Mayday (6 page)

Or register for school.

Wiggle returned. “Just fill out the forms as best you can, and we'll make a call.”

An idea, quick and crafty, weaseled in, and I stared down at the enrollment sheet. I fiddled with the pen, rubbed my eyes, and fiddled some more.

“Oh, for the love of heaven, not you, too. Crow barely sounds out, and you can't read either?”

I blanked my face, but my thoughts replayed the first time I'd played this game.

In school, I had been a master of deception, and no ruse proved my brilliance more than feigned idiocy. I quickly determined that my lack of sleep would not accommodate a middle school workload. Enter special education, a beautiful place where expectations and homework were nonexistent.

My present plans do not accommodate a middle school workload either.

“Let me walk you down to Mrs. Herbert. She'll be your homeroom. Room 145.” Wiggle rose and peeked at me sideways. “Can you count?”

“Some days better than others. Crow's the smart one.” I grinned, and followed my escort out the office door.

The halls were empty during first hour, a strange vacuum filled only with the click of Wiggle's heels.

“You will like Mrs. Herbert.” Wiggle waddle-
clicked
forward. “All the kids do.”

I nodded. I held nothing against her. She taught science and knew how to smile. She had treated me well, winking at me whenever she, too, dressed in basic black.

Yeah, Mrs. Herbert was kind, and I had treated her like garbage. Classic Crow.

Wiggle gentled opened the door and stuck in her head. A moment later, Mrs. Herbert squeezed into the hall, glanced from Wiggle to me.

“It's late in the year to be moving to a new school. Where did you attend before?”

“Puerto Rico?”

Wiggle coughed and set her hand on my shoulder. “This is Shane Raine, Crow's half sister.”

Mrs. Herbert broke into a wide smile. “Well, that is good news. Crow's one of my favorites. She steals my outfits on occasion, but that's easily forgiven.”

One of your favorites? Are you kidding?

“I'll leave you to get to know each other.” Wiggle spun and
clicked
back toward the office.

Mrs. Herbert reached for the doorknob. “Are you ready?”

“Hold on. You didn't really mean that about Crow, did you? That she was your favorite. I mean, that was a fake and fuzzy welcome.”

She leaned close. “‘I approve of a youth that has something of the old man in him,' or in this case, in her.”

“Cicero,” I whispered.

“I know the others don't see it. The teachers see arrogance and insolence. But look close and it's so clear. There's a wit and wisdom that transcends her years. Beneath the hardness, there's an old soul.” Mrs. Herbert straightened. “That probably makes absolutely no sense to you.”

“No, I get it. I totally get it.”

She raised a brow and led me into her room, to the most predictable of receptions; it followed the three stages perfectly.

Stage One: endure zoo animal status.

My classmates watched me take out a pencil. Watched me twirl my hair. Watched me get a bathroom pass. In Stage One, they make sure you're human. They make sure you don't do anything too
out there
. They assess your value. I must have used the bathroom correctly, because when I returned I had slipped into Stage Two. Kids cozied up to me, hoping I possessed something to boost their popularity status.

“Hey, Shane. Come over here.” Suzanne Wadley and four other girls fought for my attention. I chose Suzanne because Crow never cast a glance toward her.

“You're new here,” she said. Many stupid remarks fill the conversations of Stage Two. “Where you from?”

“Tennessee,” I lied, but it was the first state I could think of.

“Cool. How'd you end up in Minnesota?”

“I'm staying with my half sister. You might know her—Crow Raine?”

And with those last two words, I vanished into Stage Three. Suzanne smiled, turned and rolled her eyes at her friends, code for “this new girl will not be an asset.” From there, you're an eyelash from ostracism, which I achieved by hour's end.

Then I saw Basil.

He stood in the hallway outside the door, and my heartbeat skipped. He was cute at thirteen and floated above the other boys' stupidity. He was cool and polite all at once, a rare commodity for a seventh grader.

I lowered my gaze and hugged my science text, pressing hard into the wall as I tried to slip by.

“Hey, new girl!”

It was time to find Crow, but one crooked smile from Basil slowed me down. “Are you really Crow's half sister?”

I started to speak but thought better of it.

“And now you're living in that house?” He stepped nearer. “With Ms. Raine and the loser—”

“Yeah,” I said. “And their mom and stepdad.”

He paused and broke out laughing. “That's good.” His face tensed. “Don't let Crow hear you joke that way about her or Addy. You wouldn't want to see that punch line, if you know what I mean. So you're heading to lunch, right?”

“Baze!”

Mel ran up behind us and bumped into Basil's shoulder. Mel had two things that didn't belong in this school—money and clothes. She was cute—step-out-of-a-Macy's-ad cute. The rest of us looked like we had scraped our way up from the mines.

“Oh! And Crow Number Two. Who would have thought there'd be a second C in this school?”

“No.” Basil kept his eyes fixed on me. “She's different, Mel.”

I tell you this comment had conflicting effects. It warmed me, I will admit. It felt good knowing I still captured his interest. But it sucked, too. Because it wasn't really me. It was Shane. And at that moment, all the time he had dominated my thoughts seemed a monumental waste of drama.

She's different than Crow. Translated: at this moment, Shane—not Crow or Mel—is who I want.

Translated: Basil is a jerk.

I turned my back on Basil and left him there calling my name. Mel's voice took over; she was working him hard. “Let her go. She's a freak, like C.”

I froze, spun, and marched straight back to Mel.

“In what way, exactly, is Crow a freak?”

Mel glanced at Basil, who grinned and lifted his brows. “Yeah, Mel, explain what you mean.”

She shifted her feet and squirmed beneath her backpack. “Crow's unique. That's all. It's a good thing, really.” Mel scowled. “A little sensitive, aren't we?”

• • •

I caught up with Crow near the lunchroom. I would like to say she was
in
the lunchroom, but to do so would ignore the truth, so onward.

At first, I saw only a circle of kids in the foyer, near the stairs to the basement shop classes and across from the lunchroom entrance. Other fixtures off the foyer were the office, the auditorium, and the trophy showcase, all of which matter here.

I pushed through the ring. There, in the center, stood Crow, visually relaxed, her right hand opening and clenching. To the world, a girl in complete control, but I knew that hand. The same hand that readied for the knife.

Crow was ready to explode.

Facing her stood Jasmine Simone, grade eight. She was a large girl, with a mouth that filled up every inch of face space. She commanded, no,
demanded
respect. How she had not clashed with me in middle school before now was either providence, or more likely the result of my not truly coming into my own.

Jasmine circled Crow. I'd say stalked like a cat, but 180 pounds limits one's ability to stalk. Every time she reached Crow's ear, she slowed and whispered. I didn't know she could whisper.

The spectators were anxious, waiting, dreaming, to see these two titans engage in a “girl fight.” Hair pulling. Slapping. It was an embarrassing spectacle to watch, and neither fighter ended up victorious, but such events were sadly commonplace at Midway, where a hidden undercurrent of anger floated around the halls.

I squeezed my forehead between my forefingers. Think. Remember.

I came up empty, and my emptiness turned to fear, because this confrontation had never happened the first time I went through seventh grade. Jasmine never circled me. I never fought her. The next minutes, whatever they might hold, were a result of my presence, of a comatose Crow's soul-mind hopping into the body of thirteen-year-old Shane and going five years back in time.

I wasn't the rage inside the ring, but I sure as hell had set it in motion.

Jasmine stopped circling, her back to the auditorium and the trophy case.

“Everyone! To your classes. Now!” From the opposite side of the foyer, Assistant Principal Gleason stepped quickly toward the mess. “Break this up!”

Crow scratched her cheek.

“Oh, no,” I whispered. “Don't do it.”

“Did you mean what you said?” Crow asked, her voice so controlled, it frightened.

Jasmine chuckled. “Every frickin' word.”

Crow nodded slowly . . . and charged. She drove 180 pounds straight backward into the trophy case, shattering glass and toppling thirty years of athletic accomplishment. She wasn't finished. Crow pushed Jasmine's head back with a hand to the forehead, grabbed a trophy—volleyball, for what it's worth—lifted it high . . .

I leaped forward and caught Crow's arm. She turned and cuffed me hard across the jaw, and her arm caught a shard of glass protruding down like a wicked icicle. I stumbled back, staring at the blood covering her forearm.

Crow gazed blankly at me and dropped the trophy, just as Gleason came near.

His eyes widened. His jaw dropped.

“Oh, Lord.”

THE THOUGHTS OF C. RAINE

Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men.

Herodotus

THE SCHOOL TRIED TO REACH MOM.

Apparently, she didn't answer.

As stitches were more than called for, Crow and Jasmine were taken to Regions Hospital, while I again waited in the powder blue office. Enough people witnessed the event to satisfy administration that I bore no guilt . . . that I deserved some type of commendation for coming to Jasmine's aid.

In the end, only Wiggle questioned my innocence.

“Day One. Can't read. Can't count. In the middle of a fight,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Perhaps on your second day, I'll call in sick.”

The principal spoke to me of duty and rising to the occasion and acquitting myself well. I sighed my way through the sermon, and when finally the dismissal gong sounded, I pointed back over my shoulder toward his wall clock.

“Can I go?”

“Yes. Thank you again, Shane. I'm sorry your first day went like this. Five days will give Crow ample time to ponder her actions, so the rest of your week should be less eventful.”

“She's suspended? For five days?”

“Oh, that this would end there. If she's not sued.” He spun his chair toward the window and forced his hand through his hair. “If we're not sued.”

“Well, good luck with that,” I said.

Five days. What a stroke of fortune! That meant more time with Crow, more time to prepare, without the hassle of classes to interrupt my plans.

I walked quickly to my locker and toward the front door.

Middle school is a strange world. Granted, my arrival somehow caused the entire flare-up, but I did the right thing. I spared Jasmine major reconstructive surgery to the face. You would think kids might flip a smile my way, perhaps nod in approval.

Instead, I walked out of school in a bubble. In front of me on the bus, an empty seat; behind me, the same. Three kids squeezed into one seat, two rows up. Their heads leaned in, while their peeking eyes made frequent trips to the new girl two rows back. I knew I broke middle school code—stay out of other people's business—but did everyone want to witness a killing? Likely so. Inside my classmates lay a secret desire to witness the macabre. Maybe that's inside most people.

It wasn't inside my dad.

• • •

Precious few memories lingered of the man who left when I was five. A locket here, a roof there. My five-year-old piano recital was one of those sacred few.

It was clear from the onset that my musical career would be both short and painful. Most parents encouraged their children to practice. Mom begged me to stop. Yet, my sense of duty was strong, and for hours, I pounded out “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” my first recital piece.

The recital hall inside St. Vincent's Church was enormous. Surrounded by stained glass and with benches to seat thousands, I felt small and out of place. Thirty beginning-piano students and their families huddled on the first few pews, staring at the large Steinway in the hall's center.

Mom and Dad were there, and I remember the prerecital moments well. Mom worked the crowd, plastering on the smile I saw only outside our house. Dad sat quietly at my side.

“Are you nervous, Coraline?”

I pressed into his shoulder and looked up into his face. His eyes were soft. “I think I would be, too. This is a really big room, and there are a lot of strangers here. But I believe in you.”

The recital began. I was the second-to-last performer, which meant my anxiety had twenty-eight songs to germinate, take root, and grow. During that time, Dolly Harper and Jon Testman nailed Mary's lamb. Spot on. Not a mistake.

“And now.” My teacher rose and yawned. “May I introduce Coraline Raine, playing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.'”

Obligatory clapping began, and I glanced at my parents. Mom pursed her lips, Dad smiled, and I slid off the end of the pew, marched toward the Steinway.

“Dead girl walking!”

No, I didn't actually hear that, but I felt it and every gaze that bored a hole in my back. I reached the piano, plopped onto the bench, and tried to breath.

Start. Start.

My legs swung so hard they kicked the piano.

“Crow!” Mom hissed from the audience. “Sit still and play.”

I peeked around the big hall. I peeked at my piano teacher, shifting in her seat. I peeked at Mom, and her clenched teeth, and her closed eyes. Finally, I peeked at Dad, at his gentle face. I lifted my hands, placed them on the keys, and played.

Seven notes.

Blank. I went blank. As my last note faded into silence, I started to rock. My eyes stung, and I started again.

“Mary Had a Little Lamb . . .”

I slowly bowed my head and closed my eyes. I couldn't move. I was dying in front of everyone. And it was no small death.

Then: arms. They rounded my shoulder. I opened my eyes as Dad played a lovely introduction to my song. He paused and whispered, “I hate recitals. Will you play with me?”

I relaxed, and together we played it right through. No mistakes. The crowd thundered in applause.

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you, too.”

He left us the next morning.

I stared out that bus window, at Shane's faint reflection. It was true, my classmates wanted to see Jasmine dead, but they didn't know Death like I did. It's one thing to get all excited about it in the abstract. Quite another to see it real. There's a hideous silence to Death. It's not loud, or video-game exciting. It's quiet and weighty, and it steals your words.

Like the silence immediately following a car crash. Like the silence of a botched piano recital.

Sarcastic laughter floated back from the girls in front of me, and I slumped in my seat. Not two days into my walkabout, and already I had added attempted murder to Crow's world. Not exactly my goal.

“Is this seat taken?”

I peeked up at Addy.

“No. Please, sit.”

She eased herself down. “I saw you get off with Crow this morning.”

“Yeah.”

“I haven't seen you before.” Her eyes were large and welcoming.

I'd been waiting so long for this chance, and now, alone with Addy, I had nothing to say.

“You know,” Addy said, “she's really great.”

“Who?”

“Crow.” Addy folded her hands. “My teacher told me what happened today, and, well, I just don't want you to get freaked out about it. She's such a great sister; she's my sister, you know. And she doesn't have too many friends. I'd hate to see her lose one she just met.”

I blinked, unbelieving. Adele was watching out for me. My mind whirred. How many other times had she secretly covered my back?

“She won't lose me.”

Addy leaned back. “That's good. Really good.”

• • •

I didn't see Crow the next day. I knew she wouldn't spend her nights in the tree house, not with the Monster back home to worry about, but I thought she'd come out during the day. No, not to thank me, she'd never do that, but maybe to rip me for interference.

By the second morning of Crow's suspension, she still had not shown her face, and I was hungry. I tramped off to school to eat lunch. It was easy enough. The rear gym door was always open, and once sardined among two thousand kids, it was unlikely that I'd be noticed.

“Hey, Shane!”

Maybe not so unlikely.

Basil stood three kids behind me in the pizza line. “Sit with us?”

“Us?”

“Me and Scoot and Mel.”

I shrugged and held out my tray. “Yeah, that's fine.” I turned toward the lunch lady seated behind the scanner.

She held out her hand, waiting for my card. When I didn't offer one, she glanced up and I winced. “Shane Owen. I forgot—”

“Out of credits, dear? Let's check.” She punched on her computer. “You never had any. Consider this your last reminder.”

“Here,” Basil pushed forward and swiped his twice. “She's good.”

There was something genuinely odd about the gesture. I never noticed it the first time around, and he paid for plenty of my meals. It was the sense of obligation I felt after he did it, as if I owed him something. That was true. Basil kept score of kindnesses and would one day demand a repayment, which would cost me everything. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I followed Basil to our table. It wasn't really ours: time and repetition had simply staked our claim. Mel glanced up at me with passing disgust, quickly followed by the smile that stretched a mile wide and a millimeter deep.

“Shane.” She glanced at Basil. “How did you find her?”

“Pizza line.”

“Just like Crow.” She poked around her low-fat salad with low-fat dressing. “She really reminds me of her.”

“You don't know anything.” Scoot shoveled in a scoop of mashed potatoes and kept talking, white potatoes clinging to the corners of his lips. “Shane ends fights. Crow starts 'em.”

Scoot and Mel rehashed the story, while Basil stared at me. It was a strange look, a cross between affection and amusement. He always tried to get in people's heads.

“What?” I put down my fork and glared.

“Just looking, is all.” He reached for his pizza, but his gaze never left me. “How's Crow?”

Mel quieted, and from the corner of my eye, I saw her turn.

“I don't know. I haven't talked to her since.”

Basil chewed his lip and stretched out his hand, placed it on the lunch table palm up.

I don't know what it was about Basil. He was easy enough on the eyes, but you'd never find him in a magazine, and he certainly wasn't the best athlete in town. More likely it was the secrets; his disarming grin always extracted a bit more information than I wanted to share. Yet something in his gaze convinced me that my feelings were safe with him. Then there was his confidence. He had a certainty about him. Basil's suggestions, no matter how ludicrous, just felt right. If you know anyone like that, you'll understand why seconds later I found myself holding his hand. And a few seconds after that, I was wearing Mel's salad.

Mel marched out of the lunchroom, and I scowled and picked lettuce leaves from my hair. “Thanks for lunch, Basil, and give my thanks to Mel for the extra serving. I, uh, need to go find Crow.”

“Let me go with you,” he said. “I haven't skipped in ages.”

“No!” I stumbled away from the table. “No, I'll be fine.”

Basil jumped up and walked toward me. “But you don't know where she is.” He reached out and gently removed a piece of romaine from my shoulder.

I paused. “And you do.”

“Yeah, I do.”

I grabbed a napkin and swiped low-fat ranch dressing from my forehead. “Show me.”

• • •

Basil and I slipped out of the mayhem, crept downstairs to the gym door, and raced across the field.

“Just tell me where she is.” I huffed, and doubled over.

He slowed and walked back toward me. “She's with my mom.”

Of course!

I straightened and jogged away from Basil. In his middle school form, he was officially a pest whose presence hindered my work. And my work was to find Crow, to stay with her, to help her change the course of one day. It was possible; I'd seen events change with Jasmine and, with them, Crow's future.

Together, we could protect Addy. Yes, Sadie wanted me to focus on my life, but she probably wasn't briefed on my sister's fate.

I reached the bus stop just as the Metro ground to a stop.

“Hold up! You'll never find her!” Basil pounded behind me.

Wrong.

I couldn't forget. There was one adult who made me think growing up might be worth the effort: Basil's mom—hippy throwback, Save Tibet activist. I believed it rare that a cop would end up hitched to the woman who, upon their first meeting at a PETA rally, smacked him in the nose. But he arrested her, cuffed her, brought her in . . . and fell in love. Such were Officer David and Dove Dewey, Basil's odd-couple parents.

I shook thoughts of Dove from my mind and climbed bus steps, Basil screaming in the background. I slotted my coins and plunked down, trying to recall when I first met Dove. The time escaped me. The location did not.

Officer Dewey purchased a plot of land outside city limits. He claimed he wanted a place for target practice, but the truth was that Dove had demanded a garden Basil's apartment complex couldn't provide. A cop's pay didn't allow for a house, so Dewey dropped an old RV right in the center of the land, considering it both a great place to store his guns and a first-rate poker getaway.

I don't imagine he figured on Dove's moving out and taking up residence.

“Oh, I still love the man,” she used to say. “It's the living with him I can't stomach.”

She claimed the RV, turned the plot of land into gardens, and Officer Dewey never got in even one hand of poker.