The Prisoner of Cell 25 (4 page)

“I left the car’s dome light on all night and the battery’s dead. Can you give me a jump?”

“Sure.”

I followed her out of the building and across the parking lot to our car, a ten-year-old Toyota Corolla. She looked around to make sure no one was watching, then she climbed inside and popped the hood. I lifted it the rest of the way up, then grabbed the car battery’s terminals. “Go ahead,” I said.

The starter motor clicked until I pulsed (which is what I call what I do, pulse or surge) and the engine fired up. I let go of the battery.

Mom raced the engine for a moment, then she stuck her head out the window. “Thanks, honey.”

I shut the hood. “Sure.”

“Have a good day.”

She pulled out of the parking lot as I went back inside. Ostin was still at the table finishing his waffles.

“What was that about?” he asked, his mouth full.

“Car battery was dead.”

“And you started it up?”

“Yeah.”

“That is so cool.”

“At least my electricity’s good for something.”

“It’s good as Jack-repellant,” Ostin said cheerfully.

I looked at him and frowned. “Stop eating. We’re going to be late.”

He quickly shoved in two more bites, then stood. I threw my pack over my shoulder, then Ostin and I walked the five blocks to school.

Meridian High School was the fourth school I had been to since we moved to Idaho five years earlier. On the first day of high school, my mother had said to me, “Don’t get in trouble—and don’t hurt anyone,” which I’m sure would have sounded ridiculous to anyone who didn’t know my secret. I mean, I’m shorter than almost everyone at school, including the girls, and I never started problems, except by being small and looking vulnerable.

When I was in the sixth grade at Churchill Junior High, a bunch of wrestlers put me in the lunchroom garbage can and rolled me across the cafeteria. It was chicken à la king day and I was covered with rice and yellow gravy with carrots. It took five minutes before I couldn’t take it anymore and I “went off,” as my mother called it.

I wasn’t as good at controlling it back then, and one of the boys was taken to the hospital. The faculty and administration went nuts.

Teachers questioned me, and the principal and the school police officer searched me. They thought I had a stun gun or Taser or something. They went through my coat and pants pockets, and even the garbage can but, of course, they found nothing. They ended their investigation by concluding that the boys had touched a power cord or something. None of the wrestlers got in trouble for what they had done and all was forgotten. A few months later my mom and I moved again. 

7. The Cheerleader’s Story

If you’ve ever had a black eye you’ll know what my day was like. Everyone just stared at me like I was a freak or something. By the end of the day I was walking with my head down, and my eyes partially covered by a copy of the school paper—the
Meridian Warwhoop
. Still, the day wasn’t all bad. I didn’t see Dallstrom once, and there was no sign of Jack or his friends. I figured I had probably scared them off for at least a few days.

As I walked into biology, my last class of the day, I noticed Taylor Ridley staring at me. I ignored her gaze and sat down.

“Hey,” she said. “Are you okay?”

I didn’t look at her. As usual my tics started.

She leaned toward me. “Michael.”

I didn’t even know that she knew my name.

The tardy bell rang and Mr. Poulsen began walking up and down the rows of desks, handing out our tests.

“People, today’s test comprises one-fifth of your final grade, so you don’t want to rush it. I want complete silence. N’er a word. You know the penalty for cheating, so I won’t elaborate, except to remind you that it’s an automatic F and an unpleasant visit to Mr. Dallstrom.” (Was there any other kind? I thought.) Mr. Poulsen walked to the front of the classroom. “When you’re done with your tests bring them to me, then go back to your desks and sit quietly.”

I could see Ostin squirming in front of me, happy as a pig in mud.  He loved tests. Lived for them. Sometimes, for fun, he’d download them from the Internet and quiz himself. Clearly something was wrong with him. I pulled out my pencil box and began.

1. Which definition best describes a chromatid?

a. Protein/DNA complex making the chromosome

b. Molecules of DNA with specific proteins responsible in eukaryotes for storage and transmission of genetic information

c. Five kinds of proteins forming complexes with eukaryotic DNA

d. Each of a pair of identical DNA molecules after DNA replication, joined at the centromere

D, I thought. D? Or was it A? I was mulling over my answer when a folded piece of paper landed on my desk. I unfolded it.

How did you do that?

I glanced around to see who had thrown it. Taylor was looking at me.

I wrote,
Do what?

I looked up at Poulsen, who was at his desk reading a book, then threw the note back. Within seconds the note was on my desk again.

You know. I saw you do something to those boys.

I sent her another note.

I didn’t do anything.

Taylor wrote back.

You can trust me.

I was writing another denial when I heard Poulsen clear his throat.

I looked up. He was standing at the top of my row, staring at me.

“Mr. Vey. Those notes wouldn’t have something to do with the test we’re working on?”

I swallowed. “No, sir.”

“Then you picked the wrong time to share your feelings with Miss Ridley.”

I blushed while the class laughed. He walked toward me. I was blinking like crazy. “I think I was quite explicit about the rules. Hand me that note.” I looked down at the paper. I couldn’t give it to him. If he read it aloud everyone would know.

“Wait,” Taylor said. “He didn’t do anything. I was the one passing notes.”

He looked at Taylor and his expression changed from stern disciplinarian to gentle educator. I think even he had a crush on her.

“What did you say, Miss Ridley?”

“I wrote the notes, not Michael.”

He looked at Taylor in disbelief. She was the model student, incapable of such a shameful act. Then, while he was looking at her,  Taylor did the strangest thing. She smiled at Poulsen with a confident smile, then cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. Suddenly Poulsen looked confused, like a man who had just been awakened from a nap. He blinked several times, then looked at Taylor and smiled. “Excuse me, what was I saying?”

“You said we have forty minutes left on our tests,” Taylor said.

He rubbed his forehead. “Right. Thank you, Taylor.” He turned back toward the class. “Everyone keep at it. You have forty minutes left.” He walked back to his desk while everyone in our class looked back and forth at each other in amazement. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I looked back at Taylor.

“You can trust me,” she mouthed.

It took me the whole class to finish the test. In fact, I ran out of time on the last three questions and just randomly circled letters.

Ostin had finished the whole thing in less than fifteen minutes and strutted to the front of the room to turn in his test, unaware that the rest of the class was staring daggers at his back. For the rest of the period I could hear him sneaking cheese puffs from his backpack.

After the bell rang, Ostin and I walked out to our lockers.

“Man, that test was cake,” Ostin said. “I can’t wait for the next one.”

“You’re a freak,” I said.

Suddenly Taylor grabbed my arm. “Michael, we need to talk.”

“No we don’t,” I said. I kept walking, leaving her standing there.

Ostin looked at me in amazement. “Dude, that was Taylor Ridley you just brushed off.”

I looked at him. “So?”

He smiled. “That was so cool.”

Taylor ran in front of me and stopped. She looked at Ostin. “Excuse us, please.”

“Sure,” Ostin said, looking thrilled that Taylor had spoken to him.

After he’d taken a few steps back she turned to me. “Please.”

“I can’t,” I replied.

“I need to know,” Taylor said. “I really, really need to know.”

I looked at her, thinking. “What did you do to Poulsen?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, mimicking what I’d written to her on the note.

“You did
something
,” I said, “I saw it.”

“Really? Well, so did you.”

“Nothing I can tell you about.”

“Michael, please. It’s important.” She grimaced. “I’m begging.”

“Dude, she’s begging,” Ostin said, forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to be listening.

Taylor turned to him. “Excuse me,” she said sharply.

Ostin wilted beneath her gaze. “Sorry.” This time he crossed to the opposite side of the hall.

I looked at her for a moment then said, “I’d get killed for telling you.”

“No one will ever know. I promise.” She crossed her chest with her finger. “Cross my heart.”

I looked over at Ostin, who was still pretending not to listen. He shook his head.

Taylor looked at him, then back at me and sighed. “Michael, I 
really
need to know. I promise, I’ll never tell anyone.” She leaned in closer. “I’ll even tell you
my secret
.” She just stood there, staring at me the way Ostin stared at jelly doughnuts. Then she put her hand on my arm. “Please, Michael. It’s more important than you can possibly imagine.”

She looked so desperate I wasn’t sure what to do. Finally I said, “I couldn’t tell you here anyway.”

“We can go to my place,” she said quickly. “I live just down the street. No one’s home.”

Ostin looked at me in amazement. I could guess what he was thinking.
Dude, Taylor Ridley just invited you to her house!

“I can’t,” I said. “I have after-school detention.”

“That’s okay, I’ll wait for you,” she said eagerly.

“Don’t you have cheerleading or something?”

“Only on Mondays and Wednesdays. And Fridays if there’s a game.” She looked deeply into my eyes. “Please.”

Saying no to the girl you have a crush on is hard enough, especially when she’s begging, but I had also run out of excuses. I exhaled loudly in surrender. “Where do you want to meet?”

Taylor smiled. “I’ll just go with you.”

“To detention?”

“I don’t think they’ll try to keep me out, do you?”

“I don’t know. No one ever tries to get
into
detention. It’s like breaking into jail.”

Taylor smiled. “Then I guess we’ll find out.”

“Hey,” said Ostin, who had inched his way back into our conversation. “What about me?”

Taylor looked at him. “What about you?”

“I’m Michael’s best friend. Ostin,” he said, eagerly putting out his hand. Taylor just looked at him.

“He’s my friend,” I said.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I want to come with you guys.”

“We can trust him,” I said.

She looked him over, then turned back to me. “Sorry, but I can’t.”

I looked at Ostin and shrugged. “Sorry, man.”

He frowned. “All right. See you guys later.”

As Ostin walked away, Taylor turned to me. “Let’s go, you delinquent.”

We walked down the hall together, something I never thought would happen in a million years. I wondered if Taylor might be afraid to be seen walking with me—like her popularity quotient might fall a point or two (I wasn’t sure how that worked), but she didn’t seem to care. She must have said “Hi” about a hundred times between my locker and detention. As usual I felt invisible.

As we walked into the lunchroom, Ms. Johnson looked at Taylor quizzically. Taylor was one of those students who was always the teacher’s pet: perfect citizenship, always got her homework done, raised her hand to speak, never a cause of trouble. I once overheard a teacher say, “If only I could have a classroom of Taylors.”

“Do you need something, Taylor?” Ms. Johnson asked.

“No, Ms. Johnson. I’m here for detention.”

“I’m surprised to hear that.” Ms. Johnson looked down at her clipboard. “I don’t have you on my list.”

“I know. I didn’t get in trouble or anything. I’m just waiting for my friend Michael.”

Ms. Johnson nodded. “That’s very kind of you, being supportive of a friend, but detention isn’t a place to hang out.”

Taylor just looked at her with her big, soft brown eyes. “Please? I really think I can help him change his ways.”

I turned and looked at her.

Ms. Johnson smiled. “Well, if you really want to help, I don’t see why not. But you can’t sit together. We can’t have talking.”

Taylor flashed a smile. “That’s okay, Ms. Johnson. I’ve got a lot of homework to catch up on.” She waved to me. “Be good.” She sat down at Ms. Johnson’s table, grinning at me.

I’m pretty sure that Taylor was the happiest person to ever go to detention. Frankly, I wasn’t hating it too much myself. I couldn’t believe that the best-looking girl at school was in detention waiting for me. The lunchroom was at least ten times more crowded than the day before, which meant that there was either a sudden outbreak of misbehaving, or Mr. Dallstrom had had a bad day. I was about to sit at the end of a long table near the back wall of the cafeteria when someone said, “Not there, tickerhead.”

I looked up. Cody Applebaum, a six-foot ninth grader, was walking toward the table, sneering at me. “That’s my side of the table.”

I had no idea what a tickerhead was. “Whatever,” I said. I walked to the opposite end of the table and sat down. I opened my algebra book, unfolded the day’s worksheet, and began doing my homework. About five minutes into my studying something hard hit me in the head. I looked up at Cody, who was laughing. He had a handful of marbles.

“Ow! Knock it off,” I said, rubbing my head.

“Owww, knock it off,” he mimicked. “Puny wimp. Go tell your mama.”

Sometimes I felt like I was wearing a sign that said pick on me.

I went back to my book. A few seconds later another marble hit me in the head. I looked up. Cody was now leaning against the wall on the back two legs of his chair. He raised his fist and bared his teeth like an angry baboon.