by Lynne Thomas
Someone at the back of the room coughs, Pete Davidson starts to laugh and I wonder if the pompom heads will ever grow tired of being this pathetic.
I rise to my feet and clap my hands together with slow, measured, strokes.
I look at Rhiannon, not Melissa. Blondie hasn’t spoken a single word, but I know that she’s behind the whole thing. She smiles and I clap harder. I give her a nod.
“Well done.”
My voice is steady and strong and I give a quick prayer of thanks to Zeus, Apollo and all the other toga wearers. Score one to me.
My face is bright red, but you can’t win them all.
“Quite a little performance; ‘ri-dic-u-lous’, four syllables,” I glance at Melissa. “That must be some kind of record for you bimbettie. Did your mother feed you some oily fish for breakfast or something?” I turn my attention back to my nemesis (dramatic, I know), my eyebrow cocked. I’m particularly proud of my ability to lift my left eyebrow when I get the urge to be uber-sceptical.
“What’s the matter with you today Rhiannon? Feeling a little under the weather, or have you lost your bottle? Maybe all that jumping up and down waving your pompoms about like some rabid chipmunk has rattled your brain in your skull so much that you’re incapable of intelligent thought. That would explain a lot.”
Rhiannon’s face distorts, her lips drawing back into an actual snarl! For a second, I find myself kind of impressed, then I remember what a snake she is and how much I really, really hate her.
She starts towards me, threading her way through the desks. Miss Walsh rushes forward.
Too bad.
Now I am presented with two options: shall I let it be, like the Beatles said, or shall I push it?
“Give me a B,” I yell. No one answers, but I didn’t think anyone would. I persevere.
“Give me an I.”
A small voice whispers ‘I’. I think that it’s Sharlene Crier, former target for one viciously inclined pompom-waver.
“Give me an M.”
Holding my arms in the air, I wave my imaginary pompoms above my head with feigned enthusiasm, a ridiculous look on my face as I mimic the school’s cheerleaders, or the school’s brain dead, as I like to call them.
Rhiannon struggles against Miss Walsh’s grip as I get a small, but encouraging, chorus.
“EMMMMMM!”
“Give me a B.”
The chorus gets louder.
“BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
“Give me an O.”
“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
“B, I, M, B, O…”
She’s really straining to get at me and I can see that Miss Walsh is having difficulty in restraining the little she-devil.
“What have we got?”
“BIMBO!”
Grinning, I walk from the room with my head held high.
“TO THE HEAD MASTER’S OFFICE JELLY COOPER!”
Miss Walsh’s screech follows me down the hallway, but I don’t care.
Yes, Rhiannon started it.
Yes, I’m the one cast out and sent to see Mr. Pickle, unjustly.
Yes, I may have to explain this whole thing to my parents.
Yes, it was worth it.
*** *** ***
I think about standing outside Pickle’s office and then I go to the library.
Hey, at least I thought about it.
Anyway, Miss Walsh isn’t going to want to push the whole ‘I let a student manipulate me into inadvertently insulting another of my students’ thing.
I grab a seat in a sunny spot, pull the book that I’m reading out of my backpack and find my place. Yes, this is much better than going to see Pickle.
A shadow falls across the table. Frowning, I look up and prepare to meet the perpetrator with my infamous steely glare.
Except that it’s Travis Jenson.
A wistful sigh escapes my lips. Seconds later I hear the sound in my head and, fighting the urge to slam the heel of my hand between my eyes, clamp my lips tightly shut.
Travis stares at me with clear blue eyes.
Time stops as I imprint his image onto my retinas. He is sooooooooo gorgeous.
Travis Jenson is fifteen. He’s in the year above me at school, but he’s one of those kids that only just missed being in the class above. His birthday is in September, I think.
OK, OK, it’s September the third.
Or something like that.
OK, it’s September the third. You caught me.
Travis transferred to Seabrook last year. His parents bought a cottage on the cliff top. His dad’s a writer and found the sleepy little village of Seabrook – get this – an inspiration! He uprooted the whole family and replanted them here in double-quick time. I fear that the man is insane. But he did bring Travis here, so I guess I should send him flowers or something.
Anyhow, Travis is the captain of the rugby team, the football team and the rowing club and just about the cutest thing on the planet.
Not that I’ll ever tell him. Not while I have breath in my body and free will over my mouth.
Travis looks down at me and my gaze falls to the hard bumpiness of his chest. I realise that I’m staring and blush to the roots of my hair. My red hair.
Sometimes, I really hate myself.
I dislike being flustered and embarrassed, so I channel the emotion into something more productive, like anger. Target one Travis ‘I’ve got a gorgeous body and the purrrrdiest blue eyes you’ve ever seen’ Jenson.
“What?”
Snappy, that’s good. Lets him know that I’m not in the mood for chitchat and that I don’t fancy him. Not one bit.
Travis smiles, flashing me a glimpse of his perfect pearly whites. Oh Lord.
Be strong, be strong, be strong.
“You’ve got five seconds, ballboy, and then I’m gone.”
That should do it.
“Jelly Cooper, right?”
He pulls up a chair and sits himself down. At my table!
“I’m Travis,” he thrusts his hand at me. “Travis Jenson. I think you’ve got History right after me.”
I ignore his outstretched hand. It’s not that I’m scared to death of touching him or anything, I simply don’t like to be interrupted when I’m reading.
“Is that right?”
“Yup. Every Tuesday and Thursday with Mr. Grim.”
There’s that smile again.
What am I doing? I seem to have lost all self-control. Daydreaming about sporting heroes will get me nowhere, unless you count the land of needless pain and humiliation. This is something I know full well. So why can’t I take my eyes off his chest?
“Look,” I say as tersely as possible, “if you’re planning on inviting me to the prom and then tipping pigs blood on my head while the rest of the school points and laughs, think again.”
For a second, Travis looks taken aback. He hides it well and in the blink of an eye has his face back into its usual mask of easy confidence.
“What’cha reading?”
Wow, he’s dense. I wonder if the words ‘go away’ will have any effect at all.
“OK, I give up,” I snap, holding up the book I’m trying to read for him to see. He whistles through his teeth.
“Hitchhiker’s Guide. Sci-fi fan.”
“Uh-huh,” I nod as if dealing with an infant. Perversely, this gives me a great deal of childish pleasure and I almost giggle out loud, which would ruin the whole effect.
“Thought so.”
I blink. What’s that supposed to mean?
Travis doesn’t grin at me, which is disconcerting. Smiling jock I can handle, serious jock is a whole different ball game, if you’ll pardon the pun.
Travis nods. “You seem the type.”
I sigh. It’s purposely exaggerated to show growing impatience.
“The type? The type for what?”
“You know, hitching a ride to a planet far away. Leaving all this behind.”
The flippant comeback dies in my throat.
>
“I…um…”
“HEY TRAV!”
Spell broken, we swing our attention to the library door and I send up a quick thank you for the timely intrusion. As I turn, I catch a quick glimpse of Travis’ face.
He looks mad. How strange.
Squinting against the sunlight, I spy a huge silhouette in the doorway, bouncing a football on its knee.
Michael Marks.
It can be no other. Built like a shed (with an IQ to match), Michael is unmistakable. He’s a bully and a menace, Humphrey being one of the many people at this school to have been bullied and menaced.
I dismiss the beefcakes with a flick of my head and resume reading H.G.T.T.G.
“YOU COMING OR WHAT?”
Marks has only one volume: full blast. The library attendant scurries to the entrance and ushers him away.
Travis turns. I can feel his eyes on me, but I ignore him. I ignore him and I ignore him and I ignore him, but he just doesn’t leave.
“So, I’ll see you around sometime?”
I nod. Once.
“Yup. Every Tuesday and Thursday. Mr. Grim, remember?”
He stands there, looking at me. I try not to fidget, then almost swallow my tongue as he leans across the table, his lips grazing my ear as he whispers,
“You haven’t got me fooled, Cooper.”
The world starts sliding to the left when he says,
“You’re not that tough.”
I blink and he’s gone, making his way to football practice without a backward glance.
What just happened?
I look at the book clamped in my hands and stare at the pages. I know that there are words written there, I just can’t seem to make sense of them.
What in hell just happened?
*** *** ***
The man stands behind the bushes and lets the rain wash over him; it runs down his plastic cape and onto his shoes. It’s dark and cold and wet and he hunches against the downpour. He has something tucked against his chest; something he doesn’t want anyone to see.
He sees a window framed in light and heads for it. All around, wet leaves glint in the darkness. He pushes his way through a gap in the bushes and droplets shower the ground.
Inside the house a woman prepares food in her kitchen. He watches her for a while, just to make sure. He makes a decision.
The man tucks the bundle under one arm and knocks on the window.
She spins, sees his hooded face, a ghoul in the shadows, and screams. He knocks hard on the glass and holds up the baby for her to see.
Shocked, she stands still. He lifts the baby higher.
My mother picks up a knife from the chopping board. She grips it in her hand and steps to the back door. She feels for the key with her spare hand, hesitates for a second and turns it.
The man in the yellow raincoat pushes his way into the library.
Hold on. That’s not right.
I open my eyes. I’m in the library and it’s stifling and I’m sweating and shivering and I’m frightened and…and why is it empty?
Oh damn. I fell asleep in the library.
My bag’s gone and so is my book. The place looks locked up. Why didn’t someone wake me? That librarian has a questionable sense of humour - something I’ll be pointing out next time I see the sicko.
The doors are locked, front and back, but I find my bag and book under the front desk. I whip out my phone and call home.
“Mum. I fell asleep in the library and I’m locked in. No, she’s gone home. No, I don’t see an emergency number. Can you call the caretaker? Tell him to hurry up, it’s boiling in here.”
*** *** ***
The walk home takes twice as long as it should. I feel like a mass of blobby bubbles, ready to break apart and float off in different directions. I make some excuse to my worried mother and head up to bed, thankful that it’s Friday and I don’t have to face the world for a whole weekend.
I fall into bed, fully clothed, and sleep comes to claim me.
Chapter 3
It starts in total blackness.
Gradually the gloom lifts and I see trillions of stars. One of the stars gets big real quick. Oh, it’s a planet and I’m heading straight for it. Really, really fast.
I throw my hands in front of my face and everything kind of judders.
I fall through green-grey clouds. I should be freezing, but I’m snug and warm. I spread out my arms and let the moisture of the clouds coat my fingers. I like this world. I start to spin in the air.
Everything kind of shudders.
The sky is butter yellow. I look up at it as I float gently to the ground. I land on my back and grab a handful of soil. It’s purple. I think I’m in Wonka Land.
I get up and look around.
A brook babbles at the base of a nearby hill. I can hear it though it’s too far away, really. The water is green, like the ocean before a storm. I see trees in the distance. Not sure if they’re normal or made of candy, or maybe pipe cleaners. Trees made out of pipe cleaners would be cool.
Here comes the shudder.
I walk with my face turned up to the sun. Everything is different here, but in a good way; a familiar way. The mountains in the distance look blue. I should go to them; climb them. I think I like those mountains.
Someone speaks to me.
“He’s close now.”
The voice is in my head! Nifty! The voice sounds scared though. Not so nifty.
“Run, Camille. He’s coming for you.”
I shudder.
Someone is after me. He’s been looking for me since the day I was born. He’ll stop at nothing to get me. My legs start moving.
I run and run and can’t stop. I run faster than I ever thought I’d be able to and stop only when the ground disappears into a canyon torn out of purple rock. I bend at the waist and struggle to catch my breath.
I hear a different voice, right behind me.
I freeze. I don’t turn around; I don’t need to. I already know it’s him.
The Hunter
He grabs me by the shoulders and leans closer and I feel his hot breath on my neck. He whispers against my skin.
“Camille, I have waited for your return.”
I try to turn to look at his face, but he’s too strong. His grip on my shoulders is solid. He digs his fingers into my flesh and starts to giggle. It makes me angry. I struggle.
He laughs louder and, with enormous strength, grabs my ankle, tips me upside down and dangles me over the canyon.
I scream.
He shakes me once, hard. Then he speaks in a cracked, fractured voice that sounds like two people talking at once.
“I have waited long enough. Time to die, little one. Time to die.”
He drops me head first into the canyon.
*** *** ***
OK - I’m awake.
Why am I awake and what’s that noise?
Oh. It’s my breath.
My heartbeat pulses in my ears and a vein throbs in the side of my head; it feels like my blood is trying to burst through the skin and erupt into the room.
My eyes adjust to the gloom and I realise that I’m at home, in bed.
I scan the room, probing every shadowy corner.
Nothing.
Some distant part of my fuddled brain recognizes that I’ve experienced a nightmare, a very nasty nightmare, and that’s why I’m bolt upright in bed with my left hand curled around my throat.
Something is very wrong with this picture.
Why I am so terrified and wide-awake in the dead of the night?
Eventually, I catch up with the accelerated, all-seeing part of my brain and the nightmare returns in fragments. My breath catches and the vein in my head starts to re-pulse.
Yellow raincoat man has made way for something much more sinister.
I slowly lie back on the pillows as the full implication of the dream becomes clear.
It’s here.
He’s here.
No matter how
hard I try to deny it, I know. No matter how ridiculous and insane it seems, I know. In the pit of my stomach, in the sudden dryness of my mouth and in the hollow cavern of my chest, I know.
He’s real and he’s coming for me.
Bugger.
*** *** ***
Monday morning. The nightmares are relentless. I haven’t slept properly for three nights. They say that you can get hallucinations on day three. I’ll let you know if they’re right.
Humphrey waits for me at the corner of Willow Street. As I approach, I see that he’s noted the pale cheeks, the gaunt face and the dark smudges beneath my eyes. I take a deep breath and prepare myself.
“You look awful”.
That’s Humphrey.
“Yeah, I know”.
“Want to talk about it?”
Not if I can help it, I think to myself somewhat unkindly. What can I say? I’m not a very ‘I simply must share every single detail of my life with my friends – group hug anyone?’ kind of gal. I shake my head, once.
Humphrey simply raises one well-rounded shoulder and I treasure him for it.
“Whatever,” he shrugs.
Now that’s a friend.
We amble towards school, neither of us in any sort of hurry to get there. I have my personal demons and so does Humphrey. His is called Michael and it plays football.
From out of nowhere, a vision from the nightmare flares. My step falters and Humph grabs my arm. Staunch resolve not to be such a girl and years of hard-earned emotional armour crumble, leaving just me, naked (so-to-speak) and afraid, which is a new and unwelcome experience.
Humphrey stares at me, eyes troubled.
“OK,” I say, my voice a little shaky (which I immediately hate myself for). “Come over tonight.”
We walk.
“Bring Agatha.”
Agatha’s clever. It always pays to have a clever person close by.
Now I just need to get through school without confrontation or mishap.
Easy peasy.
*** *** ***
Chemistry is the middle science in the Jelly Cooper chart. By that, I mean that it is better than physics (well, isn’t everything?) but not as good as biology. Sometimes, chemistry lessons are interesting and fun and sometimes they make me want to drink the suspect blue liquid Mr. Carmichael keeps at the back of the storeroom, just to see what will happen. Maybe I’ll turn into a raving mad thing and tear apart the classroom. That would brighten up the lesson.