Maybe Chuck was hiding there. That was funny. Chuck would never set foot in this school. Of course most people here wouldn’t even remember Chuck anymore. Not even the kids who bullied him. Those jerks. The same things happened to her. Nobody could stop the bullying. It happened everywhere. Everywhere the teachers and administrators weren’t, that is. They never saw anything. If they left the room, if their back was turned, if someone else had their attention then the bullies were free to deal out their favors.
She had learned the hard way that you had to be a bully or be invisible.
If only she could put her head down. Just fifteen more minutes until the bell rang. Could this class be any more boring?
***
Cori slapped her forehead over and over. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She amazed herself. How could she allow a total stranger, a social worker no less, to make an appointment with her? Okay, sure. Okay, sure. The words somersaulted out of her mouth, no jeweled stud to stop them.
And now she had another decision to make – call the school or not? What evidence did she have that Chuck might go berserk and start shooting up the place? Think. Decide.
She grabbed the shoe box again and examined the poems. Could these be clues? She didn’t think so, but what did she know? What were the warning signs that someone was going to go on a shooting rampage?
She lifted out the gun, rubbed her fingerprints off with a paper towel, and set it back in. She didn’t even know how to check if it was loaded.
What if she called the police? No, they’d come here and blow it for Ben. His step-father would get involved. No, not a good idea.
She could re-hide the gun. Maybe Chuck didn’t have any other guns.
Maybe he was shooting it out at school right now.
She picked up the phone. Shit, she couldn’t call from here. She needed to find a public phone. There were consequences for reporting a false alarm.
She groaned her annoyance. What happened to a nice quiet skip day? She slipped on the army boots, the coat, the gloves, and put the gun into her pocket. She would throw it in the dumpster at the gas station; she thought they had a pay phone there, too.
***
Ben caught Megan’s arm as she came out of the restroom. He thrust the car keys into her hand and hurried through a set of instructions: “My step-dad is parking a silver SUV in the second row. Make sure he sees you get in the car. Then drive off. Circle around the block until he leaves and then pick me up across the street. Got it?”
“Got it.” She rushed off and he watched from where he was, ready to duck into the ladies’ room if Ed really was here for another breakfast.
***
Chuck felt the hum of voices throughout the building begin to intensify a full three minutes before the bell rang. Class doors opened, teachers allowed kids to move from their assigned seats. Gossip and whispers and stabs of laughter preceded the all-out bedlam that followed the ringing of the bell.
Now was the moment. The air around him swished in waves as students passed. The vending machines rattled, candy and drinks clunked out, sophomores waited behind juniors who urged seniors to be faster. Freshmen rushed by in defensive clumps. Chuck focused on the tiny mirror he had taken from the drawer in the bathroom at home, his real home, where his parents were surprised to see him this morning. He changed the mirror’s angle to reflect the ebb and flow of hungry teens. Their faces were intent upon the sugared drinks, the caffeinated colas, the candy, chips, mints, and gum. No one saw Chuck’s blackened eye reflecting back from the finger of space between the two largest machines.
The plan was flawed.
Chuck’s reasoning was built around a simple assumption: those whose debts were past due would visit this very spot sooner or later. Sooner or later.
Later.
Five minutes of frantic social interaction ended with the final tin can’s clunk. The metal tab was popped and the fizz was muted by a pair of freshman lips. Who would have such a thirst this early in the day that he would risk a tardy to second period? Chuck knew. It was a freshman, someone bullied on the bus, someone whose head had been stuffed in the toilet bowl before first hour, someone small and scrawny who was pushed around, shoved into lockers, mocked and cursed and punched.
His anger filled his heart, his lungs, his mouth.
Don’t scream.
Chill out. Take a pill.
He dug in his pocket for the matching pair of meds, popped them both in his mouth. He could wait another hour for the right moment. Or two hours. Or three.
***
Emily got up from her seat as soon as the teacher was finished with the project instructions. Most groups had three or four students boisterously arguing ideas. A few sat in quiet pairs, outlining their plans. Emily never considered joining the others and the veteran teacher was wise enough to allow exceptions. She had worked alone on the last project, earning a hundred percent. What was the big deal about group projects anyway? Everyone knew that one kid did most of the work.
“Library?” she whispered.
The teacher smiled and wrote out a hall pass. Name, date, time, destination, teacher’s signature. Emily was out of the classroom in thirty seconds.
She walked through the quiet hallways as if she didn’t know the way to the media center. Several classrooms had their doors open and she paused to listen to whatever teaching and learning was going on in the various subjects. She got to the end of the hall and doubled back, took the stairs, passed the main office, and headed for the vending machines. No one asked to see her pass; no one cared that she was out of class, wandering the halls. What was one insignificant girl in a school of almost two thousand?
She reached in the side pocket of her satchel. She had five one dollar bills and some change. She had not packed school lunches today; there was no time in the excitement of escaping through the back yards. Junk food from the machines would have to do; she could snack in the library, go back there during lunch. There was no way she wanted to see Ben in the cafeteria today.
She stood in front of the pop machine and decided on a calorie and caffeine free drink. The can plunked out and she collected the change.
She noticed the putrid scent again. Expected a flash of nightmare, but her memory stayed empty.
First the smell and now a sound. A tapping. Not the even clicking of a refrigerator motor. Not the four-beat finger drumming of a bored secretary. Not the steady rhythm of a dripping faucet.
Four slow clicks. One quick tap. Three measured taps. Four then one then three. Four. One. Three.
Almost a message. Or a warning.
She decided on the cheese and cracker snacks and a pack of two chocolate chip cookies. The machine rumbled and dropped the items. The tapping stopped. Had it been a foot? A shoe heel or toe that quivered against the tiles?
She bent and reached her hand for her treats and saw the eye. She froze. Her hand was part way in the dispenser; her satchel slipped down her arm. It wasn’t the blind eye of that hellish vision. This eye could see. The skin around it was like black ash and the mesmerizing stare hypnotized her with a familiar ease.
She knew this eye.
Emily held Chuck’s gaze. She gave him a nod of recognition, stuffed the food in her bag, and walked away.
Her mind rushed to make sense of it. Was this what Chuck would do when he thought he was Adam? Come to the normal school? Hide because he had no class schedule? Secretly watch the normal kids?
Goose bumps slithered down her body. Should she tell someone?
She passed the office, kept walking to the library.
***
Cori walked a couple of blocks, turned the corner and headed for the main street. She slowed to watch an ambulance back out of a driveway. A police car sat out front, its strobe light silently blinking round, making the snow seem red then blue.
If she hesitated or turned back, would they suspect her? That was stupid; they couldn’t know she had a gun in her pocket.
She bent her head against a cold gust
of wind, looked directly at the house, wondered if it was a heart attack victim they had carted away. A policeman was coming out the front door unto the shoveled porch where the second cop was waiting. They looked like they were locking up the place. They moved down the steps and Cori could see the house numbers that had been hidden by the one officer. And the metal mailbox, just like the one they had at their house. Only this one had large stick-on letters spelling out a last name: Burdick.
Funny. Wasn’t that Chuck’s last name? No, not funny. Disgusting. A disgusting name for a disgusting kid. Weirdo. Sicko. If she didn’t have his gun on her, she’d walk up to these policemen right now and tell them he was out there somewhere planning a mass murder.
Oh, crap. The nausea hit her with the stunning force of a baseball bat to the gut. She doubled over, wretched on the snow. The yellow crime scene tape they were stretching across the porch provoked a conclusion too horrible to imagine, but as clear as yesterday’s clairvoyant predictions.
***
Megan drove as carefully as she had the last time Ben entrusted her with his car. She watched for his step-dad’s SUV in her mirrors, wondered if the angry man would spot the license plate, think she was stealing the car, and try to stop her. He might rear-end the car. The outlandish thought was motivation enough to make her turn down the next street, speed up, turn again and whip down an alley.
Ben’s treasure was in this trunk. All kinds of crazy thoughts swirled around her head before she reached the end of the alley and had to stop. She inched out, caught a glimpse of the silver vehicle a block away going the opposite direction. She breathed, blinked, and circled back toward Ben.
***
Mrs. Beridon waited in the main office as the secretary first looked up Megan’s schedule then sent an aide to the classroom. When the aide returned alone the secretary checked the hourly attendance reported on the computer and shook her head. Megan hadn’t shown up to first or second hour. As an emancipated teen she could excuse herself for illness, doctor’s appointments, or court, but she should have called in by now. The secretary had no suggestion for Mrs. Beridon other than to leave a message that could be relayed if Megan reported in later.
The social worker rubbed her forehead and glanced at her watch. She had no option but to race to the courthouse. Alone.
***
Ben leaped in the passenger side and grinned. “Wow, you were driving like a maniac.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was super careful. I kept worrying that someone was going to crash into me and wreck the trunk and send all your cards flying.”
“Well, it looked like you gunned it out of the parking lot before Ed could see for sure that it was my car. Man, was I spooked. I was sure I was going to have to hide in the ladies’ room.”
Megan laughed. She signaled right and pulled out. “That would have been interesting because there was still a lady in there when I came out.” She headed toward their house and asked, “Does he always chase you down when you skip? How did he know where you were?”
“I haven’t a clue, but life sure has gotten exciting since you arrived.”
“Tell me about it.” She pulled onto their street and scanned for silver cars. “Should we park on the other street?”
“Nah, we won’t be long. I’ll quick make some sandwiches while you get your stuff. We’ll be outta here fast.”
Megan backed up the driveway to hide the license plate, just in case, and they hurried into the house. She bounded up the stairs while Ben slapped slices of lunch meat on some bread.
She stopped in her tracks when she saw Cori’s door open. Maybe she was here; maybe she had skipped school, too. More crazy imaginings jigged around her head. They had left when Cori began talking to Ben’s step-father. They didn’t know how that conversation ended. What if he hadn’t believed that she was Mrs. Kremer? What if she had told him about Ben? What if she was tied up in the back seat of an SUV?
Megan stepped into Cori’s room and gently called her name. A box was on the floor next to the bed, the closet door was open, the ladder beckoned. She crossed the room and looked up.
“I’m done,” Ben called from below. “Are you coming?”
“Be right there,” she called back. She touched the ladder, felt a hand on hers. She closed her eyes and pictured Simon. So cute and warm and cuddly. So happy. He could crawl and pull himself up on furniture, tip and sway and bounce. His first steps would come any day now. He was early, the foster mother had said, doing things ahead of the curve, sooner than her own kids. But he was a worry when it came to eating. And the digestive problems meant repeated trips to the doctor. There would be operations, medications, check-ups. The weight of responsibility drained her of happy thoughts. She was ashamed that her precious son had become a duty to her, a once-a-week inconvenience scrawled on a calendar, but had she ever really bonded with him?
“What are you doing in here?” Ben took a step into Cori’s room, saw Megan’s hand come off the ladder and swipe away some tears. “What’s the matter?”
Megan motioned him toward her own room.
***
“Mrs. Beridon,” the judge sighed, “I appreciate your concern, but,” he wiped his brow again, “this court will make its decision on the facts presented and,” his voice grew louder and emphasized the grave pronouncement, “the obvious lack of interest by the young mother.” He picked up his gavel, more for show than legality, and dropped it weakly on the wooden plate. “I hereby terminate all parental rights on the part of Megan Ann Blakeney. The foster parents may commence with adoption proceedings. The grandparents may make their petitions at this time.”
Mrs. Beridon let the tightness in her chest and stomach relax away with a calm acceptance. What was done was done. This wasn’t how she wanted things to turn out, but sometimes you could look back years later and see the perfect construction of the world around you. Simon would have two mature and loving parents in a stable household. Megan would get to be a teenager. If the judge had ruled the other way both mother and son might be in for a very rough road ahead.
Who was she to question . . . question . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted by a vision, a fleeting scene. No faces. A panic. She hurried out of the courtroom and took a seat on a wooden bench. This had happened before. A thought, barely a thought, would come to her. Or a name would float before her mind’s eye. And she would pray.
She took a minute, no more than that, and let herself be led in thought and prayer. It made no sense, but sometimes she never knew the outcome; sometimes she felt the peace before she said amen. She didn’t understand it, but it was as real as any concrete evil she had faced. In this moment she felt the peace. Was it Megan she was praying for? Or Emily? Or the other girl at the house? Someone needed angelic support and Mrs. Beridon was an experienced intercessor. The demons would know her name, she hoped, as she knew some of theirs.
***
Cori made it to the gas station before she felt the need to vomit again. Thankfully the restroom on the side of the building was unlocked. She kept her gloves on, wrapped the gun in even more paper towels and stuffed it into the trash can.
Now she had to warn them at the alternative school.
***
Megan opened the yellow album. “This is Simon,” she said touching the protective plastic. Ben looked at the baby scrap book. He put one arm around Megan and, with an awkward and self-conscious tenderness, listened to the unburdening of her soul. He asked soft questions, offered silent admiration, wrapped her in his arms and let things be.
When they had looked at every page of the album Megan closed it and tucked it back in the top drawer of the dresser.
“So, now you know everything,” she sniffled. “I’m a horrible person.”
“No, you’re not. I think you’re wonderful and brave.” He cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her face. “You have a right to cry. You just told me you’re torn between fighting for Simon and letting him grow up in a stable family. I can’t imagine
that there’s a harder decision to make.”
She rested her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. Her quiet sobs shook them both.
“Hey,” Ben finally said, “I have a question for you.” Megan looked up expectantly. Ben cleared his throat, held her close. “When my father died I couldn’t stop crying. We stayed with my grandparents, my dad’s folks, for a week. And all I did was cry or wreck things. My grandfather took me outside and said I had a choice. I could make a decision to accept things and trust that everything worked out for the best and grow up to be like my dad or I could keep being miserable and feeling helpless.”
Megan nodded, understanding a little. “So, what’s the question for me?”
Ben smirked one dimple. “Well, my grandpa also said he was willing to make the decision for me for that and for any other big decision I’d ever have to make in my life . . . so I’d never have to blame myself if things didn’t work out. So . . . my question is – do you want me to make the decision for you whether or not you fight for custody?”
Megan bit at her bottom lip. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, here’s the thing. When I tell you the decision you have to tell me right away what you’re feeling. But you’re not bound by what I say. Okay?”
“Okay.” Her eyes cleared, but her face was wet. Ben brushed his fingers across her freckles and dried the tears.
“Let Simon go.” The silence stretched long enough for tears to form again. “Are you relieved? Is that what you wanted me to say?” Ben asked.
Megan nodded. “But . . .”
“No buts. You’re not a bad person, Megan. Stuff happens. You can connect with Simon when you’re older if you want, but you need to tell the judge what you feel.”
***
Cori called 911. Her flustered attempts to give a reasonable excuse for calling the emergency number resulted in her hanging up before she named her school. She hoped she had said enough.
Her relief at having disposed of the gun and made the call cleared her thoughts. The nausea was gone; she was no longer edgy. Chuck was probably sound asleep in Murphy’s class, meaning that Cori had just made a prank call. That would be funny. She started to laugh before she left the phone carrel. She glanced at the attendant whose attention was elsewhere. Good. It wouldn’t be smart to draw attention to herself, not that she was memorable without her makeup and jewelry.
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