She met my eyes and in a last effort to preserve my innocence, I raised the bedraggled piece of pink paper that might possibly acquit me. I held it high, waving it like a white flag, hoping it would bespeak the surrender in which my vocal cords wouldn’t—couldn’t—articulate. Nervous as I was, it took me a moment to realize there was something noticeably wrong with my teacher’s face. In fact, she hardly looked like herself at all. This was because her mouth was stretched, showing large white teeth. Positioned just so, I would have said this was her interpretation of a smile.
“Ah,” she announced, with a curt nod. “There you are, Ms. Kelly. I take it everything is copasetic?”
She is! I felt my eyes pull forward. She was smiling—at me!
In conjunction with the semester I’d spent in her P.E. class last year, and the total accumulation of this year, never once had I seen her smile—at least not one derived from genuine happiness. Perhaps a sneer of schadenfreude when she merrily announced an impromptu exam, or caught someone on their third tardy. Then, and only then, did the hard features arrange into a corrupt semblance of happiness. And this was her class of overachieving perfectionists. Not one person in here had a GPA of less than 4.0. How many of their goals reached no further than passing the class with a C-?
Ms. Dashels quirked her head, rustling her coarse hair. “Ms. Kelly?”
Laughter from surrounding bodies fished me from my befuddlement. “S-sorry, yes,” I stuttered, letting the door click shut behind me. “Everything is . . . copasetic.”
“Very good.” And there it was again: the smile. She raised her arm toward the class. “Please take your seat and get out your notes on the timeline I asked you to tabulate over the weekend. We’ve been covering the Deerfield Massacre and the Tuscarora War.” I stood there, amazed for another brief moment, then hurried toward my seat. Halfway there, I remembered something, and whirled so fast I knocked someone in the face with my bag.
“Umpf!” came their sound of protest at what must have felt like being smacked with a sack of potatoes.
“Oh, gosh!” Turning to apologize, I did the same thing to a girl on the other side of the aisle.
The class erupted in laughter, but a whistle sliced through the heckling, cutting it off almost as soon as it had begun.
“That’s enough!” Ms. Dashels yelled, casting a baleful eye at everyone but me. After apologizing to both classmates, probably more than necessary, I carefully angled my body so I was straight forward in the aisle. “Was there something you needed, Ms. Kelly?”
“Ah . . .” It was the only sound I could make while my mouth hung open, that sounded somewhat normal. “Yes.” She waited patiently while I tried to remember what it was. “D-did you want my hall pass?” I asked. I could hear how perplexed I sounded, but there was nothing I could do to temper it. This bizarre change in demeanor was nothing short of perplexing.
“Oh, no need, Ms. Kelly.” She held up a hand to prevent me from coming forward. “Mr. Kassells spoke privately with me as to your whereabouts.”
“Dominic?!” I shrieked it. There was no point softening or calling it something else. “Dominic was in here? In this class? And he told you where I was?” I couldn’t stop myself. My mouth flapped open and shut as if pulled by strings. Nor could I change the tone of my voice so that it didn’t sound like a klaxon. The evanescent smile faded from my teacher’s face as her features rearranged into a stern reproach.
“Yes, Ms. Kelly,” she said very slowly. “That is what I said. And if there’s nothing else, I would like to resume teaching my class.” Eyebrows furrowed, I was strangely comforted by the resurrection of Ms. Dashels’ dour expression.
“Of course. Sorry.” I slid my backpack off my shoulders and held it to my chest, shuffling toward my desk in the back and careful not the bludgeon anyone else. Bemused eyes followed me the entire way to my desk, until at last I was seated in my chair, having managed not to injure anyone else. All heads whipped around at the strident noise loud enough to make you want to protect your ears by covering them.
“Eyes forward,” Ms. Dashels grunted around, the whistle clamped between her teeth.
For the remainder of class, she stalked up and down the aisles, squeezing a red stress ball in her fist and requisitioning answers from those called at random. I did what I could to pay attention, but it was clear to me today would not be characterized by an enrapt subservience to lecture and study. My brain was otherwise engaged. My stomach hurt as well. It felt tight and hard—like I had swallowed an orange whole and the organs surrounding it knew not what to make of it.
I found myself in the same position as Dominic, with not a clue as to where to start. Digest the scanty morsel of new information I could add to the other morsels filed under Dominic Kassells? Attempt to figure out the why’s, what’s, and how’s behind his intercession with my teacher? Or—what I should be doing—devising a plan to thwart Emily from barging into the landmine of Dominic’s personal life, thus throwing everything into a calamitous upheaval. Quite an impressive roster I’d racked up in one day—before lunchtime.
Thoughtlessly, I shoved my book into my backpack and for the first time ever, rushed at the door along with everyone else. For the next few seconds, my mind would be on one thing and one thing only: the bathroom.
It had never occurred to me on the clumsy sprint back to History to stop and wash my hands. Between the apprehension of facing Ms. Dashels and gripped with guilt, frustration, and a despair for a grief I could only watch from a distance, it had thoroughly slipped my mind. Unbeknownst to me, I had suddenly let out a horrified, disbelieving gasp, remembering the countless times I’d thrown my hands over my mouth while spying outside Mr. Michaels’s office—my contaminated, begrimed, brimming with regurgitated carrion and miasma, hands.
I stood at the sink in the bathroom, thankful for the moment of solitude, however short-lived it might be; it was the same sink in which I had wetted a paper towel for Vanya’s forehead no more than an hour ago. Turning the left handle as far as it would go, I grew even increasingly restive when the water took too long in reaching the ideal sanitizing temperature. Finally, steam began to collect in the white porcelain basin, rising upward in languorous hazy swirls. The girls’ bathroom was perennially regulated at arctic temperatures; when the mirror began to fog, I knew it was partially attributed to the air and partially because the water was much hotter than necessary. I welcomed the boiling ablutions, playing tag with the hissing stream until my skin grew accustomed and I could leave them cupped and spilling like a tiny water fountain. Overcome with giddiness, I relished the act of incandescent cleanliness. Now, if only there was an equally effective and comprehensive remedy for my sullied conscious.
I sighed, staring at my distorted gloomy expression in the mirror. Bright green eyes poked through the condensation, filled with accusation and disappointment. My hair had taken quite a turn for the worse since trying to wrangle it into a headband; my sweat and Vanya’s arm around my neck had disfigured the proportions, so that it was crumpled rather than curly, and the left was noticeably fuller than the right.
“The least of my worries,” I said aloud.
So, I wondered, had Dominic ever made it to third period? Or was I right in thinking he had sounded off when I asked him what class he had next? I suppose it was possible an office attendant had been sent for him. After all, someone had retrieved me for my initial. But while I couldn’t know for sure, of course, a sense I could neither corroborate nor verify told me no—it was not the same. But . . . I did wonder if he had known I wasn’t in class.
Grabbing a paper towel, clarity struck. Of course! My backpack. So . . . that means he had come back through the hallway we’d parted ways in. Which also meant that walking in the other direction was only to throw me off, part of the ruse. I rebuked the sinking feeling in my stomach, reminding myself that being hurt by his dishonesty was neither fair nor allowed. Okay, so he had come across my backpack and then what? Come into my class? Interrupted m
y Ms. Dashels’ lesson to tell her where I was? I understood the how, but there was still the question of why? Why had he taken such a risk? Surely he must have known Ms. Dashels would mention it to me? And obviously he hadn’t wanted me to know where he was last period. Right? If keeping his location a secret was important to him, then why chance its discovery by taking a detour I would invariably find out about? I was stumped. And without more information, I would get no further in figuring this out.
“Oh!” I exclaimed.
Exiting the bathroom, thoughts abstracted, I’d made a sharp right, bumping into a boy and a girl pressed up against the wall. Blushing and stammering awkwardly, I began to apologize, then forsook it when I appeared to not have disturbed them in the slightest. After circumventing the entangled couple and stopping briefly to let a group of rowdy boys pass, I quickly gravitated back to the far left of the hallway. I was at my destination in three short steps. My hands slippery over the dial of my lock, I swallowed heavily.
It had crept upon me like a spider descending elegantly from the rafters after bedtime, landing soundlessly on my headboard where she would patiently bide her time. Into sweet-dreams I was lulled, unaware of the creature dancing toward me with sinister glee and grace. With a mind to prowl indiscernibly over my face, the stealthy black body treading with an insidious lightness of step, she surveyed me indulgently, proprietarily, looming over the flesh no longer mine. And sensing only the very faintest sliver of disquiet, I had opened my eyes too late to find poisonous fangs sinking gluttonously into my lips. Jhaw! Shuddering, I swiped a hand over my clammy face, brushing harder than necessary at my mouth to extricate the widow I knew wasn’t there. No; no spider at all. Nothing so easily discarded as that. And now, I would walk willing into my fate’s web, because I had no other choice.
It was lunchtime.
Chapter Twenty-one
If only I wasn’t walking completely blind into this . . .
More than anything, it was Emily’s unpredictability that gave me the most cause for concern. Not that Dominic and I were—not by any stretch of the word—dating, but the closest comparable experience to my situation was when Jake had initiated Maddie into our group. Though, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that really other than being a boy and a girl, nothing about this was comparable.
Jake, knowing his sister very well, had been wise enough to consider taking Emily aside prior to introducing Maddie to her. How he managed to keep anything a secret from Emily, especially a budding romance, was slightly incomprehensible. Still, he understood that for Emily, the upper hand was real as red—a priceless ruby. With that in mind, he solicited me with a request for help, and together we had devised a contingency plan; as the early morning sky shifted from lavender to magenta, the twins paddled out alone for a session of dawn surfing—their preferred time of day to surf, as it tended to be less crowded than the afternoon and not inundated with the nuisance of beginners. And it was that Saturday morning, floating in the privacy of the vast ocean, Jake told his sister about Maddison Potter—the girl he liked more than any other. Choosing a weekend day had been key; more time was always best when Emily was concerned. And by supplying his sister ample time to assail him with questions—making the third degree look like no more than a mild sunburn—Jake avoided any unwanted spectacles at school.
When the day came for Maddie to take up residence on this side of the cafeteria—leaving the close-knit huddle of the Mathletes—Emily had a weekend to digest things and get used to the idea of a fourth person joining us each day. There was more to it than that, of course; though, I hadn’t felt the need to share this part with Jake. It wasn’t only time . . . equally valuable to Emily, possibly even more so, was the gambit in which knowledge provided. And her appetite for information had been well slaked, so I had learned the following Monday standing in line for sandwiches.
In the same breath she offered to buy me a sparkling lemonade, she unabashedly divulged about the background check cleared on a one Madison L. Potter. I probably should have been surprised—maybe even alarmed—but I was neither. In fact, since meeting Emily, very little seemed to surprise me these days, and I suppose that should be considered a good thing? Anyway, Emily was more than familiar, if not completely qualified, with how to attain private records. She’d done so on many occasions; though I’d never had the desire or inclination to know whether or not my name had been run through the system. Since both parents spend a fair amount of time collecting alibis and statements from their clients at the local police departments, the Donahue’s prevailed a great working relationship with the deputies and staff—most especially though, with the personnel working in human resources, maintaining the preservation of an up-to-date database. And with the nature of their profession, mornings could occasionally slip into afternoons, and afternoons into late evenings, so oftentimes the family would meet for a quick dinner together. However, Emily’s presence needn’t require a formal invitation; the prominent attorneys’ charming daughter was a welcomed visitor anytime she wished.
It was those kinds of endless resources that led me to believe what I did: that when Emily and Maddie had met officially for the first time—Emily gladly making room for her brother’s girlfriend at the end of the bench—the smile on her face was one-quarter genuine gladness of heart, and three-quarters eminent potential exploitation. This clearly was not the case with Dominic. What I knew about him was very little, and Emily, even less. In the time she and I had spent talking in the band room, I hadn’t gotten around to sharing about the day at The House of Hope. I could only presume—though maybe that was incredibly foolish of me—that Emily hadn’t had a chance to check up on Dominic. I would know for certain when I saw her face. If she hadn’t . . . well, I could be sure Emily would get those answers. Whether the method was legal or illicit—it remains to be seen.
The hallway was thrumming with voices and bodies, everyone of all grades and rank equally thrilled to be released into quasi-freedom for the next forty-five minutes. I stayed as close as possible to the wall, temporizing. Unloading my backpack of its final burden, I grabbed hold of the thickest textbook in there, and heaved it toward my locker. My hands, not the most coordinated hands to begin with, were grotesquely sweaty, and with the layers upon layers of Purell, my skin was greasy like olive oil. Because my reflexes were in close alignment with my coordination, preparation for the imminent attack on my bare toes included going wide-eyed and open-mouthed as the book dropped like a cinderblock.
A second passed and I was seeing white, shutting my eyes against stinging tears, and letting out a long, shrill squawk of agony, thankful only for the cacophony of voices that almost completely drowned me out. If I’d been alone, I would have indulged in some leg hopping, partnering it with talking myself through the pain—for some reason, volubility and movement helped tremendously in subduing pain. I wasn’t alone, though, so I would have to make do with screaming like a banshee in my mind—which I was doing right now.
After a moment, color returned abruptly to my visual field and I was able to regain some of my composure, breathing strongly through my nose. I waited for the sting of immense pain to subside and the dull throb of discomfort to begin.
“You’re fine,” I whispered firmly, letting out a loud breath of air. “Just a scratch.”
“I can’t leave you alone for more than one hour without you finding some way to injure yourself, can I?” Spending no more than half a second of thought on how clearly his deep voice cut through the raucous noise surrounding us, I then shut my eyes and marveled the odds: the very last person you wanted seeing you at your worst, would invariably be the one who did.
“How’s the toe?” he asked softly, eyes flicking toward the floor. Immediately, I lifted my foot, trying to find a place to conceal my connected appendage. I stayed that way, like a flamingo for a few ridiculous seconds, before begrudgingly lowering it back to the ground.
“It, um . . .”—about to reply with is fine, I realized he woul
d never believe me and resisted my natural proclivity—“hurts,” I finished with a breathy laugh.
“It looks like it hurts.” Still staring at it he winced, reaching over his shoulder with his free hand to cup his neck. “Ah. . . you got the nail and everything.”
I did the flamingo leg again, unable to stop myself—or the next few words that dribbled out of my mouth. “Guess I won’t need to trim that one,” I acknowledged, then closed my eyes when I heard it.
When I opened them, he was staring at me, lips firmly compressed. They unfolded a second later, twitched, and then bunched back up at one side of his mouth. I waited while he deliberated, wondering if it was too much to ask to wake up right now, to find this wasn’t actually happening.
“Well . . . it certainly isn’t the most painless way to go about it,” he put in, rubbing two fingers back and forth roughly across his lips, trying to muffle the laughter. My hope that this was only one of many bad dreams dissipated. “But—you can’t say it isn’t highly effective.” He dropped his arm, shoving both closed fists into his front pockets.
“No,” I replied quietly, not exactly sure what I was responding to, but feeling the need to say something. Presently, I could only hear my lame words looping on repeat. I grimaced at my beastly toe, already swollen and imbued with tri-colored streaks.
“Foster?” His voice was gentle, but he was watching me reprovingly.
“Mm?”
A slow, elegiac smile curved his full lips. “Will you stop punishing yourself, please? I think we can both agree you’ve suffered enough for one day.”
That makes two of us, I wanted to say. How could he be thinking of me after everything he had been through today? And before today . . .
Awakening Foster Kelly Page 42