The Screaming Season (20 page)

My forehead throbbed as if someone were stabbing me with an icicle. The center ached, deeper than bone deep, as deeply as it could go.

Celia was thrashing like a frantic animal inside me. Was this her pain or mine? Her fear? Or ours? I couldn’t tell what she wanted—to leave? To go inside?

The door opened. I couldn’t tell if I was the one who opened it. I was numb. I didn’t know if I stepped forward or if I fell on my back. I was completely disoriented.

“Death,”
Celia whispered to me.
“Do you see? Do you feel it? This is death.”

“No,”
I replied, but the word echoed inside my head. It was unbearable. I had never felt so isolated, so alone, so . . . nothing.

“Where I am,”
she said.

Then warmth hit my face and moisture beaded on my cheeks and chin. The light from the crack in the wall gleamed through the fog, which evaporated in an instant, leaving me standing in a little puddle. My blood pumped, circulating. My heart beat. I was alive.

“God,” I whispered. I heard my own voice. I swayed left, right, dizzy; I grabbed onto the wooden rail of the dumbwaiter and breathed slowly in and out. Wet fabric, and the smell of wood.

Voices drifted from the crack and I tilted my head. I thought I heard crying. I concentrated, but the sounds were just beyond my reach.

Cold poured through me again, and my eyes lost focus. Panicking, I took a step forward, toward the dumbwaiter. Celia urged me closer to the wall, forcing my feet forward. Next she tried to get me into the dumbwaiter, folding myself up, cramming myself in. I held back, and sleet washed through my lungs. I was afraid the rope would snap under my weight. But as I crawled on in, the cold lessened.

“It’s all right to admit your real feelings,” Dr. Morehouse said, over soft weeping. “This is a safe place.”

“But . . . she’s just my friend.” It was Ida. There was more weeping. “I . . . I think.”

“Do you think she may have . . . feelings for you?”

“That’s not how I was brought up,” Ida murmured. I could barely hear her. Before I realized what I was doing, I was placing my ear directly over the crack. “I mean, I have gay friends. But I’m . . . I can’t be.”

“You’d know best.” His voice was soothing. “And . . . would it be so awful?”

“Why do you keep asking me if it’s true?” she asked. “If it’s not so awful, why do you care so much if we’re—if she’s . . . ” She trailed off.

“You just seemed very tense when you walked in. And the first thing you talked about is Claire.”

“She had a fright today.
Oh.
”

“‘Oh’?”

“She doesn’t want . . . she asked me not to talk about it.”

“Really? Why?”

Harvard,
I thought, biting my lower lip.
Ida, shut up.

“I don’t know.” A pause. “Oh, because I think she wants to talk to you about it herself.”

Her voice was falsely bright. She was trying to flatter him.

“But she confided in
you
.” A pause as well. “Because you’re special to her. Her special friend.”

“Well, I’m her
best
friend.”

“It’s okay, Ida.”

“But I don’t feel that way about her. Honestly.” I could hear the edginess returning to her voice. She was on the verge of tears again.

“What if I told you that Claire herself has indicated that she feels that way?” My mouth dropped open. I had been to enough therapists to know that what he was doing was completely and totally unethical. What a patient said to a therapist was confidential. And you sure didn’t
hint
about what another patient might or might not have said in a session.

“Would that make you feel safer?” His voice was gentle, kind. “Before you answer, please understand that I would never, ever divulge anything Claire said to me when she’s in this office. Nor would I tell her what you said. But what did you feel just now, when you thought she might have told me that she’s attracted to you?”

“Um,” Ida said.

“Hopeful? Shocked? Happy?”

“I don’t remember how I felt.”

“Just a few seconds ago. How did that strike you, Ida? Shall we try counting backward again? That seemed to help before.” There was a long silence.

“You won’t tell anyone what I say.”

“No, of course not. Never.”

“Not for college placement, or anything like that.”

“It’s confidential. I promise.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now, here’s a light. Let’s put it on the wall and look into it. You’re walking along a path ... ”

Geraniums. The smell of the ocean.

“Ten.”

Seagulls calling overhead.

“Nine.”

The warmth of the sand between my toes.

“Eight.”

The rolling waves.

I CAME TO as I was leaving the building. Celia, if she was still with me, was quiet. I felt . . . content. Calm. It was puzzling, but I would take it. I was so often
not
content or calm.

The fog rolled along with me like churning waves as I headed back to the dorm. Everyone was getting ready for bed. Ms. Krige had said good night and shut her door. That was the signal to pop the cork on a bottle of Cristal champagne to celebrate Julie’s captainship.

We got a little wasted, and then one by one, people dropped off to sleep. Ida, who had arrived a few minutes after I had, stuck close to Claire. Claire, announcing that she was too freaked to stay in her own room, went off to sleep in Ida’s room.

“Yeah, baby, I kissed a girl and I liked it!” Elvis whispered loudly after them.

“Do you think they’re, y’know, girlfriends?” Julie sipped more champagne. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Don’t know. But I’m totally jealous.” Elvis thrust out her lower lip. “I want Ida for myself.”

“You do not!” Julie cried, scandalized.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Elvis drawled.

I waited Julie out. It was easy; she was tired from her tryouts and the champagne went straight to her head. Throwing back the covers, I quickly dressed in the dark clothes I had laid out—black sweater, knitted cap, jeans, Doc Martens, and my army jacket. I scooted into the bathroom, avoiding the mirrors and shiny tiles, racing to the window that we always kept slightly open. I climbed up on the wicker laundry hamper and pushed up the sill, gazing out in surprise.

The fog was worse. It had completely filled the bowl of our campus, white on white on white. Layers of it, blankets of it, thick as cream. I couldn’t see a thing, not even Jessel or the trees of Academy Quad. The boulder that we used to climb down from the window had sunk into the murk of liquid porcelain. As I hovered on the ledge, I felt my resolve evaporate. The last time the fog had poured over us like this, I had wound up in lockdown with pneumonia.

Payback for Troy,
I thought.
And answers. I am going.

I extended my leg into the fog, feeling with my toes for the rock face. I found it and eased myself onto it. I tried to ignore the images of hands waiting to grab me, of someone with a knife, a hammer, or an ice pick. Or ghost girls, shrieking in rage because I was alive and they were not.

I kept one hand on the rock, trying to orient myself. In times past, Celia had guided me through the fog and darkness, but now, as I braced myself to feel her presence, there was nothing.

Then someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I jerked hard, stumbling into the fog. They laid a hand on my forearm. Judging by the size, I figured it was a girl’s hand.

“Mandy?” I whispered.

“Sssh,” the voice answered, tugging gently at me.

Freaking out, I reached out my hands to find the boulder. I was going to forget the whole thing and go back inside my dorm.

Except . . . I couldn’t find the boulder.

I couldn’t understand it. I hadn’t moved that far away from it. It should be at most two steps away . . .

Adrenaline shot through me as I began to panic. Swallowing my impulse to pant, I kept my ears open for the sounds of someone nearby. My mysterious escort. It had to be Mandy.

The wind picked up and thinned the mists. I could see a few feet in all directions, and I had to stifle a grunt as I saw that somehow, I had managed to squeeze behind the boulder, as if I had deliberately hidden behind it. I looked everywhere, seeing nothing but the curling white billows, some pine trees, and the horse-head-lined paths.

“You freak,” I said loudly. “Forget it.”

“Oh, come on, can’t you take a joke?” Mandy said, bounding from behind the nearest tree.

She laughed and pointed at me and then at herself, voguing a bit with one gloved hand on her hip and sucking her cheeks in tight. She was dressed like me, from the black sweater to a black cap with a bill. But where I had on absolutely no makeup and had made a point of doing nothing with my hair but stuffing it into my cap, she had on tons of smoky, glimmery makeup and her hair hung in buoyant, fat curls around her shoulders.

It hadn’t dawned on me until that moment that Troy might still be undecided about his decision to break up with us. We looked like Fashion Woman and her schlumpy sidekick, Emo Girl. He’d be playing against type if he picked me.

Not that I wanted him to, much.

“I can take a joke from anyone but you,” I retorted.

She took my hand and swung it playfully. Then she began to trot through the fog as if she could see perfectly well. I was afraid we were going to break our necks.

“You should have saved me some champagne.” The running was making her breathless. “I love champagne.”

“Jeez, Mandy, were you spying on us?”

“Why not? You spy on me.” She waggled my hand. “Let’s not argue. We’re having an adventure.”

I forced the air out of my cheeks.

We galloped down the path that led to the lake, Mandy in the lead. I was beginning to tense up. Many times, I had looked into that lake and seen someone else’s reflection—Celia. And I had seen Mandy bent over the water, arguing with Belle. We were here together. What if Celia and Belle came out to play?

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” I said.

She cupped my cheek. “We’re not going to let them win.” Her smile was faint, but I found myself responding to it. It was incredible; I’d been on the receiving end of so much abuse from her. I’d seen her humiliate girls willing to endure just about anything for the long shot of being her friend; she’d ridicule them over their weight and their clothes. But now, when she smiled, I warmed to her. I didn’t want to. It just... happened.

And I smiled back.

She fluttered her lashes. “You like me. You really, really like me.”

“Yeah-huh.” It was the best I could manage.

I noticed she kept looking at me as we skirted the water’s edge. I saw the rowboat—it was one of Lakewood’s castoffs, white with
LAKEWOOD
painted in dark green. It was wide, with three wood benches, one in the center, for rowing, and one on either side, for more passengers. Green and white oars lay on the floor, plus two orange life preservers and a silver flask. The initials MCW were scrolled on the side.

“Miles Clemson Winters,” she said, following my line of vision. “My great-grandfather.”

“Is Miles named after him?”

“Yes. Poor thing. No one’s supposed to know that he was a baker.” She snorted. “Didn’t own a bakery, didn’t create some amazing recipe, didn’t discover oil on his property. Didn’t make millions. Made cakes. Died.”

“Is that on his gravestone?”

She opened the flask, took a swig, and handed it to me. “Single-malt scotch,” she told me. “It’ll keep you warm at night, pumpkin.”

I sipped. It was like drinking fire.

She stuck out her hand, gesturing for me to hang on to her while she climbed into the boat. She kept her stance wide, like a seasoned sailor, then eased down onto the bench.

“Cast us off,” she ordered.

SEVENTEEN

I LOOKED AT the white rope wrapped around the no-trespassing sign. Mandy wanted me to untie it, then hop into the rowboat.

I loomed over her. “Shouldn’t you do this? You’re the one with the experience.”

“I’m already sitting down,” she said sweetly.

I reached out with my boot and pushed on the side of the boat. To my delight, it rocked, and Mandy splayed out her arms for purchase. I laughed at her. Then I did untie the line and hop in, sitting on the bench in front of her, facing her.

“You’re supposed to help me row,” she protested as she grabbed one of the oars with both hands and slid it into the brass oarlock.

“I’m already sitting down.” I took another swig from the flask.

She frowned at me and reached for the other oar. I made no move to help her. “The bottle that came from,” she said as she fitted the oar into the lock, “would pay for three months of your tuition.”

“You can afford it.”

“Yes, we can.” She reached for it and took a swig.