The Scarlet Letterman (11 page)

Sitting in biology class, I’m still thinking about the tiger or lion or cougar, or whatever it was I saw last night, even as I fiddle with the pieces of the drawing I’ve found around campus. I put them on my lab table and try to rearrange them. One, I think, is definitely a cat’s ear. Another is a paw — for sure.

My concentration is broken when I hear Parker’s name called by Mr. S, which stands for Stevenson, as in Robert Louis. Apparently, God or Headmaster B thought it would be apt to have the author of
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
teach biology. As luck would have it, today we’re discussing the reproductive habits of frogs while dissecting one. I don’t think I need to tell you how disgusting this is.

“Parker, I’ve asked you a question,” Mr. S says.

It is one of the great injustices of my life at Bard that I have two classes with Parker, when I don’t even share a single class with Hana, Ryan, or Samir. The scheduling gods hate me.

Parker slowly looks up. “What?” she barks, as if she’s the CEO of a Fortune 500 company talking to a lowly assistant who has just interrupted a board meeting.

“I asked you if you would like to tell us if this is a girl frog or a boy frog,” he repeats, as he points to a slide on the overhead projector.

Parker just glares at him. She does this because she doesn’t know the answer to his question. She never knows the answer to any question that doesn’t involve designer shoes. She gets out of them typically by making a joke, or, in most cases, just ignoring the teacher altogether. When pressed, she’ll say, “I don’t
know
,” as if knowing the answer would be a waste of time.

Now, however, she has a gleam in her eye. That can’t be good.

“I don’t
know
,” she says. “Why don’t you ask
Miranda
. I hear that she’s supposed to be an expert on the male anatomy.”

This causes some snickers in the room. Great. My rumors still haven’t died down, I see. They’re as funny as ever — to everybody else.

Mr. S looks around, confused. Apparently he’s the only person on campus who hasn’t heard the rumors. I feel my face turn bright red.

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re dealing with frogs here, Ms. Rodham,” Mr. S tells her.

“I’m sure someone with Miranda’s
experience
can probably tell us about the genitals of just about any mammal.”

This causes more snickers.

“Frogs are amphibians, not mammals,” I say, but I don’t think anyone but Mr. S hears me. This is why Parker — a junior — shares two of my sophomore classes. Because she doesn’t know that frogs aren’t mammals.

“That’s right, Miranda, they are,” he says, still a little puzzled about the innuendo in the room. That’s what happens when your teacher’s a ghost from the nineteenth century. Modern teen sex humor is lost on him.

I glance backward in class and see that Parker and her clones are continuing the joke, and every so often the group at their lab table starts laughing.

“Everyone, it’s time to start the frog dissection,” Mr. S says, clapping his hands together.

My lab partner is a girl named V (which stands for Veronica). She’s got blue hair and five nose rings. Like Blade, she’s a Goth, but unlike Blade, she isn’t obsessed with the occult. V is not exactly a communicator. I don’t think I’ve actually heard her speak more than two words at a time.

“Want to get started?” I ask V, about our dead frog that’s lying belly-up in a metal tray on the lab table we share. V just glares at me.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” I say.

Behind us Parker’s table starts giggling. I glance back and see that Parker and her clone lab partner have attracted a crowd.

“Hey, Miranda,” calls one of Parker’s clones, “why don’t you come take a look at this?”

“How about I don’t?” I say. The last thing I want to do is give Parker the satisfaction of seeing whatever juvenile thing she’s doing back there. She’s probably drawing pictures of me in compromising positions with half the basketball team.

“Ms. Rodham?” calls Mr. S from the front of the class. “Something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”

Uh-oh. Mr. S has just given Parker what she wanted: a spotlight. While most sane people feel public humiliation, Parker doesn’t. She likes being the center of attention, and she usually uses it to burn someone else.

“Mr. S,” Parker says, “we were just exploring the frog’s reproductive system, using a visual aid.”

The crowd from the table parts, to show the dissection tray. They’ve put one frog facedown in the groin of the other frog. The facedown frog has a sign stick-pinned to its back that reads “Miranda.”

The whole class starts laughing.

“That’s enough, Ms. Rodham. That’ll be a detention for you,” Mr. S says, looking like he’s not quite sure what’s happened, but knowing it’s something bad. “The rest of you…back to work.”

Parker gives me a little triumphant smile. She doesn’t seem to mind the fact that her little prank earned her a detention. Apparently the gloating rights were worth it.

“Clever,” I say to her, meaning the opposite.

If there is a big cat stalking students on this campus, is it too much to ask for it to eat Parker first?

I shrug off Parker’s antics. I’ve got bigger problems. Like whatever it was that I saw with a shoe in its mouth last night. Maybe Ms. W has some answers.

I head to Ms. W’s office, but when I get there, I find no Ms. W.

Instead, standing over her desk with his back to me, is the Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker. I stop in my tracks. He’s picking up a book from the desk, which he slips into his pocket.

This is the closest I’ve been to him since the night I saw him in Coach H’s room. I realize being alone in a room with the would-be campus rapist isn’t the smartest thing, but I just can’t shake the feeling that he isn’t attacking people. At least not how they think.

Besides, it might be Heathcliff.

“What are you doing?” I ask, causing the hooded figure to turn slightly, but I see no nose or chin, or anything that might identify him. He moves away from the desk, and away from me, toward the bookcase.

“Wait! Where are you going?” I grab his arm and try to tug him around to see his face, but he gives me a shove, and I fall back a few steps. Now I get a really bad feeling. I’m pretty sure whoever this is, it
isn’t
Heathcliff. He wouldn’t shove me. I’m almost positive. He’d never hurt me. And now, I start to think how dumb I am — being alone in a room with a would-be attacker.

He turns from me and pulls a book from the shelf of Ms. W’s bookcase. The entire bookshelf slides to one side, revealing a stone passageway on the other side. A hidden door! I wonder if Coach H’s room has one, too.

I decide the only thing to do is call for help. I start to shout, for Guardians, for anyone, and that’s when Hooded Sweatshirt Guy whirls at me. He grabs me by both arms and shoves me, hard, against Ms. W’s desk. The corner of the desk hits my back.

“Ow!” I cry, just as Hooded Sweatshirt Guy lifts his head.

And I find myself staring at the impossible.

I look at where Hooded Sweatshirt Guy’s face should be, but there
isn’t one.

The Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker doesn’t have a head at all.

Sixteen

I’m staring at the
empty hood of the sweatshirt. He has no face, no head, no anything.

A scream gets stuck in my throat, just as I hear a familiar voice at the door of Ms. W’s office.

“Hey!” shouts Hana. “Let her go!”

Hooded Sweatshirt Guy nods his hood at me, then lets me go. In two quick steps, he bounds out through the open passageway. A second after he’s gone, the bookcase slides shut, completely sealing the passageway.

“Weird,” Hana breathes, her eyes wide. She glances down at me. “Are you okay?” she asks me, helping me pull myself up from the desk.

“He…He…” I choke, trying to get out the words.

“What? Was it Heathcliff? Is that who you saw?”

I’m still shaken, and my voice doesn’t seem to be working.

“N-n-no,” I say, shaking my head. “He’s not Heathcliff. He doesn’t
have a face
.”

“He what?”

“No head. No face. Nothing. Just the sweatshirt.”

“I think you need to rewind,” Hana says.

I recap the last five minutes, and Hana listens.

“I don’t know for sure, but I am almost positive that whatever happened to Coach H has also just happened to Ms. W,” I say. “I think she’s missing, too.”

Hana nods. “I noticed she wasn’t at morning assembly.”

“And by the way, thanks,” I say. “For saving me from the Headless Sweatshirt Stalker.”

“You’re welcome — I guess.” Hana frowns a little. She’s still a bit mad about me keeping secrets from her.

“Hana, listen, I am
sorry,
okay? I am really, really, really sorry. Like, sorrier than I’ve been for anything. And I’ve told you this over and over, but I’m going to keep saying it until you forgive me, okay?”

“I like the groveling. The groveling works,” Hana says, a smile creeping slowly across her face. “Anyway, I forgive you.”

I can’t help it, I hug Hana.

“I’m really sorry — I am.”

“I know,” she says, “besides, I had to take you back sometime. I was getting tired of hanging out with Samir twenty-four-seven. I mean, I’ve heard every one of his fart jokes now, a hundred times.”

“That’s torture!”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, maybe we should try to follow the stalker?”

I move closer to the bookcase and try pulling down several books. None of them opens the door.

“You sure that’s how he opened it?” Hana asks me.

“I thought so, but it’s not working now.”

“Maybe you have to be missing a head to be granted entrance to the secret passageway.”

“Maybe,” I say, growing frustrated that I can’t make the bookcase move. Eventually I give up. “So what do we do now? About Ms. W and Coach H?” I ask her.

“I hate to say this, but I think we need to call a meeting of the LITs.”

We meet Blade and Samir on the grass commons in front of the boys’ dorm. Just this week the snow has melted, and patches of brown and yellow grass are now visible in the sun.

“This better be good, because it’s freezing out here,” Samir says, shivering. Samir has low cold tolerance. Even though the sun is out, and the icicles from the trees are melting steadily, he still would rather be inside with hot cocoa.

“First order of business, Miranda is back in the LIT fold,” Hana says.

“How can you decide that? We have to put it to a vote,” Blade says.

“Can we just get on with it?” Samir cries, sounding cranky. “Did I mention I am freezing here? What is it — negative twenty out here?”

“Okay, fine, we’ll skip the voting,” Blade says. “It’s good to have you back,” she adds.

“Are we going to all kiss Miranda’s butt, or are we going to get down to business?” Samir asks. When I give him a sharp look, he adds, “What? I just have a low cold tolerance. You
know
I love you — in a strictly sexual way.”

“Go ahead,” Hana says, looking at me.

I tell them what I know so far, everything about the Headless Sweatshirt Stalker, Ms. W’s disappearance, and the thing that might be a cougar with stripes roaming around campus.

“Cougars don’t come with stripes,” Blade points out.

“I’m not sure if that’s what I saw, but it looked like it,” I say.

“We also found a secret passageway in Ms. W’s room,” Hana adds. “Headless Sweatshirt Guy made his escape through it.”

“Secret passageway! I knew it,” Blade says.

Hana stares at her.

“What? I mean, this place screams out for secret passageways,” she adds.

“We couldn’t figure out how to open it, though. And anyway, we have more clues,” I add, showing them the scraps of paper. “I’ve found these in both Coach H and Ms. W’s rooms. And basically wherever Headless Sweatshirt Guy turned up. They have to mean something.”

“But what?” Blade asks.

“I don’t know. Something. I think that’s an ear,” I say, pointing to the one with a triangle.

“Wait a second,” Blade says. She rips a piece of notebook paper out of her spiral notebook and puts it on the grass in front of us. She places the pieces on top of the paper and then arranges them one way, and then another. With a black marker, she draws the missing lines.

“It’s a tiger,” I exclaim, suddenly seeing the picture come into focus. “So that
is
what I saw then. It’s not a cougar at all. It’s a tiger. I thought it could be, but I just thought it was too far-fetched.”

“Are there lions and bears, too?” Samir jokes.

“You’re sure it’s a tiger?” Hana asks. “I mean, what’s a tiger doing at Bard?”

“It’s
Bard.
Do we need a good reason?” Blade asks.

“Good point.”

“Maybe these are clues to who is messing with the faculty,” I say.

“Why would someone deliberately leave clues? And besides, we already know who the culprit is, don’t we? It’s Heathcliff.” Hana glares at me, as if daring me to contradict her.

“But he’s not the Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker,” I say.

“Correction — Headless Stalker. But maybe he is, after all,” Hana says. “You know that he’s not very powerful now that
Wuthering Heights
has been destroyed. Maybe he’s fading away, like the invisible man.”

“I just don’t think it’s him,” I say, not bothering to volunteer the fact that I have a part of a page from that book in the locket around my neck. “I can’t explain it more than that.”

“I can in three words,” Hana says. “Bad-boy mojo.”

“Can we get back to the tiger? Hel-lo!” Blade says, tapping her piece of paper.

Hana sighs. “Fine. Well, assuming that
is
a tiger, there are a few of them in literature. There’s the tiger Shere Khan in Kipling’s
The Jungle Book.
There’s also a tiger in
Winnie-the-Pooh
.”

“Christopher Robin at Bard? Even in this place that sounds wacky,” I say.

“Technically, the author of
Winnie-the-Pooh
is A. A. Milne,” Hana says. “And this tiger doesn’t look like the friendly, hyperactive Tigger, does it?”