by Sarah Biglow
Heat crawled up my neck and burned the tips of my ears. The battle was winding down and not in my favor. Before I knew it, I’d be in some stranger’s office talking about how things made me feel or staring at inkblot pictures. Images and snippets of late night crime shows flashing through my brain only increased the dread settling in my gut. A tiny sliver of doubt poked its way into my consciousness. Maybe yelling at Principal Tannery today had been the root of a problem I’d been avoiding. Not only had I never talked about why the divorce made me so angry, I hadn’t confided in anyone about how isolated I felt since the outbursts started. No one really knew how truly alone and insane I felt. Mom’s voice pulled me back to reality. "I’ve already made the appointment for Tuesday at one o’clock with Dr. Phillips."
It was really happening. No avoiding it now.
4
Eager to get home and check on Abbie, I weaved between upperclassmen, all heading for the front of the building and to freedom. Before long I broke from the pack toward Mr. McManus’s classroom to avoid the mass exodus. Halfway down the hall I stopped short, spying Ms. Eisner with a wicked smile on her face talking to Mr. McManus. Louder than necessary, she said, “I just heard that Ms. Rollands will be out until Wednesday serving a much needed suspension, though, if you ask me, I think the principal was too lenient only giving her three days.”
Shit, this was serious. I wanted to wipe the smug look of glee off Ms. Eisner’s face. At least Mr. McManus appeared upset by the news. His cheeks paled and he kept his gaze focused on a point over Ms. Eisner’s right shoulder. Heat spread down to the pit of my stomach and roiled in anger. Abbie didn’t deserve to be talked about like that, especially by a teacher. Tamping down on my emotions, I shouldered by. If they knew I’d heard part of their conversation, neither teacher acted like it.
Twenty minutes later, I coasted to a stop in the driveway and slid my bike up beside the garage. Punching in the alarm code, the garage door opened on aged hinges and I ducked inside. I headed straight for my room, tossed my bag on the floor and booted up my computer. The Doctor Who background flickered to life and I launched a browser, ready to send Abbie a message. The floor creaked behind me and I spun to see the hazy outline of a figure looming in the doorway. “God, Dad. Don’t do that.”
Did I mention my father can become invisible when he feels like it?
He became completely visible, casting a long shadow across the threshold into my room. “What are you doing?” He stood at just over six feet with dark brown hair and every feature on his face looked to be carved from stone.
I resembled my mother with a pale complexion and sandy hair. The only feature that clearly linked me and my father was the color of our eyes. ”Just checking email. What are you even doing home now?”
“I had lunch with your mother this afternoon so I was in the area. And since when is it not allowed for a father to be home to greet his son?”
He knew it bothered me that he referred to my stepmother that way but I did my best not to show it. I turned back toward my computer, hoping he’d take the hint and leave me alone. I held my breath until he finally left. Waiting an extra thirty seconds just to be safe, I logged on to Facebook and found Abbie on the chat list. It showed she was offline. Not surprising. She was probably grounded. I know I would be if I’d been suspended for any length of time. Still, a friendly message might brighten her day if she managed to get online.
Liam Sullivan-Gray: Hi Abbie. I just wanted make sure you were okay.
I stared at the line of text, debating whether to add more, but it said all I needed to say, or felt safe saying right now. I couldn’t just come out and tell her what I suspected about her. Not if I wanted to keep being friends. A part of me wanted to be more than friends and I wanted to believe Abbie felt the same way. Our conversation today in Mr. McManus’s class was so easy and comfortable, as though we’d known each other for years instead of a few months.
Three hours later, I dutifully took my place at the dinner table and sat through grace. Despite our not being a religious family, my father liked the ritual and formality of it.
My stepmother looked at me over her wine glass. “How was your day at school?”
I refused to make eye contact. “Fine.”
“Just fine? Nothing exciting happened?”
“Nope.”
She let her silverware clatter loudly so I’d look up. Catching my eye, she fixed me with her shrink look, trying to coax more than monosyllabic phrases from me. My father sat across the table with his lips pressed into a tight line. Even without saying a word, his narrowed gaze told me I’d better contribute more to the conversation and so I relented. “No. Just regular classes. We’re still discussing To Kill a Mockingbird in English. We’ll be starting to prepare for finals next week.”
“Did I tell you that was a favorite of mine when I was your age?” she asked.
I shoved green beans into my mouth and mumbled, “Only about five million times.”
Silverware clanked as my father set down his knife and fork with more force than was necessary. “What was that?”
“I said yes she has. On a number of occasions.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I dug my fingernails into the flesh of my palm to keep from letting out a few choice monosyllabic words that would definitely put me on my father’s shit list.
My father’s attention turned to my stepmother. “How was your day, Priscilla?”
“Oh, fine. I’ll be seeing a new patient on Tuesday. Her situation sounds rather dire.” She looked at me. “I think she may be a classmate of yours. An Abigail Rollands.”
Cold sweat broke out on my neck. Principal Tannery had sent Abbie to my stepmother. I swallowed but the sudden dryness didn’t go away. “We have a few classes together. She’s nice to me.”
“It sounds like she’s quite the troublemaker. Always interrupting class.”
Heat and dizziness clawed its way up my arms and my stomach soured. She was fishing for information and I would not give in. “She’s not. People are just stupid and blame her when they act weird. It’s completely unfair.”
She flashed a cocky smile and took a sip of wine. “Well, I’m sure I can help her.”
Before I realized it I was halfway out of my seat. “She doesn’t need help. She needs people to stop being assholes every time she walks into a room.”
“Language,” my father snapped.
I ignored his chiding. “Besides, aren’t you not supposed to talk about your patients? Confidentiality or something?”
She smirked in my direction but didn’t give a response. Maybe it had been the reaction she was hoping for. Without saying anything substantive, I’d still shown her that Abbie was someone I had a strong opinion about. The conversation turned to my father’s day and I tuned it out. At this point my contribution was no longer required. Based on my stepmother’s expression, I guessed she wanted me to spill whatever I had on Abbie before their first session so she could be all impressive. Well, the miserable witch could forget it. Even if I didn’t have feelings for Abbie, I’d never rat her out. I prayed that all of this would blow over and Abbie would be back in school next week.
With dinner finished, I headed to the kitchen to wash the dishes. My father and stepmother retired to the living room, wine glasses still in hand. The running water muffled the beginning of their conversation but Abbie’s name drew my attention. I inched into the dining room to eavesdrop. My father was out of view but I could still see my stepmother’s side profile. “I haven’t even met the girl yet, Hayden. Give me some time.”
My father leaned in until his nose was barely an inch from her face. “Work quickly. What we’re dealing with is extremely time sensitive and our partner is anxious for progress to be made.”
She shrunk back at his words and her gaze dropped until it was even with his chin. “I know that. I’m doing all I can.”
“I doubt that.” My father let out a dismissive huff and stormed away.
Trying to act like I hadn’t overheard their conversation, I glanced at her and shrugged one shoulder. “What do you want?”
Despite the calm composure of her face, my stepmother’s hands trembled. “I wanted to talk to you about that girl in your class, Abigail.”
“No one calls her that.” I bit my lip, regretting the slip as soon as it happened. “And you’re not supposed to talk about your patients.”
She didn’t seem to register my first comment. “It sounds like she doesn’t have many friends. At least that’s what I’ve gathered from speaking to her mother. I was wondering if you knew why.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I only met her this year.”
“I am trying to help her, Liam. I’m sure you understand that.” Her hands stopped trembling and she inched closer. “And I think we both know there is more to her than one sees at first glance.”
Could she know the truth? The possibility made a sick sort of sense. It would explain why my father seemed interested in Abbie. Drying my hands on a dish rag, I shut off the water and started for the hallway, hoping to put distance between us. “No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She took two strides closer and grabbed me by my upper arms. She pressed her lips to my ear. “I know what special little gift you’ve inherited from your father. And I think it would be smarter for you to deal with me on this issue rather than him. He can be so … explosive.” All of the fear and insecurity had vanished, replaced by an air of confidence.
My stepmother’s hands tightened around my arms like vices and her nails dug into the meaty part of my biceps. A hazy yellow aura tinged with fiery red flared up around her, blinding me. Even now my father’s power made itself known. I tried not to wince as pain sparked outward toward my elbows. No doubt I’d bear the marks on my skin for days. “Get off me. I haven’t seen anything. She’s just a normal girl.”
She released her grip and glared. “I’m going to find the truth. You can’t protect her for long.”
“Watch me, bitch,” I muttered under my breath as she disappeared back toward the den. Red splotches from the pressure highlighted the deep indents of her nails. At least now part of the overheard conversation made more sense. But who was this other partner?
It seemed luck was on my side. My stepmother disappeared into their bedroom around seven o’clock and my father announced he had some last minute work to do and left the house. If I was going to find anything out about their plans, now was the time. I headed for my father’s home office at the end of the hall on the second floor. The room was nothing special. Generic watercolor prints of cabins hidden amidst tall trees hung on two of the walls opposite one another. He only used the place on weekends. The room had been off limits when I was younger but now I had free reign.
Silly as it sounded, I half expected the room to contain a permanent near-invisible layer of my father’s power, marking it as Hades’ domain, but there was no trace of his presence. A simple cherry desk occupied the dead center of the room. An accompanying chair in faded red leather faced the door, as if the occupant had gotten up in a hurry. A two-drawer filing cabinet sat to the left of the desk with a laser printer perched atop it. A check of the top drawer revealed folders meticulously labeled in my father’s handwriting for bills and other expenses. He was nothing if not organized. None of the files suggested any nefarious plan in the works that involved Abbie. So I turned to the second drawer. “Come on, give me something.”
The center drawer of the desk revealed a stack of unused Post-it notes and an unnecessarily large collection of ballpoint pens. A cursory look through the one side cabinet turned up extra reams of printer paper. Nothing obvious that would point to my father or stepmother’s sudden interest in Abbie.
For a fleeting moment I grasped at the hope that I’d been wrong and they knew nothing about Abbie’s real identity. It was all just a coincidence. Unease squeezed my heart, dispelling any notion that their plans weren’t connected to Abbie. Goose bumps prickled along my arms and on the back of my neck. I couldn’t give up searching just yet so I settled into the worn seat and hit the power button on the computer. It whirred to life and the home screen filled the monitor. Thankfully, my father kept his password taped to the underside of the keyboard. Entering it, I now had complete access to his personal electronic files. Before I could snoop further, creaking floorboards made me jump. My heart hammered momentarily in my chest. I vacated the chair and checked the driveway from one of the hallway windows. My father’s car was still gone and their bedroom door was firmly shut. Paranoia was starting to take hold.
Retreating back to the computer, I opened the its main directory. Much like the filing cabinet, the directory was organized with folders and subfolders. Unfortunately, clicking through every folder proved just as fruitless as the paper copy search. My father wasn’t stupid enough to leave any potentially incriminating files on a hard drive. I rubbed my forehead in frustration, on the verge of giving up when a message bubble popped up in the lower right corner of the screen, showing a new email message had been received. “Of course!”
I ignored the new message—some spam magazine offer—and scrolled further down until two-thirds of the way down when a bizarre subject line jumped out at me: ‘Project Planetary Alignment’. Double clicking it opened a chain of three messages with someone named Rhys Holden. The name sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. I clicked the very first message in the exchange from Mr. Holden.
April 2 at 10:14am: Hayden, I was pleased to receive your voicemail message. It has been too long, old friend. I trust this project of yours can be done quickly and quietly. I understand that, given the nature of this endeavor, we need to be sure that we are done by the alignment. There are certain other parties whose involvement would severely hamper our efforts. Please advise how we should go about safeguarding this project. Also, per Shona only Eut., Cal. and Pol., are still unaccounted for. Suggested A. Rollands, E. Kemp and R. Bianchi for assistance.
I zeroed in on Abbie’s last name. They couldn’t be talking about her. How would they even know her name? And why could she help them with this project?
My father’s response was dated April 3 at 7:01am: I have made sure that there will be no interference from outside parties. This time we will not fail. I believe that our third partner has begun gathering the necessary components to move the plan forward.
Holden’s last reply came at 7:33am: I am glad to hear that things are moving along. Please let me know what I can do to assist before we meet for lunch.
Rubbing my chin, I sat back and stared at the screen. While the context of this mystery project eluded me, I had to assume it was important. Rereading the brief back-and-forth, I was at a loss for what any of it had to do with a planetary alignment. Besides, my father wasn’t even interested in astronomy. Printing out the exchange for later study, I cleared the printer history and logged off so my father wouldn’t know I’d found anything. I even returned the chair to its original position. After a look around the room to make sure everything appeared untouched, I headed back to my room clutching the printouts close to my chest. I stowed the emails in the front of my backpack and turned on my own computer. I could do a little searching before my father returned. Maybe figuring out what the deal was with this planetary alignment would give me a better sense of the timetable they were working with. Plugging ‘planetary alignment’ into Google generated over 900,000 hits in under thirty seconds. Information overload.
Backspacing, the search bar prov
ided helpful suggestions like adding the year. It couldn’t hurt so I scrolled through a few of the sections and hit enter. Over 11 million hits this time. This was clearly not the best plan of action. Just as I was about to completely clear out the search bar and take a shot at looking up Mr. Holden, Skype chimed with an incoming call. The video connected and filled the screen with the living room wall in Mum’s flat. Her head moved into view and she smiled back at me from 3,000 miles away. It was well after midnight on her end.
I waved. “Hey, Mum.”
“Hi, love. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
I smiled wide, happy for the distraction. “No, it’s great.”
“How’s school been? Still making good grades?”
“Yeah. School’s okay. End of classes is in a couple weeks. Don’t really have plans for summer holiday.” I settled farther back in the chair so my face was squarely in view. “Maybe I could come stay with you for a while. It’s been ages since we actually saw each other properly.” It was funny how my accent and British slang slipped out whenever we talked.
She rubbed the side of her neck and her gaze darted to the left. “You’ll have to ask your father first.”
“I know.” I fought off a frown. “So how are things with you?”
“Oh, all right. Nothing too exciting. Been popping around the shops. Went over to Cardiff for a little trip.”
The possibility that Mum had witnessed some live Doctor Who action made me giddy. “Did you see any filming?”
She laughed. “No. Sadly I did not.”
“Bummer.” I stretched my arms over my head and a thought hit me. Maybe Mum knew something about Mr. Holden. “Mum, can I ask you something?”