Without Annette

by Jane B. Mason

  Blemishes? As in zits?

  I swallowed and fought to maintain a bland expression despite my internal cascade of emotions. This was so screwed up. What had made Annette drink herself into such a stupor? Into unconsciousness? Everyone drank at Brookwood, but not like that. And yet, in many ways, Annette was only doing what everyone else did.

  Why are you defending her? an incredulous voice asked. She ditched you, strung you along, and screwed around with Penn.

  I had to fight to keep my body upright and my expression neutral as the answer came screaming into my head like a freight train: Because you, Josie Little, brought her here in the first place.

  Most of the time I considered myself lucky to have double anthropology on Saturday mornings, but that day I would’ve sat through a dozen algebra classes to avoid seeing Penn. Because of my meeting with Thornfeld, I wasn’t at breakfast—thus far he’d been invisible. Which was good, because I literally had no idea what I would do with his body after I killed him.

  I walked quickly by the pond and into the science building, then lingered awkwardly in the hall. I was a little early for class, and Headmaster Thornfeld was in the classroom with Professor Mannering. The man was all over the place.

  “I’m sorry, Linus,” I heard him say, surprised that I could hear anything through the closed door. Looking up, I noticed that the transom above it was wide open. I stepped out of view, my back against the wall, and listened. “It is out of my hands, I’m afraid. The board has made a final decision.”

  “I can’t say I’m entirely surprised,” Professor Mannering said, his voice resigned. “Though I had hoped they’d let me stay through the end of the semester. It will be a bit awkward to leave my students mid-discussion … some of them are extremely insightful.”

  “They will miss you, no doubt, as will I.”

  “I appreciate that, Percy,” Professor Mannering said. “As well as your coming to tell me immediately. It will give me a little time to get things in order.”

  “I assumed you’d want to know as soon as possible.”

  “I’m not quite sure what I will do with myself,” Professor Mannering said amusedly, “but life has a way of keeping things interesting.”

  “You can say that again,” Thornfeld agreed.

  “Life has a way of keeping things interesting,” Professor Mannering said again, and both men laughed before the room fell to silence.

  “I am grateful for your work here,” Thornfeld said.

  “And I am grateful for the many years of support.”

  Several more seconds of silence, and then footsteps. A moment later the door opened and Thornfeld appeared, walking right past me as if I were invisible.

  The significance of the conversation was sinking in when Marina approached. I almost blurted out what I’d just heard, but managed to keep my mouth closed. It wasn’t really my news to tell.

  “May as well bite the bullet,” Marina said, nudging me forward as students filed through the door. Another nudge and I was in the classroom, which was, thankfully, Penn-less.

  “Let’s sit on the other side,” Marina suggested. “That way we can glare at him as he comes in the door.”

  “You’re glaring, too?” I asked, feeling sick to my empty stomach. On top of everything else, my favorite teacher was apparently leaving the school, and pronto.

  Marina half shrugged. “I’m definitely not smiling at the boy.”

  “Take some seats, please!” Professor Mannering said from his desk, sounding remarkably like himself. Wasn’t he upset? “We have business to attend to.”

  Marina and I made our way through the maze of desks and sat down by the window. The dog-eared National Geographic magazine in front of us gave off a musty smell, and I blinked at the date under the title: October 1921. Almost a hundred years ago.

  “Holy old thing,” Marina said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. The magazine smelled of moldy paper, and the steel staples that held it together were rusted. The table of contents was right on the cover and there were only four articles in the whole thing. They all had to do with South America. The first article was “Trail and Jungle in Ecuador,” by H. E. Anthony, and I opened the magazine, almost sneezing as dust and mildew emerged. The pages were thick and, I could tell, had once been shiny. After decades in Professor Mannering’s classroom, though, they were matted from touch.

  “Peoples,” Professor Mannering said from the front of the room. “This morning we will be working in pairs and reading about Amazonian cultures in periodicals of various ages, from very old to present-day. Each offers a different perspective, which is precisely what we will be discussing. Please dig in with your desk partner and take notes for said discussion.”

  Clutching his coffee mug in his bony fingers, he moved around the room, presumably to make certain we were reading the right stuff.

  A naked-chested Shuar warrior stared out from the pages of the National Geographic, his expression haughty and distant. In his hands he held a muzzle-loading gun. A caption under the photo said He may have paid a human head for his weapon, but the paragraph under that was much more informative, explaining that the musket was cheaply made, but the Shuar never tired of handling guns, for they symbolized wealth. The Shuar man in the photo wore bangs across his forehead, and his hair was tied just below his ears with pieces of something that looked like bone, or maybe antler.

  “You’d think a headhunting warrior would be a little buffer than that, you know?” Marina asked.

  “Totally,” I agreed, forcing myself to stare hard at the magazine.

  “You can relax a little,” she said. “He’s not here yet.” She turned the page, and we started to read. The article was fascinating and full of details—everything from language to religious practices to hunting techniques to shrinking heads. But you could tell that it had been written a long time ago, because the writing was kind of stiff and, well, moldy.

  Marina turned to a full-page photo of shrunken heads. ‘Ewwwww!” she whispered. “Gross.”

  I leaned in and looked at the photo of three shrunken heads “hanging” from ropes. The hair on all three heads was crazy long, the bangs coming down to the chins because the heads were no longer full-size.

  “Look at that gorgeous hair,” Marina said reverently. “Even hanging off creepy shriveled heads, it reeks of Latino bombshell.”

  She was right, but I wasn’t looking at the hair. I was looking at the heads, at the faces with their protruding lips, ornately tied with light-colored string that was left to hang, in some cases, even longer than the hair. According to the caption, the heads belonged to the American Museum of Natural History.

  I glanced up to see Professor Mannering standing over us, his eyes focused on the picture of the three heads. He reached out as if he were going to snatch the magazine away, then changed his mind and pulled his hand back.

  Marina leaned in to study the photo. “That is some serious awesome nasty creepiness,” she declared.

  Professor Mannering turned away abruptly. “Finish up, peoples,” he announced. “We want plenty of time for discussion.”

  Just then, Penn walked in, and I caught his eye without meaning to. He looked dazed, as though he’d just woken up, which made me flare with anger. Did he even know what had happened? What was happening?

  “Don’t look at him,” Marina whispered, closing the magazine. “Or better yet, pretend he’s naked.”

  I turned to her.

  “Oh shit, sorry,” she corrected herself. “Bad idea.”

  Terrible idea, I thought.

  Marina’s dark eyes were full of embarrassment. “Oooh, I know,” she said. “Pretend he’s a shrunken head.”

  Ha! That was much better. “Exactly,” I agreed. “With his eyes and lips sewn tightly shut for all eternity.”

  Dean Austin and his golden retriever, McNulty, who spent a fair amount of the ride with his head between the two front seats, panting and drooling on his master’s ample shoulder, dropped me off at th
e hospital curb. “Do you want me to come in with you?” the dean asked as he slid the gearshift into park, seemingly oblivious to the giant wet spot on his chambray button-down.

  I regarded the Eden General sign and tried to ignore the roiling pit of uneasiness in my stomach. “No, thanks, I got it.”

  He handed me an old-fashioned business card with an embossed Brookwood logo, just like the one on the acceptance letter I’d received eight months before. “It has my cell number,” he explained. “Call me when you’re ready to be picked up.”

  For a moment, I considered telling him I was ready right now, to peel the station wagon out of there. Then I considered telling him not to bother coming back at all—I’d just go back to Minnesota with Annette. Since neither was an option, I nodded and got out of the car.

  Eden General looked like every other hospital I’d seen. Industrial. Ugly. Huge sign directing people to the emergency room. Ugh, the emergency room. That was where the ambulance had taken Annette.

  Well, at least the driver was sober, I thought as the memory of a previous ER visit surfaced—one with a drunken Shannon at the wheel.

  It was just over a year ago. Shannon had been hosting a dinner party; Annette and I were her kitchen minions. Everything had gone perfectly until Annette slipped on the wet floor and dropped an armful of dessert plates, smashing them to bits and twisting her ankle, badly.

  “How can a person be so clumsy?” Shannon hissed over her shoulder, blearily eyeing the two of us in the backseat. She slammed her foot on the accelerator and took a drag from her cigarette, the ash lengthening dangerously. As the car sped down the highway, I squeezed Annette’s hand, silently assuring both of us that it would be all right.

  “I tripped,” Annette said quietly. Her face was streaked with tears.

  “On what?” Shannon said derisively. “Your stupidity?”

  “It was an accident,” I said. I just wanted her to be quiet and drive, but she was on a rampage. Her dinner party had been interrupted, and she’d had a slew of gin and tonics. Never a good combination.

  “It’s always an accident!” She hit the gas pedal again, roaring past a pickup and veering back into the right lane, cutting him off. The pickup driver slammed on his horn and Annette clutched my arm as if her life depended on it. Shannon’s behavior had been getting more volatile, especially since she’d lost her job at the insurance agency. Her drunken outbursts were more frequent and intense than ever.

  Shannon took the turn into the hospital parking lot way too fast, throwing Annette and me against the inside of the car door. Annette yelped in pain as the station wagon careened up to the emergency entrance and screeched to a halt. I could practically feel Annette’s frantic heartbeat through her hand as I tried to steady my own breath. We’d made it; we were safe.

  The hospital’s automatic doors opened wide, beckoning me inside. Pushing aside the memory, I walked to the information desk. “I’m here to visit Annette Anderson,” I told the woman behind it. Her pantsuit was bright teal and she was clearly not happy about her job coming between her and the latest issue of People, but her expression softened when she saw my face. She quickly consulted a computer screen. “Five-oh-eight, honey. She’s in the pediatric ICU. Take the elevator on your left.”

  “Thanks.” I forced myself toward the elevators. “Floor one, elevator up,” a mechanical voice said as the doors slid open. I pressed the button for the fifth floor, my gaze landing on the emergency knob as the elevator began to rise. If I had the guts to press the thing, I’d be trapped for hours, maybe days. Maybe until Annette went home with her parents. Maybe forever.

  “Floor five,” the voice announced. “Pediatric Intensive Care.”

  Maybe not.

  The doors opened next to the nurses’ station, which hummed with women in orthopedic clogs and cutesy patterned scrubs. Averting my gaze, I quickly consulted an overhead sign and headed toward room 508.

  “Hello?” I called, pushing open the door.

  The first thing I saw was Annette’s Ariel costume, crumpled on the bottom of a plastic personal belongings bag. The second thing I saw was Annette, hooked up to a bunch of machines. She had an oxygen tube up her nose and a bag of IV fluids hung over her head, dripping into her veins. Her face was a random combination of splotchy red and yellow, and her fake red hair was spread in a matted mass against the bleached white of the hospital pillow. She looked god-awful, and I couldn’t believe how skinny she was. When had she lost all that weight?

  The third thing I saw was Shannon. She swiveled her graying blond head like a bird of prey and looked at me with so much venom I actually felt myself shrivel. I half wanted to back out of the room, but my feet seemed to be Gorilla-Glued to the floor. “You conniving little bitch,” she shrieked. “How could you do this to her?”

  Oh, crap.

  “Shannon,” Annette’s father consoled her, putting a hand on his wife’s arm. “Let’s not make everything worse by casting blame.”

  “Don’t tell me how to behave, Michael Anderson.” She shook him off, hard. “I gave birth to this child!” She started to sob, and I realized she wasn’t sober. Annette squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away from all three of us.

  “I came as soon as I could.” I stepped forward cautiously. I’d been so focused on seeing Annette, I hadn’t even thought about having to deal with her parents—Shannon in particular. How did they get here so fast?

  “Nobody asked you to come!”

  “I did,” Annette corrected in a weak, scratchy voice. Her eyes were open now, and I could see how dull they were, how empty.

  “I hope you’re happy that Annette almost died,” Shannon said.

  “I’m fine,” Annette rasped.

  That was clearly a lie, but at least she was standing up for us … if there’d still been an us.

  “You are far from fine, young lady. They had to intubate you.” Shannon’s voice slithered over the word intubate. “You’ve only been breathing on your own for a few hours!” Her face crumpled, and she sobbed into her palm. No, definitely not sober.

  I walked around the side of the bed and reached for Annette’s hand. She grasped it weakly and looked up at me, but her eyes were so bloodshot and dazed I could barely tell what color they were, much less what was behind them. Gratitude? Regret? Love?

  Love? Really? I mocked myself. Was she feeling love for you while she was chasing after Penn? While she was kissing him? Get real, Josie. And another voice that asked Is that even what you want?

  “It’s been a long day,” Michael said. “I think a trip to the cafeteria is in order.” He gently nudged his wife out of her chair. “I’m sure these two would like a little time alone.”

  “Time alone is what created this nightmare,” Shannon snapped. “But I could use a cup of coffee, and you never get the order right …” She let her husband take her arm and lead her into the hall. “Don’t get too comfortable, Josie Little,” she warned over her shoulder. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

  Still holding Annette’s hand, I watched the door close behind them. When I looked down, Annette’s half-vacant eyes were staring up at me and a tear was rolling down the side of her cheek into her ear. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “I know,” I said, and then wished I hadn’t. Because I didn’t know. I didn’t know at all. Was she sorry? For what, exactly? There were so many choices. And you’re not exactly free from blame, either.

  I desperately wanted to know, too—I wanted to know everything. But I also knew I wasn’t going to. We needed hours of time, of talking, of being together to sort out what had happened to her, to me, to us. What we had was the time it took for a cup of coffee.

  “They’re sending me home,” she said. “I’ve been suspended until further notice.”

  “Thornfeld told me.”

  Her eyes stared. “He did?”

  I nodded. “He summoned Becca and me to his office before first period and told us what happened. I think he was looking
for information.”

  “Did you give him any?”

  Was that all she cared about? What I told the headmaster? “Should I have?”

  Annette pulled her hand away, and I stared at my empty palm, startled that I didn’t want to grab hold again.

  “If you wanted to, yes,” she whispered.

  “I didn’t. Besides, there wasn’t really anything to tell him. I barely saw you all evening.”

  She swallowed painfully. “But you … were you outside Penn’s room?”

  My face flushed. So she knew after all. “I wanted to talk to him, but he was busy.”

  Annette’s yellow-and-pink-splotched forehead filled with wavy lines, reminding me of the beach at Turtle Lake after a windy night. I could see orange hair-dye stains around her temples. “I don’t know why I went to his room, I just …”

  “It looked like you knew exactly why you were there …”

  She shuddered and covered her face with her non-IV hand, and I watched her body tense. I wanted to enjoy her misery, to relish her torment. But I just felt terrible.

  “Thank God you interrupted us.”

  Hope rose at the sound of those five words. Maybe she regretted it. Maybe she needed to make out with Penn to remember that she wanted to be with me.

  “I had no idea what to do with a boy,” she went on. “It was getting embarrassing.”

  I shot to my feet and walked to the window, which, I now saw, faced an industrial air shaft. Of course. Annette was thanking God for preserving her reputation. “Right. Because being discovered unconscious on a bathroom floor in a pool of vomit isn’t embarrassing …”

  Annette’s gasp was raspy, and part of me wanted to pull the words back out of the air. Another part, though, wanted to keep hurling.

  “That was really mean, Josie.”

  Wafts of cold air came through the window. That was mean. I was being mean because I wanted to punish her for hurting me. Only trying to punish her wasn’t making me feel any better—it was making me feel worse.