Blind Spot (14 page)

“Probably.” He nodded. “You didn’t tell the cop about that stupid fight, did you?”

“Stupid fight? That’s what you call it?” I glared at his ear. “No. I didn’t give details about our ‘stupid fight.’ I said there was an argument, and that Tricia was still there when you took me home.”

“You told the cop we argued, and”—he paused—“I took you home?”

“Don’t sound so shocked. I didn’t do it for you.” What had I ever seen in him? “I’d rather not relive that moment if I can help it.”

“So,” he said. “That’s what you want me to say too?”

“I don’t care what you say. Just stay away from me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Heather had finally heard about the Incident. “And now Copacabana is MIA? You can’t even hate on her in class? How lame is that?”

“I had to talk to a detective. Are you sure it’s Tricia you see at Dellian’s?”

“Not too many freaks wearing brown capes in this town.”

“Maybe you should tell the police. They’re trying to find out where she’s been staying.” I looked around for Greg’s familiar outline. I needed to apologize for this morning. “You see Greg anywhere?”

She shook her head, mouth full of fries. “At some study thing. Oh!” She looked around now too. “I need to tell Ricky, Greg can take us to see Fritz after school.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You talked to Greg today?”

“At my locker after class.” She grinned. “He didn’t want me to worry about him during lunch, I guess. Isn’t that cute? Speaking of cute.” She pulled an envelope from her binder and slid it to me. “FYI? Never have yearbook take your homecoming pictures. There’s a hair in every photo. Mr. Dellian is yearbook advisor, isn’t he? Tell him to clean the lens.”

I pulled each glossy sheet out, but barely looked. There was a lump in my throat I couldn’t quite defuse. Greg was seeking Heather out now? Instead of me?

Desperate to apologize to Greg, I almost sat in that front desk again. But as I approached, Dellian looked up. “Miss Hart? Everything go well this morning?”

So, I muttered, “Fine,” and went to the back. I stared at Greg’s head the entire period, willing him to turn around, look my way. But he didn’t.

After class, he tore out ahead of me.

“Greg!” I screamed as I ran after him. “Greg Martin!” I found him waiting a few yards from my locker, arms folded against his chest.

“What do you want? I need to go. I’m taking Ricky and Heather—”

“To the hospital, I know. I wanted to talk before we went, though.”

“We? No. You aren’t going.” He looked at the wall instead of me.

“Greg, I’m sorry about this morning. You promised no lectures, so I got defensive.” A blue smudge lined his chin. “You and your ink.” I reached up to rub it off.

He slapped my hand away. “Is that what matters to you? Looks?”

“What? No!” I reached for his arm. “Greg—”

“Don’t.” He brought his hands up. “Just don’t. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what anymore?”

He looked away. “You’d better go. You’ll miss your bus.”

“I don’t care about my bus,” I said as he walked away. “Greg, wait!” But he just waved his hand and kept walking.

No one talked about Tricia much. Her disappearance was a mere afterthought, an “oh, by the way”— more intriguing than disconcerting. Like a UFO spotting or a ghost story, her whereabouts fueled speculative conversations around lunch tables or on Saturday nights while people passed around a bottle of Schnapps and a bong in a borrowed SUV.

It was the mystery, the unknown, that everyone found exciting and newsworthy, not Tricia herself. After all, Tricia had been a freak, an alien among them. No one cared where she was when there was more pressing gossip, like how Gina Preston was slipped something at a party, or how Zeus and Missy were now dating “exclusively.” And I was just as guilty as anyone. I was more concerned about the love life she’d wrecked and the one blooming between Heather and Greg than I was about Tricia.

Except in Life Skills. Although none of us there talked about her either—not directly—she became the invisible string that connected us. Her absence was something we shared, her empty desk a solemn reminder that all was not right in our world. And sad as it sounds, that mutual element made me regard my classmates differently. They seemed more real now; not just people in a class, but individuals, like me.

Every morning Ruth brought in whipped cream–filled pastries and served the first one to Tricia’s empty desk. It was always gone the next day, eaten perhaps by some clueless sap in another Life Skills class or by Bart, who was sentenced to that room all day, or maybe it was just the janitor, simply doing his job. Wherever the pastry was ending up each day didn’t matter. It was a symbol, an unspoken reverie in her honor, our collective prayer for her safe return.

Her disappearance had the opposite effect on Dellian and Jonathan, severing the string once attaching them. Her absence polarized the two of them, and it all came to a head the Friday after she went missing.

“You are skating on some mighty thin ice, Mr. Webb!” Dellian snapped when Jonathan wandered into class long after the tardy bell had rung.

“You sure about that?” Jonathan flopped into his chair. “I think you’re the one on thin ice.”

He may as well have pulled a gun. Mr. Dellian went ballistic. He flew over the desk and snatched Jonathan out of his chair by the collar.

“Miss Hart!” He yanked Jonathan out the door. “You’re in charge!”

I sat stunned. The two had been fighting all week, but physical aggression? That was new. I considered following them. Despite my own dislike for Jonathan, I was concerned he wouldn’t make it to Principal Ratner’s office uninjured. I looked at my classmates to see if they had the same thoughts.

They were all looking at me.

“Wow,” I said. “That was scary.”

“Why are you in charge?” Jeffrey said. “Ruth’s older.”

He had a point. I was the newbie and the youngest.

“Well?” Jeffrey challenged. “You’re in charge. What do we do?”

“I don’t know.” Since Tricia had disappeared, we really hadn’t been doing much of anything in class. “Study?”

“No!” Jeffrey said. “You have to look in his book to see what to do.”

“He said I’m in
charge;
he didn’t say teach the class.”

“Look in the book,” Jeffrey insisted.

“Fine!” I made my way to the front.

Why did everything always have to be so exact with Jeffrey?
I thought as I shuffled things around on Dellian’s desk. Always by the book. A slight deviation from the norm and he got so testy. “Where would it be?” I asked after a few frustrated seconds of searching.

“Try his drawer,” Ruth said.

The first drawer was locked. The others weren’t. I rifled through miscellaneous office supplies, files, and papers before finding his brown planning book. “Okay . . .” I flipped it open. Taped to the back inner flap was a small brown envelope. I peeked inside.

A tiny key.

Interesting. Only one drawer was locked. The items I’d expected to be locked up—the files with personal info, grades, and so on—were sitting in the unlocked drawers. What could he possibly have locked away in that skinny little top drawer?

I carefully fingered the key out of the envelope.

“Well?” Jeffrey said. “What does it say? Do you need your magnifying glass?”

“No!” He could be so annoying when he was focused on something. Like a pit bull, once he latched on, he wouldn’t let it go. I scanned today’s date. Blank. “Nothing. Guess we’re studying again.” I turned the key between my fingers. I really wanted to sneak a peek.

Jeffrey slumped in his chair. “When do we apply for jobs?”

“I’ll look.” I flipped through the pages, still distracted by the locked drawer. What would it hurt? One quick look? I glanced out at the class. They’d all slipped back into their catatonic states—except Jeffrey. He was still waiting for my reply.

I kept my blind spot on the book, pretending to read, while I pushed the key forward until it was between my thumb and finger. Feeling for the keyhole with my middle finger, I slid the key into the lock—a trick I’d mastered long ago. It’s amazing how much you can “see” with your fingers.

The lock turned easily. I slid the drawer open and peeked over. It was empty except for a blank yellow notepad.

Lame.

“Sorry, Jeffrey, it doesn’t say.” We both sat back, disappointed. Why would Dellian lock up an unused pad of paper? Unless . . . the pad wasn’t empty?

Jeffrey had gone back to staring at his desk. I took the pad out, fanning the pages in search of writing. Nothing. Totally clean.

I reached forward to put it back, then stopped. An eight-by-ten piece of photo paper was face-down on the bottom of the drawer.

I flipped it over. Although the images were slightly blurry and out of focus, I knew what I was looking at: Mr. Dellian on a couch in his jeans, eyes closed, shirt unbuttoned, with Tricia next to him in her bikini top and grass skirt, kissing his neck.

“Oh, my God!” I slapped the photo face-down into the drawer and threw the notebook back on top.

Everyone jerked their heads up. “What’s wrong?” Ruth asked.

“Paper cut.” I put the key back and sucked on my finger. “A really bad one”

“What a perv! I told you he was with her,” Heather said at lunch.

“I guess I didn’t believe it until now. I mean, he’s a teacher!” I thought about the scene with Jonathan and Dellian that morning. Was she the friction between them? Had Tricia told Dellian about herself and Jonathan to make him jealous? Was that her plan? To use Jonathan to end it with Dellian?

“It was taken the night of the dance—she was in her grass skirt and Dellian had on his floral Hawaiian shirt—”

“He wasn’t wearing a floral print,” Heather interrupted. “His shirt had palm trees.”

I frowned. “Are you sure? I could’ve sworn—”

“Positive,” Heather said. “I remember wondering where he got it because it was so much better than the one I had found for Greg.”

“Oh, well, whatever, she was in her grass skirt, so—” I paused. “You think that’s why she ran away? To get away from Dellian?” If it was true,
I
certainly wasn’t going to help that sick jerk find her.

Heather shrugged. “I saw some other chick with the baby yesterday. At least I think it’s the same baby. Babies always look alike to me.”

I stole one of her fries. “Babysitter?”

“Hard to tell. Hey, you!” Heather smiled as Greg plopped a pile of notes in front of me and sat down next to her.

“Thanks.” I smiled. He nodded without looking at me and began eating.

“Did you sign up for driver’s ed yet?” Heather asked me.

My face began to burn. What part of “legally blind” didn’t she get? “No.”

“Well, don’t bother. It’s full. I’m so bummed. I wanted to start learning now.” She slapped my hand away as I reached for another fry. “Get your own!”

“I’ll teach you,” Greg said.

“You will?” Heather smiled at him. “Can we start now? We still have fifteen minutes until lunch ends.”

When he shrugged okay, Heather jumped up, clapping her hands like a little girl. “Here.” She shoved her plate of fries at me. “Have the rest.”

But I didn’t want them anymore. I’d lost my appetite.

“Jonathan Webb will no longer be our class aide,” Mr. Dellian announced the following Monday as Life Skills ended. “Ruth and Roswell will now be partners.”

“What about when Tricia comes back?” Ruth asked.

“We’ll figure that out if”—Mr. Dellian paused—“
when
Miss Farni returns.”

If?
Was that simply a wrong word choice? Or did he know something the rest of us didn’t?

“Miss Hart, I need to speak with you.” Once everyone but Bart had left, Dellian said, “I removed Mr. Webb for your benefit. Being in class with him after what he did couldn’t have been easy for you. Were you able to disclose everything to Detective King last week?”

Was I able to “disclose” everything? Why did he keep bringing that up? Did he like the fact that I’d been humiliated by Tricia and Jonathan? And for my benefit? Who was he kidding? It had nothing to do with me! “I’m sure it couldn’t have been easy for you either, right?” My fists clenched tightly. “Were you able to ‘disclose’ everything to the detective also?”

I was standing about three yards away from him, too far to read his expression. But I saw his body stiffen, felt the weight of his stare.

“Are you still on speaking terms with Mr. Webb?” It was more an accusation than a question. One I didn’t think needed an answer.

“That’s none of your business,” I said and walked out.

I’d ended the conversation, but Dellian wanted the last word. Ever since I’d skipped AP History class that day, I’d been sitting in the back where Dellian wanted me to—yes, it was easier than battling Dellian, but it was also the only legitimate excuse I had to talk to Greg. As long as I was back there, he would take notes for me.

About five minutes into his lecture, Dellian suddenly stopped. “Mr. Martin, is that a music player on your desk?” He knew what it was. Greg had been using it since the first day of class.

“I’m recording the lecture for my notes,” Greg said.

“Is it a music player?” Dellian asked again.

Greg’s curls nodded yes.

“Music players are not allowed in this classroom. Put it away, or lose it.”

I glared a black hole into Dellian’s skull. Why did he bring Greg into this? This battle was between me and him. No one else. I could handle Dellian’s crap, but Greg wasn’t used to it. He was Mr. Straight and Narrow. The reprimand, being singled out in front of everyone—I knew Greg was humiliated.

“Greg,” I said, catching up to him after class. “I’m really sorry about that. He got mad at me this morning and—”

He sort of half turned, keeping his body forward. “Just stay away from me, okay? I’m tired of being thrown into your messes.”

“My messes?” I repeated, but he was already walking away.

A few minutes later, Heather texted to say she and Greg were going driving after school, and oh btw, they wouldn’t be eating lunch with me for a while. Lunch was now their “driver’s ed” time.