There was a harried zip of backpacks and the thunk of books being opened on lab benches. It was a full-on hack teacher maneuver. I knew from experience that students quickly grew inured to threats. I repressed a shudder as I imagined what it would be like when spring fever hit and I had no tools left in the toolbox.
About a hundred years later, the end of period bell rang. I deliberately spun out the homework instructions, keeping them a minute or two over so they had no time to linger with questions. As they slung their backpacks over their shoulders and raced off to their next classes, I followed them out and over to the computer room down the hall. It was empty but for a couple of high school students working on nothing that looked like science homework. I turned a blind eye to whatever they were doing and they returned the courtesy as I powered up the computer at the other end of the room and went online.
Our local paper had the news. Tom had indeed died last night from heart failure. They’d given his death two brief, matter-of-fact paragraphs that talked more about the Milverne Theater than anything else. In its infinite wisdom, the newspaper had decreed Tom’s death sad but not headline-grabbing.
I shut down the computer and returned to my empty classroom. It was a free period for me and I had plenty of grading to do. I sat down at my desk, pulled a stack of lab reports and got to work.
With the sort of single-minded efficiency one only gets when desperate to ignore something else, I managed to get through all of third period’s labs in a fast-moving half-hour. It was when I reached for the next stack that my focus slipped and Tom took over my thoughts.
I couldn’t help but remember that I’d spent my last moments with him angry over the fact that he hadn’t even offered to pay for my sundae after eating most of it. I’d gotten huffy over a little hot fudge sauce and now he was dead.
The bell rang for morning break. I popped up from my desk and reached for my sun protection gear. Coffee. I needed coffee. Studies showed that caffeine improved moods in women and if there were days I desperately needed a mood improver, this was one of them. If I didn’t get out of there and pour some caffeine down my gullet right away, chances were good I’d face my next class with watery eyes and a bright red nose from our crappy institutional-grade classroom tissues. Giving my eighth-grade students that kind of ammo was like stepping up in front of a firing squad and yelling, “Go for it!”
Tugging on gloves, I wrapped a scarf around my face and neck, plunked a wide-brimmed sunhat on my head and bolted down the outside staircase to the first floor of the science wing. The high school students milling around their lockers in the hallways didn’t give me as much as a glance. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or offended.
The two-story science “wing” is on one end of a rectangular building. The English department occupies the other end and the school theater is a buffer in between. From the eye-watering stink in the air, it was a lab day for Becky’s chemistry students and painting sets day in the drama classes. The background pong of the lockers (I hated to think what foul things were incubating in them after almost two months of school.) wasn’t helping matters. I picked up my pace and hurried past the theater and out the far end of the building. Instead of heading out to the grassy quad with the rest of the crowd, I took the rainy day route under a network of covered walkways and entered the cafeteria through a side door.
The industrial-size coffee urn was on the cafeteria terrace. Most of my colleagues considered it one of the few perks of the job that we could catch a few rays near the beach over a cup of coffee every morning. I used to too.
No one spared me a glance, which meant I’d correctly judged the gossip lull. Tom’s heart attack might have been good for a few moments of “did you hear” in the faculty room before school and a sad headshake about the unpredictability of life between morning classes, but as no one here particularly knew him, interest would wane unless fed. No one but me would have read that tiny newsfeed that Tom had died.
I looked around for Becky or Carol, but if they’d been to coffee break, they’d already come and gone. Careful to keep to the deeply shaded section under the thick overhang, I forced myself to wait while the football coach fumbled for a Styrofoam cup, instead of reaching across him and sticking my mug under the spigot. Not because it was rude—Greg wouldn’t have cared—but because it was as good as broadcasting that I didn’t just want coffee but needed it. And if you thought no one would notice you are laboring under a misconception that teachers are somehow more high-minded than other adults. They’re not. On the contrary, teachers can take grade school playground one-upmanship to a new level.
“Come on, pokey!” I muttered under my breath.
After what seemed like hours, it was finally my turn. I leaned forward trying to get a buzz from the fumes as hot coffee streamed into my cup.
I felt a tap on my arm. The head librarian had joined me in line.
“Jo, how nice to see you outside.”
How Janice managed to imply in a simple greeting that I was antisocial to the point of being unfit to be around children was beyond me.
Mustering up a smile, I turned around to find myself facing not just Janice but Gilbert as well. Both librarians. Great. This day was getting better by the minute.
I snapped the lid on my travel mug in a businesslike fashion. “Beautiful day, huh?” I sidled toward the cafeteria door. “Too bad I can’t stay to enjoy it. I have a—”
“I bet you’re a little behind in your work,” Janice said, reaching out to pat my hand.
“No, really, it’s just that I promised to meet—”
“And tired too, poor thing,” chimed in Gilbert. “I bet you got back very late last night.”
“I…uh…” I blinked and stared at him. Had he really just said that? And with the school chaplain right there? Not to mention the head of HR.
Janice clucked sadly. “Poor dear, it must have been awful for you…”
What?
“That young man dying practically at your feet.”
Oh. I glanced around, but no one had an ear cocked to our conversation. I’d been right that the teachers hadn’t yet seen that small article in the paper, but I’d forgotten the librarians read everything.
They were almost right. I was tired, and it had been unpleasant for me. But the only people it was awful for were Tom, his close friends and his family. A surge of outrage on Tom’s behalf filled me, overriding my usual meekness when confronted by the librarians.
I rose to my full height, stared down at them, and spoke quietly but firmly. “Actually, Janice, Gilbert, Tom didn’t die ‘practically at my feet’. He died in the hospital after having a heart attack. He was a nice man and a dedicated actor and I’m sure he will be sorely missed by his friends and family.”
It shut them up. The end of break bell blared into our small corner of silence.
I don’t know if their recollection of the good manners they prided themselves in having lasted beyond the moment I sailed back into the cafeteria, as I didn’t see them again that day. I had so much work to do that I skipped lunch in the cafeteria and made do with an energy bar at my desk.
Even so, I still had a depressingly thick stack of ungraded lab reports requiring my attention when school ended. I also had a couple dozen students with a sudden burning interest in chemistry. Amazing how this lust for knowledge coincided with tomorrow’s test.
After I answered the last student’s questions, I spent a couple of hours writing the rest of the chemistry test and lost track of time coaxing the copy machine to spit out copies. I’d just pulled a stack of lab reports to me and wearily uncapped my red pen when Becky appeared in my doorway.
“There you are. Haven’t seen you all day. Did you want to hitch a ride to the theater with me?”
Twice a week, parking in my neighborhood was banned on one side of every street from four to six a.m. for street cleaning. Anyone who wasn’t in for the night by seven on a Thursday wouldn’t find a parking spot in our zip code.
“Surely we’re not having the haunted house? You did hear that, um…” I struggled over the wording and then just came out with it. “Tom didn’t survive his heart attack.”
She nodded, sniffed and yanked a tissue out of the box. She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. “I know. Dan called me with the news this morning. I really tried to make it up here today to tell you, but I got swamped.
“Anyway, we’re still doing the haunted house. You know how theater folks are. The show must go on. If anything, they’re more determined than ever to do a good job, in Tom’s memory.”
There was no way I was getting out of going to the haunted house. I would just have to stay up late tonight to finish the lab reports after I got back. There was only one more day left of the work week. I would survive.
“Right.” I recapped my pen, shifted the labs into my book bag and slung it over my shoulder. “Carpooling would be a lifesaver. Why don’t you follow me home and we’ll go from there? I—”
Stepping into the hallway, I got a good look at Becky.
“Your hair is green.”
The spiky tips of her hair were as verdant as the football field.
She ran a hand guiltily over her hair as if trying to tame its exuberance. I realized Tom’s death had hit her hard. With all the time she’d spent at the theater the past couple of weeks, she’d probably gotten to know him pretty well.
“I did it yesterday before the haunted house started. Gave my costume a bit of pizzazz, especially after I added a little glow-in-the-dark hair gel.”
“When? I was with you a half-hour before it opened.”
She shrugged. “It only takes ten minutes.”
I studied her critically. “Actually, I like it.” I turned off the lights and locked my classroom door behind me. “Maybe I should try it with my hair.”
“Don’t you dare! Once you dye it, you’ll never get that gorgeous red-gold color back. And don’t you cut it short, either.”
“I thought you hated my bun.”
“Everyone hates your bun. You should wear it down.”
“And have Roger write me up for being a fire hazard?”
Our department chair lives for officious little power trips like that. In the fourteen months I’d been teaching at Bayshore, he’d been after me for everything from the color of pens I let my students write with—“Blue or black only. Red is for teachers. Students must correct their work with green ink or get a demerit.”—to the number of essay questions on my tests.
As I’d hoped, the inane turn of conversation helped temper her grief and she let out a snort of laughter. “Oh my God, he totally would!” She pushed open the outside door. “Roger’s such an ass.”
“I know. All the joy I’ve given him, all those times he’s written me up for things and never once has he said ‘thank you’.”
Becky’s laughter rang across the quad. I kept my gaze focused on the terrain around us, scanning every doorway and shadowy arch for signs of something lurking. Every inch of the school was pretty well lit after dark, but my skin pricked uncomfortably. I didn’t usually leave this late. The sun went down early in October.
“Hey, slow down, lanky legs,” Becky complained. Grabbing my elbow, she tugged me toward the low-slung administration building. “Let’s go this way. I need to stop and get my mail.”
“Sorry.” I’d instinctively led us away from the buildings toward the wide open, visibly vampire-free quad.
Stepping into the faculty room, we rifled through our mailboxes. I didn’t have anything that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Becky tucked a couple of pink phone messages in her bag and we exited through the handsome parquet lobby and out the front to the faculty, staff and guest parking lot. Becky had to run a quick errand and get gas and I needed to check on Fluffy so we agreed to meet in front of my place in a half-hour.
Fluffy was curled in a tight ball in the bottom room of her cat condo. I wouldn’t have thought she’d moved at all that day except as usual the food level had gone down as if I were feeding a St. Bernard. I reached a hand through the hole of a doorway of her kitty condo and gave her soft fur a pat just make sure she was still alive. She woke with a start, shot me a dirty look, yawned and went back to sleep.
Feeling guilty about leaving her alone all day, I dangled a mouse with a tinkly bell for a nose in front of the condo door. Fluffy shifted so her back was more firmly to me.
As I got back to my feet, the vial of holy water in my jacket pocket knocked against my waist like a nagging child. I glanced at my watch. I still had fifteen minutes until I was supposed to meet Becky. Plenty of time to douse myself before going out.
Taking the holy water into the bathroom, I stripped down and uncorked the vial. Remembering that nip of discomfort from the last time, I poured a few drops into my cupped palm and quickly rubbed it over my cheeks and forehead.
This time was different. The holy water sank into my pores like fire and acid. A fierce animalistic rage tore through my body. Screaming with pain, I scrabbled for the glass vial and lifted it high above my head to shatter it against the floor.
As suddenly as it had come the moment passed, leaving me sweat-soaked and trembling. Lowering my arm, I returned the vial gently to the countertop. Fumbling for purchase to hold my shaking body up, I leaned close to the mirror, expecting to see my face blistered with red, raw skin.
My reflection was oddly imbalanced. Atop my ghostly body, perched a near photographic-sharp image of my head, the skin soft and dewy. A confused sob broke from my chest and I collapsed on the little foot stool by the shower and put my head in my hands.
I made myself get back up. Grasping the vial of holy water, I pulled the cork out a second time, my hands shaking hard against the desire to slam the cork in tighter. A terrible, cowardly part of me wanted desperately to avoid the pain, to stop fighting what was so clearly inevitable. But my anger at being manipulated by something outside my control was stronger. Drop by drop, I rubbed the holy water over every inch of my body, gritting my teeth against the pain.
I let the empty vial fall into the trash and stumbled out into my bedroom. I don’t know how long I stood there in the dark.
The ringing of my cell phone jostled me out of my stupor. Following the mechanical strains of Beethoven’s Ninth, I padded back into the bathroom and pulled it out of my book bag.
It was Becky. “Hey, I’m here. Get your butt downstairs or we’re going to be late.”
Her voice was…normal. It flowed through me like a warm, healing tonic.
Half-formed plans of bailing on her so I could stay inside where it was safe receded as I realized I wanted to be, needed to be, out with friends. “I’ll be down in two minutes.”
I got back into my work clothes. Stowing the vampire costume in my book bag, I made a quick stop at the kitchen to refill Fluffy’s food and water bowls and called goodbye to the furry bit of her back that was visible through the hole.
Becky was double parked out front, her pristine 1965 black Mustang gleaming in the glow from the streetlight. The car was decades older than mine and in far better shape.
“How many miles do you have on this thing?” I asked as I sank into the remarkably comfortable passenger seat. Becky made an effort to maintain the car’s original equipment as long as it didn’t interfere with comfort or speed. Which meant the seats had been re-sprung, there were seat belts and the engine was powerful enough to tow a tanker.
“‘Bout a hundred fifty thousand. I can’t turn left here, can I? I hate these stupid one-way streets.”
“That’s a lot of miles. Don’t you worry about breaking down on the freeway?”
“Nah. I’ve got a guy.”
“A guy?”
“Rene. He’s a genius with engines. I hear the tiniest noise and he fixes it for me during his breaks at the garage. I get parts at cost and half-price labor.”
Of course she had a guy. Becky knew everyone from all walks of life and she had the gift I associate with cheerleaders and prom
queens of getting males to trip over themselves lining up to do things for her. Only, Becky wasn’t manipulative about it. They just liked her.
“How come I don’t have a guy?” I muttered, jealous.
She grinned and downshifted around a corner. “You really want me to answer that?”
“No.”
“Good. Because I don’t have an answer. You’re gorgeous, smart and nice. And you bake.”
I was touched. “Thanks, that’s very—”
“And not all men are put off by a granny bun, frumpy clothes—”
“Hey!”
“I mean, was there like a giant sale on old lady cruise wear? They do make attractive clothes in your size, you know.” Becky scowled down at my feet. “And don’t even get me started on your shoes.”
“Gee, I feel pretty.”
“And yet for some reason, hot men still flock to you.” She threw up her hands then refit them on the steering wheel with a smack.
“What men?”
She flashed a glance at me as she shifted to third. “Your problem is not that you can’t get men. Your problem is you keep turning them down.”
“What men? Where are these men?”
We pulled up to a stop sign. “Why are you shouting?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. “Let’s see. There was that gorgeous hunk of masculinity sitting next you at the play, for one. In fact, there doesn’t need to be any more. He’s enough. You couldn’t make a man sexier than that.” She pursed her lips and thought about it a second. “Yep, he’s perfect.”
He was perfect. He was also a vampire.
The dreamy look on her face sharpened into a thoughtful frown. “I swear I’ve seen him before somewhere…” She shook her head. “No, I guess not. A guy like that makes an impression.”
I let out the breath I was holding and relaxed back into the seat.
“So?” she prompted.
Liz Jasper - Underdead 02 Page 8
