The Scarlet Letterman

by Cara Lockwood

  In the course of a month, I’ve gone from being the person that everybody stares at to the person everyone ignores.

  I have to move out of my room with Blade, and into a single, barely big enough for a bed and a desk, all to myself. Since I can’t talk to people, I’m prohibited from playing sports or other school activities, so all I do is eat, sleep, and study. Normally I’m the queen of all couch potatoes, but getting barred from everything but sleeping and studying pretty much blows. Time ticks by at a glacial pace.

  Every day at morning assembly, Headmaster B reminds everyone at Bard not to talk or look at me, and that’s basically the only time during the day my name is ever called.

  I eat, sleep, and study completely alone, and it feels like the worst kind of solitary confinement. My only company is the new edition of the Bard Weekly, which just so happens to have Derek’s column in it.

  The headline reads: “Miranda: Change Your Sinning Ways.”

  While I’m eating at my own empty table in the cafeteria, I crumple up the paper, just in time to see a couple of juniors at a nearby table snicker. They’re reading the article and looking over at me.

  This stinks.

  I can’t even defend myself.

  The no-talking rule extends even to teachers. I don’t get called on in class. And if I have a question and raise my hand, the teacher just ignores me, like I’m invisible. It makes asking for bathroom breaks during class pretty much impossible.

  I have to find a way to squeeze them in between classes, which means I have to take the quickest pit stops on record, since my classes are placed at opposite ends of the campus. It’s like a drunk person made up my schedule.

  On one of my hasty breaks in the girls’ room I discover I’m the subject of graffiti I find on the wall.

  Ryan Kent plays ball,

  His girlfriend has the gall,

  To get to wear his jacket,

  She let the whole team dunk in her basket,

  And now she’s all alone

  So she must atone.

  “Dunk in her basket”? That’s the best they could do? That has to be the worst poem ever, even by bathroom graffiti standards.

  Ugh. Can my life get any worse?

  In the mailroom, I find no letters from my friends or mom or even sister. I can’t expect them to write me every day (I just got two letters the day before yesterday), but still, I can’t help but feel a pang when I see a mostly empty mailbox. There’s only one letter in it. When I pull out the envelope, I’m immediately disappointed to see the return address is my dad’s office.

  I should be glad that he’s finally written me, but I know it can’t be anything but bad news.

  I open the letter. It says:

  Miranda:

  I’m glad you are making progress at Bard. However, neither Carmen nor I believe you are yet responsible enough to have the privilege of learning how to drive.

  I don’t think I need to remind you that I’m still dealing with the repercussions of you stealing and wrecking my BMW. Not to mention taking Carmen’s credit cards without permission. You violated our trust. If your grades continue to improve this semester, we’ll see if it’s possible to revisit driving lessons at a later date.

  Sincerely,

  Dad

  That’s my dad for you. He can’t even write “Love, Dad” because that would be showing too much emotion. I crumple the letter in my hand. My dad doesn’t write me at all for months and this is the first letter he gets around to bothering to write? One talking about how immature I am? He has no idea the kind of responsibilities I’ve had since coming to Bard. Um, hello — fighting Dracula and managing to save the universe? I think I can handle a stick shift, thanks.

  And Carmen! Since when does Wife Number Three’s opinion matter? She’s barely older than I am, and the only decisions she’s well-informed enough to make involve shoe shopping.

  Sometimes I seriously hate my dad. I know I shouldn’t care what he thinks. I mean, since he ran off with his secretary five years ago, abandoning me, my mom, and my sister, he pretty much gave up all of his credibility as a parent figure.

  I try to be Zen about it, but there’s something about Dad that always manages to get under my skin.

  I find at night that I can’t sleep well, either. After I toss and turn for what seems like hours, I fall into a fitful sleep where I dream of the horseshoe-shaped tree again, and hear Heathcliff shouting for help. I wake up to the sound of the bell tolling. It’s Sunday, and that means a late breakfast.

  Once inside the cafeteria, I see that Parker has taken a seat right next to Ryan, which I could’ve predicted. What else would she do? I’m out of the picture.

  I glance down at my red sweater vest and wonder what would happen if I just ripped it off and tore it to pieces.

  After a lonely meal of questionable taste (something that looks like gruel), I don’t feel like going back to my dorm to study. I’ve never so badly wished for a TV. I need to take my mind off of things. If I were at home, I’d head to the mall for some retail therapy, but since I can’t do that, I have to settle for a slow walk on campus. Since I’m in no hurry to get back to my dorm, I notice a sign I hadn’t seen before. Near the woods, it’s a small wooden sign that says TO THE RIVER — CREW TEAM AND SUPPORTERS ONLY and an arrow pointing down a dirt trail that leads back into the forest.

  It dawns on me that my recurring Heathcliff dream takes place near the river. I wonder, if I got a closer look would it help me make sense of my dream? I give a backward glance to the two Guardians who are following me at a distance, and decide to walk on ahead and see if they stop me.

  They don’t.

  I pass the sign and head down the trail, and they follow at a bit of a distance. I expect one of them to shout, or tackle me, but neither does. I thought the forest was off-limits, but apparently this trail is okay. Neither of the Guardians seems too worried that I’m going to run away.

  Not that escape is really plausible. We are, after all, on Shipwreck Island, at least five miles away from the Maine shore. Even if I jumped in the river and took it all the way out to the sea, I’d die of hypothermia before I made it to shore. The Atlantic is freezing and the currents are too strong.

  The trail is dark and the trees around and above me are thick and tall, blocking out nearly all sunlight. Something is wrong with the forest, and it’s not just because the trees seem unnaturally thick and tall. It takes me a while to realize that I don’t hear any typical forest sounds. There aren’t any birds chirping or frogs croaking. All around me is a distinctly eerie silence. The only sounds I hear are my feet on the gravel trail. I get the distinct impression I’m being watched, and not just by the Guardians behind me.

  I remember the first night I spent at Bard Academy. I marched straight into these very woods, thinking I’d escape. I found out then they weren’t like normal woods. Then again, what would I expect from a forest in purgatory?

  I walk a little farther and I hear the sound of the river, a soft, bubbling water sound. The river comes into view and it’s dark and wide; the water seems nearly black. There’s a boathouse on the shore, where I assume the crew team keeps their gear. I pick up a smooth rock from the ground and try to skip it across the river, but as soon as it touches the water, it sinks. I throw another one. This one skips once, and then an enormous black fish leaps up from the surface of the water and swallows the stone — whole.

  I take a surprised step back.

  What the hell was that?

  Before I can figure it out, I hear a faint shouting. It sounds like someone calling for help. In fact, the voice sounds a lot like Heathcliff.

  I stop and turn.

  The Guardians are standing several paces behind me. They don’t seem to have heard the shouts. Maybe I imagined it.

  I crouch down, pretending to look for skipping rocks, and I listen. There. That’s definitely Heathcliff. And he’s in trouble.

  I try to zero in on Heathcliff’s voice, but I can’t figure ou
t where it’s coming from. Just when I think I’m sure it’s coming from the river, then it sounds like it’s off in the woods.

  The Guardians keep their distance as I move away from the shore. When one of them turns to the sound of a tree branch cracking, I take the opportunity and make a run for it.

  I dive straight into the heavy brush of the forest, zigzagging back and forth through the trees. Behind me, I hear the clamber of Guardians’ footsteps, and their grunts and shouts as they try to follow me. I dive into a hollow tree and wait there, my chest feeling like it’s going to explode from the sudden sprint. I wait there until my heart returns to normal, and I can’t hear the sounds of the Guardians any more. When I’m sure the coast is clear, I backtrack, toward the river, and the boathouse.

  And then, suddenly, I stop.

  I find myself staring at a big boulder and the horseshoe-shaped tree. The very same boulder and tree that I’ve been dreaming about for weeks.

  I glance around, looking for the church that’s also in my dream, but it’s not here. Instead, I see what looks like an old foundation, a series of brick stones set into a large square. This is where the church must have been.

  The hairs on my forearms stand up and I get goose bumps on my arms.

  Maybe my dream was real. Maybe I had been dreaming of this place. And maybe Heathcliff really is in trouble. I turn my attention to the boathouse, which isn’t the church from my dream, but it’s the only building standing here.

  I walk around the boathouse, looking for a way in. I find one and step into the dusty boathouse, my mouth suddenly dry.

  “Heathcliff?” I whisper before I can stop myself. The boathouse is so quiet, my whisper sounds like a shout.

  Inside there are white crew boats hanging upside down on top of one another on ledges. It’s quite a big storage house, even bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside. Sunlight slashes through the dust on the floor in front of me, and I get the sudden, distinct impression that I’m not alone.

  “Heathcliff? Are you in here?” I whisper again, this time a little louder. My heart is beating faster in my chest. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t be afraid of Heathcliff. He saved me more times than I can count. Still, I think about the faceless Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker and shiver.

  “Hello? Anyone here?” I say again, this time louder. I hear what sounds like a muffled groan from above my head somewhere. I look up, but all I see are rafters. I take a few more steps and see a staircase, leading up to a loftlike office. I hear a clatter coming from the office. Someone is definitely in there.

  As I head to the stairs, I hear a clatter behind me. Something has knocked into the row of boats hanging on the wall.

  Something big.

  I whip my head around and see a black-and-orange flash between the crew boats. I freeze. The tiger!

  And then I hear Heathcliff’s voice again, muted this time, but distinct, coming from the top of the stairs.

  I pause on the staircase landing, my hand on the rail. Can I make it to the top of the stairs before the tiger sees me? I wish my sister Lindsay were here. She watches every Animal Planet special known to man. She’d know about the land speed of a tiger.

  I close my eyes and burst ahead, taking the stairs two at a time, hoping that the office at the top of the staircase is open.

  At the top of the stairs, I swing open the office door and then shut it hard behind me, slamming my whole weight against it. Then it occurs to me that if there is a tiger out there somewhere, and he wants in to this office, I’m probably not going to be able to just hold the door closed. Slowly I scoot up, and glance out through the door’s window. There’s nothing on the landing, or on the stairs. The tiger didn’t follow me.

  I let out a small sigh of relief and glance around the office, looking for something to shore up the door with.

  That’s when I see a crew boat sawed in half, laying facedown on the floor, and it seems to be groaning. I turn the boat over. Beneath it, I see a guy, tied up, with his back to me.

  Gently, I roll him over.

  He’s got dust in his hair and a gag in his mouth, but I’d recognize those dark curls and those fierce black eyes anywhere.

  It’s Heathcliff.

  Twenty-two

  “Heathcliff!” I cry, frantic. He looks dazed and out of it. I wonder how long it’s been since he’s eaten anything. And by his bruised face, it looks like someone has been manhandling him. I desperately try to free his hands and legs, but the ropes are too thick. I head to the nearby desk, where I search for anything sharp. I come up with a pair of scissors, but even then it takes me a while to cut through the thickly layered ropes.

  Once I get his gag free, and his arms, Heathcliff just slumps to the side.

  “Heathcliff! Can you hear me? Are you okay?” I ask him, helping him into a sitting position. His eyes flicker and he groans again.

  “Catherine?” he chokes out.

  “No, it’s Miranda. Remember? Miranda,” I say as his eyes flicker open, wider this time. Recognition flitters through them as he looks into my eyes and then strokes my cheek with one finger. He gives me a weak smile.

  “Miranda,” he says and sighs, coming to a little more. “I knew you’d find me,” he adds, and then passes out.

  “Heathcliff!” I call, shaking him a little, but he doesn’t come through. I’ve got a bottle of water in my backpack (courtesy of the Bard cafeteria) and I grab it and put a little on the sleeve of the sweatshirt, which I use to pat his forehead, and try to get him to come to. He groans again and his eyes flicker.

  “Can you drink? You need to drink,” I tell him, holding the water bottle up to his dry lips. He raises his head a little and takes a sip. After a few seconds, he takes a deeper swig. He seems to be coming around.

  “Who did this? Was it Coach H?”

  Heathcliff shakes his head from side to side.

  “Ms. W? Headmaster B?”

  “No.” Heathcliff chokes, sitting up a bit. He downs the rest of the water bottle. “It wasn’t them. They would’ve finished me. It was someone else.”

  “You don’t know who?”

  “I was in the woods. And I got jumped by a…” Heathcliff shakes his head as if he still can’t quite believe it. “A tiger.”

  “A tiger? Attacked you?” I think about what I saw down below. The tiger might just be guarding Heathcliff.

  “Knocked me unconscious,” he says. “When I woke up, I was here, tied up. That was two months ago.”

  “Did anyone feed you?” I ask, beginning to wonder if he’d been here all this time without food and water. But that’s impossible, isn’t it? Even for Heathcliff.

  “A man came, to give me water and some food, but I don’t know him,” Heathcliff says. “He hasn’t been here in a while.”

  “Did you see him? Do you know what he looks like?”

  Heathcliff shakes his head. “He came alone, but he would talk to someone he called Gabriele.”

  “Blake!” I exclaim. “So Blake is behind this.”

  “Who’s Blake?”

  “A crazy faculty member — it’s a long story,” I say.

  “He left those,” Heathcliff says, nodding over in the direction of the desk in the corner. I walk over and find it’s stuffed with drawings of tigers — all kinds. They match exactly the color and style of the pieces of paper I’ve been finding around campus. And even more unsettling, they’re all signed by Blake.

  It dawns on me that Blake has got to be involved in this whole thing. It’s his tiger, and he’s also the one who railroaded me at my hearing. I know I’m not the one animating the tiger. Chances are, either he’s behind this or he knows who is.

  I turn back to Heathcliff.

  “Can you stand? Are you strong enough? We should get out of here.”

  As I help Heathcliff to his unsteady feet, I hear a growling sound on the other side of the office door. Heathcliff’s head snaps up. He puts his finger to his lips to show me to be quiet and then he puts himself be
tween me and the door.

  He’s half-dead and he’s still trying to protect me.

  I hold my breath, as I listen to what sound like paw-steps outside the door. Along the windows in front of the desk, I see black-and-orange ears go past, as well as his long, thick tail. That is definitely a tiger.

  The tail stops and flicks back and forth. It’s like he’s trying to listen for us. Like he can hear us breathing.

  Without making a sound, Heathcliff takes the water bottle that he’s half finished, screws the cap on, and then hurls it through the open window to my left. It hits the tree outside with a thud. The tiger’s head bounces up, ears perked. And then, in a flash, it leaps through an open window and jumps out to the tree limb less than a foot from the boathouse. It makes the jump with ease. The tree branch shudders under its weight, but the leaves of the tree almost entirely hide it. All I see is a tail, flicking back and forth, from beneath the tree limb.

  In a rush, Heathcliff picks himself up and closes the window shut, latching it, but the tiger seems completely unperturbed. Either he doesn’t care about us, or he’s much happier in his tree.

  “Now what?” I ask Heathcliff, who once again has his trademark scowl on his face. I think he’s feeling better, at least better enough to show some of his old attitude.

  Heathcliff stumbles a little, his legs still a bit weak. I rush over to him, to help him up, and he puts some of his weight on me. He’s not light, I can tell you that.

  “Can you walk?” I ask him, and he nods.