Hellhole (22 page)

“Not if it was your first time and you drank roughly the volume of Lake Michigan,” Lore said, stacking her textbooks.

Max moaned again, but by now it hurt even to moan. “So,” he said, his voice taking on a panting quality, “are we skipping out early for more house hunting?”

This garnered a quizzical look. “You're in no shape to be hunting for anything except aspirin.”

“True. But I don't have a choice. Burg is . . . not safe at home.”

“Hey, you don't have to convince me to ditch,” she said, slamming her locker. “Except I've got bio next and I've really been looking forward to stealing an organ from the frogs we've been dissecting. Can we leave right after that?”

Max hobbled down the hall after her; somehow over the course of the day he had developed a limp. “Yeah, sure. Fine.”

She pushed a door open and was deposited into a hallway with more windows than Max was equipped to handle. Yet he plunged after her anyway, throwing up his arms to deflect the glare of the Evil Sun God. “I'm thinking a spleen would be cool,” she was saying. “Or a lung. Maybe a liver, to replace the one you destroyed last night.”

“Hardy-har. How about a face, because
your
face is—it's a—”

“Are you trying to zing me?”

“Yeah, because your
face
—”

“It's not happening. See you after class.”

Left to his own devices, Max blinked a few more times against the bright light and made his way toward a glowing orange thing that turned out to be Paul.

“Hey, Paul.”

“Hey yourself.”

“Sorry I didn't come to lunch. I'm . . . not feeling great today.”

“Did you eat a bad pickle? I once ate a bad pickle and the pickle returned later that very same day—”

“Stop,” Max said, waving his hands. “Just stop.” He lowered his voice. “Hey, did you get a chance to start filling the hole yet? Up on Ugly Hill?”

Paul stared at him, his face as expressionless as ever. “What hole?”

“Oh, right,” Max said, remembering that he'd specifically instructed him not to discuss this matter at school. “Um, blink once for no or twice for yes.”

Paul started blinking and didn't stop.

“ . . . ten, eleven—I'm going to take that as a yes,” Max said, patting him on the shoulder as he made his way in the general direction of what he thought was his next class. “Thanks a lot, bud.”

He gave Paul a big, obvious wink. Paul, confused, started blinking again.

 

Max tapped his pen on his desk, contemplating the ridiculous futility of life itself, as people often do at 1:07 on a Tuesday afternoon. So many problems remained. He looked at the back of his hand, the ash mark still smeared across his skin. He rubbed at it again. It wouldn't budge.

Added to that, he was currently sitting in English lit. Compared with the trials of domesticating a satanic being, of course, Shakespeare should have been easy. But non-science courses weren't his strong suit to begin with, and he hadn't done the reading,
and
this was the worst possible class to slack in, for no other reason than it was ruled with an iron fist by the dark overlord known as Mrs. Rizzo.

A lot of kids called her Rizzo the Rat, owing to her small, pinched nose and the way she tended to scurry around the room as if she were sniffing out a nice hunk of cheese. Or perhaps it was because of her uncanny ability to detect insubordination even when the classroom was totally silent. She'd pause, lift her chin, twitch her invisible whiskers, and point a resolute finger at the poor sap who'd tried to pass a note or whisper to the student next to him. Out came the detention slip, and there went the kid's afternoon.

Max had never quite seen the fun in mocking the woman—she was just doing her job, after all, and he'd certainly never done anything to attract her wrath—but today her quirky habits were rubbing him in all the wrong places. Every fast movement she made caused him to jump, which wasn't exactly helping with the hangover headache. Each time she posed a question to the class, he gripped the edges of his desk, praying she wouldn't call on him—because with all the difficulties that had been piling up over the past few days, he hadn't read a single quatrain of
Hamlet.

Is it even in quatrains?
he wondered as he stared out the window, hoping to at least have something ready if she set her sights on him.
Or is it iambic pentameter? Wait, are those different things? I think they are. Unless Iambic Pentameter is a character. Oh shit, I don't know any of the characters. Except for Hamlet. Hamlet's a character, right? Or is Hamlet a place? It's another word for village, isn't it? Maybe there are no characters at all! IS THIS EVEN A PLAY?

“Mr. Kilgore?”

Max jerked away from the window. “Yes?”

“Eyes on the board, please.”

He tried to keep his eyes on the board. He tried to listen, too, but there were too many other thoughts fighting for space in his increasingly standing-room-only brain. As he reviewed the steps for the rest of his day, he could have sworn he heard static between his ears, a humming as each reminder whizzed past.

Avoid any teachers, principals, or other miscellaneous authority figures after class.

Speak to no one.

Casually pack up things from locker.

Go meet Lore outside.

BRING ME A HOT POCKET.

“Aaah!” Max shouted, spastically knocking his notebook to the floor.

That last thought had
not
been his. It had echoed through his head unbidden, as if someone had shouted it through a megaphone . . .

The PA system. It had to be. With a rush of relief, Max looked at the speaker above the classroom door and waited, expecting a rushed apology from Principal Gregory, explaining how some rascally hooligan had snuck into her office to pull a prank.

But after a couple of seconds Max realized that he was the only one staring at the speaker. Everyone else in the room was staring at him.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Kilgore?” Mrs. Rizzo asked, her lips pursed.

“No,” Max said. “Why?”

“You just shouted.”

“Yeah, because of the . . . the Hot Pocket thing . . .”

He looked around the room. His fellow students were staring back at him as if he'd randomly started spouting some nonsense about Hot Pockets, which, in fairness, was exactly what he had done.

“Sorry,” Max said with a wave of his hands, as if he possessed hypnotic powers to erase what he'd just said. “I thought I saw a bee.”

Mrs. Rizzo's gaze darted around the room. Finding no bee, she pursed her lips tighter, turned back to the board, and began to extol the virtues of someone called Horatio.

Max swallowed and did another visual sweep of the room. Had he really imagined the voice? It sounded so loud, but no one else seemed to have heard it.

Forget it. Whatever.
He tried to focus on his notes, but all he'd written on the page was “Hamlet is a prince,” which hardly seemed like a groundbreaking insight. He decided to listen to Mrs. Rizzo instead, jumping in just as she was saying something that ended in “ophelia,” or maybe “ophilia.”

Max wrote “Hamlet: possible hemophiliac?” in his notes.

Krissy Swanson was now reading aloud from the text, allowing Max a brief respite from the fear of being called on. He started to skim the pages, trying to get a feel for the characters—so it
was
a play, then—

HEY!
his brain blared again.
How 'bout that Hot Pocket? These arteries aren't going to clog themselves!

Max felt as if he'd been socked in the gut.

It was Burg. Burg was talking to him. Telepathically. In his head.

Go away!
Max thought hard, with every ounce of his rapidly diminishing brainpower.

Helloooo,
Burg sang impatiently
.
Paging Dr. Snowychest. Dr. Snowychest, pick up?

So Max could hear Burg's thoughts, but Burg couldn't hear his. Marvelous.

“What?” Max hissed under his breath, as quietly as he could.

Oh, there you are!
Burg said.
Listen, I ate all the Hot Pockets, but I'm still having
major goo-stuffed pastry cravings. Lemme try a couple of those Spicy Beef Nacho flavors, those sound dyspeptically delicious.

“No!” Max whispered. “I'm at school. I can't leave. I can't talk.”

But I'm staaarving,
Burg whined.
The Scooby-Doo marathon is going on hour seven and I need more muuunchies.

“I told you, I can't—”

“Mr. Kilgore? Are you paying attention?” Mrs. Rizzo was staring at him, tapping her fingers on the podium.

Max jumped. “Yes!”

Yes, you'll bring me munchies?
Burg asked.

“No,” Max answered reflexively.

Mrs. Rizzo frowned. “No, you're not paying attention?”

“No, I
am,
ma'am,” Max said, sweat oozing everywhere. Krissy Swanson had taken out her phone and was trying surreptitiously to record his demise. He gave her a dirty look and turned back to Mrs. Rizzo. “I'm listening.”

Good,
said Burg.
Now, I'll also need some refreshments. Anything in the two-liter-and-up range will do.

Max willed himself not to answer, focusing instead on the deepening crease between Mrs. Rizzo's eyes.

She scrutinized him. “Did you do the assigned reading, Mr. Kilgore?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Awesome, thanks. But stop calling me ma'am. Stick to Almighty King of the Underworld.

Mrs. Rizzo began to pace back and forth in front of the board. “Then it should be no problem for you to refresh us on who murdered the king?”

Max swallowed. “The king?”

“Yes, Hamlet's father.”

“The person,” Max said slowly, stalling, “who murdered the king. Hamlet's father.”

Claudius,
Burg answered.

Max held very still. “Huh?” he whispered without moving his lips.

Claudius killed the king.

“How do you know?”

Are you kidding me? Hell has so much Shakespeare we use it for kindling.

“Mr. Kilgore, I'm waiting.”

It was worth a shot. “Cl—Claudius?”

Mrs. Rizzo wrinkled her nose in distaste, as if smelling something awry. “Cor-
rect,
” she said with reluctance. “But tell me,
how
did Claudius murder the king?”

“How did Claudius murder the king?” Max parroted back to her.

Ear poison,
said Burg.

Max covered his mouth by pretending to scratch his cheek. “Oh, come on, don't screw with me. What's the real answer?”

“Mr. Kilgore, are you talking to yourself?” Mrs. Rizzo asked.

“No, just, um—burping.” He faked a belch. “Excuse me.”

The class snickered. Mrs. Rizzo reached for her pad of detention slips. “Mr. Kilgore, I've had just about enough of this little spectacle—”

“Ear poison!”

Max could feel his face turn so red, he probably could have passed as a devil himself. The other kids in the class were tittering now, whispering to one another and thanking the gods of high school that they could say they were there for the big What's-His-Name Meltdown of Senior Year.

Mrs. Rizzo's mouth got even smaller. “Cor-
rect,
” she said stiffly.

“Really?” Max let out a puff of disbelief—then caught himself. “I mean,
really,
Claudius? Ear poison? How fifteenth century.”

The class laughed again. Mrs. Rizzo, meanwhile, had been galvanized. Three decades of teaching had given her a sixth sense that could detect when a student was cheating, and Max's guilt was too obvious to ignore.

She planted herself two feet from his desk and loomed over him, arms crossed. “Claudius's advisor?”

“Claudius's advisor is . . .”

Polonius,
said Burg.

“Bolonius,” Max answered.

Mrs. Rizzo took a step closer, squinting as she tried to get a good look at his ears, then frowning as she failed to detect any earbuds or listening devices. “Polonius's son?”

“Polonius's son . . .”

Laertes. What's the ETA on those Hot Pockets? Spicy Beef Nacho, remember.

“Spicy—I mean, Laertes,” Max stuttered.

Mrs. Rizzo put both hands on Max's desk and leaned in, her face inches from his. “Who does Claudius send to spy on Hamlet?” she bellowed in a rush, trying to get him to crack.

“Uh, spies?”

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,
Burg said, a yawn in his voice.

“Rosenguild,” Max said shakily, the pressure getting to him. “Crantzenstern.”

A wicked smile began to sneak up the corners of Mrs. Rizzo's mouth. “And Hamlet's famous ‘To be or not to be' soliloquy—tell me, what is it that Hamlet is contemplating?”

Hey, Shovel, I'm gonna grab a little nappy-poo while you fetch my tastycakes. Catch you on the flip side. Oh, and don't you DARE try to pull one of those Lean Pocket shitmuffins on me. I'LL KNOW.

Then, silence. The staticky humming noise faded away, though Max thought he could detect the faint sound of snoring before it did.

“Mr. Kilgore?” Mrs. Rizzo prodded. “The soliloquy?”

Max stared straight at the woman, her wrinkled eye bags jiggling with the imminent joy of exposing him for the lying liar he was.

“Well,” Max said, a nervous fleck of spittle landing on his desk, “Hamlet's pretty upset, you know? About his dad dying—murdering—being murdered. Plus all that ear poison, that's really not something you want lying around the castle. And there's lots of danger of—of—”