So, here comes Monday. On top of having the new-girl jitters, I can't quit thinking about what happened in the turret last night and wondering if I'm going insane. Is this how Papa Dan feels? Scared and confused and out of control? As if his mind is teasing him cruelly?
It's now 7:30am, Mom has dropped me early at school. She said she wants me to leave a good first impression on my first day of school this year. Trying to calm my nerves, I walk beneath the center archway at the entrance to Cedar Canyon High School, down the noisy first floor hallway, and into the office.
Clock is ticking…trimming…tricking…
The secretary welcomes me and gives me a locker assignment, a lock, and my class schedule. We go over it together and she tells me where to find my homeroom. I saw the teacher's name, Mrs. Tilby, scrawled in red marker across the front eraser board as soon as I walked in. There are four rows of five desks, a few of them filled. Five lab tables form an L down one side and across the back of the room. I head for the empty table closest to the door, then sit and watch the Cedar Canyon Bobcats file in.
Footsteps clicking…clicking…clicking…
I tried to avoid eye contact with everyone as I scan the whole room. On the opposite wall, someone has used black paint to scrawl the words Science, Matter, Energy, Atoms, and Observe in big cursive letters. Colorful construction paper orbs hang from the ceiling. From prior science classes, I know they're called icosahedrons and that each one has twenty sides. The spheres hover above me, as motionless as the sparrow in the frozen world I stepped into last night. That's how it seemed—as if the crystal's radiance transported me into the photograph. Crazy? I know right!
The bell rings, everyone dashes out of the hallway. Mrs. Tilby walks over carrying a handful of box loaded with lab equipment. She sets it on my table and says quietly, "I need this space. Would you mind moving to the back?" She motions to a lab table where a tall, thin girl sits writing in a spiral notebook with her head down. Her long, dark hair gleams beneath the fluorescent lights and falls forward to hide her face. All the desks are full now, so I make my way to her table.
Textbooks are piled heavily on the tabletop opposite the girl so I lay my backpack on the floor next to the stool beside her. The moment I sit, she says, "Hi." then I turn to smile. My heart sinks when I realize it's Shanna — yes, that's her... the lady bummer! The grizzly girl who made fun of me and Papa Dan at Longhorn's; and the same b*tch who throw shades at me on the City Drug! I wonder why she's so salty around me?
Just what the freakin heck is she doing here in my sacred homeroom?!（°८_ °´ ）!
I notice that it wasn't me she's been talking to. When I turn around, I saw a guy approaching. Then, I instantly recognize that charming face I ever set eyes on Texas — Tate Hudson.
I looked at him and gave him this innocent wide welcoming smile. Yet much to my chagrin, he doesn't even bother to smile back!
***********A-W-K-W-A-R-D**********
OH NO~ I AM SHOOKETH! (੦૮_੦)!
I look on my desk, as quick as I could! I can feel the blood rushing through my face. As if my head is about to explode from embarrassment! Like who else doesn't if they're in my situation? I begin examining my desk trying to look as if am searching for something. Then, I immediately took out a pen and notebook from my backpack and pretend to scribble something.
WHAT THE HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECK!
Why? Wh-what's the matter?!
WHat... I dunno what'd happened?! He was so nice when we'd visited his Uncle's Café. Was he only being nice to the customers because his Uncle told him so? I DON'T KNooooOW!
THe F*CK I KnoW!
D*MN! Why everyone's been acting so extra lately?! Now I feel like a total nitwit!
Tate sits across us, pushing some stack of books on the lying flat on the table aside to make room for his backpack. "What's up, Shanna?" he asks, but I do feel he's staring at me. Which I find it weird coz, he can just tilt his head a bit if he's really into talking to Shanna, instead of trying to talk and look at her through me. No seriously! That wasn't made up.
I glance up to find his ever brooding blue eyes narrowed, just like the phantom guy's black stare last night. I must have fallen asleep in the turret; or dreaming perhaps. Otherwise how on earth would Tate and the ghost look the same? Maybe I had Tate on my mind after hearing him argue with his father at the Watermelon Run; that's the only explanation that makes sense to me right now.
"Why is it that you haven't been hanging out with anybody much lately," Shanna says, her smile seeping into her voice; like a teasing cat, "May I know the reason?"
Tate shrugs and says flatly. "No reason."
Hello? Can you guys quit talking already? The class is ongoing you know?
Shanna's too busy staring at Tate with a thirsty look on her face. I can't blame her. Even though I denied this fact to Mom, Tate might possibly be the hottest guy I've ever seen. Not super perfect ofcourse. Not even like Jason Momoa-ish handsome. He is... how can I put it? Exemplary; very appetizing Enchanting! Like a young Leonardo DiCaprio with the body of Jacob Black from Twilight Movie and an Ian Somerhalder-esque skintone.
As the principal welcomes us to a new school year over the intercom and began reading few announcements, Rooster Boy walks in wearing a diarrhea green high-top sneakers and a T-shirt with some old dead rock star on front. Damp curly hair falls into his eyes. "Sorry," he says, nodding at the teacher. "Couldn't find any clean undies this morning." Everyone laughs except Mrs. Tilby.
"Take a seat, Mr. Jenks," she says.
He heads for the empty stool next to Tate, and I add one more reason why this morning sucks to an already long list. "Hey! Zombie Girl," he whispers, shooting a blast of heat up my neck. Ignoring him, I start writing in my notebook, making an inventory of supplies I need for my darkroom. Anything to make me look busy. Since I'm not cooperating with Rooster Boy's antics, he makes kissing noises at Shanna. She looks up from the note she's writing to give him a stop-it-or-die glare.
The principal talks on and on while Mrs. Tilby unloads lab slides and beakers onto the table up front. Quiet laughter drifts on the air like a breeze. I pretend to concentrate on my list while sneaking peeks at Shanna's note to someone named "Beeyotch." Ironic, since I've been thinking that name would suit Shanna perfectly.
Where were you before school? Shanna's note asks. Emily and I looked for you in the parking lot. We were so nervous about walking into the building that we had to sneak an early-morning beer in Em's car to calm our nerves. That surprises me. Not the beer so much but the nervous part. Shanna doesn't seem the type. I wonder if "Beeyotch" is Straight-A Alison. Would she risk her goody-two-shoes image by drinking beer in the morning? Or any other time? She looks too sweet to be real, but I think she has a lot of people get fooled.
Especially the adults in town, if Mary Jane and J. B. are any indication. I might've fallen for her pious act, too, if I hadn't caught her, Shanna, and Rooster Boy making fun of me at the Longhorn Café, if I hadn't heard Shanna's disgusted comments about Papa Dan. And they all laughed at him when we were at City Drug. As bad as Shanna and Rooster Boy are, though, at least they don't pretend to be something they aren't. Alison is like Hailey—a fake. Must be exhausting to put on an act all the time, to try to look perfect.
Soon, the roll call begin and when it is my turn, Mrs. Tilby looks up from her attendance sheet. And gave me her hard earned attention, "Are you the girl from California?"
"Yes," I say, a little bit overwhelmed. And then, everyone in the room darts in my direction. Including Tate. She taps her pencil gently behind her ears. "Well, then, wecome to Texas," she announced. Her smile is like thin, transparent plastic wrap. Pointing the pencil at my head, she adds succinctly, "By the way, we don't allow hats in the classroom."
The heat in my cheeks spreads up to my forehead. Serenaded by snorts, snickers, and whispers, I immediately took the beret off. And I was again reminded of another Henry's poem verse;
Laughter pealing, I am feeling eyes that follow, words that stalk.
Another bell rings. Stools scrape the floor, voices rise, and a minor stampede ensues as everyone heads for first period. I push away from the table and stand, aware that two sets of eyes are watching me. "Zom-bie... Girl-y," Rooster Boy says in a singsong voice. He extends both arms out in front of him and walks stiff-legged into the hallway.
I dart another glance at Tate. Something in his stare bothers me more than Rooster Boy's teasing. Is distrust what I see in his eyes? Or is he pissed off at me? Either option is totally bizarre, since we hardly know each other. My stomach clenches as I head towards the door. I've dealt with plenty of Rooster Boys in plenty of towns. But I don't know how to deal with someone like Tate Hudson before. Especially his moody blue eyes.
Clock is ticking…trimming…tricking…
In the school's hallways it's easy to disappear. I'm just another body hurrying along, which should relieve me, but it doesn't.
They travel in groups.
I travel alone.
They call out to one another, laugh together.
I move quietly, unknown, unnoticed.
They exist.
I am fading, dissipating; they can't see me; they don't know….
I'm not sure what I want anymore. I hate being watched, laughed at, and whispered about. But maybe it's worse not to be seen at all, passed by as if I'm invisible. Is that what happened when I held Henry's crystal over the photograph? Did I fade from this world, scatter to dust, then reappear in the picture? I really don't know...
I'm confused...
First day jitters isn't something I'm used to. I can't stand being alone. Having to walk and feel like alone isn't something I truly need right now. I go to the restroom. Hoping to find a moment of peace and solace away from the social clutter in the corridor. But before I could step in, I heard something... someone... calling out for...
"HELP!" says a small voice coming from the wheelie bin storage beside the Lady's room. "Is anyone there?!" it yelled out.
I blink and after a few more distress call; came to full realization that someone has been stuck in the bin storage!
"W-wait, wait up!" I responded. I open the bin storage just in time to see a 14yold girl inside, a sophomore maybe. "Hold on, just a sec!" I extend my arm and she quickly grab it as if her life depends on it.
"Ohmygosh," the girl screeches. "Oh, geez. Darn and double darn!"
After I managed to pull her up, I learn to my surprise that she is in the same year as I am. A senior High-school student.
I am 5'6 tall, but this girl in front of me barely reaches my ribcage in height. So how come?
Her clothes are too big for her stumpy frame, and she's stepping on the hem of her pants in back. One look at her thin, straight, mouse-brown hair, pulled back at the sides with little-girl barrettes, and I'm sure she cuts her bangs like Mom says my grandmother used to cut hers—with Scotch tape and sewing scissors. They're straight across and blunt, with a jagged spot in the center. The girl drops to her knees on the scuffed outside of the bathroom floors.
The girl stands, swiping at the knees of her baggy pants. "Sorry for the run-in," she says. "I was in a hurry. Don't want to be late to classes on the very first day." her voice reminds me of Velma from Scooby Doo ,"I was on my way to the rest room when the bell rings. When a bunch of goons came and stowed me on the storage bin and closed it!
Before I could answer, Alison and Shanna giggles behind me. "Stinky!" Shanna exclaims. "I see you're awake!"
"O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!" the girl shrieks.
Shanna rolls her eyes and snaps, "Such a whack job."
Ignoring them, I asks the girl quietly "You okay?" But she just kept her head low.
Someone jab an elbow to shut Shanna up, and speaks "You guys good?" it was Alison, she steps forward, but then I detect a smothered laugh in her voice. A whisper weaves through my mind….
Lies are spreading, I am dreading empty smiles, the same old lines.
The elbow works! And Shanna's gaze shoots up to mine and her laugh disintegrates. "Let's go, Ali!" Shanna says with a groan. "We're going to be late." They both swivel around and disappears to the corridor.
"Well…I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Tansy Piper, for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell."
I'm not about to encourage more conversation by asking how she knows my name. Managing a quick look to where Alison and Shanna once stood, I start for the hallway.
The girl follows me out, her short legs hurrying to match my long strides. "That's Shakespeare, in case you didn't know. William. From Macbeth." When I don't respond, she adds, "I'm Bethyl Ann Pugh. Better known as Stinky Pugh to the natives."
I was stunned for a moment, then give her an inquisitive stare. "And that doesn't bother you? Being made fun of by a bunch of jerks?"
"I hold the world but as the world, Tansy Piper, a stage where every man must play a part. And mine a sad one." She sighs dramatically and shrugs. "Shakespeare again. The Merchant of Venice!"
Bethyl Ann drags her book bag behind her on the floor as she hurries along. "I'm a sophomore this year." She holds up one hand, as if to stop me from interrupting. "I know what you're thinking. I don't look old enough. I bypassed second grade, then sixth."
"That's awesome!"
"I know." She falls behind me, skips once, twice, then she's at my side again. "Enough about me. You are—"
"Tansy. I thought you knew my name already?" I asked.
"That's because I knew you're the daughter of famous horror author Millicent Moon. Tears of Blood deserved a Bram Stoker Award. The scent of roses makes me shudder everytime I remember. Oh well, that's what I think."
I speed up, before she could start quoting Edgar Allan Poe!
The next day...
I leave the campus after school with my camera on. Cedar Canyon is so small that the walk to Main Street and back only takes twenty minutes, and that's walking against the wind and sticking to side streets to avoid mixing with other kids headed for the handful of restaurants in town. Along the way, I snap photos of buildings. Houses. A plant nursery with dead flowers and bushes out front.
I wonder if Henry once went out and did a few sketches of this town. Old and draking as it may seem, this place is dope for nature-lovers. But in some way less comforting for a loner like me.
I walk to City Drug during my lunch break to buy the trash bags and some school supplies. I push through the door. Inside, every stool and booth in the soda-fountain section on the left of the store is full. The place radiates with conversation, each way I look.
And it only makes me feel more out of place...
On the other side of the store, separated from the soda fountain by aisles of merchandise, J. B. stands behind a tall counter filling prescriptions for an elderly couple. When I reach the end of aisle three, J. B. calls out a greeting. The old couple he's waiting on turn around, and I realize they're my neighbors, the Quattlebaums.
"Howdy-do, young lady," the old man says, and his wife nods, her face as grim as ever.
"Hi, Mr. Quattlebaum…Mrs. Quattlebaum."
I turn and search the aisle endcap for the plastic bags as J. B. comes around the prescription counter and hands Mr. Quattlebaum a sack. "So what did you think of the Watermelon Run?" he asks me, putting an arm around Mr. Quattlebaum's shoulder.
"It was... err... unique?" I say. Locating the bags, I grab a box. J. B. laughs as we all start up front together. "Not something you see in San Francisco, I bet. Your mom was quite the celebrity."
We pause at the register, and Mr. Quattlebaum hands some money to Mary Jane. Shifting his attention to me, he says, "Myra bought a copy of that zombie book. I finished reading the thing last night." He shakes his head. "Good lord, where does your mama come up with that stuff?"
Mary Jane gives him his change, then rings up my purchases while they discuss the strange workings of my mother's mind.
"Now, here comes someone who would probably love to meet your mom, Tansy!" J. B. turns to my side and beams toward the soda fountain; giving someone a little nod.
And that someone is no other than... guess who? **DRUM ROLLS**
My heart almost skip a beat when I see Tate Hudson approaching! J.B. calls him over to join us. Tate looks EXTREMELY good in black stretch denim jeans, white button-down shirt, and classic chucks with red detail. He strides a long unhurried yet full of casual elegance walk. It seems very natural to him. And look how on fleek some parts of his hair falls perfectly over his forehead like that of Matt Barr on his workout hair! Search it, go on and you'll see!
Oh~ how I wish I didn't like the way he jams his left hand to his pocket as he pauses beside the pharmacist to greet us. I mean~ them. I was nobody to him. I guess. **SIGH**
Looking upclose, I saw the details of his undershirt, wait a minute?... He has no undershirt! Which gives us a generous sneak peak of his well-curved six pack ABS! HOLLY MUPPET! BLESSED ARE THESE PRECIOUS MOMENTS! (O/O) His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing tan forearms sprinkled with tiny peach fuzz. Oh my gosh, Tate! I swear one of these days you'll be on my menu!
I'm pathetic to notice such things. But I CAN"T HALP IT! (Yes, halp because I almost skip a breath looking at him). But when I see the complete disinterest in his eyes when he looks at me, I shunned every hungry thoughts about him.
"Have you two met?" J. B. asks, glancing between us.
"Sort of," Tate murmurs, capturing my gaze, not daring to look away.
"We have a couple of classes together." I answered. J. B. gives Tate a slightly slap on the back. "Did he happen to mention he's one heck of a writer?" Tate cringes which is uncommon to me and looks down at the floor. "Well, you are!" J. B. says, chuckling. "Tate was chosen to go with a group from the Panhandle to a national poetry event last year in Washington, DC. What was that called?"
"The Brave New Voices," Tate murmurs.
"OH~! The International Youth Open Poetry Grand Slam Festival?!" I ask. And he quickly glance up.
Tate's surprised eyes flick to mine again. "Yeah."
I'm impressed. Being chosen to participate in the festival is pretty much of a big deal. "A few kids from my old school went," I mentioned.
Tate made it to the finals," Mary Jane chimes in from behind the register. "That's really great," I say, but Tate only shrugs.
"Tansy's mother is a published writer," Mary Jane says to him.
He nods. "I heard."
"Maybe she could give you a few pointers," she adds.
"She'll have you writin' killer poetry in no time flat," Mr. Quattlebaum interjects, chuckling at his joke. Beside him, Mrs. Quattlebaum surprises me by snickering.
When Tate doesn't comment, J. B. says, "Tansy has a creative streak, too. She's a photographer. Pretty accomplished, too, according to her mom. Cedar Canyon is becoming quite the artistic community all of a sudden."
I see a change in Tate's expression, a faint glimmer of interest. "I just play around with it," I say. "I haven't won an award or anything like that."
"I've seen you around town taking pictures." He stares at me a moment longer, then looks down to the camera hanging at my side.
Encouraged that he's finally speaking to me, I continue, "I want to take some shots of the canyon and that bridge I keep hearing about, but I haven't had time to go out there yet." Hoping he might offer to take me, I add, "I'm not sure where the bridge is, anyway."
"You can walk out there. It's not that far from your house."
So much for subtle hints, I think. Tsk, TSK!
"Just make sure you stay on the bridge and off the railing," Mr. Quattlebaum warns, shaking his head. "Crazy damn kids climb all over that thing…dangling off the sides and whatnot so's they can scribble graffiti on any bare space they find."
Tate glances up at the wall clock behind Mary Jane and says, "I need to talk to Coach before tomorrow. See you guys later." Ofcourse, that doesn't include me, he completely ignored me again. **SIGH**
The Quattlebaums say good-bye, too, and follow him out the door.
"What do you suppose is bothering that boy?" J. B. asks Mary Jane.
"What do you think? Just 'cause a kid's in high school doesn't mean he doesn't need his mom." Mary Jane glances at me, adding, "She moved away over the summer."
J. B. shakes his head. "The kids are always the hardest hit when a marriage splits up." He sends me an apologetic smile and sighs. "Tate's usually such a friendly kid. I'm sure the way he acted toward you wasn't anything personal."
I cross my arms. "It's okay. It's not your fault."
I run outside after my purchase and try to search for Tate on the streets. Hoping that we could walk together or something. But I don't see him anywhere. Something nags at me, and it takes me a minute to realize what it is.
Not only does Tate look like the phantom in the tree—the boy I think is Henry, at least in my dreams—
they both write poetry.
Later that evening...
After dinner, I sit in the turret on the purple velvet chair. The trash bags I bought at City Drug cover the windowpanes to keep out daylight during the day, so as not to disturb the developing process. No chance of that now, anyway, since it's dark outside. I haven't been up here at night since I dreamed the crystal's beam carried me into the photograph, and I'm so antsy I can't sit still. I need to prove to myself that what I experienced was only a dream. I refuse to accept that I might gone delulu, but that's prolly it.
A soft glow cast off by the lamp brightens the tarnished gold of Henry's pocket watch, open on the round table, stopped again at 12:22. I look at the black-and-white photos I developed earlier, spread out on the floor at my feet, and rub my thumb across the crystal teardrop.
The pictures I took at the Watermelon Run are of cheerleaders jumping, Rooster Boy strutting on the sidelines in his bobcat suit, family members clapping and cheering in the stands as the football jocks rush onto the field. I look at the photo of Tate, the tense clench of his jaw, his beautiful yet sad-looking eyes.
Setting that photo aside, I look at the one of Bethyl Ann feeding a homeless dog she named Hamlet.
She looks so happy, like life could not be better. I scan the image of the painter in town arguing with his client from the top of a ladder, the woman and toddler washing the dog in their yard, the line of little kids dancing behind Mary Jane, who is as big as the cow Sheriff Ray Don leads down Main Street in another photo.
I puff out my cheeks. How does the camera see things that I miss? All these people seem different in the pictures than they are in person. Not ominous at all. So why can't I give them a chance? Why am I so afraid?
Wait a minute! WHAT'S THIS? (O_O)
I pause on the next picture, the one I shot of Alison exhaling cigarette smoke, then glance at a second shot of her coughing as a man — older than her, College thug I guess— laughing hysterically.
Straight-A Alison? Doing the C-thing in a remote section of the town with a mobster? OH-MY-BREAKING NEWS!
I heard a birdsong twitters outside, I jump and glance at the rattling window, amazed any bird would be out of its nest on this blustery night. The bird has been silent lately. The last time I heard it sing was the night I had that freaky experience with the crystal. Or dreamed it.
Do it, I think. Or you'll never know. I thought to myself.
My hand shakes as I pull the photograph from the envelope and lay it in my lap. I reach for Henry's pocket watch and close my fingers tightly around it. Just as before, I tilt the crystal until it catches the lamplight. Just as before, a shimmering beam extends toward the fading image on the picture…expands…surrounds me.
Suddenly I'm back in the frozen, black-and-white world of the photograph, standing beside my young grandfather, who is as still as a mannequin. The guy who resembles Tate stares down at us from where he sits above in the mulberry tree's barren branches.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
A bell clangs, shattering my nerves and the silence. I tell myself to turn toward the Quattlebaum farmhouse, but I'm afraid. I know the man is out there, bundled up in warm clothes, a shovel in his hands. Snow. That's what he shovels; I know that now, too. There's a black dog…a ball…white smoke drifting from the man's mouth when he removes his gloves and blows on his fingers. No, not smoke…the cloud his breath makes when it hits the air. Because it's winter and freezing outside. Everything is clear to me now—
"Tansy?"
Air moves around me in ripples…lake water touched by a breeze.
"Do you want to watch a movie with us?"
The air settles as I'm pulled back to the velvet chair by my mother's voice. The room is warm. I shiver. I'm afraid to answer Mom, afraid to open my eyes. Terrified of what I might see.
She knocks at the door. "Hey! Are you okay in there?"
"Just a second," I call, my throat as scratchy as if I'd swallowed sand.
I blink and look down at the photograph in my lap. Papa Dan—old, feeble, and in vivid Kodak color—squints up at tree branches heavy with leaves, like he did as a frozen boy in the surreal world I just left. The branches, though, were bare in that world, and the tree was smaller. In the dead grass at his feet, something glimmers, an object I am sure was not in the picture before. I look closer, and feel a shifting take place inside me.
The item is round and gold, the size of a gingersnap cookie.
I lower my gaze to my lap and open my hand.
...
Henry's pocket watch is gone...