Strange Girl

by Christopher Pike

  “I am.”

  “The reporters and their audiences will like that. Wait, no, I might be wrong. You can’t say anything that compares you to Jesus. People will say that’s blasphemy.”

  Aja laughed some more. “Fred, don’t worry, it will be fine.”

  “I’ll try,” I said, reaching for my cell, trying Janet again, failing to get her to pick up. “At least tell me if Janet was upset when you last saw her.”

  “She was upset.”

  “About what?”

  “I can’t say. It’s private.”

  “Since when does the Big Person keep secrets?”

  “I’ve always kept your secrets. Since the day we met.”

  “I would hope so. I’m your boyfriend.” I paused. “I think.”

  She took my hand. “You are definitely my boyfriend.”

  After fourth period, after lunch, I began to hope we’d escaped the day unscathed. That I’d be able to return Aja to her house and that she’d be able to barricade herself inside and life would go on pretty much as normal. But come fifth period the principal’s office sent a message to every class in the school. It seemed Principal Levitt was annoyed with all the security guards and police and wasn’t going to allow it to continue. Tonight, at eight sharp, he was calling for an emergency PTA meeting and asking all students who were “interested” to attend. The topic would be—in his words—“the Aja Smith issue.”

  Aja was required to attend, I was told.

  But no reporters would be allowed inside.

  “It sounds like a trial,” a friend of mine, Stephen Makey, said as the rest of the class looked in my direction to see if I was freaked-out. I thought Stephen was right, although it made me wonder if there would be jurors and how they would be chosen.

  I wished Aja hadn’t brought up the Gospels. Her casual remark had somehow steered my imagination toward a bleak gray zone where I felt like I was flashing back on an acid trip. I was being silly, totally paranoid, yet I couldn’t help but see Principal Levitt as another Caiaphas, the Jewish high priest, and my Aja as Jesus, about to be dragged before the Sanhedrin. Sure, I admit, my fear was running ragged with my reason, yet I couldn’t stop from wondering what kind of punishment would be doled out if Aja was found guilty.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I WANTED AJA to lie. I spent the gap between the end of the school day and the PTA meeting trying to get her to lie. Begging her to say nothing about the Big Person. To not admit to healing anyone. Pleading with her to say she was just an ordinary teenage girl who studied hard, who wanted to get accepted at a good college, and who enjoyed going to concerts with her boyfriend.

  I needed her to tell everyone she was normal.

  How did Aja respond? She just yawned and told me that everything would be okay and that she was sleepy and wanted to take a nap. Really, she didn’t appear to give a damn that the whole town was being assembled to judge her. To her the PTA meeting was just another get-together of little people where her body would show up and enjoy whatever was happening. The line from my song had been prophetic. To Aja the world was nothing but a stage.

  I didn’t think that was a good thing. Not this evening.

  Later, when she awoke from her nap, she made the two of us dinner—grilled Cajun chicken, brown rice, and steamed broccoli. Bart was away for the day. I had no idea where. It didn’t matter—legally. With the death of Aunt Clara—and because she was eighteen years of age—Aja no longer had or needed a guardian.

  “Every kid who shows up will have a cell,” I warned Aja as she handed me a plate of chicken and rice. I preferred the white meat, Aja the dark. Boy, what a perfect couple. I continued. “It won’t matter if Principal Levitt orders them turned off. No one will listen. They’ll record everything that’s said at the meeting. Which means the reporters waiting outside in the rain are going to get a copy of what you say and it’s going to be plastered on TV and across the Internet. Do you understand what that means? Don’t lie and the world’s going to find out who you are.”

  It was a matter of debate if Aja had dressed up for the big meeting. She had on a silky red blouse, tight white pants, and tall black boots. She held a pitcher of iced tea in her hands.

  “Want some?” she asked.

  “Yes.” As she began to pour, I added, “You’re not listening.”

  “I am,” she said, pouring herself a glass before sitting across from me. She began to dig into her rice; she seemed hungry. She added, “I’m just not worried about it.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” I said. “You’ve got ‘Mr. Happy’ in your head. You can disappear into . . . wherever it is you go. You’re not thinking about me. About us. How are we going to have a normal relationship if the world finds out you can work miracles?”

  “There are no such things as miracles.”

  “Oh yeah? You’ve worked plenty since you got here.”

  “The healings are only seen as miracles because people don’t know they have the Big Person inside. Once a person knows who they really are, performing a miracle is no different from going for a walk in the park or having sex on a bed.”

  “Please don’t use that analogy this evening.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m serious, Aja. This meeting scares me. If you say whatever pops into your head, the crowd and the media are going to crucify you.”

  She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Have faith.”

  “In what? You?”

  “Yes.”

  I felt her fingers in mine and there was something reassuring about her touch. “Faith isn’t my strong suit,” I said.

  “I know. But tonight you’ll be strong.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  • • •

  I didn’t drive Aja to the meeting. I let Max and his people take her. They were better equipped to protect her and, besides, I wanted to make a quick stop at Janet’s house. I needed to talk to Bo; he’d stopped answering his phone since he’d told me his daughter was in New York.

  The visit turned out to be a waste. I could tell Bo was home. Both their cars were in the driveway. But it didn’t matter how hard I knocked or how loud I called out, Bo didn’t answer. For the life of me I couldn’t imagine what was wrong.

  I drove to a diner downtown, the Hot Plate. Janet had a close friend, Mindy Paulson, who worked there as a waitress. Mindy was two years older than the rest of us; she had already graduated. Over time I’d noticed that Janet would tell Mindy stuff she wouldn’t even tell me. I didn’t take it personally. After all, Mindy was a woman.

  The Hot Plate was jammed when I arrived. Listening to the buzz coming from the crowd, it sounded like most of them were headed to the PTA meeting. Dozens of pairs of eyes locked on me the moment I stepped inside. I ignored them. All I cared about was Janet and finding out from Mindy what she was doing. I saw her talking to a cook in the back and hurried to a nearby corner, standing not far from the open grill. Mindy saw me and walked over.

  “She’s in New York at her mom’s place,” she said.

  “I know that. Why is she there?”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  Mindy hesitated. “I’m sure she’ll call you when she’s ready.” She went to leave. “I gotta get back to work.”

  I grabbed her arm. “I need to know what’s going on.”

  Mindy was cool. “You’re her best friend. You’ve known her since kindergarten. How can you not know?”

  “What are you saying?”

  She shook free. “Open your eyes, Fred. Janet never told me the truth either. I just knew. So should you.”

  Mindy walked away, leaving me alone beside the blazing heat of the grill. I staggered toward the door, struggling to see what was supposed to be so obvious.

  • • •

  I drove to the school. Ordinarily a PTA meeting would be held in the library and maybe a dozen parents would show up, along with half a dozen teachers and Princip
al Levitt. The only students who’d attend would be someone like Macy Barnes, who was student body president. Otherwise, I don’t think a local teen would be caught dead at a PTA meeting.

  I knew it would be different tonight and I was right. The meeting had been moved to the gym and it was jammed.

  The building had been constructed in the fifties; it was old as well as run-down. The wooden benches sagged and there was an offensive mildew odor that each humid summer magnified. Worse, if you happened to be playing basketball, there were so many dead spots on the court that the gym had earned the nickname “The Graveyard.”

  Welcome to the Sanhedrin, I thought.

  Standing behind a raised podium, Principal Levitt called for order. Even though my father played poker with the man once a week, I didn’t know his first name. We students either called him “Levitt” or the “Imperial Wizard,” in reference to his time in the Ku Klux Klan.

  The guy definitely would have looked better with a sheet over his head. His body was strong. He worked to keep in shape. But his features somehow burned. Even in the winter his skin was red from the sun; and his thin yellow hair, self-cut and combed rudely back, reminded me of a fuse. But it was his pale green eyes that were the source of his fire. Mike had once said they were the same color as grass that had died under the summer sun.

  I agreed. Levitt was not a pleasant person to lock eyes with. I’d never seen him smile. Although, I suppose being universally hated didn’t give him much to smile about. God only knew what had attracted him to education.

  I didn’t know how true the rumors about him being a member of the Ku Klux Klan were. But he’d never denied the fact, at least not publicly. The story went that he’d been born and raised in South Carolina. That he’d grown up on an honest-to-goodness cotton plantation and that his family had been so poor he’d had to work in the fields from the time he was eight years old.

  Upon reaching high school, though, he’d found a way out. He’d taken up boxing and discovered he was good at it, better than good. At the age of nineteen he qualified to fight at the Olympic trials. The U.S. team only sent one fighter per weight class and Levitt made it all the way to the final fight. Only to be stopped by a seventeen-year-old black kid who ended up medaling at the Olympics.

  Like all good stories, there was a twist. Levitt had lost, so he said, because his opponent had oiled his gloves with a special concoction that had temporarily blinded Levitt in the second and third rounds. In effect destroying Levitt’s dreams in one cruel stroke.

  That part of the story might have been true because my father said that whenever Levitt talked about the fight the bitterness in his voice was so great it couldn’t have been faked. Levitt had grown up in a house where blacks were not welcome—not an unusual thing in that part of the world—but after the Olympic trials Levitt had supposedly gone off the deep end. Not only had he joined the KKK, people said, he’d put his heart and soul into it and eventually worked his way up to a leadership position.

  Yet now, at sixty years of age, he was our beloved principal.

  Levitt called for order and the jammed gym quickly quieted down. We students were stuffed in the stands, six hundred strong. The teachers were arranged in a half circle around the podium, while the parents—there had to be at least a hundred couples—sat on cheap foldout chairs that reached to the back wall. My parents weren’t present. I doubted they even knew of the meeting. I certainly hadn’t told them about it.

  Outside it poured but somehow the interior of the gym was stuffy. When Levitt told everyone to turn off their cells I heard a few clicking sounds but noticed that most of the students had taken the order to mean they should rearrange their phones atop their knees. As I feared, everyone was recording the meeting.

  “As most of you probably know, this is no ordinary PTA meeting,” Principal Levitt began in his usual raspy voice. “It wasn’t scheduled until today at lunch. I called it because Elder High is under siege. We have police, security guards, and reporters and their film crews from over two dozen TV stations—all camped out on the borders of our campus. This isn’t right. This has to stop.

  “How we’re to solve this problem—well, usually that would be up to me to decide. But I don’t want to handle it that way. What’s going on here is too important to our community for one man to simply sweep it under the rug. This is America, you know, this is supposed to be a democracy. I’ve called you all here so we can decide together, as a town, what we should do.”

  Levitt paused and took a sip of water before continuing.

  “By now you’ve all heard of Aja Smith. She’s new here at Elder High. She moved here from Brazil this summer. When it comes to our students, most of you have probably met her, spoken to her. I never did see a transcript of her educational background but I was told by Mrs. Hawkins, one of our counselors, that she scored extremely high on our placement tests. So high, Mrs. Hawkins automatically put her in several AP classes. Talking about Aja with Mrs. Hawkins before the school year began, the two of us were confident she’d make a fine addition to our student body.

  “Unfortunately we got off to a rocky start. Her second day in class Mrs. Billard sent her to my office to be disciplined for cheating on a test. When I asked Aja if it was true she’d cheated she said yes. When I asked her why, she didn’t say a word. Nope, she just sat there staring at me. I’ll admit her behavior didn’t impress me. I saw her as just another lying . . .”

  Levitt caught himself and changed his tone. “But maybe I’m wrong about her. I hope I’m wrong. I’ve got an open mind. Despite the gossip I’ve heard floating around, this meeting is not about putting Aja on trial. Quite the opposite. I called you all here tonight because I want to know who this young woman is and why so many of you are fascinated by her. I want to let her speak—that’s only fair—and then I want to let the rest of you speak. Only when we’re all done talking together . . . then we’ll decide what to do. Are you with me?”

  To my utter disgust many of my classmates and virtually every parent clapped. It was the parents that scared me. I knew most of them and I wasn’t surprised that the more conservative ones had chosen to come out on this stormy night. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Levitt had personally called and invited them.

  They’d ask the questions Levitt was too smart to ask. That would spare him from having to dirty his hands.

  Levitt called for Aja to stand beside a microphone he’d set directly in front of his podium. The positioning was silly. Not only was she forced to stand three feet below him—to address him directly, she’d have to twist her body around, which in turn would cause her to place her back to the stands.

  I was pleased that Aja saw the problem and, without asking Levitt’s permission, moved the microphone off to our right. I almost applauded.

  Levitt began by offering his condolences to Aja on the loss of her “Aunt Clara.” He waited for her to thank him for his kind words but she said nothing. He shrugged and went on, barely hiding his annoyance.

  “Aja, I have a few questions I want to ask,” he said. “I want you to swear to answer them honestly. Agreed?”

  “Yes,” Aja said.

  Levitt continued. “A month ago in Rapid City you attended a concert where your boyfriend, Fred Allen, was performing with his band. It was at the Roadhouse beside the air force base. During the show, a riot broke out and you stopped it by supposedly healing a soldier named Dennis Krane. It’s been said that you healed him of a head wound given to him by Mike Garcia, who struck the soldier on the head with a whiskey bottle. What I want to know is—is this true?”

  “I don’t know,” Aja said.

  “What don’t you know?”

  “I don’t know if Mike really hurt him. And I don’t know if a healing occurred.”

  “You’re saying you don’t know anything?”

  “I know some things.”

  Levitt flashed a fake smile. He acted like he was dealing with a child. “Tell us what you do know,” he said.
>
  “You have a deep wound you wish you could heal.”

  Levitt looked startled. He took a moment to collect himself. “That’s nonsense. I’m healthy as a horse. Besides, we’re not talking about me. Don’t change the subject.”

  Aja didn’t respond.

  “Answer my original question,” Levitt said. “Did you heal Dennis Krane? Yes or no?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “This body is like all bodies. It’s limited. It’s born, it grows old, it dies. It’s incapable of healing anyone. But inside this body is something great—the Big Person. It’s the Big Person who heals.”

  Many in the audience drew in a deep breath. They were listening; they were interested. A few might have heard about the Big Person before, when Aja spoke to them in private in the school courtyard. I couldn’t be sure. But hearing her speak of it now—it was as if the majority of the audience sensed the power in her words. The truth.

  A woman behind Levitt stood. I recognized her. It was Ted Weldon’s mother. Our principal let her ask the next question.

  “Are you speaking of God?” Mrs. Weldon said.

  As a student I hated everything about our gym, but as a musician I had to admit the acoustics were superb. The wooden walls, softened with over a half century of wear, absorbed any and all sounds and somehow smoothed them out before reflecting them back amplified. Even without the benefit of a microphone, we could hear Mrs. Weldon’s voice.

  “I don’t use that word,” Aja said.

  “Why not?” the woman asked.

  “It means too many things to too many people.”

  Mr. Weldon stood. “Who is your God?” he asked.

  Aja shrugged and said nothing.

  “Is Jesus Christ your Lord and God?” Mrs. Weldon asked.

  “I never met him.”

  “Please answer yes or no,” Levitt insisted.

  “No.”

  “So you’re not a Christian?” Mr. Weldon said.

  “Yes.”

  She’d answered a negative question with a yes, I thought. Which meant she was saying no. I doubted many noticed.