By the following Wednesday the school board had called three emergency sessions, discussed the damages, and come up with an interim plan.
“It’s the insurance company,” Mom said one night at dinner. “They cover vandalism and some types of natural causes.”
“There should be no problem then,” Dad said reasonably.
“But there is,” Mom pointed out. “The claims adjustor said it was an earthquake, so the dispute is now about insurance coverage. They have to make sure the foundations are sound.”
“That was no earthquake,” Dad retorted. “It didn’t register anywhere; no Richter scale, no epicenter, nothing. Why isn’t the school board pushing back?”
Mom stared at him. “Real estate,” she said, her voice flat. “As bad as earthquakes are, this is California, earthquakes happen here. An occasional tremor, a force majeure, act of nature—that’s how the adjustor put it—won’t hurt the real estate market.
“Unexplainable phenomena are a different matter. If this were a spiritual vortex in Sedona, it might be understandable; but it isn’t. The housing market would not react well to paranormal destruction.”
“It wasn’t an earthquake,” I said. “I was there, I saw—nothing.”
Justin didn’t look up from his dinner, but he bobbed his head as if moving to rhythm only he could hear. Yep, you’re better off not saying it.
A week had gone by since the disaster at the gym. Games for the next two weeks had been cancelled.
Mindy texted me in the morning and said she couldn’t give me a ride and would explain later. That was odd, but after the gym incident my definition of odd had changed.
At lunchtime I still had not seen Mindy. I sat at the bench by myself—which is unusual since I’m always with someone—and peeled an orange. There is always background noise at school, kids walking here or there or talking on phones, so I didn’t pay attention to the approaching footsteps. I dug my thumbnail into the orange, peeled back a small section, and squirted myself in the eye.
“Hey there,” said a garbled voice.
I had one eye closed—it was smarting—so I waited before turning around. Besides that, the person was talking with their mouth full, so I did not recognize the voice.
“Mm, mmm.”
I turned around, one eye still closed, and looked up.
My vision was blurry but as it cleared and I saw who it was, I almost choked.
Pamela.
She didn’t look at me but took a big bite out of a twelve-inch Subway sandwich. She had a super-size Coke, a piece of carrot cake wrapped in cellophane, a bag of chips, and a can of spicy bean dip with the lid peeled back.
I was shocked. I had never seen her eat that much in the whole time I’d known her. Mindy, who is not the type to worry about anything, stood next to her. She looked horrorstricken and her face was pale.
With Pamela standing in front of me I could not ask the question outright—although she was so busy chewing and taking big bites she probably wouldn’t have noticed—so I looked at Mindy. What’s wrong with her?
Mindy’s eyes bulged. She glanced sideways at Pamela, who was opening her mouth to take another bite, then looked back at me. She shook her head, her shoulders lifted, then dropped, and she sighed deeply. Then she tiled her head to the side like she had been karate chopped on the neck.
Pamela always wears the same outfit to school. She has walk-in closets full of clothes but it’s the style that never changes: skintight jeans and a tight crop tee. In the past she’s made snide remarks about girls who wear tight crop tops and how bad they look when they bend and their blubber folds over.
I was nearly petrified by the way she was behaving, and since she was standing right next to me, I couldn’t help but notice her stomach. Her top button had popped off and rolls of fat spilled over her waistband. Pamela with a muffin top!
From there, it got creepier. She smiled and crinkled her eyes at me like she was happy to see me.
Mindy sat down slowly and quietly, as if afraid to call attention to herself.
Pamela plopped down next to me, but she was so busy eating she ignored both of us.
Mindy and I began talking about anything we could think of— “Oh, nice day, isn’t it?” “Yeah, real nice.” “Do you think it will rain?” “I don’t think so, do you?” “Oh, I don’t know.” “How was the test?” “Which one?” “You know.” “No, I don’t”—but the whole time we were casting nervous sideways glances at Pamela who never stopped eating.
“I’m starving.” Pamela stood up and briskly wiped her hands on her jeans. She smacked her lips and her cheeks puffed out with a muffled burp. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried off and went around the corner of the first building.
“What happened to her?” I said. “I’ve never seen her eat like that.”
“I don’t know. I really . . . don’t know,” Mindy said, as though reluctant to say the rest.
“What else?” I urged.
“I’ve hardly ever seen her eat and I’ve known her my whole life. You weren’t here Friday, but she did the same thing. I called her Saturday to see if she was sick or something, and the whole time we were talking she was chewing. I don’t know what’s happened to her unless . . ..”
There it was. Mindy could not avoid saying what we were both thinking.
Abigail.
In the next second, I dismissed the thought—or tried to. Abigail was . . . well, she just couldn’t. It’s one thing to poison someone’s food, but to make a person eat like they’re getting ready to hibernate? No. It had to be a coincidence. Pamela had an eating disorder we never knew about—maybe she didn’t even know about it—and something had triggered it, but it could be fixed.
There was one more explanation—impossible as it seemed—Pamela just felt like stuffing herself.
The more I thought of it, the more my spirits sank. Every excuse I came up with was less believable than the one before.
“It’s Abigail!” We blurted out together.
“How could she?” Mindy said.
“More like, how did she?”
“Do you think it’s a psychotropic drug?” Mindy frowned and glanced at Pamela who was returning with an armful of sandwiches. Instead of coming back to our table, she got in line at the food dispenser.
“Could be,” I said doubtfully.
“Where would she get it?” Mindy asked.
“Her mom works at a pharmaceutical company—or owns one. It’s easy enough to buy something off the street, too.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“About the pharmaceutical company?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think it was important—and it wasn’t until now.”
We paused, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
In my overactive imagination, I visualized Abigail reaching into a cupboard and removing a prescription bottle with double-scored white tablets. What then? Did she push one into the gooey cupcake? Wouldn’t the tablet have melted? I’ve taken Tylenol and it fell apart in my mouth before I swallowed. It tasted awful. It would be worse inside a dessert.
Mindy didn’t know any more about psychotropic drugs than I did, or she would have expounded on her own theory, but she was silent. The only way we hear about drugs anyway is if someone goes into rehab, and even then, we don’t know what they are taking.
“It should wear off, right?” Mindy said. “You know, the—whatever it is?”
“I’m sure it will,” I said, avoiding her eyes.
Pamela returned which made it impossible to talk about it anymore. She was all smiles, chewing contentedly, tilting her head from side to side, her body almost bouncing in place, as if listening to imaginary music. I wondered how long her happy dance would last.
Chapter 21. Unexcused
For the next two weeks every time I saw Pamela she was eating. By now she had gained about thirty pounds and three sizes.
I kept an eye out for Abigail but never saw her near the qua
d or in the halls, and she was not in class. I stopped by the band practice room several times and asked for her, but no one had seen her.
Had she left school because she feared revenge?
It was obvious whatever she had given Pamela was not wearing off. I had never kept track of the latest drugs, but I held onto the hope that it was time-release and would run its course.
“Olivia, do you have a minute?” It was Jade.
I hadn’t seen her around either. In fact, I had been avoiding everyone except Mindy. I had been too preoccupied watching for a sign that Pamela’s mom or a relative had gotten help for her: a psychiatrist, a counselor, anyone with special knowledge; otherwise, I should say something. But what? Accuse Abigail of drugging her? That did not seem fair; not until I had more proof. The evidence was gone, or somewhere inside Pamela.
“Sure,” I said. “I have to leave but I have a few minutes.”
It was not just an excuse. I had my own problems. A hotshot setter transferred from Mater Dei. The coach already knew about her because we played them last year.
The new setter went through the motions of trying out but after three minutes the coach made her a starter. I was now spending a lot of time on the bench.
“It won’t take long,” Jade said. She frowned intently and before she said another word, I knew she would ask about Pamela. The whole school was gossiping about it. Since Pamela was so obnoxious there was not a lot of sympathy for her, but the more fair-minded—or I should say adult-minded—knew something needed to be done.
“There’s something wrong with Pamela,” Jade said. “Do you know what it is?”
If I said yes, the next question would be what should we do about it? If I said no, I haven’t noticed a thing, then I would be a liar and not a very good one.
“I don’t know for sure,” I said, “but she’s acting strange.”
“So, you have an idea?”
When Jade wants an answer it’s like being questioned by Hattori-san: it’s hard to say anything but the truth.
“You could say I have a guess,” I said, hedging.
Jade tilted her head and waited, so I continued. “You know how mean she’s been to Abigail?”
Jade grimaced. “How could I not?”
“Well, she did something really bad. It was the worst.”
Jade folded her arms and waited, and I told her about the cupcake incident.
“She is such a bitch,” Jade said, when I had finished.
“Yep, she is,” I said.
She shook her head in disgust and looked to the side.
“Okay,” she said. “What’s the rest of it?”
“Oh, that part, yes.” I paused. “Abigail gave her something to eat.”
“—gave Pamela?” Jade said, her eyes widening.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Like what? What did she give her?”
“That’s a good question. On the outside it was just a cupcake—you know, strawberries, lots of whipped cream—but on the inside, I don’t know. Something was in it. There had to be. That’s the only thing I can think of.”
“And Pamela ate it?” Jade’s eyes opened wider.
“She did. The whole thing. You know how Pamela is, she wasn’t about to let nerdy little Abigail get the better of her.”
“She’s also sure of herself and doesn’t think anyone will get back at her.” Jade frowned and thought a moment. “So, who’s going to report it?”
Is she serious?
Jade waited.
I wasn’t sure how to answer, but I didn’t want to be a whistleblower. We are supposed to report bullying when we see it and sometimes someone does, but most of the time no one says a word. What’s more—and this is the sad thing—there were a few teachers who treated Abigail like she had the plague. I saw Mrs.—Senora Kaufman sizing up Abigail and then sneer at her. Mrs. Kaufman was munching a rice cake and thought no one was paying attention. She should know better. If a teacher eats something noisy during a test it will be noticed. Even if no one wants to admit it, some teachers are bullies.
“How do you report something like that?” I said. “It’s like accusing Abigail of poisoning Pamela. It’s the same as accusing her of attempted murder.”
“Then you have to find Abigail and make her admit it.”
Me? Why is it my responsibility?
“Wait,” I said, “suppose Pamela is just bingeing.”
“You know that’s not true.” Jade looked at me in that straightforward way of hers, which I was determined to ignore.
“If someone wants to overeat,” I went on, “it’s none of my business. She’ll probably stop soon, complain about how much she ate, how fat she is, and start dieting. After that, she’ll starve herself, go vegan, you know, for a while, and go back to normal. But until then, she’s having a great time, right? Guilt-free, eating whatever she wants when she wants, enjoying every bite. She’s obviously not purging either.”
I folded my arms and glared at Jade. Like many people who feel guilty, I was talking too fast and saying too much; and, of course, I did not fool anyone even myself.
“Olivia”—Jade laughed once— “that’s ridiculous.”
“Oh, well, what if it is?” I retorted: knowing you’re wrong is not the same thing as admitting it or backing down. “But what if it isn’t, then what? Why should I be the one to say anything to Abigail?”
“Because you’re her friend.”
“Abigail?” I gaped at her.
“Yes.”
Am not.
“That’s more than Pamela has,” Jade went on. “Yeah, I know she’s a bitch, she bullies people, and they pretend to like her, but they don’t. Abigail’s better off. She has one more friend than Pamela.”
Talk about hitting below the belt.
“I’ll check with you later,” Jade said, before I could protest. “I have to go. If you need help, let me know. I’ll ask James; maybe he can think of something.”
That’s crazy. I thought. Jade hates Pamela as much as everyone else. Then I remembered what she had said about James being fair to everyone and that he might talk to Pamela and ask her to be nicer. Jade must be the same way—they’re twins after all—and now I had one more reason to think they were the most unusual people I had ever met. Whether that was good or bad, I would find out soon enough.
Chapter 22. Smoked
I’m not used to being lectured by someone my own age. Mindy doesn’t count because we do it to each other more or less, but Jade and I don’t have that kind of relationship.
She has a lot of nerve laying that on me, I thought, as I worked myself into a defensive position. The last thing I needed was her adding to my guilt trip.
I turned around and stormed off wondering what I should do next, and at the same time determined not to do anything.
The three-level parking lot is just beyond the tennis courts. The lights on the first two levels were already on but in late afternoon they don’t give much light, not like at night when there is more contrast. I felt like I was heading toward a yawning cave and it would swallow me up the minute I stepped under the concrete ceiling.
So what? Let it fall on me, I don’t care. I made up my mind to ignore everyone and everything.
When I was halfway past the tennis courts, I heard flat-footed running. I didn’t turn around because I figured the person was in a hurry and would run right past me. Instead, the footsteps slowed, and the person fell in step a pace behind.
I was not in the mood for games. I refused to be the first to turn and speak.
I heard gasping and panting like the person was having an asthma attack. Glancing quickly to the side I saw Abigail next to me, obviously out of breath—and the last person I wanted to see.
We walked side by side not speaking: me because of stubbornness; her because she was trying to catch her breath and gulping like a fish out of water. Her breathing slowed, but she still did not speak. Whatever she had been doing since I last saw her, she h
ad not improved her social IQ.
“Hi,” I said, disgusted with myself for giving in. “What’s new?”
Her bulging eyes stared straight ahead, and her throat moved as if she had a fish bone stuck in it sideways.
“Pamela!” she gasped.
I waited for more. Surely it was the beginning of a speech, a plea, something, but she didn’t say anything else.
“O-kay,” I said. “Pamela what? What about her? Are you trying to say something?”
“She—she’s . . ..”
No doubt about it, Abigail needed coaching or else this would take forever.
“Just tell me,” I said. “It’s okay.”
“She’s under a spell,” Abigail said in a rush. She took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled gradually. Oh my gosh, I couldn’t bring myself to say it, but I did.
Now it was my turn to not speak. If any girl ever looked like she was under a spell it was Abigail. I also did not want to know more because the next question would lead to an impossible statement to which there was no believable answer.
The longer she stayed silent the more my curiosity grew.
Abigail on the other hand seemed to think she had explained herself and nothing further was needed.
“I give up. What do you mean? What spell?”
“You know, the cupcake? I put a spell on it.”
“What cupcake, the one she put in your tuba? What spell? How could you do that? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I had no intention of making this easy for her. I wanted to stall until we got off the school grounds and then run away as fast as possible.
“No!” She wailed and blinked rapidly. “Not that one. The one I gave her at lunch.”
Abigail never jokes about anything. I don’t think she knows what a joke is. Her face contorted like she had just seen something repulsive and was ready to vomit. Her eyes were glazed. She winced in an exaggerated way, as if the cause of it was growing worse by the second. I thought she would retch, cry, scream.
“What kind of spell?” I asked, my stomach knotting.
One of Us: The City of Secrets Page 14
