Breakfast Served Anytime (9 page)

“Actually,” Mason swaggered, “my friends and I were hoping for a look at McGrath’s tomb.”

“There’s a campus tour at eleven,” Meghan replied, eyes averted. “Come back then.” Having provided her final answer, she sat back down and busied herself with a stack of papers on the desk. Mason regarded us with an oh-well shrug that was, hello, just not going to fly with me, not at all. We were on a
mission
.

“Meghan,” I said, approaching the desk in my best imitation of bravado. “Hi. My name’s Gloria and these are my friends Chloe and Calvin. The Mad Hatter here is just along for the ride.”

“Right,” Chloe offered, catching on. “He’s our resident Necessary Evil — don’t pay any attention to him at all.” This earned Chloe a stunned gape from Mason and sent Calvin shuffling red-faced to a nearby bench, where he sat down and pretended not to know us.

“So Meghan,” I continued. “We’re Geek Campers, see, and we really, really need to get inside that tomb. Seriously, like five minutes. In and out. Just for a sec.”

“It’s for a project,” Chloe added. “Our teacher’s got us on a scavenger hunt.”

When Chloe said it out loud, I realized how lame it sounded. Could we be any more ridiculous? I was sure that Meghan, with her shiny hair and shiny business cards, thought we were idiots. I was surprised when she rummaged in her desk and produced a silver loop loaded with keys. “Five minutes,” she said, narrowing her eyes at Mason. “Got it?”

Mason grinned as if the triumph were his, and we followed Meghan down a flight of stairs and one long, innocuous hallway, at the end of which was a completely innocuous standard-issue door that could’ve easily opened to a chemistry lab or a conference room. The door looked like all the other doors, which is to say that, judging by that door, the famous tomb of Thomas McGrath was turning out to be a total buzzkill, not at all like the dank, terrifying morgue I had conjured in my head.

As Meghan inserted key after key to no avail, she launched into tour-guide mode, telling us how every Halloween, five Morlan students were selected by lottery to spend the night locked in McGrath’s tomb. It was a very big deal, this annual campus tradition, and students who submitted their names to the lottery became the stuff of legend. “Except if you’re this guy Dougie Landon,” she added. “A friend of my cousin’s roommate? One year Dougie was one of the McGrath Five, and he got so scared that he screamed and pounded on the door for three hours until somebody relented and let him out. Rumor has it he peed in his pants.”

“Is that right?” Mason smirked.

“That’s how the story goes,” Meghan replied coolly. “Ah. Finally.” With some effort, she shouldered the door open, and we were met by a decidedly unfriendly blast of cold air. So far I couldn’t see anything much, but the darkness and the cold and the whiff of damp from within — that was much more like it. I could feel the fear prickling up along my spine, thrilling and delicious.

“There’s a light switch in here somewhere,” Meghan mumbled, feeling along the wall. Even with the light on, the space was dim and shadowy. “Enter at your own risk.”

Chloe went in first, hopping down four stone steps into a space just big enough for two twin beds, only there were no beds down there, just two rectangular stone blocks, each one roughly the size of an outstretched human.

“That’s him on the left,” Meghan told Chloe from her station at the door.

“So who’s this, then?” Chloe climbed atop the other stone, stretched out on her back, and folded her hands behind her head.

“That’s some other random guy; I forget who.”

“Chloe?” Calvin asked, peering in over Meghan’s shoulder. “Is X’s letter down there, or what?”

“Oh yeah,” Chloe said. “Lemme look.” She swung her legs over the side of Sir Random’s eternal resting spot as if she were lazing about on a sofa. We watched her slide her hands along the walls and climb over McGrath’s block, where she crouched on the far side and emerged, triumphant, with an envelope in her hand. “Voilà,
mes amis
! Now, get down here so we can open this thing.”

“Why don’t you bring it up here, where the light’s better?” Calvin suggested.

“Yeah,” Mason said. “Bring it up here, Chloe.” His voice sounded bored, but his eyes were flicking around nervously.

“No way!” I protested. I wasn’t about to miss my chance to explore McGrath’s tomb. I took the stone steps two at a time and joined Chloe in the cool of the room. Calvin followed with a resigned sigh.

“I have to get back to the desk,” Meghan announced. “In or out, Mason. Either way, you now have” — she checked her watch — “three and a half minutes to get your kicks. I’m not gonna babysit you all day.”

As if accepting a dare, Mason leaped all four steps and landed grandly in the center of the tomb. Arms outstretched, he spun around and glared at Meghan. “Happy now?” he asked.

“Almost,” Meghan said, and before she shut the door, locking it with an ominous click, she cocked her head at Mason, raised a sly eyebrow, and winked. “Nice hat.”

“Fabulous,” Chloe announced. “Just fabulous. Mason, do you know every single person in this town?”

“I went out with her freshman
year,
” Mason balked, as if anything that happened back in the dark ages shouldn’t be held against him. “And it was only because she was a junior and had a license.”

Calvin began a calm scan of the room, running his fingers along the walls, where brave legions of McGrath Fives had left makeshift cave art:
RUTH ’85; ALL HALLOWS’ EVE 1993; I AM HUNGRY; THOMAS McGRATH IS A PUSSY
. It was entertaining reading, and added to the thrill I felt at getting trapped in a room with a ghost. It was like I had known from the second she produced that loop of keys that Meghan the Administrative Assistant was going to lock us in. It was almost like I was secretly
willing
her to do it. In my mind I forgave her for going out with Mason and applauded her bold move.

“Hey, Gloria. Look at this.” Calvin pointed to an elaborate chalk drawing of a girl with flowing hair and a smile with a secret in it. In an eerie sort of way, she looked like me. “Do you come here often?”

“You know what they say — everyone’s got a doppelgänger somewhere.” The more I stared at the chalk girl, the more she seemed like an image staring back at me from a mirror. Wild.

“Yeah, well, I hope my doppelgänger is out somewhere enjoying some fresh air, lucky bastard,” came Mason’s muffled voice. He was sitting on the floor with his head sandwiched between his knees. “I can’t breathe.”

“Nobody panic,” Chloe commanded. “I’ve got a ton of supplies.” From the depths of her bag she produced a handful of fortune cookies. “Hungry?”

Mason groaned. “Get me out of here. I’m serious.”

Calvin the Unflappable reminded all of us that Meghan had mentioned something about a tour at eleven, which meant that our stay in Chez McGrath would be brief. This was buzzkill news to me, but Mason relaxed visibly and launched into that inevitable morbid discussion that everyone seems to have at some point or another — the great debate about What’s the Worst Way to Die.

“Man, buried alive. No question. Or stuck in an elevator while everyone sucks up all the air!” Mason shuddered and stuck his head back between his knees. “Can’t handle it, man.”

Chloe shook her head. “No way. Drowning’s way worse than that. Way.”

“I’m not into stampedes,” I offered. “Did you hear about those people who died at Wal-Mart when the store opened on Black Friday? God, what a way to go out — trampled underneath a bunch of freaks in pursuit of a Wii.”

“Yes!” Calvin chimed in. “That was in New York, right? Couple of years ago? And my aunt was actually at that Who concert in Cincinnati when the same thing happened. December third, 1979.”

After a pause during which I was (a) almost paralyzed by my vivid imagining of being trampled to death at a rock concert and (b) completely mindfreaked by Calvin’s encyclopedic recollection of such horrors, Calvin went on. “That’s not the worst, though. The worst is dying in some scenario where you have absolutely zero control. Airplanes. Helicopters. They’re the worst. You couldn’t pay me to get on an airplane.”

“Calvin,” Chloe said, squinting with appreciation. “You have categorical knowledge of the absolute weirdest shit. I bet right now you could give me at least four more famous examples of death by smooshing. Go.”

Calvin blushed. “It’s called
‘crowd crush,’
actually. You’d think that people would die from the trampling, right? But really it’s asphyxiation.”

“Asphyxiation, as in what’s happening to me right now while yall’re just standing around chatting,” Mason complained from his station on the floor.

Chloe ignored him. “Seriously, Calvin. Death by smooshing. Gimme what you got.”

“Okay, it’s not exactly categorical recall, but there was that Pearl Jam concert in Denmark where a bunch of people got crushed. Can we talk about something else?”

“No, this is fascinating,” Chloe said. “Now. When, exactly, did these Danish Pearl Jam fans get smooshed to death?”

“I don’t remember. Can we open that letter?”

“
Cal
-vin.”

Calvin sighed. “June thirtieth, 2000.”

“I knew it!” Chloe shrieked. “Oh my God, Calvin, you have a photographic memory, don’t you?”

“Okay, okay. Look, I do not have a photographic memory. Sometimes my mind hangs on to dates, that’s all. I know the Who concert because it happened on my aunt’s birthday — my aunt who was there — and I know about the Pearl Jam in Denmark thing because it happened on my birthday. Okay? Where’s X’s letter?” Calvin gave Chloe a pleading look and held out his hand for the envelope. “Can I see it? Please?”

Chloe gave Calvin another long, appraising look and tipped the envelope into his hand. “Okay, but I’m onto you, Mr. Little.”

Before Calvin opened the envelope, he checked to make sure Mason hadn’t asphyxiated yet. “Can you hear me? Are you ready?” Mason bobbed his lowered head, so Calvin cleared his throat and read aloud: “Wait here.”

I frowned. “What?”

“Wait here,” Calvin repeated. “That’s what it says.”

Chloe and I peered over Calvin’s shoulder for confirmation.
Wait here
? Are you kidding? Weren’t we supposed to have solved this part of the puzzle yesterday? We could be waiting for the rest of our lives. We could just be hanging out underground with some dead botanist for the rest of our freaking lives! Suddenly I wanted nothing more to do with X. I was so over X it wasn’t even funny.

“Well. X sucks,” I said.

“I’m hurt,” Mason replied, lifting his face from his knees. He looked bleary, drained of his usual electricity. “I’m really hurt that you would talk about me that way.”

Cartoon-style, two more heads turned in unison to stare at him. There we were again: Mason Atkinson’s three-member Rapt Audience. Nobody said a word.

“You mean you haven’t figured it out yet?” Mason grinned. Still there was silence. I felt sucker punched, afraid that if I opened my mouth I would throw up.

“Nice,” Chloe muttered between set teeth. “Real nice.” In the dim, her eyes glistened.

“Yep,” Mason said, rising from the floor and dusting himself off. “I’m the teacher. Second-year English lit major here at Morlan. I picked up this Geek Camp gig for extra cash. You, my friends, are the extra cash.” Mason winked at us and waited. The room tunneled into silence, thick and accusatory.

“You’re not a teacher,” Chloe said, icy cool. “You’re a liar.”

Once again, Mason — or whoever he was — scanned our faces for signs of life. I stole a glance at Calvin, who was watching Mason carefully, his face arranged in an expression of benign amusement. I lowered my eyes, afraid that my own face would betray the betrayal I felt, the sick feeling at having actually allowed the Mad Hatter to appear behind my eyes before I fell asleep the night before. Willing myself not to scream, I turned to study the cave-writing on the wall behind me:
RAGE, RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT
. Good God, was the whole entire world just crawling with self-absorbed English majors exploiting Dylan Thomas? I hated them all. I wanted out. Out out out out out.

“Kidding,” Mason said, breaking into a self-conscious guffaw. His laugh bounced off the walls as the air in the room rearranged itself. “I’m kidding, okay? Of course I’m not X. I’m not a liar, I’m an actor.”

“Same thing,” Chloe ranted. “You’re also an asshole.” Clawing violently through her bag, she came up with a cigarette and actually lit it this time. “I don’t care how claustrophobic you are,” she said on the exhale. “I’m going to sit here and smoke in your claustrophobic face.”

“Chloe,” I said, “put that out.” It seemed important that Mason Atkinson not be
completely
in control of everybody’s emotions and behavior.

“Fine, fine.” Chloe stomped over to Mason and snatched the top hat from his head. “Have I mentioned that I hate this stupid hat?” She tossed it to the floor, flicked the cigarette on top, and ground them both into a charred mess beneath her boot.

Mason seemed only slightly subdued. “Are you done?”

“Yes,” Chloe conceded. “Conflict is not my forte. Just give me — give us — an apology and then we’re done.”

“I’m sorry, but —”

“No, uh-uuh.” Chloe shook her head. “It’s not an apology if there’s a ‘but’ in it. Try again.”

“I’m sorry. Calvin, Gloria, Chloe, I’m sorry. There. Okay?”

“I didn’t think you were X,” Calvin said, just so we’d know.

“I’m glad you’re not X,” I said, which was the truth.

“God, get me out of here,” Chloe moaned, and, as if on cue, the door opened in a great
whoosh
of suction and light. I was not at all prepared for what came bounding down the stone steps: a puppy. A puppy! It yipped itself into a blur of brown and white as it spun in circles, chasing its own leash.

“Holyfield!” came a voice. “Holyfield, get back up here!”

The owner of the voice appeared next: a guy with a beard and glasses, wearing what appeared to be a
baby
in one of those contraptions on his chest. A puppy? A baby? I thought life on a college campus was supposed to guarantee the absence of such things. I’ve never been a huge fan of dogs — all that slobbery loyalty, the basis for which is nothing. Babies? Don’t even get me started.