Reckoning (12 page)

“
Please
, Rachel,” I plead. “I can’t walk in there by myself. I’ll feel like a total idiot.”

Finally, she looks at me, a reassuring smile spreading across her face. “It’ll be fine, Kat. Really. There’ll be plenty of people there you know, so it’s not like you’ll be completely on your own.”

“Yeah, but nobody I would even
think
about hanging out with. Come on, Rachel.
Please, please, please
.” I look at her in desperation.

“All
riiight
,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll go!”

“Thanks, Rach. I love you.” I tilt my head, presenting her with my most endearing smile.

“Shut up.” She turns her lip up in disgust, but I can see the laughter in her eyes, hear it in her voice, just waiting to bubble to the surface.

I stare at the passing traffic, my mind racing ahead to Saturday. And all its possible complications and outcomes.

“I know what you’re doing,” Rachel says, braking at a red light. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Analyzing!” She shoves my shoulder playfully. “Just go with it! It’ll be great. I’ll come over Saturday and help you get ready. We’ll do something special with your hair. You’ll be
gorgeous
, dahling.”

I smile, wishing I had her confidence.

“And you know what makes it even better?” she asks.

“What?”

“Saturday’s your birthday. And you have a date with Rick. Happy birthday to
you
!”

“It’s not a date! It’s just a party!” I protest, but can’t suppress the feeling of glee starting to spread through me. Giving in, I burst into laughter. “Happy birthday to
me
!”

Rachel joins in, giving me a high five.

“By the way, how was antiques shopping with your sexy neighbor?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

The feeling of elation that had been surging through me immediately starts to subside, replaced by the tension that always accompanies thoughts of Lovell. A part of me resents the question, wishing she hadn’t asked. “It was fine. No big deal.” I don’t look at her when I answer, worried that she’ll see through my lie.

I feel her eyes on me; sense the unspoken question. But whatever she’s thinking, she keeps it to herself and starts talking about what I should wear and how to fix my hair.

I’m relieved because the last thing I want to talk about is Lovell.

After the final bell rings on Thursday afternoon, I hang out in the library for a good fifteen or twenty minutes before heading upstairs to junior hallway. I want the mass exodus that signals the end of the school day to subside, the crowded stairwells and hallways to dwindle to just a few lone stragglers. The mere fact that I’m doing this feels awkward enough. I don’t need an audience, as well. As I slowly climb the stairs, the thought crosses my mind that Rick may have forgotten all about it, or grown impatient and left after the first ten minutes.

Ascending the last step, I turn the corner and gaze down the length of corridor. A handful of people linger by their lockers; two girls sit crossed-legged on the floor, pecking away at their laptops; a group of boys huddle in conversation at the far end. The afternoon sun shines brightly through the floor to ceiling windows to my left, casting long shadows across the dull gray carpet. Two girls whose faces I know, but names I can’t remember, walk briskly past, too absorbed in their own conversation to notice me. I bite my bottom lip, and take several steps forward. Near the end of the hallway, I can see a tousled blonde head bending towards the floor. Rick. My stomach clenches in an odd combination of relief and excitement. He is pulling notebooks and papers out of his locker, stuffing them into a backpack at his feet. I glance around nervously, half expecting PJ to suddenly materialize and adhere herself to his side.

Taking a deep breath, I advance down the hallway, my fingers clutched so tightly around my notebook its sharp edge digs into my palm.

“Hi, Rick,” I say softly, stopping a few feet from him. He looks amazing, in low-slug faded jeans and a layered gray and white t-shirt.

He turns, his lips curving into a smile. “Hey, Kat! Cool. You came by. I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”

Not likely,
I think. “I was just waiting for everybody to clear out. You know what it’s like at the end of the day.”

“Yeah. It gets pretty crazy.”

I glance at his bulging backpack. “Cleaning out your locker?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “I can’t believe how much I actually managed to stuff in here. I think I’ve still got papers from back in September.” He pulls out a mangled and creased sheet of lined notebook paper filled with mathematical equations. “Oops. I think I was supposed to turn that in.” He turns to me and grimaces. “Calculus.”

“A little late now.”

“We’ll just forget that was in there,” he gives me a conspiratorial wink and stuffs the paper in his bag. “So anyway, here’s the map.” He pulls another sheet of paper from his locker, pale green with dark blue lettering, and hands it to me. “It’s pretty easy to find. But if you have any questions, my number’s there on the bottom.”

Summer Kick-off
, I read.
Saturday May 30
^th
. 7-11 pm.
There is a small map in the left corner and a phone number on the right. A faint image of balloons and fireworks cover the middle.

“It starts at seven,” he says, “but usually everybody shows up between seven-thirty and eight. But you’re welcome to come anytime you want.”

“Thanks,” I say, still hardly believing this is happening. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yeah, me too.” He smiles and nods, gazing at me for a moment, like he wants to say more. But he turns back to his locker.

“Can I bring anything…you know, like soda or dessert or something?” I ask.

“No. Just yourself. There’ll be tons of food and drinks and all that stuff. So just come and have a good time. But you’re welcome to bring a friend, if you want.”

“OK. Thanks” I pause, unsure what else to say. “So I guess I’ll see you there.”

“Awesome.” He pauses, then starts to say, “You don’t….” when his cell phone rings, a dull, muted sound emanating from his backpack. He glances at the bag then back at me as if unsure whether or not to answer it.

“Go ahead,” I say quickly, suddenly feeling awkward. “I have to go, anyway.” I can’t be sure, but I think he looks disappointed.

“OK. I’ll see you later then.” He smiles and extracts his phone, placing it to his ear. “Hey, dude. What’s up?”

I head back down the corridor, the sound of Rick’s voice fading as I carefully fold the flyer into a neat square. I don’t notice at first, but it slowly starts to dawn on me that all the other students I had seen just moments ago have left. The place feels empty, deserted. I know I can’t have talked to Rick for more than two minutes, yet there’s not a soul in sight. It makes me feel slightly off, as though there’s a chunk of time I can’t account for.

Turning to the stairs, I shrug off my uneasiness, and think about Rick. I feel light and bouncy, like I want to skip and twirl and tell everyone I’m going to his party. I can’t remember the last time I felt this elated. Maybe when I was six and saw the ocean for the first time. Or when I was fourteen and got my braces off. But even that doesn’t compare. This is different. I feel giddy and powerful, my blood coursing, racing through my veins, filled with an unexpected energy. I feel like I could run for miles; go out to the track and leap hurdles; head to the mountains and hike the tallest peak.

And suddenly, I crash. My bubble of happiness bursts, exploding into a thousand pieces that float away and disappear like sparks from a flame. An eerie silence descends, the familiar prickling moving up the back of my neck. The air grows colder and goose bumps race across my body. My stomach clenches. I take two steps up and look down the hallway. Rick is still in front of his locker, tossing notebooks and papers into his backpack with one hand, keeping his cell phone pressed to his ear with the other. The silence presses down, thick and heavy. My heart begins hammering in my chest, and I fight an onrush of panic. I don’t know what is happening, but something is very wrong.

A sharp pain shoots through my head and I squeeze my eyes shut, reaching out to the wall for support. But my hand grasps only air. Opening my eyes, I stare in disbelief. The hallway is lengthening, elongating into a distorted tunnel of classroom doors and gray metal lockers. The fluorescent lights overhead waver in and out of focus. My pulse pounds in my ears, and with a sickening feeling of weightlessness I stare at Rick, the only spot of color in the vast length of the hallway. Surely he notices. Sees and feels what I do. But he just continues clearing out his locker, talking on the phone.

What is happening?
This isn’t possible. It can’t be. It’s just an hallucination. My mind playing tricks on me again. Only this time, it’s much worse.

I turn, knowing I have to get out before I scream, or get sick or do something else humiliating.

Without warning, the weightless feeling disappears, replaced by a pressing heaviness. I feel as though I’m trying to move through water with weights on my arms and legs. My muscles scream in protest and it takes every bit of energy I have to stay upright.

I make it down three steps before I hear it: The whispering. The soft, sibilant hiss that slowly grows in volume.

No. Not now. Please…

I stop and close my eyes, panting like I’ve just run a sprint. This can’t happen now. It just can’t. I tell myself to keep walking. Ignore it. Get out of the building and find Rachel. But I can’t. I’m frozen in place, my feet locked on the stairs. Against my will my head turns to the wall of windows. I know what I will see.

She is there, at the edge of the athletic field, turning and spinning, her dress vivid pink swirls of incandescent color in the afternoon sun. As I watch, my eyes riveted on the glass, she starts spinning faster, the whispering in my ears becoming a rush of words and phrases that I can’t understand. My breath comes in erratic gasps and I feel as though I’m being sucked into a black hole. The girl draws closer, twirling in a dizzying maelstrom of pink and white. The edges around her begin glowing, a strange, sparkling silver. I stare, my eyes growing wider.

This isn’t happening.

The girl rises, lifting off the ground, spinning toward the windows, closer and closer, rising up to the second floor. I’m mesmerized, unable to tear my eyes away. I know I should leave, get down the stairs, break the spell. But I can’t move. I watch in horror, petrified, as she spins toward the window. In moments, she will break through the glass. Then everyone will know. Know what a freak Katriona Matheson is. Even if they can’t see the girl, they will see the destruction that no one but me could be responsible for.

I clench my fists and the edges of the flyer cut into my hand.

Rick.

Oh, God. Rick is just down the hall.

I start to feel dizzy and lightheaded, the rushing vacuum of noise in my ears throwing off my equilibrium. The girl is only feet from the window. I have to go now.

NOW!

Groaning with the effort, I turn my head away, grabbing the stair railing for support. I can feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead and neck. I try to move my legs, but they’ve become lead weights. I cringe, waiting for the sound of shattering glass.

The whispering and hissing coalesces into words. Bits and pieces. Disjointed fragments that make no sense.

“…cannot deny…”

“…the time…”

“…begins…”

I bite back the cry that threatens to escape from my lips. It’s too much. I can’t take it any longer. The temperature grows colder and colder, the pressure in my head building to the point I think it will burst from the intensity. My knees begin to buckle and I fall against the railing. The edges of my vision start to go black.

Then I hear it. Faint at first, but gaining in volume. It comes from a distance, growing closer and closer. A rushing sound, like air being sucked into a tube. I feel a breeze brush gently against the back of my head. Then silence. Abrupt and sudden.

The temperature returns to normal, the icy chill disappearing as quickly as it came. The heaviness that had permeated the atmosphere, pressing on every muscle and bone in my body, vanishes. The hissing whisper stops, as if someone flipped a switch on a static-filled radio.

I take a shaky breath and open my eyes. Sweat glistens on my wrists and trickles down my neck and chest. I glance warily towards the hallway, but it has returned to normal. My gaze slides reluctantly to the window. It is intact. The girl is gone. I take two trembling steps up, peering across what I can see of the parking lot and athletic field. Nothing. Just a boy running sprints across the freshly mown grass; a teacher headed to his car. The sun reflects off cars and windows. Fluffy cumulus clouds build to the west, the jagged peaks of the mountains dark against the billowing whiteness.

Something flashes to my left, like sunlight glinting off metal. Silver, bright and sparkling, then it’s gone.

Sighing, I lean against the railing. I feel sick and nauseous. I have to get downstairs. If Rick sees me like this, I’ll have no way of explaining. Peeling my hands off the cold metal, I take a deep breath and start unsteadily down the stairs. My legs are shaking and I’m having trouble focusing. The flyer that I had so carefully folded is now crumpled and wrinkled. Smoothing it out, I slip it into my shoulder bag.

Then someone shoves me from behind. A hard, bruising blow to the middle of my back that sends me sprawling forward, tumbling down the last of the stairs.

I open my eyes to find Mr. Dawson bent over me, his dark brows creased with worry. Shoving his eyeglasses to the top of his head he looks at me in shock. “Oh, my God! Kat! Are you alright?”

I rise up on one elbow, wincing as the muscles in my back scream in protest. “Um, yeah. I’m fine,” I mumble, confusion and fear jockeying for position in my brain.

“What happened? Did you trip?”

I look from Mr. Dawson to the stairs, unsure how to answer. Should I tell him I was pushed? What would be the point? I can’t prove it. Better to just let him think I’m clumsy, too uncoordinated to safely make it down the stairs. “I guess I must have,” I say. Then, just to confirm what I already know, I ask, “Was there…anyone…behind me?” A small part of me hopes he will say yes. That he will say Stephanie. Or PJ. Someone,
anyone
, whom I can blame. But I know he won’t.