Slide

by Jill Hathaway

  When the vomity feeling passes, I wander away from the display case, down the hall, toward the girls’ bathroom. I round a corner and stop dead in my tracks.

  Halfway down the hall, Scotch is shuffling some papers inside a locker.

  I take a step backward, out of sight. What would Scotch be doing in the freshman hallway? After a few seconds, I hear a locker door slam. I tense up when I hear his footsteps, but they get softer and softer. He’s going the other way.

  Cautiously, I poke my head out to see if he’s gone. I glimpse the back of his jacket as he turns a corner and heads toward the student exit. Something black is crumpled on the floor about halfway down the hallway.

  I count to ten, in case Scotch realizes he dropped something and comes back for it. When he doesn’t, I come out from my hiding spot and make my way toward the black thing. It’s a leather glove.

  A thought flashes through my mind: Maybe I can use this.

  I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I’ve always thought of my sliding as a disability, something that happened to me without my consent. But what if I could somehow force myself to slide while holding that glove?

  The idea of entering Scotch’s head chills me. Every time I see him, I feel physically ill. I was barely able to handle my encounter with him when I slid into Amber. Would I really be capable of purposefully sliding into him?

  I picture my sister—at home, in bed, in an Ambien coma. Helpless. If I don’t do something to figure out who the killer is, she could very well be next.

  I make my decision. I swoop down, pick up the glove, and stuff it into my pocket. Once it’s there, I get a little paranoid that Scotch will realize he dropped his glove and come back, so I backtrack toward the gym.

  All the classrooms are dark and empty, except for one—Mr. Golden’s room. When I passed by it before, I hadn’t noticed the light on, but now I realize someone is inside. I approach it cautiously and stand just outside the door, peeking in. Principal Nast is standing with his back to me, and Mr. Golden is sitting at his desk, looking down at his folded hands. I step back slightly so that he won’t see me if he looks up.

  Mr. Nast speaks first, sounding kind of embarrassed. “Joe, is it true that you knew about Sophie Jacobs’s pregnancy?”

  A pause.

  “Yes. She came in on Friday to talk to me about the situation.”

  Nast clears his throat. “Can you tell me who the father is?”

  “I’m sorry, Steve, but I just don’t feel comfortable giving you that information. The girl is dead. Shouldn’t she have some privacy?”

  “Here’s the thing. I’ve been getting some complaints. All these rumors are making parents nervous about you teaching their kids. Any information you gave me at this point would help me to clear your name. Otherwise, I’m going to need you to take a leave of absence until this thing blows over.”

  Another pause.

  “Joe, I’m trying to help you here.”

  Mr. Golden says nothing.

  Mr. Nast makes a frustrated sound and exits the room. As he passes by me, I turn to a random locker and spin the lock. He glares at me before heading toward the gym. When he’s gone, I peer into Mr. Golden’s room. He hasn’t moved. He’s just sitting there, staring at his hands.

  The new, proactive me whispers that I should try to get some information from him. Even if he is the killer, there’s not much he can do to me here at school. Maybe I can even sneak something with his imprint on it, something that will help me check up on him later.

  “Mr. Golden?” I take a step inside. He raises his head, looking confused at the sound of his own name. “Hey . . . uh, I had some questions about the reading assignment. Do you have a minute?”

  He stares at me like I’m from another planet.

  “Mr. Golden? Are you okay?”

  He heaves an enormous sigh. “I can’t believe this is my life.” He seems to be talking to himself more than to me. He goes to the closet, pulls out a box, and returns to his desk. He starts throwing random things inside—a half-empty bag of cough drops, a stuffed Homer Simpson doll, some Newsweek magazines.

  “People have been talking. They think I had something to do with the deaths.” He forms his syllables in a simple monotone—no inflection whatsoever. He doesn’t sound angry or upset or anything. Just numb.

  “Why would they think that?” I ask carefully.

  “Because people want someone to blame,” Mr. Golden replies bitterly. “Sophie came to me for help. I go to her church, and I know her family. When she got pregnant, she asked me for advice. I guess someone saw us together and got the wrong idea.”

  I think carefully about his words. Would a teacher drive a student around, even if they were a friend of the family? Even if they did go to church together? It still seems suspicious.

  “Now that Amber’s dead, people are making up all kinds of stories. I tell you, people just want to believe the worst.” He mutters something about a “goddamn witch hunt” and then goes back to packing up his things.

  “So what are you going to do?” I ask, looking around his room for something that would fit in my pocket.

  “What can I do? I’m going to go home.”

  I hear voices in the hallway. The assembly must be over.

  “I should leave,” I say.

  “You probably should,” Mr. Golden says, turning back to his desk.

  That’s when I see it—sitting right there, in plain sight. It was there all the time. Why didn’t I notice it before?

  The desk calendar.

  It looks so harmless—just a plain desk calendar that you’d pick up at any office supply store. White pages, the month and date in a thick, black font. Just like the page that was stuck to my front door the day Sophie died.

  I feel like I can’t breathe. My heart is hammering underneath my shirt. Somehow, I force myself to turn around naturally and head for the door. I look back once, to make sure Mr. Golden is still focused on packing, and then I dart my hand out and grab a tiny figurine from the bookshelf next to the door.

  And then I’m gone.

  I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket as I tread my way through the sea of students.

  “Hello?”

  It’s my father. “Hey, Vee—could you do me a favor and pick up Mattie’s books? I have a feeling she’ll be missing at least a few more days. It’d be nice if she could make up some schoolwork at home.”

  “Uh, sure,” I say, and then hang up. When I put my phone away, I pull the stolen figurine out of my pocket. It’s a tiny bronze statue of Sigmund Freud. It seems like the sort of thing Mr. Golden would cherish. Sticking it back in my pocket, I hope he’s left some sort of emotional charge on the object. I really don’t want to return to his room to try to get something else.

  Students rush past me, heading for the exit. They chat excitedly, thrilled to get an early start on the weekend. I fight my way toward my sister’s locker. A well-placed punch causes it to pop right open.

  I gasp.

  Everything in her locker has been tossed to the floor— her textbooks, her gym clothes, the pictures of her and Sophie and Amber that had been taped to the inside of the door. All of it is jumbled at the bottom of her locker in a mess.

  Kneeling, I pick up a piece of a photograph that’s been ripped to pieces. Half of my sister’s face, painted to look like a cat, smiles. It’s the picture from the state fair last summer.

  I try to drop the picture, but it clings to my fingers. It’s covered with a sticky, red substance. When I realize what it is, my stomach drops, and I cover my mouth, afraid I’m going to vomit.

  The bottom of Mattie’s locker is covered in blood.

  I open my mouth and scream.

  “What’s wrong? Vee?” Strong hands grasp my shoulders. I turn around, see that it’s Zane, and bury my head against his chest.

  We’re sitting in Zane’s car, waiting for the parking lot to clear out. He traces circles on my back with his fingertip as I wait for my dad to pick u
p the phone.

  “Pick up, pick up, pick up.”

  “Hello?”

  “Dad,” I say. “Um, I tried to get Mattie’s books, but I couldn’t remember her combination. Could you ask her for me?” I don’t want to tell my father the bottom of Mattie’s locker was coated with red paint. I need to figure out what it means first. I just need him to tell me that Mattie’s okay.

  I listen to him shuffle around, praying that he’ll find Mattie safe in her bed. I hear muffled voices, and I let out a sigh of relief. If the mess in Mattie’s locker was meant to be a warning, the killer hasn’t struck yet.

  “She says nineteen, thirty-four, eighty-six,” my dad says. “Thanks for doing this.”

  “No problem,” I say, looking at the pile of books stashed by my feet. I tried to clean them off the best I could, but they’re still pretty gross. I’ll have to figure out how to explain that later, I guess. “I’ll be home soon.”

  I hang up and sit motionless, staring at my phone.

  “When is this going to end?” I wonder aloud.

  “When is what going to end?” Zane asks.

  “This insanity. When is it going to end? Sophie’s dead. Amber’s dead. And now someone is targeting my sister.” It occurs to me that Scotch was in the hall minutes before me. If he wasn’t at the assembly, what was he doing?

  “Do you really think someone wants to hurt Mattie?” he asks.

  “Why else would someone do that to her locker? It’s a pretty sick prank to play on someone right after two of their friends die. God. It looked so much like blood,” I say, remembering the way Sophie’s white sheets had turned all scarlet and clotty, just like the stuff at the bottom of Mattie’s locker. My hands haven’t stopped shaking.

  “I’m so worried about Mattie,” I continue. “She’s depressed. Her two best friends are gone. What if . . . What if she tries to . . . ?”

  Zane puts a finger to my lips. “It’ll be okay. We’ll stay with her this weekend. Watch movies. Make sure she doesn’t even leave the house.”

  He’s right, I think. I’ll keep her safe by getting to the bottom of all this. I’ll figure out how to make myself slide and find out who the killer is. And, somehow, I will make them pay.

  “Vee?” Zane says.

  “Yes?” I reply, my mind somewhere else—on sliding and killers and blood. But when he leans in and kisses me, he has my full attention.

  He whispers, “I think I’m falling for you.”

  For some reason, I can’t make my mouth work; I can’t voice the words that are carved into my heart. Instead of speaking, I wrap my arms around him and hold tight.

  Sitting on my bed, I clamp my hand over my mouth and stifle a yawn. I haven’t had any caffeine in approximately nine hours—since before I left for school. Bad things happen to me when I don’t get my caffeine. Headache, major grouchiness, nausea.

  It’ll all be worth it if I can find out what happened to Sophie and Amber before the killer strikes again, I think as I rub my temples.

  When my eyelids feel like lead weights, I decide it is time. I hold Scotch’s glove in my bare hands. I rub the material, the coarseness making my skin crawl.

  I wait.

  Nothing happens.

  I wait some more.

  Nothing.

  This isn’t as easy as I thought it would be, I think, slapping the glove against my thigh. I suppose it’s possible Scotch never imprinted on the glove. He doesn’t seem like the most emotional person in the world.

  What will I do if it doesn’t work? I picture myself sneaking into Scotch’s house late at night and grabbing something I know he cares about. Something like a football or a girlie magazine. I’m just fooling myself, though. It would be stupid to break into a possible killer’s house. This has to work.

  Beside me, my phone rings. Rollins again. He’s been calling all afternoon. Each time, I let it go to voicemail. At first, he left messages for me to call him back. Now he just hangs up when I don’t answer.

  It’s not that I don’t want to talk to him. I do. I want him to explain exactly what he was doing with Amber on that field moments before her death. The thing is, I can’t ask him that question. I can’t explain how I know he was there. And until I know for sure who killed Sophie, I can’t risk letting him get close to me—and more importantly, to Mattie.

  The phone goes silent.

  Good.

  I return to my task. Rubbing the glove against my cheek, I inhale the scent of Scotch. Of sweat, of orange shampoo. Of that night so long ago. My stomach turns over.

  The seconds slip by. Soon I start to feel sleepy.

  The room goes dark, and I lose my grip on the present.

  I slide.

  A dark room materializes around me, lit only by a football game on the television. Faux wood paneling stretches from one wall to the next. There are several framed posters featuring football players I don’t recognize. I’m lounging in a leather chair, a can of something cold in my hand. Scotch lifts the drink and takes a sip. Expecting something sweet, I’m surprised at the bitter taste that fills my mouth.

  Beer.

  What is Scotch doing drinking beer in the den in the middle of the afternoon?

  He opens his mouth, and a deep voice—much deeper than Scotch’s—calls out, “Tricia? Trish! I thought I told you to make me a damn sandwich.”

  A petite woman enters my line of vision, holding another beer in one hand and a plate in the other.

  “Sorry, Hank. I was just finishing up some laundry.”

  Hank.

  Not Scotch.

  I’ve slid into his father.

  Damn.

  I wake up on my bed, pillow cushioning my head.

  Someone thumps on my door and then opens it without waiting for an answer.

  “Vee?” My father looks in. “Did you bring home Mattie’s books?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say, sitting up. I point to a pile of books sitting on my mother’s rocking chair. Each of them has a trace of red paint left, even though I tried to clean them off. “Unfortunately, I set them down in the hall while I went to the bathroom, and the custodian was walking by with a can of paint. And he tripped . . .”

  I look at my father’s face to gauge whether he’s buying any of this at all. He drifts into the room, nodding distractedly. I don’t think he’s even paying attention.

  “So that assembly you went to today—was it helpful? They talked to you about the warning signs of suicide, right?” My father ruffles his hands through his hair.

  “Right,” I say, even though I didn’t sit through the whole thing.

  He sits down heavily on my bed. “Did Sophie or Amber exhibit any of those signs?”

  His question catches me off guard. I try to remember the warning signs. I know the counselors told us all about them when we were in middle school. The only one I recall is giving away personal belongings. I shiver when I remember Sophie giving me the bracelet to give to Mattie. But that was a gift . . . It doesn’t count, does it?

  “I don’t know. They weren’t exactly my friends.”

  “I think I’m going to call Dr. Moran. Mattie should have someone to talk to. Someone who knows about these things.”

  Hearing the name of my old psychiatrist irritates me. She’s the cold, unsympathetic woman my father sent me to when he thought I was lying about sliding. The one who accused me of making up stories for attention. I know Mattie probably needs professional help, but I hate the thought of sending her to that robot.

  “Whatever,” I mutter, but my father has already risen and is crossing to the door.

  For once, I wish he’d realize that what Mattie needs is him.

  After dinner, I have an idea. A breakthrough.

  I fling open my closet door and stand there for a moment, my heart pounding. Then I push my clothes aside until I come to the one garment I know Scotch had his hands on—the purple dress I wore to homecoming.

  My hands shaking, I carry the dress over to my bed and carefully
spread it out. I smooth my hands over it. The fabric sparkles as it moves. As I stare at the dress, I’m filled with certainty that this will work. The dress will put me in Scotch’s head. I’ve been going about it all wrong. Clearly, Scotch never imprinted on the glove. But this dress—I know he felt something strong when he touched this dress.

  I kneel at the side of my bed and rest my hands lightly on the material. And, just as I knew it would, the room fades away.

  Tombstones. Everywhere.

  Scotch is in the cemetery. The sun has sunk low in the sky. It also seems several degrees colder than it did when I was outside, but then I realize it must be because Scotch only has one glove. He raises his bare hand to his mouth and blows into it, the hot air warming it only slightly.

  A huge, gnarled tree looms over us. When Scotch passes it, I see a woman in a red coat stooped in front of a tiny gravestone, clutching a fistful of daisies. She kneels down and brushes away some leaves, and I’m able to read the inscription.

  allison morrow

  october 17, 1998–october 19, 1998

  Sadness squeezes my heart. The baby died after only two days of life. If the child had lived, she’d be in my sister’s grade.

  The woman at the grave turns toward Scotch and brushes her white hair out of her face. Her eyes are black as coal and filled with sadness, and I wonder what losing a child that young does to you. I’m reminded of the passage on black holes in my astronomy book, how they suck everything in until no light remains. That’s what seeing your kid die would feel like.

  Scotch must feel the pull of her misery, too, but he looks away and continues walking. We pass by the nine-foot statue of an angel that used to be bronze. Years of harsh weather have turned it black. Rumor has it, if you kiss the angel, you will drop dead within one year.

  Scotch keeps going until he comes to a delicate, white, brand-new tombstone.

  sophie jacobs

  Scotch just stands there, staring at the piece of stone that marks the grave of a girl who might have carried his child. Again, I wish I could know his thoughts. Why would he come here? To gloat that he got away with murder? To make amends? To mourn?