My Best Friend's Exorcism

by Grady Hendrix

  Through the window, Abby saw the red school van pull up alongside them on the West Ashley Bridge. Father Morgan honked, and Abby watched as Glee and Gretchen looked out the window. They saw her, and Gretchen locked eyes again.

  “Satan made him do it,” Nikki was saying. “Plus he was probably on LSD.”

  Abby imagined peeling the skin from Gretchen, pulling off her flesh like a damp glove, exposing her bones. But it didn’t work. In her mind, she couldn’t see what was inside Gretchen. She had no heart, no lungs, no stomach, no liver. She was full of bugs.

  Gretchen and Glee waved.

  Abby didn’t wave back.

  “I’m so sorry, Abby,” Mrs. Spanelli said. She was dressed as a witch, holding a shopping bag that contained her turban and crystal ball. “They didn’t tell me until I got here this morning.”

  Friday was a half day because of the Halloween carnival. It was sponsored by the parents, but the upper school clubs were expected to run the booths that filled the Lawn, and whichever club took in the most tickets got half the door money. Abby didn’t belong to any clubs, so she’d agreed to help Mrs. Spanelli do the fortune-teller booth. Except this year, no fortune-teller.

  “They don’t want anything that might be, you know, occult,” Mrs. Spanelli said. “Especially after Geraldo.”

  “That’s okay,” Abby said. “I might go home early.”

  Instead she went to the downtown library.

  “I’m trying to find out where this area code is,” she asked the librarian, showing her Andy’s number. Abby felt very mature asking for help tracking down a phone number.

  “Eight-one-three is Tampa,” the librarian said.

  “Do you have any Tampa phone books?” Abby asked.

  The librarian jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

  “Back wall,” she said.

  Abby walked over to a a dimly lit section of shelves that stank of newsprint and found a broken-spined Tampa phone book on top of a pile of worn directories. It felt greasy and used. She flopped it onto a table and flipped through until she found three Solomons. She wrote down their names, street addresses, and phone numbers, and that night she closed herself in her room and started dialing.

  No one answered at the first Solomon household. The second one was an answering machine. The third was registered to Francis Solomon. Abby knew it was the right one. It was only two digits different from the number in Gretchen’s daybook. Someone picked up on the fifth ring.

  “Hello?” the woman said and then hacked out a smoker’s cough. “Sorry. Hello?”

  “Is Andy there?” Abby asked, fighting the instinct to hang up.

  “Andy!” she heard the woman scream. “There’s a little girl for you!”

  There was a long pause, then a click.

  “I got it, Mom. Hang up!” a whiny voice shouted. Abby heard another click and then a boy was breathing in her ear. “Tiffany?”

  “This is Abby.” A confused silence followed. “I’m Gretchen’s friend.” More confused silence. “Her best friend.” The silence lengthened. “Gretchen Lang? From camp?”

  “Oh,” the boy said. “What?”

  It was Abby’s turn to be confused.

  “I wanted to ask you . . .” She didn’t know how to get into it. “Has Gretchen seemed weird to you? Or said anything about me?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “At camp?”

  “Or on the phone,” Abby said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because I’m her best friend,” Abby said, hating how childish it sounded. “And I think something might be wrong with her.”

  “How would I know?” he asked. “I haven’t talked to her since camp ended. She never called me. I have to go. We don’t have call waiting.”

  After he hung up, Abby sat on the phone for a minute. None of it made sense. She vowed that on Monday she would risk being humiliated and confront Gretchen about Andy and figure out what was going on. But that weekend it was Halloween. And by Monday it was too late.

  Union of the Snake

  “I appreciate you taking the time to be here today,” Major rumbled. “I would like to discuss with you Abigail’s future at Albemarle Academy. It is my opinion that she does not have one.”

  Abby sat across from Major. To her left was her dad, jammed uncomfortably into a hard wooden chair. He was all sharp angles and bony knees, awkward elbows, jutting shoulder blades. He’d shaved but missed the spot beneath his lower lip. His palms rested on his thighs, and unconsciously he rubbed them over his worn khakis, back and forth, back and forth. It was making Abby crazy.

  On her right sat her mom, leaning forward, keyed up, jaw clenched, ready for a fight; she blinked her eyes rapidly to stay awake. Mrs. Rivers had worked double shifts over the long Halloween weekend, and she was not prepared for a parents’ meeting on Tuesday after school. She clutched her purse in her lap and hadn’t taken off her puffy winter coat. It was overkill for Charleston, but Abby’s mom was always cold.

  Major placed a manila folder in the middle of his desk and flipped it open, then he put on his reading glasses and made them wait while he scanned its contents. Once finished, he looked up again.

  “Several incidents occurred over the Halloween weekend,” he said. “And I have it on good authority that Abigail was involved in at least one of them. She has also been accused of theft. And while her grades have been excellent up to this point, I do not believe that past progress is indicative of future performance. At least one parent has called and asked me to ensure that Abigail does not interact with her child because she believes, as do I, that she is using and selling narcotics.”

  “Are you on drugs?” Abby’s mother snapped, turning on her. “Are you selling drugs?”

  Abby was shaking her head.

  “No, Mom,” she said. “I promise.”

  “You swear to me?” her mother demanded.

  “I promise,” Abby said. “I don’t even do drugs.”

  Mrs. Rivers turned to Major.

  “Who said that about my daughter?” she asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss names,” Major said. “But it comes from an unimpeachable source. As does the information that Abigail was involved in the distribution and consumption of alcohol on campus Friday night.”

  On Friday night, while Abby worked the closing shift at TCBY, the Albemarle football team suited up and trotted onto home field to battle Bishop England for last place in the division. It was the final game of the season, rescheduled from the homecoming rain-out, and tensions were high.

  Ten minutes to game time and Coach Toole was freaking out because Wallace Stoney, his star quarterback, wasn’t there. Someone said he was making out with a girl in his truck, but no one could find him. Then Wallace strolled onto the sidelines, cool as a cucumber, right after the coin toss; Coach Toole was so relieved, he put him in the game immediately. By the end of the first quarter, Wallace was on his hands and knees at Albemarle’s thirty-

  yard line, spraying vomit out his helmet. Medics rushed onto the field, thinking he was concussed. It took one whiff to convince them otherwise.

  “Get your player off the grass” the ref told Coach Toole. “He’s drunk.”

  The game collapsed into chaos, ending only when Major made his way down from the bleachers and ordered Coach Toole to forfeit. Albemarle Academy was officially the worst football team in South Carolina. And it was all Wallace’s fault. His house was egged on Halloween and someone threw a rock through the back window of his truck. He hadn’t shown up for school that morning.

  “What happened at that game was a humiliation for this school,” Major said. “And although Abigail was not present, I have it on good authority that she was the individual who purchased alcohol and provided it to this student.”

  “I didn’t—” Abby said before Major raised his hand to sile
nce her. She turned to her mother. “Mom . . . ?”

  “Miss Rivers,” Major said, “if you cannot control yourself, you may leave and I’ll discuss the matter with your parents alone.”

  Trapped in Major’s overheated office, Abby felt a trickle of sweat dribble down her chest. Even without touching the skin on her face, she knew grease had started oozing through her makeup. Her empty stomach rumbled embarrassingly. Her dad kept rubbing his hands on his thighs. Shk . . . shk . . . shk . . .

  “More importantly, a student has come to me and accused Abigail of theft,” Major rumbled on, mellow and unstoppable. “The stolen item is of great emotional value to this student. Stealing is an honor code violation, subject to immediate expulsion. I will ask at this point: Abigail, do you have it with you?”

  Abby knew he meant Gretchen’s daybook. Gretchen knew Abby had it and she had gone to Major. He looked at her from underneath hooded eyes, and Abby stared straight ahead at a crack in one of the cinderblocks.

  “Abigail?” Major repeated.

  “I didn’t steal anything,” Abby said.

  Major stared at her for another moment and then sighed.

  “It is our considered opinion,” he said, “that you should remove Abigail to a less academically strenuous environment where she can receive the help and guidance that she needs.”

  There was creaking from the right as Abby’s mom adjusted herself.

  “Where’s that?” she asked.

  “Not here,” Major said.

  “Are you expelling her?” Mrs. Rivers asked.

  “No one would benefit from Abigail being expelled,” Major said. “Which is why I have called you here this afternoon so that you may voluntarily withdraw her. In which case I would certainly be prepared to overlook the reports of her behavior I have received and write her a letter of recommendation that would guarantee her admittance to one of the many fine public schools in the Charleston area.”

  Major’s eyes darted to his left, and Abby saw that a button on his phone was blinking. Instantly, his gray tongue slicked his lips, his head retreated to his shoulders, his voice went up an octave.

  “Excuse me,” he said, picking up the receiver.

  “Yes,” he said and then sat in silence, listening intently.

  Abby’s parents didn’t have a clue, but Abby did. It was the hospital. Nikki Bull had told her what happened in first period that morning.

  “Someone stole a baby,” she’d said.

  “What?” Abby had asked.

  “A dead one,” Nikki had said. “At the gross anatomy lab. They had babies in a bucket, and when we were there someone took one. I guess they counted them over the weekend and came up short. Mrs. Paul has been in Major’s office all morning. That’s sick, right?”

  To Abby, it sounded like more Nikki Bullshit. But adminstration had conducted a search of Hunter Prioleaux’s locker during fourth-period break, and a substitute was teaching Mrs. Paul’s class. Abby couldn’t believe it. Someone had touched one of those sad, boneless things, shoved it in a bookbag, hidden it on the bus. It made her want to cry.

  Major hung up the phone. He looked at it for a long minute, then returned his attention to Abby and her parents. “So, we are agreed?” he asked. “You will withdraw Abigail from Albemarle Academy and I will write her a letter of recommendation. You should have no trouble placing her in one of Charleston’s public schools. I feel this is best for everyone.”

  He reached into the paper tray in front of him, took out a blank sheet, and uncapped his pen. Abby waited for someone to say something, but nobody said anything. Major began to draft his letter. Abby’s dad started rubbing his thighs faster: shk-shk-shk-shk . . .

  Abby was being thrown out of school and no one was going to do anything. Her throat closed to the size of a straw and pressure built up behind her eyes. She dug her fingernails into the inside of her wrist, hiding it in her lap, trying to keep herself from crying. Whatever happened, she would not give them the satisfaction.

  “There,” Major said, pushing the sheet of paper across his desk. “If you would read that and approve it, I’ll have Miss Toné type it up on letterhead, and you can take it with you when you leave. We’ll send Abigail’s transcript to whichever school you decide is best.”

  He leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach, satisfied that his work was done. Abby’s mom didn’t pick up the letter. They all sat like that for a long moment, and then Major sighed.

  “In light of Abigail’s troubles,” he said patiently, “this is the least disruptive course of action. She cannot continue at Albemarle, and if you force us to resort to expulsion, there will be no letter. Any school that takes her as a transfer student is going to call and ask me for my recommendation, and I will have no choice but to share my suspicions regarding her involvement with narcotics, providing alcohol to an underage student on campus, and this theft.”

  “My daughter doesn’t do drugs,” Abby’s mother said. “She doesn’t drink.”

  “Mrs. Lang,” Major rumbled, “any parent would say the same thing, but I suggest that you might not know your daughter as well as you think. Abigail—”

  “I asked her,” Mrs. Lang said. “You saw me, and you heard her answer. She says she doesn’t do drugs. And while my daughter is a lot of things, she is not a liar.”

  “Well . . . ,” Major began.

  “What was that you said she made on her PSATs?” Abby’s mom said. “Oh, you didn’t. Well, I saw her scores. They were 1520. Now I haven’t seen the scores for your other students, but I’m betting that’s a darn sight higher than some of these Middletons and Tigners whose parents’ names are all over your buildings. And I know it’s Grace Lang who called you, because she called me, too. If anyone’s doing drugs, it’s that little girl of hers, but I understand why you’re being nice to the Langs. You’re going to squeeze a damn sight more money out of them than you’ll ever get from the Rivers. I don’t judge you for it. It’s your job.”

  “I do not appreciate the accusation,” Major protested.

  Abby had never heard Major sound weak before.

  “Not an accusation, Julius,” Abby’s mom said. “Just stating facts. I’ll be damned if you’re going to kick my daughter out of school for being poor and talking back. And I’ll be double damned if you’re going to rope me into doing your dirty work for you. If you want to throw my little girl out, you’ll have to do it yourself. And know this: the minute, the very second, that you write a letter saying she’s not suitable for Albemarle Academy, I’m going to be at the next PTA meeting questioning every single decision you’ve ever made. So you’d better have your ass covered or it’s going to be grass, and I’m going to be the lawn mower.”

  Abby didn’t even know it was possible to talk to Major this way. Incandescent rage was radiating from her mother, but her voice wasn’t raised; she wasn’t yelling or carrying on. She was simply taking Major apart and glowing with a white-hot fury.

  “Now, Mary,” Major said, “getting angry and blowing off steam in my office is all fine and good, but it’s not helping Abigail.”

  “Save it, you puffed-up gym teacher,” Abby’s mom snarled. And, unbelievably, Major’s mouth snapped shut. “How a degree in physical education makes you qualified to run this monkey farm, I’ll never know, but that’s not up to me. Even back at the Citadel I didn’t like you. You always kissed up and kicked down.”

  “Martin,” Major said, appealing to Abby’s dad, “out of respect for our friendship, I’m asking—”

  “Oh, can it,” Abby’s mom said. “Martin never liked you, either.”

  Abby’s dad stopped rubbing his pants for a moment and shrugged his bony shoulders.

  “Now that’s not entirely true,” he said. “I just never thought about you long enough to develop an opinion.”

  Major started to say something, but again Abby’s mothe
r was on him.

  “I know there are parents here who are sick and tired of the little club you run,” Mrs. Rivers continued. “I bet every single one of them would be only too eager to hear about my daughter being made a scapegoat for your incompetence. I bet they all have stories of their own. I bet if we all started talking, we could really make your job a whole lot harder.”

  A long silence took hold while her threat settled.

  “Mary . . . ,” Major began.

  “We’re through here,” Abby’s mom said, standing up and hitching her purse over one shoulder. “I don’t want to hear any more about Abby moving to another school or having any more difficulties with you, and I don’t expect to be dragged into another waste-of-time session like this. My daughter flunks out or my daughter drops out, we’ll deal with her then—and trust me, I will tear up her hide. But this conversation right here? It is over.”

  To Abby’s amazement, her dad stood up and her mom opened the door and they walked right out of Major’s office. Abby kept expecting Major to call her back or give them all Saturday School, but he didn’t make a peep. Abby was the last one out the door; she turned around to see him still sitting, bent over his desk, with his fingertips rubbing his forehead. She almost said she was sorry, but then her mother was pulling her through the little hallway, past Miss Toné, and outside.

  The wind was blasting out of the marsh, scouring the Lawn, howling through the breezeway. No one said a word until they were standing by Abby’s mom’s car parked in the faculty lot, their hair and coats being tossed around. The only sound was the flag snapping in the sky behind them. For once, Abby was actually excited about going to her shift at TCBY. “Mom,” she said, “thank you. You were totally awesome and—”

  Abby’s mom whirled; her face was such a mask of fury, it snatched the words right out of Abby’s mouth.

  “Damn you for ever putting me in this position, Abigail,” she hissed. “How dare you have us called in here like a bunch of white trash. I have sacrificed so much for you, and this is how you repay me?”