Instinct

by Mattie Dunman

“I want you to quit school and work at the shop,” Mom says in greeting, leaning over to give me a quick kiss. I sigh, not in the mood for an argument we’ve already settled.

  “Mom, I want to go to school. I need this if I’m going to be able to function at college,” I say wearily. She looks chagrined and pulls away.

  “Sorry, Sweetheart. I was just asking how it went. I’ve been worried all day.”

  I consider my first day as a whole, remembering the strange boy with the death glare this morning, the unexpected reaction I had to Phillip, the reluctant kindness of Nicole, Shockey’s perversions, and finally the promise of murder from Jake. “It was different,” I finally answer, not really wanting to go into detail. If Mom knew half the things I found out today, she’d never let me go back. And I find that I want to. There are too many unanswered questions and secrets buried in the school walls.

  “Different good? Bad?” she presses. I shrug.

  “A little of both. I’m going back tomorrow, Mom. Like we agreed,” I say adamantly. She grumbles and pulls into the slow trickle of traffic that leads to the exit.

  “Alright. If you really are going to keep this up, I’m going to have to hire someone at the store. I’m not used to running it by myself.” I feel a pang of guilt about deserting her, but squelch it immediately. I’ve given most of my life to making things easier for her. It’s my turn now.

  The rest of the drive, she tells me about a customer who bought an eighteenth century snuffbox this afternoon, and I try to focus on the conversation, but my mind is spinning. I can’t get Jake’s face as he promised to kill me out of my head. I know he didn’t mean to say it, and of course no one else knew he did, but the desire was so strong in him at that moment that it overrode any other truths he might have revealed. I’ve heard a lot of things with my gift, but I’ve never been personally threatened by them.

  Harpers Ferry is built on the edge of a mountain, sloping gracefully down to a flat plain that separates the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers. Everything about the town blends with its environment; the alleys are paved with natural rock, the buildings seem to spring out of the ground rock hewn and comfortable enough to seem ancient. From my mother’s shop on High Street, past a rusted, derelict train bridge, I can see the cliff face across the river in between the shadows of buildings that date back before the Civil War. Train tracks weave along the riverside, iron gleaming in rich veins echoed by the twist of water threaded with jutting rock and thin deltas. The sun is setting and the town is enveloped in a pink haze that seems warm despite the nearly frigid temperatures. The cobbled streets are bare of tourists this deep into winter, and most of the shops are closing early. My mother’s antique store, Time Honored, is closing as well.

  I glance contentedly down the narrow room that serves as the storefront. Mom rented the cellar below to store larger items. Every time I go down the weathered stone steps in the front of the building and stoop to enter a door built for someone about six inches shorter than me, I feel like I’m stepping into a cave. The cellar is all rock walls and the sound of gently dripping water; down there I’m alone, but instead of being terrifying or claustrophobic, I feel like the land here has accepted me, and the isolation is peaceful. Even though we’ve only been here a few months, I feel like I was born there in the cool dark.

  “You want to get some sandwiches for dinner?” Mom asks, continuing a conversation we’ve been having for the past few minutes. “We haven’t tried the café across the street yet,” she reminds me.

  I glance over and see a black-clad waiter lounging at one of the iron bistro tables littering the stone paved patio. He lifts a cigarette to his mouth and the end flares as he inhales deeply.

  “I don’t know. I never see anyone over there. Do you think it’s any good?”

  “Only one way to tell, Sweetie, and I’m tired of pizza.” She locks the cash register and turns the sign in the window to Closed. We had a grand total of five customers today.

  “Yeah, ok. I’ll go,” I offer, hopping off the 1950’s diner style barstool I’ve been sitting on. I grab some cash out of mom’s purse and head across the street to the cafe, noting with amusement how eagerly the waiter leaps to his feet and puts out his cigarette. He must be bored.

  He ducks inside as I approach and another guy in black slacks and a sweater emerges and leans casually against the wooden doorframe. I shudder to a standstill as I recognize him. He raises a dark eyebrow and stares at me so intently I feel transparent. It’s the boy from this morning, the one whose glare made me think for a mad second that he was strangling me with a look.

  I can see him more clearly from this distance, and am surprised to feel a tug of admiration. He is a study in angles and shadows, tall and lean with a wiry grace that makes me think of a cat stretching on a fence. Dark, almost black hair is swept back from his face, revealing features sharp without being brittle. Proud cheekbones and a high arched brow frame eyes too obscured to make out a color. His lips are the one incongruity in an otherwise ascetic face, full and now curving into a sardonic half-smile. With a start, I realize I have frozen in the middle of the street, my eyes locked with his.

  I shake it off and spin on my heel, hurrying back to the shop while trying to look nonchalant. I know I am failing when I hear a soft chuckle drift across the street. I tighten my lips into a flat line and head inside to tell Mom we’re having pizza after all.

  Chapter 3

  The moment I walk through the door, I feel it; a creeping, insidious conviction that I am walking into a trap, that each step I take is leading me down a road from which I can never return. Students are hurrying by me, rushing to get to their lockers or meet their friends before classes start, but each time I try to move forward, trembling panic seizes my limbs and I remain frozen, feet cemented to the floor. Minutes pass by and I am still stuck just inside the door to the school, head spinning and lungs tightening. No one stops to ask if I am okay. It is as though I have become some concrete statue melded to the dirty tile floor, a tribute to adolescent terror.

  “Your fear is sweet,” a pleasant, smooth voice says behind me and I am released, my entire body sagging with relief and rubbery muscles. I spin around and take a step backward when I see who has spoken.

  It is the same dark haired boy from yesterday, whose knowing laughter had followed me to my mother’s store. He is watching me with one eyebrow raised, expectantly, but there is a lazy grace in his stance that makes me think he is waiting for something else. The door behind him swings open and a girl steps through, a familiar redhead with a welcoming smile directed at me. I open my mouth to say something, to warn her about the boy standing between us, but no words come out; just a thin keening that burns my ears. The boy’s face splits into a piercing smile, both beautiful and repellent in its naked ferocity, and he reaches out a hand to encircle the redhead’s neck.

  “It tastes so good,” he whispers and his hand tightens, squeezing the girl’s neck until his fingers meet and her face turns a crimson hue. I try to reach out, to stop him, but my feet melt into the floor and I flail helplessly as the girl’s friendly smile becomes a grimace of pain and dread. Her skin wastes away in front of me, as though a black hole has opened in her core and is draining away her essence until there is nothing left but a wisp of smoke that writhes and dances toward me, forcing its way into my lungs until I clutch my own throat in desperation, clawing at my neck to get it out.

  “It tastes so good,” the boy repeats. Eyes flash a luminous green as he takes a step toward me, hand outstretched.

  “I want to go back to bed,” my mother’s voice says over me and I bolt upright, nearly knocking my head against her chin.

  “What…what…” I stutter, gasping for air like I’ve been held underwater too long. Mom scoots away slightly on the bed and gives me a tired smile. Glancing around, I realize I am in my own bed, slim beams of moonlight leaking through the blinds and illuminating my mother’s drawn face.

  “You were having one hell of a nightmare,
Sweetie. I heard you from my room and came to wake you, but you just lay there gasping. I thought I was going to have to dump a bucket of water on you or something.” She laughs shakily and puts a hand on my forehead. “You’re all hot and sweaty. Are you okay?”

  I am covered in a thin film of sweat and my hands are shaking. “I think so. Oh man, that was bad,” I croak. My throat is dry and crusty, all the moisture sucked out. I reach blindly for the bottle of water on my bedside table and guzzle it. Mom waits patiently, stroking my hair like she would pet a frightened kitten, and gradually my pulse slows and I can breathe normally.

  “Feel better?” she asks. I nod and glance at my alarm clock. Three a.m. “What did you dream about?”

  I frown and try to remember, but the details are slipping away. “I was at school and there was this guy there who was choking me…or someone else. I think it was the girl who died.”

  Mom’s eyebrows skyrocket. “Girl who died? When was this?”

  I wave my hand in dismissal and lean back against my pillows. “I don’t know; some girl from the high school died in October. I heard about it yesterday.”

  “Oh. Why would you dream about her?”

  I shrug and rub my eyes. “I don’t know. I saw her locker; her picture was taped on it. I guess it just stuck in my head.”

  “I guess. Can you go back to sleep?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for waking me, Mom.”

  She bends to kiss my forehead. “No problem. Night, Sweetie.” She closes the door on her way out. I lie staring at the ceiling for a while, my mind strangely empty, until my eyelids drift closed and I fall into an uneasy sleep.

  This morning, I step cautiously through the front doors of the school, my nightmare from last night playing like a silent film behind my eyes. I hesitate in the hall, but no one approaches me, and I am not gripped by unexplained panic, so I shake my head and go to my locker.

  “I am completely empty inside,” a high-pitched, snide voice says next to me, followed by feminine laughter.

  “I mean, did you see that pic of her and Miranda? She totally looked like she was going to murder her. Probably some lesbian jealousy thing,” I glance over and see the girl who passed me the note yesterday talking to a carbon copy of herself, both wearing smug expressions.

  “I have no ideas of my own,” the other girl titters and slams her locker shut.

  “Nicole probably killed her when she wouldn’t make out with her.”

  The back of my neck burns.

  The note passer turns slightly and catches sight of me, her self-satisfied expression spreading as she looks me over as though she’s taking notes for later. “Oh, hey. You’re the new girl, right?”

  I frown, but nod. Were they talking about the Nicole I knew?

  “I’m Tasha, and this is Meredith. I saw you hanging out with Nicole Sharp yesterday. You might want to be careful,” she says in a mock serious voice.

  “What are you talking about?”

  The girls exchange sly looks. “Well, she’s a total lezzie. And psycho. She killed her best friend when she rejected her. You’d better watch out or she’ll go all stalker on you, too,” Tasha warns, her lips curling into an elegant sneer. My skin is on fire, though whether it’s because of the blatant lies or my rising anger, I am not sure.

  “I don’t think we can be talking about the same Nicole,” I grind out through gritted teeth. The girls giggle again, the sound grating on my nerves like metal dragged across dry asphalt.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you’re like her. She might not have to kill you after all,” Tasha says, and they both explode into laughter. My fist clenches at my side and for the first time in my life I feel like hitting someone.

  I slam my locker shut and turn to face them straight on. “That’s not the truth, and you know it. Why would you say that?” I demand, my voice nearly shaking with anger. Instead of looking chagrined, Tasha and Meredith just snicker.

  “Oh my god, I was joking. Don’t take yourself so seriously,” Tasha remarks, her tone suddenly superior, as though reprimanding a small child. I narrow my eyes at her, but she shrugs and she and Meredith begin to walk away.

  “Guess Nicole’s found her new lover,” Meredith says in a whisper loud enough to carry and both girls look over their shoulders to make sure I heard. The anger drains from me and I am left feeling confused and uncertain. I have seen this over and over on TV shows and in books; there are always a few mean girls who rule the school and make everyone else miserable. I thought for sure that was an exaggeration.

  Guess not.

  I find my way to my first class with more ease than the day before and take my seat after smiling timidly at Ms. Sullivan. Phillip slides into his chair behind me and taps me on the shoulder.

  “Hey, I didn’t see you at lunch yesterday. You find your way around okay?” he asks concernedly, and once again my skin starts up its uncomfortable hum, even as his words wash over me without revealing anything hidden about him. For a moment, I feel an eerie sense of emptiness, a gaping hole where some substance is meant to be, but it passes and I manage to smile at him, accepting for the moment that my talent has a glitch when it comes to Phillip.

  “Yeah, thanks. I looked, but I didn’t see you, and then Nicole offered to let me sit with her,” I explain, glancing over at Nicole’s chair. The tone for class to start sounds and she hasn’t come yet.

  “Oh, ok. Well, the offer still stands. I usually sit near the back, by the windows,” he whispers and then Ms. Sullivan calls us to attention and I turn around, the buzz under my skin fading again. I feel a pang of anxiety as I look at Nicole’s empty chair, but then shrug mentally. Maybe she’s sick.

  Class moves slowly. Evidently the essays we turned in yesterday didn’t convince Ms. Sullivan we have even the most basic knowledge of American history, because she spends the first half hour lecturing us on civil responsibility and the importance of understanding our heritage. By the end of class, even I feel guilty, and I aced the history portion of the high school equivalency exam.

  Phillip doesn’t offer to walk me to class again. He just smiles and says he hopes to see me at lunch. I am not sure if he is sincere or not since my skin won’t stop humming around him, but I decide to take him at his word. After all, if Nicole isn’t here today, I won’t have anyone to sit with.

  By the time lunch rolls around, I am rethinking my options. Nicole is nowhere to be seen, and I stand at the entrance to the cafeteria with the same sense of being overwhelmed as yesterday. I wonder if I can just sit in Nicole’s nook and eat by myself, or if that will brand me as being a loser. Shifting uncomfortably in my leggings and sweater dress, I start to retreat, but a hand grabs my arm to halt me.

  “There you are,” Phillip’s voice sounds behind me. He gives me a smile, his gleaming teeth taking on a yellow tint in the glaring florescent lights.

  “Oh, hey. I was…just looking for you,” I say uncertainly, still unable to tell if he meant for me to join him or if he was just being friendly. Tiny wings quiver under my skin in reaction to his nearness.

  “Great. C’mon, I’ll show you where I sit,” he offers, leading me by the arm through the crowded cafeteria like a stubborn dog being dragged along on a leash by its owner. I shake off the imagery and paste a smile on my face as he pulls out a chair for me at a table with four other boys and two girls, none of whom I recognize. I brace myself for an onslaught of unwanted information.

  “Guys, this is Derry. She just started here yesterday. Derry, this is Seth, Aaron, David, Josh, Mary, and Ruth,” he introduces, gesturing at each as he names them. I bite back a laugh in surprise at all the biblical names. What are the odds?

  “I’m only here because I want to date Phillip,” the girl named Ruth, who seems familiar, says, giving me a friendly wave. I smile back at her and nod at the others, who seem pleasant enough. They start up their conversation again and I hear a number of things about them, most pretty mundane, but the boy named David gives me pause. The first thi
ng I hear him say is that he used Rohypnol on his girlfriend at a party over the weekend. I glance at the girl in question, Mary, and wonder if she knows.

  This is the problem with knowing the truth all the time. Sometimes I could help people by telling them what someone else said, or by revealing a truth about themselves of which they might not be consciously aware. But no one would believe me. Or they would think I was weird, or eavesdropping. Or crazy.

  Mary catches me staring at her and gives me a quizzical look. I turn away, hoping no one else noticed.

  “So where are you from, Derry?” Ruth asks politely, shifting closer to me and by extension, Phillip, who sits to my left. He gives her a bland smile and then joins in a conversation about football. Ruth’s face falls a bit, but she rallies and focuses on me with genuine interest. I tell her I’m from Williamsburg and that my mom owns the new antique store on High Street.

  “Oh my god, I love that place! I was just in there last week,” she exclaims.

  “Right. I knew you looked familiar.”

  I smile, remembering. She hadn’t bought anything, but gushed over an antique Tiffany lamp for nearly half an hour to her mom. We talk for a bit about nothing, just school and things to do in town, and it’s not long before I am completely at ease, laughing and joining in with the rest of the group like I’ve been at the table for years. Lunch is almost over and although I’ve barely eaten, a happy glow surrounds me. This is exactly how I’d envisioned high school.

  “Mary, don’t. It’s just mean,” I hear Phillip say and turn to see what he’s talking about. He is staring down at his phone with a blank expression while Mary giggles impishly.

  “Oh, whatever. Like you care.” She tosses perfectly straight blond hair over her shoulder and looks at him through slanted eyes.

  “What is it?” Ruth asks, distracted. Phillip rolls his eyes but passes the phone to her. I catch a glimpse as she takes it.

  It’s a picture of Nicole and the girl who died, the girl from my nightmare. They have their arms around each other and Nicole’s pinched face is bright with laughter in a way I haven’t seen. Miranda is smiling too, but there’s a hollow look about her, as though a strong gust of wind would blow her away. I remember the way she turned to smoke in my dream and suppress a shudder.