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by Unknown

knew was Lucas, and the smaller, brown-haired boy next to him.

  The sisters were tearing at their hair until it came out of their

  scalps in bloody hanks. They pointed accusing fingers at the two

  boys while they screeched a series of names—the names of people

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  murdered long ago. Helen suddenly understood what she had to

  do.

  In the split second it took for her to close the gap between them,

  Helen saw the other boy lunge at her, but he was stopped by Lucas,

  who threw out an arm and sent him flying back into the lockers behind

  them. Then her whole body stopped and strained.

  “Cassandra! Stay where you are,” Lucas called over Helen’s

  shoulder, his face no more than an inch away from hers. “She’s

  very strong.”

  Helen’s arms burned and the little bones in her wrists felt like

  they were grinding together. Lucas was holding her by the wrists to

  keep her hands away from his neck, she realized. They were locked

  in a stalemate, and if she could get her fingers half an inch closer,

  she could reach his throat.

  And then what? a little voice in her head asked. Choke the life out

  of him! answered another.

  Lucas’s achingly blue eyes widened in surprise. Helen was winning.

  One of her long nails grazed the pulsing skin covering the fat

  artery she itched to slit. Then, before she could process what was

  happening, Lucas spun her around and clamped her to his chest,

  restraining her arms against her breast and standing between her

  legs. The position he’d forced her into kept her off balance and unable

  to bring her heel down on his instep. She was immobile.

  “Who are you? What is your House?” he breathed into her ear,

  giving her a rough shake to punctuate his point. She was beyond

  understanding language.

  Outmaneuvered and helpless, she started to scream with rage,

  then stopped herself. Now that she couldn’t see his eyes she was

  becoming aware of the fact that half the school’s faculty was trying

  to tear her off him. Everyone was staring.

  Helen doubled over in agony as her abdomen seized up with

  cramps. Lucas immediately let her go as if she’d turned into a lit

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  match, his body convulsing spasmodically, and she dropped to the

  floor.

  “Miss Hamilton! Miss . . . Helen. Helen, look at me,” said Mr.

  Hergeshimer. He was kneeling on the floor next to her while she

  panted, trying to relax her muscles. She looked up at his sweaty

  face. His hair was messed up and his glasses had been knocked

  sideways on his face in the fight. She wondered for a moment if she

  had been the one to hit him, and then she burst into tears.

  “What’s wrong with me?” she whimpered softly.

  “It’s all right, now. Calm down,” Mr. Hergeshimer said sternly.

  “All of you had better get to class. Immediately!” he roared to the

  throngs of kids standing around with their mouths open. Everyone

  scattered as Mr. Hergeshimer stood up and took charge.

  “You boys,” he pointed at Lucas and Jason, “are to come with me

  to the principal’s office. Mr. Millis! Miss Aoki! You are to take Miss

  Hamilton to the nurse’s office and then go directly to your next

  classes. Understood?”

  Matt immediately stepped forward and put Helen’s arm over his

  shoulder, helping her to stand. Claire took Helen’s hand and held it

  reassuringly. Helen glanced up and saw Lucas looking back over

  his shoulder at her as he went quietly with Mr. Hergeshimer.

  Another wave of loathing broke over her, and fresh tears lined up

  in her eyes. Matt guided her while she cried, awkwardly patting her

  hair and getting her to walk toward the nurse at the same time.

  Claire walked on Helen’s other side, shaken and silent.

  “What did he do to you, Lennie?” Matt asked hotly.

  “I’ve never seen him b-b-before in my l-l-life!” Helen hiccuped

  and cried even harder.

  “Great idea, Matt! Ask her questions! Can you shut the hell up

  now?” Claire snapped, trying to get hold of herself.

  They walked the rest of the way without talking. When they got to

  the nurse’s office, they told Mrs. Crane what had happened and

  made sure to add that Helen had come to school with heatstroke

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  that morning. Mrs. Crane had Helen lie down with a cool towel

  over her eyes and went back into her office to call Jerry.

  “Your father’s on his way, dear. No, no, keep your eyes covered.

  Darkness will help,” Mrs. Crane said as she passed by Helen’s cot.

  Helen heard her rush out to the hall to speak to someone briefly,

  then come back in and sit behind her desk.

  Helen lay under the towel, grateful that she was being left alone

  and in relative privacy. She couldn’t think two coherent thoughts

  in a row, let alone explain herself to anyone. What scared her the

  most was that for some reason she knew that what she had tried to

  do was right, or at least that it was expected of her. Deep inside,

  she knew she would have killed that boy if she could, and she

  didn’t even feel guilty about it. Until she saw her father.

  He was a mess. Mrs. Crane told him everything that had

  happened, explaining that Helen was suffering from a serious case

  of heatstroke and that it may have caused her strange outburst. He

  listened patiently and then asked Mrs. Crane for a moment alone

  with his daughter, which she gave them.

  Jerry didn’t say anything at first; he just sort of hovered over

  Helen’s cot while she sat up and fidgeted with her necklace. Finally,

  he sat down next to her.

  “You wouldn’t lie to me right now, would you?” he asked softly.

  She shook her head. “Are you sick?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. I don’t feel right—but I don’t know what’s

  wrong,” she told him earnestly.

  “We’ve got to take you to the doctor, you know.”

  “I figured,” she said, nodding. They smiled at each other, and

  then suddenly they both turned their heads at the sound of hurried

  footsteps coming toward the nurse’s office.

  Jerry stood up and faced the door, putting himself in front of

  Helen. A tall, impossibly fit man in his early forties burst into the

  room. Helen jumped off the cot and stood on the other side of it,

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  glancing around instinctively for another exit. There wasn’t one.

  Helen had the feeling that she was going to die.

  In the corner of the tiny office, one of the sobbing sisters appeared.

  She was hunkered down on her knees, her face covered by

  her filthy hair, moaning names and saying “blood for blood” as she

  hit her forehead repeatedly against the wall.

  Helen put her hands over her ears. She pulled her eyes away from

  the horror in the corner and mustered enough courage to look back

  at the large man. A spark of recognition passed between them. She

  had never seen him before, but somehow she knew that she should

  be very afraid of him. At first his angular face was set with determination,

  but it quickly morphed into shock and then confusion. His

  eyes zeroed in on Jerry, and a nearly comical
look of disbelief derailed

  what might have been a terrible fight.

  “Are you . . . are you the father of the young lady that attacked my

  son?” he asked in a halting voice.

  Jerry nodded curtly. “My daughter, Helen,” he said, gesturing

  back to her. “I’m Jerry Hamilton.”

  “Castor Delos,” the big man replied. “My wife, Noel, won’t be able

  to make it. And Helen’s mother?”

  Jerry shook his head. “It’s just Lennie and me,” he said with

  finality.

  Castor’s eyes darted to Helen and back to Jerry and he pursed his

  lips as if he had set something right in his head. “Pardon me. I

  didn’t mean to bring up personal matters. Is there any way you and

  I might have a word alone?”

  “NO!” Helen shouted. She lunged across the cot, grabbing her

  father’s arm and yanking him away from Castor.

  “What is wrong with you?” Jerry shouted. He tried, and failed, to

  shake Helen off.

  “Please don’t go anywhere with him!” she begged, tears welling

  up in her eyes.

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  Jerry made a frustrated sound, put his arms around Helen and

  held her reassuringly. “She hasn’t been well,” he explained to

  Castor, who looked on with sympathy.

  “I have a daughter,” Castor replied gently as if that explained

  everything.

  Mrs. Crane and the principal, Dr. Hoover, rushed into the room

  as if they had been trying to catch up to Castor.

  “Mr. Delos,” the principal began in an irritated voice, but Castor

  talked over him.

  “I hope your daughter feels better soon, Jerry. I’ve had heatstroke

  myself, and I was told I did all kinds of strange things. It can

  make you hallucinate, you know,” he said to no one in particular.

  Helen saw him glance quickly at her and then into the corner

  where the sobbing sister was still rocking back and forth. Did he

  see her, too, she wondered, and if he did, how the heck could two

  people share a hallucination?

  “Well . . . okay. There’s no animosity then?” Dr. Hoover said uncertainly,

  looking from Castor to Jerry.

  “Not on my part, nor on my son’s, I’m sure. I’m more concerned

  about you, young lady,” Castor said, turning politely to Helen.

  “Luke told me he had to be, well, a bit rough. Did he hurt you?”

  Castor inquired. On the surface, it seemed like he had extraordinarily

  good manners, but Helen didn’t buy it. He was just trying to

  gauge how strong she was.

  “I’m fine,” she replied tartly. “Not a scratch.”

  His eyes widened ever so slightly. She didn’t know why she was

  baiting a full-grown man, a very big man in the prime of his life at

  that, but she simply couldn’t help herself. Usually, she hated arguments

  so much she couldn’t even bear to watch those trashy daytime

  talk shows where everyone screamed at each other, and here

  she was for the second time in half an hour looking to mix it up

  with someone much bigger and stronger than she was. Thankfully,

  she wasn’t as desperate to kill Castor the way she had been with his

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  son. No one had ever enraged Helen the way that Lucas had, but

  she still wanted to put a few dents in Castor’s fender. That urge

  confused her deeply.

  “I’m glad you’re all right,” Castor said with a smile, diffusing the

  situation. He turned to the principal and made it clear that he and

  his family did not want Helen punished. As far as he was concerned

  Helen had been ill, and the whole incident should be forgotten.

  He left as abruptly as he had entered.

  As soon as Castor’s footsteps faded away, the sobbing sister vanished

  and the whispering stopped. Helen no longer felt angry. She

  slumped down onto the cot like a balloon with a fast leak.

  “You’d best take her home now, Jerry,” Mrs. Crane said with a

  no-nonsense voice and a comforting smile. “Lots of fluids, no direct

  light, and get her to take a cool bath to bring her core temperature

  down. All right?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Crane. Thanks a lot,” Jerry replied, reverting back to

  the teenaged boy he had been the last time he was in Mrs. Crane’s

  office.

  Helen kept her head down on their way out to the parking lot, but

  she could feel the other students staring at her as she passed. As

  she jumped up into the passenger seat of the Pig she saw the door

  by the principal’s office open and the two Delos boys leaving with

  Castor. Lucas’s eyes went straight to hers and held them. Castor

  pulled up and put his hand on the back of his son’s neck, talking to

  him. Finally, Lucas broke his stare contest with Helen and looked

  at his father briefly before nodding and looking at the ground.

  It started to rain. One, then two, then three big, fat drops of summer

  rain splashed down, and suddenly the air was full of water.

  Helen slammed her door shut and glanced over at her father, who

  was also looking back at the Delos family.

  “Which one did you jump?” Jerry asked, fighting a grin.

  “The bigger one,” Helen answered, a half smile of her own creeping

  up her face.

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  Jerry looked at Helen, whistled once, and started the engine.

  “You’re lucky he didn’t seriously hurt you,” he said, not joking

  around anymore.

  Helen nodded meekly, but she was thinking that Lucas was the

  lucky one. The strangeness of her own thoughts scared her silent

  for the rest of the drive home.

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  .....................................................................

  Chapter Four

  Helen sat in a bathtub of cold water, the lights in the

  bathroom switched off, and listened to the phone ring

  over and over. She didn’t know what to say to anyone

  and every time she thought about attacking Lucas

  Delos in front of the entire school she groaned out loud

  in humiliation. She would have to leave the country, or at least

  Nantucket, because there was no way she could live down the fact

  that she had tried to strangle the hottest boy on the island.

  She groaned again and splashed her face, which was still finding

  a way to blush even though she was submerged in freezing-cold

  water. Now that she wasn’t being driven half crazy with rage she

  could think about Lucas objectively, and she decided that Claire

  hadn’t been exaggerating when she said he was the best-looking

  boy she had ever seen. Helen agreed with her. She had been trying

  to kill him, but she wasn’t blind. Normal boys simply weren’t put

  together the way he was.

  It wasn’t his height or his coloring or his muscles that made him

  so beautiful, she concluded. It was the way he moved. She had only

  seen him twice, but she could tell he thought less frequently about

  his looks than everyone around him did. His eyes, as pretty as they

  were, looked out, rather than back at himself.

  She dunked her head underwater and screamed, just to get it all

  out without scaring her father. When she came back up she felt a


  little better, but was still disappointed in herself. One of the

  terrible side effects of feeling like she somehow already knew Lucas

  was that she was starting to idealize him, making him more perfect

  than was humanly possible. Which was uncomfortable because she

  also still wanted to kill him.

  She pulled the rubber plug out with her toes and watched the water

  creep slowly down the sides of the bathtub until the last of it

  sucked down the drain. Then she sat naked in the empty tub, staring

  at her white, wrinkled feet until her butt hurt. Eventually, she

  knew, she would have to leave the dark bathroom and try to act

  normal.

  She got dressed and went downstairs to check on her dad, finding

  him just walking through the front door. He had run out to buy ice

  cream for dinner—and not just any ice cream, but the good stuff

  from the gelato place that Helen had banned him from when the

  doctor told him to watch his diet.

  “To bring down your core temperature,” he said innocently, shaking

  the rain out of his hair.

  “Is that your story?” she asked him, her hands on her hips.

  “Yup. And I’m sticking to it.”

  She decided to let it go. There would be plenty of time to worry

  about his cholesterol in the morning. After so many days with so

  little food, rich gelato was probably not the best idea, but it did go

  down easily. They sat on the floor of the living room with their beloved

  Red Sox on television, passing the pint and spoon back and

  forth as they cussed out the Yankees. Neither of them answered the

  phone, which continued ringing periodically, and Jerry didn’t push

  Helen to explain what had happened. Claire’s mom would never

  have let her get off this easy. Sometimes there were advantages to

  being raised by a single dad.

  Helen had to change her sheets before she went to bed. The

  stains from the night before had not disappeared as she had hoped,

  but tonight she had bigger things to worry about than sleepwalking.

  For one thing, she could hear someone or something moving

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  around on the widow’s walk. It was different from the sounds she

  had heard the night before. This time there were actual footsteps

  directly above her instead of just amorphous whispers coming

  from all sides. Helen didn’t know what would be worse—going up

  there and finding a gang of intruding monsters or finding nothing

  at all. For a moment Helen wondered if she was starting to crack