Night Sky

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “I’m glad you did that,” she replied, her voice singsong as ever. “You need the sleep. It’s been a rough couple of weeks.”

  “You can say that again,” I mumbled. My heart was still banging against my chest, but somehow I managed to sound calm. And Mom still hadn’t seemed to notice the fact that I was perspiring like I’d just spent an hour in a sauna.

  Mom picked up the overflowing laundry basket. “I just wanted to put a little bug in your ear about that cooking class,” she started.

  I covered my face with my hands. This woman was seriously exhausting.

  “Skylar, hear me out,” Mom continued. “It’s a six-week thing—two times a week. You get to be around other kids your age, the instructor’s nice, you bake cookies, you mingle…”

  I kept my hands over my face while I shook my head slowly. The last thing I felt like doing these days was mingling with anyone.

  “Please, Skylar? It would mean a lot to me.”

  I dropped my hands and stared disbelievingly at Mom. “Well, it would mean a lot to me if you’d let me do something I actually liked—like track. And, just to clarify one more time, I did say track. I know when we talked about it the other night, you heard Russian roulette club.”

  Mom laughed a little, but I glared her smile away.

  “Seriously, Mom, the last time I checked, most people really don’t die at track meets. You know, the whole running in a straight line thing? Not too risky.” But even as I said the words, I knew a very sad truth. That even if my mother was suddenly possessed by the Friendly Ghost of Permissive Parenting, I couldn’t go out for track. As soon as I ran my first race, I’d reveal myself to be a Greater-Than. I might as well walk around carrying a sign saying Come and get me, very bad people who killed Sasha and Lacey.

  But Mom took the matter out of my hands. “I’m sorry, but my answer’s still no,” she said quietly.

  “Forget it,” I muttered.

  Mom gazed at me with sad, deer-in-headlight eyes.

  “Um, could you leave my room now?” I asked impatiently.

  Mom flinched as if I’d slapped her in the face. “Sorry, sweetheart. Yes, I’ll leave you alone.” And with that, she quietly closed the door behind her.

  Great. Just fantastic. As angry as she made me, it was even worse when Mom did things like apologize and act super sad.

  “Ugh,” I said, and threw off the covers. Enough wallowing in self-pity. I had more important things to worry about.

  Like using my psychic-powered dreams to find Sasha’s killer and keep the bastards from hurting any other girls—myself included.

  As I organized my backpack and got ready for school, I thought about the details of this most recent dream. The trees, in particular, stuck out. They hadn’t looked like typical Florida palms or banyans. But they didn’t look much like the lush forests of Connecticut, either.

  It occurred to me that, even though Sasha had been kidnapped in Coconut Key, the likelihood she was still in town—or even in Florida—was pretty iffy. I made a mental note to talk to Dana or Milo about that next time I saw them.

  Milo.

  Oh, yeah. That whole thing.

  I mean, it was kind of hard to not focus on that part of the dream. I could still remember every detail. Milo had smelled like vanilla again, and he’d tasted minty, without even a trace of cigarette smoke.

  Guilt hit me solidly in the chest as I thought about how vivid that kiss had been. It was, without a doubt, the most romantic kiss of my entire life. Which was not to say there were a lot of kisses to compare it to in the Skylar’s Romantic Moments subfile of my important memories. But there were a few that rated, the big kiss with Tom Diaz, sophomore year, holding first place. Until now, that is, when a kiss—from a dream, no less—knocked it down to a very solid second.

  And I sighed as I realized what that probably said about me—that out of the two most romantic kisses of my life, one had been with a guy visiting from California—a guy I knew was going home the next day. And the other had been, yes, in a dream, with the boyfriend of a girl whom I not only wanted to be friends with, but who could soundly kick my ass if I pissed her off.

  I grabbed a towel and headed to the bathroom to shower.

  Of course, Milo and I hadn’t really kissed. And we weren’t going to.

  Like he’d even want to. I remembered how quick he’d been, last night, to tell Nicholas the forger that I wasn’t his girlfriend.

  Except, God, if he could read my mind every time we touched, I was going to have to be extra careful about what I was thinking. It would be unbelievably embarrassing if he brushed against me while I was fantasizing some fairy tale where he played Prince Charming to my naked Cinderella.

  I sighed as I turned on the shower. It would be nice if some part of my life could be easy or simple. For a long moment, I closed my eyes and wished everything could go back to the way it had been before Sasha was kidnapped.

  Mom rapped on the closed bathroom door. “Sky, I forgot to tell you. The toilet in there is clogged, so don’t flush it! I have to call the plumber.”

  Yuck. “Okay, Ma.” I raised my voice to be heard over the sound of the running water. “What happened?”

  “Don’t know,” Mom called back through the closed door. “It was fine last night. But it’s backed up this morning. So no flushing, please.”

  “Got it.” I loved how Mom had to repeat everything she asked of me at least twice, as if she didn’t have faith I’d catch on the first time.

  I felt her presence as she lingered in the hallway for a moment, and then I saw the shadow of her feet underneath the crack in the door as she walked away. I couldn’t believe I was saying this, but I really hoped Mom had another date with Jenkins sooner rather than later, so she could continue to stay out of my hair.

  I showered quickly and dressed just as fast. I could hear Mom moving stuff around downstairs in the kitchen. I really had to pee, so before I grabbed my backpack, I ran back to the bathroom and used the toilet.

  Without thinking, I flushed the damn thing.

  Of course, the toilet made a pathetic, watery noise, without that ending clunk-cluh-clunk of the water going all the way down. I hopped up and looked in.

  “No,” I said quietly as the water in the bowl began to rise.

  “No!” I repeated, louder this time, as it got higher and higher.

  “Skylar?” I heard Mom call from downstairs.

  So I tried something kind of whacked.

  I thought about the dream I’d had, and the way I’d felt when I had seen Sasha and all that blood. And I let myself get upset.

  Her face, with those wide, little girl eyes looking to me for help. But I’d been able to do nothing. Nothing. Those little arms. She’d been waving for me, imploring me. And I couldn’t save her.

  My heart pounded. I thought about Sasha and stared at that stupid toilet and thought about the water turning around and going back down, taking whatever was blocking the pipe with it. And I let my heart beat really fast.

  And then…

  …eff me if the toilet didn’t make a huge burping sound before it just sucked all the water down, flushing it quietly and efficiently, as if it had never been clogged.

  “Ha!” I exclaimed.

  Okay, so Dana probably wasn’t talking about fixing the plumbing when she’d told me that my gift would come in handy. But it was a pretty convenient bonus.

  “Skylar?” Mom called again.

  “Fixed the toilet,” I called back, still breathing heavily.

  “What?” Mom yelled.

  “Nothing,” I hollered. And then I smoothed down my hair in the mirror, grabbed my backpack, and raced out the front door.

  —

  Of course, I’d forgotten that track tryouts were today.

  But the oversized orange-and-black banner stapled across the
front of the school gym was more than happy to remind me that not only did I have a mother who was insane, but that I too was not normal, and would never be normal again.

  Girls Winter Track Tryouts! Bring sneakers and a smile! 3–5 p.m.

  GOOOO, TORNADOES!

  I scowled at the banner as I passed it yet another time after science class.

  “Hey, what’s your problem?” Cal said, speeding up to match my pace.

  “Sorry,” I said as I turned around and waited for him. “I’m pissed off.” I fussed with my ponytail and nodded toward the banner. “Track tryouts are today.”

  Calvin didn’t need to take more than a few seconds to do the math. He said, “No way can you join track. Your life would be in danger.”

  “I know.” I sighed dramatically.

  “That sucks,” he said sincerely. “I’m really sorry.”

  I looked at him.

  Like me, Calvin would never be able to join track. But unlike me, he couldn’t run record-breaking speeds or move his boom box without touching it or read Milo’s mind. Unlike me, he was stuck sitting in a wheelchair, destined for an early grave. And unlike me, he was not complaining.

  “This morning, your mom called my mom about that cooking thing,” Calvin told me. “I’m signing up to take a class with you.”

  “Oh my God.” I winced. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No, it’s actually really great,” he said. “My mom talked yours into letting us take a class called Twentieth Century Film, instead. It’s held over at the community college, in their auditorium.”

  I must have still looked blank, like I didn’t understand the really-greatness of what he was telling me, because he added, “Their really large auditorium where they don’t take attendance, so they don’t know who shows up, and they screen really long movies that we can stream and watch online at a more convenient time so no one will know we’re cutting class? And the first class is Friday—tomorrow night—and my mother not only negotiated us an extra two hours to go out for ice cream to celebrate your birthday after the class ends at ten thirty, but she got your mom to give permission for me to drive you there and back.”

  I had to repeat it because it was just too amazing. “So, tomorrow night, I can not only get into your car with you without having to hide, but I don’t have to be home until twelve thirty?”

  “Double bonus: first movie on their list is Rear Window,” Cal told me with a grin. It was a movie we’d already seen—one of Hitchcock’s thrillers, with a hero who was in a wheelchair. “So when you get home and your mom goes, How was the film?”

  “I can tell her that it rocked,” I finished for him, and we high-fived. “I am so buying your mother flowers.”

  “She likes tulips,” Calvin told me.

  “Oh, by the way? We need to get back in touch with Dana and Milo,” I told Calvin. “I had another dream last night.” I glanced at him. “And? I fixed my toilet this morning.”

  Calvin looked at me like I had just grown a second nose. “Um, that’s cool?”

  “No, I mean, I fixed it with telekinesis. Isn’t that kind of ridiculous?”

  Calvin scratched his chin and stared at me. “More than kind of,” he said, “but I guess I should start getting used to it. It seems like you and Dana both come with buckets of ridiculous. I’m talking craploads of ridiculosity.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s a word,” Calvin assured me.

  “Anyway,” I said as we walked to band practice, “I was thinking about it, and I figured it might be really important. I mean, if I can move both solids and liquids—that’s a really cool gift to have.”

  “Yeah,” Cal replied. “You should work on moving gases too. Take the oxygen out of the killer’s room or something. That’d be awesome.”

  “Wow!” I exclaimed. “I hadn’t even thought about that!”

  Calvin frowned. “Girl, I was kidding.”

  “I’m not!” I said, clapping my hands. “Consider the possibilities!”

  “Okay, don’t go all mad scientist on my ass, pretty please,” Calvin said, and his words stopped me. “Maybe you should consult with the boss before you start any experiments. Call me crazy, but I actually enjoy respiration.”

  He was still laughing, but I felt a little sick. “You don’t really think I would…” I couldn’t say it.

  “Whoa,” Cal said, and his tone shifted so quickly that I touched his shoulder, concerned.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Whoa,” Calvin said again, even more quietly. “Check it out.” He pointed at the entrance to the band practice room.

  At first, all I saw was a group of faculty and teachers, including Diaprollo and Jenkins. The principal and vice principal were also standing there, as well as a few other staff members I didn’t recognize.

  I almost asked Cal what he was talking about, but then Mrs. Diaprollo took a step to the side.

  “Holy crap!” I exclaimed.

  “Holy crap is right,” Cal murmured, his mouth hanging open.

  Holy crap indeed.

  Garrett Hathaway was in the middle of the circle. The teachers were bending down to talk to him.

  And the reason why they were bending down was because Garrett was seated. He made eye contact with Calvin for a very brief second, and then quickly looked away. But Cal didn’t stop staring.

  The teachers stepped back, and then Garrett pushed himself toward the band room, just in time for Cal to catch up.

  “Hey, Garrett,” Cal said, nodding to the quarterback as he rolled by. “Nice wheelchair.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The rest of the school day was basically a blur.

  And understandably so. It was pretty freaking difficult to concentrate after seeing Garrett Hathaway, of all people, in a wheelchair.

  I do remember the color of Garrett’s face when Mr. Jenkins worked to clear a larger space for the quarterback in the front row of band practice. Moving everybody’s music stands three feet to the left was a tedious process—and it involved a lot of stares and whispers from the rest of the class.

  Of course, I was equally focused on my menstrual cramps—which were back in full force today, which was beyond annoying.

  As Chinese culture class—my last of the day—dragged on, I looked at the clock. The bell was going to ring any second, which was a good thing, because I needed a tampon switch soon. Sooner than soon.

  The bell finally rang, and I grabbed my backpack and booked it out of class, speed-walking toward the nearest girls’ room.

  Was it possible for anything to go right these days? A little reprieve from the relentless drama and mishaps would have been heaven. But that was apparently just a pipe dream at this point in my life.

  I went into a stall and slammed the door shut and inspected the damage.

  It was bad.

  I thought about tying my sweatshirt around my waist, which would have been great if I hadn’t left my hoodie at home that morning.

  I dug into my backpack for a tampon—and came up empty.

  And, of course, I didn’t even have a lousy dollar to feed to the community dispenser, and the old-fashioned machine didn’t take debit cards. Only coins.

  “No!” I wailed miserably.

  I heard the bathroom door open. Peering under the crack at the bottom of the stall, I caught a glimpse of familiar white sneakers. Kim Riley. Had to be.

  I heard Kim cross to one of the sinks and turn the faucet on.

  “Hey,” I called out impulsively. “Is that you, Kim?”

  She turned off the water, listening and no doubt wary of who might be calling her name. There were a lot of mean girls in our school.

  “It’s me,” I told her. “Skylar. From band? Hey. I’m in a little bit of a bind here…” I yanked my pants back up before opening the stall and poki
ng my head out to offer her an embarrassed and toothy smile.

  She knew exactly what had happened. “Bummer,” Kim mumbled as she tossed her paper towel into the trash can with rather extraordinary aim.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to have an extra tampon…?”

  Kim shook her head. But she dug in her baggy, ripped jeans and pulled out a tiny Yoda-shaped change purse. She extracted a dollar coin from its open mouth, stuck it into one of the slots of the dispenser, and turned the knob. Clunk. It was the sound of salvation.

  “Oh my gosh, you’re a lifesaver,” I said as she handed the tampon to me. I grabbed it and shuffled back into the stall.

  “Here,” Kim said, digging into her backpack before I closed the door. “Take these.” She tossed me a pair of old, wrinkly gym shorts.

  “Oh, thank you!” I exclaimed. “I’ll get them back to you, A-SAP.”

  “Eh,” Kim said, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and trudging out of the bathroom. “They’re too small. Keep ’em.”

  With that, she was gone.

  Okay, so sometimes life didn’t completely suck.

  I tugged Kim’s shorts on, grateful that I’d chosen to wear sneakers today. Platform sandals and gym clothes would’ve been quite the fashion statement. I carefully rolled up my jeans and stashed them in my bag.

  Then I jogged out of the bathroom and into the hallway, throwing my backpack over one shoulder. I picked up my pace as I rounded the corner—and collided straight into an extremely distraught-looking Jenkins.

  “Skylar!” Jenkins said, adjusting his tie as I took a step—more like a leap—back from his chest.

  “Sorry, sir,” I replied. “I didn’t mean to bump into you.”

  “No, it’s all right,” he said, glancing uncomfortably at my outfit. “Will you… Is that… Are you really…?”

  Jenkins didn’t provide a verb or otherwise end his sentence. I waited for a moment, because he didn’t make a move to get out of my way, either. But he didn’t say another word.

  Awkward.

  “Ooo-kay,” I said, glancing around him anxiously. “Well, I guess I’d better get going…”