by Susan Vaught
The big guy shifted his tuba and nodded.
Maleka took off walking, and Springer and I had to wheel around to follow her. Maleka swept past the trumpet players and clarinets, right to the front row near the door, to where a girl was sitting in the first chair. She was bent over, putting her flute into a tiny case on the tile floor.
When she sat straight in her chair again, I saw that her white blouse was silky with a lace collar, and her khaki pants seemed smooth and fancy, too. Her brown hair was pulled back at the base of her neck, her dark eyes had a hint of ice at the edges, and her pretty face seemed vaguely familiar, just like it did when I looked at her picture in the yearbook.
Springer pulled up short next to me and gaped at her, and I could tell he thought she looked familiar, too.
Her cool gaze snapped from us to Maleka. “What do you want?”
Maleka pointed at us. “They want to know if you stole that money out of Mr. Broadview’s desk.”
My mouth came open. I mean, I knew I was tact-free, but Maleka didn’t seem to be much better.
“The library fund?” The girl, Nancy—she sounded genuinely surprised. “I donate to that every month. Why would I take anything out of it?”
One of Maleka’s eyebrows arched up. “Every month, huh? What, you got a big sense of civic duty?”
Nancy picked up her flute case from the floor and nestled it in her lap. “It’s for my little brother. I’m out of here at graduation, but he’s got to go to this dump two more years. And he likes to read.”
The lines of her face. That not-friendly smile. So familiar. But from where?
“Do we know her?” Springer whispered to me.
I gave him a one-shoulder shrug because I couldn’t figure it out.
“I didn’t know you had a little brother,” Maleka said. “More people like you in the universe. Who knew? Jeez.”
“Nobody asked your opinion,” Nancy snapped. Her eyes darted to the clock, and to the door. “Look, I gotta go. My best friend and her little sister will be here in a minute. I’m giving them a ride home since their parents had to work.”
“Do we know her?” Springer whispered to me again, sounding tighter and more nervous.
“What’s your friend’s name?” I asked Nancy.
She leveled that chilly stare at me. “What’s yours?”
“Don’t,” Springer said, but I was already talking.
“Jesse Broadview.”
A few papers shuffled. A few more cases snapped shut. Then silence seemed to grab the room.
“Ooooh.” Nancy’s grin turned nasty. “I know who you are. The weird kid. Messy Jesse. Right?”
And then it clicked.
The color of her hair. The sharpness of her face. “Your best friend is Meredith Parks, Trisha’s older sister. You were at their house last night, sitting in the swing.”
She winked at me, turning my stomach into an arctic ocean of dread.
The band room door slammed open, and in came Meredith and Trisha, followed by Chris and Ryker. For a few seconds, they looked sort of normal, if you didn’t count the pine branch scratches all over Ryker’s face, and Chris’s, too. Then they spotted Springer and me, and mean-masks seemed to drop down, replacing their smiles with smirks.
“Well, look at this,” Chris said. “It’s the two spies, butting in where they don’t belong. Again.”
“Jesse,” Springer said in his lowest, calmest voice. “We need to go.”
Which was true and all, but Jerkface and the cockroaches were blocking the main door.
From behind us, another door opened, and a man’s voice bellowed, “Inspection!”
All the band members leaped to their feet or ran to their trunks. The ones with cases held them out.
Springer and I tried to melt in between the band people as they grabbed their stuff so the band director couldn’t see us. We couldn’t get in trouble again so soon. This time, Springer might really get suspended, and my father would probably have an aneurysm.
The saxophone dude we were hiding behind shifted, and the band director looked right at us. Then he glanced at Jerkface and the cockroaches, too.
“You—uh, driving all these kids home?” Mr. Quo asked Nancy. “Because I only agreed to Meredith and three others meeting you here. I’ll need to see passes and notes if they’re all missing their study period at the junior high.”
I sucked in a breath and held it. Springer said something like “We don’t need a ride,” but it sounded more like he almost threw up.
Maleka moved closer and put an arm around Springer’s shoulders. “Those ones in the door, they’re the ones that blacked your eye?” she asked him in a low voice.
“One of them, yeah,” Springer whispered back.
Maleka’s head whipped to the back of the room, and I realized she was staring straight at the other tuba players—three huge guys. She gestured to the one she had called by name, James, and he got up and cut off Mr. Quo, asking something about his mouthpiece.
Maleka gestured to the other two tuba players, and they headed to us.
It took them one breath to get there. Two breaths. Three breaths.
The bell rang.
“If you want out of here before you get in serious trouble with Quo, go now,” Maleka said. “We’ll get you past the buttheads in the door, but then you’re on your own.”
“Okay,” Springer said, and with that, Maleka and her two friends surrounded Springer and me. Somebody grabbed my arm. I tried to pull away, but Maleka leaned down to my ear and growled, “Move.”
I moved. Or rather, I let her drag me forward, stumbling to keep up.
“Hey!” Mr. Quo shouted, stepping out from behind James, who was still trying to talk to him.
Maleka and her friends hustled us toward the band room door, muscling Jerkface and the cockroaches and Meredith and Nancy out of the way.
All of a sudden, Springer and I were in the hall, and Maleka let me go, and one of the tuba players said, “Better hustle. These three seem wicked mad about something or other, and Mr. Quo’s gonna get a better look at your faces if you don’t move.”
I almost stopped to work out those words, but Springer yelled, “Jesse, run!”
My legs started to churn, even though I had no idea where I was going. Springer’s hand found mine, and we moved together, fast, out into the grassy area in front of the gym and band room.
From somewhere behind us, I heard Jerkface holler at the tuba players, then snarl, “We told you what would happen if you bugged us again, Messy. We told you!”
Then I heard the teacher shouting for us to stop, but we didn’t turn around and we didn’t even slow down.
21
Monday, After the Train Came
Not a dog.
Not a dog.
Not a dog!
My heart stopped beating all over again, and I couldn’t breathe, and the world shrank into a tiny little spot, a tiny little place where boards and pink stuff and bricks fell inward, where I could see inside my house, a few feet down to the floor, where some boards were still attached to each other in a V shape, like a camping tent made all out of wood.
The wood hadn’t splintered even though it had fallen over, and a bunch of stuff had bashed down on top of it—stuff Springer and I had cleared.
Something moved under that tent.
Something definitely bigger than a dog.
Some rocks and wood pieces moved as a leg kicked out from under the wood tent.
A leg wrapped in a pink bathrobe.
“Help me,” came the weak cry. “Please. Someone help me!”
The leg disappeared.
We heard stuff moving around under the wood tent. Then stuff at the other end of it shifted, and a hand scrabbled into view.
A hand with fingernails coated in cracked red polish.
22
Friday, Three Days Earlier, End of School
Springer pulled me through the grass between the front of the gym and the band room, and
then I pulled him. For a few seconds, we ran toward the senior high back entrance, and then I turned us toward the junior high. Because I knew it better. Because it seemed safer.
We hit a puddle and splashed.
People shouted behind us.
“Where?” Springer yelled.
“I don’t—”
But then I sort of did.
I ran for the door we had come out of when we snuck away from our side of the campus, dragging Springer behind me. I knew I needed to do something to confuse the people chasing us, so I hollered, “Upstairs!” as loud as I could. “The chemistry storeroom!”
Springer started to slow down, because he had no idea what I was talking about, but I pulled him with me as air rasped out of my lungs, as we got to the doors, as we glanced at our reflections and saw Jerkface and the cockroaches coming for us, fast. They were halfway across the grass already, looking just as mad as they had looked when they caught us spying—or even later, after I hit them with the branch. That was the kind of mad that didn’t care about rules or teachers or anything else except getting even. That was the kind of mad I didn’t want any part of.
Trying not to slow down too much, I jerked the door open. Springer and I threw ourselves into the back hall of the junior high and the door swung shut behind us. He didn’t resist as I pulled him the few running steps to the stairs, and back under them into the hidden spot where we had finished our plan to go to the senior high.
Into the stinky darkness we went, as far as our bodies would fit, hunching down, then crawling.
Don’t think about rotten plastered gum on stair bottoms.
Don’t count rotten plastered gum on stair bottoms?
Was that a sock?
Gross, that was definitely a spiderweb.
“They’ll go upstairs because of what they heard me yell,” I whispered. “They’ll try the chemistry storeroom door and an alarm will go off. I set it off last year by mistake—it’s really loud. We’ll be able to get away while everybody’s paying attention to that, okay?”
“I don’t think I can do this.” Springer pressed both hands into his face. “It smells so bad, and they’re mean, and—”
“OBWIG,” I said. I touched his knuckles with my fingertips. “OBWIG forever.”
“OBWIG forever,” he muttered. His hands shook against his face, but he stopped freaking out.
Then we pressed ourselves into the corner where the stairs joined the wall and the floor, so close together I could feel Springer’s breath on my face.
Don’t count the breaths.
One. Two. Three. Four . . .
The doors near the stairs banged wide open and light shot across the shadows.
Both of us didn’t breathe at all.
Jerkface and the cockroaches charged right in front of where we were hiding without ever looking in our direction. Their feet slammed onto the stairs, and it sounded like a herd of wild mustangs stampeded up to the second floor. More feet went by. Kids following them to see the fight. Maybe Mr. Quo. I didn’t know.
Springer breathed and choked a little.
I breathed without choking. But neither of us could quit shaking. I didn’t know what to do next. If we ran away again, would they hear us? Could they catch us if we got a big head start?
Where should we go?
My fingers tapped against Springer’s knuckles. I could barely see his face in the dark, but I knew his eyes were closed.
I closed mine, too, and tried not to imagine what would happen if they caught us. I didn’t want Springer to get another black eye. And he definitely would, because there were three of them and only two of us, and Springer didn’t believe in fighting, and I was all out of water bottles.
The storeroom bell rang. Three quick bursts, all over the school. So loud.
We both opened our eyes.
I wondered if I looked as terrified as Springer did.
I got to my feet, smacked my head on the gummy concrete, staggered, and reached for Springer. “Come on. Let’s try to get to the office.”
Springer eased up on his knees, then his feet, and then he grabbed my fingers, folding them into his sweaty fist.
“I’m scared,” he whispered.
“Me too,” I said.
We lurched out from under the stairs, right about the time we heard the thundering herd coming back down, right over our heads. My muscles tried to lock.
No.
One, two, three, four, five, six—
Nothing to count but steps. Short at first. Then bigger. I heard Jerkface yell something that sounded like Messy.
I pushed Springer ahead of me, through a set of double doors and into the junior high’s main hall. He tried to stop and turn around, but as I half ran, half fell through the doors, I hollered, “Go to the office. Get help!”
He jogged backward and almost splattered himself on a doorjamb. “I’m not leaving you, Jesse.”
“Move!” I shouted to him, and he started running again, and so did I, but somebody grabbed my arm and jerked me to a stop. Fingers dug hard into my muscle, frogging it, making me grind my teeth from the pain.
Anger shoved all my scared away, and I breathed, and I breathed, and I counted in my head as blood pounded through my veins, flooded my face, my chest, and I ground my teeth harder.
“Where you going?” Ryker asked.
His voice wah-wahed into my ear, distorted like he was some kind of movie demon.
“Office,” I told him. “Then home.”
I stomped his foot with all my strength.
Ryker howled and turned me loose, but Chris jumped in front of me before I could get up any speed. I tried to pull away from him, but he spun me around and pinned my arms behind my back, and when I tried to stomp his foot, too, he danced from side to side.
Kids seem to come from everywhere. Some of them chanted, “Fight, fight, fight!” It echoed in the hallway as I tried to get away from Chris.
“No way, Messy.” Chris laughed at me. “Now just hold still. Stop moving.”
Ryker hopped around, swearing and holding his foot.
I couldn’t see Trisha, but I heard her say, “Let her go, Chris. We’ll get expelled if anything happens after that lecture we got Wednesday.”
She actually sounded nervous.
“So?” Chris laughed again, forcing my elbows together until my shoulders popped. Pain burned across my neck and shot to my fingers.
I yelled and tried to jerk away from him.
“Chris,” Trisha said again.
“Quit fighting, you freak,” Chris ordered, his voice dropping lower, almost a growl. “Knock it off!”
“I’m not afraid of you!” I lied. “I hate you!” Not a lie. “You’re a horse’s butt!” Definitely not a lie.
He squeezed my arms so hard I lost my breath. Could shoulder bones break like arm bones? Elbows? Tears blurred my eyes, and I couldn’t see any lockers or cinder blocks or floor tiles to count. My stomach clenched. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
“Chris,” Trisha said. “Stop.”
“Let her go, man,” Ryker said from somewhere. “You heard what your dad said Wednesday about zero tolerance on bullying. Jorgensen’ll roast us if you hurt her.”
“This isn’t bullying!” Chris hollered. “She just broke the rules again. We’re holding her until the teachers get here. Plus, she spied on us yesterday, and hit us with that branch. Besides, nobody cares what happens to—”
I threw myself backward, ramming my skull into his mouth and nose so hard I felt his teeth bite my scalp.
He fell backward like a tree hit by lightning.
I fell forward, my whole world nothing but hot pain in my arms.
Before I hit the floor, Ryker caught me around the middle. “He didn’t mean it,” Jerkface was saying as I ripped away from him and slammed against some lockers. “He’s just—Messy, we joke around too much, and he took it too far—”
“Yes,” said Ms. Jorgensen from somewhere. “He did.”
I doubled over in front of the lockers and pressed my butt against them to hold myself up. My arms burned like somebody had lit them on fire. My shoulders hurt. Hot liquid ran down my neck and I was pretty sure my head was bleeding.
A hand came to rest on my back and I came up swinging. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” My fists connected with solid flesh.
Somebody oofed.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” I kept yelling it over and over and I was counting each time I said it and not seeing anything and whatever I hit, whoever I hit got away from me and that was good. Swinging my arms made them feel better so I kept doing it. “Don’t touch me!”
“Jesse?” Springer’s voice cut through me echoing myself and listening to it bounce off lockers and bricks and tiles and people I didn’t care if I hit or not. “Hey, Jesse. It’s me. I’m here, okay?”
“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” I wanted to stop. I wanted to breathe. I sort of wanted to sit down and relax and let somebody put Aunt Gus’s stinky muscle rub on my shoulders, but my body kept getting hotter and hotter and everything got louder and louder and hotter and hotter and meltdown isn’t really a metaphor and I didn’t want to keep melting.
“OBWIG forever, right?” Springer’s voice shook like his hands had been shaking under the stairs and under the stairs there was old gum and spiders.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” Shrieking now. It hurt my throat.
“That was one, two.” Springer sounded so worried. “Let’s see. I think that’s twelve don’t touch mes so far.”
“Don’t touch me!” I hollered, helpless.
“Thirteen,” Springer said.
I didn’t want to worry him. I really didn’t.
“Thirteen!” I echoed.
“Yep, thirteen. Does your brain itch, or is this different?”
My mouth came open to yell thirteen or don’t touch me or something else but instead I took a breath and looked up and put my arms down and focused in on Springer’s sweet, really nervous face. “Different!”