Be the Death of Me

by Rebecca Harris

  I hide my grimace and walk to the front of the classroom. Mr. Hammond hands over the test, letting his pair of heavy lidded eyes linger on me a bit too long to be considered appropriate. I’m suddenly pleased I chose to wear a t–shirt and my oldest pair of jeans when I dressed this morning. I thank him and head to my seat, aware of his eyes on me as I walk back. I choose instead to concentrate on the test in hand, despairing at the thickness of the packet. I’ll be here forever.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Miss Foster, but I have a meeting with a new student in a few minutes,” Mr. Hammond says.

  “No, its fine,” I tell him, opening my exam to the first page. “No problem.”

  I dive into the work, trying my best to put together the chemical compounds and formulas, hoping my brain won’t decide to spontaneously combust. The minutes drag by like hours, and I can’t help but imagine that this must be what eternity feels like, the sensation of forever, with no hope or end in sight. I content myself with listening to the clock tick faithfully from its place over Mr. Hammond’s desk. Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

  As I flip to page two, the voice of Mrs. Mott, the front–office assistant, buzzes through Mr. Hammond’s classroom phone.

  “Mr. Hammond?” the nasally voice calls.

  He rises from behind his desk and goes to where the phone hangs on the wall. “Yes?” he asks, picking up so I can no longer hear the voice on the other end of the line. “Mhmm? . . . Yes, I see . . . Thank you.”

  He hangs up the phone and takes a long look at me, his eyes making me feel twice as uncomfortable as before. “Mrs. Mott tells me I have a package waiting in the office. I trust I can count on you not to be tempted to cheat while I’m gone. We wouldn’t want anyone to think you have special privileges when it comes to exams, now would we, sweetheart?”

  “No, of course not.”

  He’d have to be an idiot to believe me.

  “Wonderful,” he smiles. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  I nod and the idiot takes his leave. The test is suddenly much easier with the assistance of my notes. It’s also nice to realize only a third of my original answers were wrong. I write as quickly as I can, abbreviating answers I can come back to and elaborate on. My pencil flies across the paper, the tiny, rapid scratches drowned out by the tormenting ticking of the clock, all the while straining to hear the sounds of whistling and approaching footsteps.

  “Hello.”

  My heart freezes in my chest, and it’s a moment before I recover from my initial shock. It isn’t Mr. Hammond standing in the doorway, but a student, and judging from the look of him, a freshman, possibly younger.

  The messy haired kid steps into the room, clutching the straps of his backpack the way a drowning man clutches a life vest. “Is Mr. Hammond here?” he asks me. “I have a meeting with him at three.”

  I jump back into my work, eager to finish. “No,” I answer, not bothering to give the kid a second glance. Freshmen all look the same to me anyway.

  “Oh.” He sounds slightly crestfallen. “Well, uh, did he say when he’d be back? I’m new, and the principal said if I want to take Chemistry my freshman year, I’d have to talk to Mr. Hammond. I made an appointment with him a few days ago. Is he—”

  “He’s not here,” I snap, annoyed by his persistence. Doesn’t he know I’m trying to cheat? Some people can be so rude. “You’ll have to talk to him tomorrow.”

  The kid shuffles back to the door. “Oh, okay. Never mind then. Sorry to bother you.”

  “Thanks for playing,” I say as he leaves.

  Freshmen are fun.

  Mr. Hammond returns minutes later, supplying me with just enough time to copy what I need, and position the notebook back in the exact spot it was before he left. He settles at his desk, busying himself with grading papers. Occasionally he checks his watch, sighing and shaking his head, no doubt wondering where his three o’clock appointment could be.

  The clock works to pacify me. It’s soft, reliable ticks keep me unruffled as I force myself to let time pass before turning in my paper. Mr. Hammond would never believe I finished a six page test in only twenty minutes.

  And so time drags on.

  Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . My eyes drift involuntarily to the large, round clock. Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . Over and over and over again. Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

  Ten minutes! Are you kidding me? How is that . . . ?

  Then I notice.

  The hands of the clock are in the same position they were half an hour ago, with the minute hand fixed unchangingly at five ‘til three. The second hand sits unmoving between the six and seven, and yet . . .

  “Do you hear that?” I stand, the stool legs scraping against the tile floor as I push. Shutting my eyes, the soft, almost inaudible noise becomes even clearer.

  “Yes,” Mr. Hammond answers rather irritably, glancing up from his stack of graded papers. “I believe it’s called a clock.”

  I creep closer, following the sound of steady ticking.

  “Sweetheart, unless you’re finished with the test, I need you to take your seat,” he orders, obviously confused with my sudden interest in the timepiece over his desk.

  “The clock,” I say, craning my neck. “It’s broken.”

  He turns to see. “Yes, I suppose it is. I’ll have maintenance put a new battery in tomorrow morning. Thank you, darling. Now if you would please—”

  “If it’s broken,” I say, moving steadily closer, “then why is there still ticking?”

  The sound leads me forward, beckoning me on, daring me to find its source. I creep, determined, delirious in my pursuit. I’m vaguely aware of Mr. Hammond talking in the background; his voice fades into dull, incoherent echoes. And somewhere, in the far recesses of my mind, a louder, angrier voice lectures me about cats and curiosity.

  The soft, gentle drum leads me to the room’s supply closet, a small cupboard to the right of Mr. Hammond’s desk. The door is propped open, held ajar by a short, black footstool. Inside are shelf upon shelf of laboratory equipment: beakers, test tubes, funnels, burners, clamps, goggles, aprons and gloves. My gaze finally falls on the row of hazardous chemicals we use in class at least twice a week for lab experiments. Something else is there, too. There, resting far back on the shelf. Something that doesn’t quite belong.

  This is where my search has led me. The answer and the end of the line in one. I take a sharp intake of breath and reach for the handle.

  The ticking stops.

  The world explodes.

  The noise is deafening, a million thunderclaps, hateful and furious as I’m thrown through the air like a rag doll. My body finds ground, hard, unkind, half a world away from where I stood only a second before. My cheeks throb with the shards of glass buried deep in my skin. I open my eyes to a existence of red, blinded by the warm, thick fluid flowing from my head.

  Glass is everywhere. Flame is everywhere. Pain is everywhere.

  Somewhere in the distance, a figure moves, crying out as it stands.

  “Mr. Hammond,” I croak. I reach for him, stretching my arms out in front of me. My legs refuse to move, useless and disobedient. “MR. HAMMOND!” I call again.

  There’s no answer. I’m alone with the smoke and flame. The impossible heat pours from the supply closet, a caged monster set free of its prison, raging, fuming, roaring. Something heavy lies across my body. My lungs rail against the crushing weight, fighting to fill with the air they so desperately crave. I push against the door pinning me to the floor, screaming in agony as the serrated metal rips through my jeans, through skin, through muscle, tearing into my legs like talons.

  Every movement, every twitch sends blinding, sickening stabs of pain through my entire body. I stare in horror at the scene. How did this happen? What did I do wrong?

  The fire blazes, beautiful in its destruction, threatening to consume me. Orange. Blue. White. All death. Flames lick hungrily at the walls of the classroom, waging war with their fatal
fingertips. The door is gone, replaced by a wall of greedy, glowing flame. The room is a sea of black smoke, a darkness which pushes me under its waves, and refuses me entry back into the light.

  It only takes minutes for the room to be completely consumed, the flames fueled by a healthy dose of chemicals. The poisonous smoke overtakes me, scalding my lungs with thick, fiery ash; a monster, buried alive, clawing at my chest from the inside out, burning, searing. I want to scream, but my throat is ravaged by blistering heat. I want to run, but my legs are unwilling, unable. I want to cry, but the heat licks at my face, drying my tears before they have a chance to escape. I want Austin. I want Olivia. I want my mother.

  I want to live.

  And for that immeasurable moment of time, that’s all I know. The flame, the smoke, they are nothing. The single, defiant thought of life echoes throughout my mind as I press my face to the floor, feeling the last measure of coolness against my bleeding, torn skin.

  I’m not done yet. This isn’t fair.

  My lungs fill one final time, collapsing around the smoke they so effortlessly welcome. And suddenly I’m drifting, suspended in air by gentle, invisible arms, my face upturned to greet whatever awaits me. It kisses me, softly and welcoming. Death is easy now, no more than a pleasant sleep, a dream in which I simply float away, challenging gravity and its hold on me. There’s the soft hum of a whisper in my ear, the goodbyes of a world so very far away.

  My dream is interrupted by the powerful roar of the earth splintering in two. I fall forever. So far, so fast. My head cracks against the hateful ground.

  And all is black.

  Ford

  Seventeen hours, five minutes, twenty–three seconds.

  That’s exactly how long it takes for everyone at North Chamberlain to find out about what I like to call “the beginning of the end.” I’m assigned a new locker while the janitors attempt to clean the paint off mine, but it isn’t difficult to tell, walking through the front doors the next morning, that everyone already knows. Eyes shift, hands move to cover mouths as theories are whispered from ear to ear.

  It’s no surprise I spend lunch time in the boys’ bathroom. It is a little awkward, eating with Tucker and Billie crammed in the stall with me. They refuse to leave my side, and I decide not to complain. I figure I have much bigger problems to worry about.

  “It could be worse,” Billie says when school finally, finally lets out for the day. She takes a running leap, wraps her arms around my neck and hoists herself up onto my back as if it’s what normal people do every day.

  I let her stay where she is. The Billie I knew a few days ago would have comforted me with a verbal bitch slap and a shiny new nickname. It’s nice to finally be on good terms with her. I don’t know what’s brought about the change of heart. Maybe it’s a trap, maybe it’s a mood swing. I don’t really care. Either way, I guess it’s true what they say about flies and honey. Not to mention it’s not every day a gorgeous blonde wants to wrap her legs around my waist. I watch Tucker’s jaw clench, gaining a sort of perverse pleasure from the spark of envy that flares in his eyes as Billie’s arms close over my shoulders.

  “Oh yeah?” I turn my head to look back at her. “How could this possibly be any worse?”

  “Well, for starters,” Tucker picks up where she’s left off, “it would’ve been much worse if whoever decorated your locker shoved you in it first. You’re a little guy, Ford. It wouldn’t have been difficult to squeeze you in there.”

  Billie laughs at the pair of us. “So we make a list of suspects,” she suggests, hitching her knee farther up my waist. “Can you think of anyone who might want to kill you? The locker said retribution is coming. Retribution for what?”

  “Not a clue,” I answer honesly. “I mean, I’m usually the metaphoric punching bag around here, but that hardly warrants a death sentence.”

  “What about Andre the Giant?” Tucker asks, referring to the one and only Logan Cartwright.

  “Are you guys talking about the guy with no neck?” Billie chimes in, giggling into my shoulder. “The one who called you Bent–dick?”

  Tucker erupts into a fit of laughter. “Bent–dick! I forgot he called you that!”

  “I doubt it,” I say over the continuous sound of his deep guffaws. “Logan may be a walking mountain, but he doesn’t want to kill me. At least I hope not.”

  “Still,” Billie cuts in, “he’s definitely someone to keep an eye on. What do you think, Tuck?”

  “Bent–dick!” he throws back his head and howls. “That’ll never get old.”

  A growl rumbles deep in my throat. “Are you done?” I ask, watching him keel over in hilarity, continuing as we reach the parking lot.

  “Don’t let him get to you,” Billie giggles into my ear. “He’s just jealous because he wants a nickname of his own.”

  “I’ve got one,” I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “How about Tucker the F–”

  The last word is drowned out by Billie’s own raucous rush of laughter. She slides off my back as Tucker’s smile slips from his face and I pretend not to notice the hateful glare he shoots me as I climb in the driver’s seat. He phases through the passenger door, leaving the backseat for Billie. Tucker doesn’t utter a word, but continues staring out the windshield, arms locked across his chest. I put the car into gear, and the three of us drive home in silence.

  “Gran!” I call the second I’m through the creaking kitchen door. “Gran, I’m home!”

  “She’s not here.” Billie saunters into the dark kitchen, glowing like a night light. I see Tucker crook his finger at the light switch across the room, the bulbs flickering to life without anyone so much as laying a finger on it. Billie points to the familiar pineapple magnet and pink post–it on the fridge.

  Tai–chi with the girls. Be home for dinner.

  Love, Gran

  P.S.

  Can you stop by Fairway’s and pick up ½ lb of ground round and a can of stewed tomatoes?

  “To the grocery store!” she shouts, raising her arm as if she’s leading a cavalry charge. She turns to Tucker. “How about you report to the Captain while I escort Ford here to the grocery store. Sound fair?”

  Tucker groans. “I don’t know, Billie.”

  “I made the report last time,” she says. “It’s your turn. Plus, we both know Cap likes you better than me anyway.”

  He accepts her terms with a shrug and a sigh. “That’s true.”

  “So . . . you’ll go?”

  He nods. Billie waves teasingly as her partner disappears, shimmering faintly before vanishing completely. “Give the Captain my love!” she calls after him.

  The kitchen is steeped in silence for only a moment. She doesn’t notice me watching her. Her tilts expectantly, as if she’s waiting for the disappearing glow to return. “Ready?” she asks finally.

  “Sure,” I nod, grabbing my wallet from the counter. “Hit the lights, will you?”

  We’re at Fairway’s in less than fifteen minutes, choosing to walk rather than waste whatever gas fumes my car is running on. We talk about nothing and everything; her favorite band (The Kinks), how many times I’ve seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show (thirteen), how long I’ve lived with my Gran. Time slips by unnoticed as the chilling breeze of a dying afternoon whips around us.

  “So I have a question,” I say as we walk through the automatic doors of the nearly–deserted grocery store. I’m hit with an immediate blast of warmth, and the dulcet tones of Muzak.

  Billie picks up a grocery basket and tosses it to me. “Shoot.”

  “So this . . . Captain. He’s your real boss, then? Not Tucker?”

  “Right. The two of them have been thick as thieves since Cap promoted Tuck. I wish they would let me in their all boys club, you know? It feels like they’re keeping something from me, and I hate that.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t like somebody knowing more than you? I’m shocked.”

  “Attention all shoppers, today is the
last day of our melon madness sale. All cantaloupes and honeydew are buy one, get one half price. Don’t miss out on the great savings here at Fairway’s!”

  “So if Tucker wasn’t always a Guardian, what was he?” I go on after the speaker crackles and goes silent.

  “He worked in Sacrifice,” Billie answers with a small shrug.

  “And what do they do? The people in—”

  “Sacrifice,” she finishes for me. “I don’t know much about it to be honest. Tuck doesn’t really talk about it. I think it bothers him, you know, the fact that he got himself killed.”

  “And that makes them special?”

  “What do you think? You’ve seen it.” She whips her fingers back and forth imitating Tucker’s ability to move objects without ever touching them.

  “Can they all do that?”

  She shakes her head no. “Not all of them. The abilities vary. That much I know, even though we only ever hear rumors in our division. Water–cooler gossip. Sacrifice has always been oddly secretive. Very hush–hush.”

  My eyes roll involuntarily. “You sound jealous,” I say, searching through brands of canned tomatoes. I pick one and throw it in the small, green basket hanging on my arm.

  “Well maybe I am,” she snaps. “I’m dead too, you know? Why should they get special treatment?”

  “There’s something to be said for sacrificing yourself for someone else. I’m not crazy about the guy, but let’s be honest. Putting everything on the line for another person? There’s a courage there that I can’t even begin to understand.”

  Billie’s quiet for a moment more, letting the weight of what I’ve said sink in. “Maybe you’re right,” she mumbles, eyes flashing with insight. “Maybe deep, deep down Tuck’s kind of a badass.”

  “What about me? You don’t think I could be . . . you know . . . badass?”

  “Hate to break it to you, Ford,” she says, patting my arm gently as we make our way to the frozen meat section at the very back of the store, “but you’re not exactly hardcore.” She nudges me with her shoulder. “Pansy.”