“Is something wrong with it? I worked really hard on it. I know a lot of the words are misspelled, but you said not to worry about that right now. Didn’t you like it?” Russell asked as he sat down. He could smell Miss Findlay’s perfume, light and sweet.
“Russell, I liked your story all right. I liked it the first time I read it, when I read Jeffrey Gates’s story. Except for some rearranging of the order and a few details, same story. And you and Jeff have never written anything as good before. I even called your old teachers, just to be sure. I talked to Mrs. Perkins this morning and she told me both of you have come in and checked out fairy tales. What do you have to say for yourself? Tell me the truth: you copied this from a book in the library, didn’t you?” She stared at Russell with The Look.
Jeff Gates? Oh, yeah, that shrimpy little kid in Miz Markham’s class. He sits three chairs from me here and he never talks.
“I didn’t copy my story from nobody. I wrote it all myself. I worked really hard at it.” Why is it so hot in here?
“Russell. Please,” Miss Findlay interrupted, her voice sharp and cutting. “You could not possibly have written anything like this. I know you and Jeff live close to each other. You even ride the same bus. Now, tell me the truth.”
“I am telling you the truth. I didn’t copy anything! Did you ask Jeff? What did he say? I’ve never even talked to Jeff. I did it all myself.” Russell gripped the seat of his chair with both hands. It was really hot in the trailer. Russell could see sweat beads on Miss Findlay’s forehead.
“Don’t raise your voice at me, young man. Jeff isn’t in school today; I’ll deal with him when he gets back. Neither one of you is capable of work of this quality—it’s just too good. You’re getting off to a bad start, Russell—Mrs. Collins wasn’t even surprised that you did this. I am very disappointed in you.”
“Miz Collins is a liar and she hates me. I’ve never copied anybody’s work ever and I wrote every word of that story myself. It’s my dream! It’s the best work I’ve ever done in school and you think I cheated. I didn’t.” Russell stood. He wished he could take back every word he said, every word he had written; he wished he had stayed in bed, safe in the warm darkness, the covers over his head.
“I told you not to raise your voice at me. Very well. Russell, you leave me no choice. I will have to give you a zero and call your father. This goes in the trash,” Miss Findlay said and held his folder over the can.
“Don’t throw my story away!” He jerked the folder out of the startled woman’s hand and bolted for the door. Russell made his face as tight as he could; if he let go for a second, he knew he would bawl his head off.
“Russell White, you come back here this instant. Don’t you dare run away from me.”
Russell tripped right at the door and looked up to see Miss Findlay, her hair, wet with sweat, falling about her face, her bra transparent through her wet blouse.
“Get up. Now. You don’t look hurt to me.”
“No, let me go, don’t touch me,” Russell yelled and pushed her hands away, as she tried to pull him to his feet. He pulled away, his back to the metal door, breathing hard, and sweating. He was drenched with sweat and the air was close and hot, so hot it almost hurt to breathe.
“I said: get up, boy. If you lay a hand on me, you will be sorrier than you ever have been.”
“I didn’t touch you, leave me alone. Please, just leave me alone, I didn’t cheat.” He scrambled to his feet and pressed himself as flat as he could against the door and watched Miss Findlay. The only person he had ever seen as angry had been his daddy. She took a step closer and raised her hand.
“No,” and Russell held his own hand up to stop her and he hit the air. It was as if the air in front of him had suddenly acquired substance and heat. The spongy, hard air was hot—realty hot. He pushed the air when she took another step toward him and to both his and Miss Findlay’s astonishment, the hard air knocked Miss Findlay down, sprawling on the trailer floor. Now Russell could see the hard air—it was glowing white-yellow and it looked like fire. It flew over Miss Findlay, as she tried to stand, singeing her hair. When she ducked, the air-fire smashed into the bookcase behind her desk. The books, the papers, the wooden shelves, the games—everything burst into flames. Miss Findlay half-stood, her back to Russell, staring in total disbelief at the burning bookcase.
Russell ran.
He didn’t look back to see if she was coming after him, if she was fighting the fire; Russell just ran. He threw himself against the trailer door and took the steps down in one leap, gasping as he felt the cooler outside air. He ran to the building, banged the door open, and then, took one look back. There Miss Findlay was, staggering dazed out the door, smoke coming out with her. He couldn’t see inside the trailer—only smoke, thick, black, and everywhere.
Russell turned and ran across the hall to the opposite door that faced the playground. Once outside again, Russell took off, kicking up blue gravel. The hounds were after the Red Fox. He barked as he ran past the surprised PE teacher who was taking a kindergarten class out. The fox raced down the hill and across the playground and into the woods surrounding the school. A fox could hide anywhere: under a log, in a thicket, just lay still, panting, while the hounds ran around like crazy. But the hounds could smell, maybe the fox should find a creek . . .
Branches slapped and scratched Russell’s face and he was a boy again. Foxes didn’t get popped on the forehead by a dogwood or get spider webs caught in their hair. And foxes didn’t trip over logs. Russell slammed against the ground, twisting his ankle as he fell. He dropped his folder and the pages of his story flew everywhere. After what seemed like a long time, Russell started crying. There was the fire alarm, and the siren and the fire truck horns. He had burned up the Resource trailer. Miss Bigelow was going to kill him. It was bad enough he had pushed a teacher—he could hear the principal’s machine gun voice repeating those words and over—but he had burned up the trailer. She would never believe him that it had been an accident, he hadn’t meant to, and had no idea how the fire had started, it just had.
Magic—it had to be magic. Yeah, right, magic.
“Russell? Are you all right? What in the hell happened? Everybody’s outside, the fire trucks are here, Margaret Mary—Miss Findlay—is—and you, out here. What in the hell did you do? Have you lost your mind?”
Russell rolled over and sat up to see Miss Montague, the PE teacher, coming through the trees. “I think I sprained my ankle. Can you help me walk?” Russell asked. He figured trying to explain what happened was not worth the trouble.
“You must have lost your mind. Come on, child, let me help you. Let’s go, Russ,” she said and they started back to the building, leaving his story behind in the leaves and pine needles.
Russell sat outside the office for a long time, waiting until the fire was out and the trucks, the police, and the WRAL Channel 5 Action News van had left and everybody was back inside. He had never felt so tired in his life and wanted nothing more but to go home and crawl into bed and sleep, sleep, sleep. But his ankle hurt too much and the scratches from the tree branches stung. Even so, he did nod off once, but woke up when his head drooped. Finally after what seemed like days, Mrs. Anderson came out of the office and told Russell Miss Bigelow was ready to see him.
“Now, be smart, boy,” Mrs. Anderson said, shaking her head. “You are in a world of trouble—just say yes ma‘am and no ma’am. Don’t you even dream of talking back. Now, just stand there until they tell you to come in.”
Miss Findlay was talking when Russell stepped inside Miss Bigelow’s office. “Bad wiring in that old trailer, Hallie. What else could it have been to blaze up like that?”
“You’re probably right—but there has to be some sort of investigation, insurance, the fire department. We’ll put Resource in the computer room until we can get a new trailer. Russell, come in,” Miss Bigelow said, shaking her head. She leaned back in her chair, her glasses in one hand, the other rubbing the bridge
of her nose.
Russell leaned against a bookcase as the women talked to him. He was afraid to look any of them in the eye, so he stared at the floor and took Mrs. Anderson’s advice: no ma‘am, yes ma’am, I don’t know, ma’am. He refused to admit he had copied part of his story from any book. His unacceptable behavior, his poor attitude, and his lack of concern for his school work were all discussed in detail.
“Don’t you understand, Russell?” Miss Bigelow said. “Don’t you see we just want the best for you? All of us—Mrs. Collins, Miss Findlay, myself?”
“Yes ma’am, I understand, I see,” Russell said, wishing he could sit down. His ankle was really hurting now.
“We do care, Russell. But you have to care, too, or it doesn’t make any difference,” Miss Bigelow said. Miss Findlay nodded her head in agreement. Russell wondered how the hot, hard air had felt when it hit her and he wondered how to do it again. He had felt something when he had pushed—he had felt strong. Really strong. And when the fire had started—
“What do you have to say for yourself? Well?” Miss Bigelow asked. “Don’t you at least have something to say to Miss Findlay? Russell?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Findlay,” Russell said and then looked directly at Mrs. Collins. She looked back at him as if she were looking at crap on the floor. What the hell. He was already in trouble up to his neck. “But Miz Collins, she hates me. She never listens to me and—uuuhh—” Russell stepped on his bad ankle.
“That’s enough. I’m going to suspend you for the rest of the week. I’ve already called your father; he’s on his way—what’s the matter?”
“My ankle. I fell in the woods.”
“Come on, Russell. Let’s go into the health room. Why didn’t you say something?” Miss Bigelow stood up, looking exasperated.
I hate you I hate all of you the first time I do a good job and ...
Russell hobbled behind Miss Bigelow. He didn’t look back at either Mrs. Collins or Miss Findlay.
Russell sat in the lobby again, his sprained ankle propped on a chair, with a bag of crushed ice on it. There was a little pool of water on the floor beneath his foot. His schoolbooks for the rest of the week were stacked at his side, along with a detailed list of assignments tucked in the top book. Miss Findlay had left explicit instructions how Russell was to rewrite his story. He watched out the front, waiting for his daddy to come, wanting him to hurry up and get it over with.
There was the pickup pulling up. He couldn’t see his daddy’s face until he was halfway up the sidewalk. Miss Bigelow must have called him at work, at the construction site. Larry White was wearing a sweat-stained, holey T-shirt and mortar-spattered jeans. There was more mortar in his daddy’s hair, little white pieces, like snow. Mr. White barely looked at Russell when he came in, just a quick flick of his eyes as he went into the office.
That was enough. Russell knew what his daddy was going to do when they got home: another whipping, a long and hard one this time. No supper. Grounded. Restricted to his room. No TV. Same old thing.
Russell went slowly up the stairs after his daddy left to go back to work. At least I don’t have to go back to school for the rest of the week. Nobody’ll see the bruises and cuts. He was careful not to let the bag of ice, newly filled, drip on the floor. It was a relief to close his bedroom door and lie down gingerly on the bed. The ice felt pretty good on his ankle and the bed felt soft to his rear and his back. Russell closed his eyes. He didn’t want to read, to think, to watch TV, to do anything. He just wanted to be quiet on his bed and let the silence hold him and keep him safe.
I wonder what ol’ Miss Findlay said to Jeff Did she call his folks? I’ve never even talked to him. He’s in the very front, right next to Miss Findlay’s desk. Needs a haircut, all that hair in his face. How’d he write the same story as me? We’d have to have had the same dream.
We’d have to have had the same dream.
Russell sat up, no longer tired or wishing for stillness. He knew what stop Jeff got off the bus and he was pretty sure which house was his. It wasn’t far; Russell could walk if he had to. He looked down at his ankle: still swollen, still throbbing some. Crutches. From once before, when he had broken his leg. They were in the downstairs closet. Russell got up slowly and half-hopped, half-hobbled to the door. He stopped by his dresser and first touched the red fox, then the Baby for good luck. His mother used to do that.
From the front steps of Russell’s house to the front door of Jeff’s house, was, Russell thought, between a quarter and a half-mile. It might as well have been ten. He only fell two or three times on the crutches before he got used to them, but each fall made his ankle hurt worse. By the time he got to the road, Russell’s T-shirt was again glued to his body. The welts on his back and rear stung from the sweat. The ones on his legs started bleeding again, streaking red through the dirt.
“The Red Fox wouldn’t let a little sprained ankle stop him,” Russell told himself, panting, when he got to the end of his driveway. He could see the entrance to Greenwood Estates—at least it was downhill. “Jeff had the same dream. There’s gotta be a reason.”
The Red Fox set off.
Russell and Jeff
Jeff woke up Monday morning while it was still dark, and for too long a moment, he had not known where he was. He had tried to scream, but a hand covered his mouth, shoving his scream back through his teeth, down his throat. Only when he tried to pull the hand away did he realize it was his own hand and he was in the Clarks’ house, the same house he had woken up in since May. He was safe.
Jeff looked at the clock on the dresser. 5:14. As he watched, the last red digit slowly changed from a four to a five. The Clarks got up most mornings around 6:30 or so. They took turns showering and using the bathroom and then came and got him up. Getting him up, Mrs. Clark had told him yesterday, eyeing him over her coffee, lately had been like waking the dead.
Not this morning, Jeff thought. After that dream, he didn’t want to go back to sleep. It had been some weeks since he had had such a dream. Before, he had had them almost every night—alone in the dark and knowing he wasn’t alone, that someone was just beyond his reach, waiting, and was going to put a hand over Jeffs mouth and ... He had dreaded sleep. Now, there were the other dreams: the centaur, the swimmers, the sea beneath two moons. But going back to sleep now was too risky, there was no guarantee which dream would be waiting for him.
After checking to be sure the dinosaurs he had brought from his father’s house were still on his dresser, Jeff went out in the hall, into its silence. No light made a line beneath the Clarks’ bedroom door and the bathroom door was open. Jeff tiptoed into the bathroom and closed and locked the door behind him. He flicked on the light and blinked at the sudden brightness and the colors’ sudden shift from shades of grey to sand-colored tiles, beige walls, and a white curtain over the window. The transparent shower curtain was covered with big red and blue fish. Taking a shower was sort of like being inside an aquarium.
Jeff loved showers, the longer the better, with torrents of hot water pouring over his head and swirling around his feet. He kept the plug in so he could pretend to be swimming in the rain. The water could get just deep enough so he could lay on the bottom of the tub and be underwater, the multicolored fish over his head.
Jeff peeled off his pajamas and got in the tub and carefully pulled the curtain so there was as little space between the plastic and the wall as possible. He turned on the water, twisted the shower knob, and grabbed the shampoo. Rivers of shampoo, Pert Plus, lather, hung all over his body like sea foam, like snow, like cotton candy. Water beat on his head. Lather frothed at his feet. He lay down and stretched as the water rained all over and around him. And nobody came to stop him, to pound on the door, find a key to the lock, come in. Nobody.
Now he was safe in the shower; for too long a time, he hadn’t been.
Finally, reluctantly, Jeff turned off the water and got out of the shower, shivering at the sudden touch of cooler air. He wrapped himse
lf in a huge towel, as if he were an Arab in a desert robe. As he enjoyed the feel of the soft towel on his skin, he noticed his ears. He straightened up to dry his hair and looked into the mirror.
“My ears,” Jeff said and with a corner of his towel, wiped the fog off the medicine cabinet mirror, and looked again. His ears were pointed, like the swimmers and the centaur. He tapped the mirror: solid real glass. He pinched himself—definitely awake—and touched his ears, running a finger on the outer edges. He turned his head to the left and the right: both ears were pointed. Unmistakably pointed. Could he cover them with his hair? Jeff heard, as he fumbled through a drawer looking for a comb, the seemingly faraway tinny ringing of the Clarks’ alarm clock.
Uh-oh.
Mr. Clark would call a doctor, or the social worker, and Mrs. dark—what would she do? Jeff had no idea, but he didn’t want to find out. He grabbed his pajamas and darted back to his room, closing the door just in time, as he heard the Clarks’ door open. Jeff pulled his covers over his head and lay very still. Deep breath, take a deep breath, he told himself, think. He had half-an-hour before one of the Clarks would come and shake him awake. And see his ears. He felt them again to be sure: still pointed. There was no way he was going to school like this. Sick—he would just have to be sick today. Jeff would tell the Clarks his stomach hurt and he felt too sick to go and . . .
Mr. Clark came to wake Jeff up. Jeff could tell by the heavy sound of the footsteps in the room. “Jeff? Time to get up.”
Jeff groaned. “I don’t feel good. My stomach hurts. And my head. They both hurt,” Jeff said, his voice muffled by the bedspread and the sheet. He groaned again and pulled himself into a ball in the middle of the bed. “Can I stay here today?”
“Ellen? Jeff says he’s sick. His stomach and his head. I don’t know if he has a temperature; I haven’t touched him.”
Mrs. Clark was there in a minute.
Harvest of Changelings Page 15
