The Scarlet Letterman

by Cara Lockwood

  We take a few steps out of the office and down the stairs of the boathouse. I’m not sure what we ought to do now, since there’s a tiger outside, and Heathcliff senses my hesitation.

  “Miranda,” he says, stopping. He turns his body into mine so we’re facing each other.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him, my first thought that he might be about to faint again. And I’m definitely sure I can’t hold up his whole weight. He’s a big boy. Tall and broad.

  He just stares at me, intently, and touches my cheek. His dark eyes assess me, drinking in my features as if he hasn’t seen me in years. There’s something magnetic about those eyes. I can’t look away.

  The door creaks open then, breaking the spell. We both turn and look. I fear it’ll be the Guardians, having found me, but instead it’s two members of the crew team, arriving at the boathouse for their daily practice. There’s no point in trying to hide Heathcliff. He’s too big to hide. We’re caught.

  The looks on their faces go from puzzled to worried, as they take in my red vest of shame.

  “Dude, that’s why the Guardians are swarming the place,” one of them says.

  I guess the Guardians I ditched outside haven’t stopped looking for me.

  Not sure quite how to handle the situation, the other pauses awkwardly. Then he recognizes Heathcliff.

  “Hey, I know you,” says one of the crew team members, a look of recognition dawning on his face. “You’re that guy. The one who beat up the Guardians last semester.”

  “Whoa,” says another of his teammates. “You’re right. This is the dude. Heathcliff, right?”

  “You don’t look so good, man,” says the first crew guy. “You okay?”

  Heathcliff straightens and nods.

  “Why don’t we help you back to the dorm?” the other says, taking up Heathcliff’s other arm. The other one moves in, as I back away. Neither one acknowledges my presence other than a flittering glance.

  “I don’t know what kind of brawl you got into, man, but it seems serious,” says the other.

  “And you,” says the other to me. “Unless you want to get us all in trouble, I suggest you head outside first and face those Guardians.”

  Heathcliff makes a move to stop me, but I stop him with a glance. “It’ll be okay,” I say. “You let these guys take care of you.”

  Reluctantly Heathcliff nods. He doesn’t like the idea of me leaving him and frankly, I don’t, either. I have no other choice.

  Outside the boathouse, I run into two Guardians, who look pretty angry. I would be, too, if I had to scour the woods for the last twenty minutes.

  “Hi, guys,” I say, putting on my sweetest smile. “Miss me?”

  Twenty-three

  For my little stunt of losing my Guardian guards, I’m held to my room for the remainder of the night, which includes not being able to go to the cafeteria for dinner. Dinner — a messy, lukewarm glob — is delivered on a tray by a Guardian straight to my room. The food, if you want to call it that, is gross, and it makes my room smell vile.

  Not to mention, I am dying to get out of here and see how Heathcliff is doing.

  I’m relieved on two fronts — one, Heathcliff is alive, and two, there’s no way he could be the Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker. It’s pretty obvious to me at least that he was too weak to be running around attacking people. He’d been there in that office a long time.

  But if I’m honest, the real reason I’m so happy is that he hasn’t been ignoring or avoiding me all this time. And how could I ever doubt him? He didn’t abandon me or run away from me. I should’ve listened to my dreams earlier, I think. I could’ve saved him weeks ago.

  I only hope that those crew boys are taking care of him. Still, Heathcliff is the strongest boy I know. He’s probably going to make a fast recovery.

  While I dig at my lukewarm dinner, I hear a tapping on my window. Soft at first, and then more insistent. It sounds like a really big moth at first, but I soon realize it’s something else. A folded note hangs outside my window. At first I think it’s floating there all on its own, but upon closer inspection, I see it’s dangling from a fishing line.

  I glance over at my door, which has to be kept open (three inches minimum) at all times, so that the Guardian outside can listen for any inappropriate noises, like me trying to make my escape. Then I quietly make my way to my window. The window opens with a creak, which I’m sure will bring the Guardian running. But it doesn’t. It’s not like I can climb out the window. It’s only about four inches across, and a foot high. I gingerly take the note off the fishhook. I recognize the bubbly handwriting immediately — Hana’s.

  It reads,

  Sorry about the low-tech communicado! We think Blake is behind the tiger, but we don’t have proof yet. Hang in there. We’re trying to clear your name. And any time you want to write us a note, leave it in the copy of War and Peace, third from the shelf, at the end of the fourth row in the library, and we’ll do the same.

  P.S. Use one of your compact mirrors to check us out.

  I grab a compact from my drawer and hold it out the window; after a few adjustments, I can see the roof above, and beside a gargoyle, Hana and Blade are leaning out over the edge of the roof, steadying themselves on one of the rooftop gargoyles. They both wave at me.

  I’ve never been so glad to see them my whole life.

  I wave at them and then I give them the international sign for “wait a minute.”

  Hurriedly, I rush back to my desk and scribble a note:

  Blake is behind this. He kidnapped Heathcliff. Found him in the boathouse. You’ve got to trust me on this one — he’s innocent, I swear. By the way, I LOVE you guys!

  I put the note on the hook, and just as the girls reel it in, a Guardian bursts into the room.

  “Step away from the window,” he commands.

  “Can’t a girl get some fresh air? My dinner stinks,” I say as I step back.

  The Guardian looks around suspiciously.

  “I may be skinny, but I’m not skinny enough to fit through there,” I say, pointing to the narrow window.

  He seems to take this under consideration. After glancing around my room once more, he leaves.

  I let out a long sigh of relief. When I look out the window again with my compact, I see Blade and Hana are gone.

  I reread Hana’s note again and this time I notice Blade’s also left her mark on it — a crude drawing of some kind of family crest symbol for the LIT society, complete with books and a skull and crossbones.

  This makes me smile.

  My friends haven’t abandoned me. I sit down at my desk and start writing a longer note to leave in the library.

  The next morning, I can’t wait to get to the library. I whiz through breakfast, anxiously sit through morning assembly, and can barely sit still during first period. My eyes are trained on the slow-moving second hand of the clock above Mr. S’s head. Could it move any slower? I head straight to the library at my first opportunity. In my haste to get up the steps, I lose my grip on my notebook and as I swing around to try to catch it, it slips out of my fingers and falls straight at the feet of Ryan Kent.

  Of course.

  Because this is how I wanted to see him, when I’m wearing my red vest of shame.

  “Ryan,” I say, startled, and because I’ve temporarily forgotten that I’m not allowed to speak to anyone.

  Ryan automatically stoops down to pick up my notebook and then he hands it to me. There’s recognition in Ryan’s eyes and something more, I think, before his eyes flick down to my red vest and then back up to my eyes. It looks like he is going to say something. My name, maybe? Or just “hello”? Or “I forgive you for yelling at me at the gym. Why don’t we give this boyfriend-girlfriend thing another try?”

  But what he wanted to say I’ll never know, because as soon as he sees my red vest, he realizes he can’t.

  And then he turns away from me just as two Guardians come up from behind and stand in front of me, as if to blo
ck him from my view. By just handing me my notebook, he could’ve been punished, but I guess the Guardians aren’t in the mood. And technically, he didn’t speak to me, so maybe handing me my notebook was a minor offense.

  I watch, helplessly, as Ryan walks away from me, down the steps and onto the campus lawn. He never once glances back at me and I watch him until I can’t see him anymore.

  I glance back up at the Guardians standing near me, but even they don’t make eye contact with me. I push past them into the library.

  Once inside, I try to refocus on my mission: getting to Hana’s latest note. In the copy of War and Peace, I find another note from Hana. She writes:

  Hi M,

  We were skeptical about Heathcliff, but Samir says your story checked out. We think you might be right. I don’t know if I can trust Heathcliff yet, but Samir says we can. Apparently, last night Heathcliff saved Samir from being beaten up by a group of hard-core guys on his floor, so Samir is now a fan. I guess we’ve called a truce with Heathcliff. He really wants to help get you out of figurative expulsion and he seems to be playing nice — for now. He’s keeping a low profile so as not to tip off the faculty about him being back. We’re working on trying to figure out what to do next. In the meantime, check out aisle 4, row 2 for more info on Blake.

  TTFN,

  H

  Is this possible? Could Heathcliff and Samir, Hana, and Blade have made nice? It’s a big leap of faith on Hana’s part, so I appreciate it. It’s hard to explain how much I know that Heathcliff is innocent this time, but I know I’m right.

  I head to the library aisle to read up about Blake.

  I discover several things quickly. Blake was born in England in the mid-1700s. He was considered a little eccentric even in his own time, in part because he claimed even then to see angels. He wrote almost exclusively poems about religion, and I read that he was an artist. He was the only poet up until then to illustrate his own works.

  I read through everything they have at the library, and before I know it, it’s time for mandatory in-room study time. I only make it for a half hour working on my theology paper (it’s for Blake, and somehow I’m pretty sure that I’m going to fail) before I need a break.

  Bored, I head to my window in hopes of finding another note dangling there, but there is none. The roof is empty. I glance down at the grass, and to the trees beyond, looking for I don’t know what.

  That’s when I see a dark figure standing under my window, leaning against the statute of Shakespeare. Initially I think — Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker! But, in the dim light, I see this person has a head and some rumpled hair. Not the stalker then.

  As I watch, he steps out a little into the light, and I see him grab a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and tap one out. The flame from his silver lighter illuminates his face in the dark, giving me a brief glimpse of his nose and stubble and big black eyes before it all goes dark again.

  It’s Heathcliff.

  He’s waiting outside my window. How long has he been there?

  I wave to him, but he only nods his head once, slowly. I stare at him for a beat or two, before I head back to my desk to finish up my paper.

  When I get ready to go to sleep, I still see him outside my window.

  He’s there, leaning against the same tree, the light of his cigarette burning red in the dark.

  Twenty-four

  Heathcliff knows better than to talk to me, for fear of raising Guardian suspicion, but he does follow me at a discreet distance throughout the next couple of days. I feel a lot less lonely, knowing he’s there, and he takes up a permanent vigil outside my window at night. The boy apparently doesn’t need sleep.

  On Friday after dinner I notice, however, that he isn’t at his usual post. I wonder what this means, when I hear a strange sound coming from across campus.

  It takes me a moment to realize the sound is actually music.

  The spring break dance! I’d completely forgotten. I strain to try to pick out the song, but I can only really hear a bass beat. It’s so weird to hear music again after not hearing it for months.

  I have a sudden flash of what I’m missing: the gym decorated in streamers and banners; a DJ spinning songs; Samir and Hana finally hooking up by making out in a dark corner; Parker manhandling Ryan on the dance floor; Blade and her new date doing a swing dance, whirling around in the middle of the gym. And for once — no school uniforms. Everyone is in silk and satin. I should be glad I’m missing it, but I’m not. Being the campus pariah totally sucks.

  That’s when there’s a new sound at my door that has nothing to do with music. It’s a loud thump, followed by a thud. When I rush to the hall, I see the Guardian who’s normally standing there crumpled in a heap at my feet.

  Above him is Heathcliff, fists clenched at his sides in a fighting stance.

  Before I even think twice about it, I throw my arms around his neck and hug him. It’s like hugging a wall, he’s that broad and tall.

  “You’ve come to save me!” I say, stating the obvious.

  “Duh,” Hana says, stepping out from behind Heathcliff. Samir is with her, too.

  “So you and Heathcliff really are friends now.”

  “Not exactly friends, but working on it,” Hana says.

  “Come on, we don’t have much time,” Samir says. “Everyone is at the dance. Now’s our chance.”

  Both Samir and Hana are not in uniform. They’re wearing what look like party clothes. Samir is in a suit without a tie, and Hana is wearing a purple silk sleeveless dress, which doesn’t exactly go with her black-framed glasses, but oh, well. I have to introduce that girl to contacts one of these days.

  Even Heathcliff is looking dressier than usual. He’s got on a white shirt, loosened at the collar, and a black blazer. All he’s missing is the cumberbund and the bow tie and he’d be in a tux. His dark, thick hair is ruffled, but in a perfectly ruffled kind of way. And he’s sporting his trademark stubble.

  “Our chance for what?” I ask. “To slow dance?”

  “To clear your name — hello!” Hana says, grabbing me by the arm and pushing me back into my room.

  “But first, you need to change.”

  “Wow — nice!” Samir says when we emerge about ten minutes later. I’m wearing my only formal dress — a peach-colored chiffon halter dress — with my hair thrown up in a messy bun, and enough smoky eye shadow so that even my own mother might not recognize me. But then again, that’s the point. I’m supposed to be in disguise. Besides, I’m showing off enough leg so most people probably won’t be looking at my face. In fact, Heathcliff is staring at a spot just above my knees. When he catches me looking at him, he flushes, ever so slightly. I guess that means he approves.

  “So are we going to sit around all day staring at Miranda’s legs, or are we going to get busy snooping?” Hana asks.

  “Legs?” Samir asks tentatively.

  “Wrong answer, you goof,” Hana says, smacking Samir with her satin evening handbag.

  Hana and Samir take us to Macduff dorm, where Blake is supposed to live. The entire dorm is empty, like most of the rest of campus, since pretty much everyone is at the dance. This includes Blake, who is acting as one of the dance chaperones, as well as most of the Guardians, who are on double duty making sure the large gathering doesn’t turn violent. With this crew of delinquents, it’s always a possibility.

  Heathcliff enters Blake’s room first, making sure the coast is clear. When he signals us in, I expect to find a typical faculty room — mostly bare, with lots of books, and no bed. Instead, I find myself standing in a room covered from floor to ceiling in drawings. Drawings of angels and devils. Of men, and lambs, and tigers.

  “But how are the drawings related to the real tiger?” Hana asks, getting close enough to one of the tiger pictures to rub her hand down its edge. “Is he bringing the tiger alive somehow with the sketches?”

  “Um, guys, look at these,” Samir says, pointing to one wall. It’s covered in picture
s of hell. Gruesome, vivid pictures of bodies being torn limb from limb and demons eating pieces of flesh. In other words: serious ick factor.

  Heathcliff frowns at the pictures as he takes a step closer to them.

  “Looks like something Blade would like,” Hana says.

  “I don’t know about that,” I say. “These might be even too gross for her. Speaking of Blade, where is she?”

  “At the dance,” Samir says. “She’s keeping an eye on Blake for us. Make sure he stays put.”

  “Yeah, it’s not exactly a rough assignment,” Hana says. “If you ask me, she just didn’t want to miss her slow dance with Number Thirty-one.”

  I glance back at Heathcliff to see if he’s listening, but he’s moved forward to the wall of grossness and is peeling back one of the drawings. Soon he rips it down completely. He grabs another and another, tearing them all down.

  “Hey! What are you doing!” Samir cries.

  But Heathcliff doesn’t stop, he takes down enough pictures until we see the wall beneath, which shows a little door, Heathcliff pushes on the door and it swings open. Another hidden passageway. Just like the one in Ms. W’s room.

  “How did you know that was there?” Hana asks Heathcliff, who shrugs.

  “The pictures,” he says, pointing to the hellish ones, “are supposed to encourage people to stay away from his wall.”

  I can see his point. I certainly don’t want to look too closely at a demon gnawing on a man’s leg.

  Hana gives Heathcliff a look of grudging admiration. Heathcliff may not read much (or barely at all), but he’s definitely not dumb.

  Heathcliff grabs an unlit torch from the wall and lights it with a silver lighter from his pocket. He offers me a torch, too, and I take it as I follow him into the dark passageway.