My locker was conveniently located right across the way from my next class. Switching books, I couldn’t help but think about Travis’s forced apology. Truthfully, this wasn’t a conversation I wanted to be having at all; however, if I was to continue my journey away from the half-truths, this had to be done . . . now. I stood there cupping the cold metal lock in one hand and twisting the dial with the other. I was aware of Dominic’s presence behind me in the same way one feels a hot gust of wind, or very dense morning air. My hands shook as I spun the dial.
“I may never be able to stand up to someone, or do what you did back there,” I began, half-hiding in the dark hole of my locker. “I know you’re intentions were good, but”—my voice cracked with nervousness—“I don’t think you should have made Travis say he was sorry. It didn’t mean anything, did it? He only did so because he feared Missy’s threats.”
After a few seconds of silence had passed, I pulled my head out of my locker like a cavefish. Fully emerged, with the locker door still providing a partition between us, I looked at him. The first thing I noticed was my backpack, held aloft and unclasped. The second was Dominic’s eyes—full of intense contemplation.
“Which ones do you need?” he asked softly, not taking his eyes off me.
I tried to remember how to breathe. “Physics and History.”
We went on reading one another for half a moment, saying things with our eyes we could not say with our mouths. My heart responded in customary fashion, accelerating to an almost painful thump-thump. But to look away was to miss the genuine emotion flowing straight from an unguarded threshold.
Dominic was the first to break the silence. “I’m sorry for embarrassing you. I forget sometimes how much you dislike attention; it’s not exactly the norm. And I am also sorry for potentially stealing an opportunity for you to stand up for yourself. You are right about that—it should have been you to ask for the apology, I just, well, I couldn’t let him treat you that way. It made me sick, honestly.”
“I know,” I said. “And thank you for apologizing. I know you would have done the same for anyone else.”
Dominic surprised me by laughing, somewhat darkly. “Oh, I think you give me far too much credit, Foster.” The smile he gave me was spurious, tight all along his chin and jaw.
“How so?” I asked, watching his lovely eyes travel exploratatively. I felt the blush starting at the nape of my neck.
“Well, for starters,” he said, “I would be lying to you if I were to say getting involved had much to do with Travis.” He blinked slowly and smiled even slower. “And I already promised myself I won’t lie to you, Foster.”
The passing bell rang.
Chapter Twenty
“Clock’s ticking, Ms. Kelly.”
At the intrusion of the imperious voice, I gave a tremendous jolt, assailed again with that odd heightening of sound flooding my eardrums.
Ms. Dashels, my History teacher, stood formidably in the doorway, scowling at her black graphite wristwatch. She slid her tongue across her front teeth, entrenching it deeply into a central incisor and making squeaky wet noises.
“I suggest you wrap it up,” she said gruffly. “You have less than a minute to be in your seat, and then you’re late.” On her middle fingers were ornate silver signet rings; one modeling an oval onyx stone with a gold eagle embossed on top, the other with blocky lettering spelling out the acronym USMC and a ruby middling it. As with Mr. Balfy, Ms. Dashels pushed the boundaries of our school’s loose dress code, wearing fatigues every day. The unfitted beige cargo pants had been tucked into thick soled black industrial boots, both of which were laced tightly mid-calf and boasting a fresh polish. Neatly billowing from her waist was a starched white shirt. The ensemble was pulled together by a large brass buckle and two silver chains, complete with tags, resting on her chest. Most fascinating, whether I had Ms. Dashels at the beginning or the end of my day, I could never find a single wrinkle on her.
I said, “I’ll be right in.”
“You can fraternize with your boyfriend on your time, Ms. Kelly,” she said, peering down the hall. “You’d be wise to move faster, Mr. Costello. One more tardy and I believe that’s your third demerit.”
Beside me Dominic laughed. I thought it very brave of him, considering Ms. Dashels was as tall as he and nearly as wide. “Well, she’s delightful. Here,” he said, removing my backpack from his shoulder and positioning it over my mine. “You better go, Ms. Kelly,” he added very seriously.
I laughed—quietly. “Thank you. What class do you have this period?”
Tense consternation crossed his face. “Hm?”
“Do you not have a class this period?” I asked.
“Oh.” Dominic laughed and made a gesture like he’d spaced out for a moment. “Yeah, I have to be somewhere, of course,” he confirmed. But already I was becoming familiar with his voice; the inflections he used and the things his face did while speaking. I could tell the difference between when he spoke naturally and when he was forcing emotions into his words. “This bell schedule confuses me. I’m not used to having long breaks between classes.” He grimaced. “Seriously, though, you better go now.”
“Okay,” I replied, knowing he was right, but unable to wash away the sense of unease over his strange behavior. Maybe it was nothing, I told myself. “I’ll see you . . .” I let my sentence trail off, realizing it would be presumptuous of me to expect him to show up, or assume he would materialize come lunch time. I warmed considerably at the smile appearing on his face, nothing about it contrived or false.
“Yes,” he said, “You will see me.”
He began to back away slowly, and I did the same, only not backwards. With each step, I looked from the open door then back to him, smiling self-consciously as I worked to understand the mischievous grin. Suddenly it disappeared, replaced with austerity. He swooped low into a graceful bow, flourishing his long arm in grandiose repose.
I realized what he was doing and my cheeks began to burn.
I heard Dominic’s rumbling laughter, low and muffled. He rose up, eyes incredibly bright and the stunning grin replenished. Markedly, he puffed out his chest and laid a hand over his heart, nodding his head with a regal air. “I kinda like the idea of bringing back the bow. You might have started something with that one.”
I went to laugh; but before I could, Ms. Dashels shouted, “Move it, Ms. Kelly!”
“Go!” Dominic was laughing as he flung himself around the corner.
I leapt toward the door and was almost inside when I heard a small voice groan my name.
I knew I couldn’t have more than three seconds before the second bell rang; I spun around, frantically looking up and down the desolate hallway, trying to locate the source of the voice. There was nothing. This seemed to prove my earlier thoughts that I was imagining all sorts of things today, except as I moved to put my body safely inside the room, I saw it.
The final bell went off.
As it screamed my fate, I locked eyes with Ms. Dashels. From her leather swivel chair, she smiled, giving me a look clearly translated as, “You’re mine.” Resigned to what this dereliction meant, I whirled back around, starting forward to the small blonde head poking out from the purple door of the girl’s bathroom. I padded toward her, hurrying.
“Vanya?”
Realizing I still carried my backpack, I quickly doubled back, dropping and discarding it outside the class door, which I could expect to find locked upon my return.
“What happened?” I asked, searching Vanya’s wan face. She trembled lightly in the doorframe. “Are you hurt?”
Vanya responded with a dry retch, a whimper, and then collapsed like a folding chair, slumping to the floor. With one arm I attempted to soften her fall. The other was used to stop the door before it smashed into her head. I grunted with the effort of keeping it propped open with one hand, and moved to get a better hold on it. Bracing my back against it, I slid my hands beneath Vanya’s shoulders, gingerly shoving her co
mpletely inside the bathroom. The heavy door clunked behind us, a metallic ring burning in my ears. I rose from a crouch, staring down at the unresponsive body lying on the glazed slate floor.
In over a year of knowing her, I had never seen Vanya look anything less than perfectly put together; the contrast—blonde bun disheveled, makeup smeared, face ashen, and sweat pooling in the hollows below her closed eyes—was beyond alarming. Fortunately she did not appear to be hurt, but extremely ill. The smell, which I hadn’t been able to detect from across the hall, was strong enough to initiate my own gag reflexes. The flu, I surmised, and covered my nose and mouth.
From the corner of my eye I saw her crumpled up cardigan on the floor near the trashcan. My guess is she had been attempting to be rid of it, not caring enough to salvage the soiled garment. Luckily, her tank top—nearly the same color as her face—and black leggings were no worse for wear. Because I knew what I must do, I allowed myself a moment to panic, stepping over to the sink to lather my hands with antibacterial soap and scald them with hot water. Ablutions completed, I hurried back over to Vanya and knelt beside her.
“Vanya, can you hear me?” I could carry her if I must, but it would be much easier if she could walk.
Hearing my voice she nodded weakly, opened one eye, then the other, and closed them both again. She convulsed lightly and began to moan. In a gesture of pure instinct, I stumbled back as she rolled onto her side and retched again. Producing no more than a clear spittle belumped with brownish bits, she languorously wiped her chin and fell again onto her back, rolling her head to the right. Overcome with nausea, I turned away, put my mouth to my sleeve and began breathing heavily. My phobia of germs was overwhelming, to the point that I could hardly stand to look at Vanya without feeling as if I, too, might become sick. Everything right and sound said to move as far away as possible from the infectious girl, and find someone else to take her to the nurse’s office. I couldn’t leave her here, though. Not after she had called out to me for help.
In my entire life, I had only been sick once, and even then I’d done everything short of melting myself in a sauna and ingesting entire cloves of garlic to prevent it. After that horrifying experience of not being able to escape the disgusting substances that sludged from both mouth and nose, I’d gone above and beyond to ensure sickness never befell me again. And so far, so good.
Tossing the contaminated cloths in the trash, I searched my pockets for the miniature bottle of Purell that was never more than arms-length away. With a groan, I remembered I had put it in my backpack after using it last period. About to head toward the sink, Vanya moaned again, a fresh wave of shudders shaking her so violently her teeth rattled. With one last wistful glance at the sink offering purification, I decided I could wash up as soon as she was taken care of.
Pressing my knees to the floor, I was beyond thankful I had chosen to wear long pants today. Vanya wasn’t completely incoherent and managed to assist me in getting herself upright. Once on her feet, she teetered, then locked her legs, resting the majority of her hundred pound frame against my shoulder.
“Okay,” I announced, a bit breathless, but otherwise thrilled by the small victory of being aloft. Once I was certain we were both steady, I began assessing the best way to ensure we stayed that way. Knowing the odds were not in my favor, I knew I must be very careful. “Maybe if I just . . .” Experimentally, I took one of my arms and looped it snugly around her tiny waist. She was so small I could almost come back around to the other side. “Then, if we put this one here . . .” I wrapped one of her frail, clammy arms around the back of my neck. It slipped off a few times, but eventually I figured it out. “And then I’ll hold your wrist,” I decided, talking myself methodically through each step. Vanya remained pliable and silent throughout the ministrations, save for a whimper or two. “I’ll get you there as fast as I can,” I promised, and took a precarious step forward, down the empty hallway. Her head was lolled to the side, blazing hot and burning through the thin fabric of my shirt. This told me she most definitely had a fever.
It also told me Vanya was highly contagious right now.
With the exception of a small stumble and one that could have been disastrous, we made the short distance to the office. I stood outside the door, peering through the rectangular window. Without the use of my hands or feet—having chosen to wear open-toed sandals today—I was left to wait, hoping it wouldn’t be long before someone came in behind me, or I was able to catch the attention of the office attendant. Prayer answered, Ms. Appletree—preened in a flowy white dress with red polka dots, a thick shiny red belt and matching pumps—flounced by no more than a minute after we arrived. She whisked open the door with a squeal of distress.
“Oh, goodness!” she exclaimed, bringing a red-polished hand to her cheek. “What on earth happened to Vanya?”
“She’s sick,” I replied, quite breathless at this point. On cue, Vanya moaned, rolling her head toward me and coughed in my face.
“Is there—is there somewhere I can lay her down?” I asked, a note of pleading in my voice. Besides wanting to remove Vanya’s spittle from my cheek, there was sweat beading along my hairline; I felt a rivulet travel from temple to chin, then drop off.
“Oh, yes! Yes, of course!” Ms. Appletree held the door open for me as I plodded over the threshold, my muscles weak and tremulous. She took care in keeping her distance as I dragged Vanya the rest of the way to the nurse’s quarters.
Once there, we both collapsed onto the padded bench covered with thin, white butcher paper. I extracted Vanya’s arms from around me and tried to situate her comfortably, moving her neck so it laid naturally to the left and smoothing the damp strands of hair from her face. Without opening her eyes, she curled onto her side into the fetal position, shivering. I took a deep breath, exhausted, but wishing there was something more I could do to help.
Ms. Appletree tsked from the doorway. “Seen a lot of that this month,” she trilled regretfully. “Mrs. Lennox, dear?” she called over her shoulder. “Can you come take a look? We’ve got another one.”
Beyond the door, I heard a never-ending deep inhale through the nose, followed much later by the begrudged mutterings—something to the effect of not having eaten more than two bites. “Aye,” a gristly voice called back. Irish or Scottish, I thought. “I’ll be needin’ just a moment, though.”
Ms. Appletree smiled resplendently. “She’ll be in momentarily,” she told me unnecessarily. I noticed a red splotch of lipstick stuck to her front teeth and found it difficult to look anywhere else as she made small talk.
A few moments later she left, sweeping up her skirts in a flurry when another student came into the office in need of a late pass. I took a seat in a plastic chair across from Vanya and looked idly about the room. It was small and well lit, painted a cheerful tangerine with sparse furnishings: my chair, the bed Vanya curled up on, a rolling stool, wall of pamphlets, and white cabinets attached to a small metal sink. The air was punctured with the familiar scent of peroxide and cleaning chemicals. Heavenly, I thought, taking in a salubrious whiff. I saw it then, my deliverance, the little white box tacked to the wall. I launched myself at the hand sanitizer, pumping fervently, mad with exultation before I realized nothing was coming out.
“No,” I hissed at it, stooping so I was eye-level, muttering under my breath, “you must have one drop left for me, right?”
Wrong.
Not wanting to be rude, but in dire need of some sort of sanitization or disinfectant, I rummaged through the cupboards above and below the sink, searching thoroughly, but sorely disappointed when all I could find were various medicinal bottles—none that would serve my purpose—cotton swabs, and extra stock for the room. Not possible! I thought. No replacement jug of sanitizer? Not even one tiny bottle of hand-soap? Or rubbing alcohol? I would have celebrated mouthwash if I had found it. Mournfully, I settled for hot water again, until I could get my hands—literally—on my bottle of Purell. I shook out the excess water over th
e sink, then reached out, waving a hand under the motion sensor paper towel dispenser. The noise disturbed Vanya; she opened her eyes and stared blearily, scowling at me.
“Why are you here?” Her voice was thin and hoarse. Before I could give her an answer, she was overcome. The icy blue eyes sunk into her skull, rolling backward till only the whites were visible. I was quite certain Vanya had just passed out.
“Um,” I called out, a quiver in my voice. “I think she might need to be taken to a hospital.”
“Och, no!” replied a corpulent nurse, ladling the last bite of something soft and breaded into her masticating mouth as she lumbered crookedly into the room. She glanced at Vanya, then strode away in the opposite direction, a quick look at her watch as she did. Mrs. Lennox, I presumed, set her Tupperware dish on the counter next to the sink, then brushed her hands administratively over her too long black dress pants, scattering crumbs over the gray level loop carpet. Stout body positioned under the light, she reached up to open a cabinet, the thick fingers grazing the handles before seizing them almost victoriously. Though she had gone mostly silver with age, a trace of red still shone through the thinning hair—like a pillowcase thrown over a red light bulb. She turned her head, examining Vanya with a keen eye and nodded.
She cleared her throat noisily. “No,” she repeated, her wobbly alto lush with accent, and changing the word into something that sounded more like “Nae” to me. “I dinna think we need tae be botherin’ the good doctors on this one. Plenty o’ rest and fluids will do the trick, just fine.”
I made sure to stay clear of the nurse’s path, pinning myself against the far wall, a couple feet behind Vanya’s knobby back, gently rising and falling. I was glad to see she seemed to have found a moment of peace; both forehead and jaw were slack, and with her white-blonde hair having begun to curl around the damp hairline, Vanya appeared very young and fragile, not to mention incredibly vulnerable. I found myself puzzled, stepping closer to get a better look at her. And while I was unable to name it, exactly, without a doubt there was something almost peculiar and alien about the portion of her face not obstructed by her arms. It struck me with certainty, when her cracked lips parted and released a soft, strangled moan—the same protective instincts that surged when one of my kids was afraid.
Awakening Foster Kelly Page 39