Legacy

by Cochran, Molly

  “Woof!” the dog barked in answer, jumping up onto the chair opposite. The man howled with delight. At that moment, a server placed a bowl of kibble in front of the dog, who gobbled it up with gusto. It was a very weird sight, the old man and the dog sitting across the table from each other like old friends playing cards.

  “He got what he needed,” Cheswick said.

  “They both did,” Verity added.

  “Are dogs allowed in here?” I asked, knowing instantly how lame I sounded.

  They laughed. “Everything’s allowed here,” Cheswick whispered conspiratorially.

  The fighting couple was served cake. Within minutes they were eating off each other’s forks and playing footsie under the table.

  “Everyone gets what they want?” I asked.

  “What they need,” Verity corrected, accepting a platter of tofu from the waitress with a sigh. “I just wish I liked tofu.”

  Cheswick hit the jackpot with a cheeseburger and fries. I was eyeing it longingly when my meal came—a tuna fish sandwich.

  “Isn’t it fabulous?” Verity asked, scarfing down her tofu. “Mine is.”

  “It’s okay.” I mean, tuna’s tuna. It’s not like it turned into the nectar of the gods or anything.

  I was trying not to drool as Cheswick inhaled his cheeseburger when my foot came across something on the floor. It was a book, a blank book filled with handwriting. I looked at the first page. Peter Shaw, it read. #412.

  “Do you know this person?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Verity said between mouthfuls. “He’s one of us.”

  “Would you take this to him?”

  “Just give it to Hattie,” she said.

  Since I’d finished my sandwich—it was disappointingly small, with the crusts cut off—I excused myself and took the book into the kitchen, where a staggering number of different platters lined every surface. Hattie was hovering over them all, adding a radish here, a cheese crisp there. In the background, loud reggae music made it seem as if the dishes were all dancing along, moving of their own accord.

  “Um, ma’am,” I mumbled, way too low for her to hear me. “Yes!” she answered, whirling around to face me. “Ah, the girl with the false name,” she said. “You were not happy with your meal, then?”

  “No,” I said. “I mean, yes. It was fine. I like tuna.”

  She laughed. “Good. Do you think you could make such a sandwich yourself?”

  I blinked. It was a strange question. “I guess so,” I said. “I used to cook for my dad. I can make a few things.”

  “Good, good.”

  “Er . . .” I held out the book to her. “This was under my table. It says it belongs to Peter Shaw.”

  “Ah, Peter, yes. You can take it to him.”

  I hesitated.

  “He’s in room 412.”

  “Yes, I saw that—”

  “Fine. I’ll speak to Miss P about you. Come back soon!” She blew me a kiss.

  I stumbled out, not sure exactly what had transpired. Verity and Cheswick were waiting by the door for me. “She told me to give it to this guy Peter,” I said. “So if you’re going to see him . . .” I held the book aloft, hoping one of them would take it from me.

  “She told you to give it to him,” Verity said.

  “All right, all right.” Jeez, I thought, what sticklers. I was still resentful over the cheeseburger.

  I left the two of them at the gym—they were both runners—promising I’d see them at dinner, then began the long trek to room 412, which naturally was at the very end of the last hall on the fourth floor of the most distant wing of the school. No wonder Verity and Cheswick had refused to help. I hoped Peter Shaw, whoever he was, would appreciate the effort I was making to return his stupid notebook.

  I knocked. As soon as the door cracked open, I knew exactly who would be there: Of course, with my luck, of course it would be—and it was—the nasty boy from the library.

  That’s great, I thought as his scowling face came into view. Just great.

  “I found this at Hattie’s Kitchen,” I said, holding out the book. “She told me—”

  “Thank you,” he said coldly. He took the book from me and then, in the same motion, pushed the door so that it would close in my face.

  “Hey,” I said, pushing it open again. “What the hell’s going on with you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “No?” I coughed slightly, hoping to produce a few molecules of saliva. “Well, maybe we can start with that name you and your buddies keep calling me.”

  He took a step backward, looking as if he were totally surprised. “What, Ainsworth?”

  “That’s it. Look, whoever you think I am—”

  “I know who you are, all right?” he bristled. “Even if you pretend you don’t.”

  “I’m not pretending anything. And I’ve never met you in my life.”

  He frowned. Two spots of pink appeared on his face beneath the smoky gray of his eyes. “Whatever,” he said. “Are we done here?”

  We weren’t, but I felt the corners of my lips quivering, and I didn’t trust my voice. It was just so unfair. I hadn’t done anything except exist.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Jessevar, I’ll say good-bye. Have a nice day.” He closed the door.

  “You, too, jerkface,” I muttered.

  CHAPTER

  •

  FIVE

  ALCHEMY

  The world is full of horrible people, I thought philosophically. After all, I’d lived with two of them.

  My dad finally acknowledged my phone call. He didn’t call me back, though. He sent me an email.

  Congratulations on beginning your new school term. Never use the phrase “In conclusion.” HJ

  Miss you too, Dad.

  Still, it was the first day of classes, so I wasn’t going to let anything upset me. Dweeby as it sounds, I always enjoyed the start of a school year, probably because I was usually the best student in every class.

  And who knew? I might even make some friends. If I avoided the library, I reasoned, I’d probably never have to see Peter “Sunshine” Shaw again.

  Until my first class. There he was, his long limbs folded into one of the antiquated desks, scowling at me from behind the sociology textbook, Communities in Transition, as I walked into the classroom.

  He was in my algebra class too. Also European history. Wherever I went, it seemed, I was subjected to his snarling if painfully attractive visage. I was beginning to formulate a new philosophical thought: Contrary to historical belief, horrible people often look really good.

  There was simply no justice.

  During the next few weeks I tried to eradicate Peter Shaw’s hate-filled countenance from my mind by concentrating on my coursework. Ainsworth was academically a lot better than my old school Las Palmas High could ever hope to be. There were electives, for one thing, just like in college.

  I got into a course in, of all things, medieval alchemy. I had no idea what that would cover, but I’d done a lot of reading on medieval literature (Dad’s specialty), so I thought I’d be okay. The other weird class I got into was called Existentialism in Fiction. That sounded pretty hard for a high school course, but it was the only elective available when I registered. But at least Verity and Cheswick signed up for that one too.

  Unfortunately, so did Peter Shaw.

  Like I said, no justice.

  At first I thought that maybe I was being paranoid about him disliking me. But I wasn’t. If he got to class after I did he made a point of sitting as far away from me as possible. And if he got there first he’d make sure to surround himself with people so that I couldn’t sit anywhere near him.

  As if I would, anyway. I’d been around long enough to know that lying low was usually the key to not having your lunch money stolen, your cell phone thrown in the toilet, or your locker decorated with colorful epithets. The thing was, though
, that I didn’t think Peter Shaw was one of those kids. I mean, granted, having a cute boy practically gag at the sight of me wasn’t my favorite fantasy under any circumstance, but it might have been understandable if Peter was the star quarterback or Homecoming King or something.

  But he wasn’t any of those things. He was, if anything, as far as I could tell, the King of the Geeks, even though he looked more like a movie star or the front man for a rock band. He was tall and thin and had perfect skin and wild, wavy hair the color of dark gold. He had gray eyes and the kind of thick black eyelashes you sometimes see on little kids. He had big hands with long fingers like a pianist’s, and a soft voice and an easy laugh.

  Not that I paid much attention to him.

  Well, okay, I did. But I couldn’t help it. He was just very visible, in addition to being very gorgeous. The Muffies were always hanging around his locker or walking with him to class, asking him to help them with their homework. But he didn’t seem to gravitate toward that crowd. It was the geeks who surrounded him most of the time, an army of them, protecting him as if he were their god. Any Muffies who wanted a crack at him had to first penetrate the geek lines of defense.

  And he wasn’t stupid, either. I could tell from the things he said in Existentialism in Fiction that he thought about ideas in a way that most of the guys I knew didn’t. Like when the teacher, Mr. Zeller, asked what Sartre meant in No Exit when he wrote that hell is other people, Peter said that he thought every kind of suffering came from other people, even if they were people you loved, and that sometimes loving someone caused more pain than hating them.

  I could imagine the response if anyone else had said that. But Peter got away with it. No eye-rolling, no snickers, no barking of “loser!” beneath the guise of a cough. Even I didn’t write “QMS” on my notebook, because I knew that he wasn’t a Quivering Mass of Sensitivity, and he wasn’t just talking to be heard.

  On the other hand, he’d also said that some people weren’t worth going to hell over, at which point all his cronies turned to look at me.

  Strangely, though, even though he was the primo geek god in the Ainsworth pantheon, Peter didn’t hang with the geeks outside of school. Sometimes I’d see him on the running track with Verity and Cheswick—both definitely in the protective inner circle, as it turned out—and occasionally I’d see him studying in the library (on those occasions I’d leave as soon as possible, before the geek army got around to pushing my books onto the floor or making fart noises around me), but that was about it as far as his social interaction with them went. He rarely showed up for after-school clubs, and never for dinner. Never. And he wasn’t picked up by his parents, either. On Fridays the visitors’ lounge would be teeming with local kids whose parents had come to take them home or out to dinner, but Peter was never among them. It seems that he just vanished every weekend, the way he vanished every evening.

  I thought about asking Verity and Cheswick where he went, but they had closed ranks against me. I’d been in school for nearly four weeks, and still no one was speaking to me. V and C would occasionally grant me a quick hello, as long as they weren’t near any of their friends, but if Peter were around, they’d sneer at me along with the rest of them. It was as if he had ordered everyone to shut me out, and they all obeyed.

  The worst of it was, I couldn’t even say that Peter was just a prick. Because he wasn’t. As much as I hated to admit it, he really seemed like a decent person . . . with everyone except me, that is.

  CHAPTER

  •

  SIX

  CAULDRON

  I might have spent the rest of the year feeling sorry for myself if Miss P hadn’t offered me an after-school job at Hattie’s. I didn’t want it at first—it had never been one of my big dreams to be a kitchen grunt—but at least it would take my mind off what a social failure I was at Ainsworth.

  “Come in, and welcome!” Hattie looked up from a pile of bright green scallions to smile at me. “So you’ve come to help me cook?”

  The music—it was the Rolling Stones this time—was so loud I could barely hear her. “Yes, ma’am,” I shouted.

  “Hattie. And I will call you Katy, as you wish.”

  “Thank you,” I said, though I’m sure she didn’t hear me over Mick Jagger.

  “Wash your hands and put on an apron. There, by the sink.”

  That’s how it started. No application, no time clock. I didn’t know how long I was expected to stay, or even if I would get paid. All I knew was that I’d been ordered to work here, and I was in no position to refuse.

  “Now,” Hattie said, tossing the scallions into a pot. “Are you clean? Good. You can start with tuna.”

  “Like a sandwich?” I shouted.

  “Just like what you had, m’dear. But make it your own way. With love.”

  Love. Right. I scrambled around the kitchen concocting what I hoped was the perfect sandwich.

  “Is this okay?” I asked.

  She frowned. “Very pretty,” she said, “but where is the love?”

  I blinked. “Love?”

  “Yes, yes,” Hattie said. “After all, the Ainsworth women understand all about love. They have made it into an art.” Her brows knitted together. “Now concentrate!”

  Totally intimidated, I tried to focus on the sandwich. What did I love about it, I asked myself. It was good bread, okay. And I liked celery, although I couldn’t honestly say I loved it. I suppose a tuna somewhere had given its life for this sandwich, and I knew a few vegans who could work up tears over that, but still . . .

  “No, no, no!” She snatched the plate out of my hands and propelled me toward the swinging doors leading to the dining room. “Come with me.”

  At 3:30 in the afternoon, the place was still pretty empty. The old man I’d seen during my first visit here was sitting at a corner table across from his dog, who seemed to be communicating with a series of grunts, growls, and some occasional muffled barking. They both appeared to be having a good time, absolutely engrossed in whatever strange conversation they were sharing.

  “That’s Mr. Haversall and Dingo. They come in every day now,” Hattie said. “But this is your customer.” She led me to a sour-looking man wearing glasses and a pinstripe suit.

  “It’s about time,” he said. He took one look at the sandwich I’d made, and threw down his napkin. “Oh, please,” he moaned. “You’ve got to be kidding. A sandwich? What sort of scam are you running here? I suppose you’re going to charge me as much for that . . . that snack as you would for a steak.”

  “That’s right, sir,” Hattie said pleasantly.

  “Well, I’m not going to eat it.”

  I looked over at her, appalled. She gave me a wink. “That would be up to you, sir.”

  “Well. I never!” He made a move to stand up, but Hattie stopped him.

  “Just hold up one second, before you go,” she said. “Katy, take his hand.”

  “What?” the customer and I both shouted at the same time.

  “Just do it.”

  His hand was slippery and wet and clammy, just the way I thought it would be. Gross. Out of sheer obnoxiousness I clamped down on it until he gave up with a disgusted tsk and a flutter of pale eyelashes. Hattie was doing the same thing to his other hand, I noticed.

  “Isn’t this special,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Do it now, Katy,” Hattie said. “Love.”

  Love? Yuck. I didn’t want to give love to this cretin. I didn’t want to give him jack.

  “Do it. Clear your mind.”

  “Just how long is this session going to take?” the man demanded. “I’d like to include it in the police report.”

  “Oh, brother,” I breathed.

  “Katy!”

  “Okay, okay,” I relented. What a stupid job this was turning out to be. “Love, huh?” I took a deep breath.

  “Any day now,” the man sneered.

  I cleared his voice from my mind, along with everything else—the n
oise in the restaurant, the words I was thinking, even the feelings that were passing through my mind like scarves floating on the wind. Then into this emptiness I envisioned a big red heart that burst open, filling the space with flowers.

  Okay, hearts and flowers, I know this was all very corny, but it was the best I could do on the spur of the moment. Anyway, after that I zeroed in on the heart. It was hollow now, showing scenes from the man’s life. I watched him being beaten by some impossibly huge man—I guessed it was how whoever-it-was had looked to him when he was small. I saw a young woman laughing at him and pointing at him as if he were a freak. In fact, the word FREAK popped up and bounced around inside the heart like a screen saver. In the next scene, an old sick woman turned her back on him as he tried to put his arms around her. I saw the woman dying, and this man burying his face in his hands, alone in an empty room.

  “Oh,” I whispered. I was beginning to understand.

  And then it happened: My own heart sort of shivered, and then it opened up, too, like a flower, and something shiny and warm poured out of it into his.

  “You should have had this a long time ago,” I said, before I even knew I’d spoken.

  The man’s hands were cold and trembling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but the harsh words didn’t fit his voice, which cracked with uncertainty. He cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose a sandwich wouldn’t hurt. You’ve taken up so much of my time that I’m really . . .” He looked at me with eyes that were filled with sorrow, a dam that had burst. “. . . hungry . . .”

  “Take it,” I said. “It’s what you need.”

  A slow smile spread across Hattie’s face. “We’ll leave you to your lunch now,” she said, and we all let go of each other’s hands.

  We were almost back in the kitchen when Hattie poked me in the ribs with her elbow. “Good girl!” she rumbled.

  “Wow.” I shook my head. “I don’t know where that came from.”

  “No?” Her eyes slid sideways toward me.