by Cyn Balog
He's silent.
"But what about that guy isn’t whacked?" I add, tittering nervously, and immediately want to kick myself! I never titter! Why can't he just crack one of his stupid jokes and put me at ease? As I quietly curse this new, more intense version of Cam that is reducing me to behaving like a four-year-old girl, I notice something. There's a brand-new expression dawning on his face. It's… fear. "Urn, it isn't his lunch, is it?"
"Not even close. Does he have it with him?"
Oh, God, it is a severed head. "Um, no. We put it in his locker."
"You what? " He looks at the clock, grabs my hand, and pulls me up. "Go to your class. All hell is about to break loose, and I don't want you to be in the middle of it."
"What? No. What's going on?" He's pushing me toward the door, but I resist, trying to dig the heels of my Sam & Libbys into the linoleum.
Just then, Katie rounds the comer, out of breath, a Dixie cup in each hand. She stops short, and before I can react, my chest is covered in something wet. Katie stands there, mouth open like a goldfish. It takes me a moment to realize that (a) it's ice-cold and (b) it's not water; it's some hot-pink stuff that looks sort of like watered-down Pepto. It's like Barbie threw up all over my white cashmere sweater. Blast. "What is that…?" I ask amid the endless apology that's flowing, like a volcanic eruption, from her mouth.
"Hi-C. You looked like you could use something, um, stronger," she squeaks, and then straight back to the regularly scheduled "I'msorryl'msorryI’msorry."
She produces a balled-up Kleenex from her backpack, and as I'm dabbing away at my sweater, I say, "Cam, just let me help-"
But that's when I realize that Cam is gone. Standing where he once was is a painting on an easel-an arrangement of daisies, or a bunch of eggs sunny-side up. Or maybe a portrait? If only that were the most confusing thing on my mind.
So rather than get my second tardy of my school career on the same day as my first, I report to bio as scheduled. Then, I quickly fake a case of massively full bladder and ask Ms. Simpson if I can use the lav pass.
I pace back and forth at Pip's locker, not because I have any clue what is going on, but because I figure that, based on our completely cryptic conversation, if Cam was going to be anywhere, it would be here.
But he's not.
Blast.
All hell’s going to break loose. What did he mean by that? He obviously seemed concerned about the thing in Pip's locker. So what can it be? A weapon? Drugs? I haven't yet ruled out the human head, either.
Gah. I don't care if it is a human head. I need to know.
I close my eyes and mouth the word "Fluffernutter" a couple of times, but the beating of my heart drowns out the sound. "Show me Pip," I say.
But nothing comes. A minute passes.
I open my eyes and realize I'm clutching the wooden lav pass so tightly in my hands that splinters are stalling to prick my palms,
This isn't working,
Fine. I take a quick look down the hall and, seeing no one, fix my hand on the dial. The first number was twenty-eight, I think, And … twelve? I need to start taking ginkgo biloba.
But that's when I hear it.
It starts like a scratching, like the sound of a cat sharpening its claws. At first I think it must be coming from the room behind the row of lockers. Then, the rub-rub-rubbing noise intensifies, to a tinny banging.
Something is inside. Something alive.
That's impossible, I tell myself. Still, my hand is frozen on the lock. Something tells me that Cam is right, that all hell might be breaking loose… out of this locker?
And, if so, I'm going to be in the middle of it.
I drop my hand to my side and back away, and as I'm turning to run, I hear it.
A voice, a whisper. But not a sweet-nothings whisper; more of a subhuman hiss.
"Let. … me … out…"
Chapter Eleven
AS I'M RACING down the hall, thinking how nice it would be to be safely ensconced in Ms. Simpson's class, learning about the mollusk phylum, I turn a comer and careen headfirst into Pip and Cam, who, judging from the fact that Pip's breathing like a woman in labor, must have been running toward me.
Cam grabs me by the shoulders. "What's wrong? Why are you screaming?"
I clamp my mouth closed. I was?
"Tell me you didn't go into his locker," he says, breathing hard.
"Urn…"
"Go back to your class!" he shouts, already several classrooms away, with Pip on his heels like a puppy.
"No!" I tell him, following.
He starts running backward, something all football players seem to be good at, giving me the "Don't make me come over there!" look. Not sure why; he knows that never works with me. Next to him, Pip trips on an invisible bump, falls to the ground like a wounded turkey, then jumps up and keeps running, in this cartoonlike way that somehow allows the heels of his Keds to nearly smack his backside with each and every stride.
Catching up to Pip is easy, but I have to bust a gut to get to Cam. "You have to tell me what is going on. You're going to Pip's locker, right?"
"Yeah"
"There's something alive in there?"
"Damn. You heard her?"
"Her," I repeat mindlessly. "Her? Who…?"
Cam ignores me and turns to Pip. "She's awake. She'll be mad, right?"
All the blood in Pip's body has rushed to his cheeks. "Yes, most definitely."
"How could you leave her in there?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do, and I didn't want to arouse suspicions," he explains, clearly upset. As if showing up to school in too-tight cords that amplify your private parts doesn't already have half the school suspicious?
"Her who?" I say, in a whisper. Though I am by no means Godzilla, and in fact think I am quite petite, I can barely squeeze a fist into the lockers they give us. So this "her" must be some sort of tiny animal. Like a girl hamster. Maybe I was hearing things when I heard actual words coming from the locker. I didn't get much sleep last night, after all. Yes, definitely. Pip, fledgling Jeffrey Dahmer that he is, probably just picked up a squirrel on the way to school.
Halfway down the hall, the boys stop short, and I nearly run smack into the wall that is Cam's back, not to mention the freaky tumor. Sliding to a Tom Cruise-style stop on the waxed floor, I begin to itch. My cashmere sweater is clinging to my ribs with perspiration and Katie's sticky pink drink, and it's worse than a thousand mosquito bites. "This sweater is ruined," I grumble, looking down at its pathetic remains.
"Morg-" Cam says.
I step out of his shadow and peer down the hallway. The hall is completely empty, except… though we're still several classrooms away, I can see the locker door, number 168, swinging in the distance. It makes an eerie, tinny screech as it slowly moves back and forth.
Whatever it is, it's out.
"Is anyone concerned about rabies?" I ask.
Cam ignores me. He stares down the hall, eyes fierce. Finally, he says, "I'm sorry. She didn't know."
"It won't happen again," he murmurs.
"What?" He's not paying attention. It's like he's listening in on another conversation. And his eyes aren't focused down the hallway… they're sort of focused on this imaginary spot-this nothingness-right under his nose. He's talking to an imaginary friend.
He really is going nuts.
Helpless, I turn to Pip. "What is he doing?"
"Talking to Dawn," he says softly.
Dawn? So, perfect, he has an imaginary girlfriend. I’m appalled and jealous at once. Is this some psychological disorder that stems from not getting everything one wants out of one's current relationship? "And Dawn is…?" I ask, staring at Cam as he rubs his chin and nods, with deep understanding, at absolutely nothing.
"… not veriy happy that we put her in that closed compartment," Pip says.
"So, wait-you can see her, too?" This really wouldn't surprise me.
"No, humans can't see them when they choose not to be seen," he explains.
"Humans?" The word numbs my lips as it passes through them. Because what is Dawn, if she isn't human? And if humans can't see her, but Cam obviously can, what does that make him?
I follow Cam's eyes into the air, concentrating hard on the spot above him, hoping to get a glimpse of whatever he's talking to so that I can confirm that my boyfriend isn't destined for a straitjacket. Finally, when I'm about to give up, I see something move. It's translucent, the color of bubble gum, sort of like a glob of hair gel. A glob of hair gel with a mind of its own, because it's moving in gentle circles and is suspended right above Cam's head.
I blink twice. "What the hell is that?" When nobody answers, I look at Pip. "What is that?"
Pip's eyes widen. "Tell her I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do."
Great. He's ignoring me, too.
I have no idea how anyone can classify gooey hair fixative as either male or female, but I can't concentrate on that right now. I'm getting more ticked by the minute that Cam finds the blob more worthy of his attention than his own girlfriend.
"Cam," I say softly. He is still going on, very solemnly, to the nothing, about how he'd really prefer things to be kept under wraps right now. It's almost as if / don't exist. "Cam!"
Startled, he turns toward me. As he does, the pink glob begins to separate and in an instant moves around his head, toward me, in a thousand brilliant and beautiful sparkles. It spreads over me, warm and tingling on my skin, and I can't seem to remember what it was I was going to say. That's when Cam starts to lunge toward me, this wild look in his eyes. A shot of fear runs through my nerves when he reaches for me, yelling, "No, don't!" his mouth frozen in an exaggerated O. Before he can lay a finger on me, though, there's a sudden, blinding pain on the side of my head. The last thing I see is the cold, hard tile stretching up to meet me.
Chapter Twelve
“MORGAN?" CAM'S VOICE lures me back.
I open my eyes, but everything is fuzzy shadows, like clouds, like the way I expect heaven would be.
I'm dead.
It's cold in heaven. I’m lying down, under a blanket that feels like burlap, and it smells like perspiration, grass, and lawn fertilizer.
Do people sweat in heaven? And I thought things were just naturally green up there, without the need for harsh chemicals.
Finally, my vision improves to the point where I can make out an old scoreboard, lying on its side, with the faded slogan GO H WKS! I'm on the floor of a cramped storeroom, with cleaning supplies and grass seed on shelves all around, staring down at me…And the reason the blanket on top of me feels like burlap is because it is. I'm lying down on a gym mat that looks like it was attacked by a team of wildcats, for all the tears in it. The only light in the place is slashing through an air vent near the ceiling, so I can barely make out Cam's face, his lips spread in a straight line.
"Where are we?"
"The shed by the football field."
"Gorgeous. Are you going to explain things to me now?"
"That's why I brought you here," he says.
"Oh, I thought you were just going to ravage my body." I sigh. "Okay. I'm listening. If it isn't a tumor, what is it?"
He's kneeling down next to me, chewing on the underside of his thumb. He never bites his nails; instead, he prefers to go right to his calluses, and he has plenty from all the weight lifting he's done since freshman year. It's the one habit of his I hate, but right now, I don't feel like nagging. And I want to hear the story.
If he will just tell it. Instead, he's inspecting an old pair of gardening gloves nailed to the wall across from us. He appears to have forgotten me. Again.
I snap my fingers. "Hello?"
"Sorry."
"Dawn again?"
"No, I'm just trying to figure out the best way to tell you this."
"Just tell me," I say. We've always been able to tell each other everything, so I'm getting more worried by the second. What could possibly be so bad? He's still looking baffled, so I say, "Here, I'll help. Who the hell hit me?"
"Dawn."
"Dawn? Your imaginary girlfriend?"
He clicks his tongue. "If she hit you, she can't be imaginary, can she?"
"Okay, Mr. Attitude. So she's the pink glob?"
He squints at me. "She's invisible to humans when she wants to be."
I laugh bitterly. "Well, she should work on that trick, because she looks like hair gel to me."
He looks surprised. "You mean, you can see her?"
"I can see something. I'm sure I'm just hallucinating or dreaming or insane." I rub the spot on my head.
"I'm sorry about that," he says, dusting some dirt off the knees of his jeans. "She was sleeping when we left for school. We couldn't wake her and knew she would be upset if we left her, so he put her in a paper bag until she woke up."
"Well, that explains her-whoever she is-being pissed. I would be, too, if you treated me like a ham sandwich." I sigh and hold out my hands in exasperation. "This isn't getting much clearer."
"I know. Here. This will explain things." He reaches across the room and pulls out his backpack. He unzips the front pocket and retrieves a crumpled paper bag.
Another paper bag. Great. I peer over as he unfolds it, somehow expecting it to contain all the answers to all the questions that have been swirling in my mind. Finally, he reaches in and pulls out…
A stick.
Not like a twig or anything. More like a chop stick. Not even a good set. Just one.
"Is there a fortune cookie, too?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"Stop."
I shrug. "I know I shouldn't be making light of the situation because you're obviously in some emotional turmoil right now, but if you won't let me in on it, what do you expect?"
"Okay, okay. You said a fortune cookie?" Under his breath, half to himself, he says, "I think I could do that."
Staring hard, he holds the stick firmly in
his hand, like a pencil, and taps it slowly on the mat beside me, three times.
"It works better with kung pao-" I begin, but before I can get the sentence out, it appears. I blink, then blink again, and finally look at Cam, who is inspecting it thoughtfully.
"See that?" he says.
"See? Yes. Believe?" I murmur.
"Open it. Read it," he urges.
I do as I am told. I pick it up, and it's still warm, but yes, it is a fortune cookie. Just a normal, everyday fortune cookie. One that, I'm sure, didn't exist fifteen seconds ago. Shaking my head, I break it open, pull out the sliver of paper, and read: DON'T LET THEM TAKE ME AWAY FROM YOU.
My eyes trail off the paper, back to his face. The funny thing about Cam is that he'd still like me to think he doesn't cry, even though growing up, I've seen plenty of his meltdowns, from dirty-diaper chaos to the lost-Oreo debacle. And in the split second before I meet his gaze, I know he wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.
Chapter Thirteen
"WAIT. WHO'S TAKING you away? You're moving? Your dad got relocated? Oh, God!" I bury my face in the disgustingly scratchy burlap.
"No."
"Oh. Then what the hell?" I'm getting frustrated. Nothing's much clearer except for the fact that my amazingly talented boyfriend has the new skill of pulling Chinese food out of his butt. And now he's looking around again, as if trying to zero in on a fly that's been buzzing around his head. "Wait. Are we talking about Dawn again?"
"Shh, she can hear.”
Agh, Fine, I'll play along. "Is she here now? Would she like some of this fortune cookie?"