Authors: Melissa Parkin
As
soon as I saw Ian’s truck coming down the street, I headed out to the curb.
Before the vehicle even had a chance to come to a complete stop, I pulled the
passenger door open and jumped inside.
“In
a hurry?” Ian chuckled, but his tone held a mild dose of concern.
“I
don’t want to talk about it,” I said, hugging my satchel like it was a baby
blanket as I tried best to not sit back to inflame the scratches. “At least not
yet.”
He
cupped the back of my head. “If something was wrong, you’d tell me, right?”
My
eyes started to burn as tears began forming on my lower lashes, but I had to
look at Ian. “Can you make me a promise?”
He
nodded grimly.
“No
matter what happens, no matter what I may say to you when I’m ready to talk
about it, can you just promise me that you won’t look at me like I’m crazy?”
Ian
moved the hair that fell in my face out of the way, and continued staring at me
with the most distressing expression. “Cassie-”
“Forget
about it,” I said, pulling away and brushing his hand off my shoulder. “Sorry
for saying anything. Just drive.”
I
turned to look out the side window in an attempt to hide the streaks of tears
that started pouring down my cheeks, along with the painful embarrassment of
such an unusual visual vulnerability.
“Hey.”
Ian reached over me and grabbed the bottom of my chin when I didn’t reply,
gently moving my head back in his direction. “I promise.”
When
I tried to pull away from him again, he tightened his embrace.
“I
mean it. And if you haven’t noticed, the world’s already crazy. So whatever
you’re going through, I can guarantee you, I’d understand.”
“I
seriously doubt that,” I said, still feeling the pulsating needles of
tenderized skin sitting underneath the back of my shirt. “I’m about one step
away from being strapped in a straitjacket.”
Ian’s
eyes sharpened at the remark, and something unrelenting ignited in his gaze.
“What the hell is going on? Did Jack do something to you?”
I
shivered at the remark. “What makes you think this has something to do with
him?”
“Because
Alicia and Stacy are running the rumor mill on high right now with your name on
practically every headline they’re making. And I can’t help but point out the
obvious. Before Jack rolled into town, you seemed a little overstressed, but
you weren’t like this.”
“Like
what?” I asked, my defenses shooting up involuntarily.
“Skittish.”
“You
know better than anyone that I have the tendency to be a bit neurotic,” I said.
“I’m
not talking about being overwhelmed by schoolwork, Cassie,” said Ian.
“You
mean I’m acting
paranoid
?”
“Do
you have a reason to be?”
I
furiously wiped the tears from my face. “So you do think I’m crazy?”
“I
didn’t say that!” snapped Ian.
“Paranoia
is a psychological disorder, Ian!”
“First
of all, I’m not the one who used that word. Secondly, I’m perfectly serious.
What is going on here that you can’t even talk to me about it?”
“I
don’t want to get you involved in it. Trust me, you’re better off.”
“If
‘better off’ means watching my best friend fall apart, I’ll take my chances
with the alternative,” he snapped.
“I
think it has to do with those girls on the news.”
“You
think
?”
Tell
him, don’t tell him. Ugh! I had already dug myself this far into the hole. Now,
how much should I really divulge?
“There
was someone hanging around my house the other night. They were dressed in
disguise and they were taunting me through the windows. I called the police,
but they don’t believe me. And now I’m starting to think that I’m losing my
mind here!” I finally snapped. “I’m sorry.”
“Why
didn’t you tell me?”
I
shrugged woefully. “I don’t know. I just didn’t want to be judged, I guess. Or
maybe I just didn’t want to drag anyone else into my shit.”
“Cassie,
you’re my best friend. Your shit is my shit. So if you’re dealing with some
creep who’s trying to get a rise out of you by playing a sick joke, or
something worse, it’s my business. Okay?”
‘Or
something worse’ proved to be the operative words in this scenario, but it was
enough of a reassurance to get me through the car ride. If I was going to
crack, I had a wingman.
“Hello,
early morning commuters!” exclaimed Gwen as we walked into the gym, prancing
down from a step ladder and bouncing over to us with a bit more pep than I
could really stand to tolerate. “So, what do you think?”
“Looks
good,” I said. “Really coming along.”
“Funny,”
she cracked.
It
took me a second before I actually looked around, realizing that nothing had
really been put up yet. Most of the decorations were still sprawled about on
tables and in boxes.
“Asides
from the more time consuming problems of coordinating budget expenses and
whatnot, don’t most schools usually have only a day at best to actually set up
for a dance?” I said. “My old school had maybe six hours of prep time for their
last Homecoming.”
“Typically,
you would be absolutely correct. But given the high stakes of the game, plus
the wondrous pleasure of it taking place on All Hallows Eve, executing the
perfect masquerade theme is more crucial than ever. This is the dance that
people are going to remember.”
“Or
at least whatever’s left of their memories after the booze wear off,” mumbled
Ian.
“Hey,
I want to see you try to pull off running this and the upcoming Spirit Week
with all this pressure riding on you,” said Gwen.
“I
thought this was part of your religion or something. Don’t you live for this
kind of stuff?” said Ian.
“If
it wasn’t for having to work around Stacy and her demented posse, I would be
thriving off the pressure of this like the sugar high from an energy drink.
What you happen to forget is that they still have some say-so in the plans,
which means I actually have to compromise with that evil trollop and her gang
of trolls.”
“What
can we do to help?” I said, feeling more and more eager to do anything to get
my mind off of things.
“Well,
Callaghan, we’ve got a lot of supplies that need unpacking. Could you be a
doll, or at least a refrained pessimist, and begin unpacking those boxes?”
asked Gwen through a forced smile.
“I
don’t know if I can manage, but I’ll try.”
“Thank
you,” Gwen replied, climbing up another ladder with a tape measure in hand.
“You
should be more careful,” I said, watching the heels to her stilettos hang off
the backend of each step. “Sure you don’t want to go put on some sneakers?”
“Yeah,
well, I would, but I’m afraid to leave these people alone for even a minute,”
Gwen whispered. “Even I wouldn’t have believed what they were trying to do
earlier, if I had not witnessed it myself. Terrifying.”
“Okay,
then why don’t you make my first assignment to go and grab you your gym shoes
from the locker room?” I said.
She
winced. “Yeah, but what if Jeff swings by? I don’t wanna be caught half a foot
shorter. Besides, sneakers and a skirt? That’s one fashion faux pas I refuse to
fall into.”
“Yes,
because not even breaking your neck could compare to that tragedy.”
“Fine,”
she said, “go get them. But if I end up on some worst-dressed list because of
this, I’m pinning full responsibility on you.”
“Gwen,
this is New Haven. Not Hollywood. We don’t have tabloids documenting everyone’s
tasks.”
“No,
but we have social media sites, and I know Stacy would kill for a chance to
embarrass me.”
“With
a pair of Skechers? Oh, the horror,” I muttered before heading to the locker
room.
Taking
a deep inhale, I quickly ran in and searched down Gwen’s locker. After failing
the first two attempts at the combination, I was forced to take another breath.
Even with an entire night of vacancy, the deadly mixture of sweat and perfume
overkill still plagued the stale air of the locker room. I tried best to
breathe through my mouth, but it didn’t do much good. I finally unlocked the
door, forced it open, snatched her shoes, and slammed the rusted door shut
again. On my way out, I passed by the row of sinks, where there were five large
mirrors strategically placed above each station. Not sure if it was out of
curiosity or some strange masochistic tendency that compelled me to look, but I
dropped Gwen’s sneakers on the floor and rolled up my shirt. Slowly peeling the
adhesive bandaging from my lower back, I turned around to see just how bad it
was.
Given
the fact that the lights above were fluorescent, and therefore designed by the
devil to make any human being look disastrously worse, I can’t say it was the
smartest idea. But there I stood. Stunned. Stupefied. Immobile. Where just an
hour ago rested ghastly, mutilated marks, there was nothing but smooth,
untarnished, milky white flesh. I jumped at the sounds of the squeaky hinges of
the heavy main door being pried open. For the first time in my life, I was
happy to see that it was only Stacy who came inside.
She
walked passed me with a snicker as I still stood with my shirt hiked up.
“Checking to see if you need to shave your back again?”
Normally,
I would have fired out a clever comeback, but I was completely lost for words.
I let go of my shirt and staggeringly grabbed the sneakers off the floor.
“Do
you think the columns should be in the north side of the gym or the south
side?” asked Gwen, looking over an inventory list upon my arrival.
I
still couldn’t say anything. All I could do was extend my arm out with her
shoes dangling from their laces wrapped around my trembling fingers.
When
she looked up, she took them with unease. “You okay?”
Nothing.
I didn’t nod or shake my head. I just stood in a daze, feeling the blood
draining from my face.
“You
didn’t see Mrs. Sullivan in the shower, did you?” asked Gwen, cringing at the
thought. “I remember the first time I saw that. Freshman year. Scarred me for
life. You know, they make shower curtains for a reason. But apparently, someone
forgot to tell her.”
I
fumblingly walked away and headed out of the gym.
“Cassie?”
called out Gwen.
I
didn’t stop. My legs finally regained a sense of stability and I raced off down
the hallway to the bathroom. After making sure that no one else was inside, I
tore my shirt off and got as close to the mirror as possible. My back was
perfectly normal. No scratches. No abrasions. Not even the slightest sign of
discoloration. It was official. I was certifiably insane. I had flown over the
cuckoo's nest. Sleepwalking. Night terrors. Elaborate hallucinations. What was
going on with me? Some delayed post-traumatic stress trigger?
The
lights overhead began dimming. I immediately threw my shirt back on and stepped
away from the counter. As the bulbs started flickering, I jumped at the rush of
hot air that charged at me from behind.
“Get
control of yourself, Cassie,” I whispered, looking up at the ventilation duct.
I
decided that I had had enough of the
Ghost Hunters
mind games and exited
the bathroom into the silent halls.
“Jesus!”
I screamed, colliding into the solid weight of someone who seemed to have
spontaneously manifested in front of me.
“No,
not exactly.” Jack knelt down and grabbed his English textbook off the floor
that I had apparently knocked out of his hands. “But I appreciate the
comparison.”
He
smiled, but with my nerves sending a chilling pulsation across my body, I
failed to return the gesture.
“You
okay?” asked Jack, extending a hand out toward me.
“What
are you doing here?” I said, recoiling at the thought of his touch.
“You
mean, what’s a seventeen-year-old student doing at school, on a weekday? Hmmm,
I don’t really think we need to call in the detectives on that one,” he
replied, still smiling.
“What
I meant was ‘Why are you here so early?’ I didn’t take you as the type that
reveled in the idea of embracing the school day so much that you’d come in a
full hour before first period.” My words didn’t sound light. They sounded
accusatory. What I was accusing him of, I wasn’t really sure, but with the
images of last night still seared in the front of my mind, I wanted nothing
more than to run as far away from Jack as possible.
“I
came in to visit with Miss Tipton. That a crime?” His tone had changed. He now
sounded a little perturbed himself.
“You
smell like an ashtray,” I said, inhaling the lingering aroma of cigarette smoke
coming off his clothes.
“Yeah,
I was down at the dive just off Highway 1 last night with a few pals, and one
of them ditched the rest of us there without a ride, so we wound up crashing in
one of the private gaming rooms till dawn,” he said. “And the walk to the
school was a lot shorter than the one back to my house; hence my untimely
arrival.”
“Well,
I’ve gotta get back,” I said, strategically slinking past him. “I’m helping
Gwen.”
“See
ya in English then.”