Relic (7 page)

Eric snorted and shook his head at me. If he did like Rylee, and he thought she liked me, he might redouble his efforts to make my life miserable. I'd have to watch out for that.

Dr. Mickelsen nodded and moved on to Colin, who said, “Pass,” as did pretty much everyone else. Then he launched into a discussion about the stages of grief, and then death in general. I actually thought it was a creepier discussion than the usual creepy discussion about our exploded teacher.

“What about you, Dean?” Dr. Mickelsen asked.

I blinked. I'd missed the question. “Sorry,” I said, “what was the question?”

“Well, I know we've discussed this before, but I'd like you to tell the group what you were thinking in the moments before your
accident
.”

I sighed. It had been seven weeks since my “accident” and Dr. Mickelsen still said the word the way my dad did, like it was a substitute word for suicide—which it wasn't. Sure, it might have seemed like a suicide attempt, since I basically jumped into oncoming traffic, but if I hadn't done it, my sister would have been killed.

Part of me really wanted to tell the truth, say that I'd jumped in front of that car on purpose, that I was part of the
Congregatio de Sacrificio
. But talking about secret societies and admitting you had visions of people who only had twenty-four hours to live seemed terribly counterproductive when people already thought I was nuts. No, doing that would lead to more therapy, not less. I'd end up locked in a room with padded walls before I could say “antipsychotic medication.”

So of course, I didn't tell them any of that stuff.

I said what everyone in the room had heard me say a dozen and a half times: “I really wasn't thinking of anything. I was just jogging across the street, and I didn't see the car. Stupid mistake. I should have looked both ways.”

Eric snorted from across the circle. “He got the
stupid
part right.” He elbowed Rodney, and the two of them laughed.

“Okay, boys,” Dr. Mickelsen said. “That's quite enough. We don't want any more fights during therapy sessions.” He looked around the group. “We have time for one more,” the doctor said. “Who'd like to share?” He turned and pointed a couple chairs to my left. “Liam? Care to add something to the group?”

Liam Carter was in my grade and had been with Lisa in Mrs. Farnsworthy's history class when the explosion in the chemistry lab had obliterated the wall between the two rooms. They'd both seen Mrs. Farnsworthy die. He'd always been a sort of nervous kid, but not a complete loner. He reminded me a little of myself: not anxious to take center stage, preferring instead to blend into the background. But since the explosion, or at least since he started therapy, Liam had become almost entirely mute. He always sat in the same chair, kept his head down, and rubbed his bare arms as though he was trying to stay warm. As I looked at him, I realized how similar he and Lisa acted and I wondered if Lisa wasn't having a harder time with everything than she let on.

“What a freak,” Eric said.

Liam shook his head, and Dr. Mickelsen made a note before looking out at the rest of us. “Anyone?” he asked.

I glanced at my watch and whispered, “Ten fifty-five.”

“You've all made such progress,” Dr. Mickelsen said, smiling. “Next week will be our last mandatory session. But I will be here every Friday, at the same time, for the rest of the summer should anyone, or everyone, decide they would benefit from some more talks.” He opened his clipboard and scanned a page. “Most of you shared your thoughts today, but I hope those who didn't will share in the next session.” His eyes lingered on me and he drew a deep breath and smiled. “We'll see you all next week.”

“One more session,” Colin said as the group dispersed. “Finally, just one more of these things. I can't wait.”

As soon as I was on my feet, Eric came out of nowhere and shoved me. Hard. My leg was feeling nearly a hundred percent, but the suddenness of the shove caught me off guard and I clipped my chair with my foot and stumbled to the floor.

“That's only part of the payback,” he spat.

Colin leaned forward like he was about to pound Eric, but Rodney loomed behind Eric like a thundercloud. Rodney was fourteen, but he looked eighteen. I'd known Rodney since I was nine, and I barely believed he was fourteen. He was like a science experiment gone horribly wrong. I'd say he was ogre-like, only “ogre” isn't a scary enough description for him. If ogres really existed, Rodney would be the thing that killed them. He'd kill them and then eat them and then use their bones to kill more of them. Eric would be the thing that sat on his shoulder while he did it.

Colin shrank back under the shadow of Rodney, but his hands remained in tight fists.

“What's wrong with you, Eric?” Lisa said, narrowing her eyes. “You know he only just got his cast off.” The muscles in her jaw tightened, and then she sprang forward and shoved the little twerp square in the chest. He staggered back and tripped over Rodney's size twelve shoes, crumpling to the floor with a whimper.

His face reddened, and he looked, slack-jawed, first at Lisa, then up at his friend. “Are you just going to stand there?”

Rodney's gaze moved between Eric and Lisa. He reminded me of an ox, the way his head lolled one way then the next, confused and dumb. “But she's a girl,” he said in a half whisper. Lisa jutted out her chin and planted her fists on her hips, glowering down at the heap of Eric on the floor.

I craned my neck to see if Dr. Mickelsen was on his way over, but the studio was pretty big and he was at the other end, standing in the entrance with his back to us, talking to some parents picking up their kids. Plus, the few remaining kids were crowding around, blocking a clear view from the door.

“C'mon,” Eric said, looking up at Rodney, “do something!” His voice was half whining and half ordering.

Rodney growled and then lunged. Except he didn't lunge at Lisa. Colin stood beside her and took the full force of the shove. He hit the floor, skipping across the wood like a stone on a lake.

“What's going on over there?” Dr. Mickelsen called, finally roused from his conversation. He moved toward us cautiously, no doubt worried that Rodney would shuttle him across the floor next.

Lisa pulled me to my feet as Eric jumped to his. He pointed at the two of us. “This isn't over,” he growled. “We're not even. Not even close.” He stormed off with Rodney trailing him just as Dr. Mickelsen arrived.

“Well?” the doctor said. He watched Eric and Rodney leave the studio before turning back to us. “What was that about?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.” Eric and Rodney may have been royal pains, but telling on them would only accomplish two things, neither of them good: Eric and Rodney would want even more revenge, and Dr. Mickelsen would inform his good friend and fellow psychologist, my dad. I needed the spotlight off me. Getting into fights wasn't the way to do that.

“What about you?” the doctor asked, looking at Colin. “Care to explain what you were doing on the floor?”

“Tripped,” Colin answered, brushing off. “I'm just clumsy like that.”

Lisa hauled me to my feet and then grabbed Colin's arm. “Thanks for the session,” she said, talking to Dr. Mickelsen as she pulled us toward the door. “See you next week.”

 

We caught a bus a block away from the dance studio and headed back to the museum. I was dreading the apology, and it seemed the universe was in sync with my mood: heavy gray clouds rolled across the sky, blocking out any trace of the sunny summer day we'd started out with. I just wanted to get it over with.

When we rounded the corner and caught sight of the museum, I nearly fainted. The small mob of protestors from the day before had grown. A lot.

Lisa gasped. “There must be fifty people over there.”

I would've guessed a hundred. The whole area was packed like a rock concert. The crowd didn't fit at a museum. The protestors were on the curb, separated from the entrance by the museum's manicured lawn. Police paced between the protestors and the museum, and news vans with satellite dishes protruding from their roofs filled the parking lot.

“I bet more than a hundred,” Colin said, a grin slowly spreading across his face. He grabbed my shoulder excitedly. “I bet it's because of that article.”

I groaned. Rumors of the insane kid who attacked a monk had probably started spreading as soon as I had been hauled off by security the previous day. Now the article made it all true. Every single protestor probably thought I was some kind of racist monk-hater.

“I can't go in there, guys. They'll kill me.”

Lisa stood back and tapped her chin. She snatched the Red Wings ball cap off Colin's head and slapped it on mine.

“Hey!” Colin said. “What gives?” He rubbed his hands over his head, trying, with zero success, to smooth out all the chunks of hair sticking up from his head.

Lisa smirked.

“What?” Colin asked. “I didn't think I'd have to brush my hair since I was planning on wearing my hat.”

“Dean needs it more than you,” Lisa said.

“A hat?” I shook my head. “A hat isn't going to be a good enough disguise. I'll be spotted as soon as I cross the street.”

“No, you won't,” Lisa said. “The photo with the article wasn't very clear, and even if it was, they'll be looking for a kid with a cast and a pair of crutches.” She gestured to Colin's head. “Plus they'll be too busy staring at Colin's hair to even notice you.” She turned to Colin and smirked. “You look like a hobo.”

For some reason, everything except the hobo part sounded perfectly reasonable. They would be looking for a kid in a cast, certainly a kid with crutches. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced they wouldn't expect to see me. What kind of crazy kid would come back to the scene of the crime only twenty-four hours after the fact? I'd wear the hat just to be safe, but yeah, I bet I wouldn't even be noticed with all the excitement going on over there.

Colin seemed to register my acceptance and sighed. “Fine. You can use the hat. But you owe me.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Okay.” Lisa chewed her lip and turned back to the museum. “What do we do first? See the curator or go talk to the monk?”

“Mr. Overton,” I said. “If things go bad talking to the monk, we may have to run, and I don't want to have to sneak back.” I paused and then added, “You don't think the monk thinks I hit him on purpose, do you? Because if he does, he'd probably want to—”

“Whack you with something?” Colin finished.

I nodded. “Yeah, like his fist.”

We went around the block and crossed through the parking lots of neighboring businesses to avoid having to shove our way through the protestors. But when we rounded the corner of the building, we ran straight into more people, this time standing in line.

I gasped. “More protestors?”

An older man with a scruffy face and a plaid flat cap, standing at the back of group, turned. I instinctively lowered my head so he couldn't see my face, and Colin and Lisa stepped up like a couple of Secret Service operatives and stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of me.

“Protestors?” he asked. “No, those are the protestors.” He pointed toward the mob on the street. “We're just waiting in line.” He raised his voice and directed it at the angry mob. “We're not like those nutters!”

Several of the protestors shouted, shaking their fists and raising signs.

“Let's not antagonize them, sir,” an authoritative voice said from the right. I tilted my head. It was one of the security guards from the previous day, not the one from my vision, but one who would probably recognize me. Who was I kidding? They probably had a picture of me at the ticket counter with a note to TASER ON SIGHT if I was stupid enough to return. My mom had called ahead, I reminded myself. It should be okay.

“Yeah, yeah,” the old guy said. “Don't antagonize them. Heaven forbid we antagonize those loons.”

A few older teenagers pushed their way through the protestors and joined the line behind us. “Awesome,” a girl with light blue hair and an eyebrow ring said.

“I know, right?” another girl in the group said.

I recognized the second girl's voice and practically choked. It was Rylee. I turned my body and lowered the brim of my cap.

“I can't wait to see this head thing,” the blue-haired girl added.

I felt a tinge of guilt. That monk hadn't liked the way we had gawked at the relic, and now, thanks to that stupid article, it was getting more attention than ever. It wasn't really my fault. Was it?

I risked a quick glance up to see if the guard had left and ended up locking eyes with him. I jerked my head away and turned my attention to the brick wall on my right, picking at it as though it was the most interesting thing I'd ever seen.

“Dean?” It was Rylee's voice from behind me. “Dean, is that you?”

I hunched over and looked down at the concrete and shook my head.

Lisa laughed nervously. “Hi, Rylee. No, no, this isn't Dean.”

“Yeah,” Colin said. He dropped his voice to just above a whisper. “Dean wouldn't want to be spotted here after the incident in the paper.” There was a pause and I imagined him giving Rylee a wide-eyed
please play along
look. Then he said, “So, uh, what brings you guys here?”

Nice, I thought, change the subject.

“Who is that, then?” another girl pressed. The officer's thick-soled boots stepped closer, and even though I didn't look up, I felt his gaze boring into me.

“Who?” Colin asked, his voice cracking. There was an awkward silence, and I suddenly felt Colin grab my shoulder. “Oh, this is…erm…”

“It's just…” Lisa began.