Alyzon Whitestarr (12 page)

The school was in chaos with final preparations and rehearsals for the play. It was scheduled to open at the end of the week, and the few classes where teachers were not involved in getting ready for the play—or for the interschool sports tournament that was to happen the following week—were like little pools of sanity in a hurricane of overexcitement. Mrs. Barker’s class was not one of them, because she was directing the play. In fact, most of her classes that day were taught by substitute teachers. Our session turned out to be one where there were no spare subs, so the class was to be split and sent to sit at the back of two other classes to do worksheets.

Harlen had already been selected for group A when I came in, and he was standing with some of the others at the back of the room. Mrs. Barker selected me for group B, and I was sent to wait at the front of the class. I did not know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

Gilly had been put into group A, and being without her made me restless. It was amazing to think that we had hardly spoken before the accident, because I had come to love the
clean sea smell of her, which perfectly expressed the honesty and openness of her personality. I felt I was foolish not to have been drawn to her before. But she had always seemed so conventional in her neat stockings, shiny shoes, and perfect, sleek braid.

Once I had completed the worksheet, I asked permission to go to the library to work on an assignment. I was still there, absorbed in a book on the Antarctic, when the recess bell rang. Ten minutes later Gilly came in. She grinned at my surprise and said loftily, “There are people who take refuge in libraries as naturally as lemmings look for a cliff.”

It struck me that she was probably, and unexpectedly, my first best friend.

We had science in the afternoon. Usually we did practical experiments, but that day Mr. Stravin had us doing theory, so Gilly and I didn’t speak all class until we were washing our hands at the end. Even if we hadn’t done any experiments in the class, Mr. Stravin made us wash our hands because he said it was a good habit for serious scientists to have. To him, we were all serious scientists in embryo, which was one of the things Gilly and I liked about him.

“You want to come to the movies on Saturday?” Gilly asked quietly, soaping her hands. “There’s an old horror movie marathon.”

I sighed and shook my head. “I have my own horror marathon on Saturday. Mrs. Barker told me this morning I’m supposed to sit for the two missed tests then.”

Gilly grimaced sympathetically. “You could come along
after. You would still see a couple of the movies. And if not for the movies, you should come because the Valhalla has the world’s best stale cookies and soapy tea at intermission.”

I grinned. “Do I have to pay for the whole marathon?” A very Whitestarr question.

“No, but it’ll be my treat anyway,” Gilly said.

I might have refused, but I realized with a burst of plea sure that this was how it was with friends.

* * *

School went on being chaotic as the week progressed, and teachers trying to run regular classes must have felt like they were holding down the lid on a furiously boiling pot. Half of them looked on the verge of nervous breakdowns, and there was a lot more yelling than usual. I didn’t see Harlen up close, because English class stayed in two halves for the week.

Then, after class on Thursday, I was approaching the glass doors at the front of the school when I saw him standing by the school gates, talking to a couple of guys in expensive-looking clothes. He was as handsome and perfectly groomed as ever, and his black hair shone darkly in the sunlight. He glanced toward the entrance, and although he could not possibly have seen me through the reflector glass, I felt suddenly certain that he was looking for me. A wave of inexplicable fear flowed through me. Without thought, I turned and went back down the hall to a door that brought me out on the far side of the school. Once outside, I cut across the courtyard, knowing the school buildings would hide my retreat from Harlen. I went through a gate in the fence that led
me into a lane that, a few minutes later, brought me to Stapleton Park.

It was only after I had passed into the shadows of the big trees there that I slowed down and thought with incredulity about what had just happened. The weird, powerful fear I had experienced must be my subconscious reacting to the memory of the awful smell he had given off. But why was I reacting to it now? Why not when I had seen him in class earlier in the week?

Even just thinking about what had happened made me feel uneasy, so I forced my thoughts away from Harlen and focused my attention determinedly on the carpet of red and yellow leaves that lay under the trees. I let my senses take me into their delicious fermenting smell, and before long I was kicking through them as enthusiastically as a little kid. By the time I reached the end of the trees, I was breathless but also relaxed. I walked up to the top of a small hill where people were flying kites and let my mind go into the kites. For a while it was as if I was there at the end of those fragile strings, bouncing and jerking and longing to go with the wind that tugged at me.

* * *

I did not allow myself to think again about what had happened that afternoon until I was in my room. Then I wrote, “It was like a documentary we saw at school about a gazelle who scents a hyena and flees. But what possible danger could Harlen Sanderson represent to me? It’s not as if he knows about my altered senses, and even if he did, what harm could
he cause? In a movie, Harlen might want to sell his information to some shady government group of scientists who hunted down people with abilities that could be used as weapons and performed hideous experiments on them, but in real life he is a handsome, dark-haired guy with buckets of charm and a smile to die for.”

I thought some more, then I wrote, “Maybe it was actually the guys with Harlen that set off my danger sense. One of them had a shaved head, which always makes me think of neo-Nazis. They had both emanated a dangerous toughness, even though they were wearing nice clothes. I guess I’ll know for sure when I see Harlen again.”

I put the journal away and went downstairs for dinner. When I saw Serenity stirring a pot, I sighed inwardly. These days, the food she made was either totally tasteless or spiced with such impossible combinations that it was too peculiar to eat. She glanced up from stirring as I came in, and I caught the strong scent of licorice. Sybl, my mind whispered, and my skin rose into gooseflesh. On impulse, I asked, “Why did you change your name?”

“I told you why,” she said coldly.

“Yeah, but that was ages back,” I said, and realized that I was holding my hands up as if she was threatening to shoot me. She looked a bit as if she wanted to.

“Too bad,” she snapped.

I bit back the words that jumped to my lips and waited. Finally Serenity shot me an irritated look. “That name Mum and Da gave me. That’s
their
name. It’s their way of claiming me. But I belong to myself, and I want to name myself.”

They were good lines, but they didn’t ring true. The bit about Mum and Da wanting to own her would have sounded a lot more convincing if they were possessive or controlling parents. I wondered if she was quoting one of her beloved poets but knew better than to suggest it.

“But why Sybl?”

She hesitated. “The name doesn’t matter,” she answered finally, turning back to the pot. I thought she had finished, but she said in a low forceful voice, “Principles matter. The things you believe in. And they only matter if you act on them.”

Da and Mirandah came clattering in the door, and Serenity closed her mouth like a trapdoor.

“Smells good, Sybl,” Da said warmly.

Serenity glared at him and flung out of the room, muttering that we could help ourselves.

“That’s no fair!” Mirandah said, hands on her hips. “Serving is part of it, Da. Isn’t that right?”

On Friday, Mrs. Barker was teaching English as usual. I told myself it was a good thing, because it meant I would get near enough to smell Harlen. Of course, I was nervous that seeing him would set off my gazelle instinct, so when I stepped into the classroom, I clamped hard on all my senses to make sure I didn’t do anything crazy.

Clamping was a technique I had discovered that allowed me to bring the extended portion of my senses back to normal levels. But I was so rattled that I clamped too hard. The class hubbub immediately faded, and color bled out of everything. It was like I was stepping into a black-and-white movie. At the same time the whispering in the air that I had been noticing since the accident got much louder.

A black-and-white Mrs. Barker looked up and spoke to me, pointing to the seat next to Gilly I could not hear what she was saying because of how loud the whispering was, but the gesture was unmistakable. I headed for the seat. Along with everyone else in the class, Harlen was looking at me, and to my relief I felt no desire to flee. He smiled beautifully, and
I felt a little shock of warmth as I sat down. Mrs. Barker was still looking at me and talking, but now she had an annoyed expression. I hastily released the clamp, and it was beyond strange to see her skin and clothes and the room behind her suffuse with sudden color.

“… had better get a new alarm clock, Alyzon,” she was saying sharply. “One that will wake you early enough to ensure that you are not still asleep when you arrive late to school.”

She swung back to the board without waiting for me to respond. I opened my folder and sat staring at it until I sensed that the other kids had lost interest in me. Only then did I dart a glance at Gilly She looked worried. I smiled at her sheepishly, and she visibly relaxed.

It was hard to concentrate on essays and books after that, because of my confusion over Harlen. I was almost relieved when, after the bell rang, I heard him call my name. I summoned up the thickest part of my screen as I turned and clamped down on my extended senses just in case they ordered me to do anything stupid. Dimly, I registered Gilly’s admiring look as she went out. Harlen was weaving through chairs toward me, his smile delicious. But when he got closer, my heart began to pound. The sick, horrible stench was still pouring off him. It was as if he had been carrying something dead in his pocket that had become even more rotten and decomposed.

“Hi,” Harlen said, coming to lean on my desk.

It took an immense effort of will to respond in a normal voice. In my agitation I began to clamp too hard again, turning
Harlen to black and white and his voice to a thread I had to strain to hear above the whispering in the air about us. Despite my efforts to keep smiling, the strain must have shown, because puzzlement flickered in Harlen’s eyes.

Careful
, ordered a soft, stern voice inside me.

I searched for something innocuous to say and blurted out that I had given the CD to Serenity. Harlen’s smile widened. “That wasn’t why I wanted to talk to you, Alyzon,” he said, his mouth caressing my name. “I was thinking we could partner for the field trip.”

“Field trip?”

Harlen laughed, and his hair moved over his scalp, soft and dark as a million spiderweb-thin strands of black silk. “The impressionist writing excursion. Didn’t you hear Mrs. Barker announce it in class?”

I could not think of a sensible reason to refuse to partner with him. I could hardly say, I can’t partner with you because you smell like you are dying inside.

Careful careful careful
, the voice inside me urged.

“So, I’ll see you later,” Harlen said, and he sketched a wave and walked out of the room.

I leaned weakly against my desk, sick and shaking. The irony was that I loved impressionist writing. It was this thing Mrs. Barker invented where you went somewhere and sat with a partner, watching the world go by, writing without trying to force it. It wasn’t stream of consciousness writing, which is more about what you’re thinking. It was about recording life without imposing yourself on what you saw. A month ago I
would have been in heaven to have Harlen want to partner with me. Now all I knew was that I had to get out of it, even if it meant faking sick and staying home.

I had a free period next. That was fortunate, because I could not have coped with a class just then. I went to the library, thinking that Harlen could not smell the way he did because he was sick, unless he had some sickness that had yet to make an impact on his health. That made me think about cancer. But could Dr. Austin also have cancer?

After I had bidden Gilly goodbye at the end of the day, I found myself thinking about Harlen again; about the perversity of his becoming interested in me now, when I could not bear to be near him.

I reached the Vietnamese greengrocers where I had got into the habit of buying an apple or plum to eat on the way home, but it was late and the neat little man who owned the shop was dismantling the displays of fruit and piling them into baskets. I stopped to watch him work. He was so old that his limbs and face were like lovingly waxed wood, but though his movements appeared slow, they were so precise that he was actually working very swiftly, one movement flowing seamlessly into the next. It was like a dance. When I let my screen fade, it didn’t surprise me that he smelled deliciously of lemon-tree leaves.