by M. D. Archer
“You too?”
“Well, no, actually. My mom is totally anti–drugs, so it would probably take a gunshot wound before we went to the doctor.”
He frowned, then let out a chuckle as if he was amused by me. But in a good way or a bad way?
“So your, uh, condition, sparked your interest in medicine?”
“Yeah, well, Mom started out in biomedicine, so that was part of it, and I guess my sister was a reason too.” Cole looked down, then abruptly changed the subject. “There’s a lot of stuff going on at the moment, huh? At school?”
“You noticed?” I said.
“I heard the hockey team has a steroid problem.” His gaze seemed to deepen as his eyes fixed on me. “Do you think that could be true?”
“That game was crazy.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes still on mine. “So, they don’t normally play like that?”
“I’m not exactly a rink-rat, but no, I don’t think so.”
“Huh.”
In the silence, I wondered whether I should ask him about Logan. He worked with him, so maybe he’d seen something suspicious too.
“What about that girl collapsing? I can’t remember her name.”
“Emily?”
“Yeah. She’s still in a coma, right? Do they know what’s wrong?”
“I—”
A loud thump on the roof of the car cut me off. The next second, Cole’s door was yanked open. Arms reached in to pull him violently backward.
“Hey!” I yelled. I scrambled out to see Mitchell push Cole up against the car in a tense physical lock. Waves of aggression radiated off Mitchell with such intensity even I could feel them.
“Calm. Down.” Cole’s voice was low and firm. He also pushed against Mitchell but did it with restraint. Mitchell was clearly angrier, but Cole was bigger and seemed stronger. And he had something else, a kind of authority. Nothing else was said, but it seemed as if there was still some sort of conversation going on, as if there was some unspoken communication between the two. Cole’s eyes darkened and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the collar of Mitchell’s shirt even tighter.
Suddenly Mitchell backed down, as if he knew he wouldn’t win this fight. Just as he released Cole’s shirt, an arm wrapped around Mitchell’s neck and yanked him away. It was Dean, wide-eyed and seeming stunned. “Mitchell. Dude. Chill out.”
Mitchell broke free of him and howled, gripping his hands into fists and panting like some sort of animal. With wild eyes, he reached up and pounded his head with the palms of his hands, then grabbed two fistfuls of hair. With an awful ripping, yielding sound, like grass being pulled from the ground, he moaned and yanked out two chunks of hair from either side of his head.
“Christ, Mitch,” Dean yelled.
All of a sudden, all the tension went out of Mitchell’s body. He collapsed on the ground, a crumpled heap.
“Mitchell?” Cole said as he dropped down to kneel next to him, taking his pulse. “He’s out. He’s unconscious.”
Justin and Liam suddenly appeared from the darkness, both holding bottles of beer. They watched with a kind of vacant interest as Cole shook Mitchell’s shoulder and called his name. When his head lolled to one side, I saw blood trickle out of his left ear. That could not be good. Cole pulled Mitchell’s eyelids up to see his pupils. His other hand was still on Mitchell’s wrist, checking his pulse.
“We need to get him to a hospital,” Cole said, pulling out his phone. He threw it to Dean. “Call an ambulance.”
Dean nodded, ashen as he dialled and held the phone up to his ear.
“Tell them he’s bleeding internally. Could be a brain hemorrhage,” Cole said, leaning over Mitchell, his ear near his mouth.
“They’re coming straight away,” Dean said, handing the phone back to Cole. “You all good? We, uh, gotta go,” he said, glancing at Liam, who was already walking away. Justin was nowhere to be seen.
Cole stayed beside Mitchell, checking his eyes and his pulse until the sound of approaching sirens pierced the night. I wrapped my arms around my body and watched in numb disbelief as the paramedics arrived, checked Mitchell’s vitals, then bundled him onto a stretcher and into the van.
Cole looked after them for a moment, his hands on his hips, then turned to me. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head and shrugged. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. That was crazy.”
We both stared into the darkness for a moment.
“Can we go?” I said. I didn’t want to be here anymore.
As we got into Cole’s car, he asked, “Are you okay?”
I nodded even though I wasn’t sure I was. Something was bugging me.
“How did you know he needed a brain scan?”
“Uh.” Cole hesitated. “It’s a good idea, with that kind of injury. They probably wouldn’t run it if they thought it was just guys brawling.”
“Nobody even hit him, right?”
“He had blood coming out of his ear.”
When we pulled up outside my house, Cole turned off the engine.
“That was really weird,” he said, turning as if he wanted to talk some more. But I was already unbuckling my seat belt and opening the door. “Calliope?”
“Oh, um, yeah, I’m exhausted, and I have a headache.” I was desperate to be somewhere quiet, calm, and alone.
“Can walk later?” he said, his expression hard to read.
“Sure. See you.” I watched him drive off, standing outside my front gate while the image of Mitchell going berserk played on repeat in my head.
I trudged upstairs and went straight to the bathroom. I took a long hot shower, pushing out the memory every time it popped up again, pulled on my PJs, and went to bed, desperate to put an end to this day. But the moment I turned out the light, my phone buzzed loudly. I fumbled on my bedside table and saw it was an actual call.
“Callie?”
“Steph? Why are you calling me?”
“You haven’t been online recently, have you?”
“No.”
“You might want to take a look.”
15
Amanda was a sociopath, and my life was a pile of crap.
She’d posted a video of me dancing around the office all over social media, with a full and clear explanation of my FAKE INJURY. She’d also found a photo of me with crazy googly eyes—I have no clue from where—and photoshopped it next to one of Cole, who looked appropriately freaked out.
Cringe.
Amanda might have a bright future in video editing.
And I was a meme.
It had happened two days ago, and I still didn’t know what to do. The day after I got the call from Steph, Mom went away to some two-day hospitality event in the city, and I’d immediately called in sick. No way was I hanging out in the office like some sitting duck.
I’d had a two-day breather, but Mom got back tonight, and I had an afternoon shift at the school today. But I wasn’t ready to fess up and face things.
I started a message to Mrs. Pemberton.
Think I’m still contagious. Better stay home one more day.
My phone came to life in my hands, buzzing insistently. I stared at Mrs. Pemberton’s name on the display for a moment, then answered the call with a sigh.
“You can’t avoid things forever,” she said in a firm voice.
“But—”
“I need you, Calliope.” Her voice wavered. “Please come in today. The computer won’t—” Her voice cracked.
Oh God, is she about to cry?
“Okay, okay. I guess I, um, I’m well enough to come in.”
I didn’t know why I bothered with the illness charade. She obviously knew what this was about.
“See you in a few hours.”
I pulled myself upright and caught sight of the moonboot, sitting innocently in the corner. I scowled at it. “This is all your fault.”
When my phone beeped again, I grabbed it eagerly. Maybe Mrs. Pemberton had fixed
the computer problem herself? Or maybe Isaac wanted to offer his condolences about my online shaming, my meme status? Or to come back to Montrose and be my support person? To say anything at all?
No. It was a text from Mom telling me she’d be home for dinner. She was for sure going to find out about my non-injury any day now, but I still couldn’t bring myself to be the one to break it to her. A sick feeling churned in my stomach. What kind of person lied like this for so long? I pulled at my hair. I needed to do something. I needed to make a change. I needed to move to a new town and go into hiding, but that wasn’t an option.
I ran to Mom’s bathroom and knelt down in front of her vanity. She usually kept a few packets of hair dye in case she wanted to make a spontaneous change. It happened every few months or so, and I totally understood the urge. I rummaged through the cupboard. There they were. I pulled out a packet of red hair dye. I didn’t even care if I looked bad. I just wanted to look different.
An hour later, I had red hair.
I returned my gaze to the mirror.
Now I looked just like I felt: a stranger.
I didn’t know who I was or what I was supposed to do anymore.
***
I scurried through the main hall toward the admin office, but I only got halfway there when the bell rang. Damn. I’d wanted to be hidden in the back office before the halls filled with students, but it had taken more time and more make-up than normal to get myself looking half decent. I already knew the dye job was a mistake. What an idiot. Way to put a beacon on my head right when I was trying to be invisible.
As students emerged from classrooms, I broke into run, but I wasn’t fast enough to miss what people were saying. “Loser” and “liar” were by far the nicest. When I got to the office, Mrs. Pemberton took one look at my face and said, “Oh, Calliope.”
I burst into tears.
She clearly knew what was going on. Of course she did—she was the central gossip station for this town. I looked at her, running my eyes across her face and hair, and sobbed even harder. Our hair was nearly the same shade, and we looked ridiculous, as if you had to have this hair colour in order to work in the office.
Maybe I should just give in to it. I could buy a peasant skirt and one of those bunchy blouse things she wore and lean into the start of the rest of my life. I could become the next Mrs. Pemberton and work here, with bright hair and crazy make-up, until the end of time.
She shepherded me into the back room, away from the eyes of passing students and faculty. “What’s going on, Calliope?” she said gently.
“I couldn’t tell her. I just couldn’t. So I had to keep wearing the moonboot, even though my foot was better. But it’s only been a few days,” I said, fixing pleading eyes on her face.
“Tell who?
“Mom. She wants me to be a dancer so much, but I… I just don’t. I mean, I still love dancing, of course I do, it’s just… I don’t want that to be my life. I just needed more time.”
“How long have you known?”
I grabbed another tissue and lifted my shoulders. “Not sure. I mean, I think getting injured was like my wake-up call, but—” I paused to blow my nose. “I remember last year talking to this girl at a contemporary dance workshop, and she was going on about how she craved the stage. Like she was addicted or something. She was always just waiting for her next chance to perform, and I realized I didn’t feel like that. At all. Performing was something I just did; I’d always done. Maybe that was the start of it. I mean, what kind of dancer would I be if I’m not obsessed with performing?”
Mrs. Pemberton nodded. “It will be difficult, but the longer you leave telling your mother, the worse it will be.”
I looked down. “I know.”
“I’d better get back to the desk. You can stay back here a little longer. Get it all out of you.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
After a few more minutes of staring miserably into space, I shuffled back out and she went to make me a cup of tea. It didn’t taste so great, but weirdly, it did make me feel better.
“Am I in trouble?” I asked.
“Not with me, love,” Mrs. Pemberton said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Calliope, and this feels like the right time. You’ve come so far over these last few weeks. You’ve become useful to me. You’re actually doing a good job now.”
With a burst of gratefulness, I lurched forward and hugged Mrs. Pemberton. She had turned out to be my rock. A comforting, squishy, perfumey rock.
Eventually I pulled back. “Thanks. And thanks for understanding.”
A rueful expression crossed her face as she said, “I understand how these things happen… how you get caught up in half-truths.” She leaned forward. She was now clutching her own Kleenex, her own eyes suddenly wet. Her lower lip wobbled. “I’ve been keeping my own secret.”
I sat up, alert and waiting. Was she about to confess she’d had her fingers in the cookie jar? Metaphorically, of course; there was no doubt she’d been helping herself to cookies in the literal sense.
But before she could tell me, the office phone rang. And while she was on the line, her secret second phone, the one she always kept in her bag unless she was sending text messages, buzzed.
I eyed the back of her head. What was the secret she’d been going to tell me?
***
The next morning, Mom and I had breakfast together.
I would have avoided it if I could, but when I’d trudged downstairs, still half asleep but wearing the moonboot just in case, she’d been in the kitchen with coffee already brewed and toast in the toaster. An ambush, I was pretty sure, but she sometimes did this when we’d gone a few days without seeing each other, so maybe I needn’t worry.
“Morning, lamb. There’s been another random beating. Downtown Montrose.”
Awful news, but my shoulders dropped in relief. “Really? That’s horrible. Still no idea who or why?” I helped myself to coffee.
Mom shook her head. “No going out alone after dark, okay?”
I nodded.
“Heard from Isaac?” she asked cheerfully, clueless that this was a sensitive subject. I’d called him last night, but he hadn’t picked up, and since then I’d had an awful thought weighing heavily on my chest: Did Isaac not want to be friends with me anymore?
I pushed a piece of toast into my mouth so I wouldn’t have to answer her.
“Did you see the piece in the Gazette on Montrose High? That reporter, Brie someone, she’s started a series looking at the pressure that students are under these days. Because of Emily Levene.” Mom shook her head. “You’re lucky that’s not you.”
Was I?
“Uh-huh.” I sipped coffee. “How’s work going?”
“Fine,” Mom replied. “Actually, Calliope, I wanted to talk to you about something.” I tensed and waited. “Your hair?”
“It’ll wash out.”
I’d hoped it would have had a chance to fade a little more before she saw it.
“Yes, but why? First your cut your own bangs and now this?” She looked worried. “The last time you did something like this was when your father and I separated.”
I’d totally forgotten. Aged about eleven, right after they’d told me they were divorcing, I’d dyed my hair black. It had looked terrible, and I’d made the most horrific mess of the bathroom, not to mention I’d stained my ears and the back of my neck.
“Calliope, is—”
Someone knocked on the front door, and we both startled. It wasn’t super early or anything—I wasn’t working today, and Mom had a lunchtime shift—but it was still surprising to have a visitor at breakfast.
“I’ll see who it is.”
When Mom returned to the kitchen with a confused expression and Ms. Spencer behind her looking like thunder, I nearly bolted. I nearly stood up and literally sprinted out the back door.
“Calliope? Portia told me the strangest thing.”
Ms. Spencer had her phone out, but she wasn’t about to m
ake a call. No, she was about to show Mom something online. No fair, I wanted to shout. Adults shouldn’t have access to the same online stuff as we did. It was like cheating.
“Is there anything you want to say before I show your mother this?” Ms. Spencer’s voice was low and scary.
I couldn’t speak. All I could do was stand frozen while the thing I’d been dreading unfolded. As Amanda’s video of me twirling around the office played, I kept my eyes on Ms. Spencer’s face because Mom looked like someone had stabbed her in the heart.
Ms. Spencer tilted her head as she watched the video, her lips pressed together in a thin line, and I knew that face. It meant she was unimpressed with my form. I could almost hear her critiquing my technique in her head. Which was pretty unfair since I hadn’t danced properly in weeks.
Mom’s eyes dropped to my moonboot-clad foot. “You’ve been lying?” Her voice was a gasp.
“The doctor literally just told me I could take off the boot.”
“What, this morning?” Mom barked. “You popped out for a 6:00 a.m. appointment, did you?”
“Obviously not, but—”
“So why didn’t you? Take it off? Resume training?”
Yes, that was the obvious question. But isn’t the answer obvious as well?, I wanted to scream. Because I don’t want to. I don’t want to be a dancer. But I said nothing. I looked down and waited for them to say whatever they were going to say.
For the next half hour, I endured a tag-team barrage of Mom and Ms. Spencer asking me what I was thinking, why I was lying, what about my future, why I was being so irresponsible, etc., etc. They paced, they sighed, they gritted their teeth, and they demanded explanations I felt powerless to give, but they didn’t actually wait for me to give them.
Finally, it was quiet. I looked up. Ms. Spencer had gone, and Mom sat at the kitchen table like an angry grey statue.
“I can’t believe you did this, Calliope. You lied to everyone.”
“Mom, I—”
“Why did you lie?”
“I-I just needed a bit of time, breathing room.”
“Breathing room? No. This is not the time for wishy-washy excuses. Listen carefully to me, Calliope.” Mom’s eyes narrowed. “You will make up the training you’ve missed, you will get yourself back up to full strength, and you will start the dance school next month. Got it?”