At First Touch
By
Mattie Dunman
Text Copyright © 2012 Deirdre E. Robertson
All Rights Reserved
For My Family, who have never doubted me
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
I stood in front of the hallowed hall of learning and looked down at my white ballet flats, now splashed with mud and decorated by little smudges of green from the squishy grass I had just trudged through. There was mud on the cuffs of my jeans too. A great way to start the day.
“Elizabeth Hannigan! Welcome to Shank High! I’m Preston. Preston Deene. I’m your student mentor and I’ll be helping you find your way around here today.”
For a moment, I thought the overexcited boy in front of me might implode with the thrill of his assignment. Perhaps if I hadn’t met about 15 other ‘mentors’ in the past couple years, I would have been more impressed with his performance, but as it was, I just wanted to find my classes and slink to the back, remaining invisible for as long as possible.
Preston, Preston Deene’s hand was outstretched in friendly welcome, though as I continued to ignore it the gesture became increasingly wilted. As his cheerful expression faltered I sighed and gave in.
“Hi, Preston. Call me Liz.” I placed my gloved hand in his and shook, doing my best to reward his persistence with a smile. He looked askance at the glove, but didn’t ask any of the usual awkward questions and just grinned fiercely, probably relieved that I had finally responded.
“Ok, so…uh, Liz. Your locker. Let’s hit that first, and then I’ll get you to your class.” He gestured for me to start walking and paced along at my side. We continued in uneasy silence until my overly chipper guide halted in front of a locker in the center of the hall. He chuckled at the number, 665.
“Boy, you’re lucky you missed the next number, huh? Bet that locker’s cursed or something.” He gave a casual laugh and I took a closer look at him, surprised to see that for the first time I hadn’t been assigned an overachieving computer geek.
Preston was tall and solid-looking; I was willing to bet he was on the basketball team. His hair was blond and shaggy, hanging just below his chin, softening somewhat sharp, pointed features. All in all, he was probably the kind of boy who coasted through high school on moderate good looks and athletic talent; typically harmless and generally uninteresting.
He handed me the slip of paper with the locker combination on it and I fumbled with the padlock until it popped open. I sighed in exasperation; it was one of those stupid half-lockers shared with another student. The top half was empty, so I placed the afternoon textbooks I was given on the clean shelf and hung up my jacket. Slinging my messenger bag back over my shoulder, I slammed the door shut and turned to the still eager Preston. Repressing the urge to roll my eyes and groan, I stood quietly waiting for the next exciting development in our tour.
“Ok, well then, let’s get to your first period. We’re a little late, but Mr. Tesh won’t care.” He glanced down at my schedule. “Hey, it looks like we have two classes together; gym and English. We can sit together in English, and if you need a partner in gym I’d be happy to help you out.”
I just bet you would, I thought. Like every other male mentor I’ve had, Preston had that same ‘I got dibs on the new girl’ look on his face. I gave him a noncommittal smile and trudged along at his side, resigning myself to the usual stares, humiliating remarks about the strangeness of my wardrobe, and barrage of well-meaning representatives from every social group in the cafeteria. When you’ve been to as many high schools as I have, you know the drill.
After an interminable walk through a labyrinth of identical hallways smelling strongly of bleach, we ended up in front of the typical wooden door with its thin rectangular mesh-screen window.
“Ready?” Preston asked with a raised eyebrow. I nodded solemnly and he opened the door. As predicted, the class was already in full swing and of course every head turned to watch me enter. Preston led me to the teacher, who was standing in front of the whiteboard clutching a marker looking confused and hurt, as though by interrupting his class I had insulted him personally.
Mr. Tesh was short, stocky, and balding; a few last, defiant hairs greased across the top of his head in an unfortunate mimicry of every Wal-Mart manager I’ve ever seen. Preston handed him my paperwork and stood silently as Tesh reviewed my information. After a moment he looked up at me with more confidence and nodded a dismissal to Preston. My guide backed out the door, giving me an encouraging wave and engaging in a little manly shoulder punching with a boy in the front row. I shifted my bag on my shoulder and waited for instructions.
“Class, we have a new student. This is…” Mr. Tesh squinted at my name on the paper in some consternation, apparently defeated by the small type.
“It’s Elizabeth, but I go by Liz, sir.” I decided to help him out, doing anything I could to speed up the process of the uncomfortable introduction. He nodded gratefully and began again.
“This is Liz Hannigan. She’s joining us rather late in the term, so hopefully some of you will help her get caught up.” He glared at the class intently, willing them to behave like human beings for a change. After a lengthy moment of scrutiny, Mr. Tesh finally gestured to an empty desk in the exact center of the room. I would be placed in just the right spot for everyone to stare at me.
Just what I live for.
I took my seat and immediately tried to become less conspicuous; after a few moments of avoiding eye contact by studiously staring at my pencil, I felt the myriad eyes shift back to the front of the room and let out the breath I’d been holding. Finally looking up, I caught the eye of the guy sitting diagonally in front of me. He was turned around completely in his desk, apparently not worried about being yelled at for not paying attention. He had a knowing smile on his face and I steeled myself, guessing what was coming.
“Hey, new girl,” he whispered in what he thought was a sultry voice. “Wanna have a study session?” He smirked and I rolled my eyes; I’m sure he thought he was being original, but I had heard every variation on this line in existence. It never failed that on the first day I would be picked out by the obligatory hot jerk as easy meat, be subjected to derogatory remarks from the trademark “mean girls,” and eventually end up eating lunch alone in whatever corner of the school I managed to hide in.
I was exhausted by the process. High school was redundant for me anyway. I already knew more than the faculty at Shank High in the economically depressed town of Pound, West Virginia, could ever possibly teach me. Only my father’s insistence that I would draw less attention as a normal high school student than an eccentric recluse kept me locked in the endless cycle. At the age of 16, I could qualify for a doctoral degree in any subject I chose, never mind a high school diploma.
I ignored my unwanted admirer, despite his persistence in whispering increasingly obscene suggestions at me, and finally, predictably, he called me a frigid bitch and left me alone. With a sigh of relief, I turned my attention to Mr. Tesh, discovering belatedly that I was in a history class, presently focused on the American Revolution.
As the class progressed I began to feel sorry for Mr. Tesh. He
obviously cared deeply about his subject, but his attempts to elicit discussion were thwarted by his pupils’ indifference. When he asked ‘who was Thomas Paine’ and got no response, I caved.
“Yes, Miss Hannigan?” His wistful look as he responded to my raised hand was painful to see.
“Paine was the author of Common Sense, a pamphlet distributed to American colonists that advocated independence from Britain and was used to incite the revolution. Later, his highly popular Rights of Man became the foundation for the Enlightenment and was instrumental in inspiring the French Revolution.”
As soon as the words left my mouth I was sorry; the dawning hope on Mr. Tesh’s face and the baffled looks from my peers told me I had drawn attention to myself with my textbook answer, the last thing I wanted to do. I cursed inwardly, appalled at my blunder so early in the game. Usually it took several weeks for me to get on the faculty’s radar, and a few more months before they were recommending me for early graduation and college interviews. Each time I had to move I promised myself I wouldn’t let it happen again, I would keep my mouth shut and fake my tests by purposely putting down mediocre answers. But every time it became impossible; it was as though the information that was stuffed in my brain was constantly seeking a way out and side-stepped my intentions at every turn.
I kept quiet for the rest of the class, avoiding the teacher’s eye as he continually sought me out after every question. By the time the period ended, I was actually glad to see Preston’s blond locks outside the door and dashed to meet him before anyone else could corner me. Unfortunately, he misread my flight for eagerness and gave me his homespun grin, taking my arm in his in an old-fashioned gesture. I recoiled from his touch and yanked my arm away reflexively, feeling chagrined as I took in his stricken expression.
Despite the gloves and long sleeves, the jeans and scarves, I was always terrified of touching. There was always the chance that somehow the protection of clothes would be breached and there would be that dreaded moment of skin on skin, when there would be no defense against the onslaught of information from which I could never escape. Since awakening from the accident four years ago, every instinct I had told me to avoid contact at all costs, never let anyone get close, and run if they did.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, cradling my arms against my body, trying to put as much space between Preston and myself as possible. He nodded and pasted a smile on his face, but I could read the rejection in his eyes. Ah crap. I was going to have to explain.
“I have a thing about personal space…kind of a phobia. It’s nothing personal,” I said in a conciliatory tone. He considered this for a moment and then appeared to accept my explanation at face value.
“That’s cool, I get it. Anyway, we’ve got gym next. You probably won’t have to participate today, but Coach Dawson will definitely make you watch.” I nodded and silently thanked him for the change in subject. He kept up his chatter all the way to the gym, which I despaired of ever finding on my own, and finally he led me into the coach’s office just off the gym.
After yet another awkward introduction, Preston was dismissed and I was shooed off to the bleachers, clutching a paper detailing the expectations of the class. As students began filing in from the locker rooms, a few friendly, more confident people came up to introduce themselves. I played the shy card and kept my responses pleasant, but to a minimum, attempting to be as blandly forgettable as possible. Finally, the class began and the students became wrapped up in the complexities of badminton and I was free to ruminate in peace.
The whole scene was so breathtakingly familiar I nearly cried. Just one more group of people I couldn’t be myself with, couldn’t get close to, couldn’t find friends in. One more school, one more town, one more state that would never be home, just a stopping off point before I was forced to pick up and flee yet again. Unwillingly, my mind drifted to the day four years ago when I awoke in the hospital and realized I would never have a normal life again.
* * * *
The first thing saw when I opened my eyes was my father’s concerned face. His beloved, weather-beaten features were blurred by the dryness of my eyes, but I could still read his shock and relief.
“Oh honey,” he choked, voice trembling with emotion. “You’re awake. Oh God, you’re awake!”
I glanced around me, slowly becoming more lucid. I was hooked up to so many wires and machines I briefly thought I’d been turned into the Bionic Woman.
“Daddy, what’s going on? Where am I?” My 12-year old voice was thin and hoarse, as though it hadn’t been used in a while. His eyes shone and he bit his lip before he answered me.
“Sweetie, you were in an accident. You’ve been…in a coma…” he broke off as he succumbed to tears and lifted my frail hand up to his cheek, weeping openly as he kissed the palm and held it tightly. More than the word ‘coma,’ his behavior startled me. My father had always been affectionate, but rarely this emotional. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him cry before.
“What do you mean? What…?” My voice shattered as it happened for the first time.
There’s no way to describe the sudden attack on my mind that took place as my father took my hand. It was as though some switch in my brain was thrown and a deluge of information poured itself into me, straining at the edges of my mind, stunning my whole body into rigid shock. Suddenly I was bombarded by images, words, tightly wound strands of data that stormed through my consciousness and filed themselves away with sharp precision, leaving me breathless and shaken. It had only lasted a few seconds, but when the paralysis faded I stared up at my father with new eyes.
“Mommy? MOMMY! Where’s Mommy?” I screeched, suddenly overwhelmed by a memory of her funeral that hadn’t come from me. “She’s not dead, SHE’S NOT DEAD!” I screamed, trying to scramble out of bed, my eyes pleading with my father to tell me it wasn’t true.
He simply looked shocked for a moment and then pressed me back down on the bed, tears streaming down his face as he tried to quiet my rising hysteria. Another memory that wasn’t mine crashed through my consciousness.
“I’ve been in a coma for a year?” My voice was hollow with disbelief and I could feel my hands beginning to shake uncontrollably. Dad’s eyes widened with alarm and he quickly ducked his head out into the hall to call for a nurse.
“Honey, calm down, it’s ok. You’re awake now, and you’re going to get better; that’s all that matters.” He sat down in the hard-backed chair at my bedside and took my hands in his. “Shh, baby, shh.” He sat there talking quietly to me, telling me that my cat was still alive and doing fine, how my grandparents called every day; slowly he reminded me of who I was and what I had to look forward to. Finally the shaking in my hands stopped and I was able to breathe normally, closing my eyes and trying to make sense of what had just happened. Dad seemed to be of the same mind, because he posed his next question cautiously.
“Sweetheart, how did you know about your mother?” He was still holding my thin hands in his warm, callused palms, and without understanding how, I knew that those calluses had been formed from lifting stones and laying mortar over the past six months; he had lost his job at the insurance company and was forced to work in construction. Why did I know that?
“I don’t know, Daddy. I think…I think you told me.” I frowned, unsure how to explain that startling moment when my mind seemed to link with his and take in so much information. He gave me a confused look and rubbed his five o’clock shadow with his fingers.
“Honey, I know I didn’t tell you. I was trying to figure out to work up to telling you, since I knew it would upset you.” He shook his head. “No, baby, I didn’t tell you.”
I felt tears well up in my eyes, feeling disoriented and grieved that my mother was dead, that somehow a year was gone from my life, and now I had some new strangeness to cope with. Dad saw the tears and brushed them away, giving me an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry, baby. It doesn’t matter. The doctors said you might be able to hear what we ta
lked about even though you were unconscious. It’s probably just something your mind dragged up.” He patted my hand reassuringly and looked off to the hallway, brow furrowed in thought.
As I looked up at him, feeling so lost and seeing him look so worried and sad, I wished I knew what he was thinking so I could say something to bring us closer. A strange rush blew through my head and once again it was filled with more than my own thoughts.
‘Oh, God, what do I do? Is this some side-effect from the treatment? She seems so strange…the way she’s looking at me. I don’t know what to say to her. Dammit, where is the doctor?’
I gasped and Dad whipped his head back around to look at me.
‘What is it? What’s wrong with her? What did I do?’
“What do you mean, Daddy? What did you do?” I asked, my voice thin and wavery with fear. He blinked down at me in surprise and opened and closed his mouth awkwardly for a moment.
“W-What? I didn’t say…out loud…” He broke off as the long awaited doctor came in the room, followed closely by an eager looking youth with a coffee stain on his white jacket. Dad stood up and motioned for the doctor to speak with him in private while the white jacket came over to me and began surveying the machines I was hooked up to, making notes and grunting at his findings. I strained my head to try and catch a glimpse of my father and the doctor, but the white jacket stepped in front of me with a friendly smile.
“Well, hello there. We’ve never formally met, obviously, but I’ve been checking on you every other day for the past few months. I’m glad to finally see you with your eyes open.”
He reached out and took my wrist in his hand, feeling for the pulse below the thumb.
With a jolt that froze my whole body, I felt my mind switch on, and the assault I had experienced when my father first touched me rampaged through my brain again. The man’s mind came smashing past all my own thoughts and worries and a new onslaught of data filed itself away in the recesses of my mind. Just as quickly, it was over, and my body was released from its static posture. I looked around wildly, expecting to see some change in my environment that would reflect what had just happened, but everything was the same, only a second had passed and yet my mind somehow felt larger and fuller.
At First Touch Page 1
