Gifted Touch (7 page)

but he’d bet anything his mom had forgotten. He turned back toward the phone, pulled a quarter out of the pocket of his jeans, dropped it in the slot, and dialed a number.

“Sunny Days Day Care,” a voice that sounded a lot like Ms. Goyer’s answered.

“This is Anthony Fascinelli,” he said. “Carl Doheney’s brother. Carl’s on antibiotics. He needs to take a pill at lunch with food, okay? The pills are in his backpack.” He hung up without waiting for a reply and continued toward his locker. At least now he wouldn’t have to listen to Carl screaming all night because his earache hurt so bad. Something you’d think the kid’s own mother would care about.

“Mr. Fascinelli,” a familiar voice called. Way too familiar.

He turned around. “Mr. Shapiro. Hi! I hope you had a fabulous summer,” Anthony said with mock enthusiasm. He couldn’t believe this. First Bluebird English
with
reading aloud. Now a chat with the prin-cipal. He bet that girl from group’s first day at school was a walk in the park compared to this.

Shapiro didn’t look amused. His muddy green 67

eyes were all squinty, and his thin lips looked even thinner because he had them pressed together so tight.

“I got an update on you from your group therapy leader at Oakvale,” Mr. Shapiro said. “It looks like you’re making some progress in your anger manage-ment skills. I expect to see some evidence of that this year.”

Anthony nodded. Clearly he wasn’t expected to say anything here.

“I’m giving you fair warning,” Mr. Shapiro continued. “One step out of line this year and there’s no second chance. You’re out of here.” Anthony nodded again. It was a better anger management choice than slamming his fist into the closest wall. He’d learned that much. But what was the guy’s friggin’ problem? Anthony hadn’t done anything.

Anything.
And Shapiro was already busting his butt.

Nice welcome to his junior year.

“You better head off,” Shapiro said. “You don’t want to be late to class your first day.”

“I sure don’t,” Anthony answered, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He strode past Shapiro, getting in a little shoulder knock that could possibly have been an accident. Then instead of going to his locker, he swung into the bathroom. He couldn’t deal with another class right now.

Anthony ducked into the closest stall, opened his 68

backpack, and then pulled a plastic bag out of one of the zippered compartments. Just holding the bag in his hand made his heart rate go down and loosened the belt around his head.

He rolled himself a joint as quickly as he could.

Yeah,
he thought as he took the first toke and held the smoke in his lungs,
now this is the way to start the first
day of school.
He heard the bathroom door swing open, and he checked the lock on his stall to make sure it was in place.

“Someone has been using that wacky tobaccy in here,” a voice said.

“And
somebody
better be willing to share,” another voice added. “That means you, Fascinelli.” A second later Gregg Borgenicht’s head popped over the left side of Anthony’s stall, followed almost immediately by Mike Tarcher’s on the right. “Gimme, gimme, gimme,” Gregg begged. He sounded like a little kid. And with his round face he looked kind of like one, too. Even with the scraggly goatee.

Anthony took another pull before he handed Gregg the joint. Who knew when he’d get it back. But he was glad to see the guys. Smoking with them was definitely more fun than smoking alone. They always managed to crack him up.

“We have to ask Anthony our question,” Mike told Gregg.

69

“Definitely,” Gregg answered, speaking with his lips almost closed so he wouldn’t lose any smoke.

Although clearly he was already at least partially in his special happy place, going by the red eyes, eyes with pupils so big, they almost blocked out the blue.

“So, okay. Say the world was made of cheese,” Gregg said. He looped his elbows over the edge of Anthony’s stall, probably to keep his balance on the lidless toilet seat he had to be standing on. “What do you think money would be? I say crackers. Because hey, with cheese you gotta have crackers. But to Mike money would be—” Gregg paused since it was his turn to suck, then continued, his voice thick. “He thinks money would be Dr. Pepper.”

“Because Dr. Pepper is great with cheese,” Mike cut in. “You just can’t eat cheese without Dr. Pepper.” He reached for the joint with his long, skinny fingers.

Gregg started to hand it to him, but Anthony intercepted. It
was
his last one.

Anthony gave a bark of laughter. “Why wouldn’t money still be money, geniuses?” he asked. “Then people could buy Dr. Pepper or crackers or whatever they wanted to go with the cheese.” Gregg snorted. “You’re not getting it,
genius
. The world . . . It’s
made
of cheese. That changes everything. Everything! People wouldn’t still be walking around with, like, quarters.”

70

“Yeah, ’cause there would be no metal to make into quarters,” Mike added, fingering the scattered hair on his chin. “There’d be, like, veins of Cheez Whiz that you could lap right up.”

Anthony took another toke while he tried to imagine Cheese World. He’d bet anything Rae and her prep school friends didn’t have conversations like this. They probably only talked about what college they were planning to go to—with Mommy and Daddy’s money.

“So are the buildings made out of cheese, too?” Anthony asked, already starting to feel nice ’n’ fuzzy.

“Cheese would have to be the main construction material,” Gregg answered.

“Maybe peanut butter could be the mortar. Like in those crackers at the 7-Eleven,” Mike suggested.

“I love those crackers,” Anthony said. He smiled as he thought about them. So orange. So crunchy.

“But peanut butter is the mortar between
crackers
in those things. It’s not the mortar between pieces of
cheese
,” Gregg told Mike, sounding annoyed. “What are you thinking?”

“Would you keep it down?” Anthony said. “We don’t want Shapiro joining the party.”

“I really want some of those crackers,” Mike murmured. “Time for a 7-Eleven run. You comin’?” he asked Anthony.

Anthony scrubbed his face with his fingers, 71

almost burning one eyebrow with the joint. “I gotta go to my next class,” he said. “I already missed one.”

“We all already missed one.” Mike snagged the joint. “But what we do is leave now, then come back at lunch, when we can blend.”

And I could score another bag from Rick,
Anthony thought. He was probably working today. And if he wasn’t, he was probably hanging out in the 7-Eleven parking lot so all his regulars could find him.

“So are you comin’ or what?” Gregg asked.

Anthony checked Gregg’s watch. There was no way he could get back in time for Bluebird history.

It’s not like he wanted to sit through another hour of torture, but he did want to graduate so that someday the torture would end. If he hung out too much with Gregg and Mike, that wasn’t going to happen. Gregg had already been held back a year.

“Can’t do it,” Anthony said. “But get me some of those peanut butter crackers. And don’t eat them on the way back,” Anthony ordered Mike, then handed him the money. Mike and Gregg each gave him a half salute and disappeared from sight. The door swung shut behind them before Anthony realized that Mike had made off with his last doobie.

Just as well,
Anthony told himself.
You don’t want
to become a walking baked potato like those guys.
He sat down on the edge of the toilet.
Yeah, no more pot
72

for you, young man. Not until there’s a four-day week-end or something. You’ve got to graduate. Otherwise
you’ll end up here for the rest of your friggin’ life. Or
working at the 7-Eleven, selling munchies to Gregg
and Mike.

And I am outta here,
Anthony thought as he headed through Fillmore’s main doors. Just a couple dozen steps and he’d be off school property, at least until tomorrow. He started walking faster, then stopped short when he saw Rick Nunan leaning against one of the two oak trees that dominated the front of the school. Rick had already spotted him, so there was no point in Anthony pretending he hadn’t seen the guy.

“Knew you had to be down to the seeds,” Nunan said as Anthony approached. “Since you’re one of my very special customers and all, I decided to make a delivery.”

Translation: You needed some fast cash,
Anthony thought. Nunan was an okay guy. They’d partied together. But he wasn’t a doing-it-out-of-the-goodness-of-his-heart type. Not by a long shot.

“Gonna have to pass,” Anthony answered.

“You broke? I can spot you for a few days.” Nunan ran his fingers over his shaved head. When he was high, just the feel of the skin under his fingers 73

could make him giggle for hours.

“Nah. I just . . .” Anthony shrugged. “Not in the mood.” Which was total crap. But he’d ordered himself not to buy any more. He was going to graduate from this place without taking ten freaking years to do it.

“Not in the mood?” Nunan repeated. “You smoke some, you get in the mood.” He ran his hand over his head again.

“Just go find one of your other very special customers, okay?” Anthony asked.
And right now,
he added to himself. His fingers were already twitching, ready to go for his wallet.

Nunan took a step closer, and Anthony was blasted with the smell of smoke.

“It’s totally primo stuff. Nunan tested, Nunan approved.”

Anthony didn’t think. He just reacted—by reaching out and shoving Nunan away with both hands.

Nunan, the little weenie, ended up on his butt.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Fascinelli?” a voice called. Anthony glanced over his shoulder. Oh, friggin’ perfect. Mr. Shapiro
had
to have seen that little encounter. And his lips were clamped together so tight, they’d practically disappeared into his mouth.

“No problem.” Anthony reached down, grabbed Nunan’s hand, and pulled him up. “No problem, right, Rick?”

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“Nonstudents aren’t allowed on campus,” Shapiro told Nunan. It took a second for Nunan to realize that meant he should leave, but he finally got it and wandered off.

“I have the feeling you weren’t listening to me this morning, Anthony,” Shapiro said, opening his mouth only enough to let the words squeak through.

“No, I was. I was,” Anthony answered. He hated the way his voice came out, like a little kid’s.
Don’t be
mad, Mommy. I’ll never do it again.

Shapiro nodded. “We’ll see, won’t we.” He turned and walked away without another word.

Perfect end to a perfect day. But at least it’s over.

And I survived. Wonder if Rae made it out alive from
her little prep school.

75

Chapter 4

“So how was school?” Rae’s father asked before she even had her butt all the way into the car.

Rae slammed the door. “Day two was pretty much like day one,” she answered. Stares. Extreme nice-ness. Extreme weirdness. Random not-her-own thoughts about how psycho she was. Plus some totally-her-own thoughts about how psycho she was, just for variety. “You know, just basic getting-organized stuff,” she added as her dad pulled out of the driveway.

/Whoo-hoo, time to party/

A sour taste filled Rae’s mouth. She popped open the glove compartment—

/What am I supposed to say to her?/

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—and rooted around for some gum. She didn’t find any, so she slammed the glove compartment closed.

/Rachel/

God, that thought, it
felt
like her dad. It wasn’t in his voice or anything. But it had a Dad . . .
flavor
.

She reminded herself what Dr. Warriner had said when she’d admitted that sometimes the thoughts really seemed to come from other people, especially thoughts
about
her.

That’s part of what paranoiac delusions are, Rae.

You’re imagining that people must be thinking these
things of you, and so you’re projecting the thoughts
onto them
—
in your own head.

Rae leaned back and rubbed her forehead.
Maybe
some sort of exorcism would be useful,
she thought.

“Would you like to stop for a Slurpee on the way?” her father asked.

“No, thanks. Not unless you want one,” Rae said.

She turned her head toward the window so he couldn’t see the film of tears coating her eyes. Would he ever stop
offering
her stuff in that hopeful, eager voice?

“I’m not really a Slurpee person. Although I like the word.
Slurpee. Slurrrpeee.
It’s onomatopoetic, don’t you think?” her dad asked. “The word
slurp
sounds like the sound that you make when you slurp.” 78

Oh God. He’s slipped into educational mode,
Rae thought. She gave a couple of blinks, and her eyes cleared up.

They were still about fifteen minutes away from Oakvale. She was not going to be able to take this.

“Dad, what was Mom like when you went to visit her in the hospital?”

Oh my God,
she thought. She had so not been intending to ask that. All she’d wanted to do was change the subject, and the Mom question had come spewing out. Rae shot a glance at her dad. He didn’t seem upset. He looked like he was giving her question careful consideration.

“She was very much herself,” he finally answered.

“Although sometimes the medication they had her on made her a little . . . dulled. Your mother, usually she sparkled.” He reached out and briefly touched Rae’s face. “You sparkle, too, sometimes.”
How to sparkle. Step one—go insane,
Rae thought.

Not an article soon to appear in
Self
magazine.