A Soul's Kiss

by Debra Chapoton

  “Are you insane?” Jessica said. She tapped at the floor with her copy of The Scarlet Letter. We’d finished reading the final scene aloud and my exclamation about school surprised her. Normally I would dive into a discussion of the symbolism in what we were reading, or start right in on the worksheet, or ask her if she understood it all. She knew I absolutely loved school. I wanted to be a teacher someday. But I hated the social aspect right now. “Really,” Jessica continued, “are you out of your mind? Homecoming week is the best part of the year. I wish it came in the spring instead so we’d have something to look forward to all through the winter.”

  Yeah, that fit Jessica. She was all about daydreaming, fantasizing, looking forward. She was pure optimism—one of many reasons I admired her. I wished I could be more like her. Lately I’d been into dreading everything. “Aren’t you worried that nobody will ask us to the dance?” We’d been munching on popcorn and I tossed a handful into the air and managed to catch two kernels in my mouth.

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m working on a plan. There’s a guy in my dramaclass—” She wasn’t going to finish that statement, didn’t have to. I knew perfectly well who she meant. She talked about Michael Hoffman like he was the best thing since Josh Hutcherson.

  “Oh, please,” I said, leaning over and drawing out the syllable until my head almost hit the floor. I took advantage of the position to stick my tongue out on a piece of popcorn and suck it up like a frog on an ant. “If I have to hear about him again . . . sheesh, he has a girlfriend, Jessica, leave him alone.”

  “He might have a girlfriend. I haven’t seen Hannah with him at his locker more than once a day.” She picked up a kernel, checked it for lint, and aimed it at my open mouth. I missed it.

  “Trust me; Hannah is not going to break up with him this close to Homecoming. She probably already has her dress.”

  Jessica scrunched up her mouth. Her cell rang and she checked it. My mom, she mouthed to me as she answered it.

  I looked at the remainder of the popcorn in the bowl. Jessica had eaten most of it. I wasn’t supposed to eat any, in fact, and all told I most likely only had ten kernels, but I could already feel the rumblings. I suffer from an inflammatory bowel disease that affects my intestines. Popcorn can give me major problems. If I finished the bowl I’d spend tomorrow in bed for sure. Next week I had another treatment scheduled at the hospital. It took four hours to get a bunch of expensive chemicals dripped into my arm while I did homework or snoozed. I should’ve been a lot more careful about what I ate, I know, but that popcorn was buttery and salty. I popped another piece in my mouth.

  “Gotta go,” Jessica said, closing her phone. “My mom needs the car, but I can drive us to the football game tomorrow. Okay?”

  * * *

  That was the third football game that Jessica and I went to together this fall. We bought our tickets, scurried through the barriers, met up with some kids we knew, and watched the game from various places. At first we stood around the fence and ran out onto the field to make a tunnel for the team to run through, then we moved into the stands until halftime. I say we “watched” the game, but mostly we goofed around, talked and yelled. And joked. Neither of us knew what was going on. We cheered when the crowd did, but there was no instant replay, so other than checking the scoreboard now and then, we didn’t have a clue.

  Of course, Jessica knew where Michael was on the field at any given moment. It was amazing that he was allowed to play football and also be in the marching band at half time. He must be a quick change artist. Coach let him leave the field when there were thirty seconds left on the clock and the band was moving down from the stands.

  I watched Jessica stare at him as he returned to the field and I suddenly had that creepy feeling that someone was staring at us. I didn’t move my head, just my eyes, and scanned the stands until I saw Tyler Dolan. We’ve known him since grade school. Nice guy. He’s always had a thing for Jessica. I waved.

  “Who are you waving at?” Jessica swiveled her head around and back. I knew she caught the motion of Tyler’s hand as he returned my wave, but she ignored it and fixed her gaze on the field again. “Oh, just Tyler,” she said and her face narrowed into a squint to locate Michael amidst all the kids in their band uniforms.

  “Hey,” I whispered, “Tyler could be plan B for Homecoming. I’ll bet I could get him to ask you.”

  “Nah, he likes you.” She kept her eyes on the forty yard line. “Besides, you’d make a better couple. Very exotic. The Irish freckle-man and the American quadroon.”

  I didn’t laugh this time and she didn’t notice. I was slightly tired of all the quadroon jokes. Of course she didn’t mean anything by it and we both thought it was funny before, but I’d been thinking about race a lot lately. My mom had two sons by a soldier, an African American man who died when the boys were eight and nine. They’re my half-brothers but because their dad was black they’re three-quarters black in ancestry. So they’re not quadroons, they’re griffes. Like President Obama’s daughters. Like Beyonce. Like Malcolm X. Jessica has never seen them because when I was little and they still lived at home I didn’t invite friends over. I went through a phase when I was embarrassed to be seen with my black grandmother or my half-brothers. But I got over it.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. She could watch the halftime band show without my witty banter. I went to buy us some candy bars and sodas.

  I walked down the bleacher steps with one eye on the field. If the truth were told, there was a brief moment when I considered hooking up with Michael Hoffman, but Jessica saw him first so I gave up my chance when I had it a couple of weeks ago.

  That white trash, Hannah, stepped out of her row, obstructing my descent. She and a few of her girlfriends moved to the railing where, like at the last three football games, they formed a tight knot that jammed things up. She obviously wanted a closer position to see the band’s performance. It didn’t matter to her that she was blocking the first three rows from seeing or that she was hindering the traffic flow. She didn’t care that people had to wait their turn to squeeze around her little mob. The line at the refreshment stand got longer as I fumed behind them.

  And then I heard her say something that made my skin crawl.

  “We’ve already picked out victim number seven,” she laughed, turning her head to the brunette on her left. “Michael chose her. We’re going to plan something really wicked.”

  “Excuse us, excuse us.” Tyler Dolan had my elbow and steered me past the blockade.

  “Looked like you needed some help getting by them,” he said as we reached an open area.

  “Thanks.” Maybe Jessica was right and Tyler did like me.

  Nope, his eyes darted back into the stands toward Jessica as he asked, “So, anybody going anywhere after the game? Heard of any parties?”

  “Jessica wants to go to the frozen custard shop one last time before they close for the winter.”

  “Huh,” was all he said as he readjusted his ball cap. It was my turn in line. I bought our snacks and said see ya to Tyler. I decided to walk around the back of the stands, go up the far side, and cut across some rows to get back to my seat. A bunch of sophomores were hanging out under the bleachers, trying to act all cool, but not fooling anyone.

  It was going to rain and I knew it before anyone else. My hair was crinkling up into a frizziness that would challenge the Bride of Frankenstein. I sat down next to Jessica, gave her the treats, and pulled my hood up over my head.

  “I told you Tyler likes you,” she said, her eyes still glued on the drum major, though her comment made me think she had watched us. The band was loud, the music a familiar tune I heard them practice at six a.m. in the parking lot. Living a block from school had a couple of disadvantages.

  “He was just being helpful.” I pulled the drawstrings tight on my hood until only my nose and mouth were showing and stuck my tongue out at her.

  “Somebody’s gonna see you, Rashanda,” she said.
She wedged her thumbs under the material and stretched the opening. “Oh . . . your hair.”

  “Exactly. It’s gonna rain.”

  Jessica chuckled, pulled her own hood up and shared the style. We took turns making some little kids down the row laugh at our silly behavior. I liked that she didn’t ignore my predicament to watch Michael lead the band. They finished and then the cheerleaders ran onto the field to do a routine. I guess that was enough time for Michael to change back into his uniform. Jessica pointed him out again as he ran across the field with the team. With their helmets on, they all looked alike to me.

  She mumbled something about Hannah not deserving him.

  I weighed that statement as I thought about the fact that Hannah said Michael had chosen victim number seven. I considered telling Jessica what I’d heard. I was about to, really I was, but it wouldn’t make any difference to someone so smitten.

  It started to rain at the beginning of the fourth quarter so we left.

  * * *

  Nothing out of the ordinary happened the rest of the weekend or the beginning of the school week. I had my monthly infusion on Thursday and spent the whole morning at the hospital. As usual it took two nurses trying and then failing to get the needle into my arm until they finally called the vein therapist. I don’t know why they hadn’t learned to start with the expert; my veins are fragile.

  I was in a special wing of the hospital that zigzagged in a maze of halls and small rooms. This time they led me past the coffee station and around the corner to the extra spot they had cubby-holed next to a washroom. It’s kind of claustrophobic, but there was a flat screen TV, Wi-Fi, a recliner for me, and a regular chair for my mom. As usual, Mom would stay an hour then head for the department stores, and I would call her when the bag got down to the last few milliliters.

  We settled in to watch one of the morning talk shows but my mind kept wandering. The first guest on the show reminded me of Hannah and I kept replaying what I heard her say. That feeling of dread started to fill my veins right along with the monoclonal antibodies that dripped from the IV bag. They both headed toward my digestive tract, one to do good, and the other to fill my gut with anxiety.

  Mom left precisely ten minutes before Kohl’s opened and I reminded her not to buy me anything. I liked to pick out my own clothes. Our tastes in styles did not match.

  I used the remote to mute the commercials and closed my eyes to imagine which class I was missing at that moment.

  I felt the dread again. It was kind of like that sixth sense you feel when something bad was about to happen. Mostly I felt it when I watched horror movies or when I sat in Jamison’s math class and he pulled out a surprise quiz.

  And then I heard the nurses’ voices. Two women at the coffee station didn’t know I was back here.

  “Jeannie’s daughter, Ashley, finally told her. It was some sort of hazing,” one of them said.

  The other woman said, “That’s awful. There is so much bullying going on it’s like an epidemic. This internet thing is out of hand.”

  “There wasn’t anything she could do about it. Her daughter didn’t want to make things worse. She closed her Facebook account, but that’s about all she could do. Those pictures are out there forever.”

  The other woman slurped some coffee, then said, “Somebody has to name names before these kids go too far.”

  She could have been talking to me. I could name names. Four at least. I’d heard the rumors all fall that there were “phantoms” who dressed in black, wore masks, and grabbed kids at night. Those were the first stories, but they weren’t completely true. I knew the real story because I was victim number five. And I guess Ashley was number six. I could tell those nurses why Ashley didn’t want to make things worse. I knew what “too far” was. That chance I had with Michael a few weeks ago, well, it wasn’t exactly a golden opportunity.

  * * *

  Sometimes I pretended to act drowsy after my infusion so my mom would let me stay home the rest of the day, but I had swim practice right after school and Ms. Harris followed the rules: if I was too sick for school then I was too sick for practice. Also, Jessica had asked me not to skip. She had some new music for our synchronized duet. We may never get to the Olympics, but our water ballet show next spring will make a splash for sure.

  Mom dropped me off near the attendance office door and I checked in. The bell had already rung so the secretary gave me a tardy pass, too, and I figured that as long as I was going to be late I might as well use the bathroom. All that fluid they pump into me . . . well, you know. The girls’ restroom was on the way to Jamison’s class anyway.

  I smelled smoke as soon as I opened the door and I gave a warning, “Teacher coming,” so whoever it was would snuff it out or that stink would stick to my hair something fierce. I used the first stall, farthest from the dissipating blue puffs, and watched the smoker’s black booted feet clump by. I recognized the red paint splatters on the left toe. Those boots were Amy Harper’s. She sat next to me in math, the class I was headed to.

  “Hi, Amy,” I said. She was on the honor roll last year, but she did a one-eighty this fall and changed her look, her attitude, and her brains. I even caught her cheating off me in math. Stupid.

  “Who is it?”

  “Me, Rashanda.”

  “So where’s the teacher?”

  “Um, I guess he went on by.”

  “He?” She cursed. “Thanks a lot, Rashanda. You’re a friend.”

  Oops. Well, at least Amy understood sarcasm. Maybe I wouldn’t cover all of my answers on the next quiz to make it up to her. She left the restroom and I finished my business.

  When I entered the classroom everyone looked up from their papers, watched me give Mr. Jamison the tardy slip, and then lost interest in me. Mr. Jamison told me we were working out the two problems on the board. Amy stared me down as I walked to my seat.

  As it turned out, only Rishi and Dan got the right answers, so for the next half hour Mr. Jamison reviewed what he taught us the day before. Then we worked in pairs on two new problems. Unfortunately my partner was Amy.

  “Can I ask you something personal? Did something happen to you last summer? Your parents get a divorce?” I whispered as we both copied the equation.

  “No.”

  “Accident, maybe? Illness?”

  “I mean no, you can’t ask me something personal.”

  “Oh . . . sorry.”

  I did most of the work on the first problem. Heck, I did all of the work on both problems. I suppose I was feeling guilty, but really, why should I? She was the rude one. She was the one breaking all the rules. But there was a sadness that surrounded her like an aura. I could feel there was still that nice girl from last year hiding behind the thick eyeliner.

  My Grandma Althea had a saying she used every time she saw someone less fortunate: There but for the grace of God, go I. It was the same motto, really, that I’ve heard kids say: Glad I’m not that geek. Of course, Grandma’s attitude was less self-centered and more giving. She tried to help. I could see that Amy wasn’t ready to accept my help, but maybe Jessica was. I promised myself that after swim practice I would tell Jessica the truth about Michael.

  * * *

  “You’re here!” Jessica exclaimed as we passed in the hall before last period. “Here, look this over during class and we’ll talk about it after school.” She shoved a paper at me. “Off to my favorite class.” She gave such a cute smile and a sing-song melody to favorite class that I couldn’t help but smile back.

  I glanced at the paper. “Is this all of it?” I shouted over the tops of a sea of heads. She didn’t hear me. I looked at how she’d marked out about twenty bars of music. She had assigned marching ballet legs to the first four bars followed by three tricks: a kip, a back Dolphin, and a Gaviota. No way. She knew I couldn’t do a Gaviota yet. I didn’t have the strength, the skill, or the breath. I thought we were supposed to work on paired tricks, increase our vertical height, and do more lifts and splits. O
h yeah, we were going to talk about this before practice—she got that part right.

  * * *

  Nearly an hour later, after the final bell of the school day, I waited at Jessica’s locker, but she didn’t come. She must have gone straight to the pool. I walked down the stairs in the excited flow of kids rushing to leave school and saw Tyler, fists clenched, standing stock still.

  “Hey, Tyler, what’s up?”

  I followed his gaze and saw Jessica in a clump of kids just exiting the building at the far end of the senior hallway.

  “Jessica!” I probably screamed her name more in panic than anything else. “Oh, my gosh!” I started forward, but Tyler took my wrist.

  “Let her go with him. It’s all right.”

  “But . . .” I knew that Hannah and Michael were not all right. I sped down the hallway and reached the doors. I could see them, three of them, helping Jessica along. Did they drug her?

  “He’s my stepbrother,” Tyler said, indicating the other guy with Hannah and Michael. I wondered why he’d followed me outside. “If she wants a lift home from him, oh well . . .”

  “We have practice. She doesn’t need a lift.” I looked over toward the tennis courts where Jessica always parked. It was the closest area to the swimming pool. “There’s her car.” I pointed right across Tyler’s face. “They’re kidnapping her.” I didn’t have time to explain everything to Tyler. The doors on the blue car were slamming shut, Jessica in the back with Hannah, the boys in the front, with Keith driving.

  My mind raced. Jessica had a spare key hidden in a magnetic box under the back bumper. Maybe I could take her car, exit through the entrance, and get behind them.

  I don’t know what Tyler thought, but I stole my best friend’s car. To save her.

  * * *

  I didn’t see the accident. I was having trouble driving straight. The car’s wheels kept pulling to the right like maybe I had a flat tire. I hit a pothole and it jarred me just as I saw their car turn in front of a truck.