Teen Phantom

by Chandler Baker

  I walked past it to where a box of gloves sat like a present on a metal shelf. I helped myself.

  My fingers now encased in a strangely dry-feeling plastic, I had a moment where I looked down at my hands, which no longer looked like my own and time seemed to slow to a stop. Near the back of the storeroom, a locked glass case rested on top of one of the shelves. On it was a picture of a skull and bones and a warning to keep out.

  I stayed as still as I could possibly stay. I listened past the whooshing rush of my own blood in my ears. I held my breath, straining to hear any noises outside. But there were none. The only sound was the surrounding buzzy hush of silence.

  I traced my fingertip under the seamed lid of the glass case, applying pressure to check that it was actually locked. It was. The glass was cool and clinical beneath my palm. Holding it shut was a button lock with a slender insert for a key. I examined it closely, pushing my fingertip in the grooves, then fiddling around it with a pen. There was no way to pry it open. I tested the weight of it, lifting up an edge. It was heavy, weighing more than a bowling ball.

  So I pushed it off the shelf. The case careened sidelong to the ground where the glass shattered. My shoulders twitched at the explosion of shards. Bottles rolled in all directions. I squatted down in the mess and tried to catch the vials before they escaped. Crawling on all fours, I turned each over to check the labels, pushing the ones away that didn’t have useful descriptions, stopping finally at the word CAUSTIC typed neatly across a rubber-stopped jar.

  Street name: lye and caustic soda

  Formal name: Sodium Hydroxide

  Soluble in water, ethanol, and methanol

  Warning: Highly corrosive; caustic properties; keep out of reach of children; do not ingest

  I shifted my weight to reread the list, then shoved the bottle of lye and caustic soda into my bag before heading out of the storeroom that now looked like the aftereffects of a minor earthquake.

  I arrived back in class with ten minutes left of the period. The houselights were still on, and I worried for a split second that Mrs. Fleury would wonder where I’d been and why no one had been manning the sound room. But she was sharing the bench with the pianist, reaching over his hands on the piano and giving him heated instruction.

  Right.

  I took in the scene. Drake’s tea mug sat unattended on an unpainted wooden box that would become a set piece for the production. I made a point to hover nearby—and when nobody was watching me—took a seat beside it.

  The vantage point was strange seeing as how I was hardly ever on stage. And not in a good way. The white lights seemed to roar into me, both crippling and blinding my senses, and I felt disoriented by the height aboveground and the noise of people stirring in small quarters. My body wanted to shrink away from it all, and I was trying my hardest to stay put, to remain in one piece. I couldn’t dissolve before the deed was done.

  My tongue stuck firmly between my two front teeth, I reached into my bag where I covertly twisted the lid off the bottle. The seal broke and cautiously, calmly, I tipped the mouth into the tepid cup of tea.

  And then I tipped some more.

  The liquid disappeared into the water. For a moment, I was able to forget where I was as I stared into the pool of liquid until the mixture rose to form a barely visible film over the tea.

  And then I was back in my own skin and the task was finished and now all I had to do was wait and waiting was a thing that could be done in the shadows or—better yet—in the rafters, which is where I found myself climbing up and up to the spot that Chris and I had shared.

  I didn’t make so much as a creak when I settled onto the wooden platform high up above the stage, even above the brightness of the lights. I knotted my fingers together and tucked them under my chin ready to watch with rapt attention.

  I felt most comfortable here, where I had a bird’s-eye view. I dangled my feet over everyone’s heads with no one the wiser.

  And then it happened. Rehearsal ended and everyone was dispersing and I felt the crawl of anticipation wriggling up my spine. I shimmied closer to the edge, my fingers wrapping around the scratchy ridge of unfinished wood.

  Drake was giving directions to a stagehand and then taking a second look I saw him reach down to pick up his cup of tea. When a drop spilled over the rim and onto the box upon which it had been resting, he didn’t notice the froth and bubble of acid burning through solid material. Not Drake.

  He raised the cup to his lips. I held my breath. I knew I was holding my breath. But I had to because butterfly wings could cause tornados and hurricanes and a single breath of mine could surely set off a whole chain of events. But then—no—Drake lowered the cup, without sipping. I visualized harder than I had ever visualized anything before. He uttered a few short remarks to the stagehand at his side, who wrote them down diligently just as I was sure Drake insisted. I could no longer hold my breath without fainting. I let it out.

  In one graceful movement, he floated the mug up to his mouth and took a long swig. The first thing he did was to rear his head back and then shake it. Caustic soda and lye must have been as unappetizing as they sounded together. I counted three long seconds. Three long seconds where a thousand possibilities felt as if they might take hold.

  I heard the crash before I saw the ceramic mug splinter on the black stage where the liquid it’d been holding immediately started to fizz. Several onlookers turned with the same interest one might give to a waiter that had dropped a full tray of drinks onto the floor. It was only when they saw Drake clutching his throat and stumbling an indecipherable pattern that their attention deepened into blind fascination.

  What was he doing? Was he acting? Was this part of a new method?

  But the gurgling.

  Digging my nails into the wood of the rafter platform, I leaned forward, heart beating faster, as I peered down. The noises that reached me hardly seemed human.

  A few students clumped together. There were halfhearted shrieks. A few calls to dial 9-1-1. But no one seemed to know what was happening to him.

  Until Drake collapsed onto the stage and rolled onto his back, exposing a pulpy mess of tissue and skin where his throat and mouth should have been. The bloody side of a lolling tongue was exposed through a dripping hole in his cheek. Acid chewed more slowly now at the outer edges of his neck, still peeling away layers to reveal tonsils mostly intact.

  My eyes widened. There was the sound of retching down below, and I glanced away just long enough to see Chris—my Chris—holding Honor’s hair back as she lost the contents of her breakfast among the props.

  Mrs. Fleury couldn’t approach Drake to within ten feet. His neck looked as if it had been blown apart by a bomb. And Mrs. Fleury’s response to that was to scream and flap her hands like she was trying to blow out a fire.

  “He’s still breathing,” said the stagehand he’d been talking to moments earlier. “He’s still … breathing.” The student shook his head in disbelief.

  Cell phones were pulled out, some to call an ambulance, others by the screens I could tell were actually taking video of an unable-to-moan Drake. His eyes darted around in the sockets, wide, unseeing, but very much alive.

  He wouldn’t sing again. He wouldn’t yell again. I’d stolen the voice out of him. Me. Lena Leroux. Power coursed through me as I sat mesmerized by the way the blood kept pulsing from his neck, counting the seconds until help arrived.

  I looked down and saw all that I had done.

  And I saw that it was good.

  FIFTEEN

  Chris

  1:56 PM

  Chris.Autry27: You there?

  bdwaybnd: Yeah, nowhere else to be

  Chris.Autry27: Where would you rather be?

  bdwaybnd: I don’t know. Anywhere, I guess. I mean, I get it. Why they’ve closed school for the next few days but sitting here with nothing to do on a weekday … isn’t it almost worse? W/ everything that’s happened I’m kinda craving some normalcy.

  Chris.Aut
ry27: Is your town always this eventful?

  bdwaybnd: You say to the girl whose sister is in a psych ward.

  Chris.Autry27: Sorry.

  bdwaybnd: No, I’m sorry. That was a downer.

  Chris.Autry27: I’m not sure that we started out on a particularly high note.

  .…

  .…

  2:01 PM

  Chris.Autry27: Do you ever get the feeling you’re being watched?

  bdwaybnd: What do you mean?

  Chris.Autry27: I don’t know. Just like maybe since I moved here … Or I don’t remember actually … But lately I just keep having this weird feeling. The creepy-crawlies.

  bdwaybnd: Did you just say creepy-crawlies?

  Chris.Autry27: No. I typed it.

  bdwaybnd: Oh, much better.

  Chris.Autry27: Forget it.

  bdwaybnd: Hey, I was jk.

  Chris.Autry27: I know. I’m fine. So … it’s two in the afternoon on a weekday, what is Honor Hyde doing?

  bdwaybnd: Practicing my lines. The consummate professional. I have to be ready if I’m going to submit this performance to Poncy Sebastian. Though … god, what if. what if … I feel selfish even thinking about it.

  Chris.Autry27: It’s okay. You need that play. It’s okay to say that. Practicing lines. That sounds like something we could be doing together.

  bdwaybnd: *deep breath* I really am worried about Drake. I feel bad for him.

  Chris.Autry27: We all do.

  bdwaybnd: But is that an invitation?

  Chris.Autry27: It could be an invitation …

  bdwaybnd: Then I accept.

  Chris.Autry27: 1526 Wolf’s Head Lane. See you in…?

  bdwaybnd: When I see you;)

  I had somehow invited Honor to my house. I knew it was stupid because the wait for her to arrive had turned me into a maniac who jumped off the sofa every time I heard the sound of tires crunch down our road like I was a terrier.

  But I told myself this was different than my obsession with Eden. Honor had witnessed the death and maiming of two people she knew in a week. She didn’t have a big support system. I felt bad for her. And what was wrong with not wanting to be an asshole? This wasn’t about impressing her or making out with her.

  Then again, in the time spent waiting for Honor, I had triple-checked my deodorant and paced a trench in the carpet of the living room while going over the rules on repeat. “One, no girls,” I muttered to myself. “Two, no fast cars. Three, no trouble.”

  But that was simply taking an abundance of caution.

  And yet somehow when the doorbell rang I jumped and managed to spray breath freshener in my eyeball. I shrieked, plugging my eye shut with my thumb. The spearmint mist stung and when I glanced in the mirror I could see that the white of my eye was turning all red and tears were leaking out of the corners. Tears!

  Listen, I knew how that sounded about the spray. But I truly wasn’t planning to kiss her or anything. Running lines, however, required a certain level of intimacy and fresh breath was common courtesy.

  The doorbell rang again. I abandoned my pathetic reflection in the mirror and rushed down the hallway to the door, one hand over my eye.

  I flung the door open. “Welcome!” I said with far too much cheer considering we were stuck at home because our teacher had gone splat across the school’s pavement and Drake’s throat had disintegrated.

  Honor, who was a little blurry, stepped over the threshold. “Are you okay?” She peered at me. Through the haze of stingy breath spray that was making me want to sneeze, I saw her tuck her long hair behind an ear. She was wearing a sleeveless turtleneck and a pair of black jeans with ballet flats, and she smelled like a sugar factory. “Chris, are you crying?” She gently reached up to touch the hand that I had plastered to my face.

  “No.” I took a step back, angling my blotchy face away from her.

  She closed the door behind her and now it was just Honor and me alone in an empty house. “What’s wrong with your eye?” she demanded.

  “Um, I’m a pirate?” I shrugged.

  “A pirate?” For someone so slender she really had the whole hands-on-hips-tapping-her-foot thing down. It was intimidating.

  “Ahoy, matey?” I tried again, not eager to show her my weepy eye.

  “Chris!” This time, she grabbed my wrist and thrust it down to my side. “Either you’re crying or—”

  I felt the dampness around my eye exposed to the open air. “Okay, okay, Honor, god, I sprayed breath freshener in my eye like a total loser.”

  “Oh,” she said, blankly. And then her eyebrows raised in surprise. “Ohhhhh.”

  “Don’t ‘ohhhhhh’ me.” I wagged my finger at her, which I knew must look ridiculous coming from a boy who was crying out of one eye. “This isn’t some kind of special treatment you’re getting. If John Mark what’s-his-name was coming over to run lines, I would be doing the exact same thing. Mark my words. So don’t get any bright ideas, okay?”

  She held her hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Cross my heart.”

  “Good. Now shall we please get down to business.” I led her through the narrow hall, decorated with framed photos of my Aunt Mel and Uncle Joe on Disney cruises. “You’ve been billed as a professional.” I stood in front of the squatty, closed door to my makeshift bedroom with my hand over the brass knob, feeling the familiar flutter of butterflies and bad ideas flap around inside my belly.

  Honor lifted her chin. “I assure you, I’m exactly as advertised.” I could feel the warmth of her in this small dark hallway, and I clicked open the door like an escape hatch.

  “After you,” I said.

  She tucked both hands behind her back and strolled past me, the way a tourist might take in the paintings of the Louvre. “So this is your room then.” She hummed to herself.

  There was absolutely nothing remarkable about my room. It may have been slightly neater than the rooms of most sixteen-year-old boys and with fewer posters of girls in bikinis, but other than that, completely lacking in interest. I had a few artsy pictures that I’d taken of the Manhattan skyline tacked to the wall, all moody black-and-whites with a city haze across them. They wouldn’t win any awards, but I thought they were decent. And then there were the two garage bookshelves Uncle Joe had let me bring inside, now positively infested with my mealy old paperbacks whose pages were curled and torn from being stuffed in the back pockets of my jeans.

  Honor was making her way toward the bookshelves when something—or someone—seemed to catch her eye. She bent down and spun my desk chair to face her. “And who, may I ask, is this?” She grinned, holding up a floppy teddy bear with overalls and a shirt button for a nose.

  I took a deep breath because in all that scrambling around, I had left a teddy bear sitting in my desk chair.

  At least my eye had finally stopped irrigating my face.

  I held out my hand as though it’d been an oversight not to introduce her. “This is Huggles, of course,” I said, clearing my throat.

  “Huggles?” She turned my bear so that they were nose to nose.

  I playfully snatched him away and tucked him behind my back. “Hey, he’s adorable.” The mattress creaked as she sat down on my bed. I swallowed, not sure whether to sit or stand or how not to be awkward. “We should get to work,” I said. “You’re stalling.”

  “Your aunt and uncle are at work all day?” she asked, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet under her knees.

  “Yes.” I nodded. “But that’s exactly why they left Huggles here to chaperone.” I brandished the neglected bear. “I told you, don’t get any ideas.”

  She leaned forward and patted Huggles—that was really his name—on his head. “Okay then.” She foraged in a canvas tote bag for two scripts and a pen, which she tucked behind her ear. I watched her shift uneasily. “It’s a new script,” she said, referring to the blotch of Mrs. Dolsey’s blood that had stained her old one.

  I looked down, respectfully, and nodded. “Yeah, um,
of course.” I’d never told Honor or Aunt Mel about how Mrs. Dolsey had given me detention the day of her death. It didn’t seem relevant. Although, it didn’t seem not relevant, either, and that was what occasionally made me feel a little sick to my stomach.

  I pushed the thoughts away now. The jealousy over Honor’s submission to the Poncy Sebastian Studio in New York was still there, but I also wanted it for her. I wanted something good to latch onto in this place. And I needed to believe there was a way out.

  “You’re Mark Antony again, and we’re picking up right at the start in Scene One.”

  I knew it was my imagination, but my throat went parched the way that it did at the onset of a sore throat or at the beginning of winter. I rubbed my neck instinctively as I stared down and prepared to read from the part that was marked for Drake.

  She straightened her posture and moved to the edge of the bed. “If it be love indeed, tell me how much.”

  It was difficult not to stare at her when she put her mind to the role. She was so commanding and mesmerizing, transformed even. But I glanced down at the words, which were already familiar. “There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d.”

  “I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved,” she said, eyes finding mine.

  And then without even looking down at the pages, I returned, “Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.”

  She pulled her lips over the start of a grin. “Very good. Let’s skip ahead to Eleven.”

  I sat down beside her to flip through the pages of my script. “But … that’s set to music.”

  She jutted out her chin. “And I’ve heard you could sing, Autry.”

  I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes. “Lies.”

  “With my own ears,” she said. “Here, I’ll start.” She closed her eyes and traced her middle finger from her forehead to the center of her chest. Then she took a deep breath and began in perfect pitch, “O my lord, my lord, forgive my fearful sails! I little thought you would have follow’d.”