Authors: Christopher Smith
“Zero and zero.”
“Let’s see if Jennifer’s game.”
I called her over.
She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt.
A hint of makeup, her hair hanging loosely around her face.
She looked amazing and I couldn’t help blushing a little when I asked if she was free on Saturday night.
I’d never asked a girl that.
“When aren’t I free on a Saturday night?” she said.
“I’m never not free.”
Her too?
“Want to join the boys for pizza?”
“Are you kidding?
I’d love to.
And maybe a movie?
It’ll keep me out of the house longer.”
“Deal.”
She crouched down between us and looked up at me.
“Are you settled in your new apartment?”
“I’ll let you guys be the judge of that.
Put it this way, I’ve done the best I could, but I don’t have a designer’s eye.”
“I do,” she said.
“You should see my bedroom.
Perfection on one massively limited budget.”
“Then you’re hired.
Something’s off about the living room.
It’s not right.”
She stood up and slapped us both on our shoulders.
“You boys bring the muscle, we’ll work out the living room.”
We decided around six on Saturday and then all of us looked over as Ginny Gibson stepped into the room.
“Shit,” Alex said.
“Shitstorm,” I said.
“Shit, I’m out of here,” Jennifer said.
She walked to her desk as Gibson, aware of the crashing silence, walked proudly to her desk and sat down.
She put her books in front of her, turned around to acknowledge Mike Hastings, who nodded, and then clasped her hands in front of her.
Her back was absolutely straight.
I saw her eyes flick sideways at me and I waved to her.
Her face turned red with anger, not embarrassment, but she said nothing.
I watched her slip a note to Hastings, who read it, folded it, and kept staring straight ahead as he tucked it in his pocket.
Somebody at the front of the class giggled.
It was Nick Huffman, Class A Jerk.
His iPhone was out and was looking at Ginny’s video.
“Put it away, Nick.”
It was Ginny.
He turned and looked at her.
“Are you serious?”
“Put it away.”
“Ginny, I’ve watched it, like, twenty times.
It’s funny.
You’re the one who put it up there.
Chill out.”
“I didn’t put it up there.
It’s not even me.”
“It’s totally you.”
“No, it’s not.”
“And that’s totally your step-father.
We’ve all met him at the games.”
“It’s not him.”
“Then who is it?”
“I have no idea.
Why don’t you ask Seth Moore since he’s responsible for it?”
I couldn’t believe she was escalating this.
She really thought she was invincible.
She had a hand in killing my parents and now she was taking it to a new level.
She was unbelievable.
“Moore?” Nick said.
“I think he knows better than to fuck with you, Ginny.”
“You’d certainly think so,” she said.
He looked over at me.
“Hey, Moore.
How did you magically find someone who looked exactly like Ginny and her step-father, and then take the time from your family troubles to shoot the video, take the photo, and put them on YouTube and Twitpic?”
I decided to go for it.
“It’s a mystery to me, too, Nick.
But who knows? Could be that I found their twins in different parts of the country, got them together for a video and photo shoot at my expense since everyone knows I’m so goddamned rich, and what you have there is the result of my creative genius.”
Most of the class laughed at that, even Sara Fielding, who not too long ago took a load of Hastings’ snot in her face and then, in homeroom, had light shining out of every orifice in her body.
She slapped her hand against her thigh in a way that suggested absolute relief.
Now, it wasn’t she who was the source of unwanted attention.
It was Ginny Gibson, and Sara Fielding couldn’t be more relieved.
“Oh, shut the hell up,” Gibson said to the class.
She turned and glared at me.
“It was you.
I don’t know how you did it, but my parents are looking into it.
So are the police.
You won’t get away with it.
I swear to God you won’t.”
“Ginny,” I said.
“Explain to the class how I could do that.”
“I have no idea.
You’re probably some mad computer dork who cooked this up at home through Photoshop or whatever the hell programs you use.”
She paused.
“But maybe I am wrong, Seth.
How stupid of me.
You don’t even have a home anymore.
Or parents.
They all went up in smoke.”
Hastings kicked her chair.
Somebody said, “That’s pretty low.”
I flashed back to that night, when I saw Ginny running away with the rest of them.
She wasn’t just a murderer, but someone who was blatantly going to rub my face into what she did to me and my parents.
She was worse than I imagined.
She was worse than any of them.
“I can’t believe you just said that,” Jennifer said.
“Shut up, bitch.”
“Shut up?”
Jennifer stood and faced her.
This was the first time I or anyone had ever seen her confront someone.
It was surreal—she just didn’t do this.
“How about you come over here and make me shut up?
You’re cruel, Ginny.
You’re cruel to everyone.
I’ve known you for most of my life and there hasn’t been one day when I haven’t wished that someone would just slap you across the face and knock some sense into you.
That was probably the meanest thing anyone has ever said to Seth, which is saying plenty.
It was uncalled for.”
“He deserves it.”
“He deserves none of what you people have doled out to him over the years.”
“‘You people’?” Ginny said.
“So, suddenly the librarian is an elitist?”
“It’s a hell of a lot better than being the crass act you are, babe.”
Ginny turned her head and presented the right side of her cheek to Jennifer.
“You want to see me slapped?
Then why don’t you grow a pair and come over and do it yourself.
We’ll see how far you get.”
I tapped into Hastings’ mind.
He stood up and slapped Ginny so hard across the face that her head spun back and his hand left an imprint.
She looked up at him in shock and saw another one coming.
She reeled away from him, but he was too fast.
He pulled back his hand and struck her again, this time on the other cheek.
“Shut up,” he said.
“Just. Shut. Up.”
But Ginny wasn’t taking it.
She balled her hand into a fist and smashed him in the groin.
Hastings went over with an “Oooof!”
Ginny got out of her chair and started toward Jennifer, who came away from her desk and stood her ground.
But Ginny wasn’t going to touch Jennifer.
There was no way that was going to happen.
As she barreled toward her, I tapped into Nick Huffman’s mind and made him stick out his foot to trip her.
She went down hard but she got up fast.
She saw the iPhone on his desk, grabbed it and hurled it across the room, where it smashed against the chalkboard and blew apart in a thousand pieces.
Then she snatched Nick by the shirt just as our homeroom teacher, Mr. Garland, walked inside.
He looked down at the floor, saw the ruined phone, and then he heard what we all heard—Ginny’s crazed hyena cry bellowing from the hollows of her throat as she slashed her nails twice across Nick’s face.
Garland was on her in a flash.
She writhed against him but he was able to pull her off Nick, whose face was bleeding so badly, the blood dripped into his lap.
I looked over at Jennifer and saw that she was filming all of it on her phone.
As Garland pulled, Ginny kicked and screamed.
She reached behind her and tried to punch Garland’s face, tried to reach for a thatch of his hair so she could grab it.
She looked so much like a she-devil that I decided to help her become one.
I made her eyes roll back in her head until they were nothing but poached eggs staring out at the classroom.
The look suited her so well, I decided it wouldn’t be bad if she knew a little Latin.
And so she became fluent in it.
In a low growl that sent chills through the room, Ginny Gibson became her true self.
With an almost super-human strength, she tossed off Garland as if he was a rag doll.
He slid quickly across the floor and slammed his back against the trash can beside his desk.
Ginny stood still in the front of the room.
Her hands were at her sides and her fingers kept reaching out and then curling inward.
She bared her teeth and then, without notice, I made her flop to the side in a way that was so physically wrong, it actually was physically impossible. I made her breath smell like rotten cabbage.
It wafted into the room.
Sara Fielding, once so happy only moments ago, became a horrified siren at the sight and smell of it.
And then Ginny started to straighten.
Her bones cracked loudly as she pointed her finger at everyone in the room and delivered a message Jennifer was about to capture on tape:
“Ego mos iuguolo totus vestrum!”
Nobody knew what that meant, but when a translator got hold of the video, they’d know.
Ginny Gibson just told the class that she was going to kill everyone in it.
I made her get on all fours and balance herself on her finger tips.
She walked around in a circle, made low moaning sounds that came from the well of her diaphragm and sounded demonic.
She bounced off a wall, vomited and then the she-beast I created skittered like a crab through the open door.
It disturbed people so much, I was certain it would land her exactly where I wanted her—smack in the middle of a psychiatric ward, where a straitjacket, institutional-green walls and an endless bottles of mind-erasing pills had her name on them.
chapter twenty-six
Since Alex, Jennifer and I didn’t have any classes together until after lunch, we agreed to meet at the cafeteria and discuss the hoopla then.
When the bell rang, I left Mr. Lisnet’s history class and joined the line of others walking down the wide corridor toward the cafeteria.
It was crowded.
Everyone was talking about Ginny Gibson’s video and photo extravaganza, and how she spoke in diabolic tongues during homeroom.
One person I passed happened to be in the hallway when Ginny scrambled out of homeroom like a crab.
I lingered to listen and from what I could gather, it took several teachers to wrestle her to the ground and call an ambulance.
Turns out her behavior was just bizarre enough to suggest that something was wrong with the poor girl.
Her parents were alerted.
All were now at the hospital in Bangor in the wing reserved for those whose minds tended to turn.
That’s three down
, I thought.
Five to go.
And they go soon.
My thoughts turned to lunch.
It was the most random part of my day because of the system devised to keep order in the lunch line and at the lunch tables.
For our school, it went down like this.
It was a lottery.
Whoever you fell in line behind in the cafeteria was the person you sat next to at lunch.
So, for me, it always was a losing proposition because, before Alex and Jennifer, I essentially was the daily special for bully target practice.
Because of this, there were years when I hid in my locker during lunch and just stood in the confining darkness until the bell rang.
I may have gone hungry, but it was better than being taunted or getting a fist in my face over the bad food.
Now, with my added bulk, I wasn’t even sure if I could fit in my locker if I tried.
I walked down the hallway and thought of all the horror stories I could have stopped if I was armed with the amulet then.
One for the record books was the day I sat opposite Hastings and Tyler while they loaded up their spoons with peas and snapped them at my head while calling me a faggot.
People loved it.
The teachers on duty saw it happening but they did nothing about it, thus proving my theory again—teachers were among the worst bullies.
They were there to teach us and to protect us, but they never once protected me during that time, even though they watched it happen.
Another time, Bruce Simmons, our celebrated quarterback, poured a carton of milk over his meal, spit in the center of it, switched trays with me and told me to eat.
If I didn’t, he said he’d beat the shit out of me after school.
I refused to eat the food—but I certainly ate his fist later when he kicked my ass in the woods behind the school.
What was surreal is that the abuse wasn’t doled out only by the students.
Another time, one of the food servers didn’t ask me what I wanted to eat.
She simply slapped a piece of pizza on my plate and said without lowering her voice that it reminded her of my face.
That got a good laugh from the students and the kitchen crew.
It was later that I learned that she also worked as a seamstress on the side and that Ginny Gibson’s mother had hired her to make her daughter a dress for prom.
Guess I came up in conversation.
My memory was an overflowing fishbowl of stories like this, which probably is why my stomach tightened even now as I drew closer to the cafeteria’s open doors.
I looked around for Jennifer and Alex, but didn’t see them.
I looked ahead of me and saw a sea of people coming toward me who I didn’t want near me.
I looked over my shoulder and behind me.
Nothing.
I couldn’t see them anywhere and wondered if they already were inside.
I wanted to leave but decided to just go through with it.
When I turned to fall into the formal, single-file line, I saw Ginny Gibson’s best friend, Amy Rogers, just two people ahead of me.
She was among the eight who burned the trailer and she was doing everything in her power not to look at me as she talked to the girl just in front of me.
You actually could see the focus on her face.
She was willing herself to ignore me, which spoke volumes.
I cocked my head to the side and stared openly at her.
She was a short, piggish-looking girl with blonde hair and lips that were abnormally full, much like the rest of her over-sized body.
She was exactly the person Gibson would choose to have as her closest friend because she didn’t compete with Gibson’s good looks.
What Amy Rogers did have was money and a car and a summer house overlooking the ocean that, at least from what I heard, Amy held parties at.
That’s why she was on the school’s A-list.
That’s why she was popular.
She could break into that house at any time without her parents knowing and hold a party hosted, in part, by her parents’ well-stocked booze cabinet.
Likely because she was freaked out that I was standing so close to her, she wasn’t paying attention to anything but her own conversation, which was a problem because the line had moved beyond her.
“You’re holding up the line, Amy.
Move it.”
The genuine surprise that washed over her face was priceless.
“What did you just say to me?”
“You’re holding up the line.
Move your fat ass forward so the rest of us can get our lunch and get out of here.
Is that too difficult to understand?”
She always had been a haughty little bitch and she looked me up and down as if I was no better than a white-trash piece of shit, which is exactly what she thought of me.
She looked behind her and saw the gap between her and the next person, who now was being served God knows what by one of the walking-dead line workers.
She turned back to me.
“If you’re so hungry, Moore, why don’t you just pass me and get on with it?
I don’t want to sit next to you, anyway.
Consider it a win-win for both of us.”
“Actually, my win against you is coming later, Amy.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means.
Now, move your fat ass forward.
I can hear that gut of yours rumbling from here.
We’re sitting next to each other today.
Things might get a little uncomfortable for you because of that and because of what you’ve done, but you’ll get through it.
Maybe.”
“What do you mean because of what I’ve done?”
“You know what I’m talking about.
I know everything, Amy.
I know all of it.”
Behind us, someone said, “Keep the friggin’ line moving!”
If she was too dense to feel the growing irritation with her, at least now she could hear it.
Frazzled, she turned, picked up a tray, napkin and utensils, and waited for her friend to do the same.
I saw her glance skid my way and the poison she unleashed upon me in those few seconds of hate was enough to make me act.
If you look like a pig, then you behave like a pig, you smell like a pig, you eat like a pig.
So, that’s what I planned to do to Amy.
Amy was one of those fat girls who hoarded the good shit in her locker.
Twinkies, candy, chips—it was all there, and I knew she fed on every bit of it throughout the day when no one was looking.
But in public, she was a dainty eater.
She went to the line and chose an apple and a Caesar salad topped with a bit of chicken.
Not too much chicken—she asked the server to take some away—but just enough so she didn’t look like the pig she was.
She was offered a big slice of something gooey for dessert, and while I saw her staring at it as if it was a million dollars in cash, she held up her hand and excused herself from it.
She went to the next section and poured herself a glass of water and then, with her head held high, she went and took her spot at the lunch table.
Her friend followed.
So did I.
I chose to sit opposite her so I could watch her when things got interesting.
She stabbed a piece of lettuce and lifted it to her mouth.
She chewed.
I folded my arms and leaned back a little, loving that she absolutely refused to look at me.
I looked around the room and saw Jennifer and Alex sitting across the way.
They got here early—we lost the triple jackpot of being able to sit together, which actually was fine with me because I didn’t want to discuss what became of Ginny Gibson earlier.
It would only mean that I’d have to lie to them again, which I didn’t want to do.
They spotted me and waved me over, but that’s not how it worked here.
You sat where you sat—no questions asked, even if they did save a seat for me, which Jennifer had.
She was pointing at it.
I shrugged my shoulders in a way that suggested the cafeteria militia wouldn’t let me come over.
They both looked disappointed.
As I held out my hands, I tapped into the rotten brain housed within the tight confines of Amy Rogers’ head.
The cafeteria was three-quarters full.
There were plenty of people still in line.
If there ever was time for a show, this was it.
Jennifer was calling over and saying we’d catch up later when I heard a loud bossy grunt and then what sounded like something slamming against the table.
I pretended to be startled and looked over at Amy, whose face was now planted fully in her pile of salad, which she was quickly gobbling up with her mouth.
Pigs don’t need things like forks or knives.
Pigs eat with their mouths and pigs certainly didn’t know their limits or any sense of decorum.
They didn’t understand that this tray of food is my tray of food, not yours.
Pigs don’t get that.
All they see is a buffet of slop surrounding them.
May the biggest and most aggressive pig get her full.
And that’s just what our new Miss Piggy did.
Finished with her plate and oblivious to the attention that was spreading throughout the room like a virus, she hoisted herself on top of the table and started walking on all fours down the length of it, stopping at each person’s tray to mow down on it.
People tried to shove her away.
Others moved back in horror.
One guy tried to move his tray away from her but Amy grabbed it before he could and dropped it down in front of her.
She gobbled and she belched and she choked down his food.
She looked up at the room with a smear of pudding swiped across her forehead and an apple clenched in her mouth.
And there she was—a true pig.
All she needed was a spit.
Nobody knew what to do with her—it wasn’t a scene in which you laughed.
It was something you watched, stunned.
Oblivious, Amy lifted her head sharply and tossed the apple in the air.
She opened her mouth wide—unusually wide, as if it was unhinged, because it was—and the apple dropped down her throat and straight into her expanding gut.