The Shells Of Chanticleer (19 page)

“I’m sorry, Bing,” I said after we had pulled through the gates and were safely away on the main road. They hadn’t locked the gates; they had let us get away. “I hope you don’t get in trouble, but I couldn’t do it. I cannot be alone with that man.”

Bing looked at me, no surprise registering on his face.

“We know, Macy. That’s why we sent you there. You have been pinging about Sinclair for a while now. Time to get over it.”

Shoot. Darn it.
Of course they would make me face Sinclair if they knew I was afraid of him. They were always one step ahead of me. Was there a printout of my thoughts in those files Ms. Clarice was always looking at? Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned my fear of Sinclair in that crowded town square. There were staff people all over and someone had heard me. Obviously I needed to be more careful with what I said in public.

“Is there any privacy in this place?”

“Not so much. As soon as you harbor a fear you will be forced to confront it.”

“Did I create that scene on my own, Bing?”

“Sure did. You make it so easy for them,” he sighed. “Do you get it now?”

“But I can’t help it with Sinclair. He gives me the creeps.”

“Crispin? Why?”

Again, no one understood why that man bothered me. Why was it just me? “Because of the shells. They creep me out. I keep thinking of him wanting a shell of me.”

“It doesn’t hurt to become a shell. And your hair would float beautifully,” he said, taking his eyes off the road to glance at my waves.

“I don’t want to be one,” I protested.

“There’s little chance of that now. Apart from today, you’re doing great on your coursework. Unless something drastic happens, I can’t see you failing at this point.”

“That’s good. I think the shells are disgusting. You said it yourself that they were terrible. Terrible beauties you called them.”

“I know that opinion is out there, but I don’t think they are terrible. I think they can be terribly beautiful, which is a nuance. In fact, what if I told you that some of us think it’s a shame that we only make shells of our failures when we have so many beautiful success stories here?”

I didn’t understand. “Bing stop. You are not making any sense.”

“What if someone wanted a shell of you just because it would be pretty to look at?”

I wanted to scream. “Are you demented? Who would do that?”

“Well, others that don’t feel the same as you,” he said. “But can you imagine, for a minute, the idea of nice looking shells to remember people you liked? What about a shell of Paolo? Wouldn’t you like to see that, now that he’s gone?”

I was so against the idea I couldn’t speak. No, I didn’t want to see Paolo looking like a hard-boiled egg. I was happy to remember him alive and warm. “What would I do with that? Hang him over my fireplace? I’m against it totally. I have to deal with it at my own home, with Balthazar, and all those creepy animals in the hallways. What is it with you people?”

“Calm down.” Bing was raising his voice. “But what is so wrong for wanting to capture something that is pretty but fleeting?”

“Dipping someone into that big tank, getting them all wet while they have no idea it is happening is bizarre. I would rather die. Just take a photograph or make a yearbook, something normal to remember people by.”

“But we’re past that, Macy. The technology is here. We want to try to make some pretty shells now. We want you to volunteer.”

“Me? No, no way. I am totally against it,” I said. “It’s humiliating and I would feel violated.”

Bing pushed, “Why couldn’t it be fun? Like a day at the pool?”

“No way.”

“C’mon. Be open to it.”

“Why don’t you do it first?”

“I’m not that pretty, I hate to admit.” Bing laughed at his own expense, but then his voice turned somber. “It’s too bad you feel like that because it is happening, Macy. If Sinclair wanted your shell you wouldn’t be able to stop him. You’d be so drugged up you wouldn’t even know it was happening.”

“Is that a warning, Bing? Do you know something I don’t?”

“No.” Bing denied the implication and his tone lightened with me, almost apologetically. “No, Macy, I don’t mean to scare you unnecessarily. You have free will. No one is coming for you. It is only a feeler, you know, only if you were okay with it. If you were curious about it. Some people are. Obviously you are not.”

“Obviously,” I retorted.

We were pulling up to Summer Hall. I didn’t like that side of Bing or our sinister conversation; thank goodness we were back. I opened the door before the car completely stopped and ran out without saying goodbye or looking back. I wasn’t in the mood to be polite. For the first time in a long time I wished I were safely back home.

Once in my room I changed out of the dress and stuffed it way in the back of the closet, on the side I didn’t really ever look through. Back went the chair up against my door at night, just to be safe. The safety net I thought I had earned by staying on track, passing the coursework, keeping up with the readings, collapsed under the weight of that conversation with Bing.
Pretty shells?
An oxymoron if ever there was one.

Despite saying otherwise, I didn’t believe Bing when he said no one was coming for me in the dark. I couldn’t fall asleep that night, and stayed awake as long as I could, long after everyone had gone to bed, obsessed with thwarting any scheme that would end with me floating in a tank. It was scary how articulating my fear of Sinclair had come back to haunt me. I wouldn’t dare tell anyone that Bing had wanted me to volunteer for his newest freak show. I couldn’t tell Violet and certainly not Sebastian, he would probably just say ‘who cares?’ or ‘why worry?’ like he did about most everything. In fact, he never worried about anything.

It was important to stay calm, I decided. Chanticleer was not a place where I could let my mind wander, or let my imagination get the better of me. They were watching me more than I realized. There was no way I was going to let the situation deteriorate.

In the days after my close encounter with Crispin Sinclair I buried my head in my books, convinced that reading would keep my mind busy and keep me out of trouble. I found a comfortable easy chair in a corner of the library. I loved the quiet and the privacy, but frankly I just wanted to hide. I did not want to walk in the square where I could run into Crispin Sinclair.

I dreaded being called back into Miss Clarice’s office to explain myself, but she didn’t summon me, which was a relief. It was weird thinking that I had failed at my coursework. In that way, I realized, I was like Poppy. I didn’t feel so superior to her anymore. Sometimes you just couldn’t help how you felt.

Anytime my mind turned toward the shells or Crispin Sinclair or when I felt my fears start to bubble up to the surface, I literally forced myself to think of another subject. Sebastian was always at the top of that list. I was in that delirious stage with him, hopeful and riding high; he distracted me. “Ha,” I laughed, thinking of Zooey’s disdain of distractions. Her approach to life in Chanticleer wasn’t what worked for me. Thinking about Sebastian kept me sane.

And then, despite my frenzied nerves, nothing happened. I woke up every morning in the exact position I had fallen asleep in. Miss Clarice left me alone, so did Bing. Sebastian kept by my side, as usual. But most importantly, I never saw any shells other than the failures that we all knew about. Bing never mentioned the idea of the pretty shells to me ever again, and after a few days I wondered if it was worth my energy to keep imagining that I was in immediate danger. He had said they wanted me to volunteer, and my answer had been definitive.

I began to believe that Bing told me the truth when he said it was my choice. Truth or untruth, I was powerless anyway.

Sebastian didn’t question my complete dedication to reading that week. He stuck by my side, as he always did but one day after lunch we were pushing our chairs in, ready to head back, when he suggested something different.

“There is someplace very pretty I would like to show you.”

Tempted, I was ready to take a break and play. I gave in, hoping I wouldn’t bump into Sinclair on our way. I knew I couldn’t stay underground forever. We headed toward the Fir Forest with Sebastian leading the way down the familiar path. I saw where the route broke off toward the bridge, but we veered to the left. The path sloped downward and the landscape changed, ferns covered the ground in distinct little patches, and he pointed out their peculiar names, such as liverwort, fish bone, and hare’s foot.

“This one’s called Rosy Maidenhead. It reminds me of you,” he said.

The forest floor was moist, its air misty. My feet sunk into soft ground. I never realized there were so many different shades of green. Graduating stone ledges covered with vibrant moss lined the pathways, rising above us and forming a canyon. I ran my hand along the moss at shoulder height. It was dry and firm to the touch, the air thick with its peaty smell.

The humidity was starting to overwhelm me and I began to wish I wasn’t wearing my uniform. Finally I had to take off my blazer and sweater, leaving only the t-shirt I had layered underneath and my shorts.

“It’s hot here,” I said.

Sebastian agreed. “Yes, I forgot to say you might want to take off that sweater. Just leave it here,” he said, pointing to one of the moss ledges. “We’ll come back this way and you won’t need it from here on out. I’ll leave mine here with yours.” He stripped down to his t-shirt as well. I felt like I had finally made it to Florida.

We were quiet for a few minutes as we continued on our walk. Then Sebastian spoke, “You have been too serious lately. Is everything okay?”

So my mood was obvious—I hadn’t realized that. Warning bells went off inside.
I might have to pay for that,
I mused. Confidently, I assured him otherwise, happily chattering away about nothing special to deflect the topic of my mood. Inside, I was thinking that putting on the right face could be very hard work. After a few minutes of talk, Sebastian slowed and smiled at me expectantly.

“Here we are,” he said.

We turned the corner and before us lay a pond, perfectly oval. Surrounding its banks were dark green ferns and tall palm trees, all reflected in the sunlit water. It was as if the plant life had drawn a curtain around the pond, enveloping it. Scattered in the water were enormous yellow flowers, their petals blossomed into perfect, uniform circles, floating lazily. It was a little tropical paradise, hidden away and deserted.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I love it.”

“Let’s go in,” he said, and he parted the dark green leaves and waded into the pond. Ripples floated out from his body, gently nudging the yellow flowers. “Yum, it’s so warm here.”

I followed right along, clothes and everything. The water must have been the same temperature as my body for I didn’t shiver at all once submerged. I floated quietly, noting the complete serenity of the spot, nothing but the wind rustling through the palm fronds and the high pitched chatter of the native birds.

“This is heavenly,” Sebastian said, his eyes closed as he floated along too. We sat there for a while, just soaking ourselves. Sebastian had been right to bring me there. I had been hiding myself away, missing out on life in Chanticleer. I sighed with relief at how good the change of scene made me feel.

I was so lucky that he always seemed to know what I needed. No one else seemed to get it so right, least of all me. It was almost as if he could read my mind better than I could, like he had access to Miss Clarice’s desk and he looked through my file on a regular basis. He was more like the powers that be than he was like me. I guess that was how I’d end up too, when I had been in Chanticleer as long as he had.

Which reminded me: despite our growing ‘friendship,’ I was still fuzzy about his timeline. The very dangerous reality that he could tip back home and leave me besotted and abandoned was starting to really worry me. I needed to calm down about that before they picked up my anxiety and went after us.

I asked, “Do you think you are going to go home before me?”

He spun around onto his back, his face tilted upwards in the afternoon sunshine. “Nah. Don’t worry,” he said.

“No, seriously,” I answered back. “Aren’t you worried? How do you know you won’t tip back home soon? I want some kind of warning if you think you are getting close.”

“Macy, stop,” he said. “You worry too much.”

“Grrr,” I growled at him, annoyed. He wouldn’t answer me and it made me angry. It was a reasonable question to ask. You would think he would be asking me the same question if he really cared so much. We were only together as long as we were there, and there was no guarantee of how long that would be. No one had a guarantee.

“Sebastian,” I said, “You may not like me asking this, but I need to know something.”

“Go on,” he said, not opening his eyes and continuing to float.

“You don’t seem like you are afraid of anything. In fact, you don’t seem like you even need to be in Chanticleer. Why aren’t you more afraid of leaving?”

He was quiet. I kept talking. “I mean, everyone else, like Zooey and Violet, Paolo, we all have obvious issues to work on. Paolo was a complete nervous wreck on our trip to the bridge but you aren’t like that, at all. You never talk about yourself that way, and you never go away for coursework. You are just always in the library with me. And when I ask you about it, you give me a joke answer, like you are afraid of me falling for another guy. You aren’t being serious with me.”

“Hmmm,” Sebastian responded, thinking. “Well, Macy, the truth is, you are right in noticing that I don’t really have to do coursework. I’ve accomplished a lot, but most of it was long ago. Believe me when I say there is no one here who cannot empathize with what you are going through.”

“But what about going home? Isn’t it going to happen to you soon? Are you putting it off? Are you one of those people that Bing convinced to stay longer than they should? Is that what is going on between you two?”

Sebastian shook his head, dismissing my attempt to connect the dots between them before answering me.