Cassandra: And they all fall down

by Julie Hodgson

  Cassandra thought for a moment. Bindi really was a wise old soul, far beyond her years; here was Cassandra, perched on the end of her bed, ordering a package of panic online, and Bindi was just chilling, philosophizing, making things okay again in that way she had. And she was right, of course. There may have been attackers out there, but they were in control of their own minds and the way they conducted themselves, and they had a responsibility to show that they couldn’t be taken down so easily. Cassandra flung herself backward amongst the fluffy pillows, swung her legs up on the wall, polishing her posters with her socks – a few athletes and musicians – and started to write again.

  Guess where I was when I found out. It had seemed inappropriate to boast online when there was so much going on, but Bindi had given her permission to smile again.

  Well, not in American History.

  In iCandy.

  No waaaaayyyy!

  *smiley face*

  She actually didn’t mind learning history; she didn’t mind most lessons, but she wasn’t about to share that. She was knocking on the door of good grades and hoped to go off to college, but it was too soon to think about a major. All she knew was that track would feature and the 100-meter sprint. There was nothing quite like the feeling of running, and she was good at it. She was so good at it, in fact, that Coach Andrews was certain it could pay her way through college.

  What did you have? What’s it like? Tell me everything … And Private Message me about the doc visit.

  Cassandra told Bindi all about the ice-creams they had and just how pink it was inside, but she couldn’t completely shake the awful feeling inside of her, and it wouldn’t have been right to just forget about the attacks anyway. There were, after all, two of her peers in the hospital and two or more monsters on the loose.

  When she had finished her description, which inevitably referred to the fact that she was a month away from her birthday, Bindi replied …

  29 days and counting, bestiiiii!

  Then a new avatar entered the conversation.

  29 days and she an old bag hag, bitch! This was Leo, her second bestie, whom she had also known since her move to Garden City Elementary, but she would be better off tweeting her secrets than leaving them in his confidence, so he only knew the things about her that floated on the surface, which was fine with her. He had a mouth the size of a marshmallow mountain, and there was no off switch. He was the epitome of the phrase “ SO! whatever whelmed”

  Who you calling bitch? Ho? She quickly typed and knew she would now be exchanging insults with Leo for the rest of the evening, attacks or no attacks, so she opened a private message and wrote to Bindi.

  Good news. Dr. Hairyface doesn’t want me to take meds anymore. Thinks ADD is for bedwetters. I’m gonna be normal.

  There was a quick reply.

  You’ll never be normal!

  Thanks!

  Do you feel OK bout it? Ya not gonna go kiddy bashin', are you? Not so close to your birthday anyway. You can beat up on Wes if you like. He’s an asssssshole.

  Wes was her little brother, and he really was an asshole.

  I can do that!

  But seriously?

  Seriously, it’s good news. You know I hate taking those tablets. And people asking what they for. I look like a junky.

  And you won’t be a psycho bitch?

  You sound like Leo.

  I know. I’ve just been chatting to him. Do you know he’s wearing a suit for your sweet sixteen?

  Ha! A suit. I thought you were going to say a dress.

  That would be more him.

  This I must see.

  It was hard having these kinds of conversations. Bindi made it easy for her, but still she got flashes of her six-year-old self at the farm, standing over the bloodied mess of Braydon Taylor, looking down at the blood on her own hands that she hadn’t noticed at first, crisped dry. Jakey must have been terrified when she rescued him with blood splattered on her Disney T-shirt and face, but she was completely oblivious. When she was younger, she would spend far too much of her time revisiting those moments and the weeks that followed, trying to work it all out, telling herself that she was wicked and didn’t deserve to be happy. Now she was far better at welcoming happiness into her life and not giving herself such a hard time; she accepted that there had been something wrong with her and it had been treated with tablets. She thought of the nonchalant expression on Dr. Somner’s face and had also read that kids grow out of ADD. She was well now; she was growing up; there was no reason for her to be taking medication. She had coping strategies, and she knew in her heart that everything was going to be okay. Now when she looked back at that time, it was in flashes rather than full HD, and she was quick to move on. The memories would never truly leave her, but they had very little power over her now.

  At that moment, another chat box opened and Cassandra had to bring the phone closer to her eyes as she didn’t recognize the picture straight away. This was someone who never messaged her, and Cassandra wouldn’t dream of contacting her either. It was Abby.

  I take it you’re still gatecrashing my sweet sixteen next month?

  Cassandra could hear the tone of voice in her writing. She managed to look down on Cassandra even when she was many miles away and communicating with just the tips of her fingers. I take it you’re still gatecrashing? Who talks like that?

  Hi Abby, Cassandra wrote then deleted it, but she had nothing to replace it with so she wrote it again and added. You hear what happened today?

  There was a long pause and then she wrote, Is that a no, then?

  She was a real piece of work. With everything that had happened today, all she cared about was whether Cassandra would be going to her party.

  Yes, I’ll be there, Cassandra wrote and then, filled with contempt, wrote, Thanks for the invite.

  My mom made me.

  The message came through quickly, and Cassandra wondered if she had regretted typing it, but she knew Abby better than this. She would be looking for the direct hit, and she had found it. Cassandra drew her legs down from the wall and made herself less comfortable on the bed as she considered her reply, but another message came from Abby before she could write another word.

  I have a friend from Davidson running against you at the track meet in three weeks, and I would appreciate it if you could repay my generosity by letting her win.

  Now Cassandra sprang to her feet.

  Are you kidding?

  I don’t kid. She’s called Paterson, and she will probably kick your ass anyway, but it can’t hurt to make sure.

  You are kidding!

  I told you, I don’t kid.

  And if I don’t?

  You can forget about holding your crappy sweet sixteen in mine.

  But your mom’s making you invite me. You just said.

  There was a long pause and Cassandra felt a slim sense of victory, but panic was throbbing away inside of her. She couldn’t throw the race. She just couldn’t. She had been working towards this all year. She couldn’t let Abby crush all her dreams.

  Finally, another message arrived.

  My mom won’t be there.

  And then green turned to red and Cassandra knew that Abby was no longer online.

  Chapter Three

  The following morning, Bindi was wearing the strangest wraparound, floral dress ever made, but it didn’t register with Cassandra. Her long, red hair was loose, and her makeup featured a new and vibrant shade of purple, but as Cassandra wandered into class and took the desk beside her best friend, she had so much more on her mind than the fact that Bindi had come straight from Woodstock. There were still a few minutes until classes began and some of the class, mostly boys, were taking advantage of the fact as if fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds couldn’t be left unsupervised for even a few minutes without tearing up the desks and scratching at the air with riotous laughter. Cassandra slipped into her seat without even commenting on how they just needed to grow up, which she often did, and then beg
an to load her desk with heavy books.

  “Hey, what happened to you last night? You left me hanging.”

  Cassandra turned to her friend without breaking a smile.

  “Mother f …! You look like shit. What the hell happened to you?”

  “Thanks!”

  “No, I mean …”

  Cassandra knew exactly what she meant. She did look like shit. She hadn’t managed even a minutes’ sleep last night after her conversation with Abby. The thoughts and scenarios kept swirling around in her mind. If she threw the race, then she would be letting her coach and the school down, not to mention black-marking herself with any scouts that might have chosen this day to show up. If she didn’t do it then, her birthday would be ruined, and she knew Abby meant it. The thoughts had collided and exploded, scattering debris across the landscape of her mind, building up and up until she was no longer able to form a single thought and had lay there staring and scratching the backs of her hands, which were bright red this morning despite her mother’s miracle cream.

  “Have you been up worried about the attacks? Look, come back to mine after; we can chant a little. Bit of meditation maybe?”

  Now Cassandra felt terrible that she hadn’t been worried more about this. She was shallow as well as backed into an impossible corner. Life couldn’t get any worse.

  The moment Mr. McCalister entered the room, the entire class fell into silence. No other teacher had this impact; most had to shout and assert their presence before the boys even thought about returning to their seats, but Mr. McCalister – Mac as they all called him – had a special knack with teenagers. If he could bottle it and sell it to other teachers, it would make him a millionaire. They were not only silent, but they sat up straight, attentively listened to everything he said and even volunteered answers. For the girls’ part, most of them had completely fallen in love with him – including Bindi, who had a massive crush on him. Most of the time he was even able to contend with Spike Blue, the kid who said things and did things that no other kid would dare. He shouted when he felt like it, made noises, ran out and all around the corridors, and simply refused to work. He was an English kid, and he was such a contrast to the image of the English that Cassandra had thought true before he came to the school a few years ago. They were supposed to be suave and sensitive, a little shy and charismatic, like Harry Potter or James Bond. Spike Blue couldn’t be further from those fictional heroes; he looked as if he got dressed in the dark and he couldn’t sit still for a second. Hi hair looked like he had combed it through with a firecracker! Mac must have been doing something right, though, because Spike never gave him any trouble. Whenever it looked as if he was starting to get bored or lose control of his behavior, Mac would simply talk to him and order would be restored.

  Mac was in his twenties and good-looking in an unconventional way, and he had the whole class eating out of his hand. The girls quietly swooned, and Cassandra assumed it was his sporting past that made the boys respond to him the way they did. He had been a college football star before he was injured off and became a teacher. He would often receive questions about the plays he made in the middle of his lectures and was always kind enough to answer them. They saw him for literature four mornings out of five, and it was the calmest class Cassandra had.

  “Chat later,” Cassandra whispered over to her friend and cursed the calm in the room. There was no way they could get away with chatting, so she tried to focus on what the literature teacher had to say. She pushed her hair behind her ears and sat up straight, attempting to give Twelfth Night her full attention, but the only thing that existed was the race. It was an impossible choice; she couldn’t throw the race, but she couldn’t not do it. She had no idea what to do. To make it worse, Mac’s words sounded like ‘blah blah blah!’ although she too normally found him extremely pleasant to listen to. She didn’t write his name on her folders like some of the other girls did, but she liked him. He was more like a kid than all the other teachers. He was closer to their age and spoke the same language. He dressed in nice shirts and black trousers that might even have been jeans. He never raised his voice; he never needed to, and he even had a way of making Shakespeare fun and interesting.

  He had been speaking a while when he broke with his lesson plan and stepped to the front of the class. “Hey, I almost forgot,” he said. “Class, we have a new student today.”

  Noise erupted for the first time – oooohs and ahhhhhs at the possibility of fresh meat.

  “All right! This isn’t a zoo! That’s enough, thank you!”

  The class settled in an instant, and Mac said, “Class, this is Braydon Taylor.” He gestured to a boy in the front row, who didn’t turn around to greet the class when his name was announced. “I hope you will all make him welcome.”

  Braydon Taylor. Braydon Taylor. Braydon Taylor. That name played over and over in Cassandra’s already fizzing brain, and she genuinely thought that last night’s ice-cream was going to come back up and flood the floor of the classroom. Braydon Taylor. Braydon Taylor. Mac continued to distribute words from the front of the classroom, but they made no sense at all now and jumbled like lyrics to a song that left her head reeling as she focused on the back of Braydon’s head. He had a buzz cut that was growing out and the definition of curly hair was just visible. He would soon need wax to tame it. It gave nothing away of what this boy had become. She willed him to turn around so she could see if it really was him. They had moved far away from her first school, so it was unlikely; there had to be more than one Braydon Taylor in the world – and then she willed him not to turn around because she had seen his ugliness in her dreams for the last ten years. As each year passed, he had been transformed by time and the cruel director of nightmares, who made him a tortured, leather-skinned giant. Demolishing the Lego-sized town as he desperately dragged himself over it to get to her, damaged and unable to stand without falling. Wailing the piercing cry of a wounded beast as he waded through the decimated town, bloodied and broken, with often an eyeball swinging from its socket like a deserted rope swing or his jaw dangling from a face of exploded blood vessels. He would slither closer and closer to where Cassandra hugged her knees and watched, and his screams would intensify and sharpen as he eroded and decayed, trailing parts of himself behind him, dragging a leg that had come away from his body like mozzarella strings and the smell of rotting meat. The flies that buzzed around him would multiply and feast on him until he became blood and pus. But still, he would drag himself, determined to get to her, until all of his limbs had squelched off his body and all he could do was lie there under a black carpet of flies, a mound that buzzes and bleeds, but gets smaller and smaller until nothing is left.

  As the images filled her mind, she prayed more than anything else that he wouldn’t turn around. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the back of his head until a projectile ball of paper hit it – one of the guys welcoming him to the class, no doubt – and pulled her from her reverie.

  “Tell me, Miss Jones …”

  Shit! This was Mac. The annoying karaoke of his lecture had ceased, and now he was looking right at her. She tried to give him her full attention now, but she couldn’t fully tear herself away from the back of Braydon Taylor’s head.

  “Do you plan on to do any work today?”

  “What?”

  “Work, Miss Jones. Do you plan on doing any?”

  Now Cassandra looked around the class and saw that everyone else had a pen in their hands and were making notes with Twelfth Night propped up in front of them, while Cassandra still had a pile of books on her desk and was staring into space.

  “Right … yeah … I …”

  “Disguises, Miss. Jones. Which characters in the play spend time in disguise, and how is this thematically important?”

  “Right …” she said again, sounding as if she had taken in everything he had just said, but the words had been like sugar cubes, starting off solid, but rubbing against her brain as he spoke them, and all at once turning
to powder and running away from her grasp. She took out her copy of Twelfth Night, some paper, and bit down on her pen as she tried to find a way of using it all that would distract her from the back of that head, but they were alien items. She had used a pen every day of her life, and now it was a NASA novelty that she had no way of working; she had read and enjoyed Twelfth Night, but now even the concept of a word was a foreign thing. She tried to concentrate on each one individually, but every word became a spider that marched off the page, across the classroom floor, and all routes led to Braydon Taylor. Her hands itched now; if they had ever been this itchy before, she couldn’t remember it. It felt like there was pepper and chilli under her skin, and as much as she forced her nails over the patch of red, she couldn’t make it stop. She tried to focus on the book again, but it was no good. She could now feel heaviness in her chest and knew that she needed to get out. She needed to find air that hadn’t been breathed by thirty other students before reaching her lungs. It tasted of them all, and it was making her feel sick. She needed to splash water on her face, take a few of the breaths that Bindi had told her about when she had waxed lyrical about meditation. In … two … three … four … Out … two … three … four. She raised her hand and wasn’t completely sure what she said, but one or two people turned to look at her (Braydon Taylor not included) and Mac was writing out a hall pass for her.

  “Be quick,” he told her as he gave it to her, and she was soon on her way out of the class and down the hall, although it felt as if her legs weren’t actually moving. She felt everything and nothing as she glided down the halls, desperately trying to contain what was brewing inside of her, and then she opened the door to the bathroom, the cool and privacy inside hit her, and she felt able to breathe again properly. Tears gurgled out of her in bursts as she swung between expressing her emotions and trying to restrain them. Although she hadn’t fully allowed herself the emotional outburst she needed, she ran cold water and splashed it on her face, calling an end to the tears. This was no time for tears and panic; she had to hold herself together. She raised her head slowly from the basin to check the damage in the mirror – a teary-eyed swamp monster – and then began to put it all back together with her fingertips and some tissue until she began to look like herself again. But then she couldn’t take her eyes off the sight of herself in the mirror, and she didn’t quite know why. The image she saw was almost as captivating as the back of Braydon Taylor’s head, although she had seen her own face every day since she had been old enough to understand that it was her in the mirror and not another little girl in a window. It was the same as it had always been, although sleeplessness gave it and everything around it a strange ethereal quality, it almost felt as if she were seeing it for the first time. Finally, she had to tear herself away from this new examination to regroup. She went into one of the cubicles, closed the door and sat down on the toilet seat. Thoughts of the race and Abby whizzed passed her; to think she had spent the whole night lying awake thinking about that. If she had known what today held, she would have gone to bed ultra-early to get enough sleep to cope. Better still, she would have run away. If she told her family would they be happy to move again? Would she be happy to move again now? Her entire life was in Garden City.