She is looking at me so fiercely that I have to bend down to the basket again. I pick up a t-shirt and begin folding it with such extreme care it's like I'm moving in slow motion. But I am trying to appear normal. And this is what people do in laundry rooms, right? They fold laundry. This is what Raleigh would do.
I glance at my dad. Somehow he always manages to tell her the truth. Drew really is my math teacher. Without her, I'd never have an A in Algebra II. And I don't really know Jayne. And Drew does feel the burden of taking care of her mother, especially on hangover weekends. I start to relax; my dad's got it covered.
"What happened to your feet?" she asks.
The question comes so fast, it's like some horrible dislocation. I suddenly look down at my feet, and even to me, they look wrong. Like they really do belong to somebody else. The skin on my toes is raw, a bright pink. The big toe is bleeding on top. The same feet she measured this afternoon.
I grab two socks from the basket and start pulling them on. "I went running. That's all."
"Well, kiddo," my dad says, "looks like you could use some new running shoes. How about we go shopping this weekend?"
I nod, like that's an excellent idea. But he's already heading for the door, like he knows she's got another question and my response won't hold up. I watch him go up the stairs, moving toward her, and something inside leaves me. It leaves me here, in the dark.
"Is dinner about ready?" He takes her hand. "I'm starving."
She's still staring down at me. I look away and continue folding the clothes that don't need folding. That familiar sensation returns to my throat. Like something's lodged in my windpipe.
"Raleigh," he says.
I look up.
"Try to get some sleep tonight," he says.
He waits for me to say something.
But there's no talking when my throat gets like this. Lifting the t-shirt in my hands, I bring it down fast, snapping it like a matador's cape.
He gives me a sad smile and says, "I promise. Everything will look better in the morning.
But sleep never comes.
Normally, I would chalk it up to my insomnia—if anything about insomnia can be called normal. But this night breaks my usual pattern. One bad night not sleeping always leads to a night when I finally crash.
But tonight, exhaustion's not working for me.
My mind refuses to stop picking at the puzzle.
From checking in at their house, it’s obvious Drew and Jayne had another of their epic fights. Jayne practically sneered at the mention of Drew, who had booby-trapped the cuckoo clock. But was Drew mad enough to bike to her dad's house? Nothing ticks off Jayne more than Drew choosing her dad, Rusty, over her..
Except . . . Rusty's apartment is twenty miles north of town, and Drew despises exercise. If I even mention jogging, she'll say: "I'm waiting for you to realize running is a total waste of friction."
I toss and turn for several hours. Should I call Rusty or not? A starving artist, he works through the nights. But Drew once said he hardly ever answers his phone. In that way, he’s like the two of us, hating the phone. Which might explain why Drew would bike all the way out there, to talk to him.
But twenty miles?
Drew complains about a flight of stairs.
I flip on my side, listening to the wind outside. It's been kicking up since I got home and now the magnolia branches are scraping across the brick walls, a sound I could record and sell to haunted houses. My next flip over puts me face-to-face with the digital clock. It reads 11:11. Like I needed another reminder about Drew's compulsion for perfect order, her need to dictate how everything will go.
And suddenly those odd words float back to me:
I already got the lecture
.
That guy outside the gym: The plumber, his white truck parked inches from the bike rack.
He said: "I already got the lecture."
If Drew’s purple Schwinn was locked to the bike rack, that truck would've come thisclose to crushing her prized possession.
I sit up in bed.
Who will not hesitate to lecture any teacher who gets one fact wrong?
Who would berate a plumber about the destructive force of a truck colliding with a bike?
Drew.
She would grab her bike and take off for . . . where?
Not home. Not when she's fighting with Jayne. And not Rusty if she has to bike twenty miles.
So why didn't she come to dinner? I start to wonder if my dad has a good point. If Drew wanted to make Jayne sweat--really twist the knife--she could pretend to run away. Again. And she didn't tell me about her plan because I'm part of it. My search for Drew is supposed to scare Jayne. And Drew won't call my house because of my mom.
I throw back the covers.
The Physics lab. Drew stayed after school most days, working on projects and tutoring numbskulls. What if she wheeled her bike into the lab? Hiding out late
during the dance until Jayne got so distressed she lost her drunken mind.
The cold floor stings my raw toes. I suck air through my teeth, slipping out of my pajamas and back into my sweats. When I pick up my shoes, tiptoeing down the servant's stairwell, I can hear the wind whistling over every stair that squeaks.
Thirty minutes before midnight, my neighborhood looks like somebody pulled a plug and drained all the color. Black pavement. Black sky with white stars. One long string of street lights, like pearls pulling me down the road. The only things with any color are the leaves blowing from the trees.
I run. My feet ache.
Between the gusts of wind, I hear my breath and the slap-slap-slap of my All Stars. It hurts too much to bend my toes. Of course, the bike would've worked better. But my mom's insomnia is often worse than my own, and my parents' bedroom window looks out over the back patio and alley.
By the time I get to St. Cat's, sweating and panting, the dance is still going strong. Cars fill the parking lot outside the gym, including a half-dozen limos. Slowing to a walk, I keep my eyes on the two people who guard the gym's double doors.
Our headmaster, Mr. Ellis.
And his assistant Mrs. Parsons, otherwise known as Parsnip.
Ellis speaks first. Naturally.
"Miss Harmon," he says. “Very nice to see you. But the dance has a dress code.”
Parsnip giggles.
"Yes, sir.” I wipe the sleeve of my sweatshirt across my forehead, mopping the sweat and the shame Ellis has thrown my way. "I’m not here for the dance.”
Parsnip's pinched face, by some miracle of genetics, can pinch even further. “You’re simply out running around town—at this hour?”
Like Ellis, Parsnip dangles this kind of shame all the time. You're supposed to reflexively feel so bad about yourself you’ll do anything they say. But it doesn’t usually work on me; I feel too bad about myself already.
"I need to get something inside the school,” I explain.
“Absolutely not,” Parsnip says.
"You know the rules, Miss Harmon,” Ellis chimes in.
“It'll only take a minute."
"Did you not hear us?" Parsnip says.
I consider explaining the whole situation. But that’s the nuclear option. After Drew ran away in sixth grade, she sparked a potentially fatal amount of electricity between herself and Ellis. Our headmaster likes to remind us how St. Catherine's prides itself on being the best and oldest girl’s school in Richmond. So great that Lady Astor went here, way back when.
"Can't you make one exception?" I ask. “It’s an emergency.”
But Parsnip has shifted her squint toward the parking lot. “Who would dare drive up this late?”
A white stretch limo has pulled to the curb. The driver jumps out, hustling to the back door and holds it open.
"I might have guessed," Ellis says.
MacKenna Fielding stumbles out. She grabs the door, waiting for her date. When he lurches out, she grabs his arm. She giggles. The two of them shamble toward us. MacKenna's crimson gown shimmers like fresh blood.
"Miss Fielding," Ellis intones. “Arriving rather late, aren’t we?”
"Engine trouble," MacKenna says.
Only “engine” sounds like “injun.”
Parsnip moves from the door, leaning down toward MacKenna. Our assistant headmaster is conveniently shaped like the vegetable we’ve named her after.
She sniffs the air. "Miss Fielding, really."
"Yes. Perhaps we need to have a talk with your father."
I really don't want to see this. And somehow I feel like I'm making this worse. Ellis likes an audience, especially when using someone as an example. So I look away, and that's when I see it.
The bike rack.
And a purple bike locked to it.
“It's here!”
The words burst from my mouth. Suddenly they’re all looking at me, MacKenna's eyes shiny as glass, and Parsnip’s expression saying she gnaws three times daily on lemons and loves it.
"Miss Harmon," she says, "would you mind?”
"I have to get into the school!”
Ellis looks at Parnsip, "Have we not made ourselves clear?"
“But I lost something," I say. This statement is true. So of course I push it even farther. "And I won't be able to get my homework done without it."
That stops them. For a moment.
"What, pray tell," Parsnip says, "did you lose?”
“My math." I really wish I'd inherited my dad’s talent for coming up with the right words at the right time. "I lost my math assignment.”
"Really!" Parsnip snorts. “Your carelessness doesn't absolve you from consequences."
Ellis looks at MacKenna. "Now, Miss Fielding . . . "
I glance at the bike. Sitting under the parking lot lights, the purple paint glitters like a freshly cracked geode. I can hear them lecturing MacKenna. It could go on forever. Time for the nuclear option.
"But Drew’s inside.”
Parsnip laughs. At least, I think it’s a laugh. It sounds more like Isaac Newton the cat coughing up a fur ball.
I point at the bike.
"Wonders never cease,” Parsnip says, recovering. "Miss Levinson rides her bike to a formal dance.”
“However," Ellis says, "I don't recall seeing her enter. Do you?”
MacKenna's date glances at her. His eyes are bloodshot but he manages to wink at her.
"I can state unequivocally," Parsnip says, “Miss Levinson did not darken this entrance tonight."
“Doubtful she would even attend the dance,” Ellis asks.
"Right," I say. "Because she's in the school."
The two of them turn, to refocus on the bike. MacKenna's date maneuvers her behind their turned backs.
"She's probably in the Physics lab," I say.
"Impossible." Ellis is still staring at the bike. But he shakes his head. “No students are allowed inside the school after hours."
“I'll go remind her," I say.
“Absolutely not," Ellis says.
“Out of the question!” Parsnip says.
“We will take care of this matter after the dance," he says.
“And take care of it we will," Parsnip echoes.
MacKenna's date grabs the door handle. She covers her mouth, stifling a giggle. I watch them, almost marveling at how they just bypassed these people, like authority didn't matter. And here I am, begging for permission.
“Miss Levinson needs further instruction," Ellis says. "She's under the mistaken impression that she's in charge."
"Indeed," Parsnip says. "Lessons need to be learned."
MacKenna's date flings open the door. A blast of music rushes out. I see that red dress bleeding into the gym, their laughter trailing.
"Why I never!" Parsnip says.
Me neither.
I run for the door, slipping inside just before it closes on Parsnip's voice.
“Miss Harmon—come back here!”
I hang a fast right inside the gym and sprint past the couples.
Couples dancing, holding hands. Couples getting their picture taken. And couples gaping as I run past.
Somebody calls out something, but I can't hear because the band is so loud. I hustle to the far end of the gym, where our P.E. teacher, Mr. Galluci, stands by the snack table. He's cradling a giant bowl of Doritos in one arm.
“Harmon!” he yells over the music. “What’s with the outfit?”
I yell back, "I need to get something!" I point to the doors behind him that lead into the main building.
"Can't let you!"
“Please?”
He leans in close, so he doesn't have to yell. “By order from the queen vegetable." He frowns. "Or is she a tuber?”
Parsnip.
“But Mr. Galluci, I can’t finish my homework without it.” This is true. Until I find Drew, I can’t possibly think about homework. "I have to get in there."