After Obsession (15 page)

Focusing on algebra is impossible. Thinking about Blake’s friend sitting three rows over and two desks ahead of me is useless. Keeping an eye on the teacher and my book open to the problems I’m supposed to be working on, I begin writing a note to Aimee, since the algebra teacher is tough on cells.

We need some things. We need real sage and sweetgrass. And rocks. We can’t use river rocks. Not because they’re from his river, but because river rocks get air pockets in them and can explode when they get hot. Where can we get some granite rocks? And the other stuff
? And we need a place where I can build a sweat lodge and keep a fire going. Like a campsite or something. Any ideas?

I fold the paper and slide it under the front cover of my biology book, which is under my open algebra book. Then I try again to focus on the math problems. I still don’t see the point of this, but Aimee can’t date a loser who can’t pass his algebra class.

Back in Oklahoma, my sophomore English teacher made us read a short story called “The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky,” all about how a sheriff in the Old West brings his wife to town and then won’t fight the local bad guy.

“Man is a barbarian at heart,” Mr. Walker had said. “Women bring a civilizing influence. When a woman enters the picture, men behave differently. Even Scratchy Wilson recognizes that.”

I hadn’t at the time. It was just a dumb story. But now … I look at the back of Chris’s head and think about how I would have fought him and Blake and the other guy, Noah, if Aimee hadn’t stopped me.

Finally, the bell rings and we’re free to get out of this class to shuffle off to the next one. I get there before Aimee. She smiles at me when she comes through the door, and I pass her my note as she walks by to sit behind me. I hear her unfold the note, then scribble something with her pen. She hands the paper back to me.

Craft Barn probably has the sage and sweetgrass. It’ll be dried. People use it to make potpourri and stuff. They might have granite rocks, too. If they don’t, Bergerman’s Lumber sells rocks for people to use as lawn decorations, so they might.

The bell hasn’t rung yet, so I risk turning around before Mr. Swanson comes in. “Sounds good,” I say. “I also need a tarp, or something like that. Something that will hold in the heat. Heavy canvas.”

“You’re living in a place where shipping used to be everything,” Aimee says. “I think we can get some canvas like they use in sails. Will that work?”

“Front and center, Alan,” Mr. Swanson calls. “We’d all like to spend the hour gazing at Miss Avery, but we wouldn’t learn much about photosynthesis that way.”

“I bet he’s learning a lot of biology from her,” some girl across the room says in a joking tone that gets most of the class to laugh. I don’t laugh, and I know Aimee isn’t laughing. I’m sure she’s blushing.

“Blake’s going to kill him,” some guy mutters, and then Mr. Swanson gets the class back under his control and begins a discussion about water treatment plants pumping waste water back into rivers.

“The moral of the story,” he says as the bell rings to end our time together, “is to live as close to the head of the river as you can.”

I take Aimee’s hand as she gets squished among all the students trying to squeeze out the door. “See you at lunch,” she says before we have to go our separate ways.

Square-jawed Noah doesn’t say anything to me in our German class. I half expected him to create some kind of problem, but he’s acting calm and normal and kind of looks embarrassed. I guess him, Blake, and Chris must share one set of balls, and it takes all three of them to say anything. Or else Aimee’s right and something really is affecting people—and it’s powerful. Really powerful. Anyway, there are no fights, and we all recite the lines Fräulein Gray feeds us until class is over.

No one in the cafeteria asks me directly about what happened yesterday, but I see them looking at me and whispering about how my little girl cousin threw me over the railing and onto a table. Then Aimee grabs me by the arm and we join the chow line.

At the lunch counter, she takes a salad and I hold out my tray for a glob of mashed potatoes and some chicken fried steak fingers with a side of corn. “Maybe I should get an extra helping for Gramps,” I tease.

“I’ll have you eating healthy eventually,” Aimee promises. “It’s just a matter of time.”

I think again about the bride going to Yellow Sky and civilizing all the men. I sigh and admit, “Probably so. Seems like I’ll do about anything for you.”

She only laughs and leads me to an empty table. We sit down and people flow around us. A few wave at Aimee, but nobody makes a move to sit with us. Aimee’s friend Hayley is sitting at a nearby table crowded with people I vaguely recognize from various classes. Are they giving us space? Because they think we’re a couple? Of course not. Because of Courtney. Something’s wrong with her, centralized in her, and they know it. And we’re too close to her. It’s like the thing that has infected her has tainted us, too.

“Why do we need Court out of the hospital to do this?” Aimee asks. “I mean, why can’t we just go to the river and do … whatever it is you need to do?”

“The evil spirit has to be focused somehow,” I explain. “Confined. For whatever reason, it picked Courtney. Since she’s the focal point, we have to have her before we can get rid of this thing.”

“I wonder why it picked her?” she asks as she stabs at a tomato in her salad. She adds, “This time,” before eating the tomato.

“I don’t know. I think it has something to do with her not accepting that her dad is dead.” I push my tray away. “I can’t eat. I have to fast. I should have remembered. School just makes me feel like a dog that has to do this when one bell rings and do that when the next one sounds.”

“So you’re just not going to eat anything?”

“No. Nothing but water. I have to be ready.”

“You think it’ll be soon?”

“Yeah, I think so. We should get that stuff today. Can you come home with me after school? I want to check Courtney’s room while nobody else is home.”

“Searching for clues?”

“Yep.” I watch her eat a few bites. Her jaw is very sexy when she chews.

“What?” she asks when she sees me watching her.

“Nothing.” I smile at her. “I think I’ll go to the bathroom and see if I can text Aunt Lisa.”

I leave her there and go to the restroom around the corner from the cafeteria.

Sitting on the toilet of a closed stall with my pants up, I text Aunt Lisa.
ANY NEWS?

After a few minutes I get a response.
SHE SEEMS FINE STILL WAITING FOR SOME TESTS STAY AT SCHOOL!

I write back,
WILL DO
. I stand up and pocket my phone, then open the stall door.

The fist that hits me in the face isn’t well aimed, but it’s enough of a surprise that I stagger backward and trip over the toilet. I fall against the wall, and before I can catch myself three of them are in the stall with me, punching at my face and body. I see Blake’s face, so twisted with rage that he barely looks like himself. I can’t get my balance, can’t stand up under the attack. All I can do is cover my face, but I’ve already taken several hits and it feels like at least one of them is wearing a class ring.

Somewhere far away I hear the call: “Fight!”

The fists keep coming as people pour into the restroom, yelling and jostling to get a better view of the action.

Finally I’m able to kind of roll forward and stand up, though it offers my right side to several kidney shots. Fortunately, the confined space keeps them from getting in any really good punches. I shove at the first body I find, then drive a fist into Blake’s face. His nose crumples and blood bursts out of his nostrils, but it’s like he doesn’t even feel it.

He laughs at me, but it isn’t his laugh. It’s the River Man’s laugh. I’ve heard echoes of it before in the wind.

Then Mr. Burnham is behind Blake, his arm around Blake’s throat as he drags him out of the stall. Everson is behind him and grabs Chris and Noah by their jacket collars to pull them out.

“Come on,” Everson says. “You all can have some time off to get over this.” He turns them toward the bathroom door, ordering the spectators back to lunch, then looks at me. “Come on, Alan. You, too.”

Arguing would sound weak. Mom won’t understand. Even Aimee might not understand. I wipe some blood off my face, feeling the sting of a cut, then follow Everson and Burnham out of the bathroom.

Aimee’s there, her green eyes wide and concerned.

“Sorry,” I say as I pass her. I offer her a smile, but it doesn’t erase the worry on her face.

•
17
•

AIMEE

Boys are stupid. That’s all there is to it. Boys are just stupid. Even if the River Man is making people meaner than normal, they had this in them somehow, somewhere, this need to punch.

When Alan comes out of the bathroom with blood all over his face and the Blake posse with him, I swear I am ready to kill him. But he is
so
bloody. He’s hurt. I start forward, but Mr. Everson gives me this look that tells me I’m not supposed to interfere.

“Aimee.” There’s a hand on my arm. Hayley’s hand.

“What?”

“Are you okay?” Hayley’s trying to shield me from the crowd.

“Disperse! Disperse, people!” Mr. Swanson and some other teachers are trying to settle us down.

“Yeah,” I say, staring into her big brown eyes. “I’m okay.”

She steadies me. “You’re swaying.”

“What?”

“You’re swaying. Your hands are shaking.” She steers me away from the cafeteria and down the wheelchair ramp toward the off-limits elevator. “You need to sit down, away from the idiots.”

We park ourselves on the floor by the elevator. It’s a nook, really; the only door is to the resource room and it’s shut. The floor is cold on my legs. I lean my head against the wall. It’s cold, too.

“I never knew Blake was such a racist,” I babble. “And he’s fighting, which is not like him, and … oh … They hit each other. I can’t believe Alan hit him back.”

“I think it was three on one,” Hayley says, all hard and mean-sounding. And for a second she gets this crazy, bloodthirsty look on her face, but it fades away and her voice goes back to singsong sweet. “He had to.”

“Three on one!” I cringe, thinking about the blood. “He’s hurt. He’s hurt and he’s probably going to get suspended, and I can’t do this … I can’t do this alone. I can’t …”

“Aimee. Do what?”

“Be here. Exist. Go to class. It’s all messed up. Courtney. Blake. Alan. Everything.” I lean forward and Hayley rubs my back. Her hand makes little circles. It’s comforting. It’s like something a mom would do. I sniff. “You are so nice.”

She smiles at me complimenting her, just like Courtney would. If Courtney were here, she’d be the one comforting me right now. Hayley says, “Thanks. So are you.”

“I don’t feel nice right now.”

“I swear nobody’s being nice lately. It’s like the whole town is having ’roid rage.”

For a second I want to tell her everything, about Courtney and the rock and the painting and the tree house craziness. I want to tell her about my mom and Alan and possession, and how sometimes it’s so hard being the only girl in a house full of men. Suddenly something sharp and painful stabs at the side of my head. My hand goes up to my temple. I can always make Benji’s bumps and pains go away; I wish I could do it to myself.

“Aimee?”

Hayley’s voice seems so far away. I try to focus on her.

“Aimee?” She says my name again. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I stand up. My head’s still throbbing. “Yeah. I just figured out something I have to do.”

Her face is a mess of worry. “You’re white. You’re still shaking.”

“I’m good. I’m good, Hayley.” I lean in, kiss her cheek. She smells like one of those Victoria’s Secret garden scents. “Thank you for being such an awesome friend.”

Mrs. Hessler meets me before I even get close to the restroom, which is an essential step in my plan. Her eyes are skittish, nervous. She touches my arm briefly and says, “I heard that Courtney’s in the hospital and that Blake attacked her cousin.”

I nod and wait. She’s holding me back from what I have to do.

She pulls a book out of her bag. There’s a bookmark stuck in it, and she opens to that page. “Read this.”

I look around. “In the middle of the hall?”

“Please, Aimee.”

She sort of hustles me over toward the wall. Leaning against it, I start to read. It’s an article written by Roslyn Strong that talks about dragon imagery in North America.

“Skip ahead to the story,” Mrs. Hessler urges.

I do. The story is about a Wabanaki hero named Glooskap killing a dragon in Maine, or what would later be called Maine, right around here. The dragon dies.

“What are you trying to tell me, Mrs. Hessler?” I ask, handing her back the book.

“What if the dragon died in our river? What if Glooskap bound a European demon or dragon to our river after taking it out of a possessed settler? The Wabanaki knew of the continuing dangers, but the settlers, being arrogant, stayed, even though they were warned that the evil from the river ebbs and flows like the tide, affecting the entire town while the demon tries to take over a body.”

“Like it’s doing with Courtney,” I whisper.

“And like it did with your mother. She was my best friend, you know, just like Courtney’s yours.”
She was?
How did I not remember that? Cloudy memories come back to me of Mrs. Hessler bringing over Christmas cookies, and she and my mother going out to dinner all dressed up. Mrs. Hessler wipes at her eyes, which have filled up with tears, and I pat her arm as she continues, “I found another story that says the demon is destined to remain here until it finds a vessel or is sent back to the darkness by a lion from the west.”

Could that be Alan? “But why?” I ask.

“Why what?”

“What’s this—demon—trying to accomplish? What makes him evil in the first place?” I watch people scurry to class.

“Native American legends rarely give a reason for their monsters acting the way they do. It’s our culture, our modern culture actually, that tries to understand them.” She clears her throat. “And my best guess is that a total possession of Courtney would allow him to transport himself out of the river, and he would be free to roam wherever he wants again, like he did before Glooskap bound him to the water.”

A sadness grows inside me. “He tried to do this to my mom, too, and nobody saved her.”

“She died trying to save all of us, Aimee. When she went to the river with that ax and drowned, she was trying to fight the demon, the River Man—or at least prevent him from fully possessing her.”

“That was brave,” I manage to say, even though my insides are clenching up with sorrow. I miss my mom. I miss her so much. Someone coughs down the hall.

“Yes, it was.” Mrs. Hessler coughs, too, a tiny bark.

“Why didn’t he move on then? Why not just go after another victim to possess?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he only has enough power to focus on one at a time. It seems like his evil comes in spurts, separated by at least a decade.”

I push away from the wall, give Mrs. Hessler back her book, and hug her in the process. She smells like vanilla, just like my mom. “Thank you.”

I say that and then take off into the bathroom, back to my original mission, armed, finally, with a tiny bit of knowledge.

I pretend that I’ve thrown up. I’m pale enough that I look sick. I convince Ms. Murillo that Dad and Gramps are both unreachable this morning. It works. I am free to leave school. I triple lie and say I have a car outside, and I’ll drive myself home.

If you cut through the woods it doesn’t take long to get to the hospital. The cross-country trail in back of the school takes you half the distance, and then if you go across a blueberry barren you can hook into the Starbald Road and walk the rest of the way. So that’s what I do. The trees are almost naked of leaves. Their branches are eerie, like bare, reaching fingers, gnarled and hungry. They remind me of the man in the river reaching, grabbing, pulling down. I stop for a second and listen. The wind rattles the trees.

Hauling out my cell, I debate whether to text Alan. I decide to.

HOPE U R OKAY.

I press SEND and pocket the cell, listening again. Everything scares me today. I know Alan’s probably still getting chewed out in Everson’s office. I know he probably won’t even see the text. I also know that I didn’t tell him what I’m doing. And I know he’ll be mad.

Sometimes, though, you have to do it alone.

I race ahead a few yards and then think about it again. Court might have her cell. I text her:
OK IF I COME SEE YOU NOW?

I walk forward and hope for a reply. My cell beeps, telling me I have a message. I open it and read:
YES!!!! COME QUICK
.

That’s all it takes. I run.

The woods surround me for a mile. The path is full of tread marks and rocks. Roots stick out from trees, but I’ve seen them all before. We run here for soccer about twice a week. Our coach calls them conditioning runs, and I’ve never been so happy about them as I am right now, because with every footstep the sky gets darker above me and the woods groan a little more with the wind, but hey, I’m conditioned, despite the bruises on my leg.

I bullet ahead. One foot. Another foot. Over and over again.

Just when I enter the rolling, treeless barrens, an eagle screeches above me. I look up and trip over a rock, but don’t fall. I can’t figure out what the eagle is trying to tell me, but I figure it’s some kind of warning. He battles the wind with his massive wings, struggling to remain in the updrafts. He’s trying to stay near me but can’t quite do it.

The wind pushes against me, suddenly hard and deliberate. Some hair escapes my ponytail, thrashing into my face. A blueberry bush rips away from the dirt and crosses the tiny, narrow dirt trail in front of me. I avoid it, but just barely. Another one rips up and almost chases me down the trail. Dirt and twigs whisk around me, making it hard to see.

Suddenly this doesn’t seem like such a good idea.

“Man!” For some reason, I don’t swear. Swearing seems like it would give everything bad even more power.

I’m halfway between the high school and the hospital, almost to the road, when a rock hits me square in the spine, right below my backpack. I tumble forward. My backpack slops into my body. Pain ricochets through me. Another rock hits my calf. I scramble up as fast as I can, lurching onward.

I am almost to the road, but there’s even less cover on the road than there is here. Turning back into the woods seems crazy, though.

“You won’t stop me!” I yell.

There’s no noise, nothing except for the sound of the wind—but I can feel him laughing at me. Every single bone feels it. Every single neuron trembles with it. Fear builds up inside my stomach and tries to slow me down, dragging like the flu, getting dumped, failing a test, and having the ugliest zit on your nose all combined into one dense lump.

Courtney is more important than that.

I scramble forward. A bush sideswipes me. I fall, roll sideways, and hit the dirt road. My hands, scraped and bloody, push me up off the dirt. I sprint. There’s a rumble in the distance, deep and loud. It reminds me of the tree house attack.

I stop and quickly search for shelter. There is none, just rolling blueberry barrens and the naked road. My heart staggers in my chest. My feet stagger on the road.

The debris storm is on the barrens. It’s a mini-tornado of bushes, rocks, and branches from the forest. I think there’s even a squirrel caught up in it, the poor thing. A wooden NO TRESPASSING sign swirls around. I run harder. There’s no way I’m going to make it. It’s three times as fast as I am. My bruised leg aches, but I run hard.

My breath comes out in sharp pants as I sprint forward. I glance behind me. That’s when I realize that what I’ve been dealing with isn’t even the real storm—that’s about a hundred feet back. The sign swirls to the front. The screeching noise hurts my ears. It’s fifty feet away now. There are nails in the sign. Thirty feet. I turn. I stand. I face it. Fifteen feet. I dive forward, wrapping my hands over my head. I curl into a ball, my backpack sticking up.

It hits.

A nail rips into my pack, tearing a hole in the side. My whole body jerks. Dirt smashes into me. Something hard hits my arm. I can’t open my eyes to see what it is. The sound of the storm roars through me. My whole body trembles. I scream. I know I scream. Dirt goes into my mouth. I clamp it closed. I start praying … I start praying to God and begging for my mother, for Alan, for anyone. Something barrels into my side. I roll and I’m face up now, on top of my backpack. Pebbles and rocks pelt me.

“God!” I scream it. “God help me! Mom! Mommy!”

Something scratches my face. I close my mouth again, trying to keep the dirt out. I manage to get on my side again, underneath most of the force of the wind and debris. The prayer my mom taught me when I was little soars through my head.

O God, who made the heav’n and earth,

From dreams this night protect me.

Destroy each succubus at birth,

No incubus infect me.

It doesn’t seem appropriate, but I don’t care. I turn back over so my face is to the ground.