The Girl in Acid Park

by Lauren Harris

  I shuddered in my seat, a full-bodied cringe overtaking me at the memory of climbing from the car in front of a bunch of freshmen and parents who probably thought I was now both a gossip and a criminal.

  I shook myself and looked down at my notes, but I couldn't get the words I'd written to make sense. Sister Joseph Ann had written a reminder about passive verbs, but I couldn't figure out how it connected.

  To my right, someone giggled.

  Now, I've broken myself of thinking that every time someone near me laughs, they're laughing at me. Unfortunately, paranoia sits waiting at the door to your brain like a muddy dog, eager to barrel right back in the second you peek outside. My shoulders hunched and I reached into my desk for my powder compact. Sister Joseph Ann is super near-sighted, so she never notices if students use first period to touch up any makeup. It had taken a while to perfect, but I was getting pretty good at these cold war lady spy techniques.

  I'd chosen a seat three rows back, on the side nearest the door. It was prime territory, because it meant I wasn't in spittle-range when Sister Joseph-Ann rhapsodized about her love of intransitive verbs, but I was still close enough to make a quick exit.

  It also meant I could see the class fanned out behind me using my mirror, which is how I caught Kelly Waterman grinning at her lap.

  It's funny that people think they're being stealthy using cell phones inside their desks. You're either texting, or appreciating your own crotch, and I know which one I'd prefer.

  I heard Pete Cobb's phone give a slight buzz in front of me. He'd at least had the good sense to close his phone in the middle of a bible in his desk, but, of course, he pulled it out and immediately did the crotch thing. I couldn't see what was on the screen.

  I had reached the time limit for pretending to examine my own face. As I bent sideways to drop my compact into my bag, I hazarded a glance toward the back, where Hiroki sat. He usually drew during Latin class, and there he was, charcoal poised above his sketch pad. But something had piqued his interest. He stared over the shoulder of the girl in front of him, trying to see what she cradled inside her propped-up textbook. I didn't like his expression.

  A second later, he noticed me turned around and gave me a small shake of the head.

  I righted myself in my chair. Pete Cobb's shoulders shook with silent laughter. A flash of frustration sent my hand into my jacket which hung off the back of my chair. I slid my phone under the flap of my notebook and typed a left-handed text to Hiroki.

  What is it?

  His reply appeared a hundred years later.

  Some meme. I don't get it.

  I looked at the message for a few seconds, remembering the face he'd made when reading over the girl's shoulder. Bullshit. Some people had resting bitch-faces, but Hiroki had resting bored-face. I've seen the way he looks when he doesn't understand something, and it's like someone's reading him War and Peace. Backwards. He definitely doesn't do that consternated-brow thing. (Which is good, because the consternated brow thing is very attractive, and even though I've come to terms with our friends-only relationship, I can't help but notice when he does something cute. And he gets confused a lot.)

  So anyway, his text was bullshit. Which meant he didn't want to tell me what it was about. Which meant it was about me.

  My pulse throbbed in my throat, but I swiped out of our conversation and scrolled down to the name MARION.

  If you'd told me last year I would be texting this guy in the middle of class, I'd have called you crazy. I'd have written it on my blog. James Marion Grant, or The Bishop, as he was called around school, was captain of the chess cult, and former homework-farming tycoon of an essays-for-sale empire. He'd also been the best friend of Aaron Nguyen. I'd always thought he was a stuck up, nerdy rich kid, no matter how good he made the school sweater vests look. As it turned out, he was actually pretty cool once you got past the affected facade--still nerdy, but I liked that part. He'd helped Hiroki and me take down Aaron's killers, and though I suspect dealing with his best friend's death still gave him trouble, he's had my back ever since.

  Of course, he was a year ahead of me. We didn't share a lunch period and he was still chess club captain, so we didn't often run into each other outside of class.

  We did, however, text occasionally. It was kind of dumb, but every time I got a response, my stomach did interesting acrobatics. First when I saw there was a response at all. Again because of some utterly precise word choice that was just so him. And again when I hit send on my reply.

  I've got a crush. I know it's obvious, but I've got too much other shit going on to worry about hiding it. He would tell me the truth about what was going around if he knew.

  "...need to remember the passive past perfect participle in order to get a precise translation."

  Sister Joseph-Ann's voice cut into my thoughts with some impressive alliteration. I ignored the gibberish on the board, pulled up the thread with Jamie, and sent the same message I'd sent to Hiroki. I sat back in my chair, expecting to have to wait a while, but an instant later, I had to sit forward again. A new blue bubble had popped up. I held my breath and cupped my fingers around the screen to shield it.

  Police released a statement about the school.

  I stifled a groan and texted back, certain the answer would be one I didn't like.

  About me?

  He must have been about to text me himself, because his answer came an agonizing fifteen seconds later.

  Not specifically, but there's an article in the DT. It's ignorant.

  He included a link. Like me, Jamie is one of those people who understands what it's like to be too curious for your own good. I guess he decided to help me rip off the band-aid. I appreciated that.

  It took my phone a good fifteen seconds to load the Daily Times website, and it was unnerving to see the article in question was linked to the front page.

  A picture of the school from earlier that year headed the column. I'd seen it a thousand times during the reporting over Aaron's murder. Last time, the article had been some adverb-heavy bullshit about student sleuths solving crimes and putting ghosts and questions to rest. This time, however, the article was a little less than glowing.

  Toilet Paper--Fact or Flush?

  When journalist hopeful Georgia Collins wrote her treatment on the murder of classmate Aaron Nguyen, the state--perhaps even the nation--was impressed with her measured and thoughtful account. Yesterday, however, Collins was sighted leaving campus with county police, who later released a statement indicating that a request to utilize the paranormal skills of the students met with no success and they would not, in fact, be requesting any more help from the dynamic duo that allegedly helped solve the Nguyen murder.

  The question not only becomes why Collins was unable to perform for the police, but whether her version of events holds any truth at all. Until Nguyen's death, The Toilet Paper saw depressing little to report beyond the who-done-its of high school dating. Riding on the coattails of classmate Hiroki Satou's confirmed Spectral Sight, Collins claims to have paranormal abilities widely questioned by experts in the field. Though police recordings seem to confirm her involvement in the Nguyen case, further investigation reveals the possibility of a staged conversation between Collins and Satou, spliced with the recorded confession of Lacrosse Captain (tk).

  It seems even the police are calling into question Collins's motives in claiming paranormal powers. Could it be true, or is she merely attempting to repeat the Nguyen article's viral success, even if she has to fabricate talents? Is the aspiring author preying on the plight of the living for the sake of fame?

  I clicked my screen to blackness. Thoughts whirled through my mind like a hurricane and I couldn't fight through the winds enough to latch onto one. My hands shook. My body didn't seem capable of containing the pressure of all the emotions tangling up in my chest. The Daily Times' articles were questionable in the first place, but this one was...

  "'...and nothing deserving of death has been done by
him.' In this case, the agent is him, so we know we'll be using the dative declension."

  Someone smothered a laugh toward the back of class, and a gleeful whisper followed. I caught the words, "saw" and "flush".

  My entire face burned. Sister Joseph-Ann continued to write on the white board, her nose two inches from the squeaking marker, but I had Datived all I could Dative. I needed to get away from this classroom. I needed to get to my room, where I could shut it all out and pretend never to have gotten out of bed in the first place.

  I shoved my Latin book into my purse and stood up. It was only a few minutes till the end of class--I could pretend to be going to the bathroom. I crept past Pete Cobb, determinedly not looking at the class behind me.

  I had my hand on the door when Sister Joseph-Ann apparently regained her ability to see beyond her nose.

  "Miss Collins, sit down, please." Someone giggled, and I froze, gathering the last of my slipping threads of dignity. I turned to see the nun squinting back at me, the tip of her nose slightly blue where she'd swiped it through the words on the whiteboard.

  "I have to go to the bathroom."

  She backed away from the board a few paces, squinting at the black and white clock hanging over the board. "Class is over in three minutes. You can wait that long, can't you?"

  "Nope," I said. "Emergency."

  "Miss Collins?" She said it like a question, but it was command. Like Caesar before her, his woman had mastered the imperative. I swallowed, feeling the panic mounting as the class leaned in. There were precious few grimaces amongst the grinning masses.

  "I literally have blood coming out of my vagina," I announced.

  I was fairly certain the v-word would stun her enough to let me leave. I was about to turn to the door when someone spoke from the back row.

  "She's making it up! Flush it!"

  I whirled, whipping my gaze at Declan White, who grinned at the back of the classroom. "Why don't I put my Mary Jane up your ass and you can see if I've made up my shoe size."

  "I don't think you'd get far past that fat ankle," he said, to which Hiroki snapped, "Hey!" but I was ready.

  "Think of it as a favor to your boyfriend."

  "Miss Collins!" Sister Joseph-Ann had clearly had it, but the damage was done. My two minutes of waiting were up. I hit the hallway at a speed-walk and the bell rang an instant after. I needed to get to my room before people saw me. I didn't want to make more people happy with my misery.

  "Georgia!" Hiroki was on his way behind me, but my face was too hot, my chest too full to let me slow down. Neither of us were great at running, but he was faster over short distances. He caught up to me on the stairs, my jacket hanging over his arm.

  "Georgia, come on--it's a stupid article."

  I stopped on the landing and rounded on him. "No! It isn't! Everyone hates me except you and Jamie, and now I'm in trouble with the Principal. I'm in trouble with the fucking police because they assume everyone with paranormal talents has Spectral Sight and you couldn't be bothered to come help!"

  He jerked his head back. "I told you I wasn't going. You didn't have to-"

  "Yes I did!" The hallway below us was filling with students, but I didn't care anymore. "I have to do something or...or...I'm just going to be stuck as the girl who dumped everyone's secrets on the internet!"

  Hiroki stepped back from me with a wince. I guess my aura or whatever was getting too spiky for his comfort. "That's not my fault, Georgia! I made a choice not to work with the police anymore, and I'm not going to let you guilt me into it."

  "But why?" I demanded. "You could have helped them! You could have helped me!"

  He flung out his hands, nearly dropping my jacket. "What other teenager gets pulled out of class to talk to murder victims? You had one little experience and now you think you understand what it's like to see ghosts everywhere. You don't get it!"

  "I can-"

  "You can't! I don't get a break, Georgia. Every time I look out the window, Amy Barnes is swinging in that tree. I used to count on you to distract me, but lately it's all you think about too, and I'm sick of my whole life being about death!"

  Half the people in the hallway below stared up at us, and I didn't want to know what they were thinking. Guilt slithered in with all the other feelings, whispering at my back, telling me I'd failed my best friend by assuming his relaxed attitude toward the Sight meant he liked having it.

  I shook my head. "But...you've never said..." How to explain? "I can't use my powers without your help."

  He tossed my jacket to me. "That's not my problem."

  The fabric hurt my fingers. Probably the same way his fingers hurt when he touched other people. Or maybe it was just what he'd said, stinging in every cell.

  Maybe I should have known what Hiroki had been feeling, but I hadn't. I'd been too mired in my own problems to notice my best friend sinking with me. At the same time, I was still mad. Couldn't his crisis-of-self have waited until the entire school wasn't trying to humiliate me? Then again, maybe it suited Hiroki to distance himself right now. They only hated me.

  "You're right." The heat in my face had concentrated behind my eyes. "None of this is your problem."

  I turned to the stairs, unable to look at him anymore. I just needed to get to my room. Claim to be sick. Deal with it tomorrow. Because chances were, I'd be dealing with it minus one best friend.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hanging Out

  I stayed in my room all the rest of Thursday, editing and re-editing a post for The Toilet Paper. I'd told the RA I was sick, and I must have looked bad enough to convince her, because she just wrote a note for my teachers, scribbled my name on the hall prayer board, and sent me back to my room. I didn't even go to the cafeteria--just survived on my stash of peanut butter crackers and Dr. Pepper.

  I was hiding. Knowing that made me mad, and it was a while before I realized I was mostly mad at myself for running away.

  The idea of going back to class made me sick to my stomach, but as soon as I realized I was giving my so-called-enemies exactly what they wanted, hibernation season was over. I wasn't just going to hide until people forgot. I hadn't told any lies, I wasn't making up my powers, and I would prove it if I had to. So, when Friday morning rolled around, I applied a coat of velvety, blood red lipstick and constructed a plan.

  I bulldozed my way through the day, impervious to comment or sideways looks, deaf to the State Fair trips and Halloween costumes being planned without me. It wasn't until lunch that my plan wavered, because that was when I saw Hiroki again.

  He was sitting in our circular, two-story cafeteria. I'd glanced at our usual table, which was jammed into the corner under the stairs away from the general hubbub of shouts and laughter, but he wasn't there. Instead, he sat with a knot of students from his art class, chin in one hand, phone in the other. The side of his left palm was gray and shiny with graphite, and he'd smudged some on his chin.

  As if alerted by the spirits, his eyes found me through the crowd. For five years straight, I'd sat with Hiroki, occasionally joined by my former Toilet Paper co-authors. When he'd been sick or the police requisitioned him for consultation, I'd simply insinuated myself into an acquaintance's group and kept an ear open for potential stories.

  There was no way that would happen now. The realization hit me so hard I might have laughed. Like any good teen movie heroine, I was facing down the dreaded cafeteria crisis.

  It was so cliche. I stood there with my lunch tray in hand, staring at my estranged best friend with a hostile population of angry classmates ignoring my very existence. Hiroki lifted his chin from his hand, elegant fingers folding in as he sat up straighter, and for just a moment, I began to hope... Then he did the worst thing I could possibly think of.

  I watched him turn away, stiff-shouldered. The pain was physical, surprising, like a harpoon to the chest, and it sent me back a step. I could have looked around, pled for mercy from the students too nice to turn me down, but having no one to sit wi
th wasn't my chief worry anymore.

  A memory flashed into my mind. Seventh grade, on the track shared between Millroad Academy's middle and high school campuses, he'd touched me for the first time. We staggered, both in our P.E. Uniforms, to the salvation of a bench. I'd been drenched in sweat, salt burning the corners of my eyes, too preoccupied by the discomfort of the annual mile-run when I felt the flicker of fingertip over my scar.

  He hadn't ask what I'd done. All he asked was, "Why?"

  And I'd told him no one at my last school had spoken to me for all of fifth and sixth grade, and my parents were fighting, and I hadn't known any other way to escape the sadness.

  In retrospect, he'd probably sensed the abilities that brush with death had given me. Maybe he hadn't known exactly that I was a connection to beyond, but he'd known something. He'd just nodded solemnly, gotten up when our gym teacher blew his whistle at us, and ambled beside me for the last quarter mile.

  He hadn't been a smoker then--he could have run. But he hadn't. He'd stuck with me. I'd never told him how much I appreciated it.

  And now, Hiroki had turned his back. Hiroki, who knew why I never went without bracelets, and stood up for me no matter what, and always acknowledged what I said, even if it was to disagree. He knew exactly how to hurt me the most. And he'd done exactly that.

  Everything around me seemed slow and blurry as I turned, drifting through the double doors to the central hallway, opposite Higher Grounds. I kept walking, and even though we weren't supposed to take the trays from the cafeteria, no one stopped me. I wouldn't have noticed if they tried.