She grinned at the students, some of whom granted a giggle.
“Far more interesting is the web harp,” she continued, motioning to the massive instrument Jennifer had noted when she came into the room. “This complex harp was devised in the late eighteenth century when the Welsh settled in Patagonia, now known as Argentina. Nearby native South Americans adopted the simple Welsh harp and…improved it. Over the years, the web harp has found favor as a niche instrument, and the past few decades have seen a resurgence in its popularity, especially in South and North American music.”
I’ll bet, Jennifer thought bitterly. She made a note of the time line—“the past few decades.” Clearly, the instrument in this room was of werachnid design. If werachnid culture had increased in dominance gradually, then whatever change paved the way must also have happened decades ago.
How am I going to go back in time and switch everything around again?
“The resulting music,” Tavia continued, “can be astounding. I am not an expert on the device myself, but fortunately, we have a prodigy here at Pinegrove High who can provide a demonstration. I believe many of you know Andeana?”
“Please,” came a quiet, tired voice from the front of the crowd around the piano. “Just call me Andi, Ms. Saltin.”
Tavia shrugged as a tanned whisper of a girl slid away from the piano, through the tiny crevices between unmoving students, and up to the enormous web harp. Andi’s modest nose and cheekbones were of a dark complexion, rooted perhaps from Colombia or Brazil. Her straight dark hair with a soft magenta streak was tucked behind her left ear. Wearing navy slacks, a loose blue sweater, and blue flats, the girl looked fashionable but forgettable, especially next to a work of delicately strung, carved wooden art.
Looking up at the web harp, Andi sighed and began tuning it. Her sleeves kept rolling down, only to be quickly propped up to the wrist again. The instrument dwarfed her; had Jennifer not known any better, she would have mistaken the girl for one of the shorter strings.
“Andeana has agreed—”
“Andi.” The girl pouted, rubbing her forearms through the sleeves.
“Woot, Andi!” cried out one of the girls—a well-dressed, handsome blonde of unusual size. This got the class chuckling, but Jennifer saw admiration and anticipation, not mockery, in their faces.
“Andi has agreed,” Tavia continued amiably, “to play an excerpt from a beautiful composition called ‘Sekidera Komachi.’ This piece is based on an old Japanese play of the same name about a woman who has lived too long and been forgotten. It is unusual in that it was originally written for two harps, a flute, a koto, and a soprano. I will play the flute part here on the piano; Andi will handle everything else.”
If Jennifer expected Andi to turn into a spider and start plucking strings with grotesque tarsi, she was bewildered to find that the girl did not change shape at all. Instead, the girl kicked off her flats (revealing long toes with nails painted ten different shades of blue), sat on a chair placed close to the center of the harp, and began to play. Her feet strummed a sequence of strings that lay along the base of the instrument—something that looked like the sort of koto Jennifer had seen in Japanese art movies.
Even more impressive, Andi’s arms were a blur of movement along the arrays of harp strings. There must have been at least four, maybe five or six—and they produced simultaneous flows of music, some soft and gentle, others more staccato or agitated. The musical rivers cascaded alongside each other and splashed over the room, washing the class in a dizzying spectacle of sound. Jennifer squinted at the source of this display: Did she only have two arms? Or was it more?
Before she could figure it out, Andi began to sing. It was a simple sort of tune, with not much in the way of range and some repetition. But it was still gorgeous coming from this girl’s plain throat, and her words were perfectly accented Japanese.
Even without knowing what the girl was singing, Jennifer could understand the sorrow and pain of the woman in the song. There was tremendous loss.
Suddenly, Andi switched to English:
Where are my loved ones?
I grieve for my family,
And my friends are nowhere near.
With that, the song ended, and Jennifer nearly leapt over the crowd and into the harp. They’re playing with you! She steamed, as the class applauded and whistled, forcing Andi to take a tiny bow. They all know what they’ve done, and they’re rubbing your face in it!
But she saw as Andi stood up straight that the girl had tears on her cheeks. This was not a performance for an outsider’s benefit, she realized. This was a song very personal to this particular musician.
Noticing the girl hugging herself hard and staring at the floor, Jennifer relaxed enough to take in some detail. First, Andi did not look happy even after this fine performance. Second, she did not make eye contact with anyone, even though several students and Tavia were all lavishing praise upon her.
Third, just under the girl’s sleeves, Jennifer spotted an angry red railroad of marks traveling up each arm.
Andi’s a cutter, she realized with grief and alarm. She feels pain inside, cuts herself to bring it out, and hides the marks.
Then a few more pieces clicked into place. She clearly doesn’t feel she belongs around here. She sings about suffering and loss. And she doesn’t morph when she probably should while playing what is obviously a werachnid’s instrument.
What is she hiding?
Straightening when a thrill ran up her spine, Jennifer realized she had her answer.
She’s not like these others.
She’s like me.
After music class, Jennifer struggled through the hallways to catch up to this strange young woman. The delicious possibilities sped through her mind—weredragon? Beaststalker? Both?
She felt a thrill as she spotted the back of the smaller, darker girl’s head. How does she move so fast? In addition to speed, Jennifer would have to overcome another obstacle: Andi’s companion, the tall blonde who had shouted out to her in music class. The two of them were talking. Well, the blonde was talking, and Andi was just nodding and listening and trying to keep up with the other girl’s mammoth gait.
The two of them appeared to be friends, since the blonde was laughing and Andi revealed a small smile when she turned her head from side to side. Another recruit? Jennifer wondered. Then she realized she might be getting ahead of herself.
“Jennifer!” It was Skip, racing down the hall to catch up. He had a tentative look on his face. “Hey, you’re still okay? How are you getting along?”
She shrugged, trying to contain her excitement about Andi. “Okay. I’m trying to keep up with a couple of girls I just met in music class. Thought I might try having lunch with them.”
“I’ll come with you.” He fell into step next to her. “So how was music class?”
“Interesting. Your aunt was friendly enough. Didn’t seem to know me.”
“I told you.” His voice held a gentle reproach. “Apparently, she’s not even an eye specialist in this universe, since the average person’s eyesight around here is 20/10. So instead of using her love for music as a therapeutic approach for patients, she teaches the subject here at school. Crazy world, huh?”
“Yeah. Crazy world. So how was your class?”
He grinned. “Advanced geometrical applications. Really cool stuff. What Mr. Slider teaches sophomores here is tougher than what I was doing with him in independent study! I also found out something about next year’s classes.”
This blew all thoughts of Andi and the blonde out of her mind. She stopped dead in the hallway and faced him. “Next year’s classes?”
“Yeah, for juniors. Seniors do it, too. They follow this special curriculum called the quadrivium—just four classes, double-length, no study hall, short lunch. Really intense. Arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy. That’s it.”
Jennifer didn’t care. She stared at Skip. “Next year’s classes?”
Finally,
he caught on. He swallowed hard. “Oh, hey, Jennifer, I’m not saying we’ll be here next year. I’m just giving you the scoop on what I learned—”
“Yes, it’s all very fascinating.” She started walking again, faster this time so he couldn’t see her start to cry. “Thank you for your superduper rundown of how I’ll be spending the next few years of my miserable life here at Murderous Freak Show High!”
She raced into the cafeteria with eyes so wet she couldn’t really tell who was around her. Holding her books with one hand, she wiped one side of her face well enough to see Andi again as the girl dropped her book bag off at a table next to the blonde’s stuff. The two of them got into line. Jennifer dropped her own books on the seat next to Andi’s, and got behind them.
Getting a better look at the blonde, Jennifer got the sense she had seen this young woman before. But not here. Where?
The girl looked like a Valkyrie with blue eyes and a large, square jaw. Jennifer didn’t think her attractive, but she certainly had lots of presence. Heck, her sheer size demanded attention.
She got a messy pulled-pork sandwich plopped onto her tray, and she warily chose a steamed vegetable. The blonde ahead of her laughed again, a dull sound with a cruel edge. I know that laugh. It’s a bully’s laugh. It’s—
Her jaw dropped in recognition. No way. It can’t be.
“Hey, Bobbie!” The voice from behind Jennifer made her turn. It was Abigail Whittier, looking exactly as she had before with beautiful coffee skin and a slightly bored look gracing her elegant features. “Whatcha doin’ after school?”
Bobbie Jarkmand—for this was Bob Jarkmand, Jennifer saw to her horror—turned and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Dunno.”
Bob is a Bobbie here! As weird as this was to swallow, the evidence was obvious. The girl was a hulk. And she hadn’t seen Bob Jarkmand yet today, so the position was open, so to speak. Somewhere along the line, Jennifer supposed, a Y chromosome didn’t get where it was supposed to—a different ancestor or a different chemical reaction because of a strange environment, who knew?
She paid for her lunch and darted for the table, just in time to hear Andi and Bobbie wonder aloud who had dropped their books next to Andi’s chair.
“They’re mine,” she explained with a slight apology on her lips. She sat down before they could protest. “I hope you guys don’t mind. I’m kinda new around here.”
Andi plainly had not expected such a direct approach and began to stammer. Bobbie looked Jennifer up and down and decided to ignore her. When the other three girls—Abigail, Anne, and Amy—came in a cluster and sat down around them, they all gave Jennifer suspicious looks.
Finally, as they began to eat, Jennifer introduced herself. She held her hand out to Andi. “I’m Jennifer.”
The girl tried to shrink away from the hand, but when it didn’t go away she relented and shook it limply. “Andi. This is Bobbie, and Amy, and Abigail, and Anne.”
“Hey, guys.” The best she got out of any of them was a nod. She wondered where Amanda Sera was. “Listen, I don’t want to tick any of you off. If you want me to leave—”
“Naw, stick around,” Bobbie said, just as Amy and Abigail both said, “Yeah, buzz off.”
It took Jennifer just a moment of noting everyone’s reaction around the table to determine who the leader was here. “Thanks, Bobbie.”
She didn’t do much talking after that, just watched and listened. A glance around the cafeteria confirmed that Amanda Sera was absent…Not in this universe, she guessed. Just like Mom and every other beaststalker. Some are gone, some are completely different—like Bobbie here.
Abigail and Bobbie did the most chatting, with Anne asking the leading questions (“Omigod, so then what did you do?”) and Amy chiming in with the occasional snide remark. Andi spent most of her time staring at her pulled-pork sandwich, which never had more than three bites taken out of it.
After twenty minutes of observing this group dynamic, Jennifer ventured a comment. “That was a beautiful song you sang in music today,” she told Andi.
Andi didn’t look up. “Thanks,” she muttered.
“How long have you been playing that instrument?”
When Andi didn’t answer, Bobbie filled in. “Something I’ve learned about Andi. It’s hard to get information out of her. Wherever she came from, it was a dark place.”
Still is, Jennifer bet herself. She watched Andi twist her sleeves and poke superficially at her green beans.
“How about you?” Bobbie continued. “You play anything?”
“I’m not good with music,” Jennifer admitted. “When it comes to art, I do more drawing than anything else.”
“That’s cool. What do you draw?”
“Just about anything.” The vague response got her blank stares. Heck, a little white lie couldn’t hurt. “The more legs the better!”
That got Bobbie grinning, and the other girls played along. “Sounds cool. Think you could draw me sometime?”
So she’s a werachnid. Terrific. Jennifer couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do less than have this girl pose with mandibles and thorax on display, but she had chosen this road. “Sure. Anytime. All I need is charcoal and paper.”
“Cool. Hey, Anne, you gonna eat that?” And like that, Bobbie had dismissed the topic and pulled the group’s attention to her next interest.
That was fine with Jennifer, who turned her attention back to Andi. The girl didn’t give another opening for conversation, but she rewarded Jennifer with a faint smile when she got up and left.
Baby steps, Jennifer reminded herself as she followed the girl up and out of the cafeteria. Baby steps.
CHAPTER 7
Tuesday Afternoon
Not so bad, she congratulated herself as she walked out of the cafeteria. The rush of students around her looked increasingly normal. Even if beaststalkers had never made it to this Pinegrove, there were still plenty of familiar faces. The part of her that wanted to scream and start tearing things down was steadily relaxing—there was no imminent danger here. Andi seemed like an eventual recruit, and there were doubtless more.
Maybe Skip’s right, she allowed. Working through the next day or two is the best way to learn how to change things back. We’ll think things through better if we take our time. Lessee, chemistry now, right?
She checked her schedule and saw indeed:
Chemistry, Sloane, Rm. 265.
Room 265 was just a few doors away. Even before she entered the room, she could see the familiar periodic table on the far wall. Just like the one at old Winoka High, it was frayed at the edges and bore the mysterious, small, random brown stains of a schoolroom decoration that had simply been up for too long.
She was pleased to see Andi here, and it was even agreeable to see Bobbie come in a few seconds after the bell rang. The others on the A-List weren’t around, which Jennifer felt was a good thing. Recruitment was best done one or two at a time.
All she had to do was peel Andi away from Bobbie a bit. The girl was clearly miserable in that group. Who wouldn’t be, in any universe?
“Class, class!” the teacher, who Jennifer presumed was Ms. Sloane, called out with a mixture of tolerance and impatience. The young, petite redhead in a perky flowered dress and green-painted fingernails cleared her throat and picked up a weathered yardstick as several of the boys in the back of the room began to guffaw at something only they found amusing. Tapping the stick on the blackboard, she cleared her throat. “If we could start, please. Today’s lesson is important.
“In fact,” she continued while twirling the stick in her hand, “it is the key to everything else you’ll learn this year in chemistry—and what many of you will learn about medicine after that. After all, chemistry may not be on the quadrivium curriculum—but it does contain an essential link between life and death.”
There’s that quadrivium word again. Jennifer didn’t dwell on this, though, because Ms. Sloan had picked up a piece of chalk with her empty hand and was wr
iting a single word on the blackboard in large script with gentle loops. This word, Jennifer knew just fine:
POISON
Ms. Sloane put down the chalk and turned back to the class. “Can someone please tell me what poison is?”
The chill of insecure apathy settled over the room. What is poison? Jennifer asked herself, scanning the empty faces around her. That’s easy. Isn’t it?
“Ms…. Scales, right?” Ms. Sloane cocked her head. “What do you think? What is poison?”
She shrugged. “Poison’s something your body can’t handle. You know, the kind of stuff that kills you.”
“Kills me?” The yardstick twitched.
“I…uh…I…”
“The truth is,” Ms. Sloane continued as she addressed the entire class again, “anything can be poisonous, if taken properly. Or improperly. Who can tell me about Paracelsus?”
Andi’s slender hand floated up. “Paracelsus was a physician who lived over 500 years ago. He came up with a fundamental rule of toxicology.”
“And that rule is?”
“The only difference between a poison and a cure is the dose.”
Jennifer raised her eyebrows. Plainly, Andi’s shyness did not extend to class participation. So Bobbie keeps her around for her smarts, she guessed. Andi’s the thinker. Lots of queen bees keep one around to do their homework for them. The idea of this wretched girl, chained to this warped universe and bartering her brains and talent for some small measure of acceptance, made Jennifer want to spit nails.
“Correct,” Ms. Sloane told Andi. “There are actually people”—and the teacher began writing on the chalkboard again—“who have died from overdosing on essential nutrients.”
Underneath “poison,” Jennifer watched three more lines appear:
GLUCOSE (C6H12O6)
VITAMIN A (C20H30O)
WATER (H2O)
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