It Begins (7 page)

But at least the humiliation had distracted her.

At least it had kept her from dwelling on the cemetery … the murdered girl …
Byron …

Thank God lunch was over now; she had only a few more hours to get through.

By the time Lucy found her next class, her head was pounding. Dull ribbons of pain crept down one side of her face and unfurled behind her eyes. She was achy and stiff, her shoes and socks were damp, and she still hadn’t had anything to eat. Her mind was worn out from worrying; her brain had turned to mush. She didn’t have a clue how she was going to make it through math. Like a robot, she slid into her assigned desk and saw Angela sitting right beside her. The dark raccoon eyes fixed on her accusingly.

“I’ve been thinking about that jacket of yours,” Angela frowned, leaning toward her.

Lucy braced herself. “What about it?”

“It looks really familiar to me. In fact, I have one exactly like it.”

“I know.” Lucy kept her gaze lowered. “Irene said I could borrow it.”

“And you didn’t even
ask
me?”

“You were already gone. And she said you never wear it anyway, because she gave it to you.”

“I can’t
believe
this!” Angela pulled back as several kids squeezed between them, book bags swinging dangerously.
“Look
at it! It’s totally
ruined!”

Someone bumped Lucy’s desk and murmured an apology. She glanced up to see the back of his faded jacket as he leaned over the desk in front of hers. Then Angela snapped her back to attention.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard you,” Lucy sighed. “I’ll pay to have it cleaned, okay?”

“You’ll pay to buy me another one, is what you mean. God, who do you think you are?”

To Lucy’s relief, Mrs. Lowenthal called the class to order and instructed them to take out their books. Then, while the woman droned on and on about numbers that made no sense, Lucy tried to ignore the venomous looks Angela kept shooting at her from across the aisle.
Don’t let her get to you … right now Angela’s the least of your worries …

“—announcements regarding the Fall Festival,” Mrs. Lowenthal was saying. Fall Festival? When had they finished with math? When had they stopped working problems on
the chalkboard? Lucy didn’t know … hadn’t been paying attention.

Something soft hit her foot. Glancing down, she saw what looked like a necklace lying there on the floor, but she had no idea where it had come from. Her eyes did a quick sweep of the class, but everyone was focused on the front of the room. Lucy scooted the necklace closer with the toe of her shoe, then picked it up to examine it.

It was a simple piece of jewelry—nothing expensive, elaborate, or even professional, she thought. Just a single strand of tiny beads, dark green glass, that looked rather childishly handmade.
Pretty, though, in a plain sort of way …

“—want all of you there early if you’re working a booth,” Mrs. Lowenthal continued.

Lucy put her left hand to her forehead. Was it just her, or was the room getting hotter by the second?

“—big fund-raiser of the year, as you all know,” Mrs. Lowenthal said.

It
was
getting hotter in here, Lucy was sure of it. She could feel drops of sweat along her hairline; she shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“—those volunteers will meet this afternoon in the library—”

Maybe I’m coming down with something—getting a fever—God, I’m burning up—

“—be sure to check the schedule to see which shifts you’re working—”

Lucy slid lower in her desk. Her head was way past throbbing now—it felt like it was going to burst. She wound the necklace around her wrist, twined it between her fingers; she could feel the tiny beads cutting into the tender flesh of her palm—

“—can use my car to transport some of the food—”

For a brief second the room shimmered around her. A tingling pain shot through her hand, and Lucy tried to brace herself against the desktop, tried to prop herself up, but her wrists were so limp, so useless …

What’s happening?

She couldn’t hold her head up anymore. She couldn’t hear … couldn’t see—yet at the same time she could see
everything, hear
everything, everything all at once, every single sense wide open—

What’s … happening?

The classroom vanished. The warmth building steadily inside her now burst into scalding heat, searing through nerves and muscles, throbbing the length of her fingers and upward through her hand, along her arm, exploding inside her head.

I’ve felt this before—oh God—-just like last night—

And then they came.

Lightning fast and just as merciless—images so vivid, so sharp, her body reeled with the force of them—

Hands—such powerful hands—eyes glowing through shadows—lips on her neck, her throat, and blood flowing, life flowing, “Could have been different … could have been perfect …”

Wind! Ah, the cold, sweet rush of it, taste of it, caress of it—night smells night sounds damp and cold! And fog so thick … woods so black … black and deep as—

“Death,” Lucy murmured. “I’m not afraid to die …”

And “Lucy?” … someone saying her name, over and over again
, “
Lucy … Lucy
…”

“Lucy?” Mrs. Lowenthal’s voice, anxious and loud. “Lucy, are you all right?”

Lucy’s eyes flew open.

She was slumped on her desk, both arms pillowing her head. She was clutching something in her right hand, and her whole arm felt numb and prickly, as if she’d been shot full of novocaine.

“Lucy?” Mrs. Lowenthal said again.

Very slowly Lucy lifted her head. She could see that the classroom was there again, along with the faces of the students, all of them staring, and Angela smirking beside her, and Mrs. Lowenthal leaning over her with a worried frown.

“You’re so pale, Lucy, are you ill? Do you need to be excused?”

Lucy tried to answer, but couldn’t. Instead she opened her fingers and stared down at the necklace in her hand.

“I’ll have someone take you to the nurse,” Mrs. Lowenthal decided. “Angela can help you. Here, Angela, let me write you a pass.”

But Lucy wasn’t paying attention anymore to Mrs. Lowenthal or Angela or the curious stares of her classmates.

As the guy in front of her turned around, she saw that he’d taken off his jacket. She saw the thick black hair falling soft to his shoulders, and the calm gaze of his midnight eyes. And then she saw him reach back and slide the necklace from her hand.

“Thanks,” Byron said quietly. “I must have dropped this.”

She knew she was going to be sick.

As Byron faced forward again, Lucy got to her feet and rushed up the aisle to the door. Then, ignoring an alarmed Mrs. Lowenthal, she hurried down the hall in search of a bathroom.

She finally found one near the stairs, barely making it inside before dry heaves took over. She left the stall door open and fell to her knees, sweat pouring down her face, her insides like jelly. She dreaded Mrs. Lowenthal coming to check on her—or even worse, sending Angela.

“This might help,” a voice said softly.

Lucy was too weak to lift her head. She felt a cold, wet paper towel on the back of her neck … a gentle hand smoothing her hair back from each side of her face.

She heaved again, but there was nothing in her stomach but pain.

“Thank you,” she managed to whisper.

“No need,” the voice whispered back to her. “The first time’s always the worst.”

Lucy lifted her head.

Turning around, she stared out at the bare floor, at the row of sinks and the dingy mirror stretching over them, reflecting nothing.

“Hello?” she called shakily. “Who’s there?”

Her voice echoed back to her from the bathroom walls. With trembling fingers, she took the paper towel from the back of her neck and got slowly to her feet. One by one, she moved down the row of stalls and opened each door, but they were all empty.

“The first time’s always the worst …”

Without warning a group of girls came giggling in from the hallway. Was one of them the kind-hearted stranger? But none of the girls even glanced her way, so Lucy ran fresh water onto the paper towel and blotted it over her face. Mrs. Lowenthal was right—she
was
pale—
frighteningly
pale.
Think, Lucy, think! Try and calm down … try to put things in perspective …

Perspective? How could she possibly be calm or rational about all the things that had happened to her in the last twenty-four hours? She was way past confusion now—way beyond frightened. Something had taken hold of her back there in the classroom—something had
consumed
her back there in the classroom—something she didn’t understand and certainly hadn’t been able to control. Something had crept over her and through her, transporting her to another place and time—she’d
seen
things,
felt
things—
horrible
things, intense and painful and terrifyingly real, and yet …

And yet there’d been no
complete
picture, Lucy realized. Nothing like a carefully posed photograph or neatly framed painting or smooth sequence of movie scenes running logically through her mind.

No, this had been different.

Just flashes of things, glimpses of things, puzzle pieces spilled helter-skelter from a box. Things without order, things that made no sense, though she felt they
should make sense
, and
did
make sense somehow, if only she could put them together …

Frowning, she stared down at her hand. The strange crescent scar stood out sharply against her palm, and there was a faint, lingering ache along her fingertips.

The necklace.

Lucy shut her eyes … opened them again … drew a slow intake of breath.

There was darkness … and death … and it started when I picked up that necklace …

The bathroom door swung shut. As Lucy turned in surprise, she realized that all the girls had left, and that Angela was now standing beside her.

“I’ve been looking all over for you.” Angela gave an exasperated sigh. “What the hell happened back there?”

Lucy couldn’t answer. She watched dully as her cousin leaned toward the mirror and primped at her hair.

“Well?” Angela demanded.

“I … felt like I was going to pass out,” Lucy murmured.

“I’ve never seen anyone shake like that before they passed out,” Angela said, casting Lucy a critical glance. “God, you look even worse now
than you did last night. Whatever you’ve got, you better not be contagious.”

“Who’s the guy in class?” Lucy asked tersely.

“What
are you talking about?”

“The dark-haired guy sitting in front of me.”

“Byron?”

Lucy nodded, tight-lipped.

“Well, what about him?” Tilting her head, Angela gave her hair one more fluff. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re
interested.”

Lucy merely shrugged.

“Right. Another smitten female falls under the spell of the mysterious Byron Wetherly,” Angela announced. Then her lips curled in a dry smile. “Well, yeah, he’s gorgeous.
And
sexy.
And
so very,
very
cool. But … you know … every girl in school is after him.”

She paused a moment, as if considering a matter of great importance. Then she lifted one eyebrow, amused.

“Frankly, Lucy, I wouldn’t bet on your chances.”

Ignoring the remark, Lucy pulled a fresh paper towel from the dispenser. “What do you mean, mysterious? Why is he mysterious?”

“Well, who knows
anything
about him, really? He keeps pretty much to himself.”

“Maybe he’s shy.”

“He doesn’t talk much. But with a face and body like that … why would he need to?”

“I see.” Lucy played along. “The quiet, secretive type.
That’s
what makes him mysterious.”

“Not just that. His family, too.”

“So his
family’s
mysterious.”

“They’re poor.” Tilting her head sideways, Angela studied her profile in the glass. “And extremely weird. I mean, the word is that Byron must be adopted or something—he’s the only normal one in the whole bunch. He lives with his grandmother—well, takes
care
of his grandmother; she’s an invalid. His mother’s been locked up for years.”

Lucy looked startled. “Locked up?”

“As in
loony bin?
As in
institution?”
Angela pointed to the side of her head and made wide circles with her finger. “As in
psychopathic maniac?”

“Yes, Angela, I get it. What’s wrong with her?”

“She murdered her kids.”

“Come on … you’re not serious.”

“Burned down the house with them in it. Oh, for God’s sake, it happened years ago. I’m not sure anyone around here even remembers the woman
personally
—it’s just something everyone knows about.” Angela paused, thought for a second, then once again faced the mirror. “You know. Like a campfire story. Or one of those urban legends.”

“But what about Byron?” Lucy asked.

“Well,
obviously
he got out, didn’t he? Him and his crazy sister. Are you finished in here?”

Lucy nodded. She ran some water over the towel, squeezed it out, then pressed it against her cheeks, stalling for a little more time.

“So … is the mom in prison?” she asked.

Angela rolled her eyes. “No, just in a straightjacket for the rest of her life. Poor Byron. I mean, can you even imagine? Everyone knowing your mother’s a cold-blooded killer? And, like
that’s
not bad enough, that sister of his was turning out just as bad—it was only a matter of time before
she
got carted off to the funny farm. Lucky for everybody, she ended up
leaving town before anything really horrible happened.”

“I guess that
was
lucky,” Lucy agreed quietly. “So tell me about the sister.”

“She
saw
things.” Another dramatic sigh. “Well … at least that’s what she wanted people to believe. She
saw
things.”