Maybe I was trying to impress Dean.
Andy took his seat, close to Dean, and not far from Emma and Lysette. The girls had seen him talking with Mr. Holt outside. Dean was texting on his phone, and Andy felt his pocket buzz.
I should’ve told him not to text in class; Mr. Holt confiscates phones.
He heard Emma speaking in a deliberately loud whisper, “I guess you have to be a teacher’s pet when you have no friends.”
There were a few stifled chuckles.
Andy’s cheeks threatened to brighten in shame, and then he felt angry at himself for being ashamed at all. He felt his pocket buzz again, and cautiously checked his phone while Mr. Holt’s back was turned.
The message had a picture attached, and the picture made him uncomfortable. It was the photo from yesterday. He was standing next to that bronze statue, imitating its pose. His face bore a stern, determined look. He felt embarrassed, not about the photo, but about himself.
He hid his phone and sat up in his desk. Troublesome thoughts became troublesome impulse and he turned to Dean, who, despite their new friendship, immediately recognized the look in Andy’s eyes.
“Whatever you’re going to do—don’t do it—just ignore them,” Dean whispered as the morning announcements concluded.
Andy turned around in his seat to get a good look at Emma. Part of him wondered what he was doing.
“What is it, teacher’s pet?” Emma asked sarcastically.
Dean’s eyes darted between Andy and the girls, his face taught in anticipation.
Andy’s brow furrowed as he stared. Then, without warning, he delivered a crisp rejoinder, “Woof woof.”
Emma blinked, dumbfounded, with her mouth half-open.
Dean’s eyes went wide, and he coughed loudly, choking back a laugh. Andy’s gaze never left the girls, daring them to reply. Dean’s cheeks puffed up, and he finally burst out in laughter.
The whole class froze and stared.
Dean was oblivious. “Oh, God! Hahaha. Their stupid faces! Hahahaha!” With tears in his eyes, he slipped off his chair. Worse still, other students started laughing. Even Mr. Holt, who in Andy’s experience should have taken charge, simply leaned against the board, a look of wonder on his face.
“I wish I could still laugh like that,” Mr. Holt muttered, as Dean finally pulled himself back into his seat.
With Emma’s face red, Andy turned around in his seat, but before he did, he noticed that Lysette was also red-faced, from laughing rather than embarrassment. As her smile faded, Andy saw that she looked tired and almost disheveled.
“Well now. Let’s not hear whatever the punchline was; it will never live up to our expectations. Come on everyone, attention back up here. It’s good to get it out, but—” Mr. Holt went to his desk. He produced a yellow slip, quickly filled it out, and approached Dean, “—there you are, Mr. Loggia, a nice ticket to lunch detention.”
“Mr. Holt. I thought you understood,” Dean complained.
“I do, and that’s why it’s only one day. Don’t worry, all the best people are in lunch detention. Right, Andy? Lysette?” Both students shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Andy had lunch detention for the whole week, but he was grateful that Dean only received a light punishment for his outburst.
Wait—what did I just do?
Andy tried to settle himself as Mr. Holt gave his closing announcements. He looked over at Dean, who was wiping a tear away from his red eyes.
Right—I barked at the girls.
Andy retrieved his cell phone and inspected the image again. It didn’t make any sense, but he felt certain that the statue had somehow caused his outburst.
The museum should put up a warning, Andy thought, half-serious.
They shuffled out of homeroom and on to their classes.
At lunchtime, Andy found Dean in the hall outside the cafeteria.
Dean was grinning like an idiot, and jabbering. “You’re a madman. Stay away from me. I’ve got lunch detention and I don’t even care! I think something is rubbing off—like maybe your craziness—I’m afraid it’s contagious.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much. Let’s get our trays before Mr. Holt loses it. And what was that laughing fit about? Are the hormones getting you?” Andy asked.
“Maybe they are, Andy. Don’t doubt it. We’re getting worse by the day, and we won’t level out for years.”
They waited in line in the cafeteria and overheard people discussing the new kid’s in-class hysteria. Dean was embarrassed and lowered his head.
“Embrace it. Hormones or not, if they think you’re crazy, they won’t bother you,” Andy reasoned.
“That might work for you, but I’ve got a future with these people. You know we’ll all end up at the same high school, then the same colleges. We’ll have to network with them at some point. Oh God, I didn’t ruin it already, did I?”
“It’ll be forgotten by tomorrow.” Andy interrupted.
At least it should be.
Dean was about to resume complaining when Mr. Holt walked into the busy cafeteria. “You two! And you, Lysette. My room.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean shrunk as he picked up his tray.
Andy didn’t appreciate being snapped at so loudly, and in front of everyone. For a moment, he felt irritated. He took a breath and remembered all he had done to earn this, though the looks on Dean and Lysette’s faces made it hard to stifle his anger.
Andy looked over his shoulder and saw Lysette and her group following. He couldn’t help but think that Lysette looked somehow worn.
Having friends like them would tire me out too.
As they exited the cafeteria with their food, Andy slowed his pace to let the girls catch up. Dean saw what he was doing and scowled. “I’d try to stop you, but I’m a quick learner.”
The girls were now alongside. Andy flashed Dean a grin before speaking. “Lysette, how hav—”
Emma interrupted him, “Don’t talk to her, freak.”
Andy gave her a wry look, “Freak now, not teacher’s pet?”
Before Emma could answer, Mr. Holt called out to them from further down the hall.
“Only Dean, Andy, and Lysette please. The rest of you, go back to the cafeteria.”
“Mr Ho-o-lt—” Emma drew out his name in a whine. “You can’t leave her with them! I mean, them! Of all people!”
“Do you want detention again, Emma?” Mr. Holt’s face bent with frustration. “Of course you do, what am I saying?” Then more loudly, “—get back to the cafeteria. Your friend will survive.”
Andy wanted to ask Lysette about the mouse and the message on the painting, but Mr. Holt was looking volatile and he wouldn’t risk it.
Dean, however, chanced a whisper, “Andy, what the heck is wrong with you? You can’t talk to her. We went over the beatings, didn’t we? You even agreed.”
“Did I?” Andy whispered, “Well, we talked to her yesterday and nobody beat us up. Where did you even get that idea?”
“Okay, but when the football team comes for vengeance—”
“Yeah, yeah, I shouldn’t expect to see you hanging around. Listen, we don’t even have a football team. This is a middle school, and she isn’t a cheerleader. We don’t have those either.”
Dean scratched the side of his face in consternation. “Oh—well, it’s basically still my first day.” he said quietly, as if this justified his persistent anxiety.
“Yeah, but you did come from another middle school—I don’t think any of them have football teams, or cheerleaders—do they?”
“Andy—I—don’t spread it around, but,” Dean lowered his voice further, “I was home-schooled.”
Andy’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. Suddenly it all made sense.
They walked into the classroom, took their seats, and ate quietly. After a few minutes, Mr. Holt stepped out. He gave them a significant look before he left, but didn’t bother telling them not to talk.
Andy immediately turned to Lysette, full
of questions, but she silenced him with an angry glare.
“Don’t talk to me.”
Andy was shocked.
She was fine yesterday—even friendly.
“Told you,” Dean whispered.
But Andy was undeterred. “Lysette, no one else saw what we did yesterday. And that mouse was at my place last night; the same one with the red face—you remember—we chased it.”
“Again with the mouse thing, Andy. She was just humoring you,” Dean butted in.
“I can speak for myself, thank you,” Lysette snapped, before rounding on Andy. “It didn’t happen, okay? So don’t bring it up again,” she looked away for a moment, but quickly turned back, “and if you have to talk to me, call me Letty. I hate my name.”
Andy understood the sentiment, but noticed what appeared to be a cloud of dark steam rising off her shoulders. He didn’t know what to say. He glanced at Dean, who shrugged. When he looked back to her, the dark cloud was almost gone.
My imagination?
A sudden movement caught his eye, and he saw another mouse. This one was eyeing Letty, and it was solid burgundy. It was hiding beneath the teacher’s desk. Andy gawked and pointed, but when he did, the mouse bounded away in a flash.
Mr. Holt opened the door. He looked at them suspiciously, but the room was silent and nothing appeared out of place. He even checked the trashcan—though Andy had no idea what he expected to find—before finally taking his seat.
The final minutes of lunch detention were uneventful. Their last two classes of the day were similarly ordinary, though Andy was distracted through both. He kept quiet in Math, and only offered up vague answers in English. After the final bell rang, he met up with Dean.
“Come on, let’s go to your place. I’ve got my copy of Wall Street Privateers. I even paid extra for the Bail-Out Edition. You’ve got a 720 game-system at home, right?”
“It’s my dad’s.” Andy felt a strange sadness as he looked to the street and saw Letty climbing into her mother’s car. “I’m not into it right now, Dean.”
Dean leaned in close to show off the case. “Not into it! They barely ever make business sims for a console! Come on, our fortunes await—” Dean paused and stared at Andy.
Andy leaned away as Dean’s stare deepened. “What is it?” Andy finally asked, rubbing his face as if something might be there.
Dean reached into his backpack and pulled out a worksheet from earlier in the day. Andy recognized it from biology class.
“Hey, what color are your eyes, Andy?”
“Blue-green,” Andy scoffed, annoyed at the attention.
“What?” Dean asked, surprised by his reaction, “It’s just a question. Remember today in biology, all that about heredity?” Dean asked, waving the worksheet.
Andy nodded, still not understanding why Dean was staring.
“Well, you’ll have to change your answer on the worksheet, because you’re wrong. Your eyes are like purplish. No, what’s the color—” Dean trailed off, lost in thought.
“No they aren’t. They’re blue-green, like my mom’s.”
“Purplish? Periwinkle? Peridot? No, that’s wrong—”
Andy looked away, just as Letty’s mother was driving off. Something felt wrong, and all he could think about was the mist he had seen hanging above her.
“Violet! That’s what they are, violet eyes.”
Andy glowered. “There are actual problems out there. Enough about my eyes—” he looked dumbstruck for a moment, and pointed to the paper, which listed the various eye color combinations, before continuing, “violet isn’t even an eye color people can have! Violet? Come on Dean, no wonder you didn’t see the mouse.”
Dean put the worksheet away and picked up the videogame case. “All right; I thought we were cool. Here I am, thinking we’re cool, then you give me all this—and the mouse stuff again—” Wincing, he glanced at Andy to see how he was taking the criticism.
Andy regretted snapping at Dean. “I’m sorry, it’s just this day. No one believes me; she’s the only one, and she won’t even talk to me.”
Dean sighed, staring at his game.
Andy relented, “Yeah sure, we’ll play, but no starting as a mega-corporation; that takes the fun out of it.”
Dean embraced the change of subject. “Andy, the game is meant to be played from a conglomerate point of view. They just put the mom-and-pop option in for suicidal people. Come on, who do you hate—business wise? We’ll take ‘em out. And your eyes were violet, but only for a moment. Now they’re back to being greenish. It was probably just the light.”
“Dean—”
“All right, fine. But we’re playing service sector—maybe food—we can expand vertically in the production chain, imagine the profits.”
“I think shooting games can get boring too, but this is just going overboard.”
Dean laughed. “Shooters are for plebeians; we’re management, upper management even. This is an investment in our future, Andy.”
“Dean, why did you stop homeschooling? You clearly aren’t cut out for this place.”
Dean examined the strap on his backpack before answering. “Keep it between you and me. I already passed the high school equivalency test, but my parents think I need to learn to socialize, if I’m going to succeed. So here I am, at least for a few years.”
“Wow.” Andy was astonished. “You’ve graduated high school already? Why come to middle-school though? Couldn’t you socialize at college or something?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said, but my developmental psych convinced my parents that I need primal exposure. I need to be thrown in the jungle—as they say—with people my own age.”
Andy’s eyes went wide, “Who says that? Wait, never mind—why is this place the jungle?”
Dean cast his view across the school walkway, at the mass of other students, and then glared at Andy, “Are you serious?”
Andy shook his head, trying to see his school through Dean’s eyes. He saw clumps of students, all belonging to different groups and cliques. A few insults flew back and forth between two groups. After a moment, someone was put into a trashcan, but they were helped out fairly quickly.
“It’s not that bad,” Andy offered.
“I was called Loogey on my first day and laughed at by a bus full of kids. I’d say ‘jungle’ describes this place perfectly.”
Andy laughed, “Fair enough.”
A car beeped its horn.
“That’s us,” Andy said.
“Alright, we’re still playing Wall Street Privateers?” Dean asked, climbing in beside Andy.
Andy sighed. “Sure, why not?”
“Not too much time on the video game, boys,” his father said.
After Andy introduced Dean to his father, he was shocked to find that the two were fast friends. Luckily, the drive home was quick.
Between rounds of Privateers, Andy left the room and rushed to his computer. He searched for the artist who had painted the windmill; he was Dutch. Andy considered the name and tried to sound it out. At least the first part was comprehensible. “Rembrandt,” he whispered, staring at the man’s self-portrait.
“Andy! We’re being fined by the B.B.B., but I think I can bribe the judge to reverse the order.”
“Go for it!” Andy yelled, before continuing his search.
He looked up a few of Rembrandt’s paintings. “There it is,” he whispered, as he saw the windmill again. It didn’t look right. The words were gone, though a bare trace of them remained in outlines on the rocks. Andy wondered if he had seen anything at all.
He stared closely, but it was just a cliff, albeit a suspicious one. Andy recalled the artist they spoke to. She had seen something as well; she thought the letters were mistakes.
“Andy! We need to bribe judge Conscientious. What do we offer?”
Andy wondered where he could see more of these paintings. He searched for Rembrandt’s work, and was shocked at the prices these paintings sold for, before finding
a nearby gallery that featured more of his work.
“Andy! What do we do?”
“What are the options?”
“Cruise in the Bahamas, 100,000 cash, a tearful plea, or a new hospital wing in his name.”
“Better go with the hospital wing,” Andy replied absently, as he printed out directions to the museum.
“But that’s the most expensive one!”
“Just do it—hey, do you know how to get to the Masters Gallery?”
“Okay, okay. And no, I don’t know it.”
“It’s by the arena.” Andy looked up the train schedule. “We’ll have to take the subway.”
“What? Do I have to go?”
“I just played two hours of Privateers, so yes, you have to go.”
“Isn’t it that museum next to the Card Emperor’s Emporium?”
Andy glanced at the computer screen and saw that, indeed, a few doors down from the Masters, was the Card Emperor’s Emporium.
“Yeah, it’s just down the street.”
“Well in that case, I offer no objections.”
Andy heard the door creak open. It was his father.
“Going to the Masters?”
“Uh—yeah? And Dean wants to go to the card shop next door,” Andy replied.
“Meeting that girl there?”
“Dad! No! I’m interested in the paintings.”
“So—what you mean to say is—she’s interested in the paintings.”
Andy gave his father a pained glare.
“Hey, that’s good with me; we’ll go Saturday. I’ll drive.”
Andy exhaled heavily as his dad left the room.
Can’t take that guy anywhere. He’s a living nightmare.
“Andy! Your dad’ll drive us,” Dean said from the other room, “and get in here, we’re being sued for copyright infringement!”
Him too.
Chapter 4
The Night Watch
The week passed simply, if slowly for Andy, who wanted Saturday to arrive. He served his lunch detention. Emma and her friends continued their hostility, but he wasn’t bothered anymore. Dean, following Andy’s lead, lost some of his sheepishness. Letty, however, refused to talk to him, or even meet his glances, which was a continual frustration.
The Python of Caspia Page 4
