The Last Monster

by Ginger Garrett

  I will never know what anyone else tastes, or sees or hears or feels. No one will. Everyone is alone in the way they experience the world. My reality isn’t your reality, because we’re different in a basic, cellular way. That’s frightening. I didn’t want to be alone. And books, I realized, were just one way people tried to communicate their reality. But it felt hopeless.

  The social workers warned Mom that depression was common after cancer, especially once the intense treatments were over. They warned her to look for the telltale signs. But the depression doesn’t come from having cancer; it comes from knowing how alone you really are. There are no words, and even hospitals know that. All my life I’ve loved words and reading, and then I realized there was no book written in my native language. No book could heal the sadness of being so alone, because everyone was alone. That’s why I had stopped reading. Books depressed me. What good did it do me to know that everyone else was alone too? No book could save me from that truth.

  Ms. Hochness gestured to a long metal shelf. “Histories are in the middle, essays about him to the left, and his personal notes are to the right.”

  “Can I take them all?” I asked. “And I need to look something up online.” The media center had the best computers in the building.

  She nodded and started pulling books off the shelf. “Help yourself to the computers. I’ll grab these for you and put them on a table.”

  Sitting in a cubicle, I pulled up an Internet search engine and typed in “bestiary.” I learned that it meant a book of mythical animals. I typed in the other name in the book: “Xeno.” Google told me it was an ancient Greek male name meaning “strange voice.” Nothing else was recorded about him and monsters, of course.

  Finally I typed in “the year 436 Ab urbe condita.” I learned that it meant Xeno wrote his letter 436 years from the founding of the city of Rome, also known as 318 BCE.

  I chewed my lower lip, staring at the screen. There was no way that book was so old. But if it wasn’t a hallucination, what was it? A joke, or a prop that got lost from one of those dragon and wizard games or some TV series that filmed in Atlanta?

  Maybe the books on Aristotle would have some answers.

  I made my way back to the table and could barely see Ms. Hochness over the growing pile of books she had pulled. “Aristotle wrote dozens of books. Maybe hundreds,” she said.

  I was going to have to read hundreds of books? My eyes widened.

  Ms. Hochness raised one finger as if to warn me. “But they were destroyed after his death.” She lowered her voice like she was telling me a juicy secret. “Consider this: He was the greatest natural scientist the world has ever known. Yet no one really knows how he died; some blame a mysterious stomach ailment, but others say Aristotle had powerful enemies. I’ve always wondered if there’s more to his story than we know.”

  “Yeah, apparently there’s a lot more,” I said. “I mean…”

  Ms. Hochness cocked her head to one side.

  I shrugged, the universal body language of thirteen-year-old girls.

  She led me to a table closest to the one good heating vent in the room, past a shapeless form slumped over a desk.

  “A new kid. Transferred in from a fancy private school in the city,” she whispered. “He was already asleep there when I arrived this morning. I don’t even know how he got in.”

  “Serious student,” I whispered back.

  Something about the look she gave me—one eyebrow arched up and a wry smile—told me I was wrong. His records must have told a different story.

  A glittering pool was spreading out from his mouth across the table. A badge that read “I Love Hot Chicks,” with a chicken nugget roasting over a flame, was displayed on his jean jacket. And he smelled bad, like the-last-day-of-the-state-fair bad, when they’re loading the animals from the petting zoo and trashing the old corn dogs that didn’t sell.

  An open book rested under his arms, and Ms. Hochness gently pulled it from under the drool-hole.

  The guy woke up with a start, then looked around, dazed. He and I both did a double take.

  It was Billy.

  She turned the book around. “What have you been drawing, Billy?”

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands and winced at the harsh overhead lights.

  “I was making the cats anatomically correct,” he said. “I’d think that would be important to a school deeply committed to academic excellence.”

  “You want the picture to be more realistic?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Then this poor cat needs a support garment,” Ms. Hochness said. “Because she’s going to have back trouble later.”

  Billy cringed.

  “Here’s another dose of reality.” Ms. Hochness smiled sweetly. “Defacing school property carries an automatic penalty of detention.”

  “I’d love detention in the library,” Billy countered. “Detention in the computer lab is so boring. Books are where the real action is.”

  The corners of Ms. Hochness’s mouth twitched. She was trying not to smile.

  “Anyway,” Billy said, “it’s my dad’s book. He’s a vet. I draw the pictures to let him know I have a keen interest in the family business.”

  I had never heard anyone my age use the word “keen” in a sentence before. I liked it. It was undeniably polite, with a sneaky touch of snark.

  He glanced up at the clock before stuffing everything into his backpack and walking toward me. Something fluttered out from all his stuff. I buried myself in my work and prayed he would keep walking.

  Instead, he sat down at my table. “Tornado season is coming.”

  I cleared my throat and kept reading.

  “You watch TV during storms?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer. I wished I had put on lip gloss this morning, even though I never wore it. I was so pale. Plus this baggy sweater made me look like a cat trapped inside a parachute. Maybe I should have worn that wig instead of the bandana. He wouldn’t have recognized me.

  He sat back and sighed. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

  Ironic, because the chatter in my head was deafening.

  He sighed and continued. “So, when you watch TV during a storm, the station sometimes stops the show and you hear this random male voice say, ‘We interrupt this program to bring you an emergency weather report….’ And you’re mad at first, really mad, and you have to change channels to find something else to watch while a reporter blathers on and on about some stupid storm, right?”

  I nodded even though I never did that. Secretly, I always worried it would hurt the reporter’s feelings somehow.

  “But then you really like the new show. You’re glad you got interrupted. ’Cause you would have missed out. And maybe now it will become your favorite show. You can’t wait to see what happens next.”

  Was he still talking about TV? I had a feeling the subject had changed.

  He picked up one of my books. “Aristotle!” he yelled.

  Ms. Hochness gave us an arched-eyebrow stare.

  Billy scooted lower in his seat and looked at me like I had passed another secret test. “You are the most interesting girl I’ve ever met. You’re not afraid of spiders, you read Aristotle, and you don’t want to hang out with the popular girls, even though they want to hang out with you. Plus your extra-credit answer put into words everything I’ve been thinking for the last year.”

  I wished he had said I was pretty, not interesting. Scabs were interesting…and so were turtles and mildew on bread. Ugh.

  He kept talking. “And I’m sorry about Natalie embarrassing you. Somebody filled me in during detention. I want you to know, I don’t care. I mean, I care. But not enough to talk about it. Unless you need to. And I hope you don’t.” He turned red and cleared his throat. “What I’m trying to say is, don’t be embarrassed around me.”

  But it clearly embarrassed him to say that. He was strange…and maybe wonderful. But he was definitely too much for me. I had gone fr
om lowly outcast to class pet on a pedestal so fast that it was a wonder I didn’t have a nosebleed. Hot guys would only add to the social chaos.

  “I really need to read now,” I said. His sea-green eyes made it hard to concentrate.

  He ignored my hint, pushing the book out of my reach.

  “At one of my other schools, we saw a documentary on the ancient philosophers.” Billy scooted closer to the table. “Back then, parents worried that the truth would corrupt young minds. Some people were even put to death for seeking the truth.” He lowered his voice and leaned even farther toward me. I pulled back, worried about my breath. “Ask too many hard questions and…”

  He made a slicing motion across his neck with one finger.

  I glanced at Ms. Hochness, who was refilling the candy jar on her desk. “I think we’re safe in here,” I said.

  He sat back suddenly and folded his arms behind his head. Little white hairs clung all over his shirt. “I better stick around while you read,” he said. “For your own good.”

  A shrill, rattling noise, like one made by an animal, came from the hallway, and we both jumped in our seats.

  Then Billy stood. “Almost forgot,” he said, and it sounded like an apology. “Look, if I don’t see you again, Sofia, know this: you’ve restored my faith in humanity.”

  He left so fast I didn’t even have a chance to point out the paper he had dropped. He was definitely a rare combination of strange and sweet, like a popcorn-flavored jelly bean.

  When I was sure he was gone, I walked over and picked up the paper. It was a picture of his family, his mom and dad and him as a little kid. The photo had been torn and then taped back together. It seemed private, like it was more than just a picture.

  “Something wrong?” Ms. Hochness asked. She stood in her office doorway.

  I didn’t want to show her the picture for some reason. “Nope,” I replied. I tucked the picture in my bag. Later I would find his locker and slip it in through the crack.

  “Need more time?” Ms. Hochness asked.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I replied.

  Ms. Hochness ducked back into her office to call Ms. Forester and let her know that I was staying a few more minutes after the bell. They’d probably agree it was a good idea to let the hallways clear out. So occasionally, I admit, having a prosthesis worked in my favor.

  I went back to the books, eager to find answers. There wouldn’t be any about a student called Xeno, because he didn’t exist, at least according to the Internet.

  But plenty had been written about his “master,” Aristotle. “Master” was an ancient title for teachers, which was a disturbing discovery I vowed to keep to myself.

  Aristotle, I learned, began his career as a medical doctor but wanted to document everything in nature, so he looked for truth under every leaf and in every eye.

  He believed we were two things at once: what the world saw on the outside and the thing hidden inside that we would become. He tutored Alexander the Great, the warlord with fabulous hair who conquered most of the ancient world, including the Persian empire. The Persians were the first people to decide that men should wear pants instead of flowing skirts.

  I groaned and looked up from the pile of books. This was not the information I needed, but the last piece of my plan was the most embarrassing.

  “I need books on monsters,” I told Ms. Hochness.

  “Novels?” she asked.

  “Nonfiction.” My cheeks got really hot. I might as well have asked about the Tooth Fairy and Santa.

  She brought me a few books on folklore and urban legends. Each of them featured a ghoul on the cover. One creature was dripping with blood; the other had a severed arm in its mouth. I nodded and she scanned them; then I threw them in my book bag, not wanting to see the covers. Was that what monsters really looked like? I was hoping more for the Muppets.

  Then I heard the first scream.

  Outside the library, teachers were yelling for help. I hustled to the door, right behind Ms. Hochness, to the sounds of pounding footsteps and shouting. People were slipping on the floors because they were running too fast, or else they were pressed flat against the lockers in horror. A terrified goat raced past and nailed Ms. Hochness on the foot. She cried out, bending down to grab her toes, which gave me a good view of the hall.

  The hit-and-run goat had a huge number three painted on its side. His beady eyes were wide with fear. Mr. Bronson, our beefy gym teacher, sprinted after it, his sneakers giving him traction. The goat bleated in panic and went down in a whirlwind of hooves and biceps. Mr. Bronson grabbed it in a wrestling hold, and its thick pink tongue stuck out and waved like a flag of surrender as dark pebbles shot from its rear end in every direction. This made some of the sixth graders scream even louder before the goat broke free and ran off.

  Another goat had cornered Mr. Reeves by the boys’ restroom. This one had a big number one painted on its side. Number One lowered its head and rammed Mr. Reeves right in the no-no zone. The principal fell to his knees, his mouth open in a silent scream. Number One charged down the hall toward the administration offices just as a math teacher pulled the fire alarm.

  Once the fire department arrived, Number Three was caught within thirty minutes. We got updates from firefighters whenever they walked back to the truck. The older guys had to clear their throats a lot to keep from laughing.

  Number One was found standing on a table in the room for in-school suspensions. He had braced his front hooves against the wall and was eating the posters.

  We stood in the cold, waiting an hour more for them to catch Number Two, but Number Two was never found, despite a thorough search. The decision was made to let us back inside, but we were instructed to travel in pairs for the remainder of the day. The teachers rushed us from class to class and made us eat lunch at our desks so we could all get back on schedule.

  When the final bell rang, I knew Mom would be waiting in the carpool line. I hoped she hadn’t heard about the goats. She didn’t need anything else to worry about.

  Billy brushed past me, heading toward a silver pickup. Mr. Reeves was watching him from a distance, a notepad open and pen in hand.

  “Hey!” I called.

  Billy stopped and turned back. When he saw me, he grinned like he had waited all day to talk to me.

  Mr. Reeves made a note. I had never been in his notes before.

  Billy sauntered over. “I guess I’m still here.”

  “Where else would you be?” I asked.

  He cast a glance at Mr. Reeves, but didn’t answer me.

  “You dropped something in the library,” I said, and passed the picture to Billy facedown, like it was a secret.

  Billy looked at the picture, then back at me.

  My stomach flipped. I liked his eyes. I liked his whole face.

  He ran a hand through his thick brown hair and nodded thoughtfully. I had passed yet another test I didn’t even know about. He leaned in but I pulled back, terrified that he might try to kiss me. I didn’t know how those things worked. He stepped closer and tried again.

  “Can you keep a secret?” he whispered, his breath tickling my ear.

  “Yes,” I said. I sounded like a dork, and not just because of my one-syllable answer.

  He took a breath, then whispered again. “There was no Number Two.” He pulled back to watch my reaction as I figured out what that meant.

  My mouth fell open.

  “Mr. Reeves made me clean the bathrooms yesterday during detention, even though I told him I wasn’t the one who sent the email, but he said—”

  I was frowning, so Billy backtracked. “Apparently, after my detention in the computer lab, the sixth graders all received emails from the school that said they had to dissect a human head in science class. If they refused, they’d be held back a year. Parents were furious. Mr. Reeves said cleaning someone else’s mess would teach me not to make my own. But I’m glad I didn’t get caught today.”

  “Because you would have been exp
elled,” I said, trying not to laugh with Mr. Reeves watching.

  “Because I wouldn’t get to see what happens next.”

  Mom tore the grocery list in half. I took the bottom portion and she took the top before we both checked our watches. It was our usual grocery store challenge: We each had to get an equal number of items, at the best price, and then meet back at the registers. Whoever got there first and scored the best deal controlled the TV remote after dinner.

  Tonight’s grocery challenge was a spaghetti dinner. I had to find pasta, sauce, and bread. Mom was going to hit the produce department and get everything to create an epic salad. Frankly, I think she decided to lose the contest just to cheer me up. Pasta was shelved next to the sauce, so I had a clear advantage. Plus, I was kind of squeamish about the produce department. You had to touch everything and sometimes even smell it. It always felt inappropriate to do that in public.

  Six minutes later, I was waiting at the registers. The produce department was to the left, around the corner from the pharmacy. Mom didn’t emerge. I shifted my weight and worked out my plan. Since I was going to control the remote, we would watch a short show, and then I’d make an excuse to head to bed early and read.

  I had a very particular book in mind. I was pretty sure it was safe to explore it, and I wanted to know what else was in there.

  When Mom still didn’t come around the corner, I groaned and went to find her. She was spoiling my victory, but at least we wouldn’t watch any boring British dramas tonight. Turning the corner, I spied her talking to a woman wearing yoga pants and a pullover, as if she had just left the gym. She had long blond hair swept into a perfect ponytail, like a model on a magazine cover.