School of the Dead (18 page)

I ran across the street and, keeping back, followed. At the first corner, she made a right turn and then headed down the steep hill. I stayed behind, keeping to the left side of the street, behind the parked cars. She didn't seem to be in any great hurry, but she held a steady pace. It was easy enough to keep her in sight. Nor did she give the slightest sign to suggest she knew I was there.

The farther downhill we went, the thicker the fog. From the bay, foghorns began to moan. Hearing them, my dad had said, “The dead will soon rise.”

How right he was.

When Jessica reached Lombard Street, six blocks down and at the base of the hill, I held back to see if she would get on a bus. A lumbering one arrived, then left, spewing black exhaust into the gloom. When it went on, Jessica crossed the street and kept walking, moving into the flat Marina District, toward the bay.

I walked faster, drawing as close as I dared. That slight
limp told me I was following the right person. A good thing too, because this was new territory to me, and the fog had intensified.

After six more long blocks, she reached what was called Marina Boulevard. She crossed it. Signs told me this was something called Marina Green. After some grass, there was a long waterside walkway with benches that faced the bay. Off to the left was a boat anchorage. The fog hung so low all I could see were lots of white hulls, which looked like the bellies of dead fish. Gulls, invisible in the overhead murk, squawked as if calling for help. Somewhere out in the bay was Alcatraz, but I couldn't see it.

I held back and saw Jessica—the only person there—sit down on one of the benches. Was this where she'd been going that time I saw her come out of the school? Why here?

As veils of gray mist whisked about her, she appeared to be doing nothing other than sitting and staring out at the water. Was she intending to
do
anything? I had no idea. But when a nearby foghorn suddenly bleated, she turned her head, as if curious to know where the sound came from. The roiling fog hid her briefly, then thinned, just enough for me to see her face.

The face I saw was not Jessica's face.

It was an old woman's face, long, narrow, and wrinkled,
with jutting chin, high cheekbones, and thin lips.

I was furious with myself. I had followed the wrong person. Frustrated, I turned away, only to hesitate.
Something
was familiar about the old woman.

Retreating some steps, I tried to see the woman through the fluid, fluctuating fog. Gradually, I realized who I had followed: the woman in the painting, Mrs. Penda. In other words, it was just as the Penda Boy had told me: Mrs. Penda and Jessica were one.

If she had turned in my direction, she would have seen me standing there, frozen with amazement. Fortunately, she shifted the other way.

Waking from my stupor, I backed off, going up the street only to stop, asking myself if what I had seen was really true. Perhaps this woman
was
someone else. Perhaps Jessica was wearing a mask she'd made for Halloween.

I turned around and crept back. She was still on the bench, her face sometimes visible, sometimes not. Motionless, hardly daring to breathe, I
stood in place,
watching
,
waiting—I didn't know for what.

It grew darker. Foghorns growled with increasing frequency, giving warnings. The mist turned to a cold drizzle. My fingers grew numb. Though I began to shiver, I remained where I
was, staring. I had to be sure that what I was seeing was true.

The woman stood. I scurried across the boulevard, spying a bulky blue mailbox near the curb. I squatted behind it and peeked around, hoping she would not see me.

Mrs. Penda emerged out of the fog, limping the way Jessica did. As I watched, her old, wrinkled face began to twitch, shift, and alter, as if unseen hands were molding clay. All of a sudden I was looking at Jessica Richards, the young, pretty Jessica.

It was as if that youthful face was a mask, and she had come to take it off and let the cool, moist air soothe her real and ancient face, much the way I, with relief, took off my tie when I left school. She even—in that gesture I knew so well—pushed her black hair back behind an ear before going on. I had no doubt who she was.

She went past me, across Union Street, up Pacific Heights. I remained behind, darting from car to car, keeping her in view. Upon reaching the school, she opened the doors and disappeared inside. I remained on the sidewalk, gazing at the building, imagining her going into Ms. Foxton's office, stepping into the chest, descending those narrow steps into that awful room, lying on that decrepit bed.

I gazed up at the high tower. It was hidden in the fog the way everything in the Penda School was hidden.

I tore home, shot into my apartment, locked the front door, double-locked it, went to my room, and sat at my desk, my head resting in my arms. It took a long time to calm down, to absorb what I had seen.

I was horrified.

I suppose it was thinking about her going to that room that gave me a new thought: When we had finished our Weird History Club meeting, Jessica had urged me to study the building plans, to learn them so I could know my way around. Since it was she and Bokor who had found a way to get the plans to me, I asked myself, were the plans accurate? Jessica assumed I had no knowledge of the private steps and rooms. Except I
had
learned something about them.

With the plans spread on my desk, it was easy to identify the front of the school, the reception hall. I was able to trace which old rooms had become the school office. That included Ms. Foxton's office.

I checked the spot where the chest stood.

No indication of steps leading down.

The room below, where I believed Jessica lived under Ms. Foxton's office, was not in the plans either.

Nor was there any suggestion of that meeting room, the
hallway, or the spiral steps that had led me up to the Penda Boy.

In other words, since the places I
did
know were
not
on the plans, I was sure the plans they had given me
had
been altered. No matter how much I studied them, once I walked through the door at the back of Batalie's room, I would be lost and at the mercy of Mrs. Penda and her friends. The best thing I could do was
not
study these plans.

Then I remembered: I still needed to tell the Penda Boy which door I would be going through. And the time. Otherwise, I would be going into those hidden passageways alone.

At dinner that night, Dad said, “Figure out your Halloween costume yet?”

“I'd like to be the Invisible Man.”

Dad laughed. “That novel by H. G. Wells,
The Invisible Man
, was published the same year your school was founded.”

I said, “I need a costume for the Halloween party. Can I have some money for that?”

Dad said, “Twenty bucks work?”

“Thanks.”

Sitting at my desk, I reminded myself that I had promised to do two things—contrary things: I'd told the Penda Boy I would help him. I had told Jessica I would do what she and
her Weird History Club wanted me to do.

My phone rang. Thinking it might be Jessica, I hesitated. When the ringing persisted, I couldn't resist.

“Hello . . .”

“Tony?”

To my relief, it was Lilly. “Hi.”

“You'll never guess who called me.”

“Who?”

“Jessica.”

“What . . . what did she want?”

“She was being friendly. Said since she knew you and I were friends, and since she likes you a lot—said you were totally cool—that she and I should be friends too. That we, you know, should hang out together and do stuff at the Halloween party.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, I guess I wasn't being all that friendly to her, but I'm going to try to be nice. Just wanted you to know.”

“Thanks.”

“See you.”

“Yeah.”

I turned off the phone. I was sure Lilly hadn't understood, but the way I took it, it meant that if Jessica couldn't rip out my soul, she'd use Lilly. Did that mean Jessica suspected I
knew more than I was saying? Or only that she had a backup plan?

I got on my slackline and tried to clear my head. When I kept falling, I got out that slackline book Uncle Charlie had given me and reread the first page of the book:

           
WARNING

           
Slackline can be dangerous, resulting in injury or possibly death.

I remembered Uncle Charlie saying: “When you walk the slackline, you're not in the air; you're not on the ground. Sort of half alive, half dead. Good practice for being a ghost.”

I had to accept it: My becoming a ghost was what he'd been planning for me all along.

I had said, “I don't believe in ghosts.”

He had laughed. “You will, someday.”

“Someday?”

“When people say
someday
, it's like making a wish.”

His
wish.

I considered doing an Austin: quitting school. Only, if I did, they'd get Lilly. Lilly and me—not a romance, but she
was my friend. If I skipped, they'd get her. The idea of Lilly being Jessica's servant horrified me. I didn't want that to happen, but the only way to prevent it was to have Jessica come after me.

I slept badly. I didn't mind the nightmares. At least when I woke up, they were gone. My problem was that the nightmares I faced when I awoke did not go away.

Thursday, the day before Halloween. I felt I was walking the line. The deadline. The line of the dead.

When I got up, my first thought was that I had to tell the Penda Boy about Jessica's plans. Only I couldn't face going to school. I had to think things out. So when I heard my folks move around the kitchen, I slumped to where they were, my pajamas still on.

Mom looked around. “What's the matter?”

“I feel sick.”

She put her hand to my forehead. “You
are
a bit warm.”

Dad said to me, “What do you think it is?”

“Don't know,” I lied.

Dad, who never quite believed me when I claimed sickness, said, “Have any tests today?”

“Come on, Dad, I feel lousy.”

My parents exchanged looks.

“I can't take time off today,” said Mom.

“Neither can I,” said Dad.

I felt like saying,
Nothing new there.
I didn't.

To me, Mom said, “You'll be alone.”

“I'm used to it,” I said.

Mom and Dad eyed each other. When Dad shrugged, Mom made the decision. “Okay, stay home. We don't want you getting worse.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, and went back to bed. Once there, I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the world.

Mom came to my room to say good-bye. “I called the school to tell them you weren't feeling well. That nice Mrs. Z said she hoped you'd get better so you won't miss the party tomorrow. I told her I was sure you'd be there. Call me if things get worse,” she added, kissing my forehead.

Dad looked in. “Get well. You don't want to miss your Halloween party.”

The front door shut. I heard the locks click.

I thought about Austin. Had he known as much as I did when he quit? Had he told his parents? Didn't matter. He got out. Once more, I considered doing the same. The Penda Boy had said Austin lacked courage. I thought he was smart. Yes, I wanted to save myself, but I felt I had to make sure
Lilly was not hurt. Besides, I kept telling myself, I wanted to get rid of Mrs. Penda.

If I told my parents, they would think I was insane.

If I told Lilly, she would think so too.

I remembered that old question, “What's the deal with Uncle Charlie?” The answer: he was trying to kill me. It made me shudder. I was glad I hadn't seen him for a while. Perhaps he had done his job—getting me to the school—and I'd never see him again. Good.

Somehow, I managed to sleep for a couple of hours.

It was near eleven when I woke. I was glad to be home, but I wished there were people in school I could talk to. I thought of Riley Fadden, the Student Council president. “Problems with the school,” he had said, “come to me.”

Not a chance.

I thought of Ms. Foxton. She had said, “If you can think of any way I can be helpful, my door is always open.”

But . . . whose side was she on? The steps to Jessica's room were in her office. How could she
not
know?

I thought . . .

The first time we met, she'd looked at me with fear in her eyes, as if she was frightened of me. She'd even made a point of telling me not to believe stories about ghosts in the towers.
Warned me about Jessica. Made a big thing about finding me in the hall with her. Told Mom I should not hang around Jessica.

I tried to look at things differently: If Ms. Foxton
had
known what was going on when she first saw me, maybe she'd been fearful
for
me. She'd said Jessica didn't tell the truth. Made problems. She'd quoted someone who'd said, “A friend is one soul in two bodies.” She had even added, “When choosing a friend, you might ask yourself: Do you wish to share souls with that person?” It was as if she
did
know about Mrs. Penda and what she did. That all along, she'd been trying to protect me from Jessica.

Then why hadn't she just told me?

Because—I answered myself—I saw her only in school. Because she could have no idea who might hear her tell me what was happening. Mrs. Z was sitting right outside her office, and both the Penda Boy and Jessica had told me she was a watchdog.

That brought on a new idea: maybe it was Ms. Foxton who'd found the dropped flashlight.

I figured out how it could have happened: That afternoon, she came back from her meeting and saw a backpack in the office. She asked Mrs. Z who it belonged to. Mrs. Z told her I'd been there.

No big deal.