Be the Death of Me (9 page)

Billie

“Jamie!”

A small child, blond curls stuffed under a knit cap, dimpled cheeks pink from the cold, races past where I sit cross–legged overlooking the city park. The colors here are stunning. An orange and cream sky stretches down and kisses the high earth at my feet beneath swirls of pale–purple clouds drifting lazily overhead.

“Jamie!” the anxious mother yells again. She’s a younger woman, pretty and blonde, though still carrying a bit of late baby weight around her hips. Only under close inspection is it possible to see the faint shadows of sleepless nights circling her eyes. “Jamie, get down from there!”

The boy looks straight through me, searching for something that isn’t there with his baby blues. His tiny brow furrows in confusion and disappointment before he turns and toddles his way back down the grassy knoll, arms outstretched, laughing the way only a child can with joy and wild abandon. Flinging himself into his mother’s arms, the boy plants a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek.

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

I’m the worst kind of masochist. One that not only
knows
the pain is inevitable, but runs straight at it, like a doomed, beleaguered army charging into battle they have no hope of winning. It’s like seeing a movie, hating every minute of it, and watching it over again the next day.

Who needs this future, anyway? What’s so great about getting married, and having kids, and growing old? So what if I’ll never get to wear a white dress and have the kind of wedding every little girl dreams of, pure and beautiful? So what if I’ll never get to be a mom? Who cares about sonograms and nurseries? Why would I want a child to hold and love and protect? He would leave me someday, even if he didn’t want to. Everyone dies. There’s no avoiding it.

Life is nothing more than a drawn out death march, and I’m thankful to have skipped it. An eternity of being young sounds just find to me, thank you very much. Who in their right mind would want to watch themselves age and decay, reminded every time they look in a mirror of the life, the youth that slipped through their fingers? Dying in my own bed, knowing my long years are finally at an end? Having to watch the heartbroken faces of my friends and family cry at my bedside, hold my hand and tell me they love me . . . 

My situation couldn’t be better. I have a partner, a friend, in Tuck, and an assignment that only occasionally makes me want to tear my hair out. I have a boss that treats me with respect, and values my opinion. Why, just this afternoon, the Captain and I had a rather productive meeting; one of our best yet.

It went something like this.

Him: So Foster, do you have anything you would like to add to Tucker’s latest report?

Me: Am I supposed to have something to add?

Him: Is there anything you would like to report?

Me: Is there something you would like me to report?

Him: Do you have anything new to state?

Me: Did Tuck say there was something new?

Him: Are you and Mr. Ford getting along?

Me: Don’t I get along with everybody, Cap?

This continued for an additional five minutes before he eventually threw me out of his office. You can’t find that sort of employer/employee relationship just anywhere.

I watch as the woman hikes her little boy up on her hip, fitting him in the crook designed specifically for holding children. “Ready to go home?” she asks her son.

The boy grins and buries his head into her neck, covering his face with her blonde cascade of hair. I watch them go, just as I always have, just as I always will, until I’m finally met with the day I can tell myself I’m okay, and really mean it.

BAM!

The kickball comes out of nowhere, ricocheting off my head and rolling to a halt by my knees. It doesn’t hurt, nothing does anymore. It’s more of an annoyance than anything else. I whirl around, ready to chuck it back the way it came when I notice the hurried, chicken scratch handwriting scribbled across it’s shiny, round surface. I palm the red, plastic ball, and read the message scrawled over the back.

Billie,

Shift’s over. We have a problem.

Tuck

Marvelous. I knew leaving the two of them to their own devices was a bad idea.

I pick myself off the ground, vanishing even as I stand, ignoring the echo of high, heavenly laughter as it rings across the deserted playground, carried by the wind like the ghost of a long buried wish.

Billie

(Four Years Ago)

“So are you coming to Gino’s after school or not?” Maya skips along at my side, a goofy, hopeful smile splashed across her russet features. She bumps me with a playful nudge of her hips, and proceeds to check her makeup in my tiny locker mirror. “Justin and bunch of guys from the team are meeting up before the game tonight. So you know what that means.”

I watch her tuck a stray, black curl beneath her headband and say, “That every senior girl in a twenty–mile radius will also be there, and unless I want to go home smelling like sweat and cheap tomato sauce, I should avoid it at all costs?”

She ignores the sarcasm and sets about applying a thick layer of lip gloss to her already–coated lips. Maya has always put too much effort into her appearance. I’d never say this, at least not to her face, but she’s constantly seeking validation for looks that don’t need it.

“So are you coming, or what?” she says, smacking her lips together before deciding her makeup is officially flawless.

I shake my head, allowing a few strands to fall free of the ponytail. “I can’t,” I tell her. “I have that make–up test with Mr. Hammond today.”

Her top lip twists into a sneer. “Hammond?” she says through a grimace. “Yuck. I don’t care how long he’s taught here. The guy’s a total sleaze.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I have to. I missed the test Wednesday because Olivia’s stupid car wouldn’t start, and mom took mine to work.”

“Your sister’s car is such a piece of junk. Why doesn’t she just save up for a new one?”

I throw my English lit book in the locker and pull out a binder of notes. “She says she’d rather save up for college in case her scholarship doesn’t come through.”

Maya rolls her enormous, doe eyes. “Why wouldn’t it go through? Your sister’s a total Einstein.”

“Tell me about it. But that’s Olivia for you.”

She gives up with a crumpled pout. “Well, call me later, Chica, ok? I’ll make sure to tell you all about the fun you missed out on.”

Maya flounces away, all smiles and giggles. I groan and head in the opposite direction, imagining how much easier life would be if things like chemistry tests and broken carburetors didn’t exist.

“Gotcha!”

The arms appear out of thin air, wrapping around my waist and spinning me in a tight embrace. I squeal and drop my notebook, the papers soaring chaotically through the air. “Austin, put me down!” I laugh, enjoying the feel of his hands against the small of my back.

“No way!” he teases, throwing me over his massive shoulders and continuing to spin. “I’ve got you where I want you, Bill!” He spreads his arms like an airplane, gripping his gym bag in one hand while keeping me perfectly balanced with the other. The laughter carries around the deserted hallway, bouncing off the metal lockers and trophy cases lining the walls.

Mrs. Wen, the upperclassmen art teacher, steps out of her studio to glare at us. “Mr. Rowe,” she says calmly in spite of the twenty or so years she’s spent reprimanding teenagers on exactly the same grounds, “If it’s not too much trouble, kindly put Miss Foster down.”

Austin takes one look at the tiny, frazzled woman splattered in paint, and immediately sets me on my feet, an adorable look of chagrin across his rosy face.

“I missed you today,” he whispers. Mrs. Wen heads back inside her classroom and in our fleeting moment of solitude, Austin gently pulls the elastic band from my hair, burying his face in the blonde waves. For such a big guy, I’m often surprised at how tender he can be.

Most never see the Austin I see. They only see the basketball player dominating the court, dunking over the other players, winning championships. But beyond that there’s a boy who’s loving and thoughtful, and can make me smile even on my worst days.

“I missed you too,” I say, kissing his cheek. “I still can’t believe we only have one class together this year.”

“We should protest,” he chuckles. “Let’s refuse to go to class until our schedules are the way we want them. Or until they bring back cheese–fries Fridays in the cafeteria.”

I hit my knees and begin picking up the sheets of loose leaf paper strewn about the floor. “That’s quite the plan you’ve come up with,” I say as Austin stoops to help, “but unfortunately one of the prerequisites for graduating is attending class.”

“Damn the man, Bill.” He flashes me a mischievous grin and hands over a stack of notes. “Let’s go rogue on ‘em.”

A scrawny sophomore girl darts past, while a guy from my history class, staring from his locker a few feet away, rolls his eyes in disgust at the whole scene. I stand and begin cramming the papers back into their binder. “How about we go rogue after I finish my make–up test for Hammond?”

His broad face transforms into the same grimace Maya’s wore earlier. “Hammond?” he asks, the sneer fixed in place. “The guy’s a sleazebag.”

“That’s what they tell me. But sleazebag or not, I’ve got to make up this test or I’ll be retaking his class next year instead of heading off to college with you.”

I emphasize the last words by tapping him
on the nose. He responds by nipping the tip of my finger. A giggle escapes, and I reluctantly pull free.

“I gotta go,” I say, trying to escape as he places a hand on either side of my waist. “He’s expecting me, and I’m already running late. I’ll see you at the game, okay?”

“You’d better. You know I can’t play without my good luck charm.” He kisses me quickly before jogging the last few feet to the gym, turning as he reaches the wide, double doors. “I love you, Bill!” he calls to me, black curls bouncing, shouting the words unashamedly.

“I love you back!”

And I mean it.

Mr. Hammond’s classroom is empty when I arrive. The long, black countertops are wiped clean, the lab equipment washed and drying on a rack by the back sink. I groan inwardly as I do each time I’m forced by the West Rosemont High School Board of Education to step into the room.

Evil, thy name is chemistry
.

I sit in my assigned seat, a high, three–legged stool that creates welts on the backs of my legs, and leave my binder of notes closed. I don’t know why I brought it. If I haven’t learned it by now, there’s no way I’ll be ready in the next five minutes. Maybe I’ll at least get a few points for putting my name on the paper. Mr. Hammond arrives half–a–minute later, dressed in what I can only assume is the last leisure suit left in existence.

“Miss Foster!” he greets me, fingering the thin gold chain around his neck. “How thoughtful of you to join me.”

“I do what I can,” I mumble. And then louder, “I’m sorry I’m late. I had to talk to my sister about something.” It’s only somewhat of a lie. I did, in fact, speak to my sister before meeting Maya at my locker. I think I threw her a casual, “Hi,” as we passed in the hallway.

“Ah, Olivia,” Mr. Hammond says, shuffling through a stack of papers on his desk. “How is your sister these days?”

Olivia took chemistry as a sophomore, two years ahead of what’s required, a fact I’m constantly reminded of by not only our mother, our teacher, and Olivia herself, but also my report card which seems to silently judge me at the end of every grading period.

“I miss having her in my class,” he goes on, a wistful longing coloring his tone. “It’s a shame you two were never in class together. You would have made a formidable pair.” He drifts off, sucking hair between his teeth. “Anyway, I have your test right here, sweetheart,” he calls, waving a packet of papers in front of his face and resorting to his relentless habit of addressing any female student by slightly chauvinistic pet names.

I hide my grimace and walk to the front of the classroom. Mr. Hammond hands over the test, letting his pair of heavy lidded eyes linger on me a bit too long to be considered appropriate. I’m suddenly pleased I chose to wear a t–shirt and my oldest pair of jeans when I dressed this morning. I thank him and head to my seat, aware of his eyes on me as I walk back. I choose instead to concentrate on the test in hand, despairing at the thickness of the packet. I’ll be here forever.

“I hope you don’t mind, Miss Foster, but I have a meeting with a new student in a few minutes,” Mr. Hammond says.

“No, its fine,” I tell him, opening my exam to the first page. “No problem.”

I dive into the work, trying my best to put together the chemical compounds and formulas, hoping my brain won’t decide to spontaneously combust. The minutes drag by like hours, and I can’t help but imagine that this must be what eternity feels like, the sensation of forever, with no hope or end in sight. I content myself with listening to the clock tick faithfully from its place over Mr. Hammond’s desk. Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . 

As I flip to page two, the voice of Mrs. Mott, the front–office assistant, buzzes through Mr. Hammond’s classroom phone.

“Mr. Hammond?” the nasally voice calls.

He rises from behind his desk and goes to where the phone hangs on the wall. “Yes?” he asks, picking up so I can no longer hear the voice on the other end of the line. “Mhmm? . . .  Yes, I see . . .  Thank you.”

He hangs up the phone and takes a long look at me, his eyes making me feel twice as uncomfortable as before. “Mrs. Mott tells me I have a package waiting in the office. I trust I can count on you not to be tempted to cheat while
I’m gone. We wouldn’t want anyone to think you have special privileges when it comes to exams, now would we, sweetheart?”

“No, of course not.”

He’d have to be an idiot to believe me.

“Wonderful,” he smiles. “I’ll only be a moment.”

I nod and the idiot takes his leave. The test is suddenly much easier with the assistance of my notes. It’s also nice to realize only a third of my original answers were wrong. I write as quickly as I can, abbreviating answers I can come back to and elaborate on. My pencil flies across the paper, the tiny, rapid scratches drowned out by the tormenting ticking of the clock, all the while straining to hear the sounds of whistling and approaching footsteps.

“Hello.”

My heart freezes in my chest, and it’s a moment before I recover from my initial shock. It isn’t Mr. Hammond standing in the doorway, but a student, and judging from the look of him, a freshman, possibly younger.

The messy haired kid steps into the room, clutching the straps of his backpack the way a drowning man clutches a life vest. “Is Mr. Hammond here?” he asks me. “I have a meeting with him at three.”

I jump back into my work, eager to finish. “No,” I answer, not bothering to give the kid a second glance. Freshmen all look the same to me anyway.

“Oh.” He sounds slightly crestfallen. “Well, uh, did he say when he’d be back? I’m new, and the principal said if I want to take Chemistry my freshman year, I’d have to talk to Mr. Hammond. I made an appointment with him a few days ago. Is he—”

“He’s not here,” I snap, annoyed by his persistence. Doesn’t he know I’m trying to cheat? Some people can be so rude. “You’ll have to talk to him tomorrow.”

The kid shuffles back to the door. “Oh, okay. Never mind then. Sorry to bother you.”

“Thanks for playing,” I say as he leaves.

Freshmen are fun.

Mr. Hammond returns minutes later, supplying me with just enough time to copy what I need, and position the notebook back in the exact spot it was before he left. He settles at his desk, busying himself with grading papers. Occasionally he checks his watch, sighing and shaking his head, no doubt wondering where his three o’clock appointment could be.

The clock works to pacify me. It’s soft, reliable ticks keep me unruffled as I force myself to let time pass before turning in my paper. Mr. Hammond would never believe I finished a six page test in only twenty minutes.

And so time drags on.

Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .  My eyes drift involuntarily to the large, round clock. Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . Over and over and over again. Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . 

Ten minutes! Are you kidding me? How is that . . . ?

Then I notice.

The hands of the clock are in the same position they were half an hour ago, with the minute hand fixed unchangingly at five ‘til three. The second hand sits unmoving between the six and seven, and yet . . . 

“Do you hear that?” I stand, the stool legs scraping against the tile floor as I push. Shutting my eyes, the soft, almost inaudible noise becomes even clearer.

“Yes,” Mr. Hammond answers rather irritably, glancing up from his stack of graded papers. “I believe it’s called a clock.”

I creep closer, following the sound of steady ticking.

“Sweetheart, unless you’re finished with the test, I need you to take your seat,” he orders, obviously confused with my sudden interest in the timepiece over his desk.

“The clock,” I say, craning my neck. “It’s broken.”

He turns to see. “Yes, I suppose it is. I’ll have maintenance put a new battery in tomorrow morning. Thank you, darling. Now if you would please—”

“If it’s broken,” I say, moving steadily closer, “then why is there still ticking?”

The sound leads me forward, beckoning me on, daring me to find its source. I creep, determined, delirious in my pursuit. I’m vaguely aware of Mr. Hammond talking in the background; his voice fades into dull, incoherent echoes. And somewhere, in the far recesses of my mind, a louder, angrier voice lectures me about cats and curiosity.

The soft, gentle drum leads me to the room’s supply closet, a small cupboard to the right of Mr. Hammond’s desk. The door is propped open, held ajar by a short, black footstool. Inside are shelf upon shelf of laboratory equipment: beakers, test tubes, funnels, burners, clamps, goggles, aprons and gloves. My gaze finally falls on the row of hazardous chemicals we use in class at least twice a week for lab experiments. Something else is there, too. There, resting far back on the shelf. Something that doesn’t quite belong.

This is where my search has led me. The answer and the end of the line in one. I take a sharp intake of breath and reach for the handle.

The ticking stops.

The world explodes.

The noise is deafening, a million thunderclaps, hateful and furious as I’m thrown through the air like a rag doll. My body finds ground, hard, unkind, half a world away from where I stood only a second before. My cheeks throb with the shards of glass buried deep in my skin. I open my eyes to a existence of red, blinded by the warm, thick fluid flowing from my head.

Glass is everywhere. Flame is everywhere. Pain is everywhere.

Somewhere in the distance, a figure moves, crying out as it stands.

“Mr. Hammond,” I croak. I reach for him, stretching my arms out in front of me. My legs refuse to move, useless and disobedient. “MR. HAMMOND!” I call again.

There’s no answer. I’m alone with the smoke and flame. The impossible heat pours from the supply closet, a caged monster set free of its prison, raging, fuming, roaring. Something heavy lies across my body. My lungs rail against the crushing weight, fighting to fill with the air they so desperately crave. I push against the door pinning me to the floor, screaming in agony as the serrated metal rips through my jeans, through skin, through muscle, tearing into my legs like talons.

Every movement, every twitch sends blinding, sickening stabs of pain through my entire body. I stare in horror at the scene. How did this happen? What did I do wrong?

The fire blazes, beautiful in its destruction, threatening to consume me. Orange. Blue. White. All death. Flames lick hungrily at the walls of the classroom, waging war with their fatal fingertips. The door is gone, replaced by a wall of greedy, glowing flame. The room is a sea of black smoke, a darkness which pushes me under its waves, and refuses me entry back into the light.

It only takes minutes for the room to be completely consumed, the flames fueled by a healthy dose of chemicals. The poisonous smoke overtakes me, scalding my lungs with thick, fiery ash; a monster, buried alive, clawing at my chest from the inside out, burning, searing. I want to scream, but my throat is ravaged by blistering heat. I want to run, but my legs are unwilling, unable. I want to cry, but the heat licks at my face, drying my tears before they have a chance to escape. I want Austin. I want Olivia. I want my mother.