Sleepy Hollow: Rise Headless and Ride

by Richard Gleaves

  Jason batted Martinez’s hand away. Heads turned to stare at him, mouths open. Jason’s opened too. He flexed his fingers as his arm dropped back to his side. What just happened? Was his hand suicidal? Was it ready to end it all, and determined to take the rest of him with it?

  “Sorry,” he said, and his voice was surprisingly firm. “You’re being rude.”

  E. Martinez drew himself to his full height.

  “And you’re being stupid,” he said.

  “Oh, stop it,” shouted Kate. Despite the noise all around, a dozen heads popped up as if a twig had broken in a still forest. “Jason just moved here. He’s new. He doesn’t know anybody, and he doesn’t know the rules. So ease off. It’s Spirit Week, right? Let’s show some spirit. This isn’t how we welcome new people to Sleepy Hollow.”

  Martinez put both hands to his chest in mock apology. “Then we got to welcome him, don’t we? Let’s welcome him, guys.”

  “Yeah, we got to.”

  “Definitely.”

  “You know it.”

  Martinez, Puleo, and the others pushed into the crowd and were gone.

  “Jesus,” muttered Jason.

  “Zef’s friends, not mine,” said Kate. She took a pull off a water bottle, sighed. “The Sleepy Hollow Boys.” She pushed the wisp of hair back behind her ear. Jason watched her do it. He had been about to do it himself, and now he wished he had.

  “Attention, please.”

  A man had taken the stage: about forty-five, gaunt, with too much nose, too much chin, and too little hair.

  “Owner of the silver Volvo, your lights are on,” he said.

  A fat kid disengaged from the buffet table and ran out the door, holding his pants up by the belt. A few boys laughed.

  “Congratulations, everybody, on the game tonight.”

  A cheer went up.

  “34-31 is not too bad. We made Croton work for it.”

  A general grumble, determined applause.

  No wonder those guys were drinking, thought Jason.

  “On behalf of the English department, I want to thank the teams competing for this year’s Spirit Awards, and congratulate Amy Louis’s group for keeping SHHS bully-free.”

  An enthusiastic brunette raised an arm and pivoted like a gymnast sticking a landing. No one clapped.

  “Now, Halloween’s in a few weeks, and you know what that means.”

  “Stupid tourists,” said someone from the back, to general agreement.

  “No. It means it’s time for…” he said, his voice becoming exaggeratedly spooky, “…the Horseman’s Hollow. Now, we want to keep Philipsburg Manor nice, so I’m looking for volunteers to clear the trash after.”

  “Hey hey, Mister Wollenberg.”

  “What, Martinez?”

  Martinez climbed up to the stage, to laughter, some applause, and a few female catcalls.

  “I’m’a let you finish your speech, but – ”

  More laughter.

  “Get off the stage,” said Wollenberg.

  “No, no. You got to hear this, sir. You’re into books and everything. It’s a Halloween surprise. Come on. Please? Just for a second.”

  Wollenberg rolled his eyes, relinquished the microphone. Martinez waved to the crowd.

  “Hey, ya,” he said. “We got a new student.”

  Jason turned to walk away, but Jimmy and Nathan lay in wait. They hooked him under the arms and pulled him toward the stage. Kate followed, her face full of exasperation and weariness. She disappeared in a flash when someone turned on the spotlight.

  “This is Jason. Say hi to Jason, everybody.”

  “Hi, Jason,” said the crowd.

  “Where’d you move from, Jason?” said Martinez.

  “Maine.” Jason said.

  “Maine? Damn. What’s in the water up there? Growth hormone?”

  The crowd chuckled.

  “Is there a point to this, Martinez?” said Wollenberg.

  “I’m getting to it, sir.” He turned back to the crowd. “Now there’s something you might not know about Jason. Our boy Jason is descended from somebody very special.”

  What? Jason thought, panicking. How does he know that? Then he realized. Zef. Of course Zef knows.

  “Bring him up here. Don’t be shy.”

  Jason felt hands under his armpits. His feet left the floor. He was onstage now, light in his eyes, looking down at the school. Martinez put a hand on the back of his neck.

  “Jason’s descended from…”

  Behind them, someone started a drum roll.

  “You guess it?” shouted Martinez. “He’s skinny. He’s a scarecrow. Say hi to my boy Jason CRANE!”

  A crash of cymbals.

  “Bullshit!” someone shouted, to laughter.

  “Nah, get this. Jason is descended from Ichabod. Aren’t you?”

  Jason stared into the microphone. Martinez’s hand, on the back of his neck, threatened to make a fist and pop his head off. He gave in.

  “Yeah. I am,” he whispered.

  There was a moment of silence, then crowd erupted into applause.

  “Ich-a-bod,” Martinez prompted.

  “ICH-A-BOD! ICH-A-BOD!” shouted the crowd, clapping in rhythm.

  Jason shaded his eyes. He didn’t see derision, or contempt, just a general Halloween-y good cheer. Okay. This might not turn out too bad. Then he saw Kate’s face. She looked worried and apologetic. She had guessed what was in store for him.

  “Now, my buddy Ichabod,” Martinez continued, raising his voice over the din. “I got somebody you need to meet. See, we spared no expense. Just to make you feel at home.” Martinez leaned off the stage, shouting at someone. “Do it!”

  Jason looked about, remembering the climactic scene of Stephen King’s Carrie, half-expecting pig’s blood to pour down on his head from above.

  What happened was worse.

  The drummer crossed to the sound system, hit “play,” and the big speakers stabbed out three famous organ notes, a Bach toccata, that organ music from a thousand werewolf movies. The gym doors flew outward, revealing a dark blue night beyond, admitting an icy gust of wind and leaves.

  A figure stood outside in the moonlight. A black figure on a horse.

  “Say hi, Ichabod,” said Martinez, fiercely.

  The spotlight swung like the beam of a lighthouse, framing the doors.

  And in rode the Headless Horseman.

  The crowd broke into cheers. Jason’s jaw dropped.

  But then he saw that this Horseman rode Gunsmoke, Kate’s grey horse, and suddenly the horse, the trailer and the garment bag made sense. This was Zef. Zef crouched under there, under the heavy black cape, under the padded shoulders, the buckles, the black gloves. Zef nudged the reins and urged the horse towards the stage. Zef was in there, somewhere, beyond the hollow space, down the neck, somewhere in the darkness between the flared collars.

  But it didn’t feel like Zef. It felt like a predator, like a childhood fear. It felt like death coming. Death with an old grudge.

  The kids screamed now, clapped, parted. Jason looked for the stairs, but his eyes couldn’t adjust. He saw only a border of fat pumpkins along the edge of the stage. Martinez gripped one arm. Wollenberg was shouting something. This had gone too far. Jason couldn’t hear the words. Maybe the teacher meant to protect Jason from the Horseman, or maybe just the basketball court from horseshoe damage. Either way, no teacher could be heard over the relentless, thundering organ music.

  The Horseman rode to the edge of the stage, so that Jason would have been face to face with it, if it had a face. A gloved hand left the reins, went to the waist sharply and, with a slicing sound, drew a wicked-looking sword, brandishing it overhead. Jason tore himself from Martinez, startled, backing away. His foot caught an electrical cable and he began to fall. He saw himself falling, in slow motion, hands rotating, grasping. He tumbled into the drum set, wrapped an arm around the high hat, and fell off the back of the stage, drums and pumpkins crashing around him.
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  A moment of awed silence. A roar of laughter.

  The figure of E. Martinez appeared above, looking down from the stage, blotting out the lights.

  “Welcome to Sleepy Hollow,” he said, and disappeared.

  Jason disentangled himself. He peered over the edge of the stage and spotted Kate across the room. She saw him too. Her face darkened and her brows knit. The Horseman extended a hand to her. Eddie and Nathan appeared, stirruped her foot, and lifted her into the saddle. Zef brought Gunsmoke into a turn.

  Jason thought of The Legend: how the Horseman may have been Brom Bones in disguise, how Brom defeated his rival and won the hand of the fair, fair Katrina. The Legend isn’t a ghost story, Jason thought. It’s a love story. Where the nerd loses and the bully wins. As always.

  The last descendant of Ichabod Crane sighed. He picked pumpkin seeds out of his hair. He watched dejectedly as the last descendant of Brom Bones dug sneakers into Gunsmoke’s flanks and, with a flourish of his cape and to loud applause, rode into the night with the fair, fair… Kate.

  12 the one

  “You okay, Jase?”

  Joey Osorio leaned down from the stage, offering a hand.

  “Not really,” said Jason in a small voice.

  “Come on out, then.”

  Jason shook his head. He was happy just sitting against the cinderblock wall, staring into the black plywood abyss beneath the stage.

  “You’ve got to,” said Joey.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because. You’re on my mike cable.”

  Jason grinned, but it was frost on a hotplate, disappearing as soon as it came. He took Joey’s hand and stood.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Just let Dave get in there and fix his drums.”

  Dave the Drummer stood behind Joey, murderous.

  Jason picked his way around the stage. Something Top 40 was playing from the speaker tower. The crowd had forgotten him, had returned to swilling and bouncing. Nearby, a girl in gold gyrated her butt and arms in opposition, either dancing or working out on an invisible elliptical machine.

  “Let’s get you some air,” said Joey. He stiff-armed a door. When it closed after, the sound of the dance cut dead, just a few muffled bass notes remaining. They walked in silence down white halls as empty and gloomy as a hospital ward after visiting hours.

  “Don’t you need to be back in there?” said Jason.

  “No. We’ll be on break until Dave sets up. And I need a soda.”

  They walked on. Jason felt better, little by little, as the gym fell farther behind.

  “You’ve got a great voice,” said Jason.

  “Thanks. It’s a great band.”

  “No. It’s a lousy band.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you’ve got a great voice.”

  “I’ve been working on them. You should have heard them before.”

  “Bad?”

  “Oh yeah. Christian rock. It took a month just to convince them they should ditch the choir robes.”

  They stopped by the trophy case. A number twenty-five jersey hung boastfully there, on permanent display. Jason frowned and rapped knuckles on the glass.

  “Of course,” he said. “He would be the quarterback.”

  “Martinez is a jerk,” said Joey. “He got held back. Last year. Got arrested for possession and missed a semester.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Steroids.”

  “But they still let him play? Is he that good?”

  “Oh, yeah. They call him the Monster. Not to his face, though.”

  Jason pointed down at a framed photo at the bottom of the case, tilted against the trophies. The Headless Horseman, again, galloping across a football field.

  “Is that Zef?” he said.

  “I think so,” said Joey. “He’s been school mascot since he started here. He shows up at halftime, chases a player dressed up as the other side, runs him down, that sort of stuff. The crowd loves it. He’s the most popular kid in Sleepy Hollow. Kate’s dad is probably going to make him a congressman someday.”

  “Who?”

  “Paul Usher,” said Joey.

  “Not following.”

  “Kate’s dad is a state senator, didn’t you know that? He loves Zef. Promises to do things for him, get him into a good school, pull strings, you know. And Zef slobbers all over the man, calls him “sir,” laughs at his jokes, lets him win at tennis. But he has to. His dad would kill him if he didn’t.”

  “I can see that. Hadewych’s a backslapper. So Zef is a climber too? Just using Kate?”

  “I didn’t say that. He’s always been real good to her, far as I know.”

  “Far as you know.”

  “I’m sure. He’s a good guy. And maybe he does love her. Zef’s not a jerk. He’s not.”

  Jason made a face and cocked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Did you see what he just did to me?” he said.

  “He’s not like that. I know. Okay, maybe he is a little. But – it was a joke. I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Look, I’m not defending him. Okay, I am. But – ”

  Joey was stammering.

  “What?” Jason said.

  “I shouldn’t,” Joey said, obviously torn. “It’s private. And Zef would murder me. But… I saw you looking at Kate. Go after her if you want, Jase. You do have a chance. I promise.”

  Joey turned away before Jason could question him further. He thumbed some quarters into a soda machine. Above the recycling bins, a hand-lettered sign proclaimed optimistically: THIS IS A BULLY-FREE ZONE.

  Jason walked into the central atrium. He found another Horseman there, painted on the floor like a huge Rorschach blot. He scuffed his shoe at it. “I shouldn’t even be here,” he said. “If anybody should be at a different school, it’s me.”

  “It’ll get better,” Joey said, joining him.

  “Sure,” said Jason, unconvinced.

  “It will. Just wait. I promise.”

  “It can’t get any worse.”

  Joey popped the top of his Mountain Dew. It spat liquid, spraying them both.

  They stood in the middle of the atrium, blinking, soda running down their faces. If there had been a label at their feet it would have read: “Never Say It Can’t Get Any Worse,” an Ironic Study in Bronze. Jason was the first to break the pose. He broke into a grin, and then laughter. Joey joined in, doubling the noise, which made Jason even more raucous and loud, which made Joey snort and slip and shout and Jason laugh and slip and fall and soon the empty atrium and long dark corridors of Sleepy Hollow High were bubbling with the caffeinated, carbonated, high-fructose sound of two silly kids becoming friends.

  #

  Joey returned to the stage, grabbing the microphone and jumping into a rockabilly song. Jason sat at the table again, grinning, dipping a napkin in a glass of water, wiping his face. Zef walked up and pulled the hoodie on.

  “That was all Martinez, you know,” said Zef. “I was just supposed to make an appearance.”

  “You went along.”

  “Everybody was looking.”

  “And you went along.”

  Zef’s face darkened.

  “You just don’t get it,” he said.

  He sat down, fished the duffel bag from under the table. Jason saw the sword inside. Zef produced a flask of something, took a hit off it, coughed. Whatever was in the flask, it was strong. He offered it to Jason, who shook his head.

  “Right. Good idea,” Zef said, nodding. “Yeah. You should be.” He stood, pocketed the flask, clapped Jason on the shoulder, walking away.

  “Should be what?” Jason called after, confused.

  “Designated driver.”

  Kate walked up ten minutes later.

  “Have you seen Zef?”

  Jason pointed. Zef was with Martinez and Jimmy and Nathan, on the bleachers. They were huddled together, passing the flask.

  “Great,” said Kate. She crossed her arms and turned to Jason. “You okay?”
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  “Never better. I love looking like an idiot.” He gestured; all the chairs around him were empty. “Look how popular it’s made me.”

  “Do you care about being popular? I don’t.”

  “Only because you are popular.”

  She glanced toward the bleachers.

  “I don’t feel very popular right now. Come on.” She extended a hand, palm up, as if offering him a gift. “Dance with me.”

  “No thanks,” said Jason.

  She cocked her head. Her eyes shouted What?

  “I don’t feel like it,” he said.

  “Okay, no problem,” she murmured, barely audible over the band. She sank into the chair next to him.

  Jason was amazed that he’d refused. He’d been longing to dance with Kate all night. He’d wanted to touch her, to hold her, he’d wanted her to put her arms around his neck and see her gaze up at him. And now the chance was here and… he didn’t want to.

  “Why not?” said Kate, trying to hide some emotion that Jason couldn’t identify. Hurt? Amazement? Irritation? Disappointment? All of these and none of them.

  He shrugged. He didn’t know. Maybe it was the way she’d asked him. No, she hadn’t asked. She’d ordered him to dance, assumed that his interest was a foregone conclusion. Jason Crane must say yes because every boy says yes. Maybe it was the way she had been looking at Zef, annoyed by his inattention and wanting to get back at him. Jason didn’t know. He just didn’t feel like dancing.

  “Hey,” said Kate, “I told Zef to apologize for what he did, you know.”

  “I don’t blame Zef. I blame Martinez. And my own clumsy feet.” He gave the little disco ball centerpiece a spin.

  “Eddie didn’t like you challenging him in front of his boys.”

  “I know.”

  “Thanks, by the way,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Defending me. I know that’s what you were doing.” She looked sad now, lost in thought, the bright red cup halfway to her lips, suspended. The disco ball wound down. Sequins of light drifted lazily across her cheek. “Everybody thinks they own me,” she said. “Martinez treats me like the town slut. But I’m not, you know.”

  “I never thought you were,” said Jason.

  “Not you. But some people think that, because the boys are just… because they’re always…”