Instinct (6 page)

Cathy gives me
a quick smile and hurries after him. I wonder if they’re dating. If so, he’s
not a very attentive boyfriend. Megan leaves, barely holding back a snarl as
she passes. I hear laughter behind me and see Shane watching Megan with affectionate
amusement. He turns and waves for me to go ahead of him.

“I’m a total
hound,” he says. I repress an urge to bang my head against the wall.

“Sorry, I
didn’t hear you.”

“I said don’t
worry about her. She’ll cool down eventually. She’s been queen bee around here
for so long, she can’t stand any competition,” he repeats and I smile despite
myself.

“I’m not
really looking to compete,” I mumble.

“You don’t
really have to,” Shane says, admiration clear in his voice. Despite his
unconscious admission to being a player, I am flattered. At least someone here
likes me.

“I hurt girls
like you.” Shockey’s voice rings out through the classroom and I jerk to a
halt. He is looking at me expectantly, but hot fingers of loathing clutch my
throat. I know instinctively that he doesn’t mean hurt emotionally.

“She did
great, Mr. Shockey. Fits right in,” Shane answers and I smile at him
gratefully, even more thankful for his big, muscular male presence. I am
absolutely certain I never want to be alone with Shockey.

“Well, great.
See you tomorrow, guys.” I wave half-heartedly and follow Shane out the door,
feeling a huge sense of relief as soon as I’m out of Shockey’s eye line.

“You okay?”
Shane asks, worry darkening his features for the first time.

“Sure.”

He glances
back at the room and then puts his head close to mine. “Look I don’t want to
freak you out or anything, but everyone knows that Shockey’s a perv. And let’s
face it, you’re totally hot.” A wolfish grin splits his face and I laugh.
“Just…watch out for him, okay?” he warns, all seriousness back.

I can’t help
but wonder why the man is a teacher if everyone agrees that he’s some sort of
sexual deviant, but what do I know? This is my first experience in a public
school, and I guess that kind of thing is hard to prove.

“Yeah. Thanks
for the warning,” I say, rethinking my earlier impression of Shane. He might
have sex on the brain, but he is a teenage boy. He seems nice.

“No worries.
See you tomorrow.” He takes off, joining a group of guys who are wearing
basketball uniforms and heading toward the gym. I knew he was a jock.

Mom is waiting
for me in the long line of cars out front, and I hop into our faded yellow 1971
Gran Torino. It is louder than a twin engine airplane, but it runs well and is
a tank when it comes to accidents. Mom once backed it into a telephone pole
when she wasn’t paying attention. The pole was chipped and mauled. The car
didn’t have a scratch.

“I want you to
quit school and work at the shop,” Mom says in greeting, leaning over to give
me a quick kiss. I sigh, not in the mood for an argument we’ve already settled.

“Mom, I want
to go to school. I need this if I’m going to be able to function at college,” I
say wearily. She looks chagrined and pulls away.

“Sorry,
Sweetheart. I was just asking how it went. I’ve been worried all day.”

I consider my
first day as a whole, remembering the strange boy with the death glare this
morning, the unexpected reaction I had to Phillip, the reluctant kindness of
Nicole, Shockey’s perversions, and finally the promise of murder from Jake. “It
was different,” I finally answer, not really wanting to go into detail. If Mom
knew half the things I found out today, she’d never let me go back. And I find
that I want to. There are too many unanswered questions and secrets buried in
the school walls.

“Different
good? Bad?” she presses. I shrug.

“A little of
both. I’m going back tomorrow, Mom. Like we agreed,” I say adamantly. She grumbles
and pulls into the slow trickle of traffic that leads to the exit.

“Alright. If
you really are going to keep this up, I’m going to have to hire someone at the
store. I’m not used to running it by myself.” I feel a pang of guilt about
deserting her, but squelch it immediately. I’ve given most of my life to making
things easier for her. It’s my turn now.

The rest of
the drive, she tells me about a customer who bought an eighteenth century
snuffbox this afternoon, and I try to focus on the conversation, but my mind is
spinning. I can’t get Jake’s face as he promised to kill me out of my head. I
know he didn’t mean to say it, and of course no one else knew he did, but the
desire was so strong in him at that moment that it overrode any other truths he
might have revealed. I’ve heard a lot of things with my gift, but I’ve never
been personally threatened by them.

Harpers Ferry
is built on the edge of a mountain, sloping gracefully down to a flat plain
that separates the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers. Everything about the town
blends with its environment; the alleys are paved with natural rock, the
buildings seem to spring out of the ground rock hewn and comfortable enough to
seem ancient. From my mother’s shop on High Street, past a rusted, derelict
train bridge, I can see the cliff face across the river in between the shadows
of buildings that date back before the Civil War. Train tracks weave along the
riverside, iron gleaming in rich veins echoed by the twist of water threaded
with jutting rock and thin deltas. The sun is setting and the town is enveloped
in a pink haze that seems warm despite the nearly frigid temperatures. The
cobbled streets are bare of tourists this deep into winter, and most of the
shops are closing early. My mother’s antique store,
Time Honored
, is
closing as well.

I glance contentedly
down the narrow room that serves as the storefront. Mom rented the cellar below
to store larger items. Every time I go down the weathered stone steps in the
front of the building and stoop to enter a door built for someone about six
inches shorter than me, I feel like I’m stepping into a cave. The cellar is all
rock walls and the sound of gently dripping water; down there I’m alone, but instead
of being terrifying or claustrophobic, I feel like the land here has accepted
me, and the isolation is peaceful. Even though we’ve only been here a few months,
I feel like I was born there in the cool dark.

“You want to
get some sandwiches for dinner?” Mom asks, continuing a conversation we’ve been
having for the past few minutes. “We haven’t tried the café across the street
yet,” she reminds me.

I glance over
and see a black-clad waiter lounging at one of the iron bistro tables littering
the stone paved patio. He lifts a cigarette to his mouth and the end flares as
he inhales deeply.

“I don’t know.
I never see anyone over there. Do you think it’s any good?”

“Only one way
to tell, Sweetie, and I’m tired of pizza.” She locks the cash register and
turns the sign in the window to Closed. We had a grand total of five customers
today.

“Yeah, ok.
I’ll go,” I offer, hopping off the 1950’s diner style barstool I’ve been
sitting on. I grab some cash out of mom’s purse and head across the street to
the cafe, noting with amusement how eagerly the waiter leaps to his feet and
puts out his cigarette. He must be bored.

He ducks
inside as I approach and another guy in black slacks and a sweater emerges and
leans casually against the wooden doorframe. I shudder to a standstill as I
recognize him. He raises a dark eyebrow and stares at me so intently I feel
transparent. It’s the boy from this morning, the one whose glare made me think
for a mad second that he was strangling me with a look.

I can see him
more clearly from this distance, and am surprised to feel a tug of admiration.
He is a study in angles and shadows, tall and lean with a wiry grace that makes
me think of a cat stretching on a fence. Dark, almost black hair is swept back
from his face, revealing features sharp without being brittle. Proud cheekbones
and a high arched brow frame eyes too obscured to make out a color. His lips
are the one incongruity in an otherwise ascetic face, full and now curving into
a sardonic half-smile. With a start, I realize I have frozen in the middle of
the street, my eyes locked with his.

I shake it off
and spin on my heel, hurrying back to the shop while trying to look nonchalant.
I know I am failing when I hear a soft chuckle drift across the street. I
tighten my lips into a flat line and head inside to tell Mom we’re having pizza
after all.

The moment I
walk through the door, I feel it; a creeping, insidious conviction that I am
walking into a trap, that each step I take is leading me down a road from which
I can never return. Students are hurrying by me, rushing to get to their
lockers or meet their friends before classes start, but each time I try to move
forward, trembling panic seizes my limbs and I remain frozen, feet cemented to
the floor. Minutes pass by and I am still stuck just inside the door to the
school, head spinning and lungs tightening. No one stops to ask if I am okay.
It is as though I have become some concrete statue melded to the dirty tile
floor, a tribute to adolescent terror.

“Your fear is
sweet,” a pleasant, smooth voice says behind me and I am released, my entire
body sagging with relief and rubbery muscles. I spin around and take a step
backward when I see who has spoken.

It is the same
dark haired boy from yesterday, whose knowing laughter had followed me to my
mother’s store. He is watching me with one eyebrow raised, expectantly, but
there is a lazy grace in his stance that makes me think he is waiting for
something else. The door behind him swings open and a girl steps through, a
familiar redhead with a welcoming smile directed at me. I open my mouth to say
something, to warn her about the boy standing between us, but no words come
out; just a thin keening that burns my ears. The boy’s face splits into a
piercing smile, both beautiful and repellent in its naked ferocity, and he reaches
out a hand to encircle the redhead’s neck.

“It tastes so
good,” he whispers and his hand tightens, squeezing the girl’s neck until his
fingers meet and her face turns a crimson hue. I try to reach out, to stop him,
but my feet melt into the floor and I flail helplessly as the girl’s friendly
smile becomes a grimace of pain and dread. Her skin wastes away in front of me,
as though a black hole has opened in her core and is draining away her essence
until there is nothing left but a wisp of smoke that writhes and dances toward
me, forcing its way into my lungs until I clutch my own throat in desperation,
clawing at my neck to get it out.

“It tastes so
good,” the boy repeats. Eyes flash a luminous green as he takes a step toward
me, hand outstretched.

“I want to go
back to bed,” my mother’s voice says over me and I bolt upright, nearly
knocking my head against her chin.

“What…what…” I
stutter, gasping for air like I’ve been held underwater too long. Mom scoots
away slightly on the bed and gives me a tired smile. Glancing around, I realize
I am in my own bed, slim beams of moonlight leaking through the blinds and illuminating
my mother’s drawn face.

“You were having
one hell of a nightmare, Sweetie. I heard you from my room and came to wake
you, but you just lay there gasping. I thought I was going to have to dump a
bucket of water on you or something.” She laughs shakily and puts a hand on my
forehead. “You’re all hot and sweaty. Are you okay?”

I am covered
in a thin film of sweat and my hands are shaking. “I think so. Oh man, that was
bad,” I croak. My throat is dry and crusty, all the moisture sucked out. I
reach blindly for the bottle of water on my bedside table and guzzle it. Mom
waits patiently, stroking my hair like she would pet a frightened kitten, and
gradually my pulse slows and I can breathe normally.

“Feel better?”
she asks. I nod and glance at my alarm clock. Three a.m. “What did you dream
about?”

I frown and
try to remember, but the details are slipping away. “I was at school and there
was this guy there who was choking me…or someone else. I think it was the girl who
died.”

Mom’s eyebrows
skyrocket. “Girl who died? When was this?”

I wave my hand
in dismissal and lean back against my pillows. “I don’t know; some girl from
the high school died in October. I heard about it yesterday.”

“Oh. Why would
you dream about her?”

I shrug and
rub my eyes. “I don’t know. I saw her locker; her picture was taped on it. I
guess it just stuck in my head.”

“I guess. Can
you go back to sleep?”

“Yeah, I’m
fine. Thanks for waking me, Mom.”

She bends to
kiss my forehead. “No problem. Night, Sweetie.” She closes the door on her way
out. I lie staring at the ceiling for a while, my mind strangely empty, until
my eyelids drift closed and I fall into an uneasy sleep.

This morning,
I step cautiously through the front doors of the school, my nightmare from last
night playing like a silent film behind my eyes. I hesitate in the hall, but no
one approaches me, and I am not gripped by unexplained panic, so I shake my head
and go to my locker.

“I am
completely empty inside,” a high-pitched, snide voice says next to me, followed
by feminine laughter.

“I mean, did
you see that pic of her and Miranda? She totally looked like she was going to
murder her. Probably some lesbian jealousy thing,” I glance over and see the
girl who passed me the note yesterday talking to a carbon copy of herself, both
wearing smug expressions.

“I have no
ideas of my own,” the other girl titters and slams her locker shut.

“Nicole
probably killed her when she wouldn’t make out with her.”

The back of my
neck burns.

The note
passer turns slightly and catches sight of me, her self-satisfied expression
spreading as she looks me over as though she’s taking notes for later. “Oh,
hey. You’re the new girl, right?”

I frown, but
nod. Were they talking about the Nicole I knew?

“I’m Tasha,
and this is Meredith. I saw you hanging out with Nicole Sharp yesterday. You
might want to be careful,” she says in a mock serious voice.

“What are you
talking about?”

The girls
exchange sly looks. “Well, she’s a total lezzie. And psycho. She killed her
best friend when she rejected her. You’d better watch out or she’ll go all
stalker on you, too,” Tasha warns, her lips curling into an elegant sneer. My
skin is on fire, though whether it’s because of the blatant lies or my rising
anger, I am not sure.

“I don’t think
we can be talking about the same Nicole,” I grind out through gritted teeth.
The girls giggle again, the sound grating on my nerves like metal dragged
across dry asphalt.

“Oh, I don’t
know. Maybe you’re like her. She might not have to kill you after all,” Tasha
says, and they both explode into laughter. My fist clenches at my side and for
the first time in my life I feel like hitting someone.

I slam my
locker shut and turn to face them straight on. “That’s not the truth, and you
know it. Why would you say that?” I demand, my voice nearly shaking with anger.
Instead of looking chagrined, Tasha and Meredith just snicker.

“Oh my god, I
was joking. Don’t take yourself so seriously,” Tasha remarks, her tone suddenly
superior, as though reprimanding a small child. I narrow my eyes at her, but
she shrugs and she and Meredith begin to walk away.

“Guess
Nicole’s found her new lover,” Meredith says in a whisper loud enough to carry
and both girls look over their shoulders to make sure I heard. The anger drains
from me and I am left feeling confused and uncertain. I have seen this over and
over on TV shows and in books; there are always a few mean girls who rule the
school and make everyone else miserable. I thought for sure that was an
exaggeration.

Guess not.

I find my way
to my first class with more ease than the day before and take my seat after
smiling timidly at Ms. Sullivan. Phillip slides into his chair behind me and
taps me on the shoulder.

“Hey, I didn’t
see you at lunch yesterday. You find your way around okay?” he asks
concernedly, and once again my skin starts up its uncomfortable hum, even as
his words wash over me without revealing anything hidden about him. For a
moment, I feel an eerie sense of emptiness, a gaping hole where some substance is
meant to be, but it passes and I manage to smile at him, accepting for the
moment that my talent has a glitch when it comes to Phillip.

“Yeah, thanks.
I looked, but I didn’t see you, and then Nicole offered to let me sit with
her,” I explain, glancing over at Nicole’s chair. The tone for class to start
sounds and she hasn’t come yet.

“Oh, ok. Well,
the offer still stands. I usually sit near the back, by the windows,” he
whispers and then Ms. Sullivan calls us to attention and I turn around, the
buzz under my skin fading again. I feel a pang of anxiety as I look at Nicole’s
empty chair, but then shrug mentally. Maybe she’s sick.

Class moves
slowly. Evidently the essays we turned in yesterday didn’t convince Ms.
Sullivan we have even the most basic knowledge of American history, because she
spends the first half hour lecturing us on civil responsibility and the
importance of understanding our heritage. By the end of class, even I feel
guilty, and I aced the history portion of the high school equivalency exam.

Phillip
doesn’t offer to walk me to class again. He just smiles and says he hopes to
see me at lunch. I am not sure if he is sincere or not since my skin won’t stop
humming around him, but I decide to take him at his word. After all, if Nicole
isn’t here today, I won’t have anyone to sit with.

By the time
lunch rolls around, I am rethinking my options. Nicole is nowhere to be seen,
and I stand at the entrance to the cafeteria with the same sense of being
overwhelmed as yesterday. I wonder if I can just sit in Nicole’s nook and eat
by myself, or if that will brand me as being a loser. Shifting uncomfortably in
my leggings and sweater dress, I start to retreat, but a hand grabs my arm to
halt me.

“There you
are,” Phillip’s voice sounds behind me. He gives me a smile, his gleaming teeth
taking on a yellow tint in the glaring florescent lights.

“Oh, hey. I
was…just looking for you,” I say uncertainly, still unable to tell if he meant
for me to join him or if he was just being friendly. Tiny wings quiver under my
skin in reaction to his nearness.

“Great. C’mon,
I’ll show you where I sit,” he offers, leading me by the arm through the
crowded cafeteria like a stubborn dog being dragged along on a leash by its
owner. I shake off the imagery and paste a smile on my face as he pulls out a
chair for me at a table with four other boys and two girls, none of whom I
recognize. I brace myself for an onslaught of unwanted information.

“Guys, this is
Derry. She just started here yesterday. Derry, this is Seth, Aaron, David, Josh,
Mary, and Ruth,” he introduces, gesturing at each as he names them. I bite back
a laugh in surprise at all the biblical names. What are the odds?

“I’m only here
because I want to date Phillip,” the girl named Ruth, who seems familiar, says,
giving me a friendly wave. I smile back at her and nod at the others, who seem
pleasant enough. They start up their conversation again and I hear a number of
things about them, most pretty mundane, but the boy named David gives me pause.
The first thing I hear him say is that he used Rohypnol on his girlfriend at a
party over the weekend. I glance at the girl in question, Mary, and wonder if
she knows.

This is the
problem with knowing the truth all the time. Sometimes I could help people by
telling them what someone else said, or by revealing a truth about themselves of
which they might not be consciously aware. But no one would believe me. Or they
would think I was weird, or eavesdropping. Or crazy.

Mary catches
me staring at her and gives me a quizzical look. I turn away, hoping no one
else noticed.

“So where are
you from, Derry?” Ruth asks politely, shifting closer to me and by extension,
Phillip, who sits to my left. He gives her a bland smile and then joins in a
conversation about football. Ruth’s face falls a bit, but she rallies and
focuses on me with genuine interest. I tell her I’m from Williamsburg and that
my mom owns the new antique store on High Street.

“Oh my god, I
love that place! I was just in there last week,” she exclaims.

“Right. I knew
you looked familiar.”

I smile,
remembering. She hadn’t bought anything, but gushed over an antique Tiffany
lamp for nearly half an hour to her mom. We talk for a bit about nothing, just
school and things to do in town, and it’s not long before I am completely at
ease, laughing and joining in with the rest of the group like I’ve been at the
table for years. Lunch is almost over and although I’ve barely eaten, a happy
glow surrounds me. This is exactly how I’d envisioned high school.

“Mary, don’t.
It’s just mean,” I hear Phillip say and turn to see what he’s talking about. He
is staring down at his phone with a blank expression while Mary giggles
impishly.

“Oh, whatever.
Like you care.” She tosses perfectly straight blond hair over her shoulder and
looks at him through slanted eyes.

“What is it?”
Ruth asks, distracted. Phillip rolls his eyes but passes the phone to her. I
catch a glimpse as she takes it.

It’s a picture
of Nicole and the girl who died, the girl from my nightmare. They have their
arms around each other and Nicole’s pinched face is bright with laughter in a
way I haven’t seen. Miranda is smiling too, but there’s a hollow look about
her, as though a strong gust of wind would blow her away. I remember the way
she turned to smoke in my dream and suppress a shudder.

“Oh, not this
again,” Ruth says drearily, shaking her head as she looks at the screen. Mary
laughs, a cruel bite in its sound, like crunching ice.

“Isn’t that
Nicole?” I ask, and everyone looks at me. Phillip nods in understanding.

“You were
hanging out with her yesterday, that’s right. Look, don’t worry about it.” He
reaches out to take his phone back, shielding the screen from me as he stuffs it
in his pocket. Irritation flares in my chest and I turn my attention to Ruth.