Authors: Leen Elle
Guilt (17 page)
That gave me the perfect opening to ram my palm into his nose.
He screamed and fell back, rolling off of me and onto the ground. I didn't waste any precious time. In an instant, I got to my feet and ran down the sharp slop of the Giant's Grave. Taking the same path from which we came, I headed back towards civilization.
"Claire," I heard him scream my name. The venom with which he pronounced it caused a shiver to pass through me. His anger made him more dangerous than ever.
I risked a glance behind me, and saw him making his way down the path. If he was as fast as he was strong, I wouldn't be able to outrun him to the street. Making a hasty decision, I jutted off the path and twisted through the jumble of trees. The terrain became an obstacle course of wide spreading trunks, porous boulders, broken branches and fallen trees. I hoped that it slowed Kain down more than it did me.
My plan formed as I sprinted. I'd run to the high school. Although, I couldn't be sure if any faculty would be there on a Saturday, especially during a holiday weekend, perhaps there might be a security guard or an alarm system that could rescue me from the pursuit of this madman.
"Damn it, Claire." He sounded too close. I looked back for a moment. Kain was only about twenty yards behind me. Blood oozed from his nose, and the look on his face told me that there would be no limit to my suffering if he caught me.
I willed myself to run faster.
Three days of bedridden seclusion could wreak havoc on the mind of the most innocent and happy individual, but to suffer a mind that had only recently been filled with regret and sorrow to be isolated to a fitful convalescence could be considered quite grueling. Not that Claire minded being excused from school on Friday due to the head flu that decided to tax her at Corry's funeral; but a weekend of fluids and homeopathic remedies, sweats and shivers, fever induced hallucinations and meandering awareness, started to grate on her nerves.
She feared going to school on Monday, knowing there would be reminders of Corry. She'd be alone once more at her table in the corner of the cafeteria. She'd walk alone to her algebra class after art. And art class itself? It would consist of the empty chair, the unclaimed portfolio of Corry's artworks, the mocking derision of the Freak. All of those things would stare her in the face, and accuse her of being the cause of the death of the only friend she had in Brickerton.
Claire knew that the entire atmosphere of the school must have changed. A community didn't go through the distress of losing one of it's own in such a way as Corry died, without leaving a mark on their consciences. The adults of Brickerton were bound to worry for the mental stability of the rest of the school's students. Sensitivity levels and attentiveness towards the teenagers' behaviors would increase. Some students would abuse those attentions, unleashing the dramatics to receive notice. Others would feel oppressed by them, withdrawing from authority or defying it.
Life in Brickerton would change even further from the simplicity that once encircled its residents.
Claire wanted her old life back. She dreaded the change. A part of her knew it would be better to return to school and get the adjustment period out of the way, but the idea of having to look her fault in the face when returning to the place where Corry's presence would now be a void, made her stomach queasy. She felt as responsible as ever, if not more so since witnessing the family at the funeral, but realized that the path to getting over it was to move on and obtain distance from the memories. Time should make the blame go away.
On Monday morning, still not feeling one hundred percent recovered from the flu, but unable to stay in her bedroom a moment longer, Claire convinced her mother that she could attend school.
Upon entering the double doors of the high school building, she found herself slightly surprised and indignant over the mood of the students. Everyone seemed to have returned to normal, as though Corry's death really hadn't affected them to the extent she had imagined it should. The only difference in the daily activity was that, in addition to the guidance counselor, there were now a few psychiatrists on duty should anyone need the support. Those professionals looked a little bored at this point. Either the students didn't feel the need for consolation, or they were too intimidated to approach them for it.
Claire drifted through her morning classes in dread of what the afternoon would bring. By the time her lunch period ended, she new that she couldn't bear to resume the art class. As the hour for that class session approached, she resolved to seek out the school counselor for herself. She didn't want to talk to any of the psychiatrists, and had no intention of sharing her feelings. What she wanted was simple: a change in schedule.
Instead of making her way towards the vocational and technology wing, she knocked on the door to Mr. Henny's office. With all of the psychiatrists on hand right now, he seemed surprised to have a student come directly to him; and he appeared a bit nervous by the idea that, perhaps, this student may request guidance about depression and death. When Claire told him what it was that she had come for, his worried expression relaxed slightly.
"Are you sure you want to transfer out of the class nearly half way through the year?" He asked.
"Yes, sir." Claire didn't care if she lost the credit. She wouldn't suffer the discomfort of that classroom, even if she had to take a summer course next year to make up for it.
"You do realize that I can't place you in an academic class so far into the school year? Your options are limited. Are you sure you don't want to just stick it out? It
is
just an art class, after all. How difficult can it be?" He asked this question as he scanned Claire's student file, but when he gazed over the roster for Mr. Dart's fifth session art class, he realized the likely reason for her desire to transfer out. Corry Murphy had been in that class. The worry came back to his face.
He cleared his throat, grabbed a binder from a shelf behind his desk, and said, "On second thought, I should have a few openings available." He flipped through the plastic sleeves inside the binder, and looked up at Claire. "Physical education and theater arts are the only classes with openings during fifth session."
"I already take phys ed on Tuesdays and Thursdays," Claire responded. That meant theater arts. But she was no actress.
"I'm sorry, Claire. That's all we have." He looked anxious, as though Claire might now unleash her woes about having to be in the art class that the deceased junior student once attended.
"Fine," she conceded. "I'll take theater arts. But I hope they're not doing any musicals or anything."
"Ah, I think they're doing some Shakespeare and a J. M. Barrie play this year." He replied, and started the paperwork to complete Claire's transfer, relieved that the meeting went as smoothly as it had.
* * *
Claire had to take a yellow slip to Mr. Dart to have him sign off on the transfer. This meant one last return to the art classroom. Since, classes were in session, and the hallways were empty, the walk to the vocational and technology wing went more swiftly than she expected. When she peeked her head through the door to gage the state of the room, she found that the students had their heads lowered to their work. The silence, though not out of the ordinary from any previous sessions, felt uncomfortable this time.
She edged her way to Mr. Dart's desk, where he sat looking at a coffee table book on Pre-Rafaelite artworks. Not wanting to draw the attention of her fellow students, she placed the transfer slip on the desk in front of the art teacher, and waited for him to do what he needed to do so that she could leave.
"Claire," he said a little too loudly for discretion, after he realized what she'd handed him, "I'm a little disappointed."
She looked down at the floor, not wanting him to see the shame on her face. Even if it did disappoint him, she was going through with it. She couldn't stay here, in this classroom, with the memories of Corry. No more art for her.
"Well," he continued, but started signing the paper per her request, "I'm sorry to see you go. You had potential. I hate to see you walk away from it, but . . ." He handed the slip back to her.
Claire took the paper and turned to leave. "Don't forget your portfolio," Mr. Dart reminded her.
Oh, yes, she thought, she might as well take her work with her. She moved towards the cubbyholes that were shelved along the side of the classroom. This had been the storage place for the student's portfolios. When she turned, she noticed that she had the attention of most of the students in the room. Becoming red with embarrassment, she looked straight ahead as she headed for her cubbyhole.
Her eyes met those of the Freak as she passed. His face made her halt in her path, but only for a moment, before she looked away. Instead of the boorish insolence he normally exhibited, his expression displayed a sort of grief and dejection. Whether it was for Corry or for her, or even for himself, she didn't know; but she didn't want to see it. The thought that the look
may
have been meant for her, made her angry. She didn't want anyone's compassion, and certainly had no desire for the Freak's pity.
Tucking her portfolio under her arm, Claire walked out of the classroom, and never looked back. Time to move on, she determined. If only her guilty conscience would let her let it go.
* * *
Claire finished out fifth session of her sophomore year in theater arts class, and signed up for it again during the remainder of her high school years. She didn't act in any of the theater productions, unless the cast needed an extra; but spent her time behind the scenes, creating props and constructing background scenery. She learned the ins and outs of lighting and sound, set mechanics and special effects design.
Mrs. Vandermeill, the drama teacher, felt concerned at first over the fact that Claire didn't clamor for the major roles like all of the other students in the class, but left her alone about it. Mr. Henny had counseled the woman on the reasons that her new student had moved to the class, which made her wary of dealing with Claire's reluctance.
In the end, Claire became such a pro of the stage that Mrs. Vandermeill didn't care if the girl refused to audition. She grew to be the teacher's right hand stagehand. The productions never went more smoothly than during Claire's presence there. The drama department sorely missed her after she graduated high school and left Brickerton.
I couldn't die yet. There were things I had to do. I needed to go back to work on Monday. I had to go see Laura and her new baby at Christmas. I still wanted to make my nephew like me – and prove that I wasn't a bitch.
And Corry. I had to clear Corry's name from suicide. He didn't do it. He didn't kill himself. Kain did it.
Kain did it.
My legs were ready to give out on me by the time I broke through the last of the trees. I could see the high school building in front of me, in the distance. It was so close, just down the grassy slope. I spotted the back entrance a little further away, along the building's brick walls.
Kain must not have been as fast as I thought, because I'd gotten this far and he hadn't managed to gain any more ground on me. I knew he still ran after me, though. He called my name out over and over again, like it was a curse word. The sound of it became rougher and rougher from his exertion and his ever increasing anger.
My legs burned from exhaustion and felt rubbery from overuse. I had trouble keeping one foot in front of the other. Many times in the woods I tripped over my own feet, only to catch myself before I went down. I couldn't afford to go down.