The Dark One

by Jennifer Martucci

  “I knew it,” Kiera mutters under her breath and then huffs. “You picked the unhappiest hayseed town on earth for us to live in. Thanks.”

  My mother shoots her a look then resumes her conversation. “Getting back to the woman yesterday, I just don’t understand why she’d be spouting that our children are in danger, that they aren’t safe. It’s not like suicide is contagious or anything.”

  “Uh, hello, she was nuts,” Kiera says. Her cheeks instantly blaze a deep pink when my mother’s head whips in her direction.

  “Lose the attitude now, do you understand me?” All warmth drains from my mom’s demeanor. She’s all business.

  Kiera’s shoulders hunch forward a bit and she watches my mother through her lashes, silenced for the time being. Little more is said beside the expected chitchat about beginning a new school year at a new school. We eat our breakfast then hop into my mother’s SUV for an uncommon ride to school. We approach the brick building and pull toward a green dome beneath which students can be dropped off and go directly inside through the front entrance.

  “Stop! Please, let me out back here,” Kiera pleads.

  “What? Why?” my mother asks.

  Kiera sighs. “I’m a senior, that’s why.” Embarrassment is plain on her face.

  “Well maybe if you hadn’t failed your road test three times you could drive yourself and be spared the embarrassment of being seen with you mother,” my mom teases and assumes a similar tone of voice to Kiera when she’s huffing and grumbling.

  “Ugh, nice, Mom,” my sister says in lieu of a retort.

  I know failing her road test is a sore spot for Kiera. She went into it assuming she’d pass with flying colors and be on the road enjoying the freedom associated with driving. But when she was unable to pass not once, not twice, but three times, her assumptions as well as her hopes and dreams of freedom flew out the window with all the grace of a drunken bird. I plan to get my learner’s permit this week and then set up my road test as soon as possible. I don’t have any delusions about passing. If I do, I do. If I don’t, I’ll ask my mom to keep practicing with me and eventually I’ll get it. It’s not like I have a bullpen of friends waiting for me to cart them around who don’t already have their licenses. I’m getting it for me, and me alone, pretty much.

  My mom stops her CRV beneath an arced green roof and my sister and I climb out after exchanging goodbyes with Mom. Kiera marches ahead, determined to not be seen near me or our mother’s vehicle. I, on the other hand, saunter in. After all, I’m not in any hurry to start a new school year, especially since I’ve never liked school.

  Once inside, I notice kids milling about at their lockers and in the hallway. They don’t look different from the ones at my previous school. I cursorily scan their faces to try to gauge them, to get a sense of what they’re about and why I was draw to this town. I have trouble buying that I heard the name on the news and unconsciously gravitated toward it, though I’d like nothing more than for that to be true. But as I look to my immediate right and see the main office, a sensation stirs deep in my gut that the reason for me selecting this town lies somewhere in this building.

  After entering the office and receiving my course schedule and locker information from a plump receptionist with an easy smile and an accommodating disposition, I begin making note of the lockers that line the wall, searching for the six hundreds, as mine is number six hundred twenty three.

  While I study the lockers, I notice that other students study me. Being scrutinized is an uncomfortable feeling I’d have thought would have diminished after being observed by every person with a white lab coat or scrubs in the hospital. But it hasn’t. Here, in this new school that’s so much smaller than my old I would swear that the whole of the building would only constitute my grade there, everyone interacts as if they’ve known each other forever. Chins are clipped and fists are bumped in acknowledgement as well as warm verbal greetings and hugs that involve at least one female. In my old school, unless you were my sister or a drug dealer, you weren’t getting a fist bump and certainly not a hug.

  Reeling from the dramatic differences as well as the pang of regret that strikes me when I realize that instead of being rejected on a large but detached scale I’ll be rejected on a smaller, more intimate scale, I spot my locker. I spin the dial on the lock and try the combination. I breathe a sigh of relief when I unlock it on the first try and, standing with the door open and shielding me, I review my schedule for the day. I glimpse movement in my periphery and look away from the piece of paper in my hand. Beside me is a boy who’s my height, maybe a bit taller, and much heavier than me. He looks over at me. His eyes are a shade of blue so dark they resemble denim, and his skin appears freshly scrubbed to the point of being red. “Hey.” He tips his chin. “New?”

  “Yup, just moved here yesterday,” I reply.

  He thrusts a meaty hand my way. “My name’s Tom. Just moved here myself at the end of last school year.” Tom smiles, a warm, open smile.

  “Oh wow, really?” I say. “I’m Danny.”

  Tom nods. “Yeah. Got here in April just before spring break.” He blows out a big breath. “What a nightmare that was!” He rubs the back of his neck and closes his eyes as he shakes his head. “Everybody knows everybody’s business here, know what I mean?”

  I nod.

  “I came from a big district. Large classes. Huge graduating class. But my dad got relocated here, so we went where his job sent us.” Tom glances at the kids passing. “It doesn’t suck completely. But it’s different, very different than my old school.” He returns his attention to me then begins pulling books from his locker. “What about you, man? What’s your story?”

  I run my hand through the front of my hair then jam my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. “Uh, nothing exciting, ya know, similar story as yours.” I clear my throat, the fact that I told a partial truth irking me. “Except for the part about relocating. My mom’s a nurse down in Westchester. She has a long commute now.”

  Tom laughs and says, “Oh man, that sucks for her. Why’d you move all the way up here if her job is down there?”

  Rocking back and forth slightly from the balls of my feet to my heels, my lips compress to form a line as I carefully consider how to word my answer so that I minimize the lying. “Well, it’s much safer up here, that’s for sure. We were close to the city and things were getting crazy as far as crime and stuff like that is concerned.” I lead off with the obvious. Granted, it’s a grotesque understatement considering I was a victim of a violent crime, guess it would’ve been murder if I’d have stayed dead and all. But I didn’t. And here I am. Of course, I leave all that out.

  “I hear that.” Tom bobs his head in agreement.

  “And then there’s the money thing.” Both of my brows lift and my eyes widen to punctuate my point. Tom mirrors my expression and suddenly I feel as if we are a pair of old men commiserating on the awful ways of the world. “Living up here is cheaper. We rented a whole house for what we paid to rent a tiny apartment in my old neighborhood.”

  “Nice.” Tom seems genuinely happy for my new situation. It’s strange but not unwelcome. I’ve just never met anyone—least of all a teenager—as friendly and open as Tom is. I’m not sure what to make of him so I allow an awkward silence to fill the space between us. As it does, I feel the weight of eyes upon me. I look around, scanning the faces in the immediate vicinity. Immediately, sea foam green eyes peer out from skin a rich tan color. They clash with mine, pinning me in place. Far taller than me and tattooed from his wrists up to the hem of his T shirt sleeve, his demeanor is far older than what I presume his age is, and something about him unsettles me to my core. I begin to wonder whether he is the reason I was drawn here.

  “Who’s that?” I ask Tom.

  “Who? The weirdo with the tattoos?” He nods toward the boy staring at me.

  “Yeah,” I reply.

  Tom scratches his chin. “I don’t know many people, but I know of him. Tha
t’s Luke. Luke Carmichael. He’s a strange dude. Doesn’t say a word to anybody. Ever.”

  I try to discreetly look back over at Luke in hopes that his attention has been diverted elsewhere. But it hasn’t. In fact, if it’s at all possible, he’s staring at me more intently. He refuses to look away, like we’re embroiled in some kind of staring contest. Thoroughly discomfited, I look away. He wins, I guess. I turn to Tom once again. “Don’t look up right away, but the guy hasn’t stopped staring at me. It’s creeping me out,” I say in a low voice.

  Tome shrugs his broad, beefy shoulders. “Maybe he likes you.” His expression is deadpan for a fraction of a moment then an easy smile spreads across his face. He casually looks over his shoulder in Luke’s direction only to find him gone. “Guess he didn’t like you that much.”

  “Huh?” I say as I search the area in which he stood seconds ago.

  “He bolted, so I’m guessing you’re not the one for him.” Tom chuckles heartily. “Sorry, sweetheart. Guess you’ll have to find someone else.”

  “Shut up.” I punch him in the arm as if we’ve been friends for years when in reality it has been less than ten minutes. “Where’d he go?”

  “I’m guessing he went to class. Jeez, dude, you’ve got it bad for him.” Tom shakes his head and sighs exaggeratedly.

  “Trust me, he’s not my type. I like girls.” I turn my head left then right and as the words leave my mouth, my breathing snags, catching in my chest as my stomach bottoms out and feels as if it’s teeming with butterflies all beating their wings at once. There, three lockers away, is perhaps the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Pale blonde hair spills past her shoulders and hangs to the middle of her back and translucent blue eyes gaze at me from behind lashes darkened by makeup. Rosebud lips turn upward into a smile, and for a moment, I swear I have no idea where I am or what I’m doing. Parched all of a sudden, I croak out the words, “Who’s that?”

  Tom follows the trajectory of my eyes. “Ahh, that’s Sarah. Sarah Miller. That’s the only other first and last name I know in this building. Everyone knows her name.”

  “I bet they do,” I say over the loud pounding in my chest.

  Feeling heat creep up from my collar and coloring my cheeks, I turn and close my locker. While I fumble with my locker, a sweet, melodic voice reaches out with silken skin and caresses the shell of my ear. “Hi, I’m Sarah. First day here?” Standing within arm’s length, notes of vanilla and caramel waft toward me, intoxicating me. I want to speak but can’t seem to find words, or my voice for that matter. “This is the part when you tell me your name.” She giggles. Her tone is neither condescending nor arrogant.

  “Danny,” I blurt and sound like a moron. “My name’s Danny. Danny Callahan.”

  “Danny.” She says my name and on her lips it is a benediction. “Hi Danny.” She tilts her head to one side, her dulcet voice giving me the chills. “This is my friend Jenny.”

  “Hey Jenny,” I say but Jenny doesn’t reply. She rolls her eyes and looks away disinterestedly. I part my lips, mustering the courage to ask what class she has first period, when a loud group of guys comes barreling down the hall. Clad in football jerseys, they command a considerable amount of attention, high-fiving and fist bumping most of the people they pass. They stop here and there, acting as if they’re gracing other students with their presence. One among them, the tallest and best looking, seems to lead the pack. Dirty blonde hair gelled in place just so sits above light brown eyes. He smiles often, revealing deep dimples in both cheeks. Wide shoulders taper to a narrow waist and arms as thick as my thighs are barely hidden by a jersey meant to be baggy in that area. He trains his gaze on Sarah and makes a beeline for her. Hot sparks of jealousy snap to life inside me as he approaches.

  “Hey Sarah! How was your summer?” he asks and flashes even teeth that resemble Chicklets.

  “Fine, Chris. How was yours?” she replies, and I can’t help but notice that her voice is clipped. Did I imagine it? Is it wishful thinking? I wonder.

  “My summer would’ve been so much better if I’d have gotten to see you.” Chris licks his lips and smiles confidently. He doesn’t bother to acknowledge me or Tom, or even Jenny. He focuses on Sarah instead. “You didn’t come to any parties.” His tone is whiney, cloying.

  “Yeah I was busy,” Sarah replies coolly. She pats my shoulder unexpectedly and says, “This is Danny. It’s his first day of school.”

  Golden brown eyes look upon me with disdain, as if I’m a bug he’d just as soon squash under his expensive sneakers. “Good for him,” he mumbles as his gaze returns to her. “What do you have first period?” he asks her the question I wanted to ask. But before she can answer, the bell rings and several of the friends Chris walks the halls with start talking, distracting him and leading him away from us thankfully.

  As soon as he’s gone, Sarah says, “We’d better get going.” Jenny nods. “It was nice meeting you, Danny.” Sarah smiles and my heart skips a beat. She turns and walks away and I turn to face my locker, resting my forehead on the cool metal and silently cursing myself for being so inept with girls. The moment my skin touches the metal, Sarah’s voice rings in my ear. I whip around, thinking I’m surely dreaming that I heard her call my name. “See you later.” Her words are more of a question than a statement, which sends my pulse into overdrive.

  “You bet,” I reply, knowing fully that I sounded like a dork. But I don’t care. Something about her causes goose bumps to arise on my flesh, for chills to race up and down my spine. I chance dreaming that she’s the reason I was drawn here. I can only hope she is.

  Chapter 3

  The first four classes of my day are nothing short of torturous. I don’t know what’s worse, the actual workload and boring lectures that accompany it or enduring the embarrassment of being introduced in each and every class as the new student. I don’t like attention drawn to me. I prefer to fly below the radar and exist in the safety zone of obscurity. Sure, I’ve daydreamed of being popular, of being the guy who’s classmates hang on his every word, the one who commands complete attention, but the reality of it is that I’m not that guy. And those circumstances would never work for me. I’m not that person. I’m just Danny Callahan, the boy who’s existed in a sort of high school limbo so long I wouldn’t know what to do otherwise.

  Recalling how at ease Chris was as he strutted down the hallway, heads turning to watch each step he took, I realize I’d never be comfortable in my own skin in his position. I couldn’t see myself soaking up the limelight as he did. Lucky for me because if history is an indicator of what’s to come, I won’t have to worry about limelight dodging any time soon. I was practically invisible in my old school. I guess invisibility has its benefits.

  I wish I’d been invisible in a literal sense about forty-five minutes ago when Mr. Lambert had me stand at my desk and tell the class a bit about myself. The lanky social studies teacher whose glasses refuse to stay positioned on the bridge of his nose and whose voice is about as soothing as the whine of a chainsaw urged me to “share” and help the class “get a feel for Danny.” Heat snapped up my neck and colored my cheeks crimson. Not a good look for a guy my age, that’s for sure. I cleared my throat several times and shifted my weight from one leg to another with my hands jammed in both front pockets of my jeans, uncomfortable in a way I couldn’t describe if I tried. I told them I’m from Yonkers, told them I went to a school ten times the size of this one. My pathetic attempt at sharing was met by a few yawns and a general sense of disinterest. To compensate, Mr. Lambert clapped his hands in front of his chest and replied, “Ooh, Yonkers!” as if I’d just told him I grew up on a tropical island. Thankfully, he only made a couple of comments thereafter then dropped it. He moved on to his lesson plan and started class officially. That was a long forty-five minutes ago. And during that seemingly interminable period of time that rivaled watching paint dry in the excitement department, I learned that my little spiel was the most stimulating part of class. It’s sad
and kind of scary when I think about it. One corner of my mouth tilts upward into a lopsided smile as I chuckle to myself. The soft sound I make is drowned by the peal of an electronic bell. It marks the end of history class. According to my course schedule, lunch is my next class. The collective sound of books being shut and backpacks being grabbed fills the small classroom. Over it, the teacher attempts to give a reading assignment, raising his nasal voice to a painful pitch. I swear I’m the only one who hears him and the only one who bothers to write down the pages we’re supposed to read. Everyone else makes their way to the door as quickly as they can. I’m not in a hurry like they are. Probably because this is my first time in a new school and I’m headed to a new cafeteria. New cafeterias present new problems, namely not having anyone to eat with. Granted, I didn’t have a table full of friends who’d slide over or save me a seat like my sister had, but I did have familiar faces I’d seek out. Not quite friends, they were acquaintances, people with whom I could share a laugh about a teacher or gripe about an assignment. I don’t have that here, not yet at least.

  Reluctantly, I stand and slide my books into my backpack then sling it over my shoulder. I tuck in my chair then exit the classroom. “So nice to meet you Danny from Yonkers.” Mr. Lambert calls out to me just as I step over the threshold and am out in the hallway. Following the scent of food and the general flow of traffic, I make my way to the cafeteria. I get in line and eye the selection of food available only to find a much better variety than what I’m accustomed to. To my delight, I’m able to order a bacon cheeseburger that actually looks like a bacon cheeseburger, not horsemeat, and French fries. I grab a chocolate milk, pay then head out to where round tables are set up, eight chairs at each. The roar of conversation fills the air. Staccato laughter, belches and music from an iPod rises and falls. My eyes sweep from left to right, searching for an empty table. All are filled. The sinking feeling that I’ll be eating in the back parking lot alone begins to corkscrew through my belly. I spot my sister. Not surprisingly, she’s seated with a groups of people holding court. I make eye contact with her, pleading silently to let me join her and her new friends. Without missing a beat in whatever story she’s regaling the group with, she shakes her head, wordlessly telling me to look elsewhere—anywhere but next to her.