Fearscape (Horrorscape)

by Nenia Campbell

  Oh dear god, thought Val, at the same time that a tray slammed noisily against the fake wood surface of the table. “How do you guys always get here so fast? That line is so gay, no offense.”

  Lindsay's eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline. Rachel looked like whether she couldn't decide whether to laugh her head off, or toss back an insult of her own. To Val's relief she settled for a snort of disdain and took a big bite out of her pizza.

  Lisa eyed her for a moment, then turned to Val. “So James told me that you're mad at him?”

  “I wouldn't say mad. More like annoyed.”

  Val explained the situation that had transpired in the art room, making an effort to meet the eyes of all three girls in turn. “I guess it's all for the best,” she finished. “I mean, he looked surprised.”

  “What a jerk,” said Lindsay. “He's so not even worth your time.”

  Lisa gave her an evil look. “I'll speak to him, Val. I'm sure he didn't mean it that way.”

  “I think he did. 'Do you wear your uniform to school on game days?' Come on. Anyway, I'd rather skip the whole he-said she-said deal. Too much gets lost in translation.”

  “Amen,” said Rachel.

  “Boys,” Lindsay agreed, nodding. “What doesn't get lost in translation?”

  “Things with the letter X in front of them,” Rachel posited. “Like X-Box. And X-rated movies.”

  “In that case, I'm sure they'd be thrilled if we did wear our uniforms to meet days.”

  “And be ogled at like we're cheerleaders? No, thanks.” Lisa's evil stare got eviller. She was a cheerleader. As if just realizing this, Rachel's eyes widened and she looked at Lisa and said, innocently, “Oh. No offense.”

  “What about that other guy, Val? The one you were telling us about earlier? The older one?”

  “Yes, the one who called you exquisite.” Rachel batted her eyelashes.

  “What older one?” Lisa demanded. “Why didn't I — ” she broke off, now focusing her evil stare on Val. “Oh, no. You didn't.”

  “It's not like that,” Val stammered, withering under Lisa's glare.

  “Ooh, you know Val's mystery man, Lisa?” Lindsay said, grinning.

  “Who is it?” Rachel said. “I want the wheres, whens, and hows — but especially the wheres.”

  “Don't tell them,” Val pleaded.

  “Why not? If you won't listen to me, then maybe your best friends can tell you why Gavin Mecozzi is bad news.”

  “Gavin who?”

  “Oh shit,” Rachel said. “I think that's Hit List Guy.”

  “No,” Lindsay said. “Him?”

  “Who?” Val said.

  “Your boyfriend, Val — known pretty much to everyone else in the school as Hit List Guy.”

  “What's a hit list?”

  “It's the grocery list school shooters write so they can remember who to cut down.”

  “Charming,” Rachel said dryly.

  Val blanched. “He actually made one?”

  It was Lindsay who answered this time. “Not exactly. It's a long story, but basically it comes down to this paper he wrote for English last year. Juniors have to read this book called The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell.”

  “It's a short story about this shipwrecked guy who ends up getting washed up on this island with a crazy old coot, who also happens to be an ex-hunter. And guess what? He's decided that regular game has lost its appeal — ”

  “Game in the hunter sense, not the playing sense,” Lindsay added, for Val's benefit.

  “Yeah,” Rachel said. “So he — Count Zoloft — ”

  “Zaroff.”

  “Zoloft, Zaroff, whatever. Count Zaroff decides that he's going to hunt humans from now on, since they're the only worthwhile challenge left for him.”

  “Hit List Guy — I mean, Gavin, sorry — had some interesting things to say about that book.”

  “Interesting as in scared-the-shit-out-of-people.”

  “The teacher kept his project on display. She said it was because it was awesome and what an A-plus paper is supposed to look like, and blah, blah, blah, but everyone knew it was because the school wanted proof, in case he ever actually did something, that they weren't liable or whatever.”

  “Something as in shoot-up-the-school,” Rachel said.

  “What was the paper about?” Val asked.

  “Basically, it was this really creepy essay about how each major clique of the school would survive, or not, if put in that kind of situation,” Lisa said, seizing the conversation, “band geeks, cheerleaders, scene kids, jocks — ”

  “That's not a hit list, then,” Val said. “I mean, it's creepy but it's not like he was actually seriously considering — ”

  “The cheerleaders would probably be the first to perish,” Lisa said, “Because, despite their natural athleticism, they have never known what it is like to truly need to run. That's a direct quote. His essay's on the wall of my classroom. I read part of it — and had to stop.”

  “I've read parts of it, too,” Lindsay said, nodding. “He said the most likely to survive would be one of the shy, quiet kids that nobody suspects because his or her 'apparent weakness' would cause them to be underestimated, thereby increasing his or her chance to use one of their natural advantages.”

  “What on earth renewed your interest in that psychopath?” Lisa wanted to know. “Because I thought we had already gone over this. Did he say something to you?”

  “ — exquisite,” Rachel said in an undertone. Lindsay punched her in the arm.

  Val wished she had something cold to put on her face. It was burning like a candle.

  “Oh my God, Val,” Lisa groaned. “He is going to chew you up and spit you out.”

  “Maybe not spit her out,” Rachel said, with a leer. “Not if he likes the taste of her.”

  Lindsay punched her again, harder.

  “Ow! Not with the lacrosse arm. That freaking hurt!”

  Lisa glared at the two of them. “Val, whether you believe me or not, he will hurt you. I do not want to watch that happen.”

  “Hey, maybe he's a really nice guy,” Rachel said, taking pity on Val's distraught expression. “I mean, Stephen King is apparently a doll and look at all the messed-up shit he writes.”

  But Gavin isn't nice, Val thought in despair. He said so himself.

  She felt as if she were right smack in the face of all public scrutiny — that's the girl who likes Hit List Guy — and it was like being trapped in a room without doors.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  When Mrs. Kimble asked, “How was school, Val?” she was a little alarmed when her normally chatty daughter responded with a grunt. “Did you have a bad day?”

  “Meh,” said Val.

  “Meh?”

  “High school is dumb.” Val scrunched up her face. “Everyone is so — so shallow.”

  “Oh, Val. You say that like it's such a novel observation. High school hasn't changed much since I was a girl, and I imagine that it's been pretty much the same since public schools first began.”

  “It's still dumb.”

  “Many things in the world are, and we can't do a thing about ninety-nine-percent of them.”

  Val barred her arms over her chest. “I can't wait until college.”

  “Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to,” her mother said dryly, “So I'd suggest making the best of the life you have now.”

  (I think you're exquisite.)

  Val hesitated. “There was one good thing that happened today, though.”

  “Oh? What was that?”

  “There's this boy at school, and I think — I really think he might like me.” Val frowned again. 'Like' somehow wasn't the right word. It was too simple. Too light.

  Too innocent.

  Mrs. Kimble shot her a sideways grin. “Oh, that's wonderful, Baby. Is he the one you told me about earlier? The one Lisa is playing matchmaker with?”

  'Playing' matchmaker? Like it's a
game of pretend? Val's frowned deepened into a scowl. “No. James is a jerk.”

  “I see.”

  Silence.

  “So who is this new mystery man? Did Lisa introduce you to him?”

  Val stomped her foot. “Mom! I can find boys without Lisa's help!”

  “Don't stomp! And I didn't say you couldn't.” Her mother looked offended.

  “You implied it.”

  “Goodness, you're sensitive today.”

  Val glared ahead at the car stuck in front of them. Traffic was always heinous after school. The car had a “my child is a Derringer Honor Student” bumper sticker. The driver, however, had added another part, rife with irony, which read, “And all I got was this stupid sticker.”

  She bet that kid's parents didn't think they had the dating appeal of a slug.

  “Oh, come on. Don't huff. Spill. I'm dying of curiosity.”

  Val was tempted to torture her some more — she was still quite mad about her mother's assuming that she couldn't find boys on her own, mostly because it was starting to look as if it might be true — but she was too excited to keep quiet much longer, and her mother's enthusiasm was hard to resist in the wake of Lisa's cutting skepticism.

  She managed to hold out for another block until blurting, “He's a senior.”

  Her mother's expectant smile slipped. “Oh … dear. So he's eighteen. That's quite old.”

  So are you. “That's only four years older. We go to the same high school!”

  “And next year he will be in college whereas you, little missy, will still be a high school student.” She rolled her eyes at her daughter's expression. “Okay, I get it. We'll discuss that later. So he's a senior. Is that all you know about him?”

  “He's in my art class.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “He works at Petville.”

  Mrs. Kimble lifted an eyebrow.

  “Mom!”

  Mrs. Kimble demurred. “I didn't say anything.”

  “You looked at me.”

  “Oh, Val, for God's sake. I looked at you? How old are you?”

  There was a silence.

  “Well, Miss Huffy? What's this boy's name?”

  Val didn't answer.

  “Should we call him M&M, for Mystery Man?”

  Oh god, the horror. “His name is Gavin. Gavin Mecozzi.”

  “That sounds Italian.”

  “Probably because it is.”

  “I knew an Italian boy growing up,” her mother said thoughtfully. “He was a distant relation of a mafioso. He used to brag about that. It drove the girls crazy — that, and the fact that he looked like a young Eduardo Versategui. He also drove a Harley, as I recall, and wore a Ferragamo leather jacket.”

  “Gavin is not in the mafia.”

  “And what does Mr. Mecozzi do, then, in his copious free time?”

  This Val could answer, to her relief. “He plays chess. He's a grandmaster.”

  “Well! That's certainly impressive. Your uncle plays chess. Did I ever tell you that? He used to call it 'the intellectual sport.'” The minivan pulled into their driveway. Val hopped out, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. “Your father played, too, though Charles was never as good as Earl.”

  “I remember. Dad tried to teach me when I was younger.”

  “Did he? Oh, yes, I'd quite forgotten. That all seems so long ago.” As she fished in her purse for the keys, she said, casually, “What does Lisa think about this Gavin?”

  “Lisa is dumb. Just like James.”

  As soon as her mother got the door open, Val made an immediate beeline for her room. The first thing she did was change out of her school clothes and into some flannel pajama pants and a tank top. The second was to wash off her makeup, which was starting to feel stiff and itchy. The third was to go on her computer, where she planned to stay until she was called down for dinner or ended up tired enough to take a nap on her bed.

  James had finally decided to send her a message. The header was entitled, simply, “sorry.” How original. Val deleted the message without reading it. She knew if she did read it, she would either feel sorry for him or get even more annoyed than she already was, and either one of those things had a high likelihood of making her act stupidly, herself.

  Besides, he's probably only apologizing because Lisa made him.

  Val had been Lisa's friend first, before Lisa really knew anyone else in the school, and she resented the fact that Lisa had gotten so tight with James lately. Especially since she was fairly sure that the two of them hung out together far more often than they bothered to include her.

  Not that she wanted to hang out with such stupid people, but they could have at least offered.

  She had another message, aside from James's. Val sat up a little straighter. It was from that weirdo in the Victorian outfit again.

  What do you desire? And how far would you go to get it?

  The time stamp was 4:21 AM.

  The thought of a man lying awake in the middle of night thinking about her, and what she desired, made her feel sick — sick, and a little thrilled in an odd, frightening way.

  Leave me alone, she wrote. Why do you keep bothering me?

  The response was instantaneous.

  Because you fascinate me.

  What a freaky thing to say. I fascinate you?

  Among other things.

  Val hesitated. What other things?

  A gentleman never tells.

  Why are you doing this, then, you freak?

  He didn't respond. Val heaved a sigh of relief as she began responding to other notifications from people she actually wanted to talk to. People who weren't freaks. She submitted a comment to one of her friends from track about the next meet, and when the screen refreshed there was another message notification waiting for her.

  Because of how beautiful you are when you run — and how much it makes me want to chase you. The red flag flashed up again. You never answered my question, by the way.

  His question? She scrolled back through the conversation, confused, until she hit upon the very first thing he'd sent her. What did she desire, and how far would she go to get it?

  She hit the block button and turned away from her laptop.

  Right now, her only desire was that her big, stupid life start making a little more sense.

  Chapter Five

  “One of the most difficult parts of drawing from life is that you are converting a living, breathing creature into a nonliving, non-breathing format.” As she talked, Ms. Wilcox went around the room and gave each pair of desks a wooden figure. “These are nonliving, non-breathing compatible, but I want you to pretend, for the moment, that they are alive, and draw them in both static — and dynamic — poses.”

  Val picked up the doll, adjusting the limbs so that it looked as if it were running. Several of the other students were taking far more explicit liberties with the dolls, James in particular, who shoved the doll's hand between its legs and made noises that had his seatmates in fits.

  Gavin, by contrast, was quietly studying the doll he was sharing with a girl whose name Val didn't know. He had folded its limbs into a pose of supplication, the hands thrown skywards. The girl clearly didn't like it, though whether this was because she, like Val, thought it sinister, resented him taking control of the doll, or was just having trouble with the limbs wasn't clear.

  Mrs. Vasquez was showing Titus in English so after checking in with the teacher and getting marked as “present” on the roster, Val was sent to the library for one-day study hall. She hadn't been to the school library since the beginning of the year, and the smell of old books was overwhelming. “Hi, Ms. Banner,” she said tentatively to the librarian, “I'm here for — ”

  Ms. Banner shushed her, with a look of annoyance, and thrust a stapled bunch of papers at her without bothering to explain them. Val glanced down at the papers with a look of wariness. Library Rules the first one was called, with “No Talking” underlined several times. The other three compris
ed her essay assignment.

  Emily Abernathy was already there, seated at one of the far tables with a copy of Wuthering Heights in front of her. Her blonde hair was secured back with a barrette and she was wearing one of those dress and turtleneck sets that Val hadn't really seen in person since 1997. She half-wanted to peek under the table and see if she was wearing matched printed leggings.

  “Hey.” Emily looked up, fixing her with a shy smile that made Val feel bad about her uncharitable thought. “You're not watching the movie, either?”

  “I guess not.” She looked at Wuthering Heights. “Is that for this class? I thought we weren't reading that for another week or two.”

  “I'm using it in my essay,” Emily said. “I'm doing my topic on revenge and betrayal within families and how the disrupting of that critical foundation of the home poisons everything. I already talked to Mrs. Vasquez, and she said it would be okay.”

  I'm sure she did. Val shook away that thought, appalled by her own bitchiness. “That sounds really … interesting. I'm sure you'll get an A,” she tacked on hastily.

  “I hope so. It's going to be hard, since I don't really like this play.” Emily frowned down at her copy of Titus Andronicus. “What are you doing your paper on, Val?”

  “I don't know. I haven't really thought about it.”

  And then she jumped as Ms. Banner, steadily creeping up on them this whole time, shushed.

  Val grudgingly redirected her efforts into the playbook, wishing Emily hadn't said what her idea was. Now, all Val could think about was revenge — which, in turn, made her wonder if her stalker's sudden interest might be a kind of revenge on its own. But from whom? And for what? Or was she over-analyzing this?

  No. There was a connection there between her own situation and the play. She pondered it on the track field, tuning out Rachel's and Lindsay's excited chatter about the French club's upcoming trip to Paris. Titus Andronicus was about revenge as Emily had said, but something else, too. Mrs. Vasquez had mentioned it in class, though as more of a footnote, really.

  “You're so quiet today,” said Lindsay. “Thinking of a certain someone?”

  “Don't encourage her,” Rachel said.

  “I'm just trying to take an interest.”