To my surprise, no one at Elm’s Ridge seemed to care about the condition of my clothes. Before wearing them, I had acquired several grass stains in the garden to ensure that no version of the wash, spin, and dry cycle would occur here, but failed to receive even a mention of them. After a day, I assumed that the other students must be so rich as to only wear new clothes, and that perhaps wearing stained ones was not normal. To test this, I wore my old clothes to class the next day, but still received no comment.
Maybe Elm’s Ridge student’s did not care for clothes, which was the reason why I now dressed without a thought. Sometimes I even mixed my old clothes and new ones together, the belt line forming a boundary between the Kingston Elementary and Elm’s Ridge versions of me, but even this failed to bring even the slightest remark. Maybe they thought I was below insults, and this made my fists clench beneath my desk when I thought of it.
Mary was already sitting down when I arrived in the class room. Now that the class schedule was regular, she nearly always beat me to class, and she always came fully stocked for the lecture.
“Mary,” I whispered as I settled in next to her, “can I borrow a pencil?”
“Caleb, you live upstairs, and yet you manage to forget something each day. It’s quite the inconvenience, you know,” she said with a huff. Mary was the only student who knew my living situation, and I made her promise not to tell the other students.
“Come on, Mary. I always give them back,” I said, smiling.
“Fine,” she drew out the i in fine, then took longer than necessary to rummage about her pencil case. Despite her words, her voice betrayed an amusement, and I knew she did not mind sharing.
I had a pencil in my pocket anyway, but something about Mary’s was different. They wrote smoother on paper, almost as if the lead was frictionless or non existent, and not once did I need to sharpen one in the middle of class. Even with my condition, I was still required to take notes in History class, though I thought the exercise pointless.
“Seriously, Mary, where do you get these?” I asked, right before the teacher began.
“I told you. Do you have a listening problem as well now?”
“Come on, I’ve searched for the store you mentioned twice now. Krick’s Supplies, three streets down, then a left and another block. Either you’re giving bad directions or the place doesn’t exist.”
“Or maybe, just maybe, you’re blind,” she retorted and giggled.
“Looks like we have a genius in the house,” I said, but still received a pencil.
“Mary, we’re starting class now. Do you have something to share?” came a gruff voice from the front of the classroom. Around us, the class was silenced other than a few outstanding chuckles, and I could almost feel the heat coming off of Mary’s blush.
“No, Mr. Findlay,” she muttered, scratching her own pencil against the paper.
“Hey, what about me, Mr. Findlay? Are you just going to let me get away with it?” I shouted. But Mr. Findlay chose to ignore me, as he always did, and class began.
Chapter 23 - Overlooked
Though history was my favorite subject, and Mr. Findlay my favorite teacher, moments when I was ignored still enraged me. Neither Mr. Findlay nor any of the other teachers went out of their way to reprimand me, and instead Mary always was found to be at fault.
“Now that we have everyone’s attention,” he started, and I heard his springy stride make its way to the center of the classroom, “we shall begin.”
There was a whoosh as he finished his sentence, and I knew that Mr. Findlay had just scored an imaginary home run with the wooden baseball bat he carried with him during class. Where other teachers used extendable metal pointers, he called on students by pointing to them with his slugger and hammered his points home with line drives. He was particularly fond of telling historical stories, and when he found himself possessed by the act, an entire baseball game would be enacted before the closing bell.
“Today,” he said, scratching a piece of chalk against the board, “we will begin a new chapter of our curriculum. A chapter that I, myself, have put together at the request of one of your parents. Somewhat unorthodox, but then again, so am I.
“As you all know, this is a religious institution. Our particular religion, akin to many others in the world, tells the story of good and evil. This semester, we will learn about those of the greatest good and evil throughout history. We’ll learn of the villains and the heroes, and how those terms may be held interchangeable depending upon the country in which you were born or the faith you follow.
“Let’s start with one many of you may have heard of, one so legendary that he left tales of monsters as his legacy—Dracula, or Vlad the Impaler,” I heard another whoosh as the bat took a stabbing motion through the air with the word impaler.
“Now, of course, we know there’s no such thing as vampires. But Vlad’s deeds were so gruesome, so terrifying, that the legends about him are still whispered today,” Mr. Findlay continued, alternating between speaking, scratching at the board, and acting out battles with his bat for the remainder of the class. “He was Hell incarnate, old Vlad. They say he piled the skulls of his victims stories high, that the very mention of his name was enough to summon him in the middle of the night.
“Many will tell you that stories such as Vlad’s are reason not to believe in God. Many will say that such a great evil cannot exist if there truly is something up there, watching over us and heeding our prayers. But I’ll say this: Vlad’s existence insists there is a god.
“Why? Because no human alone could unleash the amount of destruction that he accomplished. It’s a different scale, sheer orders of magnitude above what should be possible for a single man. He’s on another level, a level bordering on the supernatural. Vlad’s existence makes me believe in God for one reason; his existence makes me believe in the devil. And one cannot exist without the other.”
Mr Findlay finished speaking, his chalk screaming across the blackboard and dotting the final i with a pop.
“But apart from the religious aside, memorize the battles I recounted today. You will be tested on them thoroughly and expected to remember both the dates and locations. Spelling counts too—if I see another butchering of letters on your assignment, you’ll be the next home run I hit!”
He chuckled as the bell rang, and his bat clattered against the back wall of the classroom.
“That’s all for today. Next class we will learn of Genghis Khan and the impressive, but terrible, tales of his conquests. And if you think Vlad took inspiration from the forces of darkness, then hold on to your seats, because Genghis will be a wild ride.”
The class was already packing up as he finished, and I stuffed my belongings into my backpack, sneaking Mary’s pencil into my pocket for later use. Then I followed her out of class, though one part of Mr. Findlay’s opening speech before his lecture rang out from the back of my mind.
Today we will begin a new chapter of our curriculum. A chapter that I, myself, have put together at the request of one of your parents.
Chapter 24 - The Debt
A full week had passed since I had seen Oakley Young, and tonight was the night she might meet me in the library.
That morning, classes slid by at a pace so inhumanely slow that it was in violation of the Geneva Convention. Even the ticking of the clock on the wall sounded drawn out. Had it not been for Mary, I would have skipped school entirely, except even then the day would have crawled by just as slowly in my room.
But eventually the afternoon wore by, and though Mary gave me the cold shoulder in the hallway, I skipped last period and made my way to the library.
Even the weather seemed excited as I snuck out the back door of the school. The sun woke up from its winter nap to peer around the clouds, and the wind stilled as if listening.
With each step, I tried to pretend to myself that I didn’t care about meeting Oakley again. She’s just a girl, I said to myself, just like Mary or any of the others
in class. But the words failed to ring true in my mind. I’m not sure why, as there was no reason to think of her any differently. And on top of the freshly minted teenage hormones that kept traces of adrenaline trickling into my bloodstream, she was the first person my age that I’d met outside school.
She probably doesn’t even like you. She owes you one, and even if you hadn’t helped her, she’d come out of sympathy. I thought. You are blind, after all. The thoughts grew stronger as I neared the library, and I encouraged them. It’d be easier that way, if she didn’t show. There would be less disappointment.
I sat at a table near the front, opening a braille book to pass the time. There was an elderly lady to my left, and every few minutes I asked her for the time until she slammed her book shut and left with a huff. One thing I’ve noticed about being blind is that the other senses become more acute; she smelled intoxicatingly of cats and sauerkraut, a scent residue that persisted long after her departure like a stagnating curse.
With the elderly lady gone, so was my source of time. Being blind, I had no way to know whether or not Oakley had already come through and I had missed her. I frowned, the thought agitating me, and looked about the room.
And though I couldn’t see the people around me, I could feel their presence.
In front of me was the steady heat of Luke, the librarian, cool on the outside but hot toward the center. The elderly lady was now two tables away, her own fire dimmed, but still persisting. I couldn’t quite sense death around her yet, though it seemed to be lurking just out of sight. A few children raced between bookshelves, and their fresh fires flickered in tune with their shrieking voices, the flame small and fragile in their young age.
I sensed them in the same way that I sensed the figures, and I shifted in my seat thinking about the concept. Just opening my senses was enough to make the hairs on my neck start to prickle, though I couldn’t sense any of the red figures for the time being.
The library seemed loud to this sense compared to school at Elm’s Ridge. I’m not sure if it was the school’s past as a monastery or the cold, stone walls that seemed to absorb heat so well, but I couldn’t quite sense people there like I could on the outside. Mary was the sole exception, and I attributed that to knowing her so well, but even her fire seemed half lit.
And lost in thought, I forgot about the time for a few moments.
Then I felt Oakley’s fire.
It was vibrant, burning with life that should not have been there. There was an excitement to it, as if it knew that it had so narrowly escaped death only a week before, and it practically danced when she walked.
She stopped at the doorway, and I heard her voice speaking with someone outside. Then the other voice was gone, and Oakley entered the library. I heard her stomping her boots clean of snow that surely should have melted.
“Well then,” she said, pulling out the chair beside me, “looks like you actually showed up.”
“Of course I showed up,” I blurted out, and she laughed.
“Because you were oh so desperate to know how The Count of Monte Cristo ends, right?” I heard the smile in her voice, and I forced away the blush that threatened to surface on my cheeks. A part of me didn’t want to give her that satisfaction.
“I’d say it’s a fair trade, me saving your life for these three chapters. Seems pretty equal.”
“Equal? I’m worth more than the entire book put together!”
“How can you be sure? Have you read it, then?”
“No, but I’ve been meaning to.”
“What a shame it is that I’ll have to spoil the ending for you,” I said, and pushed her the book. I felt her glare as she opened it, and her next few words dripped sarcasm.
“Chapter one hundred and fourteen. He dies, and so does his love. The end,” she joked, and I tensed. I didn’t make jokes about death anymore, especially when the person across from me should not be alive.
“Seriously,” I said, keeping the edge out of my voice, “read it. A trade’s a trade.”
“Ok, ok!” she said. “But before I start, I really am thankful for what you did, pushing me out of the way and all. It didn’t really hit me until I was back at school, how close I came to getting hit and, well, worse. I shook throughout all of homeroom just thinking about it. So thanks.”
Then she began, her voice tense at first, hitting all of the consonant sounds with precision. But by the second chapter it mellowed, and the third resumed normalcy.
“There,” she said, finishing the book and shutting it. “What was that all about, anyway?”
“Revenge,” I said. “It was all vengeance. The main character had a girl stolen from him toward the beginning and was locked in prison for years, then finally set the score straight.”
It was easy enough for me to understand. Revenge was a part of daily life at Kingston. If you hurt someone who had the power to hurt you back, you could count on receiving the offense back twofold.
“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” muttered Oakley, and I froze.
The doors of the library had not opened, but I felt cold winter air flowing around me. And I heard the slow, ragged breathing before I saw the blackness.
There, outside the sliding doors, was the tall, dark figure. Through the breathing, I heard its voice, cold, calm and patient. As it spoke I felt the spot on my shoulder, where the fingernail had been, chill until frost covered the scab, and it cracked, letting blood trickle down underneath my shirt.
“A life for a life,” it said, pointing one of its long fingers at Oakley. “I remember my debts, mortal. You have stolen her from me, but the score will be set straight. A mighty debt to be paid; a debt that cannot be forgiven.”
Then it laughed as the wind howled outside, the cold surged forward, and then it was gone.
“Hey,” said Oakley. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you alright?” Her hand was on my shoulder, shaking me, and I realized I had knocked my cane onto the floor.
“Stop, yes, I’m fine. Did you hear that?”
“The wind? Sounded dreadful. To think you’ll have to walk home in that without any light. Do you live close to here? Want me to walk you back?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice shaking. “Yes, you should do that.” But it wasn’t me I was worried about making it home.
“Come on, it isn’t that bad out there,” she said, pulling me to my feet. “Stop acting like it will kill you.”
But it was that bad. I sensed death on Oakley again.
Fresh, eager, hungry death.
Chapter 23 - Walking Among Shadows
“Oakley,” I said as we crossed the library threshold, “stay close to me.”
“It isn’t that cold. Did you want that to be your excuse?”
“Listen to me Oakley,” I said, my voice hard, and I repeated, “Stay close.”
“Whatever you say.” She laughed, and in her position, I probably would have too.
But I wasn’t in her position. Oakley couldn’t see the hundred red figures that had appeared on the side streets, rooftops and windows. Technically, I couldn’t see the side streets, rooftops, or windows, but the figures needed to stand on something. At least I hoped they did.
Every one of them was watching us. Their heads turned as we walked, and I fought down the urge to run. I sensed showing fear would cause them to pounce, to strike like a snake at prey.
So I moved forward, slowly. And so did they, in a ring that tightened with each passing step.
The feeling of death surrounding Oakley grew stronger, and though I had started to feel the heat emanating from the figures on my exposed face, she suppressed a shiver. I tensed, and the sense heightened, stretching out like a crescendo in time before us, a feeling of anticipation. Of waiting, waiting that would not last long.
Oakley stopped, sniffling in the air. She no longer held back the shivers, a feeling alien to me as the heat continued to increase, and sweat poured down my back under the coat.
“It’s so c-cold,” she stamme
red. “Are we close? Wait up a minute, I need to warm up.”
“No, we need to keep moving.”
“W-why? W-what’s wrong? It’s not funny anymore, Caleb.”
I had my fingers gripped on her elbow, pulling her forward, but she wrenched it back, and leaned against the brick wall of an office building behind her.
“I’m staying here until you snap out of it or tell me what’s going on.”
Then the crescendo broke.
High above us on the roof of the building, a red figure flared and stomped his foot. A winter’s worth of ice dislodged itself from the gutter, falling like a silent guillotine toward the street. Or more accurately, toward Oakley.
There were less than three seconds to react, the silent shards of ice cascading downward as my intuition screamed.
The ice fell too thick to dodge—from that height, even one of the smaller chunks, with their knifelike cutting edges, could be fatal. Even if I shoved Oakley, she would still be unable to escape the radius of falling shards before they collided with her and then the ground.
So I did something else. Something that shouldn’t have worked.
But it did.
I reached out, grabbing Oakley’s still-shaking wrist through the thick layer of her coat sleeve, and yanked her toward me into a hug. I wrapped my arms around her, then laid my head over hers, exposing my own neck to the danger above.
The ice crashed around us, breaking apart into thousands of flying splinters that ricocheted around our bodies and slammed against the brick wall of the building. The noise was deafening, similar to being in the center of a thunderstorm, and it echoed off the deserted streets for several seconds afterward.
But when the sound died away, not a single shard had touched us.
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