“But I didn’t do it!” Adrien said, his voice rising in pitch. “Mom, I didn’t! It’s Nikki! She’s a little brat! She thinks she can just get away with whatever she wants—”
“Adrien, don’t call her a brat,” Jonathan said. Then he cocked his head to the side. “Actually, how are we on that?” he asked, looking over at her. “I mean, I’ve certainly known students who are brats, but—?”
“We shouldn’t call them brats, anyway,” Alma said, trying not to roll her eyes. How do you manage a class of teens all day, Jon? “Even if she is, though, Adrien, how are you going to keep her from getting you into trouble?”
“Mo-om, I can’t!” Adrien said, his face twisting. “She’s always causing trouble and getting away with it. She’s a liar. All she has to do is cry and blame somebody and her friends back her up and the teacher gets them in trouble.”
“I’ve had some kids like that,” Jonathan said, taking another bite of his lasagna. “Cruising to get others in trouble.”
“Doesn’t Mrs. Slant know that … um—?”
“Nikki,” Adrien said, stabbing his dinner with his fork. “Nikki Halkias.”
“Nikki. Right. Does Mrs. Slant know that she’s doing this?”
“She doesn’t care,” Adrien said, stabbing his fork against his plate with a ring. “She tells us that we’re liars. She believes Nikki because she’s a girl, and boys are always causing trouble.”
“Ah,” Jonathan said. “One of those.”
She nodded. He’d voiced the complaints before. Teaching was a woman-dominated industry, with fewer and fewer men being hired every year. And with everything else that went on—the focus on teaching girls, on getting girls to stand out and boys to sit down and be quiet, on making sure girls’ voices were heard above all else—public schooling wasn’t what it was when she’d been a student. It was bad enough that until Jonathan had been selected for the job he currently held—at a private teaching institution, not a public one—he’d been jobless, with her work bringing the majority of the income. Most schools didn’t even meet with men anymore for teaching position interviews.
Which meant that when Jonathan said “One of those,” she knew exactly what he meant. A teacher who almost always—if not always—took the side of whatever student or students they were already inclined to believe. Which in her son’s world … was not his.
“Adrien?” she asked, waiting for him to look up at her before she spoke. “Would you like me to talk with your teacher?”
“It won’t do any good,” he said, looking back down at his plate. It made her want to growl. “Mrs. Slant won’t believe me.”
“Well, I’m a girl,” Alma said. “Maybe she’ll believe me?”
“You sure you want to—?” Jonathan began, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.
“Of course I’ll do it,” she said. “I get off work before he’s out of school, and you’d have to leave early to take care of it. I can do it. Besides,” she said, glancing down at Adrien once more. “Like I said, I’m a girl. Maybe she’ll listen to me. What do you think, Adrien? Would you like me to talk to your teacher?”
“Am I going to get in trouble?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said, being careful to not give him a definite “no.” He hadn’t told them a big lie yet, but there was always a chance he’d start if they did. “I’ll send your teacher an e-mail and see if I can talk to her.”
“Will the rest of the class know?”
She thought about it for a moment. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “They won’t. I can talk to her in private.”
“Good.” Adrien seemed satisfied with the answer, though she could still hear his heartbeat pounding as he his attention back to the meal, and then the TV.
She held back a shiver. It felt … wrong, even all these months later, to be able to do that. It was like she was violating some law of nature. No one should be able to hear a heartbeat in ordinary conversation. Or smell what kind of perfume someone was wearing from a block away.
Or feel like you want to growl, she thought as Jonathan, apparently taking her silence for a sign that the conversation was over, resumed the documentary. Normal people don’t do that.
But she wasn’t normal. Not anymore.
“But there are a multitude of myths and legends for us to investigate,” the voice on the TV was saying. “For instance, many of us have grown up hearing stories of werewolves, or watching The Wolfman on late night television. Stories of lycanthropes and shapeshifters have abounded through our history on almost every continent. It seems that every culture has a story of a being that, when exposed to the light of the full moon or some other form of ‘magic,’ would change into something else.”
Her gut seemed to twist, constricting inside her. It felt like someone was squeezing her windpipe. Air. She needed air.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, rising from the couch. Jonathan shot her a curious look and she gave him what she hoped was a real-looking smile. “Bathroom.”
“Ah,” he said, his eyes going back to the TV. On the screen, the announcer was still talking.
“We spoke with Luke Knowles, a researcher from MIT’s anthropology department, as well as Michael Hammond, philanthropist and one of the leading administrators of The Pack, an American-based—”
She tuned the message out as she stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door and hitting the fan for good measure. Her gut was roiling, twisting inside her, and she could feel a flush to her skin.
Calm down, she told herself, trying to keep her breathing steady. Calm down. Her nails were digging into her palms—but they were just nails, nothing else. Calm. She glanced at herself in the mirror, checking her eyes for signs of discoloration. For a moment she thought she saw a hint of gold in her irises, but then she blinked and it was gone. Nothing remained but tanned skin and smooth brown hair. A small nose. A normal human face.
I need air. She stepped across the bathroom and tugged the window open, the scent of the forest behind their house rolling into the room on a cool evening breeze.
She took a long, deep breath, her pulse slowing. Calm. The hot feeling was fading from her skin, like she’d just taken a cool shower. Calm.
She wanted to cry, but couldn’t. Jonathan would undoubtedly know. He’d always been able to tell when she’d been crying. She’d had to hide a lot of tears from him lately. She wasn’t even sure he didn’t know. Maybe he did.
I can’t tell him. Not yet. She shook her head.
Not yet.
* * *
“Damn it,” Alma said as she locked her phone. The message had been short but sweet. “That’s just great.”
“Trouble?” Jane asked as she walked past, a large poster printout held in her hands. She slid it onto the shelf alongside all the other projects that would be picked up later.
“Yeah,” Alma said as she pressed her phone back into her pocket. She wanted to tighten her grip, squeeze the little message she’d just received until the words bled together, but it couldn’t happen. I’d just break my phone. “I was supposed to meet with Adrien’s teacher today,” she said instead. “Parent-teacher discussion about some trouble he’s been getting into.”
“What kind of trouble?”
She held back an annoyed growl as she picked up another thick stack of printouts and began sorting them out onto the dozen or so piles in front of her. Some sort of business portfolio—all color—that a customer was picking up later that evening. Perfect autopilot work. Sort each stack of prints into twelve, get the next stack, repeat, hole punch, put in binders, repeat for the next twelve. Forty-eight in total.
“Trouble trouble,” she said. “He says one of the girls in his class has been bothering him—calling him names, distracting him, that sort of thing. Anytime he tries to react, the girl and all her friends go to the teacher and blame him, and the teacher takes their side.”
“So it’s not Adrien just getting interested in girls at a young age?” Jane
asked. There was a faint tone of mischief to her voice, one hinting that it wanted to be laughed at. She didn’t feel like it.
“No,” she said, grabbing another stack of papers and continuing to sort each colored pie-chart out. “He still thinks girls are weird. But his teacher, on the other hand, thinks he’s a troublemaker.”
Jane frowned. “Adrien’s never been one before.”
Alma gave her a shrug. “Sometimes kids just act up.”
“Are you saying you think he might be acting out?”
“No,” Alma said as she picked up another stack. “At least, I don’t think so. Things at home haven’t changed much.” Unless you count me being able to hear his heart beating. “I want to hear the other half of the story, obviously,” she said, looking up and catching Jane’s eyes. “But I don’t think he’s acting out.”
“So you think it’s this other student.” It was a statement, not a question.
“It sounds like it, to hear his side of the story. I wanted to talk with the teacher to get a better idea, but …”
“But what?”
She paused for a moment, rapping the base of the stack she was holding against the counter to straighten the edges as she composed herself. “Apparently, there was another incident today, and my son has been sent to the office. His teacher just e-mailed me to let me know that as this was his third strike, I will no longer be meeting with her but with the principle of the school.”
“What? What happened?”
“All his teacher would say is that there was an act of physical violence on Adrien’s part, and that they have a zero-tolerance policy for that, so I can expect to make arrangements for either an in-school suspension or an at-home one,” she said, setting the set of papers down before her fingers dug into the sides and wrinkled the paper. “No other explanation, aside from that she was ‘very disappointed in my ability as a parent to educate my child on proper behavior.’” She was almost growling now, pushing the words out through clenched teeth.
“Okay, that’s crossing a line,” Jane said, her eyes narrowing. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Well, since she already said that it was a matter for the principal to handle and would no longer be meeting with me, I think I’ll take her word on it and meet with him,” she said, forcing her fists to unclench and spreading her fingers across the cool countertop. “She says I’ll need to go in on Monday to speak with him.”
“Wow, what a—”
“Yeah.” She began putting together the portfolios once more. One there, one there, one—no, that’s two … put that one there. “I’ve only ever met her once before, but I’m getting less and less impressed by her every minute.”
“So you’ll just go in Monday?” Jane asked, moving over to the other side of the table and leaning against it on crossed arms. “Tell the principal what’s up?”
“I’ll see what their side of the story is,” she said as she grabbed the last stack of papers and began sliding a page out onto the top of each stack. “But I don’t expect to take it sitting down.”
“And if he gets suspended?”
“Then he can stay at home.”
“Alone?”
She paused, her hands freezing in the air. Crap. The retreat’s Tuesday. And it was unavoidable. She couldn’t just cancel it. Not without an explanation to Adrien and Jonathan. But if she didn’t cancel, there would be even more questions.
“I’ve seen that look before,” Jane said. “You hadn’t thought of that, had you?”
“No,” she admitted as she slid the last paper into place and set the remainder of the stack to one side. “I hadn’t.”
“Adrien’s eight,” Jane said, shrugging. The motion made her curls bounce. “He can probably spend a few days at home alone. And he can have some father-son time with his dad.”
She was right. He was old enough to be home alone all day. But even so …
“I’d rather he not have the suspension in the first place,” Alma said as she picked up one of the carefully sorted piles of paper and began rapping one side against the counter. “If it really is this other kid just pushing him around and then crying to their teacher …”
“Of course,” Jane said, grinning. “Than that other kid needs to get their butt kicked.”
“Punished.”
“Yeah, something like that,” Jane said as Alma gave the portfolio one final rap on the tabletop before moving to the hole-punch. “You just can’t let kids get away with stuff like that.”
“No,” Alma said, the hole-punch letting out a satisfying ka-chunk beneath her hands as it punched clean through the stack of papers. “Either way, I’ll need some time off on Monday to—”
“Take it,” Jane said, shaking her head. “Family comes first, you know that.”
“Right.” She pulled over one of the small binders from the end of the table and slipped the stack into place, the three metal rings sliding smoothly through the holes.
“Speaking of which—” Jane began.
“I haven’t told him yet,” she said with a shake of her head. She didn’t need to look up to see the look of disappointment on her friend’s face. “I’m sorry. I’m trying, Jane, I really am, I just … It’s not easy, all right?” She slid the binder away, grabbed the next pile of papers, and went to work. “I just …”
“I know,” Jane said. “It’s a big announcement. I mean, I can’t imagine what it would have been like if my parents hadn’t known and I’d had to tell them.”
“Who did tell them?”
“The doctor,” Jane said, her earrings jingling as she shrugged once more. “Took the decision right out of my hands. I mean, I was only seven at the time, so it’s not like I really understood what was going on anyway. Not until that time of the month rolled around, anyway.”
“You’re probably one of the few women who can say that about when you were seven and actually mean it,” Alma said, the corner of her mouth creeping up slightly as she turned the pages on their side, rapping them against the table.
“And who can say it comes twice a month,” Jane said, tossing out a wink.
Alma let herself chuckle, even though the implication was clear. “So you never had to tell your family?”
“No, just a few boyfriends in college, but you know about those,” Jane said, grinning. “Remember the one who was allergic to dogs?”
A laugh bubbled free of Alma’s throat, bringing with it a sense of relaxation that boiled away some of the tension. “To be fair, he actually had a valid reason to break that off. That would have been miserable for him.”
Jane’s grin grew wider. “He always was perplexed by why he kept sneezing when he came to our apartment. Always asking if we had a dog.” She cocked her head to one side. “Yeah, that was pretty much doomed from the start.”
“What about you?” she asked, turning her attention back to Alma. “Has anyone in your house asked about any unusual hairs yet?”
“No,” Alma said, shaking her head as she set her stack on the hole-punch. Ka-chunk. “The only hairs around my house are these.” She reached up and tapped the side of her head, her long, dark-brown hair parting beneath her finger. “I’ve got enough of them to worry about.”
“What about outdoors?” Jane asked. “Left any outside?”
Alma shook her head. “Not unless you count what I shed when I’m on the retreat with you.”
“Uh-huh.” Jane’s voice was shifting back towards seriousness once more. “So you haven’t—?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I haven’t.”
“Not even once?”
“No!” she said, the exclamation coming out of her mouth a bit louder than she expected it to and ringing through the shop. She clapped a hand to her mouth and took a quick look around the store.
“There’s no one here but us,” Jane said as she looked. “You’d smell them.”
The words almost made her flinch, and she dropped her hand as she stared her friend in the eyes. “Okay, that
? That kind of madness? That’s why I haven’t, Jane. That’s not normal.”
Jane pulled back slightly, shaking her head. “Yes it is.”
“For you maybe,” Alma said, the words rushing out of her mouth almost without pause. “You grew up with this! I’m used to you doing stuff like this, not me! Normal people don’t hear heartbeats! They can’t smell someone before they see them! They can’t—”
“So I’m not normal now?” Jane asked, standing up straight and crossing her arms across her chest. “Is that it?”
“I—no,” Alma said, shaking her head as what she’d just said had sunk in. “It’s normal for you, but—”
“But I’m an Unusual, right?” Jane asked, her expression darkening. “I’m ‘different’ now?”
“No, I—” She shook her head. “It’s not normal for me, Jane! For me! You’re you! And I was me! But now I’m …” She sank back, her hands falling limply to her sides. “I’m not me anymore. Me couldn’t smell the difference in expensive brand and name brand cheeses. Me couldn’t tell that the milk was going bad without opening the fridge. Me didn’t want several pounds of meat a week. Me couldn’t look at my husband and tell that he was lying about not having a rough day at work because he smelled like he’d been through hell, all right? And me couldn’t—”
“Alma?” Jane said. “Your arm.”
She hadn’t even been paying attention to herself. She glanced down, a chill filling her gut as she saw the distinctive mottled pattern on her skin. No! Calm! Calm! She slowed her breathing, shutting her eyes as her pounding heart began to settle. She hadn’t even noticed it rising.
“You see?” she said, her voice quieter. Calmer. More in control. “That wasn’t me. The old me didn’t have to worry about something like that happening.”
“It’s a fight-or-flight response, Alma,” Jane said, shaking her head. “When you’re hurt, scared, or pushed, your body reacts—”
“It shouldn’t react like this!” Alma said, biting down the last few words as she chanted her mantra in her mind. Calm. “I shouldn’t be like this. I shouldn’t have to worry about this. I shouldn’t be seeing in the dark or smelling people’s breath or hearing heartbeats or—”
Unusual Events: A Short Story Collection Page 10