by Pat White
“Lighten up, Coop.”
Mr. Cooper ignored him and continued the lesson. J.D. pulled out his sketchbook and drew whatever popped into his head.
What haunted him was that weird look on the Princess’s face in Nutrition class. It was her eyes that bothered him, startled and terrified yet distant like aliens had abducted her brain. He drew antennas sprouting from her head and smiled to himself.
He glanced up to get her hair right. It was short and wavy, not straight, blond and perfect like it used to be.
Catherine stood and went up front to pick out chalk. She tipped her head to the side, studying something on the wall. He despised her yet was fascinated by her at the same time. It made no sense.
What in life did?
Did it make sense that his mom randomly disappeared without saying good-bye, or that J.D. wasn’t home on the one day that Billy needed him the most?
“Wow, who did this?” Catherine’s awestruck voice carried across the room.
She was eyeing one of J.D.’s pencil drawings, the one of a doe standing in the middle of the street. A hunter aimed his rifle from the bordering forest while oncoming traffic barreled down on her from the opposite direction.
Coop glanced up at J.D. “That’s actually—”
J.D. shook his head.
“One of my former students drew that,” Coop said, with a questioning curl of his eyebrows.
“It’s amazing.” She sounded breathless, like she was having a religious experience or something.
The arrogant Princess had connected to J.D.’s work? Not possible.
“It’s as if the deer is caught between two worlds,” she said.
J.D.’s pulse raced. How could she, of all people, understand the meaning of his work?
“That’s one interpretation,” Coop said.
“It’s so…hopeless. She has to make a choice and neither one is all that great.”
Just like J.D. Should he run or should he stay? Both options sucked.
J.D. closed his sketchbook and bolted from the classroom. He’d hang out in the commons and copy notes for the Princess. When Art class ended he’d hand her the notes and forget about her.
At least until tomorrow.
* * *
I’m a little off, but not because of my messed up brain. The look on the doe’s face pulls me into another world. I feel her pain, her hopelessness.
I can relate.
As class continues, I realize neither Taylor nor Greg seem to notice the shift in my mood. A good thing. I’m not sure I could articulate the sudden darkness, especially to them. I have a feeling the old Catherine was rarely depressed or sad.
With a sigh, I glance at the wall clock and realize there are only a few minutes left in art class and then I’m done. I made it through my first day without a major crisis! Well, other than the note-taking criminal issue. I’m determined to turn that around somehow, either have him reassigned to another community service project, or get him fired.
In which case, he could be sent to jail. Tempting.
The bell rings. I am so ready to be out of school. I want to go home, lock myself in my room and blast my iPod. Then I remember I have to show up at Cheer.
“I need to get something from my car,” Taylor says. “I’ll meet you in the locker room.”
“Okay.” The locker room, where everyone will change for practice.
Everyone but me.
I grab my backpack and head out. Greg walks beside me. “There’s a party this weekend at Andrew’s. You coming?”
“Is that an invitation?” I smile, glancing at the floor.
Oh, my God. This is it! Greg is about to ask me to a party, which means he’s about to ask me to officially “go out.”
“Here,” J.D. interrupts the near-perfect moment by stepping between us and shoving papers at me. “Your notes.”
“Back off,” I say. “Can’t you see I’m having a conversation?”
“I can make him back off,” Greg threatens.
“No, it’s okay.” I touch Greg’s arm, afraid that if the two of them get into a fight Greg will end up benched. “Could you make copies of your notes in the office?” I ask Greg. “I’ll meet you there.”
“You sure?” He glares at J.D.
“Yep.” I want to settle this, alone, with my evil shadow.
“Okay.” Greg shoots J.D. one last threatening scowl and walks off.
“Your notes, Princess.” J.D. waves them in my face.
“I don’t want your damned notes. And don’t call me that.”
“Tough. Take them, burn them, do whatever you want.”
“What I want is for you to leave me alone, especially if I’m talking to Greg.”
J.D. levels me with intense blue-green eyes. “Hoffman is bad news.”
I burst out laughing, but recover quickly. Don’t want kids thinking I enjoy talking to Pratt. I narrow my eyes at him. “Says the guy who almost killed me.”
“Get over it already.”
I jerk back. “What?”
“This whole feel-sorry-for-me act. Maybe it works on teachers and your flake friends, but I see right through it.”
“I can’t believe you’re talking to me like this.”
“Why, because you’re a fragile princess?” He steps closer and our eyes lock. “What’s gonna happen? You gonna break? I doubt it. You smashed your skull against the pavement and didn’t break. You’re indestructible,” he pauses, “and you’re a bitch.”
Insults catch in my throat. I struggle to form words from the hatred bouncing around in my brain.
Crap! It’s too late. Crazy HULU girl’s eyes are locked onto her cruel tormentor’s.
I’m slipping away.
In front of my mortal enemy.
“No,” I whisper.
“No, what? You’re not indestructible? Or you’re not a bitch?” His voice sounds muffled, far away.
Then silence.
Consumed by darkness, I gasp for breath.
I’m standing in the corner of a kitchen with faded yellow wallpaper and worn cabinets. J.D. washes dishes at the sink wearing a red-checked apron. His younger brother, Billy, is sitting at the kitchen table with a textbook cracked open.
“Sonofabitch!” a deep voice howls from another room.
Billy’s eyes pop wide and his cheeks redden.
“Get out of here,” J.D. orders.
Billy shoves his book into his backpack and literally flies through the back door.
“Billy!” A burly guy wearing sweatpants and a sleeveless undershirt storms into the kitchen clutching a bottle of whisky. He smells like the bottom of our kitchen garbage can.
It’s Mr. Pratt. Only, not like the Mr. Pratt I’ve ever seen.
“Where the hell is he?” he demands.
“He’s got cross country, remember?” J.D. continues washing dishes.
“Yeah, you know everything, don’t you, you little prick?”
Mr. Pratt grab’s J.D.’s arm and yanks him away from the sink. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“No one.” J.D. bows his head. “I’m no one.”
“Don’t sass me, boy.” He backhands J.D.
I gasp, stumble backwards and hit the ground. The impact slams me back to reality.
Someone is gripping my shoulders.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” J.D. says.
I’m panting like I just ran the fifty-yard dash. Slow down. You’re back. It’s okay.
“Catherine?” J.D.’s voice sounds irritated, angry.
I notice his disheveled hair that practically covers his eyes, hair that makes him look like a stoner, a loser. I reach up to brush the hair away from his right cheekbone where his dad hit him.
“What the hell?” He grabs my wrist. “Don’t touch me.”
My gaze drifts to J.D.’s fingers wrapped around my wrist. My skin doesn’t burn or itch. This connection grounds me somehow.
I breathe slowly. Get my bearings.
&
nbsp; “Let go of her,” Greg says, towering over us.
J.D. let’s go of my wrist. Greg yanks me behind him for protection, but I stumble, still disoriented, and lean against the metal lockers for support.
Greg shoves J.D. against the wall. J.D. shoves back and slams his forearm against Greg’s throat.
“Knock it off!” Mr. Cooper rushes down the hall.
J.D. releases Greg, who pumps his fists in a threatening gesture.
“Do it and I’ll report you to Coach Snyder,” Cooper says.
Greg hesitates and glares at Mr. Cooper. Football is Greg’s life and his only chance at getting into college.
“Come on, Catherine.” Greg picks up his backpack.
I grab mine, but don’t look at J.D. I’m ashamed, upset.
Scared as hell. For me? For him? I’m so messed up.
Mr. Cooper heads back into his room.
“Prick,” Greg mutters.
“Takes one to know one,” J.D. says.
Without warning Greg swings his 20-pound backpack at J.D. and nails him the stomach. J.D. doubles over. I should enjoy this, I really should.
“Let’s go.” I grab Greg’s arm, feeling the tension there.
Muscles taut, Greg towers over J.D. He’s going to hit him or kick him or do something incredibly brutal. I can feel it. “Fine, get kicked off the football team.” I turn and storm away. I hope, hope, hope he follows me.
I feel sick and confused, not to mention frustrated as hell. The HULU’s send me spinning into freak-O land, away from reality and my goal of getting my life back. They need to stop. Maybe it’s worth a trip to the doctor. Ask for more meds, or different meds. Stronger meds.
Meet Catherine, the zombie cheerleader.
I focus on the positive. I made it through my first full day. There was a time they didn’t think I’d be able to go back to school at all.
Situation normal. Everything under control. No one knows I’m the freak hallucinator. Sounds like a military weapon.
“Hang on, Catherine.” Greg catches up to me. “Sorry. Pratt makes me a little nuts.”
“Join the club. He makes me a lotta nuts.”
It’s like J.D. knows something about me, my secret. No, I’m being paranoid. Time to refocus and get to Cheer practice.
Time to be me again.
“Here are the notes.” Greg hands me the copies.
“Awesome, thanks.”
“So, you wanna go to Andrew’s party with me Saturday?”
We’ve reached the locker room doorway. I stop and smile at him, but something feels off, probably residual effects from the HULU.
“That would be awesome.” I hug him. Closing my eyes, I ignore the prickly sensation running down my arms.
“You guys are so cute,” Taylor says, skipping up to us. “But we’re late, come on.”
She pulls me away from Greg.
“See ya!” I say.
Other than a few speed bumps, I’m on my way.
I’m off to Cheer practice.
Greg officially asked me out.
I’ve got not one, but two note takers.
I’m back!
As a squeak of joy rises in my throat, I glance down the hall. I spot J.D. sliding down the wall, his arm clutched against his stomach, his eyes pinched shut.
I should feel victorious. My almost boyfriend took out my enemy, the bane of my existence.
Yet tears sting my eyes.
“You okay?” Taylor asks. She lets go of me like I might be contagious.
“Allergies,” I explain.
Yeah, I’m allergic to my life.
Chapter Seven
Taylor drops me off at home after Cheer. Without a doctor’s release, Miss Harris doesn’t let me work out but she asked me to help create the routines. We tossed ideas back and forth. I wrote them down and repeated them back, which seemed to work for her.
It’s probably a good thing I didn’t attempt a routine. My coordination isn’t exactly 100%. I just need a few more weeks. I sense I’m close to a breakthrough.
As I breeze up the walkway to my house I spot a brown paper bag on the front porch. Hoping it’s from Greg, I snatch it and peek inside.
I pull out the notes J.D. tried to give me earlier along with the beanie I forgot at the mall yesterday.
I whirl around and glare at his house. It’s dark, the upstairs windows staring back at me like a startled jack-o-lantern.
“Whatever.” I shove the bag into my backpack.
The minute I step into our front hall the smell of chocolate chip cookies assaults my senses. Mom read somewhere that smells could stimulate brain recovery. She’s been baking a lot lately.
I start up the stairs, hoping to avoid her. I’m exhausted and crabby and don’t want to get into the whole J.D. as note-taker issue.
“Catherine?”
I hesitate. Damn. I’ve been holding it in all day, controlling my random thoughts that claw away at my brain trying to escape.
“How was your day?” she says from the foot of the stairs.
With a sigh, I turn around. “How can you let them do that to me?”
“Do what?”
“Assign J.D. Pratt as my note-taker?”
“What?” Her eyes widen and she squeezes the dishtowel between her fingers. She seems truly stunned.
“Mr. Burke said you knew about it.”
“No, when we spoke I agreed that having a note-taker was a good idea, but no one said anything about–“
“Whatever.” I bolt upstairs.
“Catherine—”
“I’ve got homework.”
I turn the corner and escape into my bedroom.
“I made cookies!” Mom calls after me.
I slam my bedroom door and stare at the lock, wishing I could lock out the world, but I can’t. I’m just going to have to deal with the stress of my unstable life and the threat of my next HULU.
I flop down on the bed and take a long, deep breath. I made it. Day one. The first of many and it’s not over yet, thanks to homework. I can’t fall behind or I’ll never get back into AP.
I pull out my assignment notebook and glance at tonight’s reading assignments. Start The Alchemist for Lit, read Industrial Revolution chapter for history, and…
Blah, blah, blah.
I’m already bored and I haven’t cracked a book. Right, and I’m going to work my way back into AP track?
No use procrastinating. I pull Greg’s notes out of my backpack. What the heck? The scribbles are barely legible, reminding me of my doctor’s handwriting.
I sigh and fantasize about being Mrs. Dr. Greg Hoffman, not that he’s ever mentioned being a doctor but I’m sure he could be. I close my eyes and clutch the notes to my chest. We’re at a hospital fundraiser and they’re honoring my wonderful husband for his good work. Everyone applauds. He smiles and kisses my cheek as I stand beside him beaming with pride. My hair is long, blond and perfect. My make-up is perfect; everything is perfect…
Suddenly I’m the doe, frozen in the middle of the street. It’s winter. I can see my breath. Moonlight reflects off a glint of steel as a shadow hunts me from the forest. The roar of a car engine grows louder from below. My heart pounds with fear. I have to move, do something before—
I gasp and sit up. It’s pitch black and for a second I don’t know where I am, or even who I am. Wait, it’s coming. I’m Catherine, the miracle girl who survived a skull-crushing collision with the pavement.
Whipping my head around, I struggle to see something familiar. My heart beats frantically against my chest. I am terrified in my own house, in my own bed. Get a grip, Catherine. You’re just disoriented.
My clock radio reads six thirty. I must have fallen asleep. Dinner will be ready soon. Or is it six-thirty in the morning and it’s time to get up for school?
I switch on my bedside lamp. Papers are scattered across my purple comforter. Homework, right, I was looking over Greg’s notes and must have fallen asleep.
I p
ick them up. Can’t make sense of them. I grow frustrated. Words can be challenging for me on a good day. Words written in illegible handwriting is hopeless.
I pull J.D.’s bag out of my backpack. I lay his notes on the bed, pull out the beanie and rub it against my cheek. Then I slip the beanie onto my head and feel instantly better. I don’t know why.
I climb off the bed and study myself in the full-length mirror. I wonder what the kids would think of this version of the perfect Catherine Westfield. Then I wonder, did I even like being perfect?
I admire the girl staring back at me. She seems confident and determined, and not afraid to say what’s on her mind. She doesn’t take crap from anyone, not her friends, not her parents. This girl would walk into the school office and demand a new note-taker, someone who could write past the fourth grade level, someone who could organize the critical points of the lessons.
Does J.D. even write in complete sentences? I flop back onto my bed and glance at his notes.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat and he’s drawn pictures in the margins, a timeline of sorts. There’s a drawing of a person sewing a dress with a circle around it and a line slashed diagonally across the circle. Beside it is a drawing of a machine spitting out the same dress. Next on the continuum are ships and trains and the words, “steam power fueled by coal” followed by a drawing of a man shoveling coal into a train’s boiler.
So…the power of steam makes the trains move and the coal makes the steam power. The fog lifts. I’m getting it.
Thanks to J.D.
I jump off the bed and pace around my room. Sure, I want to excel in my classes and prove to everyone I’m worthy of AP track. But not with J.D.’s help. I don’t want to depend on him or be grateful to him.
For anything.
Then I have an idea. I’ll accept notes from both J.D. and Greg and pretend to use Greg’s. No one has to know the truth: without J.D.’s help I’ll likely fail all my classes.
“Damn him.” I race out of my room, aiming for the kitchen and a chocolate chip cookie. Halfway down the stairs I stop short at the sound of Mom and Dad fighting. Their angry voices echo down the hall from the kitchen. I sit on the stairs and listen.
“How could you let that happen?” Dad accuses.