Authors: Ilsa J. Bick
The letter opener was much heavier than I expected. I balanced the tip on the pad of my left index finger and pressed, grinned as the skin dimpled. You could put your eye out with that thing.
For the first time in months, the scars on my stomach squirmed. The skin grafts between my shoulder blades bunched. My ears roared and I had to close my eyes. I wondered how hard I would have to push to draw blood. Not hard, I decided.
A few seconds, that’s all I’d need.
Then I heard the second bell and thought,
Screw it
. My morning had been pretty crummy so far, but doing
that
, no matter how much I wanted to, would be admitting I was a complete head case. Besides, another half minute or so and then I‘d be late for my very first class on my very first day and there was just no way.
So I didn‘t wait for Ms. Sherman. And I put her stupid letter opener back before I slid out the door.
6: a
The halls were too bright and jammed with other kids all chattering and laughing.
Until that moment, I hadn‘t been around that many kids for almost a year, and I just stood there, in shock, a rock in a fast-flowing river that parted and eddied and swirled on.
Snatches of conversation spun past like leaves swept along a swift current:
―. . . his mom went ballist . . .‖
―He said what?‖
―No way, I told him, I‘m not that kind . . .‖
―. . . and then Dad saw the car and he
totally
flipped out. . . .‖
―Oh, here comes Robbie, I don‘t . . .‖
―My mom was
so
pissed. . . .‖
―He said what?‖
I spawned upstream and made it to trig before the late bell. The teacher wore smudgy Lennon specs that made him as bug-eyed as that fish-headed commander in the first
Star Wars
movie. (Come on, Bob, you know: the one where the Muppetalien shouts,
―
It’s a trap!
‖) Fish Eyes squinted through smears and studied the attendance card Ms.
Sherman had insisted on, probably because she wanted to, well,
alert
everyone about just who the crazy new kid was. Then Fish Eyes aimed a stubby finger to an open seat in the middle of the class: ―We sit in alphabetical order.‖
Great. You know that very last scene in
The Birds
, Bob, the one where Rod Taylor and the old lady who played his mom are trying to get Tippi Hedren into the car, only they have to run this gauntlet of seagulls and crows that might just peck their eyes out? Well, this was like that. I swear, it felt like a gazillion eyes drilled my back, all these other kids watching and waiting for me to trip or burp or fart, or maybe all three. I made it to my desk without any drama and that seemed to be the general cue for everyone to go back to gossiping, which was fine by me.
Then, maybe ten seconds after I slid into my seat, I felt a tap on my right shoulder. I couldn‘t help it; I flashed to Harley and that dumb coffee cup:
This yours?
I turned.
―David Melman.‖ He had dark eyes and a mop of muddy brown hair. When he smiled, a dimple showed at the left corner of his mouth. He stuck out a hand. ―Welcome to Turing.‖
―Jenna Lord. Uhm, pleased to meet you.‖ His skin was soft, but his grip was very firm. The handshake was weirdly comfortable and formal all at the same time.
―Everyone will tell you that I‘m just being nice because I‘m running for student council,‖ David said. ―They‘re partly right.‖
―About the student council part, or the being nice part?‖
―Oh, I‘m running. Looks good on the résumé. If you haven‘t gotten that speech from your advisor yet, you will. Do you know who that is?‖
―I‘m too busy trying to find my way around.‖
The tardy bell rang. David dropped his voice to a whisper, ―Well, if you need any help or don‘t understand something, just ask, okay?‖
―Sure.‖ I gave my perkiest
you bet
grin and faced forward. But, to tell you the truth, Bob, I was a little pissed off, too. Like, did I
look
as if I needed the help?
This is just like the ward
. I inched a little lower in my seat.
Don’t shout, don’t make
a fuss, smile at the doctor and we’ll all be just fine.
The first day of all classes is virtually the same, regardless of the school. Trig was no different. Fish Eyes finished calling attendance and then got a couple students to hand out textbooks. We spent the next twenty minutes going through the books, looking for stray marks, and noting where other students had scribbled in answers. Then, in the fifteen minutes that were left, Fish Eyes snorted and snuffled his way through the first chapter, all of it review, and assigned homework—―Even problems, one through sixty‖—with maybe thirty seconds to spare before the bell shrilled.
Thank you, GAWD
. I gathered up my books as everyone else started jabbering like caged parakeets. All the noise was the perfect cover, though. I figured to just slip in behind those three girls and glide on out—
David slid in at my elbow. ―What do you have next?‖
―Ah.‖ I had to think about it a sec. ―Honors English.‖
―Oh, you‘ll like Dewerman.‖ He grinned. ―He‘s really—‖
―Ms. Lord,‖ Fish Eyes called just as we got to the door. ―A moment, please.‖
I braked so quickly that David nearly tripped over my feet. ―Sorry,‖ I said.
―It‘s okay,‖ he said. ―You want me to wait?‖
―Ah . . .‖ Everyone else was spilling around us, some tossing curious glances and others smirking:
Yeah, sucks to be you.
To be honest, David was getting on my nerves. I wasn‘t a lost puppy, for God‘s sake, just the crazy new kid.
―No, I‘m good, thanks,‖ I said. David opened his mouth to say something else, but I was already doing a quick about-face.
―David, if you‘ll close the door on your way out?‖ Fish Eyes called.
―Sure,‖ David said. ―See you, Jenna.‖
―Yeah,‖ I said but didn‘t look around. I heard the door snick shut. The room was dead quiet except for the shush of my slides over linoleum as I walked back to Fish Eyes‘s desk.
―Yes, sir?‖ I wasn‘t sure if I ought to say
sir
, but I blanked on the guy‘s name and
Fish Eyes
would probably be a mistake. ―Is there a problem? Did I do something wrong?‖
―Wrong? Oh, no, no.‖ Fish Eyes tugged off his glasses and dragged a cloth from his front pocket. Without his specs, his eyes dwindled to lead pellets. ―I just wanted to let you know how delighted we all are that you‘re here, Jenna. . . . May I call you Jenna? Good. . . .
I‘ve, uh, had the opportunity to look at your record—your placement exams and those you took while you were homeschooled—and they are impressive, most impressive.
Particularly.‖ He
hawed
on one lens and rubbed with the cloth. ―Particularly given your, ah, peculiar circumstances.‖
I said nothing. I could feel the heat rising up my neck and splashing over my face.
My God, was it going to be like this with every teacher? No, wait, that wasn‘t fair. Mr.
Anderson hadn‘t treated me like a freak. Yet. Maybe he just hadn‘t placed the name with the diagnosis.
―We, uh, know that you‘ve had quite the, ah,
struggle
,‖ Fish Eyes said. ―A very bad, very tough time of it. I want you to know how sorry I am about—‖
―Thanks.‖ In five seconds, my twitching skin would rip itself from my bones and go screaming down the hall. All I wanted was to run run run and find someplace to cut in peace. ―I should go,‖ I said, flashing a bright, chipper little grin. ―Wouldn‘t want to be late my first day.‖ Which was true enough.
―No, of course not.‖ Fish Eyes slipped on his glasses. ―I just want you to know that if you, ah, need anything, any
special
help, just want to
talk
maybe . . .‖
―Thanks,‖ I said, edging away, grinning my frozen little rictus of a grin. ―Thanks a lot.‖
I didn‘t exactly run, not like I had from Mr. Anderson. Oh, I wanted to, but my eyes stung and I would probably have bashed into a wall. And, anyway, running was just too pathetic. But I was still moving pretty fast and so, of course, as I burst through the door and into the general swirl, I didn‘t look where I was going.
Bam!
I plowed right into David Melman so hard that even
he
staggered. My notebooks, bright M&M colors, fluttered like broken-winged kites. My trig textbook promptly got turned into a hacky sack by assorted legs and feet before some kid scooped it up on the fly and backhanded it to David.
―Whoa, you okay? Here, let me.‖ David stooped just as I bent to pick up my notebooks and we banged heads. My vision sheeted white. This time, both our trig books went to ground. ―Jeez.‖ David put a hand to his forehead. ―Are you all right?‖
―I‘m fine,‖ I said for what must be the millionth time that day. How many hours had I been at this already? I could feel a knot beginning right above my left eyebrow. Great.
Now I‘d look like a rhino. ―Are you okay?‖
―Yeah.‖ David started piling notebooks into my arms. ―I just hung around in case you needed, you know, help getting to your next class.‖
―No, I‘m good,‖ I said, as the second bell rang. ―But I‘ve got to go. See you, okay?‖
―Wait.‖ David grabbed my elbow. ―You won‘t get there in time if you go that way.
Come on, we‘ll take a shortcut through the cafeteria.‖
This time, I didn‘t argue. We pretty much jogged down the stairs and into the lunchroom, which already had a sprinkling of kids in small knots, drinking coffee and munching doughnuts. Someone shouted at David, but he waved them off and then we were blasting out of the lunchroom and into a side corridor.
―Okay,‖ David said. He was panting a little, and his dark hair was mussed. ―You go all the way down the hall, last door on your left. I have to go upstairs now, but I‘ll be back in time to take you to your third period class. And we‘ve got the same lunch. Sit with me and I‘ll introduce you around.‖
―I don‘t need an escort,‖ I said as he started for a narrow stairwell.
―Yes, you do,‖ he said over his shoulder. ―You just don‘t know it yet.‖
7: a
Honors English, second period: I blew through the door after the tardy bell. Of course, the only seats left were in front. I scuttled into one closest to the wall. Everyone ignored me, which was fine. The teacher, Dewerman, was nowhere in sight. Most everyone was chatting with someone else except for one girl two rows back who didn‘t look away.
She was pretty in a sporty kind of way, with a long blonde ponytail, good skin, and preppy clothes, the kind of girl who might be either a cheerleader or captain of the soccer team.
When my eyes skipped over her, she turned to whisper something to another girl, who shot a glance, made a face, giggled, and whispered something back.
I looked away. A survival tactic I learned on the psych ward was how to quickly size up potential enemies or garden-variety badasses. Ponytail did
not
like me, that was clear.
Fine. You don’t bother me, I won’t bother you
. But I wondered what I‘d done to tick her off. Unless she disliked new kids on general principle.
My gaze skimmed the walls. Dewerman liked posters, the ones with celebs urging you to read, and art reproductions: Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Picasso. Behind his desk and snugged along the wall to my left were three bookcases crammed with hardcovers and paperbacks, arranged alphabetically. My eyes ran over the spines—and then the title of a very familiar book hooked my gaze like the business end of a steel barb.
Oh shit
. My stomach bottomed out. My eyes cut away, but the title was burned onto my retinas the way the sun scorched if you looked too long.
Relax; he doesn’t know; no one
here does; just let it slide
. . . .
―Welcome back, boys and girls!‖ Dewerman barreled in, an enormous mug clutched in one paw. My God, Bob, every single adult in this place was this major addict. Dewerman was this bearded 1960s throwback: a Teletubby in tie-dye, suspenders, and thinning hair scraped back into a stringy gray rat. ―All right, let‘s roll.‖
He did the attendance drill. Ponytail was Danielle Connolly, which fit. I gave my prepared
Hi-I’m-Jenna
spiel and was about to sit back down when Dewerman shot me a curious look. ―Your mother owns a bookstore? Is it MacAllister‘s?‖
―Uh.‖
Why
had I mentioned the store to begin with? I knew he had the book. It was like I was daring him to put two and two together. I could‘ve lied. Maybe I should‘ve. But, instead, I said, ―Yeah.‖
―Well, I‘ll be damned.‖ Dewerman bustled over to the bookshelf, fingered out the paperback I‘d recognized and held it up. It was one of the reissues because
THE
COMPLETE UNEXPURGATED EDITION OF THE SHATTERING NOVEL
screamed from the cover. Because, of course, Dewerman was a fanboy.
A little sidebar, Bob, because you don‘t look like the bookish type. That‘s not a slam, it‘s just . . . well, it‘s probably a fact. If I were directing the movie of your life, I figure you must‘ve been a star athlete in high school, probably football. Ten to one, you were angling for a scholarship, only you messed up your knees or back, and that‘s why you became a cop. Only I bet you got bored or sick of standing by while EMTs scraped people you knew—friends, old drinking buddies, maybe a girlfriend— off the pavement. Maybe you cut one too many people out of crushed cars. You had to think that, hell, making detective‘s got to be better. Break-ins, assaults, drug deals, but not a lot of bodies. You had to think that there just aren‘t many homicides this far north. Maybe one or two a year, tops.
Of course, at the time, you hadn‘t met me.
Anyway . . . my grandmother was Stephanie A. MacAllister. To everyone else, my mom‘s mom was this brilliant writer who started sleeping around when she was ten.
Honestly, Bob, if you believed her, Grandma MacAllister had sex with just about everything but a gerbil and then wrote about it. Give her enough time, she might have figured out the gerbil, too.
Of course, the book—
Memoirs of a Very Good Girl
—was banned and burned and trashed, so just about everyone read and talked about it. My mom always says there is no such thing as bad publicity. By the time she was thirty-five, Grandma MacAllister had made a fortune, started a pretty famous artists‘ colony, opened up her bookstore, discovered new talent, promoted reading, blah, blah, blah. She never wrote another book. I never asked why because I hadn‘t been born when she hanged herself from a sturdy wooden closet dowel in a swank New York hotel the night she won some award for lifetime achievement.
She left the store to Mom, which pissed off Grandpa—he of the drunken, chain-smoking, torch-the-house rampage. Mom used to be a poet and did pretty well.
Although after Matt was gone, she bought up all the copies of her one collection she could find and burned them in this giant bonfire in the old, pre-McMansion backyard.
After Grandma died, Mom poured everything into the bookstore. That hummed along fairly smoothly until 2003, which is when Matt left. Since then, sales have crashed, publishing has cratered, and Mom and the store . . . well, it‘s like handing a bucket to a bulimic, Bob. No matter how much you vomit, the bucket‘s never quite full enough.