The Scarlet Letterman

by Cara Lockwood

  So I understand why people distrust him. But I just see him in a different way. Maybe it is his bad-boy mojo, or the fact that I’m related to Catherine, his true love, but I don’t know. I see something different in him.

  A week passes and Hana, Blade, and Samir continue to freeze me out, no matter how often I try to apologize. I’m not sure how to make amends, and the three of them don’t want to tell me, either.

  I want to tell Ryan what’s going on, but I can’t without telling him the secrets of Bard, which I swore to the faculty I wouldn’t do. Not to mention, Ryan would outright laugh at me if I told him the truth — that Heathcliff is a fictional character from 1847.

  And even if I left out the supernatural parts, it’s not like Ryan wants to hear about Heathcliff. He’s been semijealous of Heathcliff since last semester. If I even bring up Heathcliff’s name, Ryan will change the subject. So if I told him I’d been hiding the fact that Heathcliff is still hanging around Bard, I’m sure he’d have the same reaction as Hana, Blade, and Samir did. The same or worse.

  “So are you going to tell me what happened between you and your friends?” Ryan asks me as he walks me back to my dorm after dinner in a rare Parker-free moment.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, like why they don’t talk to you anymore and avoid me?”

  “We just had a fight.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t feel like talking about it.”

  “Is it about Parker? Because I really am sorry, I just don’t know what to do. I don’t want to be responsible in case something does happen to her.”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever,” I say, waving my hand like I don’t care. And I’m surprised to find that I don’t actually care as much as I should. It’s annoying, yes, but I’ve got bigger problems on my plate right now. Like trying to figure out if Heathcliff is the Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker or not.

  Ryan gives me a sidelong glance. “By the way, I talked to Derek, and he won’t be bothering you anymore.”

  I glance at Ryan and feel a rush of warmth. He’s so good. Attentive and sweet and good.

  “What did you say to Derek?”

  “Let’s just say he got the message. I know he’s a bit of a slime, but he’s not going to go anywhere near you.”

  “Thanks, Ryan,” I say, and I mean it.

  “Don’t mention it,” he says, waving his hand. “Now, come on, what’s going on with you and Hana?”

  “Nothing. Just girl stuff.”

  “And you and Samir?”

  “Just drop it, okay?”

  Ryan lets out a frustrated sigh, putting his hands into his shaggy hair. “Okay, whatever.”

  “What do you mean, ‘whatever’?”

  “Nothing,” Ryan says, shrugging.

  “No, go on.”

  “It’s just that you get all upset about me not talking about…the car accident, but you have secrets, too. I mean, I’m not dumb. I know there’s something going on with you guys, and it’s something you don’t want to tell me. Why?”

  “You just have to trust me,” I say. Hypocrite? Party of One? Since when is it okay for Ryan to have secrets, but not me? If he’s withholding information, then I can, too. It’s only fair.

  “Fine, well, then you’ll just have to trust me, too, I guess,” Ryan says.

  We stop in front of my dorm and eye each other. Normally this is the time that he’d try to steal a kiss. But tonight, both of us are in a mood.

  “Well, guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he says, not making eye contact with me. Then, before I can respond, he turns on his heel and starts walking back the other way, leaving me alone in front of my dorm door.

  I wonder who else I’m going to manage to piss off this week. I seem to have a knack for it.

  When I get back to my room, Blade is sleeping, as usual. That girl can sleep at all times of the day or night, even when she’s mad at me. I notice that despite the fact that we’re not currently on speaking terms, Blade has still managed to dip into my snack reserves. The stash of M&M’s and Doritos in my closet are decidedly low. Candy and snacks are prohibited on campus, but I managed to sneak some in from home.

  I take a packet of M&M’s from my stash and then settle down at my desk to start studying. I’ve got two papers and a midterm exam coming up, and with all the Coach H drama, I haven’t started working on any of them.

  As I start reading The Crucible and munching on M&M’s (green ones first!), I swear I hear a distant roar. I put down the candy and I listen again. Yep, that’s no bear growl out in the woods. That’s something else.

  I have a sudden vision of those red eyes. Is it that…thing?

  I jump up and head to the window. All I see is the pitch-black of the woods. Somewhere in the distance, a flash of lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the trees, followed by a deep rumble of thunder.

  And then, in the silence that follows, I hear the sound of tree branches cracking. My room is on the second floor, about twenty feet from the woods. I peer into the darkness, trying to make out what might be making those sounds. It could, I reason, be a bear. Not that monster thing. And then I shake myself. Since when is a bear preferable? It’s still a freaking bear.

  Lightning flashes again and I see a great shadowy figure near the edge of the woods. At first, I can’t quite tell what it is, it’s just a dark blob. Then it starts to move. It walks like a cat. A really big cat. Correction: a really, really, really big cat. A cougar? I think I heard something about cougars being in the woods. But are they that big? It’s the size of a small Volkswagen Beetle.

  It’s hunched over something. What is it doing? Smelling something? Eating? It’s hard to tell. A bolt of lightning flashes in the sky, making everything bright for a split second. Do I see stripes? But wait…it’s got something it its jaws.

  Oh God.

  I think that’s — is it someone’s tennis shoe?

  Fifteen

  I bolt from the window and tumble on top of Blade.

  “Wake up,” I hiss at her. “There’s something out there.”

  Sleepily, Blade comes to. “Wha…?” she murmurs, rubbing her eyes.

  “Outside. There’s, well, a cat. Or something bigger than that. A tiger, or a cougar, or I don’t know.”

  “What are you ranting about?” Blade moans, falling back in her bed. I have to physically tug her out of bed and press her sleepy face up against the window. But by the time I do, the cat, or whatever it was, is gone.

  “It was there, I swear.” I say. “Just a second ago. It had somebody’s shoe.”

  Blade moans. “Great, well, when the ‘shoe monster’ comes back, don’t wake me, okay? And by the way, just for this, I am giving you double the silent treatment tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry, but I did see something out there.”

  “Silent treatment!” Blade shouts at me, then throws the covers over her head and rolls over, putting her back to me.

  The next morning, I go straight out before breakfast and check out the line of trees by our dorm. There are paw prints in the mud, big ones.

  “See? I told you something was here,” I say, basically to myself since Blade wouldn’t follow me out here. In fact, she wouldn’t even acknowledge my presence this morning. I think she’s angrier about being cheated out of sleep than me keeping Heathcliff’s appearance secret.

  I look for the shoe, but I don’t see it. I also don’t see any blood, which I take as a good sign. Maybe whatever that thing was, it just got it from the trash. The shoe didn’t necessarily have to be attached to an actual person when the animal took it. Near one of the prints, I find another torn piece of paper.

  It looks like something from the same drawing. I dig around in my blazer pocket and pull out the other three pieces. They all look like they’re from the same drawing — the ones I found outside the gym, on the campus commons, and then in Coach H’s room. Only this third piece looks like a claw, from a paw, maybe. Okay, so now I know these drawings h
ave to be connected somehow to Coach H’s disappearance, the Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker, and to whatever I saw last night. This can’t just be a coincidence.

  I need some answers, and maybe Ms. W has them. I look for her at morning assembly, but I don’t see her. Strange. I decide to look for her later, at our counseling session this afternoon.

  Sitting in biology class, I’m still thinking about the tiger or lion or cougar, or whatever it was I saw last night, even as I fiddle with the pieces of the drawing I’ve found around campus. I put them on my lab table and try to rearrange them. One, I think, is definitely a cat’s ear. Another is a paw — for sure.

  My concentration is broken when I hear Parker’s name called by Mr. S, which stands for Stevenson, as in Robert Louis. Apparently, God or Headmaster B thought it would be apt to have the author of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde teach biology. As luck would have it, today we’re discussing the reproductive habits of frogs while dissecting one. I don’t think I need to tell you how disgusting this is.

  “Parker, I’ve asked you a question,” Mr. S says.

  It is one of the great injustices of my life at Bard that I have two classes with Parker, when I don’t even share a single class with Hana, Ryan, or Samir. The scheduling gods hate me.

  Parker slowly looks up. “What?” she barks, as if she’s the CEO of a Fortune 500 company talking to a lowly assistant who has just interrupted a board meeting.

  “I asked you if you would like to tell us if this is a girl frog or a boy frog,” he repeats, as he points to a slide on the overhead projector.

  Parker just glares at him. She does this because she doesn’t know the answer to his question. She never knows the answer to any question that doesn’t involve designer shoes. She gets out of them typically by making a joke, or, in most cases, just ignoring the teacher altogether. When pressed, she’ll say, “I don’t know,” as if knowing the answer would be a waste of time.

  Now, however, she has a gleam in her eye. That can’t be good.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Why don’t you ask Miranda. I hear that she’s supposed to be an expert on the male anatomy.”

  This causes some snickers in the room. Great. My rumors still haven’t died down, I see. They’re as funny as ever — to everybody else.

  Mr. S looks around, confused. Apparently he’s the only person on campus who hasn’t heard the rumors. I feel my face turn bright red.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re dealing with frogs here, Ms. Rodham,” Mr. S tells her.

  “I’m sure someone with Miranda’s experience can probably tell us about the genitals of just about any mammal.”

  This causes more snickers.

  “Frogs are amphibians, not mammals,” I say, but I don’t think anyone but Mr. S hears me. This is why Parker — a junior — shares two of my sophomore classes. Because she doesn’t know that frogs aren’t mammals.

  “That’s right, Miranda, they are,” he says, still a little puzzled about the innuendo in the room. That’s what happens when your teacher’s a ghost from the nineteenth century. Modern teen sex humor is lost on him.

  I glance backward in class and see that Parker and her clones are continuing the joke, and every so often the group at their lab table starts laughing.

  “Everyone, it’s time to start the frog dissection,” Mr. S says, clapping his hands together.

  My lab partner is a girl named V (which stands for Veronica). She’s got blue hair and five nose rings. Like Blade, she’s a Goth, but unlike Blade, she isn’t obsessed with the occult. V is not exactly a communicator. I don’t think I’ve actually heard her speak more than two words at a time.

  “Want to get started?” I ask V, about our dead frog that’s lying belly-up in a metal tray on the lab table we share. V just glares at me.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” I say.

  Behind us Parker’s table starts giggling. I glance back and see that Parker and her clone lab partner have attracted a crowd.

  “Hey, Miranda,” calls one of Parker’s clones, “why don’t you come take a look at this?”

  “How about I don’t?” I say. The last thing I want to do is give Parker the satisfaction of seeing whatever juvenile thing she’s doing back there. She’s probably drawing pictures of me in compromising positions with half the basketball team.

  “Ms. Rodham?” calls Mr. S from the front of the class. “Something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”

  Uh-oh. Mr. S has just given Parker what she wanted: a spotlight. While most sane people feel public humiliation, Parker doesn’t. She likes being the center of attention, and she usually uses it to burn someone else.

  “Mr. S,” Parker says, “we were just exploring the frog’s reproductive system, using a visual aid.”

  The crowd from the table parts, to show the dissection tray. They’ve put one frog facedown in the groin of the other frog. The facedown frog has a sign stick-pinned to its back that reads “Miranda.”

  The whole class starts laughing.

  “That’s enough, Ms. Rodham. That’ll be a detention for you,” Mr. S says, looking like he’s not quite sure what’s happened, but knowing it’s something bad. “The rest of you…back to work.”

  Parker gives me a little triumphant smile. She doesn’t seem to mind the fact that her little prank earned her a detention. Apparently the gloating rights were worth it.

  “Clever,” I say to her, meaning the opposite.

  If there is a big cat stalking students on this campus, is it too much to ask for it to eat Parker first?

  I shrug off Parker’s antics. I’ve got bigger problems. Like whatever it was that I saw with a shoe in its mouth last night. Maybe Ms. W has some answers.

  I head to Ms. W’s office, but when I get there, I find no Ms. W.

  Instead, standing over her desk with his back to me, is the Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker. I stop in my tracks. He’s picking up a book from the desk, which he slips into his pocket.

  This is the closest I’ve been to him since the night I saw him in Coach H’s room. I realize being alone in a room with the would-be campus rapist isn’t the smartest thing, but I just can’t shake the feeling that he isn’t attacking people. At least not how they think.

  Besides, it might be Heathcliff.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, causing the hooded figure to turn slightly, but I see no nose or chin, or anything that might identify him. He moves away from the desk, and away from me, toward the bookcase.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” I grab his arm and try to tug him around to see his face, but he gives me a shove, and I fall back a few steps. Now I get a really bad feeling. I’m pretty sure whoever this is, it isn’t Heathcliff. He wouldn’t shove me. I’m almost positive. He’d never hurt me. And now, I start to think how dumb I am — being alone in a room with a would-be attacker.

  He turns from me and pulls a book from the shelf of Ms. W’s bookcase. The entire bookshelf slides to one side, revealing a stone passageway on the other side. A hidden door! I wonder if Coach H’s room has one, too.

  I decide the only thing to do is call for help. I start to shout, for Guardians, for anyone, and that’s when Hooded Sweatshirt Guy whirls at me. He grabs me by both arms and shoves me, hard, against Ms. W’s desk. The corner of the desk hits my back.

  “Ow!” I cry, just as Hooded Sweatshirt Guy lifts his head.

  And I find myself staring at the impossible.

  I look at where Hooded Sweatshirt Guy’s face should be, but there isn’t one.

  The Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker doesn’t have a head at all.

  Sixteen

  I’m staring at the empty hood of the sweatshirt. He has no face, no head, no anything.

  A scream gets stuck in my throat, just as I hear a familiar voice at the door of Ms. W’s office.

  “Hey!” shouts Hana. “Let her go!”

  Hooded Sweatshirt Guy nods his hood at me, then lets me go. In two quick steps, he bounds out through the ope
n passageway. A second after he’s gone, the bookcase slides shut, completely sealing the passageway.

  “Weird,” Hana breathes, her eyes wide. She glances down at me. “Are you okay?” she asks me, helping me pull myself up from the desk.

  “He…He…” I choke, trying to get out the words.

  “What? Was it Heathcliff? Is that who you saw?”

  I’m still shaken, and my voice doesn’t seem to be working.

  “N-n-no,” I say, shaking my head. “He’s not Heathcliff. He doesn’t have a face.”

  “He what?”

  “No head. No face. Nothing. Just the sweatshirt.”

  “I think you need to rewind,” Hana says.

  I recap the last five minutes, and Hana listens.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I am almost positive that whatever happened to Coach H has also just happened to Ms. W,” I say. “I think she’s missing, too.”

  Hana nods. “I noticed she wasn’t at morning assembly.”

  “And by the way, thanks,” I say. “For saving me from the Headless Sweatshirt Stalker.”

  “You’re welcome — I guess.” Hana frowns a little. She’s still a bit mad about me keeping secrets from her.

  “Hana, listen, I am sorry, okay? I am really, really, really sorry. Like, sorrier than I’ve been for anything. And I’ve told you this over and over, but I’m going to keep saying it until you forgive me, okay?”

  “I like the groveling. The groveling works,” Hana says, a smile creeping slowly across her face. “Anyway, I forgive you.”

  I can’t help it, I hug Hana.

  “I’m really sorry — I am.”

  “I know,” she says, “besides, I had to take you back sometime. I was getting tired of hanging out with Samir twenty-four-seven. I mean, I’ve heard every one of his fart jokes now, a hundred times.”

  “That’s torture!”

  “Tell me about it. Anyway, maybe we should try to follow the stalker?”