Feral

by Schindler,Holly

  “You get your own ride to school from now on,” Owen said. “And the dance. And—”

  “Screw you, Owen!” Chas shouted. “I’m not going to the dance, remember? How many times do I have to tell you and your girlfriend? I’m not going to the dance. And why would I want to ride in that thing, anyway?” he asked, pointing at the shattered back windshield. “Have fun freezing your ass off, buddy.” He grabbed his backpack and stormed off, while Becca watched, wide-eyed.

  She reached out, put her arm on Owen’s shoulder, but he lurched out of her reach. “Knock it off, all right?” he said. “Just—quit it. For God’s sake.”

  “Hey,” Rhine said, stepping in between Owen and his sister. “I think we all need to cool it. Had a little scare. Now Becca and Claire need to make sure they get all that glass off. They need to get to class. We need to get this thing out of the way so everybody else can park,” he told Owen. “I’ll help you find some plastic bags in the kitchen. We’ll cover that hole, till you can get the car out of here this afternoon. All right?”

  Owen nodded, his eyes still wild.

  “I’ll go with you,” Rich told Claire, but Rhine caught his arm.

  “Oh, no,” Rhine insisted. “I’m gonna get stuck having to write up an incident report, thanks to you. Which means you’re going to help me. I’ve got to do this by the book.”

  Claire and Becca headed for the entrance together. Claire tried to use the streams of students as an opportunity to slip away from Becca and any possibility of her hauling out an overly concerned hospital voice, after what had just happened. But Becca was having none of it. She grabbed Claire’s wrist, forcing her to follow.

  The glass brushed out easily enough, straight into the trash can in the women’s bathroom. Becca’s fingers felt soothing as she ran her hands through Claire’s mane, helping her check one last time for anything sharp. But the feeling that had exploded into Claire’s chest, right along with the flying glass, wasn’t so easy to brush away.

  Suddenly, as she went through her morning classes, it wasn’t just the school basement that felt dangerous—not just the woods, not just the unfolding stories of Serena’s and Casey’s deaths. After what had happened in the parking lot, it felt as though everything had the power to inflict serious damage—even things that had previously seemed utterly harmless: the sharp corners of test papers, the electricity buzzing through wall sconces in Peculiar High, the tiny serrated edges of the butter knives in the cafeteria.

  As she sat down at what had become her usual lunch table, Claire hoped she would pick up on something—some vibe that indicated everyone else fought the same fears. But no one spoke, not even Rich. They all kept their heads turned down, toward their plates.

  Claire ached for someone to mention what had happened that morning—thought about trying to offer a “Jeez. Wasn’t that insane?” But the mood was far too serious. And not serious enough at the same time.

  They just think his car went haywire. They don’t know how Serena is talking, trying to get my attention. Well, she’s got it now. Why doesn’t she just tell me what she wants? She shivered; being the only person who knew that car had not simply malfunctioned made her feel exposed and vulnerable.

  A chair scratched against the floor beside Chas, and Ruthie sat down. “I heard,” she announced, leaning forward, forcing the material of her blouse to tug against the buttons. “About what happened this morning. Are you guys okay?”

  She stared with wide eyes at Chas, who only shook his head at her and angled his body so that the back of his shoulder turned toward her. “What? I can ask if you’re okay, can’t I?”

  Chas slammed a fist against the table and thundered, “Don’t start with that clutchy crap. I can’t stand it.”

  “Chas,” Ruthie protested.

  But Chas ignored the wounded look on her face, grabbed his tray, and stomped off.

  Owen shook his head, picked up his own tray, and followed after Chas as Becca lowered her forehead into her hands.

  Claire glanced up at Rich, fearfully. Temper, she mouthed as she raised her eyebrows.

  Rich clenched his jaw and nodded reluctantly.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  THIRTY–TWO

  Dr. Cain texted Claire, requesting that she come directly home after school that day. Sanders had called to inform him of the mishap in the parking lot—and assured him of his daughter’s safety—but the father in him needed to see her for himself. When she arrived, he hugged her like a parent who had just been reunited with his toddler after being separated from her in a shopping mall.

  Claire honored his wishes, even though it felt to her that the clock was ticking increasingly louder. The time for finding the answers to Serena’s death was passing quickly. Clues were disappearing by the minute—and were certainly not to be found on the Simses’ old couch, beneath cushions loaded with long-lost spare change and ancient potato chip crumbs.

  The next morning, shortly after the tardy bell announced that Thursday was officially in full swing, Mavis waved Claire to her desk. “I need a blurb on the incident in the parking lot,” she told Claire. “What happened yesterday. With Owen Martin’s car.”

  Claire bristled. “Why?”

  “For our ‘Goings-On’ section,” Mavis informed her. “It’s a little column, highlighting stories too small to be features. We all take turns with it. And frankly, I need to see something from you. A reputation can only carry you so far.”

  “But why that story?” Claire asked. The tone in her voice caused Rich to pull himself from his own seat and weave through the students all bustling about the classroom, working on their own projects, calling about ad space.

  “I’m sorry—I thought you were there,” Mavis said, frowning at Claire behind her glasses. “Don’t you know Owen? I’d thought it would be easy for you to get a quote. If I’ve got it wrong—”

  Claire shook her head, took a step away. She couldn’t write it, not even a little blurb—because she didn’t have the whole story about the car. It was a sign, a clue—someone with an agenda had made the heat go haywire. She had assumed it was Serena, but couldn’t it have also been Casey? One of—or worse yet, all of—the spirits in the town fog?

  Claire knew firsthand that bad things happened to girls who turned in a story without knowing exactly who was gaining on her from behind. . . .

  As Claire stared, Mavis reached toward a pile of papers on the corner of her desk. “Here,” she said, holding a previous edition of the paper toward Claire. “Here’s an example.”

  To Claire’s dismay, the example was written by Serena Sims. Three hundred words on the exploding feral cat population that dominated the fields surrounding Peculiar High. The photo she’d included in the story was of Sweet Pea, the cat’s tricolored, mangled face staring out from the tiny column. As Claire stared back, wisps of color began to shift behind the cat’s face.

  Wild creatures, all of ’em, she heard, rattling around in her skull. Suddenly dizzy, she staggered on her heels, tossing the paper back on Mavis’s desk.

  “We’ll work on it together,” Rich offered, putting his hand under Claire’s arm. She took a deep breath, letting Rich steady her. But when she glanced up at him to smile appreciatively, the way he eyed her made her flinch. She didn’t like the heavy concern tugging the corners of his mouth down.

  “I can do it,” Claire insisted, finally hoisting a smile on her face just before she returned to her computer. But the blurb was proving to be an exercise in little more than staring into a blank screen. She really did try—to get Rich’s alarmed stare off her, to appease Mavis—but getting words on a page felt more like trying to get three hundred winged insects to all stay put on the same sheet of paper.

  “Did you ever finish it?” Rich asked that afternoon, after the final bell, as they headed for his truck.

  “I never actually start
ed it,” Claire grumbled, never anticipating he would take her arm and steer her straight back toward the journalism classroom.

  “Come on. You can do this. Just don’t overthink it,” he said as they moved like salmon against the stream, deeper into the school from which the rest of their classmates only wanted to escape.

  Don’t overthink it, Claire thought sarcastically as she sat back at her computer. Everything here needs to be overthought. Literally. Everything. Nothing is as it seems, not even the car, not even a heater. The truth of what is going on in this town is closing in, and no one recognizes it, and now even Rich is looking at me with concern. Will anyone listen when I uncover the full truth?

  As her computer booted, her phone went off. Claire glanced at the screen: U ok? PLS ANSWER from Rachelle. She turned the phone off, tossed it into her backpack.

  “All right. Let’s do this,” Rich announced, cracking his knuckles and raising his eyebrows in a way that made her laugh. He talked her through the three hundred words, and a little over an hour later, he printed the finished article and placed it in the center of Mavis’s desk. “She’ll be impressed if it’s waiting for her here first thing,” he promised.

  But Claire only wanted to snatch that blurb right back, race away with it, tear it up. That story was full of lies. An electrical malfunction caused quite the stir Wednesday morning in the Peculiar High parking lot, as . . .

  Before Claire quite knew what was happening, the journalism door fell shut behind them and their feet were echoing through the stairwell.

  Winter’s early twilight had already begun to settle over Peculiar by the time Rich and Claire made their way through the parking lot.

  Claire hoisted herself into Rich’s truck, hugging her backpack against her chest as he cranked the ignition. But the dashboard lights only flashed dimly, and the engine coughed twice before sputtering to silence.

  “Come on,” he growled, cranking the engine again. He cranked a third time, slamming his foot against the gas pedal. But the truck refused to start.

  “Damn,” Rich cursed, slapping the palm of his hand against the steering wheel.

  He glanced about the lot, but everyone had gone—even Rhine. “Wouldn’t you know? Dad’s at church.”

  “It’s Thursday, though,” Claire protested.

  “There’s always something going on at the church. Tonight is grief counseling—an idea inspired by Becca’s last visit, no doubt. Tomorrow, the quilting bee meets downstairs. What about your dad?”

  “He was going to have to work late today,” Claire said, remembering the conversation she’d only half listened to during breakfast. “He didn’t really want to, but . . . I think he’s been cutting it short to make sure he’s home when I am—I think he’s probably way behind. I bet I’m going to wind up screwing up his entire sabbatical,” she admitted.

  “Not your fault what’s been happening,” Rich said quietly.

  Claire nodded slightly. “So now what?” she asked.

  “Now, we walk,” Rich told her, pointing toward the cluster of trees in the distance.

  Claire felt as though the entire contents of her stomach had frozen, right along with Rich’s engine. “Are you sure—maybe we—”

  “Our street is less than ten minutes away going through the woods. We stick to the roads, it’s forty-five minutes. You pick.”

  “Some choice,” Claire muttered as she and Rich both climbed from the truck.

  Rich pulled a couple of emergency flashlights from his job box. “You need a hat or gloves?” he asked. “Got plenty back here.”

  Claire accepted a pair of camouflaged gloves and a stocking cap, offering what she hoped looked like a grateful smile as they began to make their way toward the woods. Their shoes crunched through the remaining thin layer of ice as they closed in on the leafless limbs and barren brush. The last few patches of snow seemed to absorb the hues of the setting sun only to spit them back out, casting a glow across the schoolyard.

  They entered the dense line of trees; Rich started to steer her toward the path worn flat from decades of student shortcuts. Claire paused as she remembered in painful clarity the sensations of the afternoon she’d found Serena: the frantic burst of breath in her ears, the way her feet had sunk to mid-shin in piles of ice—the way Rhine’s and Becca’s black coats had flapped like vultures’ wings as they’d gained on her. Breaking the silence, she remarked offhandedly, “The crews have cleaned away a bunch of broken limbs. Whole place looks completely different now.”

  Rich turned his eyes upward, at the broken limbs, jagged against a winter’s sky. Claire found herself turning around, glancing down the path they’d taken from Peculiar High. She scanned the ground, her eyes stopping to rest on a long indentation. A black scrap of fabric lay poking out of the mud and half-melted snow.

  “Rich,” Claire called, squatting to pick it up. It was thick—made of woven yarn. Like a piece of a sweater. She turned it over in her hand. A red PH had been embroidered across the top edge.

  “It’s a pocket,” Rich said. “From one of our school cardigans.”

  Claire pointed at long ruts in the earth, sections in which the dead winter grass had been pulled up. “Something was dragged,” she said.

  “Could have been the limbs,” Rich said.

  “But don’t those ruts point straight at the school?” Claire asked.

  “I’m not sure that means anything, Claire. It’s been nearly two weeks since Serena’s body was found. That’s a lot of time for a lot of coming and going through the woods, you know.”

  She nodded reluctantly, tucking the piece of the sweater into her coat pocket. Rich led the way, the tongue of light from his flashlight showing the path ahead of him.

  Claire’s footsteps slowed. The gap between herself and Rich lengthened, as she swiveled her own flashlight through the trees, the light brutal and stark against the winter evening’s growing blackness.

  Claire paused, watching as the persistent fog began to grow in the evening chill, to thicken like steam from a hot shower.

  Her phone went off; fishing it out from her pocket, a text glowed out at her: Rain 2 freeze. Go home now. Take R with u.

  She flinched. How was it possible? It was the very same text she’d gotten from her dad’s grad assistant nine months ago. The warning that had flashed on her phone before she’d decided to walk anyway.

  A sudden flap—like the wings of some gigantic bird—exploded into Claire’s ears. She swiveled cautiously. The sound had come from the two flags on the Peculiar High pole: one the red, white, and blue of the US flag, the other, the PH flag, adorned with a giant black panther.

  The flag stretched out flat in the wind, allowing the menacing mascot to bare its teeth and flash its green eyes at Claire.

  Cars whizzed down nearby roads, their headlights shining like beacons, creating moving shadows. As Claire took another step forward, a headlight washed across the tree in front of her, illuminating a familiar face: Sweet Pea. Perched on a branch above Claire’s head.

  The old cat hissed, baring her discolored teeth. She stood, holding her swollen tail as straight as the school’s flagpole. Threatening Claire.

  Claire gasped. “Don’t you hurt me,” she scolded, her hair rippling about her face.

  Claire wanted to run, but she forced herself to stay rooted. Find out, she scolded herself. Find out what this whole thing is about.

  It wasn’t easy to stay, though—not easy to convince herself not to run, as the same face that had smiled at Claire from her funeral portrait, who had stared down at Claire from the air above the cemetery, began to flicker across the head of the old cat.

  As Claire stared, Serena’s face grew clearer, gained dimension. She shivered when she realized Serena’s head was actually pushing its way out of the cat’s skull. Serena’s spirit was emerging.

  “The clock is ticking down for me,” Serena explained as she wrenched her face free. “Not much time left for me in this old body.” She had not completely le
ft the old cat yet; her shoulders, her arms were out, but the rest of her figure was still inside.

  “Sweet Pea’s life is ending. She’s old—so old. Time’s running out for me again,” she said. “I don’t want to leave—not the world, not like the fog wants me to. I want my old life back. I want to be seventeen, and I want to do seventeen-year-old things—I want to write for the paper and laugh with my friend, my best friend. Where is she tonight, huh? Getting ready for a dance. Trying to decide on the perfect hairdo. Hanging her pretty new dress out on the door. Like everything is the same as always. And where am I?”

  Claire trembled against what Serena had just said, but stood firm, locking her jaw and making fists. “That’s not true,” she tried to protest. “She feels terrible. If you only knew—”

  “Terrible! I’m the one in this awful body,” Serena shouted. “This broken-down, nasty body. I don’t want to be in here. I don’t want to be some old cat. I want to be a girl. I want to go to school. I want to live in my old house. I want my best friend. I want my life. But I don’t have my life. You have my life,” she shouted, stretching one arm toward Claire. “You have it,” she repeated.

  She moved closer to Claire, yowling and snarling.

  Please, God, Claire thought, the words echoing inside her head. Don’t let me die.

  “Rich!” she screamed. “Rich! Where are you?”

  Serena’s image pressed against Claire’s chest, her spirit so cold it burned. Claire fought against the truth of the moment. But there was no escaping it. This was happening. Serena was trying to get inside her.

  The world before Claire began to flip, back and forth: Chicago, Peculiar, Chicago, Peculiar. She could hear the rattle of trash cans, the thunk of their metal sides crashing against the back of her skull. She could hear laughter. Cheering. It pulsed rhythmically—something like, more, more, more, more . . . hurt her more, give her more . . .