He grabbed my shoulder tightly, like he was trying to remind me how strong he was. Then he went to sleep himself.
I couldn’t tell which was more depressing—the time I spent in the police station, the few hours I spent the next morning in the hospital visiting Moore, Erica (and yeah, Mr. Eldridge), or the rest of that day, when I returned to school.
Late November now, it was seriously colder outside and the heat had finally kicked in. The minute I pushed open the front doors to SNH warm air swarmed around me, hitting my face, shoulders, and arms. Though dry, it felt like an ooze. It wasn’t just the usual aroma of body odor or the various and no-doubt-unhealthy construction smells; this was like a weight hanging in the air, like everything was getting ready to fall in and bury me, while I just watched, helpless.
People’s “1” pins flashed like holiday lights. No one asked about Moore or Erica. I was getting glares, angry glares, like everyone just knew I’d been involved with that wicked, wicked newspaper, even though the police swore they’d keep me anonymous.
The explanation for that was easy. After all, Moore had been screaming my name. But man, for Cravemen Dylan and Mike to spread it around so brazenly, naming me a witness to the scene of their crime, was downright eerie.
What had happened to this place? At least when we were lame we weren’t so damn angry.
The Otus, the newspaper that was supposed to save the day, had gone over like a lead balloon. The Cravers hated it (surprise, surprise), and everyone else either didn’t care or was too afraid to say otherwise. Within forty-eight hours, every copy had mysteriously vanished. Near as I could tell, Drik, Mason, and Guy had, too. We’d never swapped numbers, I hadn’t seen them at the hospital, and I didn’t spot them in school. I hoped they were all taking that mental health week Drik mentioned.
I stuck with the crowd a lot that day, terrified the highly spiritually motivated goon squad would corner me. I even made a point of not drinking any soda or other liquid, so I wouldn’t have to use the bathroom.
I did let myself be alone just once. And well, even then, not exactly alone. I was on my way to creative writing when I spotted a familiar green sweater and swaying blond hair ahead of me in the crowd. I didn’t call her name, since I figured she’d just keep walking if she heard my voice, but I still felt like I had to talk to her, warn her, for old times’ sake or whatever.
As she passed the entrance to the library, I pulled her off to the side. The second she saw my face, she twisted hers in disgust.
“What?” Vicky said.
“Look, it doesn’t matter what you think of me. I just want you to know what you’re involved in.”
She snarled. “You make me sick. You didn’t even see anyone’s face, but you accused Dylan and Mike, just to get at the Crave.”
“How do you know what I told the police?”
“Grace’s father is a lieutenant. You think they’re not in trouble at home now? They didn’t do a thing. That was vile, Caleb, really vile. As bad as that paper accusing Ethan.”
“It was them, Vicky. Who else has been shoving people around who attack your precious club?”
“I know they get a little pushy and we’ve talked to them about that, but really, don’t you get it yet? Moore was attacked because he wanted to be.”
Her eyes were washed over with this kind of glassy zombie version of conviction.
“I don’t want to debate the nature of the universe. I just want to warn you about Ethan. I’m not guessing about him. I know he was involved in what happened to Mr. Eldridge, and I don’t mean just by imanifesting. Ethan is dangerous. Really, really dangerous.”
She wasn’t fazed in the least. “How? How do you know?”
“For once, can’t you just trust me?”
“What did you ever do to earn that trust, Caleb? You’re obviously just jealous and pathetic.”
“Vicky, please, could you just at least consider the possibility? You must still have some feelings for me. Don’t you remember when we thought the first Crave came true? Wasn’t I the one you kissed?”
Her face went blank. Her nose wrinkled, like maybe she was remembering. She took a slow step closer.
“Caleb,” she said softly. I could feel heat rising off her sweater as she leaned in and brought her lips close to my ear. Without an inch between us, she whispered, “When I kissed you in the hall, after our first Crave came true? Even then I was thinking of Ethan.”
She whirled and walked off.
Whoa.
She was practically gone, but I called after her, “Oh yeah? Sometimes when I kissed you, I was thinking of Lindsay Lohan, but I was too nice to mention it!”
A few kids wearing “1” pins stopped to stare with hate-filled eyes.
And that was the last time I let myself be alone with anyone from the Crave.
On the lighter side, I didn’t have any reason to feel guilty about not warning her anymore. I kind of wished, for old times’ sake, though, that she’d told me what was going to happen next, since she must have known.
As it was, I spent most of the next period totally unsuspecting, working on an essay in which I imagined being a thirsty flower trying to bloom in the desert. (Mrs. D’s idea, not mine.) When the loudspeaker crackled to life, I was relieved to stop writing that crap. Three chimes heralded an announcement from on high, and Dr. Wyatt’s somewhat nasal voice whined from the speaker.
He only interrupts class for important news, like nuclear war, so I guessed he was going to announce the completion of the new gym wing. But, no . . .
“This is a difficult time for our school and our community. Many of you have seen or read the recent issue of our school newspaper focusing on one of our after-school clubs and several students involved in that club.”
I sat up straight, craned my neck, and strained my ears.
“This is it,” I thought. The so-called adults were finally getting involved. Wyatt would shut down the Crave. Ethan, Dylan, and Mike would be arrested. Truth would triumph over lies. Good would whoop evil’s ass. But, no . . .
“Following Mr. Eldridge’s accident, the paper was left without an adviser. Rather than close it, we’d hoped the students would monitor themselves in a responsible manner. Instead, we were deeply disappointed by the results. Opinions are one thing, and here at Screech Neck, we prize our freedom of speech, but the authors chose to make unsubstantiated allegations that interfered with an ongoing police investigation. This small group has not only opened our school to possible litigation, but their vitriolic writing likely led to the violent attack on their editor, Alden Moore.
“We do not in any way condone that attack. Screech Neck High has zero tolerance for violence, and as soon as the attackers are discovered, if they are students, they will be expelled. But it’s important to remember that insensitive verbal assaults on the beliefs of others are in themselves a form of violence that also will not be tolerated. The staff of the paper has been suspended until further notice. I would ask that everyone, members of the club and otherwise, take a step back and try to show one another patience, in the best tradition of our school.”
Three more tones ended the broadcast. I felt like a minivan had parked on my chest. So now I knew what’d happened to Drik, Mason, and Guy. As the rest of the class got back to being thirsty desert flowers, I sat there stunned, mouth open. I think Mrs. Ditellano was about to say something to me, because I heard her clear her throat. But the bell rang.
How could Wyatt do that? Didn’t it bother him that the “club” was sweeping over the school like a neo-Nazi movement? Didn’t he notice? Didn’t he care? He didn’t even mention Erica, or the fact that one of the students he’d suspended was in the hospital with his jaw wired shut. Hadn’t the police even told him about the security video?
Then I remembered Eldridge telling me Wyatt had his own “1” pin. The bastard was practically one of them.
There was nothing left to stop Ethan—not the police, not the school. No one could do anything. No one w
anted to do anything.
As I headed toward the lunchroom, I found myself breathing faster. If I were Drik, I’d probably think I was in the middle of a full-fledged panic attack. Hell, I probably was. I found myself not walking, or running exactly, but pounding my feet into the linoleum. I didn’t know if anyone was watching; I didn’t care. I was still in a kind of daze, but a nervous rage was building inside of me, years of priding myself on doing nothing crumbling.
I saw a poster for the next Crave and yanked it off the wall.
For some reason, in my head, I saw the spork. It was piercing the french fry, piercing the plate, making a hole in the table beneath it. I could even practically feel that heavy pipe in my hand, the one Joey had offered me, the one I might have been expected to actually use in a less sophisticated time.
I wondered if I could imanifest it right then and there. As I kicked in the door to the cafeteria, feeling that pipe clutched in my hands, one of the poems Erica used to quote came to my mind.
What rough beast slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Me.
The lunchroom was loud, but the door, as it hit the wall, was louder.
Everyone turned to look at me. For once, I was glad of it. You could tell at a glance who was in the Crave and who wasn’t. The ones who weren’t just looked surprised. The ones who were just glared. Ethan, Vicky, Dylan, Mike, Landon, and Grace were all at one table, managing to temper their glaring with a look of righ teousness.
I pointed to Ethan. “Skinson! You’re a goddamned liar!” I screamed.
He picked his head up, put his hands palm up, and spoke loudly. “What did I lie about, Caleb? Name one thing I’ve said that isn’t true.”
I took a few steps forward. “Everything. This used to be a pretty good school before you got here!”
Surprisingly, a few kids clapped—lamely, but they clapped. But then, like a giant snake, a bigger hiss rose from everyone else. Dylan started to get up, but he gritted his teeth and remained seated.
“What was the best part, Dunne?” Ethan said with a grin. “The collapsed side of the school, or the part that kept losing basketball games?”
Unfortunately, he had a point.
“At least we weren’t dropping like flies,” I shouted, coming closer. “At least our teachers weren’t having their brake lines cut so people could avoid their tests! And our newspaper editors weren’t being attacked by stupid Neanderthals.”
Now Dylan did get up. So did Mike. Other kids stood, too, all over the room, forming a big circle that had me and Ethan’s table at the center.
Ethan eyed the crowd. “That was Erica’s Crave. And weren’t you the one who pushed for it?”
I was busy trying to think of a clever retort when something hit the side of my face. Wet stickiness overwhelmed my right eye. I raised my hand and felt syrupy chunks of apple and crust clinging to my cheek. Someone had thrown a slice of pie at me.
As I was trying to clear my eye, more food filled the air. Some beans. Fries. A wiener. Then people started shoving each other.
“Calm down! Calm down!” Ethan was shouting.
Through blurry vision, I saw a few panicked lunchroom attendants rush out from the serving area. The hall monitors were coming in through the doors.
I also caught a glimpse of Dylan, headed my way.
Something heavier, maybe a book or a chair, slammed me in the back. I fell forward, slipped on the pie I’d wiped from my face, and the next thing I knew I was eating linoleum. People were going at it, tussling. When the tangled web of limbs parted for a moment, I saw Dylan still trying to get to me, but he couldn’t. The crowd was too thick even for him.
But someone else reached me. Two strong hands grabbed the cloth of my overshirt and pulled. I wasn’t lifted, but I slid along the floor. Disoriented, I flopped over some feet, then sloshed through a pool of soda and ice, cold bubbles freezing my back.
“Hey!” I shouted, but whoever it was didn’t hear me or didn’t care. And they were moving fast. The voices of the mob were growing louder, angrier, mixing with the hard clacks of pushed chairs and the wet thuds of hurled food.
It was sounding like a major riot.
I heard doors open and found myself yanked full body onto the relatively clean floor of a dim hallway. As the doors swung shut and the roar inside the cafeteria was muffled, I wound up eyeballing fluorescent ceiling fixtures and a display case showing the sole trophy the Screech Neck Basket Cases had won twenty years ago. Third place. Gaining my bearings, I pivoted awkwardly on my damp shirt and looked up into the face of my rescuer, whose hands were still on me.
Ethan.
“Get off me!” I shouted, twisting away.
He let go and rose, panting slightly. “I saved your ass,” Ethan said. “They were going to kill you.”
He put a hand out to help me to my feet. On my knees now, I swatted it away.
“I said get off!”
“Suit yourself.”
Ethan stepped back as if he were abandoning my lost soul. As soon as I was half standing, I rammed the top of my head into his gut. Together, we sprawled onto the hallway floor. Blood pounded in my ears, mixed with the distant screams of the students and the newer shouts of school officials trying to restore order.
Ethan stood first, legs shoulder-length apart, too perfectly balanced. He waited until I had a chance to stand, then shoved me in the shoulders. When I tried to shove back, he hopped out of the way, leaving me stumbling.
“Will you knock it off? Someone could see us,” Ethan said. “What is it with you, anyway? Is this about Vicky?”
“No,” I said. “You tried to kill Mr. Eldridge.”
He blinked. For half a second, he looked afraid, but then that calm, steely mask that made him look like he was thirty slipped back over his features. “If you insist on thinking in that backward way, then so did you, every time you imanifested everyone passing the algebra test.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “You cut his brake line.”
I pulled back and took a swing at him, but my eye was still tearing from the cinnamon and sugar, so he ducked easily.
“You really don’t want to fight me, Dunne,” Ethan said.
“Yeah, I do,” I said.
He chuckled like a super-villain. “Okay, fine, but let’s try to be a little smarter about it, okay? Not now, not here. That way, no suspensions.”
I panted. “Okay. Name the time and place.”
“Saturday night, midnight. In the new gym.”
I blinked and wiped my eye again. “What?”
He was so calm, so sure of himself. My own, unreliable rage was already fading, the image of the spork, or the pipe clenched in my hand, disintegrating.
“That’s right. You and me, once and for all, in the new gym. You know the place, don’t you? After all, you helped create it.”
He must have been imanifesting for me to agree, because even though I knew it was the stupidest thing I’d ever done, I said yes.
17
The next day it was as if an eerie truce had descended between me and the Cravers. I even walked by Dylan a few times, and he didn’t so much as snarl. Maybe it was because Wyatt came down so hard on everyone involved in the cafeteria “food fight”—thirty people got detention—or maybe it was because I accepted Ethan’s challenge and word was out that I should be left alone until Saturday.
I don’t know what I was thinking when I said yes to that fight.
Well, yeah, I do. I was thinking it’d be really sweet to punch him a couple of times, slam him around a bit, and make him hurt. More interesting are all the things I wasn’t thinking—how if I got caught, with Wyatt still considering me responsible for the building collapse, I’d be totally, permanently expelled. I also wasn’t thinking that, as a slacker, if I could even still consider myself one, I didn’t believe in violence. Nor had I truly considered that even if I won, other than making me feel better for a little while, what good would it do? Ethan would just give everyone some varia
tion of his “I really meant for that to happen” speech, and everyone would slap Mr. Psycho on the back.
I went to visit Erica at the hospital again that afternoon, but I sure didn’t want to talk to her about school. The overdose had left her with some kind of stomach ulcer that was aggravated by anxiety. She was having enough trouble recuperating without hearing that I was about to battle to the death. So I was all smiles, talking favorite TV shows and movies while she talked novels and poetry. I thought I’d pulled it off quite nicely until she grabbed my hand and said, “What’s wrong?”
“What?”
“Something’s been bothering you since you got here. What is it? The Crave after you?”
“What? No. I’m fine. I’m, uh . . . just going to go see Moore now. You take care.”
She knew it was an excuse. I knew she knew, but I wasn’t going to talk. I already felt like I’d failed her the first time, by not telling someone about her notebook. I didn’t want to fail her again. I was surprised by how strongly I felt about her lately, and this time it wasn’t the cookies.
To date my visits with Moore hadn’t been fun for either of us with his jaw wired shut. Unable to exercise his gift for being verbally annoying, he mostly just lay there watching TV. I figured I’d drop in and bring him some soda from the vending machines. Quick in and out, in case Erica was watching.
But as I neared his room, I heard familiar voices.
“In a couple of days those wires will be gone, and you won’t be able to shut up.”
“I TiVo’d this week’s Lost episode for you. I’ll burn you a DVD.”
“And don’t worry about Saturday—we’ve got it fixed so we can all watch the fight together.”
Seconds later, Mason, Drik, and Guy stepped out into the hall. Their clothing was unusually sedate, T-shirts, coats, and jeans all around, as if they were traveling incognito. I was thrilled to see them.
“Hey! What the hell have you all been up to?” I said. “Couldn’t you have given me a call or sent an e-mail or . . . something?”
The Rule of Won Page 14