TWENTY–FIVE
That weekend, Claire treated her scratches with the Prid salve that Rich had apparently bought just before she’d fainted at ’Bout Out. She’d smeared the strange, black tarry substance on her tender cuts, wincing against the pressure of her own finger. On Sunday, when the wounds refused to show any real sign of improvement, she decided to just cover them completely with gauze, tape them up against the outside air and her own steady gaze. After all, if a watched pot never boiled, maybe a watched cut never healed.
Monday afternoon, in history class, Claire accepted the seat that Becca had saved for her. She’d been accepting seats from Becca all day long: a seat next to her in the student convocation center before the morning’s first bell, as Becca prattled on about a pair of earrings she had that would look lovely on Claire, and didn’t she want them for the dance? A seat at lunch—beside Becca, instead of across the table—leaving Owen to sit in the seat Claire had been claiming for her own, across the table, next to Rich.
Claire had only just opened her history book when Isles began to hand out their test papers. Her shoulders slumped as she stared into the giant red F at the top of her test. Claire had never seen a flat-out F at the top of one of her tests before.
Becca leaned forward, saw it, and made a face that said, “Ouch.” Sorry, she mouthed.
Claire eyed it, tracing the letter with her finger throughout the entirety of the class period. When the bell rang, she delayed putting the test in her bag—somehow, it seemed that once it mingled with her folders and pencils, it would suddenly become real.
As she finally stood, hoisting her backpack onto her shoulder, Ms. Isles called, “Claire.”
Isles pointed to an empty desk in the front row.
“I’ll wait for you?” Becca asked.
Claire shook her head. “Thanks, but I have a ride with Rich,” she said, which was true. Rich was serious about the whole ride to and from school bit. He was serious about it lasting the entire semester. But it wasn’t the same kind of help that Claire had hated receiving back in Chicago—not the just lie back in bed and rest while I fluff your pillows kind of help. He wasn’t treating her like someone who needed to sit still and wait for her next visitor, who, judging by the way things had been going, might very well be the Grim Reaper himself. So she found herself welcoming his help, his simple promise of a ride to and from school.
Claire dragged herself to the front of the room and slid into the chair Isles had chosen, the tops of her thighs squeaking on the glossy wooden surface.
Isles leaned on the edge of her desk, a beautiful flower surrounded by ugly walls. Claire couldn’t believe how youthful Isles looked. Take away the heels and the red lipstick and the perfectly curled blond hair, and Isles was a sorority sister. Give her a ponytail, a white shirt, and some kneesocks, and she’d look like she was still a student at Peculiar High.
“I know these past few days have been really hard on you,” she started. “First you move into town in the midst of an ice storm, then you see—well—and then, that fall you took at the cemetery. When I was grading your test, I had to stop and think about how hard this all must be on you. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
She plucked a sheet of paper off her large wooden desk and sat down in the seat beside Claire. She actually looked more at home in the student desk than in the teacher variety.
“It only seems fair that you should get a second chance. A do-over,” Isles said. “I’d like to offer you a chance to retake our test.”
Claire sighed as relief washed over her. “I thought I was going down in flames,” she admitted.
“No—I don’t want you to do that. None of your teachers want that, Claire.” She nudged Claire with her elbow and winked.
Claire flinched against the elbow jab; that was how Rachelle had teased her. It didn’t seem right, somehow, for anyone else to do that. She eked out a crooked smile as she reminded herself that finally, something good was actually happening in Peculiar. “When do I—”
“Right now,” Isles said.
“Wait, what? No—I’m—not ready,” Claire pleaded.
“Oh, please,” Isles said, rolling her eyes. “You’re feeling better by now. In fact, this time around, I’ll bet you’ll ace it. I’m going to head to the restroom for a minute, but I’ll be right back. ’Kay?”
She slid a new test paper in front of Claire and hurried out of the room, her heels clicking. On her way out, her right arm flew to the side, smacking a pull-down map. The map snapped, winding back onto itself along the roller above the blackboard. Claire frowned, realizing that the board was numbered one through twenty, with a single letter next to each number. Claire glanced back at her multiple-choice test. Twenty.
Isles had given her the answers. Did she honestly feel that sorry for her? Never, in her seventeen years, had Claire ever heard of a teacher risking her own reputation—or her job—by allowing—no, helping—her student to cheat.
That’s what it said on Serena’s hand. It said that when I tripped and the snow was chewing on my skin and the fall through the ice was like jackhammers on my body. When I turned and I saw her eaten fingers, that’s what it said right there in her palm: “CHEATING.”
The realization traveled through Claire like sparks of electricity.
She got a sinking feeling that this was part of it, too. This test—and that word on Serena’s hand. It was somehow all intertwined.
Claire sat immobile until Isles returned, pulling the map back down over the answers.
“Finished?” she asked cheerfully, holding her hand out.
Claire snatched her blank test paper, balling it into a tight fist. “Forget it,” she said, “I’ll take the F.”
“You can’t want an F.” Isles looked like she’d been punched as Claire threw the test into the trash and bolted from the classroom.
“Claire. Claire,” Isles called. “I’m just trying to help.”
But why should she care? Claire wondered. It’s my grade.
Looking back over her shoulder as she raced toward her locker, Claire crashed into a thick wool sleeve. “Whoa! Watch out!” a voice warned her. Rough hands steadied her to keep her from collapsing onto the floor. When she untangled herself, she realized that the hands on her shoulders belonged to Owen.
“This test—” Isles said, emerging from her classroom. She flapped the blank page emphatically as Claire pushed herself away from Owen and scurried down the hall.
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TWENTY–SIX
Claire sprinted to her locker, shrugged herself into her coat, and raced down the steps, into the parking lot where Rich waited for her.
“Cheating,” Claire shouted, slapping her open palm on the hood of Rich’s Ram as she rounded the truck. She felt her cheeks flushing pink with cold and the rush of having maybe just uncovered a new puzzle piece regarding Serena’s death.
“I know what it’s about,” Claire announced.
“Cheating, huh,” Rich repeated, his face drooping with disappointment. “Get in,” he said, leaning across the bench seat and popping the lock on the passenger-side door.
“Isles,” he said as Claire climbed inside. “You have Isles for history, don’t you?”
Claire’s shoulders collapsed. “Yes. How’d you know?”
“Everyone knows,” Rich said. “At least, all the students do.”
“But—cheating? Cheating?” she asked, slamming the door shut beside her.
“Look, Isles just wants out of here,” Rich said. “She was kind of a star when she was a student at Peculiar High. After college, though, the only place she could get work was Peculiar. You know what a blow that was to her ego? Instead of teaching someplace like St. Louis or Kansas City, she’s here.” He said it—here—with his lip raised, to emphasize his disgust. “In some respects, she’s no better off than Rhine. W
e had to give her a small-town favor, too. She’s been bumping up her grades ever since she got the job last fall, just so she can transfer.”
“And everyone’s okay with that?” Claire asked.
“Not everyone. The faculty doesn’t know about it. And as far as the students are concerned, it just is. It’s not about being okay or not okay. It’s kind of like—you know the kid next to you is cheating on his test. Do you rat him out, or do you just leave him alone, figure his business is his business, and take your own test, worry about yourself?”
Claire flinched at his word: rat. “I thought a small town was all about knowing everyone else’s business,” she muttered.
“Knowing and acting on it are two different things.” He sighed, stuck his key in the ignition.
“But it was on her hand,” Claire insisted.
Rich pulled his fingers from the key, frowned at Claire. “Whose hand?”
“Serena’s,” Claire said. “Just before—when I found her, she had it written on the palm of her hand. ‘Cheating,’ all caps. Like somehow it was important. But the cat—while I was in the woods, I saw a cat—take a bite . . .” She paused to shake off the revulsion creeping into her gut as she remembered the scene. “The cat destroyed the word, while I was there watching. Sheriff Holman never would have seen that word on her hand.”
Rich leaned back into the bench seat. “She doodled,” he said. “On everything. When we were little, she used to even write words or draw things on her canvas sneakers. Her initials. She doodled those a lot, too.”
“But ‘cheating.’ On her hand. The day she went missing. Why?”
“There was a lot of cheating going on in Serena’s life, though. Chas, for example. You don’t know for sure what that one word referred to.”
“I don’t,” Claire agreed. “I wish there were some way to get in her head. If only there was something—even some draft of the story she was working on. About the basement. Anything. The tone of it, the words she used—it might give us some glimpse into what she was thinking about, in those last days of her life.”
“Her laptop, maybe,” Rich mused. “I think I might know where to find it.”
Rich pulled into the drive at the old Sims place and sat in silence as Claire fumbled with the buttons on her coat. “Come on, let’s go inside,” he finally said, but the way he took a breath, as though trying to summon the courage to kill the engine and ring the old Sims bell, seemed to indicate he was talking to himself more than Claire. The front door groaned its way open, and Mrs. Sims appeared, her face reflecting the shock she felt to find the two of them on her step. “Rich? It’s—nice to see you.” She hugged her ratty brown cardigan around herself, her eyes wide.
Rich hesitated. “Mrs. Sims,” he started, but stopped, the right words obviously evading him.
“Mrs. Sims,” Claire piped up, feeling her blood surge with urgency as she spoke. “You may not remember me, but my father and I are renting your old house. I apologize for not coming by earlier to express my condolences. To tell you how truly sorry I am for your loss.”
Mrs. Sims hugged her cardigan tighter, as though it could somehow protect her from the reality of her daughter being dead.
“We know you weren’t expecting us,” Claire went on. “We’re both working on the school newspaper—Rich and I—and—we were thinking that maybe the best way to pay tribute to Serena would be to publish her last piece. Rich said that she had something she was working on. We were hoping you’d let us check out her computer, find her pages, and email them to my account.”
Mrs. Sims squirmed, pushing a few wiry gray hairs away from her temples. “Well—I’m actually in the midst of—”
“I’m sorry—I should have asked—have the police brought the computer back yet?” Claire said.
Mrs. Sims’s face crinkled into a blend of both confusion and pain. She looked at Claire as though she’d just driven an ice pick straight through her hand. “Her computer is in her room. Where it’s always been. My daughter had an accident.”
“No—” Claire jumped in. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t implying that the police ever suspected she was involved in anything. I just—I assumed—” She couldn’t understand it. A seventeen-year-old girl had gone missing—why didn’t the police swoop in and grab her computer, ten minutes after her parents reported the disappearance? Wasn’t that step one in any missing-persons investigation?
“I’ll do it, Mrs. Sims,” Rich offered. “I’ll get the file. You can come with me to her room, if that makes you more comfortable.”
But Mrs. Sims only shook her head no fiercely. “I can’t go in there,” she whispered. “I haven’t been inside yet. Neither has her father . . .”
She was building up a protective wall—Claire could feel it. Mrs. Sims wasn’t going to let them in; she was backing away; the door creaked shut an inch.
But Claire stepped forward, because she had a taste in her mouth, now—just as the ferals around Serena’s head had once had a taste for blood, their jaws stained pink. “I’ll sit with you,” she offered. “Mrs. Sims, I’d be happy to sit with you while Rich looks.” Because she needed answers. That was the taste in her mouth now. Answers about Serena. The fog. What, exactly, was going on in this town.
Mrs. Sims nodded slowly and led Claire to the kitchen, while Rich slowly climbed the stairs. Claire could tell from the slump in his shoulders, his slow shuffle, just how much he hated the idea of being the first person inside Serena’s room after her death.
“I have—some coffee on,” Mrs. Sims said. “Do you drink coffee?”
“Yes,” Claire said, nodding. “That’d be great, actually.” She shivered a bit inside her coat, to show off how chilled she’d gotten.
The Simses’ current house was obviously one of the newer homes in Peculiar. The kitchen was quaint, with gauzy yellow checkerboard curtains, a gray stone countertop, and spotless white cabinets. It was bright and airy—a stark contrast to the expression on Mrs. Sims’s face.
“How do you and your father like the old place?” Mrs. Sims asked, carrying two mugs of coffee to her table on a small tray, along with a sugar bowl and a spoon.
“It’s very homey,” Claire said appreciatively. She didn’t mention anything about how the water had a tendency to get stone-cold if the tub ran longer than four minutes, or how much she hated lighting that old granite stove with a match. Or how the inside of the refrigerator smelled to her like a brick-hard, ancient box of baking soda—and how the smell somehow kept invading their milk carton to make it taste funny.
“Lot of history in that house,” Mrs. Sims said, her eyes growing far away.
Claire fought for the right words. “You all lived there together,” she finally offered.
Mrs. Sims’s upper lip wavered. “Yeah,” she said, tracing the yellow plaid on her tablecloth. “My mom grew up there. I grew up there. My daughter reached middle age there,” she said, her voice turning to a whisper. “I was thinking that, the other day. You know? How eight for her was actually middle-aged.” She shook her head. “I didn’t have grandiose dreams for her,” Mrs. Sims blurted. “I didn’t dream that she would change the world. I just dreamed she’d get a chance to enjoy it.”
Claire shifted, the weight of Mrs. Sims’s grief making her uncomfortable. Her eyes landed on a pair of scratches in the wainscoting.
Mrs. Sims pulled a Kleenex out of her sweater pocket, wiped her nose, then turned, following Claire’s stare. She chuckled. “She used to write her initials on everything,” Mrs. Sims said. Over and over: SS, SS.”
“Must be a comfort,” Claire babbled awkwardly. “To see something she did. Each time you come down for your coffee.”
“Comfort?” Mrs. Sims asked. “Do you know what I see when I look at those scratches?”
Claire tensed, shook her head no.
“I see a little girl who knew—hardly more than ten years old—that the clock was winding down. Like she had some sort of premonition.” Mrs. Sims was visibly agitated now
. She trembled as she leaned over the top of the table, snarling at Claire. “I see a girl who just wanted to make her mark on the world, while there was still time. I see a little girl who desperately wanted the world to know she was here.”
Before Claire could respond, a knock rattled the back door. A black faceless silhouette filled the yellow curtain covering the small window.
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TWENTY–SEVEN
“Mom made you a new one,” Owen said when Mrs. Sims answered the door. “Still feels warm,” he added as she accepted his foil-wrapped casserole dish.
“Your mother is so kind,” she cooed, no trace of her previous distress in her voice as she peeled the foil back to take a peek. Owen followed her inside as she carried the casserole to the counter, then flipped open a cabinet door and rummaged through the contents. “I know I have other empty bowls that belong to her in here,” she said, pausing to wipe the tears off her cheek.
“I just—I—can’t believe that she’s still thinking of us,” Mrs. Sims babbled. “Making us those lovely dinners. Serena’s father and I—we both—it’s so nice.”
Owen shuffled his feet, leaning uncomfortably against the sink.
Claire watched, thinking that this must have been the daily exchange: a full meal for last night’s empty bowl, and Mrs. Sims using her gratitude to try to cover up the fact that she hadn’t gotten herself together enough to make dinner yet.
Claire’s phone cut through the air in the kitchen, thick with awkward tension. She fished it from her coat, glanced at the screen to find another text from Rachelle: Storm + girl found + no text from u = I’m worried. U OK??? Claire had actually lost count of the number of texts she’d received in the last few days, all of them relaying the same message.
Claire didn’t have time—or the patience, right then—to placate Rachelle. She sighed, turned her phone off.
Feral Page 20
