Through Her Eyes

by Jennifer Archer

  She lifts onto her toes and kisses Henry’s cheek, wondering how she would bear living so far away from him. Even though her feelings for Henry are new, she knows that if forced to choose between him and her parents, her mother and father will lose. “Mama and Daddy are suspicious,” she whispers. “They watch me like a hawk.”

  “How did you manage to meet me today?”

  “They had an appointment in Amarillo they couldn’t miss. Mama called Louise’s mother to arrange for me to go home with her after school. Louise went to Daniel’s to study, and her mother thinks I’m with her.” She glances toward the trail. “I should hurry to Daniel’s house now to meet them. Will you drive me? They’ll be back soon.”

  “Only if you promise you’ll run away with me. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of everything.”

  A shiver of apprehension scatters through her. “But how will we live?”

  “There’s plenty of money in Father’s safe. Enough to last until I find work.”

  “You can’t steal from your parents, Henry. It isn’t right.”

  Henry’s jaw hardens. “They owe me a lot more than money. Maybe this will finally get their attention.”

  Struck by the implication of his words, Isabel says softly, “Is that what running away with me is really all about, Henry? Trying to get your parents’ attention? Am I only another scar on your wrist or bullet in your foot?”

  Henry’s face falls and he flushes a deep shade of red. He drops her hand and looks away.

  She reaches for him, but Henry turns his back to her. “I shouldn’t have said that,” Isabel murmurs.

  “If you think that’s all you are to me, then you don’t know me at all.”

  She touches his shoulder. “I’m trying to make sense of all this, Henry. I’m trying to understand what you’re going through…what you need.”

  He faces her then, and when he looks into her eyes, I’m certain it’s me that he sees. “I only need you,” he whispers, his blue stare penetrating and clear. “I need you to believe in me.”

  A shiver rattles up my spine, and in that instant there are only the two of us—Henry and me. He knows. He knows that I’m inside her. And just when I think I’ll come apart if I look at him another moment, Isabel turns away from his gaze, and I can breathe again. I see the bridge in the distance, so solid and imposing and intractable. Larger than anything else around it. Bolder. Beautiful and eerie. Different and out of place. Henry is the same as the bridge. Without him, life would be empty. As empty as the canyon would be without the bridge.

  “What about Daniel?” she asks quietly. “I couldn’t keep such a secret from him. He’d be so hurt when he found out. And I can’t imagine never seeing him again.”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t see Daniel again. He could go with us.”

  Isabel looks at him. “You’d let him?”

  He skims a gloved fingertip across her lower lip, and I feel the tingle all the way to my toes. “I’d do anything to have you with me, Bell. Anything. You can’t tell Daniel what we have in mind, though. Not yet. Don’t even hint at it.”

  “Why not?” Emotion wavers in her voice. “He won’t tell anyone. Why are you being so mysterious? You’re scaring me.”

  “Don’t be scared. I just know Daniel. He’d try to discourage us. Let me work everything out first. Then he’ll see that leaving is the right thing to do for all of us. We don’t belong here.”

  No, I think, that isn’t true. Henry is the only one who doesn’t belong here. Isabel loves Cedar Canyon, and so does Daniel. She loves her family, the school, her friends. But if her parents stand by their threat, she’ll be forced to leave anyway, sent to her aunt’s. She takes a moment to weigh her options—living with a woman she barely knows or running away with Henry. The choice is clear to both of us. There is no choice.

  “Okay,” she reluctantly agrees. “I’ll go.”

  Henry crushes her against him, and laughter bubbles out of me. “Meet me here at midnight,” he says. “I’ll tell Daniel to come, too. By then I’ll have a foolproof plan, and he’ll be forced to agree it’s a good one.”

  “Tonight? You don’t mean for us to leave then, do you? Not so soon…”

  “We’ll just convince Daniel. It’ll be safer at midnight. There’ll be no chance of anyone following us or overhearing our plans.”

  “I don’t think Daniel will leave Cedar Canyon or his parents just so you and I can be together.”

  “That’s his decision to make.”

  A prairie dog darts from a nearby stand of brush and across the trail beside us. Startled by the sudden movement, Isabel jumps, and Henry holds her tighter. She rests her head on his shoulder and I look through her eyes at the sunset. It’s getting late, and Isabel knows we should leave, but Henry’s skin smells of campfire smoke and soap, and his breath is scented with the hot chocolate they drank earlier.

  Life with him would always be an adventure. Henry may not be safe, but Isabel and I agree that every moment spent in his arms is worth the risk.

  “Kiss me, Bell,” he murmurs.

  Lifting my head from his shoulder, I raise onto my toes and press my lips to his—

  —the second-period bell shrieks, and suddenly I’m startled back into the restroom stall, breathless and disoriented, my mouth still tingling from Henry’s kiss. On the other side of the stall door, feet shuffle past, moving faster and faster until, finally, the last pair of shoes disappears. Peeking out, I find the restroom empty.

  I return the photograph to my backpack and leave my hiding place, torn about Henry’s plans, shaken and excited at once. Were he and Bell together when he died? If only I could figure out what went wrong, maybe I could change it and they could be together forever.

  We could be together.

  Do I really want that? What about my own life here? Mom and Papa Dan. Bethyl Ann. Tate; I care about him, too. And he seems to care about me. But are my feelings for him as strong as my feelings for Henry? Maybe I wouldn’t love Henry as much if Isabel’s emotions weren’t mingled with mine whenever I’m with him; I don’t know.

  After splashing cold water on my face at the sink, I glance into the mirror, pause, and stare. A girl I barely recognize stares back. Dry lips. Bruised crescents beneath both eyes. Three zits on my forehead—neighborly companions to the one on my chin. Hair smashed flat from the beret—not my glossy, dark San Francisco hair. Sad, dull hair that needs washing. The mirror reflects an image of the sort of girl who’d duck and run if someone whispered “boo” and wiggled their fingers. I’m sick to think I’ve been walking around in public looking like this. I should’ve listened to Mom’s concerns as well as Bethyl Ann’s and Tate’s when they told me how tired I look.

  Confusion, anxiety, and exhaustion lace together inside me. What have I been thinking? Guys like Tate aren’t interested in girls who look like social lepers. Who are social lepers. Why is he spending time with me after school? I’ve been stupid to believe he could care about me. What does he want? Is he playing some kind of prank? Acting on a dare? Is everyone laughing behind my back?

  Salty tears sting my lips. I think of Tate’s strange expression as he watched me in homeroom, that subtle look on his face I couldn’t define, and I realize he wants something from me, but I have a feeling it isn’t what I’d hoped. I can’t believe I thought for one second he might ask me to homecoming. That I would go to the game wearing a mum decorated with ribbons and a glittery 10—his football number. Homecoming and the whole mum thing is such a big deal here in Podunk that everyone is already talking about the event, even though it’s weeks away. I’ve always thought Homecoming was a corny tradition, so why do I even care if I go or not?

  My throat burns, but I don’t glance away from the mirror. Blinking…blinking…I look deeper into my eyes, watch a subtle shift take place, two images merging, superimposed. Sniffing again, I go still. My eyes…they’re brown now, not green. They’re larger, too, the lashes thicker. “Bell?” I whisper. Is hope or dread
the emotion I feel coursing through me? I don’t know the difference anymore.

  A second bell sounds, the abrupt noise startling me like a thunderclap. I avert my attention from the mirror for only a second and, when I look back, my own green eyes stare back at me, red-rimmed and swollen.

  The restroom smells like ammonia. I gulp in huge breaths of the pungent scent, stunned to realize that I’ve spent an entire forty-five-minute class period in here. At the sound of laughter on the other side of the door, I grab my backpack and dart into a stall again, unwilling to let anyone see me like this. I sit on the toilet tank, my feet on the lid.

  A gust of noise blows into the restroom, voices I don’t recognize bitching about a homework assignment. A stall door slams. Water rushes from a tap. Another gust. A toilet flushes. More voices mix in with the others. One with a husky, haughty edge that’s familiar, probably from all the cigarettes she smokes while drinking her morning beer.

  “God. What is his problem?” Shanna groans.

  The assignment bitchers leave, their voices trailing behind them and into the swell of hallway noise. The door thuds shut. A book bag hits the floor, followed by a sharp sandpaper sound, then the smell of menthol and sulfur. I scoot quietly backward until I’m pressed against the wall.

  “You’re going to get caught again and sent to detention.” This voice has a soft lilt, full of care and concern. Straight-A Alison.

  “Big freaking deal,” Shanna says. “You won’t snitch on me, will you?”

  “Have I ever?”

  “You want one?”

  “Not here.”

  “You are so middle school sometimes. You worry too much. As if half the school staff doesn’t sneak smokes in the teachers’ lounge.” More water in the sink. “He quit the team. I heard Coach Dryer is furious. Tate won’t even tell him why.”

  Tate quit football? I think of the times we’ve been together after school. Even yesterday when he came over to the house, it never occurred to me that he must be missing practice.

  “I feel bad for him.” Alison sighs. “Maybe he’s still messed up over his mom.”

  “He was always pissed at her. You know that.”

  “Who isn’t pissed at their mother sometimes? Most mothers don’t leave.”

  “Now that you mention it, he did quit calling me about the time she left.”

  Cigarette smoke filters through the crack between the stall door and the divider. I hold my breath and try not to cough as I peek out.

  Alison and Shanna lean against the sinks. A smoldering cigarette lies next to the faucet. Shanna picks it up. “I am so into him, but he doesn’t even care anymore. God, how could I be so stupid? I broke up with Derek for him. This summer Tate couldn’t stay away from me, but ever since school started, I haven’t heard one word from him.”

  “Shhh.” Alison jerks her head toward the door. “Someone might come in.”

  “I don’t care. Everybody knows Tate dumped me. They all think he’s acting weird, too.” She takes a drag off the cigarette. “I mean, he’s hanging out with that creepy California chick.” A stream of smoke pours from her mouth. “At first I thought the guys put him up to it. You know, as a dare or something. But nobody is laughing. Which can only mean one thing.”

  Alison scowls. “What?”

  “What do you think?” Shanna huffs, her face screwing into a smirk. “She probably puts out like a Pez dispenser.”

  I press my fingertips to my temples, humiliation rising up to choke me.

  “That girl is a mute freak like her grandfather,” Shanna goes on. “The only time I’ve heard her speak is when she read that report in English. Did you hear it? Whack jobs like her grow up to be serial killers.”

  “I think you just didn’t get it,” Alison says.

  Shanna props a hand on one hip. “Oh, right. I guess it had some deep philosophical meaning that I’m too stupid to understand.”

  “I just don’t want to judge her. I don’t really know her, and neither do you.”

  “What more do we need to know?” Shanna asks. “I mean, she’s tight with Stinky. For that reason alone, why would Tate give her the time of day unless they’re doing it?”

  Stepping away from the sink, Alison says, “Come on. I feel bad for Tansy. Can you imagine how hard it would be to move to a new place during high school?”

  “You feel bad for everyone.”

  More voices gust in from the hallway as the door opens, and Shanna puts out her cigarette in the sink. Alison says hi to someone I can’t see who says hi back to her. She and Shanna pick up their book bags and leave.

  I scoot off the tank and sit on the toilet lid. The person who interrupted Shanna and Alison starts peeing in the stall beside mine. Pressing my forehead against my upraised knees, I wrap my arms around my shins. At least I was wrong about Tate trying to win a bet or play a joke on me. That is, if Shanna knows what she’s talking about. But now I’m more confused than ever.

  Creepy California chick. Serial killer. Mute freak. Whack job.

  There’s no stopping the sobs that burst from my throat. I should just leave. I could go away right this minute to a colorful place full of laughter, eyes that look at me as if I’m important, fears that thrill as well as paralyze. But something tells me if I did, I’d find myself standing on the bridge overlooking the canyon at midnight. And this time I wouldn’t return; Henry wouldn’t let me. He’d be waiting to take Bell away.

  I think of Mom. Of Papa Dan at home, frail and silent. Would he miss me? Mom would. Losing me would destroy her. It wouldn’t matter if I disappeared physically or just zoned out mentally. Her life would never be the same. How can I even consider causing my mother that sort of pain? I try to swallow the sounds of my weeping, but the tears strangle me and I only cry louder.

  “I will speak daggers to her,” Bethyl Ann’s scratchy little voice says from the next stall. “Just say the word, Tansy. I’m not afraid of Shanna.”

  Her kindness and loyalty pull more sobs up from a place deep inside me.

  “You want me to stay?”

  “No, go on,” I manage to choke out. “I’m okay.”

  Her toilet flushes. Her stall door opens. Her shoes—mine from last year—appear beneath my door and pause. “If you need me—”

  “I know. Thanks.”

  Her footsteps move away from the stalls. Water splashes in the sink as she washes her hands. The faucet shuts off, and seconds later, the restroom door opens then closes as the third-period bell rings.

  I remain on the toilet until I’m drained of tears and my body stops shaking.

  Somehow, I managed to avoid Tate all day, but he was waiting for me outside the building after I served my detention time in the office and left to go home. He asked me what was wrong, why I’d been dodging him, and all I could think to say was that I didn’t feel well. Which isn’t entirely untrue; in fact, it’s an understatement. He wanted to come over, but I told him I was going to study for an economics test then go to bed early. I don’t think he believed me.

  Tonight at dinner, Mom tried to make conversation, but I knew if I said a word I’d burst into tears, so I stuffed spaghetti into my mouth and kept my eyes on the plate. I felt her watching me, though. I felt her worry seeping into my pores, the same worry I heard in her voice, even though she was trying to sound cheerful. I see it now, too, in her tense expression when I glance across the living room and catch her watching me instead of the television. I’ve been staring at the program for the past hour while sitting next to Papa Dan, but I couldn’t tell you what’s on. I keep thinking about what Shanna said and how Alison jumped to my defense. And about that feather I found last night. The one that I stepped on while chasing the prowler who vanished into thin air. Will the prowler show up again tonight? If so, will it be a person or Henry’s ghost? Will I finally see a face that will click a puzzle piece into place and give me some answers?

  I mull over the things that Bethyl Ann brought up about Henry having a message for me, about ghos
ts using symbols and connections to get through. The only sure connection I have to this house and to Henry is Papa Dan. He’s my grandfather, and if there’s any truth to my visions, he and Henry were once friends. And enemies. Until we moved here, nightingales had no significant meaning to me. Neither did crystals or pocket watches or poetry journals.

  Rosewood boxes.

  I sit straighter and study Papa Dan, remembering again the beautiful boxes he used to make. Of course. Why didn’t I think of it before? Maybe Henry’s message is for my grandfather, not me. Maybe I’m just the vessel. Could Henry be reaching out to me through what I find most meaningful—my photography—so that he can give me a message for Papa Dan? This house, the nightingale, the rosewood box, and Henry’s treasures…they must’ve all meant something to my grandfather once. They’re a part of the memories that connect him to Henry. I recall the voice I heard in my grandfather’s room our first night here. Was that Henry? Did he realize then that he would never get through to Papa Dan alone because of his illness, and so he chose me to help him?

  “I’ve got some homework to do,” I say abruptly, and push to my feet. I’m anxious and excited to get on with the night, to find out if the prowler is Henry or someone else and, I hope, move one step closer to the answers that will make sense of what’s been happening to me. I glance at Mom. “G’night.”

  She sits forward. “Good night, sweetie. Get some sleep after you study. You look completely exhausted.”

  “So you’ve said a bajillion and one times.”

  “And you’ve told me a bajillion and two times that you’re fine, but I’m not sure I believe you.”

  I don’t want her to start bugging me again about keeping a diary or, worse, asking me questions, so I turn my attention to Papa Dan. He’s snoring softly, his mouth open slightly, his chin on his chest. “You want me to take him up?” I ask Mom.

  “Would you?”

  “Sure.” I lay my hand on his shoulder and murmur, “Papa Dan? Wake up.” He stirs and blinks groggily at me. “Let’s go to bed,” I say. He stands, and I lead him out of the living room and up the stairs.