The Fever (6 page)

It made her head hurt, and she put it all away in a high corner of her thoughts, where she wouldn't have to look at it for a while.

After the bath, she sprawled on her bed and opened her history book and read about ancient Egypt.

Mr. Mendel had told them that Cleopatra may have been a virgin when she smuggled herself in a hemp sack to meet Julius Caesar. Giving herself to him was pivotal to her rise to power.

The book explained how Cleopatra first enticed Mark Antony by dropping one of her pearl earrings into a wine goblet. As it dissolved, she swallowed while he watched.

Deenie read the passage three times, trying to imagine it. She wasn't sure why it was sexy, but it was. She could picture the pearly rind on the queen's lips.

In class, Skye said she'd read something online about how Cleopatra used diaphragms made of wool and honey, and a paste of salt, mouse droppings, honey, and resin for a morning-after pill, both of which seemed maybe worse than being pregnant.

Deenie wondered how it all came to pass, the virgin–turned–seductress–turned–sorceress of her own body.

She thought for a second about the snap of the condom Sean Lurie had used and she covered her face with her book, squeezing her eyes tight until she forced it out of her head.

By ten o'clock, she'd read all forty of the assigned pages, plus ten extra.

At some point, she could hear Eli in his room, his phone and computer making their noises, Eli clearing his throat.

Once, a few weeks ago, she'd heard a girl's voice in there and wondered if it was porn on the computer until she could tell it wasn't. She heard the voice say Eli's name.
E-liiii.

She'd turned her music as loud as she could, held her hands to her ears, even sang to herself, eyes clamped shut. She hoped he heard her fling off her Ked so hard it hit the wall. She hoped he remembered she was here.

Tonight, though, the house was hushed. She was so glad for it she didn't even feel bad about not calling her mom back. And when her dad knocked good night and said he loved her, she made sure he heard her reply.

“Me too. Thanks, Dad.”

At midnight, she felt her phone throb under her hand.

The picture of Gabby from when she had that magenta streak in her hair.

“Hey, girl.”

“Hey, girl,” Gabby said, a slur to her voice. “I just fell asleep. I dreamed it was tomorrow and she was back. Lise. She was laughing at us.”

“Laughing at us?” Deenie said. She wondered if Gabby was still sleeping. She sounded funny, like her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Why?”

“I don't know. It was a dream,” Gabby said. “When I woke up, I thought maybe something happened. Maybe she called you.”

Deenie paused, wondering how Gabby could ever think that. But Gabby hadn't been to the hospital. Hadn't seen Lise, seen her mom. Hadn't heard all that talk about the heart, Lise's heart. Deenie pictured it now, like a bruised plum in her mom's hand.

“No,” Deenie said, carefully. “I don't think it's going to be that quick.”

“I know,” Gabby said, her voice sludgy and strange. “Listen, I'll see you tomorrow, Deenie.”

“Okay,” Deenie said. She wanted to say something more, but she couldn't guess what it would be. Then she remembered something. “Gabby, what was the rumor?”

There was a pause and for a second she thought Gabby had fallen asleep.

“What?” she finally said.

“This morning, before everything, you said you heard something about me.”

“I did?” she said, voice faraway. “I don't remember that at all.”

Wednesday

When he woke up,
Eli thought for a second that he was on the ice. Felt his feet in his skates, legs pushing down, grinding the blades hard. His chest cold and full. This happened sometimes.

It was still dark when he left the house for practice. It always was, and he never minded.

He rode his bike through the town, swooping under the traffic lights, counting the number of times the red signals would blink and no one would be there to stop.

It took him a long time to remember everything that happened the day before.

Morning practice felt like part of the dream and he woke up after, in the locker-room shower, his legs loosening and the heat gusting around him, his body finally stopping and his mind slowly rousing. Remembering all the things he'd forgotten.

“Principal Crowder's having a very bad time,” Mrs. Harris whispered to Tom as he strolled through the administration office. “He can't get any information on Lise Daniels, and parents keep calling.”

“Well,” he said, reaching for his mail, “I'm sure Crowder's state of mind isn't a big concern for Lise's mom.”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Harris said. “But it would help us to know. To calm everyone down. When something happens in front of students…”

Tom nodded. He was looking at an interoffice memo:
Spring Will Spring (Soon!): A Morning Concert. All Faculty Expected to Attend.

“So this is still happening today?” he asked. A picture came to him of Lise, rosebud lips perched on her silver flute, at the last recital, at every recital since fifth grade. She used to practice on a plastic water bottle.
You pretend like you're spitting a watermelon seed
, he once heard her tell Deenie, and they both giggled. All the talk of tonguing and fingering and the two girls laughing without even knowing why. These days, they didn't laugh about any of that—a thought that made Tom nervous to ponder.

“Of course,” Mrs. Harris said. Everything with her was
Of course
and
Of course not
. “They've been practicing for weeks.”

Tom looked at the concert flyer, the graphic of the drunken music note swimming through flower petals.

Driving Deenie to school that morning, he'd felt the exhaustion on her, and a watchfulness. The waiting—which felt like it could end in a second or never, like waiting for all things out of your hands—seemed so weighty on her, her body so tiny next to him, her shoulders sunken.

Maybe a distraction was what she needed, what everyone needed.

“So you still have to play?” Deenie asked. “Without Lise?”

They were in the frigid girls' room, the high window always propped open. It was as if the school thought girls gave off so much heat and pungency that constant ventilation was required.

“I guess,” Gabby said from behind a stall. She was changing from her jeans into her long performance skirt. “I think they want to do it.”

“They should do it,” Kim Court said, appearing from a corner stall. Kim again, like a bad penny. “For Lise. To send good thoughts to her.”

Combing her fingers through her hair, Deenie didn't say anything.

“Deenie,” Gabby said, her voice echoey from behind the door, “do you ever feel like something bad is about to happen, but you don't know what?”

“What do you mean?” Deenie said. Bad things, for her, were always a gruesome surprise.

“I bet Lise never guessed what would happen to her,” Kim said, shaking her head. “Whatever happened to her.”

“Maybe she did,” Deenie said, always wanting to disagree with Kim. “Like when you're about to get your period, or when Lise got mono that time. The whole week before, she kept saying her neck felt thick.”

“Yeah,” Gabby said. Her voice sounded funny, like on the phone last night. Slow and soupy. “I felt a little like that this morning. Last night. My head felt so heavy.”

Deenie turned and faced Gabby's stall, but she couldn't think of anything to say.

“I know just what you mean,” Kim said, nodding fervently, as if Gabby could see her. “I feel funny too.” She leaned toward the mirror, examining herself. “My teeth even hurt.”

Deenie watched her. Kim's big tusks crowding her mouth. Guys called her the Horse, her braces elaborate, like the inside of your phone if you break it. Deenie wished she could feel sorry for her, but Kim made it impossible.

“We'll get good news today,” Deenie said. “Our girl's strong.”

“It's so messed up,” Kim said, standing in front of Gabby's stall to make sure she could hear. “Lise should be on that stage with you today, Gabby.”

Gabby opened the stall so quickly she almost hit Kim in the face.

Her performance shirt bright white, the hem of her dark skirt swirling at her feet, she was holding her vibrating phone open in her palm, staring at the flashing screen.

No one said anything for a second, Kim squirming a little.

Then Deenie's phone chirped, and less than a second later, Kim's squawked.

The texts seemed to come from three or four friends at the same time.

“Health department?” Kim said. “Why…”

Gabby curled her fingers around her phone and looked at Deenie.

Kim was saying something else, but Deenie wasn't listening.

When Tom walked into first period that morning, the students were arrayed in little clumps of speculation. The back corner, the windowsill, the deep resin lab sinks. Bowed over their phones, a pinwheel of purple, pink, mesh, leopard, all their slick cases.

“Phones off and out of sight,” he said. “Let's go.”

Herding them through the hallways took a long time, all the last-minute stops at lockers, and a notebook slipped from sweaty hands, careering down the stairwell and making everyone jump.

But once they arrived, everything changed.

The solemnity of the auditorium always did something to students. Lights dimmed, you couldn't see the water-stained ceiling, didn't notice the squeaking risers. The darkened space, all the guffaws and giggles brought low, to hushes and the odd screech. The stage lit a soft purple. The formal way student musicians always sat, their eyes locked on their easels or on Mr. Timmins, the sweaty, loose-shirttailed music teacher.

There was the feeling of something important about to occur, made all the more important by the circumstances of the day before. It all felt a little like church.

Instead of promoting a tentative freshman to Lise's second chair, Mr. Timmins had decided, in some gesture of something, to do without, leaving Lise's folding chair conspicuously empty. Its black metal base seemed to catch all the light on the stage. You couldn't take your eyes off it.

The music began, the dirge-y strain of “Scarborough Fair,” which felt anything but springlike. Tom only hoped this number had been planned all along and wasn't a hasty replacement in honor of Lise.
She's in the hospital, for God's sake,
he thought,
she's not dead.

Eyes wandering, he saw Eli standing in the back by himself, looking at his phone. A pair of long-necked freshman girls in front of him kept wiggling in their seats, trying to catch his attention. The kid could not manage it better if he was trying, Tom thought. The less interested he was, the harder they tried, their faces red and stimulated.

Up front, he saw Deenie, her ponytail slipping loose, seated beside Skye Osbourne, with her great swoop of platinum hair. He'd never known Skye to show up for any school event, mandatory or otherwise. The drama of the day seemed to take all comers.

He imagined Deenie's eyes were mostly on the empty chair, but maybe also on Gabby, the cello between her legs, a long skirt of dark violet lace, a floodlight at her feet.

Maybe it was the lights but her cheekbones looked touched with violet too. Her grave face and dark hair, the sound of the music, the captured angst of the students—so ready for angst anyway and now with the ripest of occasions—it made everything feel even more heightened.

He felt a stirring in his chest, and looking at Deenie, her slight neck arched up, he wanted to put his hands on her shoulders and promise her something.

Deenie liked being in the auditorium, like the bottom of a deep coat pocket, the warm hollow at the center of the quilt on the sofa in the den.

There had only been a few moments for her to think about the texts, the idea of the health department—what was a health department, anyway? What exactly did it do?—on the premises, investigating something. She wondered if they would want to talk to her. She'd been a witness, after all.

She pictured Nurse Tammy, her face struck with alarm, forearm wet with Lise's spit. Lise, face a vivid red, like she'd been painted. Deenie had been a witness, but she wasn't sure what she'd been a witness to.

“Can I sit here?”

Deenie looked up and, squinting, saw Skye through the spotlights, a blaze of white.

“Okay,” Deenie said, pulling her bag from the cushion. “You never come to things.”

Slinking into the seat, she shrugged. “Mr. Banasiak hooked me. And I was worried about Gabby. She's not feeling good.”

Deenie looked at her, about to ask her what she meant, but then the lights dimmed again and the music rose up and she shook it loose from her head, turning to face the stage.

At first, she could only watch Lise's empty chair, but then she stopped.

But then “The Sound of Silence” began and she looked over at Gabby, who was staring off to one side of the stage, waiting to play.

When her cue came, Gabby lifted her white hand and it fluttered across the cello like a bird as her bow dipped and turned, the other hand bouncing and snapping against its neck.

Her eyes were focused straight ahead, into the back of the auditorium, into nothing.

Eli looked up suddenly from his phone, a shiver between his shoulder blades.

The music was so bleak and he'd been trying not to listen, but when he saw Gabby on the stage, and she looked so focused, so intent, he was impressed.

Most times when he skated he felt like that, like there was no one else on the ice.

The only sound, the puck clinking on the post, thunking against the boards.

He would fix his eyes like hers were fixed. He would look toward the net with such intensity nothing could stop him from getting what he wanted.

Tom wasn't sure of the moment Gabby's neck started to dip back because at first it felt like part of the performance, her knotted brow, her hand vibrating on the slender fingerboard, everything.

It started with her chin, then her whole jaw.

He watched as Gabby's face started to tremble, and then, the way the light hit, it was like her face itself was bending.

Her chair skidded loudly, her neck thrown back so far that, in the darkness, it looked like her head had disappeared. For one terrifying instant, gone.

The cello still tight between her clenched legs, she lifted herself upright again, her face flushed.

Mr. Timmins had dropped his baton and was moving toward her, and Tom saw Deenie jump to her feet in the front row.

It's the same thing, Deenie thought, feeling herself rise, it's happening again. It's the same thing, the same time, the same everything.

She felt her legs hurtle up the steps, the stage lights hot on her.

Her dad seemed to be behind her in an instant, hands on her shoulders.

Mr. Timmins was leaning over Gabby, still in her chair, her legs twisted around its legs, its rubber feet clacking on the stage floor.

She was holding on to the cello and smiling oddly.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her face like a flame. “I'm sorry.”

Tom had one hand on his daughter as the other band members, instruments in hand, were closing in on Gabby.

Gasps, brass clattering on the floor, one girl tripping over herself, nearly teetering off the foot of the stage.

“Back everyone,” Tom said, arms out. “Stand back.”

Without thinking, he pushed Deenie back too.

Somewhere, a camera flashed, then another. Girls with their phones tucked in their long velvet skirts.

“Stop that!” shouted Mr. Timmins.

“Gabby, honey,” Tom said, leaning down in front of her. “Are you okay?”

There was something like a film over her eyes, like she might be about to cry.

Then her neck seemed to jolt back with such force he expected to hear a pop, her body surrendering to thunderous motion, every limb shuddering and her torso slumping to the right.

He and Mr. Timmins gripped her, locking her between their arms, Mr. Timmins trying to take the cello from her.

“I'm okay,” she said, dropping the cello at last, hand over her mouth.

“Dad,” Tom heard a voice behind him say. “Dad.”