps for you. Well, you don’t run me and my friends. You got Lana in trouble, and now you’re gonna pay for it.”
Before Meredith could respond, Ronnie lifted her free hand. There, above her head, gripped by that hand and outlined by the late afternoon sun, Meredith saw a large rock.
“Oh, my God!” she gasped, watching the rock rise. “No, Ronnie! Polk is just my name. I don’t run this school; I don’t run anything. Please stop. Just stop.”
Everything shifted to slow-mo. Off to one side, Meredith could hear sounds of a struggle and voices calling out to her. But wherever Dean and Reb were, it was too far away—much too far to reach her before Ronnie’s hand arrived at the peak of its arc and started down.
“Please,” pleaded Meredith, squirming and twisting, trying to work her way free, but Ronnie was heavier, much heavier—a malevolent weight. “Please don’t.”
Without warning, the world snapped back into regular time, and the hand holding the rock dropped directly toward Meredith’s face. Lunging desperately, she managed to jerk herself sideways so the rock struck a glancing blow off the side of her forehead. Pain slammed through her—gigantic, a tidal wave reeling through her head.
“Awesome!” grunted Ronnie. “I’m getting a hundred bucks for this, and I’m going to lay you out good and flat.”
Again she lifted the rock. Pain swung nauseatingly inside Meredith’s skull; it was all she could do to force open her eyelids and watch, horrified, as the hand ascended a second time.
Abruptly, Ronnie was rammed from behind. Grunting loudly, she pitched forward, the rock flying from her hand as someone landed on top of her. At once, Ronnie began to squirm, but then yet another body landed on the heap, grabbed her arms, and started dragging her free of the pile. Still pinned, Meredith could only turn her head, and what she saw was Gene, kneeling over Ronnie, one knee pressed to her chest.
“You move,” she heard him snarl, “and I’ll fucking tear out your throat with my teeth. Vampire Cree.”
A hand passed over Meredith’s face, tracing the edges of the wound the rock had left. “Mere,” said Reb, her voice breathless. “Mere, it’s me. Are you all right?”
Groggily, Meredith tried to focus on the face hovering above hers. Reb was breathing rapidly; in the intensity of the moment, Meredith could smell the sausage-and-onion sandwich her friend had eaten for lunch. “Reb,” she whimpered, her thoughts slurring drunkenly. “Watch out for the ones who want to be important. Watch out especially for yourself when you want to be important. Because, Reb, you’re my friend. I love you and I don’t want to lose you. And I love Dean and Aunt Sancy. I love my whole life. Hang onto me. Don’t let me go. Don’t let me go off the bridge.”
“The bridge?” asked Reb, sounding confused. “What bridge? We’re at school, beside the practice field. You’re not going off any bridge.”
“It’s the hand,” mumbled Meredith, struggling to keep her eyes open. “I saw it—the evil hand, coming to get me like I always knew it would. The Polk curse—I’ve got it, too. Because I was proud. I was proud and wanted power.”
“Mere,” said Reb, starting to cry. “Shhh, Mere. There’s no bridge and there’s no curse. You’re going to be all right. Gene’s got Ronnie, and Dean and another guy took down Lana. About fifty kids called 911 on their cells. The cops are coming, and an ambulance just got here. Can you hear the sirens?”
“Excuse me, miss—can you let me in?” asked a voice. Hastily, Reb ducked aside, and a man in a paramedic’s uniform leaned over Meredith and began probing the wound on her forehead. “How did this happen?” he asked.
“It was this rock,” said Reb, kneeling beside him and holding out the rock for his inspection. “Ronnie Olesin hit her with it. You can see the blood on it.”
“Okay,” said the man. “Keep it for the police.” Turning to one side, he opened a medical bag and extracted a small flashlight. “Look straight ahead,” he told Meredith, lifting up her right eyelid and flicking a beam of light in and out of her gaze. “Can you see my finger?”
“Yes,” Meredith said obediently, squinting at the finger he was holding up. “Fuzzy. It’s a fuzzy finger.”
“Good,” said the man. Glancing over his shoulder, he called out and, a moment later, two uniformed women appeared with a stretcher. “Easy now,” said the man as they lifted Meredith onto it. Seconds later, she was strapped in and being wheeled up the slope.
Lights flashed at the curb; off to her right, Meredith thought she saw a blurry Ronnie being guided into a police cruiser. All around the ambulance, gawking students crowded close; as Meredith was lifted into the back of the ambulance, she heard Gene ask which hospital she was being taken to.
And then the doors shut, enclosing her in a small, quiet place. To one side sat the male paramedic, and beside him, one of Polkton Collegiate’s Tech teachers—Mr. Neebe.
“Hello, Meredith,” Mr. Neebe said gently. “I’ll be with you at the hospital until one of your parents gets there. Just to make sure everything’s okay.”
Meredith’s eyes closed, taking her into darkness.
She was kept overnight for observation, and released Saturday morning with the recommendation she stay home from school for several days and skip gym for at least a week. The emergency ward doctor overseeing her case didn’t seem overly concerned. Meredith had been lucky, he assured Aunt Sancy. Her shaved left temple and the bandage covering her ten stitches looked dramatic, but the rock had merely torn open the skin; she would have a headache for a few days, but was expected to recover quickly and completely. Indeed, on Sunday afternoon when the police came to the apartment to interview her, Meredith was able to answer their questions coherently—while she sometimes had to stop and wait out the throbbing in her head, the officers departed looking satisfied with her performance.
Aunt Sancy wasn’t so easily convinced. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” she kept asking, her expression simultaneously reproachful and guilt-stricken.
“Ronnie only threatened me on Thursday,” Meredith pointed out, wincing at the ache that started up in her head whenever she thought about the assault. “Then that night, we painted the porch and we were so happy—talking about Ronnie would’ve been a real downer. Besides, I didn’t know this was going to happen.”
By this, she meant Friday’s assault—she still hadn’t told her aunt (or the police) about the ongoing gum-wad saga and her suspicions regarding Seymour, and there was no way she was going to bring it up now. The pain in her head was simply too volatile—a dark, formless presence that lurked, waiting for the slightest opportunity to launch itself. Loud sounds, bright lights, sudden movement ... even unexpected thoughts inside her own head could cause a flare-up, and all Meredith wanted was to keep that pain quiet and at bay. So she spent the weekend answering questions put to her as si
mply as possible, then crawling back into bed, closing her eyes, and letting herself sink past the hurt in her head into uninterrupted sleep.
Monday morning, Aunt Sancy announced that she had taken the day off work in order to accompany Meredith on a visit to their family doctor. They returned home with another recommendation for several days’ rest and a prognosis of complete recovery. “I checked out the X-rays taken at the hospital,” Dr. Boisot told them. “Bruising of brain tissue is minimal—your headache should ease off shortly. But no school until it has ... and no homework!” he winked. “Homework is much too stressful for a healing brain.”
And so, homework-free, Meredith curled up on the couch and watched DVD’s while her aunt fussed around the apartment, baking muffins and catching up on housework. Late in the afternoon, the land-line phone rang. Immediately, Aunt Sancy buzzed into the room and picked it up; for the past several days, she had been intercepting all of Meredith’s calls and taking messages. Up to this point, Meredith had been too dozed-out to care, but now she straightened and looked beseechingly at her aunt.
“Hello, Gene,” said Aunt Sancy, smiling at the phone. From what Meredith had gathered, her aunt and Gene had met in the hospital waiting room while she was being examined. Gene had had to leave before the doctor had finished stitching her up, but Meredith had emerged to find one highly impressed aunt. “Yes, she’s much better today,” Aunt Sancy told Gene warmly. “I’m sure she’d be happy to talk to you.”
Carrying the phone across the room, she handed it to Meredith. “Find out when he can come for dinner,” she mouthed before leaving the room. “I promised him whatever he wanted, and he said steak and cheesecake.”
Gene—here for dinner? thought Meredith. Slowly she lifted the receiver to her ear, relieved neither Gene nor her aunt could see the flush taking over her face. “Hi, Mr. Disgusted,” she said.