by Carla Thorne
Scout shook his head like he wasn’t buyin’ any of it. “Is that even possible? I thought the doctors had to move your arm a certain way or tug on it or something. There’s a trick in emergency wilderness first aid, but I haven’t had to try it yet. I sure as heck know we didn’t try anything.”
Mr. Parrington stretched the band across three fingers. Any second it was going to snap loose and fly across the room. “He’s dislocated that shoulder four or five times in his life. They always put him back together in the ER, and they usually knock him out because it’s so swollen by the time he gets there it takes some work. It’s a mess in there with bone fragments and torn muscle. He really needs surgery to repair it, but that’s beside the point. He’s convinced it was out—”
“He said it was,” Scout said. “And it sure looked like it was out. It wasn’t connected to anything.”
“Stop,” Ivy begged and covered her ears. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“Well, anyway, he says whatever Deacon did popped it back in. Sorry, Ivy.”
Deacon scrubbed the palms of his hands across his shorts. “But I didn’t do anything.”
The beach ball in my stomach deflated and sat there like a plastic brick. It was exactly what I’d been talking about. Everything was weird, everything was spooky, and everything seemed to happen when the four of us were together. But had anyone listened to my simple request to get together and talk about it? Nooooooooo… And now Deacon, who should be happy because he’d helped someone in need and was going to be recognized for it, looked sick and miserable.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, and looked like he could cry. “I swear I didn’t do anything.”
Chapter 11
Deacon
I tried not to look at the principal as I flexed my fingers inside my pockets.
No heat.
My palms were wet with sweat, but there was no warmth, and the pads of my fingers didn’t burn against my phone or the nub of a pencil I’d stuffed in there on my way to the office. Yet, all around me there was nerve-wracking conversation about how I’d touched Mr. Berry and the dislocated shoulder popped back into place.
I’d hoped I’d imagined all that.
Hoped it was some coincidence and not anything to do with me, and hoped I really didn’t feel what I thought I felt when I touched the teacher.
But I had felt it.
That pull beneath my hands, like two Legos that clicked together when I pressed. It was all good after that, and I knew it had happened. I just didn’t know what it was.
And now, one more person had experienced my marked-by-the-devil-hot-hand curse.
Was it contagious? Was I infecting everyone I touched with some ancient black magic or voodoo spell?
Mary and Ivy studied me the same way I’d seen them study their cell diffusion quiz notes, and Mr. Parrington jawed on about how he couldn’t believe we weren’t more excited.
I kept my hands as still as possible inside my pockets, praying it was not one of the days they flashed to heat like my dad’s gas grill on the Fourth of July.
“Right, Deacon?”
Mr. P was asking, but I’d stopped listening a while ago.
“The forms,” the principal said. “You’re going to return the forms tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow.”
“And Deacon…” Mr. Parrington came around his desk as we all stood to leave. “This is a good thing.” He extended his hand, which led to a whole new pulse-pounding, head-throbbing round of terror. What if the fire-paw thing happened when I shook hands with him? Then he’d know too…
But it didn’t.
“Congratulations on a job well done.” Mr. P made his way to each of us. “Get those forms in.”
“Thank you, sir.” Scout held the door.
Mr. P walked out with the others as I lingered by his chair and attempted to stuff the pages into my bag. As I propped it on the desk to wrestle with the zipper, a Saints sticky note caught my eye.
Purpura Saggitus.
I didn’t intend to snoop, didn’t mean to snoop, and didn’t want to snoop.
But I leaned in to snoop.
Four parent calls.
Arrows?
What is this?
I bolted for the door. “Wait up!”
“Shhhh, Deacon, we’re right here.” Mary grabbed my arm and pointed toward where they’d all paused at the end of the hall.
“I have to get to class,” Ivy said. “I already don’t understand the English paper that’s due tomorrow. How do you write a paper on what the author was really trying to say in the story? If she writes the dog was locked in a hot car, why can’t that mean the dog was locked in a hot car? Why does the dog represent some part of society that’s being suffocated by a bigger, stronger part of society? How am I supposed to know that?”
“This won’t take long,” I said. “I need to tell you some—”
“I know what you mean,” Mary said. “It’s like art. I love to look at paintings at the museum, but I thought I was looking at a bowl of fruit. Nope. Not true.”
Ivy looked lost. “What were you looking at?”
I pressed my fingers into my forehead and squeezed my eyes shut. “Seriously? Can I tell you something? And then you can go on with your artsy-fartsy convo and I can go somewhere to forget I ever heard this.”
“Wait,” Scout said. “We should discuss this sometime, Mary. There’s a butt-load of symbolism in renaissance art. Animals and fruit always mean something. Like a peach in the fruit bowl represents virtue, but if it’s half-eaten or rotting outside the bowl it means there’s been immoral behavior.”
I let out a long, low, growl. “Who cares, Scout? Shut yer hole. I’m trying to tell you all something.”
“Leave him alone,” Ivy said. “It’s interesting.”
“Well, I got something interesting to say too. There was a note on Mr. P’s desk about the Arrows. Parents have been calling and it doesn’t look like he knows anything about them.”
Mary crossed her arms. “And?”
“And what? They’re not a real school club or anything.”
Ivy blew a piece of hair out of her eyes. “I told you that. It’s a Paige fan club or something.”
“I don’t have a good feeling about them, OK?”
“Fascinating,” Mary said. “I believe I said the same thing when you wanted to run out of the woods instead of checking it out.”
“Now I’m interested.” I rubbed my fingers together at my side. “And with all this other stuff happening, maybe we should talk.”
“Again, fascinating,” Mary said with an extra side of snark. “I’ve been saying that all along.”
Ivy turned to leave. “I gotta go. Starbucks tomorrow after school?”
“No,” Mary said. “Too public.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so irritated. “What? We’re talking. We’re not building a bomb or something. Who cares?”
“You can come to my house,” Scout offered. “I have the whole upstairs. My grandparents won’t bother us. I’ll order pizza.”
My stomach woke up. Food. Now we were gettin’ somewhere. “I’ll be there.”
Ivy paused and grabbed the rail at the top of the stairs. “Um… I’ll have to ask my ride.”
Scout tripped over his own words as he made the obvious move. “You can ride home with me. I mean, if you want to. You don’t have to.”
“Great, Scout. Thanks.”
Mary shrugged. “OK. See you all there. But Deacon, I can’t take you home after unless you want to go straight to the mall.”
“Yeah, right. I really want to hunt for a homecoming dress.” He folded his hands in mock prayer. “Pleeeeeease let me come.”
“Why do you think I’m looking for a homecoming dress?”
“Old news. Already posted on every social media account in the school.”
“Whatever. I gotta go this way,” Mary said and took off with Scout. “See you at lunch.�
�
Ivy cracked a smile as we bounded down the steps, but I didn’t miss the cloud of concern that floated through her expression, or the tinge of fear in her eyes as we stopped at the bottom. “She’s going with Gavin, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, they’ve been friends for years.”
“Sure.” She squared her shoulders and produced a brighter smile. “I’m sure they’ll have a great time. See you at lunch.”
“Wait a sec. What you said the other day…”
“I know. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
“No, that’s not it, but you don’t even know him. You really don’t trust him?”
She shrugged. “Nope.”
Chapter 12
Ivy
Scout didn’t say much on the ride to his house. That was unusual for him.
The place looked smaller on the outside than it was on the inside. We followed his chatty, young-looking grandma in through the garage, and Scout headed straight for the stairs and motioned for me to come along.
“I’ve got two more friends coming,” he called out to his grandma. “And I’m ordering pizza. Want me to add one for you guys?”
“No thanks, baby,” she sang back. “I’ve got leftovers.”
We stepped into a large room with a sectional and a big TV. He had everything in there from Legos to video games. There was a small built-in bar along one side.
A bar.
I guessed his bedroom and bathroom were through the door on the right. It wasn’t a typical teenager’s space. It was as if he and his grandparents were roommates and he occupied the large private apartment upstairs.
I thought of me and my mom’s small place. We shared a bathroom and often grabbed the wrong toothbrush. Gross. We didn’t sing-song happy comments back and forth. I’d check her pill box to make sure she took the right meds on the right day at the right time, and then put yogurt in her hand on the way out the door. She’d remind me to behave because Aunt Constance paid my private school tuition. I checked homework in the car and prayed she went straight to work after drop-off so she didn’t lose her job.
We were a freakin’ train wreck.
And Scout had privacy, a bar… And a pool.
I peeked through the wooden slats of the blinds that covered the windows on the back wall. “That pool is awesome.”
He avoided the window as I tugged on the string to get the full view.
“Why is it empty?” I asked. “Is it broke or something?” What did I know? I’d only seen empty pools in spooky movies.
Scout stood behind his bar and hauled out paper plates and a roll of paper towels. “Nah… We don’t use it.”
“Wait, is that a hot tub? I can’t see under that corner…”
“Yeah.”
“You have a hot tub and don’t use it?”
“Not really. Diet DP, right?”
“What? Oh yeah. Diet DP.”
I left the window and went to help him carry supplies to the big leather ottoman by the couch.
He flipped on a cartoon channel and dropped the sound until we couldn’t hear it. “It’s not good for the pool to be empty. The lining gets damaged, other stuff can go wrong, like with the electrical stuff. My grandpa said by early spring I have to help him get it all cleaned and refilled.”
I resisted the urge to bite on a thumbnail. Either Scout was being his usual too smart for normal conversation self, or there was more to the pool thing than I knew. It could be either because I never seemed to be on the same page as anyone else.
“I see an end-of-year pool party in your future,” I said stupidly. Stupidly, because why did I think I would put on a swimsuit of any kind in public and attend a pool party?
His phone dinged. “Pizza’s close.” He scrolled on. “And Mary and Deacon are close behind. Be right back.”
I counted the large, multi-colored, college-themed throw pillows on Scout’s couch and noted the number of books in front of an overflowing small bookcase. I knew he read most things online. Didn’t everybody? But he had everything from the Bible and The Scarlett Letter to how-to books and biographies. Former presidents and familiar scientists stared back at me amongst other dog-eared copies of required summer reading.
Conclusion: Nobody needed an e-reader more than Scout.
A box of photos on the top shelf tilted to the left and threatened to spill memories onto the floor at any second. The absence of art or framed pictures on the walls made me think his bedroom had one of those full-wall corkboards. I imagined it covered with drawings, posters about nature, and flash cards with whatever language he was learning at the time.
And he seemed like a sticky-note reminder kind of guy.
The lack of photos in the big room made me wonder about his family. Where were his parents, and why did he live with grandma and grandpa?
That made me think of my small family and our limited educational material. We had exactly four books in our apartment. An old-fashioned, red-checkered cookbook that belonged to my great-grandma, two romance novels my mother had in her nightstand, and a used textbook from a computer class my mother signed up to take and didn’t finish. If I ever wanted to know about the fifteen-year-old version of that particular software, I knew right where to look.
My heart raced. I didn’t belong with kids who had pools and all the latest technology. I only wanted generous Aunt Constance, AKA Aunt Connie when none of her snobby friends were around, to help my mom and me long enough for me to graduate so I could maybe go to community college and work my way through. I didn’t have time to learn foreign languages or go to homecoming dances.
My mother was a full-time job, and my own sanity seemed to have an expiration date.
I certainly didn’t belong where students without worry ate pizza and talked about a bunch of random events that had no connection.
My heart skipped a beat as it accelerated. I told myself to breathe through it.
I concentrated on four old encyclopedias in Scout’s ancient book collection.
Why only four?
L, S, B, R.
L, S, B, R.
L, S, B, R.
“What are you looking at?”
Scout stood in the middle of the room with pizza. Mary and Deacon waited behind him.
“Nothing. Just your books.” The scent of food lured me from my panic. “That smells so good.”
Deacon went straight for the mini-fridge behind the bar and popped the top of a soda can, while Mary collapsed beside me and pulled a burnt orange University of Texas pillow into her lap. Scout plopped on the floor and opened a box on top of a red and black Texas Tech one. He sailed paper plates our way like frisbees.
“Help yourself,” he said. “There should be something for everyone.”
“That’s my box,” Deacon said. “Pepperoni and jalapeños.”
Mary smirked. “I don’t know how you do that. Who puts hot peppers on a pizza?”
“The better question is, Mary…” He waved the lid of a box open and closed. “Is who puts ham and pineapple on a pizza?”
Scout stared at me with a mouth full of food. He swallowed. “What about you, Ivy? Whose side are you on?”
“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I am not a member of the Pizza Police. I’m fine with whatever.”
“How’s this?”
I opened the box and did a double-take. Scout tried his best not to smile, but his blush could’ve caught his eyebrows on fire.
“How did you know about this?”
Deacon leaned a little too close to stick his face in the box. “What is it?”
“It’s a MOP pizza,” I answered on a whisper.
“What’s a MOP pizza? Never mind.” He pointed at each item. “I see it. Mushrooms, onions, peppers.”
“How did you know?” I asked again, more panicked this time. It was a pizza. No big deal. But I spent so much time trying to find the difference between what was real and what wasn’t, it was a huge thing in my inadequate brain to have to figure out when and even
if I’d had a real conversation with Scout about my pizza preference.
“It was that day in the lunch line. They had pizza and we talked about toppings. You said your Italian grandma called MOP the Holy Trinity of Italian cooking and you liked it on pizza. We laughed and you said it was a joke in your family about the MOP piz—”
“I remember,” I said and tried to smile. “Thank you.”
I met that green gaze of his and saw nothing but sincerity. I’d never had a guy do anything especially for me.
Mary pulled a paper towel off the roll. “Is there anything you don’t remember, Scout?”
He dropped his slice onto the plate as if he’d lost interest. “Um… Not really. They think I have that memory thing where you remember everything.”
“Everything?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
And suddenly, the three people I thought had nothing but good things to remember didn’t seem to think Scout’s great memory was a great gift. Everyone slowed their movements, and even Deacon temporarily lost interest in his food.
Maybe they had a ton of baggage in their heads like I did. Maybe we all had multiple layers of buried crap we couldn’t deal with. I remembered Mary’s face in the cafeteria on the day of the wobbly cart incident. What was behind her desperate plea?
It didn’t matter.
It’d been bad enough I’d shared some things with Scout that day at pick-up. Now I knew he’d never forget, and it was only a matter of time before it fell out of his brain for everyone to hear. They all might want to talk about the weirdness over those past few days, but I didn’t. I saw no point in discussing my mother’s certain mental illness and probably mine. I heard voices. I saw things. I couldn’t sit there casually and spill my guts to near strangers over MOP pizza.
“I should go,” I said. “I’ll text my ride and wait outside.”
Scout jumped from the floor. “What? Why?”
“Look. I don’t know what you want from me. Yes, we’ve had a crazy few days. Do I think it means anything? No. Do we need to talk about it? No.”
