Chemistry lab demanded my attention, and I was glad for it. Given the choice between (1) angsting over whether Jessica Prime was petty enough to distribute the picture for the heck of it, or (2) blowing myself up in my distraction, the decision was fairly easy.
“Your experiment is set before you.” Professor Blackthorne walked through the lab benches, hands clasped behind his back. “You are to follow the instructions—to the letter, Mr. Anderson—adding Powder A to Liquid B and heating the resulting Solution C as indicated, and based on the resulting reaction, identify Product D. Understood?”
We chorused a trained “yes, sir” so hearty that you would have thought we lived to identify Product D from the reaction of Liquid B and Powder A. Truthfully, our experiments were usually interesting if not pyrotechnic. Professor Blackthorne loved a good exothermic reaction.
I should point out that on Halloween, my chemistry teacher dressed up like Professor Snape from the Harry Potter books, and he sometimes referred to his course as “Potions Class” even when it wasn’t October. He had a last name out of a Brontë novel and he looked like the mad scientist from Back to the Future. I love Professor Blackthorne.
“Right then. Goggles on … Is something funny, Mr. Hobson?”
I tensed with dread as the football player tucked something under his desk. “Er, no, Professor Blackthorne.”
“That’s not a cell phone, is it?”
“Oh no, Professor Blackthorne.” Except that it totally was.
“Good. Cell phones should always be turned off during lab experiments. Should they ring, even in silent mode, the arriving signal could cause a static charge that would ignite any volatile fumes in the air, and the user would certainly go up in a fiery ball of agonizing death.” He stared down his nose at the wide receiver. “And we wouldn’t want that to happen, would we, Mr. Hobson?”
I want to marry Professor Blackthorne.
“Now! Goggles on … and begin.”
The instant the bell rang, I headed toward civics. It was pointless to dwell on what a malicious bitch Jessica Prime was and the senseless cruelties she inflicted on girls every day. But I did anyway, jumping at every chirruping cell phone, convinced my picture would be all over the school by seventh period.
It wasn’t that I had some enormous popularity at stake. I occupied neutral territory—a sort of social Switzerland—nowhere near the “in crowd” but not so far out that I had to sit by myself in the cafeteria. No, the only thing at risk was my total humiliation. And the more I thought about it, the larger it loomed, until I was convinced that every laugh in the crowded hallway was aimed at me, and the Cingular airwaves were burning up with the traffic of my downfall.
New plan: Duck into the nearest bathroom and hide in a stall. I was getting good at that. It would be handy in my career as a tabloid reporter, which was the only job I would be able to get once that picture was posted on the Internet, available to anyone who Googled me.
My phone buzzed against my hip. I pulled it out and looked warily at the caller ID, then flipped it open.
“Where are you?” Lisa’s voice blared in my ear.
“Hiding in the bathroom.”
“Which one?”
“B Hall. By the computer lab.”
“I’m there.”
I heard her enter only a few moments later. “Get out,” she told the freshmen primping in the mirror. I saw their little feet scurrying toward the exit, then my stall door flew open.
“Are you all right? Why are you hiding?” she demanded, one hand braced on top of the swinging door, the other on her hip, a warlike, gray-eyed Athena in vintage Gap.
“I’m having a terrible day.” My voice cracked pathetically.
“I know, Mags. I heard it was awful. But you’re all right?”
“Awful?” So she’d sent it. And even my best friend thought I looked awful with my fish-belly-white thighs and bug-eyed expression. My eyes began to sting, despite my best efforts not to cry. “Was it really that bad?”
“Well, you were there.”
“I know. But I didn’t think she’d really do it.”
Lisa frowned, her arched brows drawing together. “You didn’t think she’d really jump?”
“No. I didn’t think she’d send my picture to the whole school.”
She dropped the other hand to her hip. “What are you talking about?”
I stared up at her, realizing we were talking about two different things. “The picture Jessica Prime took of me mostly naked in the locker room. What are you talking about?”
“Karen Foley’s accident.” She pressed her palms to her forehead, paced away from the stall, and came back. “You mean I’ve been worried sick about you, about Karen, and you’re in here crying about a Jessica?”
Jumping up, I defended myself. “I was not crying. And I think I’m entitled to five minutes of self-pity.”
“Are you in the hospital? No. Are you the first person those bitches have humiliated? No.”
I shoved past her, out of the stall. “You know what? You could give me a little perspective without being such a witch about it. You’re supposed to be my friend.”
“My friends don’t hide in toilets from a little humiliation.”
“Kiss off, Lisa.”
“That’s the spirit.” She handed me my backpack. “Let’s go to civics.”
I grabbed the bag from her, squared my shoulders, and set my chin, daring her to give me any more grief.
“Good girl.” She smoothed my hair, fluffed the sleeves of my blouse, and straightened the neck. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
“Afraid I’d turn into Self-Pity Girl permanently?” I asked, still sulking.
“No. I heard about the accident and worried.”
My anger abated. I can never keep it up very long, especially when I’m sort of at fault, too. “I’m fine. Karen was the one hurt, not me.”
“But it could have been. She took your place in line, didn’t she?”
I hadn’t thought about it that way, and the idea was like a punch to the gut. Was it possible I had dodged some kind of bullet of Fate?
After school, Gran was waiting with tea and sympathy. Literally.
I hadn’t told her I was coming over, but by the time my Jeep Wrangler pulled into her driveway, the tea was hot in the pot and the cookies were warm on the plate. I’d resolved to be done feeling sorry for myself, but there’s something about a grandmother’s couch. Before I knew it, I had told her all about Jessica Prime and the picture, Halloran’s ambush, Karen’s accident, and even the dream that kicked it all off.
“I knew there was something going on.” Gran withdrew her arm from my shoulders. “I knew this morning that you weren’t being straight with me.”
Self-pity time had expired, I guess. I sighed and poured myself a cup of tea. The brew was Darjeeling, but the pot and cups were Japanese, which summed Gran up pretty well. She had an icon of the Virgin and Child on one wall, and a set of Buddist temple bells hanging near the door. She looked like a red-headed Debbie Reynolds, dressed in a lavender tracksuit, completely American except for her lingering Irish lilt.
“It was just a nightmare, Gran.”
“You keep telling yourself that and you may miss an important clue.”
“To what? All I dreamed about was fire and smoke. That’s not a lot to go on.”
She lifted her steaming cup. “That’s your own fault. If you had honed your ability instead of ignoring and repressing it …”
Surging to my feet, I paced across the small living room, endangering a bamboo tree in my frustration. “I don’t have an ability!”
“Then why are you here?”
I didn’t answer her, just folded my arms with a sullen expression. Stubborn? Who, me?
“You are here because something about your dream will not allow you to ignore it.” Gran set down her cup and clasped her hands together. “I can sense there are forces at work around you, Magdalena. You sense it, too, or you would not
be wearing that.” She pointed to the delicate gold cross around my neck.
I reached up to trace the shape. “I just found it while I was cleaning up my room, and since I hadn’t worn it in a while …”
“Nonsense. Your subconscious recognizes the threat, the need for spiritual protection. Why don’t you?” For a woman of her years, she had relatively few wrinkles, but every one of them was drawn deep with annoyance.
Pacing again, I tried to answer. “Because it’s just—” Scary? Ridiculous? “—impossible.”
“There are things in the world that cannot be dismissed simply because they cannot be quantified. You have a gift—”
I started to protest. “Gran, I don’t—”
“Honestly, Maggie.” She interrupted me, clearly at the end of her patience. “If nothing else, you have a brain and the obligation to use it to take a stand against Evil.”
“Evil?” She had pronounced it with a capital letter.
“Yes, Evil. It doesn’t take much for Evil to flourish in the world. People invite it in much more readily than they do Good. Evil is easy, effortless. Good requires action.”
I flopped onto the sofa, thinking about my words to Lifeguard Jock. There was a quote from Edmund Burke that I’d spared him, but spoke now to myself. “ ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’ ”
“Exactly.” She leaned forward, catching my gaze. We have the same green eyes, and I could see my pale face reflected in hers. “It worries me that your denial may blind you, Maggie. Promise me that while you’re applying your formidable brain you won’t ignore your intuition.”
It sounded so reasonable when she put it that way. But wasn’t that why I’d come here, to be bullied into admitting what I couldn’t deny any longer?
“Okay.” My admission made her relief a palpable thing, as her tension uncoiled from her compact frame. “So how does this thing work?”
Her brows screwed up at the question. “It isn’t that simple. It’s different for everyone.”
“That’s not a lot of help, Gran.”
“What did you expect? There isn’t a magic spell. It’s a skill like anything else, and it has to be practiced.”
I sighed. Loudly. “That doesn’t do me any good right now, though, does it?”
She refreshed her cup of tea with an astounding lack of concern. “You could stop being so stubborn, for one thing. Just let go once in awhile. Trust your instincts.”
“Yes, Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Gran reached over and tweaked my earlobe, hard. “Ow!”
“Don’t be flippant with your elders.”
I rubbed my ear. She looked so modern, I sometimes forgot that my grandmother was old school when it came to getting an erring child’s attention.
“While I’m being disrespectful, what’s the big idea telling a complete stranger about me?”
“Justin MacCallum? He was so polite and curious about my stories. And so handsome, didn’t you think?”
I did, but that was beside the point. “Can’t you think of a better way to play matchmaker than telling him I’m a freak?”
Gran gave me an odd look, as if she couldn’t believe I was so dense. “Honestly, Maggie. He’s a young man who spent his morning recording an old lady’s fairy tales and believed without question that The Sight runs in our blood. What makes you think he’s entirely normal?”
7
in Gran’s world, you didn’t go to a sickbed empty-handed. I arrived at the hospital bearing a batch of chocolate chip cookies for Karen and for her mother, two paperbacks, a travel toothbrush, a variety of tea bags, and a bottle of aspirin.
Mrs. Foley, who probably had her daughter’s friendly smile when her mouth wasn’t framed by deep lines of worry, held up the pain reliever in wonder. “How did you know?”
“The Force is strong with my family,” I answered. “Do you want to take a break, go down and get a drink or something? I can bore Karen until you get back.”
The offer tempted her, but she glanced at her daughter in the hospital bed. “Go,” Karen said. “I’m fine, and Maggie will be here.”
She wavered another moment, then said, “I’ll just be a few minutes.” She picked up her purse and the aspirin.
“No hurry.” I turned to Karen. “You look better than the last time I saw you.” It was true. Her color had returned and she wasn’t covered in blood. She looked pretty good except for the goose-egg on her head. They’d had to shave some of her hair to put in stitches. Maybe she could manage a tasteful comb-over.
“Thanks.” She gestured to a chair. “You want to sit down?”
I sat, mostly so she wouldn’t have to strain to look up at me. “I’ll bet your mom was pretty freaked.”
“God. I thought she was going to come apart. But Coach kept telling her: ‘Don’t give up the ship, Carol. Winners stay focused. Eye on the prize.’ ” We laughed at her Milner impersonation, and Karen winced, holding her head.
“How about you?” I asked. “How are you feeling?”
“Well, it hurts when I laugh.”
“You really scared the crap out of me. Out of all of us.” I studied the Technicolor lump on her head. “Have they said when you can go home?”
“They did some X-rays and an MRI. They want to make sure no swelling develops, but it looks pretty good.”
“Not on the outside, it doesn’t.”
“Gee, thanks.” A smile told me she hadn’t taken offense. “I hope I can get back to school soon. I can’t let my grades slip.”
I rolled my eyes. “Because a concussion wouldn’t be an excuse or anything.”
“I’m trailing D and D Lisa for valedictorian. I know she’s your friend, but I can’t let her off easy.”
“No argument here. You should definitely make her work for it.” I paused, trying to frame my question without influencing her. “At the pool, you couldn’t remember what happened. Has any of it come back to you?”
“Let’s see.” She gazed at the ceiling, trying to recall. “I remember you turning chicken …”
“I did not!” There was a disbelieving pause. “Okay, I totally did. Please continue.”
“I climbed on the low board, and heard the hags cackling. And then I started to jump, and that’s all I remember.”
“So you don’t know what went wrong?”
Her forehead knotted, not with pain, but confusion, maybe.
“Coach Milner said I must have placed my foot wrong, not had it all the way on the board.”
“Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she? I mean, if you slipped, it could have been the equipment, and then the school would be in trouble.”
Her brows knit more tightly. “Did I slip?”
“I couldn’t really tell what happened.” I tried to reassure her. She seemed upset by the hole in her memory, and who could blame her? “It doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I just had the strangest feeling …”
I waited a polite nanosecond, then prompted, “Did you remember something?”
She gave her head a very careful shake. “I don’t know. I have this memory of jumping into the air and seeing my shadow underneath me, but it was moving in the wrong direction. I wonder if it’s some kind of distortion from banging my head.”
“Optical illusion, maybe?” I kept my voice neutral. “That’s not so strange.”
“That’s not the weird part. There was—or I imagined there was—a horrible smell. Like food gone bad. I thought, ‘No wonder Maggie doesn’t want to jump in there. It smells like a sewer.’ ” She worried at the memory a little longer, then let it slip away. “And that’s the last thing I remember.”
With a slightly determined smile, she changed the subject. “I didn’t do anything to help you get over your phobia, though. What do they call that? Aquaphobia?”
“I-don’t-wanna-die-ophobia.”
“Ow! Don’t make me laugh.”
“Sorry.”
We talk
ed about random, unimportant things—gossip, school, homework, college—until her mother came back. Mrs. Foley looked better for the break, and I gave up her seat.
“Here’s my cell phone number.” I scribbled it on the pad by the phone. “Call me if you need anything or … well, anything.” I didn’t want to say “if anything weird happens,” because I wasn’t even sure what was normal anymore.
For instance. You could have blown me over when five minutes later I met Stanley Dozer in the hospital lobby. I actually said “Stanley?” though there was no mistaking his pale, gangly form for any other.
“Hi, Maggie.” He didn’t look very pleased to see me, which, considering he’d called me a bitch the last time we’d met, wasn’t really a shock.
“What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Yanachek asked me to bring Karen her math homework.” He held up a folder and didn’t meet my eye.
“That’s nice of you.” Considering that you called her a dork, I added silently.
“Yeah, well. No one else wanted to do it.”
“You really try and spread sunshine and light wherever you go, don’t you, Stanley?” He looked at me blankly. I sighed. “I’ll take it up for you, so you don’t pain yourself.”
“No. I have to explain the problems. You’ll never understand it.”
“There are lots of things I’ll never understand,” I said as I strode past him. Then I paused. “Hey, Stanley. What did you mean when you said that everyone who picked on you was going to be sorry?”
He gave me a long, unreadable stare, then shrugged. “You know what I mean. I’ll join the space program, and they’ll end up like their kind always do: fat, divorced, and managing a Safeway.”
Yeah, well, there was a fate worse than death.
I watched him go, wondering if there was something different about him, or if it was his outburst yesterday that changed my viewpoint. I didn’t spend too much time on it, though. I had bigger fish to fry. It was time for some old-fashioned sleuthing. I was going to have to unleash my inner Nancy Drew.
Brimstone Page 5
