The Nightmarys (2 page)

who bothered to crane their necks and peer

into the dusty heights of the classroom’s

shadowy wal .

Until today, Timothy had taken no interest in

them. No one had, not even Mr. Crane,

Timothy’s seventh-grade history teacher, over

Timothy’s seventh-grade history teacher, over

whose classroom the specimens watched

silently and who was presently providing

instruction for the next day’s field trip.

“You’l work in pairs,” said the teacher

evenly, pacing in front of the long green

chalkboard. “Together, you wil choose a single

artifact to study. I want ten pages from the two

of you, il ustrated in the manner of your choice

—col age, drawings, charts, graphs, whatever—

describing where your artifact is from, how it

compares to the art of the era, and how …”

Timothy was not paying at ention. Something

in one of the jars was staring at him with a

glassy black eye.

Stuart Chen leaned across the aisle and

nudged him. Timothy jumped. “This is so

lame,” Stuart whispered. “I thought eld trips

were supposed to be fun. I can’t believe he’s

actual y going to make us do work.”

Timothy glanced at his friend and distractedly

grunted in agreement before turning back to

the specimen in the jar. It’s funny, he thought,

the specimen in the jar. It’s funny, he thought,

how things that were once invisible suddenly

become visible. The black-eyed creature

continued to watch him, silent and unmoving,

as if waiting for him to turn away so it could

shift position … or maybe unscrew the lid.

Timothy shuddered with the sudden thought

that there might be countless other invisible

things out there in the world that he’d never

noticed before, watching him al the time.

“The whole idea is dumb,” Stuart quietly

droned on, speaking over Mr. Crane’s speech. “I

mean, how are we supposed to know what to

pick? Anything in the whole museum …?” He

glanced at Timothy. “You’re going to have to

choose for us. I don’t real y care.”

Timothy nodded. “I don’t care either,” he

whispered.

To his right, he heard a strange clicking

sound. For a brief moment, he thought the

thing in the jar had actual y moved; then he

quickly realized that the sound had not come

from the shelves above but from two rows

from the shelves above but from two rows

away in the back corner. The new girl was

hiding something underneath her desk. She

rested her left ankle on her right thigh and

stared at something she held in the crook of her

knee. Timothy heard the clicking sound again

and watched as a smal ame from a silver

lighter burst at this new girl’s fingertips.

“Let’s get you paired up,” said Mr. Crane,

taking a notebook and pen from his desk.

As the teacher began to ask each student

whom they would like to work with, Timothy

watched the new girl in the last row continue

to quietly ick the lighter open and closed.

Like the specimen jars above her head, he’d

never real y paid at ention to her before. She’d

only been at the school for a month. She was

quiet and didn’t speak to anyone. She wore

gray—sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers. If it weren’t

for her thick, messy red hair, she might have

faded entirely into the wal . The next time she

lit the lighter, to his surprise, she held it against

her ankle. The ame raced up her white sock

her ankle. The ame raced up her white sock

before extinguishing itself. Timothy couldn’t

have been more shocked if the thing in the jar

had leapt o the top shelf behind her and

landed in her lap.

“This is going to stink,” Stuart said, not

noticing the pyro in the corner. Timothy was

too fascinated by what she was doing to pay

any at ention to his friend. Stuart poked

Timothy in the shoulder and said, “Right?”

Suddenly, her brown eyes shifted toward

him, and Timothy realized that he’d been

caught.

“Abigail Tremens?”

The girl cupped the lighter in her st and

looked to the front of the classroom, where Mr.

Crane was staring at her. “Yeah?” she said.

“Who would you like to work with?”

“Oh.” Abigail let her eyes fal to the desk. “I

… uh … don’t know.”

Mr. Crane peered across the blank faces of his

students, who waited in silence for him to

students, who waited in silence for him to

continue. “Would someone please volunteer to

be Abigail’s partner? We’ve al got to have a

partner.”

Abigail seemed to shrink into her seat with

embarrassment.

The class did not answer.

Timothy absentmindedly scratched at his ear.

Mr. Crane suddenly exclaimed, “Timothy July!

Good.”

Surprised, Timothy managed a weak

whisper. “But—”

Mr. Crane didn’t seem to notice. “Abigail and

Timothy,” he said pointedly, writing their

names down in his notebook.

Timothy turned around. The girl stared at

him, her mouth open in shock.

“Moving on. Stuart Chen, who would you

like to work with?”

Timothy glanced apologetical y at the boy

who had been his usual partner, whenever

they’d been given the opportunity, since

they’d been given the opportunity, since

kindergarten. But Stuart’s mouth was pressed

tightly shut; his face shone faintly red through

his olive skin. He glared at Timothy, sending a

dif erent type of fire across the three-foot aisle.

2.

After sneaking away from the history classroom

without speaking to Stuart, Timothy gathered

books from his locker for his next class. His

friend was angry, and Timothy knew he had

every right to be. If their places were switched,

he would have been just as upset.

After a moment, he decided it would be best

to explain that it had been an accident. And if

Stuart didn’t get it—wel , too bad.

Something was happening in Timothy’s life

that Stuart could not possibly understand,

something his parents had made him promise

to keep secret, a task he was nding more and

more dif icult with every passing day.

He’d just taken his hand out of the locker

when the door slammed shut. Timothy leapt

backward to nd Stuart standing beside the

locker, smiling strangely. After a few silent

seconds, Timothy managed to say, “Hey, I’m

seconds, Timothy managed to say, “Hey, I’m

real y sorry about the whole partner thing. It

was—”

“A lit le late for that now,” Stuart interrupted.

“You could have said something to Mr. Crane

during class.”

“I—I said I was sorry,” said Timothy. “We’l

be partners next time. Promise.”

“Fat Carla,” said Stuart, his eyes darkening.

“How would you like to be working with Fat

Carla?”

“I’d like it al right.” This was what he’d been

afraid of.

“Liar.”

Timothy felt his face start to burn. “You’re

kinda being unfair, don’t you think? It wasn’t

my fault. Plus, during class, you kept saying

how lame the project was going to be.”

“That’s ’cause it is going to be lame,” said

Stuart. “But at least we would have been in it

together.”

Something was bubbling deep inside

Something was bubbling deep inside

Timothy. Something he’d wanted to say to

Stuart for a while now. “Maybe it’l be good to

try something dif erent.”

“Dif erent? What do you mean—dif erent?”

“Stuart,” Timothy whispered. “Sometimes

you can be …”

“Be what?” Stuart’s smile nal y dropped

away.

“Not everything is lame. Not everyone is ugly

and stupid. In fact, I think the eld trip

tomorrow might be fun. You’re always so … I

just think … maybe it would be a good idea

…”“What would be a good idea?” Stuart’s voice

hardened.

“To work with a di erent partner on this

project,” said Timothy, clutching his math

book. “That’s al I’m saying.”

“Oh, that’s al you’re saying?”

“I got a get to class.” Timothy started to back

away, heading toward the math wing.

away, heading toward the math wing.

“You wanna talk about dif erent?” said

Stuart, fol owing him. “You should know.

You’ve been acting di erent ever since … I

don’t know when.”

Timothy felt his face ush deeper. He knew

why he’d been acting di erently lately, but he

hadn’t gured out a way to tel Stuart without

breaking his promise to his parents. “Look, just

forget it,” Timothy said. “I’l see you later.”

“Whatever,” said Stuart, before turning

around and walking away.

Timothy closed his eyes for a moment, trying

to shake away the horrible sensation in his

head. But he didn’t have the energy to think

about Stuart and al his stupid crap.

He was about to head into his math class

when someone grabbed his arm, jerking him to

a stop. Abigail Tremens stood behind him,

glaring with her deep brown eyes. She quickly

crossed her arms over her chest.

“So … you think you’re, like … my boyfriend

now?” she mumbled.

now?” she mumbled.

Timothy felt like she’d slapped his face. “Uh

… no.”

“Good. ’Cause I don’t need a boy to rescue

me or anything. I don’t need a boyfriend. I

don’t need a friend. I don’t need anything.

Okay? I’m fine by myself.”

“Mr. Crane said we al needed a partner.

Now you have one. What’s the big deal?”

Abigail stared at him for another moment

before saying, “Just stay away from me.”

3.

At the end of the day, despite the drizzle

spit ing against the school’s front doors,

Timothy purposely missed the bus home. He

simply waited in the boys’ bathroom until a

lit le after three o’clock, when he knew the

long line of buses would clear away from the

main entrance of the school. He couldn’t

imagine sit ing next to Stuart for the entire ride

back to Edgehil Road.

For a while now, their friendship had felt

weird; the shape of their history was a puzzle

piece that no longer t the empty space

Timothy knew was inside him. It was odd—

they both stil liked to play video games. They

watched the same television shows. Their

comic books had become so mixed-up over the

past few years, it was no longer possible to

distinguish which belonged to whom. Together,

the boys at ended swim-team practice three

the boys at ended swim-team practice three

nights a week and every other Saturday

morning. And their parents had always been

close, at least until recently.

Everything had changed when Timothy’s

brother Ben’s unit had been sent away. The

Chens didn’t understand how the Julys could

let Ben enlist during such dangerous times. The

Julys didn’t think it was their neighbors’

business.

When Timothy asked his brother about his

decision, Ben explained that, though he was

terri ed to go, it was his way of nding a sense

of order in al the world’s chaos. This was

something Ben could do: nd a lit le light in

the darkness. Make a decision. Accomplish

something. It was Ben’s way of dealing with his

fear, with the uncertainty of war and politics

and al those other big ideas that Timothy

hadn’t yet begun to think about.

After Ben went overseas, those words had

become like a mantra to Timothy. Find order

in chaos. The lit le light in the darkness. The