The Starlight Chronicles: Slumbering

by C. S. Johnson

  10

  Detainment

  After the first ten or fifteen minutes of detention, I understood to the fullest consequences why detention was a horrible punishment – I’d gotten stuck talking with Samantha Carter, the equivalent of a talking gossip column.

  I’d met Samantha on the swim team last year (and regretted it ever since.) I supposed she was pretty enough to be kept out of the ugly house, as long as she kept clean. She was Juliet’s nurse in the play; despite her ‘involved’ role, she’d subjected me to her constant blathering since I’d arrived.

  “What do you think, Hamilton?”

  “Huh?” I saw she was looking at me intently. I hadn’t paid any attention to her babble in the least. “Oh… I completely agree with you.” I hoped this sentiment was vague enough to work.

  Apparently it was. Samantha smiled. “If you want to, there’s a poll going around; it’s five dollars for your first bet. I’m betting Tim and Gwen will get together on opening night! Can you imagine? It’s just so romantic!”

  I groaned. That’s what she’d been talking about? No wonder I wasn’t listening. I saw Gwen come into the auditorium. “I have to talk to Gwen!” I said hurriedly. I just hoped my desperation didn’t crack my voice.

  “Hey, no cheating!” Samantha called after me.

  “Hey, Hammy. What’s wrong?” Gwen asked, seeing my peeved expression.

  “That girl’s nuts,” I whispered, glancing over in Samantha’s direction. “Please, Gwen… help me out of here!”

  “You mean Samantha Carter?”

  “Yes!”

  “She’s nice.”

  “Nice? Try annoying!”

  Gwen giggled, making me an interesting mix of angry and happy. “Go wait for the Rosemont students coming today; they’ll need some help unloading the van when it comes. That’ll keep Sam out of your hair. She’s working on costumes today.”

  “Sounds great.” I’d do anything to get away from the chatterbox of doom – including helping out Rosemont students.

  “Mikey usually does that, too,” Gwen added. “So you can wait for him if you want.”

  I grinned approvingly. “Thanks; this means a lot to me.”

  “It’s nice to know I can help you. I don’t think I’ve ever had to before.”

  “Hopefully you won’t ever have to again,” I remarked, placing my hand on her shoulder affectionately.

  “You know, it won’t kill you to let others help you,” she said wryly.

  “I know. That’s what I’ve got Simon and Poncey and Jason for.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean by switching homework.”

  “People! People!” Mr. Lockard clapped his hands as he walked up on stage. “Shh!” Everyone looked up at him as he primly straightened up. “Welcome, all. Today, we will finish up the set. So make sure to get your new friends’ digits before you leave if you like them – and if you don’t, well… hem.”

  Mr. Lockard continued on, mentioning some other important-ish-sounding stuff laced with some attempts at humor, spurred on only by the giggly girls in his audience who were probably laughing at him, not with him (unless they were suck-ups, of course.)

  I felt like laughing or gagging or both. Adults who tried to be cool were so uncool.

  “Uh, Dinger… move!”

  I inwardly retched. Brittany Taylor was the stage manager, a.k.a. the looming shadow over my head for that moment. Of course she wouldn’t pass up a chance to legitimately harass me for the next hour.

  “You know I’m leaving after the detention bell rings,” I reminded her.

  “I’ll remember that, so I can boss you around as much as possible then.” Brittany disliked anyone connected with Poncey. It was a well-known fact.

  Another unpredictable side-effect of being popular – you have to take sides occasionally. This is best done with careful logic and diplomatic but decisive execution. And ever since Evan humiliated Brittany years ago at a group party by refusing to kiss her (it was a truth-or-dare dare) she’d been out to bury him. I had to take his side; I wouldn’t have wanted to kiss her either.

  Only socially, of course. I think.

  I walked away from her anyway. No need to risk my chances of becoming a victim of her wrath.

  “Hey there, Dinger,” Mikey greeted me. “Whoa, you’re having a bad day. Imagine how much worse it’ll be when you tell your parents you got a detention today.”

  My mouth dropped open. Very few people ever blatantly made me angry. “Why are you so cruel today?”

  “To make up for Friday’s game.” Mikey grinned. “Come on, I’m kidding. Follow me. We’ll be safe from Ms. Sour-puss-in-her-pants outside. Unloading the Rosemont-mobile is the funnest job you can have here.”

  “‘Funnest’ is not a word.”

  “But you get to listen to the girls’ gossip going around backstage while you wait.”

  “I’m sure you like that, but believe me, I’ve heard enough gossip for today,” I said, recalling Samantha’s insights into the shallow world of gossip girl. I looked outside and saw it raining harder than ever. Appropriate.

  “Man, is this rain ever going to stop?” Mikey complained. He spotted a large bus on the road. “There they are! I can smell Courtney from here.”

  “That’s not disturbing at all.” I turned to roll my eyes, and this was when I saw Poncey coming up behind us. “You’re late.”

  I hadn’t been the only one who’d received a detention from Mrs. Smithe.

  Poncey smiled. “What Lockard doesn’t know won’t kill him… unless it’s something that’s supposed to kill him.”

  “Like a haircut?” I joked.

  Poncey snickered. We both knew Lockard was never going to get one those; not with that comb-over.

  The rain pummeled down on us like blunt needles as we hurried outside to the vehicle. A pretty, cranky voice called out, “Mikey, are you going to get my stuff or not?”

  The voice belonged to a tall, blonde girl with enough makeup on her face to paint a wall. I looked at her and decided she could probably tell someone how to voluntarily throw up, too. It was nice to see Courtney again.

  I struggled to keep a laugh down as Mikey, in the middle of hoisting a box over his shoulder, received his sweetheart’s first reprimand of the day.

  “I’m coming, Courtney,” Mikey told her. “Just wanted get this in.”

  “It’s only my stuff you’re supposed to get,” Courtney huffed angrily. “Put that stuff down and help me unload my paints!”

  Whoa, I thought. Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the cave this morning. What a bear.

  I felt a twinge of pity for Mikey, who put the box down immediately and then immediately hurried off to serve Lady Bear. She might’ve been pretty, but I wouldn’t go within ten feet of her, not even to save my life.

  I poked Mikey, and nodded to the wooden case he’d just put down. “That’s the one you couldn’t hold onto before.”

  Mikey sighed. “You take it. I have to grab Courtney’s stuff.” One of Mikey’s better traits was that he tended to be quite loyal in the beginning of a relationship. I would’ve felt sorry for him if it hadn’t been his own fault.

  I grinned; but when I picked it up a moment later, I was surprised. It was heavy. I gruntingly took it inside and put it down near the door. I couldn’t resist a smirk in Mikey’s direction on my way back out.

  A few moments later, Mikey and I finished dragging a number of supplies and boxes up to the stage.

  “Ha! I told you,” I grinned at Mikey.

  Mikey laughed. “Yeah, sure. You’re going to be wrong about something one of these days. Or you’re going to pay for proving me wrong.”

  Back in junior high school, it was the general opinion that Poncey was more like my fool, while Mikey was more like my brother – mostly because he got away with arguing with me several times and did not randomly usually suffer some sort of physical or social punishment for it.

  I like to think we’ve matured some
what since then.

  “Do I even want to know?” Gwen reappeared, laughing as Poncey came shuffling around the corner with bags draped over his back.

  “Dinger bet me we could carry all this stuff up here in one trip,” Mikey explained, poking the accusing finger at me.

  “That’s everything. Thanks, guys.” Tim came up and started to put his arm around Gwen’s shoulders, but quickly stopped when he saw me. “Hey, Dinger.”

  I smirked. “Hey there, Tim.”

  Tim laughed nervously, probably glad I didn’t make him uncomfortable (not for a lack of desire on my part.) “Gwen, let’s take this stuff to their rightful owners.”

  “Sure, good idea.” Gwen grabbed a couple of bags we’d just put down before heading off with Tim. I followed with Mikey at a slower pace (We had more bags and boxes, Tim being a pansy boy and all.)

  “Hey, Tim,” I heard Gwen ask, “Do you hang out with Hammy and his friends at all?”

  “Not really,” he admitted. “Dinger doesn’t like me.”

  [Insert sarcastic clapping here]. Well said, Tim, well said. I couldn’t agree more. I had to snicker; obviously, Gwen and Tim didn’t notice I was only a mere eight steps behind them.

  “What? Why not?”

  “Well… he likes you.” Instantly I felt my blood start to boil. If only Gwen wasn’t around. Tim was not worthy of confessing my feelings.

  “Huh? No way,” Gwen shook her head, and then I was even more enraged than before. I will kill him, I decided. Or I would let him die by omission. Whatever came first.

  “I’m serious, Gwen,” Tim said. “Guys can always tell when another guy likes a girl. And he likes you. So he hates me. Simple relationship politics.”

  “He doesn’t hate you. Why would he?”

  Oh, I hate him, all right. There would be no redemption for him after this.

  “Yes, he does. I, well… I like you.” Immediately Tim turned a shade of red which made me think of a bursting thermometer.

  Gwen was as shocked as I was appalled. “You mean… you like me?”

  He blushed again. “Well, yeah.”

  As the two of them reached the bottom of the steps, Mikey apparently decided I’d had enough (Poncey was taking a short break while his back realigned.) He clapped me on the shoulder. “Move it.”

  I struggled against him for a moment, but Mikey pulled me off to the side of the rounded staircase, where I could still watch and hear but not be seen.

  “You mean in that way?” Gwen had an incredulous look on her face.

  “Yes!” Tim exclaimed. “Yes, I like you that way! I’ve been trying to tell you for a while now but after Jason’s party, I didn’t think I was good enough for you and everyone else seemed to think the same.”

  Gwen was silent for a moment before she reached out and took hold of Tim’s hand. “Please, don’t be scared, Tim,” she smiled kindly.

  I felt my stomach churning as Tim peeked over at her and asked, “Do you like me, too, Gwen?”

  Under any other circumstances, I would’ve laughed. Tim’s voice cracked and the skin on his face had turned a tomato red (The pimples stood out like white pockmarks.) But as Gwen nodded, all the things I suddenly felt like doing involved blood. Blood and vomit.

  “Okay! People, people!” Mr. Lockard was center stage once more, waving his hands all around, demanding attention. “Get a move on, hem?”

  I shuffled backstage. Catching a glimpse of Samantha, I briefly smirked. Well, at least she’s going to lose all the money she’d put in the Gwen and Tim dating poll. I hope she’d bet a lot, too.

  “Dinger!”

  To make matters worse, Brittany was glaring down at me again! “You can’t sit there while there’s work to be done,” she huffed. “Go clean up the paintbrushes.”

  Ugh! I was not even able to lick my wounds before Brittany found work for me to do.

  I grumbled to myself while I squeezed and rubbed all the paintbrushes clean, alternately imagining each as a different face. It must’ve been preoccupying therapy, because I didn’t even really notice when a girl came up behind me.

  “Um, excuse me.” She was impatiently tapping her foot against the floor, reminding me too much of Trixie.

  “Do you need a brush?” I asked innocently, just to irritate her.

  Apparently, I was not the only one who had annoyed her today. “I was sent to get another one,” the girl explained in a scathing tone. “Raiya needs it for adding orange to the background.”

  “Okay, why orange?” I suddenly asked. “There’s no orange on the balcony.”

  The girl sighed like I was stupid (I guess I was surrounded by particularly moronic and temperamental people today.) “It’s for the sky, not the balcony, duh.”

  “But the sky’s supposed to be blue.” Even I knew that, and I didn’t particularly care.

  The girl shrugged her shoulders. “Raiya didn’t want it to be blue, I guess,” she answered, a bitter tone in her voice. “She’s too good for that.” The girl nodded toward the upstage area, where another girl in a khaki Rosemont uniform was crouching down in front of a familiar-looking case.

  So it was her case. I almost laughed as I half-wondered if she really could carry it around. She was definitely scrawny. And her hair was sure a mess, too.

  I handed up a brush to the impatient girl in front of me before she sulked back to the stage without another word.

  “Dinger!” I saw Poncey waving me over. “Where have you been, Dinger? I could use your help lugging the stuff up from the music room. It’s heavy!”

  “You’re a football player. You’re supposed to be strong.”

  “I know. But it’s a lot of junk. Plus, I’m still hurting from dragging all those bags in earlier.”

  “You sure complain a lot, Poncey,” I said. “That’s not the kind of attitude that’s going to get you a scholarship – or a girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Poncey muttered. “Let’s see how long it takes you to get irritated.”

  I found out, to my dismay, Poncey was right; a large supply of chairs, bandstands, and music sheets still needed to be moved in addition to the instruments. I groaned and cursed appropriately.

  After my sixth trip, I came back down to find Poncey breathing heavily as he tried to move the harp. It’s the last thing to go, but I guess Poncey’s too weak to move it on his own. “Ah, is the poor little Ponce tired?” I chuckled.

  “No; is dumb-head Dinger still trying to raise his English grade using alliteration?” Poncey shot back.

  “Wow, it’s not every day I hear you use big words,” I replied. “Okay, I’ll help with the harp.”

  “Just get it yourself.”

  “If you’re tired, why don’t we take a break?” I suggested. “Betcha the harp won’t be needed for another ten minutes anyway.”

  “Yeah, good idea.” Poncey flopped down on the stool behind the harp. He laughed and put his hands on the strings. “Hey, Dinger, do I resemble an angel?”

  “Angels don’t exist, Ponce,” I replied. “People just say they do so they feel better about stuff.”

  I relished getting to tell him the bad news. It’s fun to tell the children Santa Claus doesn’t exist.

  Poncey shook his head. “You’re so narrow-minded, Dinger.”

  “What!?”

  “Yeah. You can’t prove they don’t exist, and people have seen them and everything. But you can’t believe in them. So you just block the entire idea out. That’s called being narrow-minded.”

  “No, that’s called being logical.”

  “Ha! Logic doesn’t always happen with the miraculous,” Poncey smirked. “Take that.” He laughed as I stared at him, a disgusted/dumbstruck look on my face. “Anyway, don’t you think I look good like this? I’d make a good harp player, I think.” He strummed a few of the strings, making a jargon of noise that sounded not too bad but still completely horrible, considering Poncey didn’t know how to play.

  I grinned. “Let me try,” I insisted. “I�
�ll bet I can make it play better.”

  Poncey laughed again and moved so I could sit in the harpist’s seat. “Go ahead and try,” he taunted me.

  I reveled in the challenge, dramatically stretching out my fingers. “Just watch,” I said, arranging my hands on the harp like I’d seen on TV.

  That’s when it happened again.

  I felt my mind swept away as I was suddenly tangled in my alternate reality. “Huh?” I was back in outer space like the times before, in the hospital, in class. And this time I was fully engaged, and fully aware I had a right to be petrified.

  Wildly, I tried to shake myself out of it, like it’s some spastic condition in my brain I could control. “What’s going on? I don’t like doing this anymore!” I shouted. “I didn’t ask for this!”

  A soft laugh whispered behind me.

  My back went icy with prickled awareness. “Huh?” I knew that laugh. My heart simultaneously stilled and beat faster.

  I felt a hand on my arm; the voice tickled my ear. “Close your eyes.”

  “What? Why?” I asked. “Who are you?”

  “Please, trust me,” the urging gentleness whispered. “I’ll show you.”

  I uneasily closed my eyes (against my better judgment.) Instantly, a pair of small hands intertwined with mine, and guided me as I plucked and strummed the harp, perfectly in tune.

  Now I couldn’t resist; I opened my eyes, and turned around.

  “Huh?” I blinked. I was back in the classroom, playing the harp harmoniously, with Poncey staring at me, his mouth agape. I would’ve laughed if I wasn’t so preoccupied with my own wonder.

  “Wow! How do you do that?” Poncey asked, amazed.

  My hands fell off the strings, shaking. “Was I playing the entire time?” I asked.

  “What? What do you mean? You just sat down and started playing like a pro,” Poncey told me. “And hey, it was really good, too. Really, really good. I’ll bet if you composed a song on the harp for Gwen, she’d forget Tim and come running to you.”

  All of the wonder and amazement dropped out of me as reality brutally slapped my face.

  “Sorry…” Poncey muttered, seeing my stricken face. “I heard some of the other guys talking about what happened with Gwen and Tim and everything.”