I take a chance and pull my gaze away from Miss Petra’s blue blouse to look out the window. Relief sweeps through me when I see the vibrant oranges and yellows of the leaves on the trees. Questions whisper through my mind: Did Daniel skip school to spend the day with Henry and Bell? Or did Henry and Bell spend that long-ago Monday together alone? To find out, I’d have to risk stepping into the photos again. The thought of doing so makes my insides flutter like the leaves drifting down from the tree branches outside.
Why am I afraid? So convinced another visit would end differently than my prior ones? Wouldn’t I come back just as easily as before? I’m not sure what triggers my return. I’ve never needed to use the crystal to bring me home. I just vanish…and here I am.
A noisy gust of wind pulls my attention beyond the window to the parking lot and the billowing American and Texas flags. “Bell and I will have fun without you. Won’t we, Bell?”
The wind falls silent as quickly as it flared, and I hear the faint singing of a single bird, its sonorous tune jarringly familiar. My skin prickles, and my head feels as if it could drift off my shoulders and float around the room. Something inside me shifts, and all my doubts clear away. Suddenly, more than anything, I want to be in Bell’s world. It fits me better than this one. I’m not as brave as Bethyl Ann. I can’t stand up to these kids and pretend that I don’t care how they treat me. Maybe losing myself completely would be the best thing that ever happened in my life. I draw a calming breath. I want to be Bell. I want to experience her emotions, think her thoughts instead of my own. I want to be with my grandfather when he was young and healthy.
A tumbleweed rolls across the school lawn. A fast-food wrapper follows, then another scrap of trash and a cluster of leaves. They scatter toward the street and disappear behind a parked car. I imagine the windowsill encrusted with snow, patches of white on the yard beyond the panes. In my mind, Henry’s gaze caresses me, and the touch of his hand brushes away Miss Petra’s voice and every other sound except the nightingale’s song and the thud of my heartbeat. I want to be with Henry even more than I want to be with Daniel…or Tate. This afternoon when I go home, I’ll tilt the crystal until the prism of light appears. I’ll wait until it stretches and consumes me. Then I’ll scatter, too, like the leaves and the trash, disappear from my world and reappear in Bell’s.
I glance over my shoulder at my classmates, all of them black and gray and white—their skin, their hair, their clothing. Everyone here is dimming while Henry’s memories become more vivid each time I visit. Isn’t that a sign that I belong there?
Facing Miss Petra again, I close my eyes, think of Henry…his golden hair…his eyes on mine….
“Zombie Girl.”
The nightingale falls silent in an instant. My eyes fly open. More pea-size damp paper balls ping against the back of my neck, and the real world rushes over me like a heat wave.
“Tansy Piper.” Flinching, I look at Miss Petra. Her book is closed. She stands now, holding a paper out toward me and smiling. “I’d like you to read your short story to the class. Why don’t you come up to the podium?”
I wait for her to say, Unless you’d rather not. Or even, Would you prefer I read it for you? Not that I want my story read at all, especially in front of this group.
Miss Petra doesn’t give me an out, so I push away from my desk. The podium seems a hundred miles away. Murmurs follow me as I walk toward it. Quiet laughter. Whispers. I wish I held Henry’s crystal tightly in my hand so I could disintegrate into a billion tiny particles before their eyes, become a part of the atmosphere, present but unseen. When I reach Miss Petra, I take the paper from her, then step behind the podium, glad for the barrier it provides.
I glance up and my focus is instantly drawn to Tate’s red shirt at the back of the room. His eyes find mine. He smiles. To calm my nerves, I try to pretend he’s Henry—he’s who I need right now, not Tate. But though their features are the same, I see the differences in the way they dress, the length of their hair, the way Tate holds something back when he looks at me while Henry’s emotions pour out of his eyes.
Though Tate gives me a nod of encouragement, I’m humiliated to have to read my story in front of him. To calm myself, I dart a look at Bethyl Ann’s T-shirt, a pink beach ball drifting on a pewter sea. She gives me a thumbs-up, then flashes her patriotic braces. And just like that, every embarrassment I’ve ever had about Bethyl Ann’s friendship evaporates. She took me under her wing, as Papa Dan used to say, no questions asked.
Drawing a breath, I begin to read my story aloud. It’s about a girl who sees things others can’t because they don’t pay attention. She feels set apart, alone in her difference. Some people ignore the girl; others completely forget she exists. Little by little, she disappears. Despite the growing shame that presses against my chest from the inside, I read with a steady voice. Let them laugh, I think. I don’t care about anyone here. Soon I’ll be with Henry and Daniel.
When I finish, silence cloaks the room, and for a second, I wonder if everyone tiptoed out while I read. I look up at Tate, my heart banging against my rib cage. He’s not smiling anymore. He seems sad for me and, ohmygod, I don’t want that. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me, especially him. I’m sure Tate knows I’m the girl in the story; everyone probably does. I quickly look away from him, see Shanna sneering. Rooster Boy studying me with a curiosity he’s never shown before. Straight-A Alison blinking at me, her eyes full of…something. Something I don’t want from her any more than I want Tate’s sympathy. Compassion maybe? Understanding? Or is it pity again?
I turn to Miss Petra, hoping she’ll end my misery. She clears her throat and steps toward the podium. “What a lovely story, Tansy,” she says, smiling kindly. “Excellent work.”
My face burns as I hurry to my desk. I sit just as the bell rings and the room erupts with a dozen conversations. Chair legs scrape against tile, and shoes shuffle as students rush from the room.
Miss Petra walks toward me, pausing beside my desk. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first if you’d be comfortable sharing your story,” she says. “I realize now that I should have, but it was just so wonderful it didn’t occur to me that you might mind.”
“It’s okay,” I murmur, my face still burning from embarrassment.
“Keep up the good work,” she says, then returns to the front of the room.
“Tansy!” Gathering my books, I turn to Bethyl Ann. She’s stuffing her spiral notebook into her book bag, her eyes wide with surprise. “Ohmygosh! Why didn’t you tell me you inherited your mom’s writing talent?”
I focus on her pink shirt, her yellow barrette. She’s real, she’s real, I tell myself. Don’t let go of her. I don’t understand what’s going on with me. One minute I get caught up in missing my grandfather, in my feelings for Henry, and nothing else seems to matter. When that happens, I’m ready to say good-bye to this world, to become Bell and be with Henry and Daniel. The next minute, I snap out of it, and the thought of disappearing into their realm panics me. The truth is, I’m not sure if my feelings for Henry are mine or Isabel’s. I barely know him. I still want to spend time with Papa Dan when he was young, but I would worry so much about the grandfather I already know and love if I was no longer here for him. And I’d miss my mom.
And then there’s the not-so-little problem that I would be completely insane, locked away in a madhouse somewhere, if I let myself believe that I was living in my grandfather’s past as a girl named Isabel.
Shocked to realize how mentally unhinged I’ve become, I murmur to Bethyl Ann, “I didn’t inherit Mom’s talent. But thanks for saying so.”
She leans close to me and whispers, “You did super. The natives were impressed.”
For some reason, her nice words clog my throat with tears. Slipping my books into my backpack, I say, “Come on,” and nod at the door. “I’ll walk with you to your next class.”
Bethyl Ann’s face turns a soft shade of pink that matches her Shakespeare Is My Hom
eboy T-shirt. “Let’s go hand in hand,” she says, “not one before another.”
“If you’re expecting me to hold your hand, you can forget it.”
She giggles. “Relax. It just seemed an appropriate quote. It’s from—”
“Let me guess…” I stand and round the desk. “It’s Shakespeare.”
“Right. The Comedy of Errors.”
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and spot Tate at the back of the room, still at his desk, watching me. He stands and starts to come over. Afraid of making an even bigger fool of myself in front of him, I hurry to leave, with Bethyl Ann chattering beside me.
“Tansy,” Tate calls, and we both pause and turn. Bethyl Ann goes silent as he crosses the room. “Hey, Stinky,” he says to her, stopping in front of us.
I flinch, but she just lifts her chin proudly, looks him straight in the eye, and replies, “Hey, yond Tate.”
Tate blinks at her and his brows tug together before he shifts his focus to me. “I liked your story,” he says.
“Thanks.” I feel myself blush when I look into his eyes. Since Miss Petra has left the room, I add, “I didn’t realize when I was writing it that the whole class would hear it.”
“Yeah, that was sort of lame of Miss Petra to put you on the spot like that.”
“She apologized,” I tell him. “Not many teachers would.”
After a few moments of Tate and me silently staring at each other, Bethyl Ann coughs to get my attention. I’m ashamed to admit that I forgot she was waiting beside me. “Well, I’d better go,” I tell Tate.
He continues to look at me with those Tate-a-licious blue eyes of his, as Bethyl Ann would say. “See you in history,” he murmurs.
I face the door, and Bethyl Ann and I start out. She makes a huffing sound, arches a brow, and says quietly, “Forever, and forever, farewell, Cassius! And good riddance, if I do say so myself.”
I frown at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Sighing heavily, she answers, “After that nauseating display of emotion, I have a feeling you wouldn’t like my explanation.” Bethyl Ann doesn’t give me any time to pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about. As if it’s some big secret she and I share and nobody else should hear, she leans close to me and whispers, “You want to do some more Henry research at the library after school?”
I feel Tate’s gaze warm the back of my neck and think, Henry who?
The last bell rings. I can’t leave the drab hallways of Cedar Canyon High fast enough. Pulling my hat from my backpack and my cell phone from my purse, I hurry out of the building.
I call Mom but don’t get an answer. This morning, I asked her to wait an hour after school before coming to get me. She told me to pick up Papa Dan’s prescription at City Drug and she would meet me there. I hope she didn’t get caught up in her work and forget.
A sense of normalcy sifts into me once I’m away from the school grounds. The world outside is like a crayon box filled with dozens of colors in varying shades. Briefly, I wonder why only my life at school has lost its hue, but at the moment, I don’t really care. I’m just so glad to feel calm again.
Ignoring the wind and the stares of people I pass, I snap shot after shot as I slowly make my way toward Main Street, my mind crammed with thoughts of Tate. Ever since he stopped me from running away after English class, the prospect of leaving this world, mentally or otherwise, to live with Henry in his surreal existence seems too disturbing to consider. I can’t deny that seeing my grandfather happy and whole again might make it worthwhile to say good-bye to everything here. But could I really give up my photography? And, most of all, Mom? As mad as she makes me sometimes, I couldn’t be happy without her and my camera. And now that things with Tate are starting to get interesting in a very nice way, I’m not sure I could willingly leave him behind, either.
Besides, I’m not completely certain that the desire to become Isabel was ever mine to begin with. Henry probably planted it in my subconscious. For some reason, he wants me to merge with Isabel—that’s what I’m starting to think. Could it be that without me she doesn’t exist? That she never did? Maybe she’s the one whose name I should be looking for in the library’s archived newspapers.
The fact that I’m even wondering about such impossibilities might be what freaks me out most of all. Becoming another person? Stepping into the past? Falling for a ghost? Get a grip, Tansy. It doesn’t take an MIT graduate to figure out that Tate’s the one I’m falling for. That’s why I made Henry resemble him, why I’m imagining Henry’s steamy, hot stares. Because I wish Tate would look at me that way.
Still, I can’t deny that whenever the nightingale sings, it’s as if Henry takes over my thoughts, as if he controls me, beckons me to him through the bird’s song. I can’t seem to resist his lure.
Lunacy. I obviously do need to see a shrink. I don’t want to think about it.
I keep walking, pushing all my worries aside, emptying my head by concentrating on thoughts of Tate and the real-life images on the other side of the camera lens. For a while, it works. I’m caught up in the pattern of sunlight and shadow on a lawn. A squirrel nibbling a pecan. A spiderweb stretched across the broken windshield of a rusty truck.
Time passes too quickly. I make my way down a side street, headed for City Drug on the corner. As I near Main, I see someone leaning against the side of the building, a girl with her arms crossed and her head bent down. I’m almost alongside her when I realize it’s Alison and that she’s crying. Now that she’s away from the school, I see her in color. Her shorts are turquoise blue, her sleeveless shirt yellow and white. I stop abruptly, hoping to turn and get out of there before she spots me, but it’s too late. Alison looks up.
Backing up a step, I say, “I’m sorry.” What I’m apologizing for is a mystery to me. Her tear-ravaged face just gets to me, that’s all. As much as I don’t like the girl, I also don’t like seeing anyone so upset. I start to hurry past her, but then she makes a sobbing sound and I stop again. “Do you need me to get someone for you?” I ask.
Alison shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. It’s just—” Her face scrunches up. “I made a C minus on my algebra test and…”
Her words trail away along with my compassion. I’m pretty sure she can tell by my expression that I think a C–is a pretty lame reason to have a meltdown on the street. Poor, perfect Alison, stripped of her straight-A title. Boohoo. She’d never survive what I’ve been going through.
She tilts her head defensively. “I just don’t know how to tell my parents. Especially my mom,” she says in a quavering voice. “Cs don’t merit scholarships, you know? And algebra this year…I’m just not getting it.”
Wow. Does every single parent in this town have some sort of perverted obsession about their kid earning a scholarship? I have no idea what to say to Alison, so I don’t say anything. I just stare at her with my mouth hanging open.
“I saw you the other day at lunch,” she says, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “When I was in the alley with—” Her eyes dart to her feet, then up at me again. “He’s not what you think.”
News flash, Alison: I haven’t wasted a second thinking about your boyfriend. I clench my jaw to hold back that sarcastic reply. Why does she think she knows what I think? Alison Summers just can’t seem to stop judging me, for some reason.
“I don’t know how I’d explain him to my parents, though,” she continues, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You know…if they found out somehow.”
So she did see me snap their picture. And now she’s afraid I’ll rat her out or blackmail her. “Don’t worry about it,” I mutter.
“But I do—”
“Alison!” a woman calls from the front of the building in a frantic, strained voice. “Alison, where are you?”
“I’m here, Mom!” Alison yells back, quickly wiping more tears from her face. “I’m coming.” She shoves a strand of pale blond hair over her shoulder, takes a couple of measured breath
s, then steps away from the wall. Hurrying around it to the front of City Drug, she leaves me alone on the side street.
I wait a second before walking to the front corner of the building and looking down the sidewalk. Alison and her mother stand outside the entrance to City Drug. They talk a moment before heading toward a blue Suburban parked at the curb. “Don’t scare me like that again, honey,” I hear her mom say. “You said you’d wait in the car.”
“I was just talking to a friend,” Alison answers.
A friend? I huff a humorless laugh as I walk to the pharmacy door, open it, and step inside. Bethyl Ann’s reluctance to talk to me about Alison still puzzles me. So does her bizarre loyalty to a girl who rarely says more than hello to her each day.
J. B. stands behind the prescription counter at the rear of the store, using his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear while he types into a computer. Mary Jane waddles around from behind the register. “Hey, your grandfather’s medicine is ready,” she says. “Your mom called and said you’d be by. I’ll get it.” She makes her way slowly toward J. B., walking as if she has a watermelon between her knees.
“Mary Jane!” a woman calls from the cosmetic aisle. “Could you help me find—”
“Hold your horses, Rita,” Mary Jane interrupts the woman. “Geez Louise, there’s only one of me.” She finally reaches J. B. and he hands her a sack. Mary Jane turns around and duckwalks toward me. Pushing through a low, swinging gate, she returns to the register. “You want this on your mother’s account?” she asks.
“I’ll pay.” I pull Mom’s cash from my pocket and count out the bills.
“Whoa,” Mary Jane says. Easing onto a stool, she cradles her belly. “This kid’s determined to rearrange my intestines, then kick them to kingdom come.” She nods me over. “Come feel this.”
“That’s okay.” Touching her stomach seems too personal. Like something only a friend would do.
Through Her Eyes Page 15