Chapter 2
Later, after returning home from the hospital for her burned face, hands and shins, Amy tried deflecting her mother's urgent questions.
"I'm sure it was an accident!" she protested. "Somebody next door was probably having a birthday, and a firecracker got tossed over the fence. That's probably it. Nobody needs to get in trouble. It was an accident. That's all."
Amy felt horrible for lying to her mother. But it was necessary. No need for her to know what really happened. No need for her to know what really happened at school every day. No need for her to find out about the bruises she hid under her sweater. Besides, school was almost out, and soon she could stop wearing those heavy things in this heat wave.
Amy's mother, Rainy, gave her a skeptical stare, but saw in her daughter's eyes the plea for her to let this go. Reluctantly, she promised herself to bring it up later.
"Honey, have you taken your medicine yet?" she asked.
"Nope," Amy said, relieved at the change in discussion. "I'll go take some now." She popped up out of her seat, and instantly regretted it, her burned skin protesting. She slowly walked to the bathroom, trying to minimize her limp as much as possible, so as not to worry her mother.
She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, and scowled angrily. Fortunately, her hair had been tied back, so it had received little damage. But the skin on her face was bright red, shiny, and peeling. Her eyebrows appeared to have disintegrated, along with her eyelashes.
Amy angrily slapped the mirror, then sighed and opened it, taking out her seizure medication. She shook it. Two pills rattled together ominously. Amy dumped them out and swallowed them.
She peered inside; making sure extra pills weren't just stuck to the side. It was empty.
She jogged outside without bothering to tell her mother where she was going. The doctor's office wasn't too far away, within walking distance. Of course it was annoying that she had just been there, but then again, that meant the way was stamped into her brain.
Not for the first, or last time, Amy wished she could drive. She was eighteen years old, but it was doubtful she would ever find a medication reliable enough to ensure safety on the road.
As she was jogging down the road, something strange came over her. Little sparks kept dancing in her vision, and an oily, metallic scent was beginning to dominate her sense of smell. Her movements became uncoordinated, and one arm jerked wildly. Frightened, she stopped. She glanced around, looking for help. She took a step to the right, but then stopped. Her face sagged slightly, and all emotion left her face. She stood rigid and silent. She was unconscious, but still standing.
And after fifteen minutes, it was over. Amy's face twitched, and then she looked around puzzled.
"What am I doing here?" she wondered. She looked around, trying to get her bearings. After a few minutes, she knew where she was, and started home.
The next day, Amy walked to school. It was just too blazing hot to wear a sweater today; she wouldn't have been able to keep it on for a moment. Amy decided to wear a light blazer instead.
In class, with a practice evident of years of harassment, Amy settled low in her seat, and pulled the hood of the blazer up high enough to protect her hair from spitballs, but low enough to keep the teacher from making her take it off.
True to form, she felt several soft tugs from the hood directly into class. She refused to give them the pleasure of reaching back to see what it was. She already knew.
Today they were being especially violent. More than once she was hit with an eraser or a paper ball, and unkind hands in front of her and behind her were not above pinching. Examining her leg, she saw small bloody bruises lining it.
Slowly, a repetitive sound began to make itself obvious. At first, Amy couldn't make it out, but as it grew louder, it became obvious.
"Spaz. Spaz. Spaz. Spaz. Spaz. Spaz. Spaz."
Frightened, Amy snuck a glance behind her. The students were chanting it over and over again, punching pencils and rulers into the desk in time. One student pointed at her. The gesture itself was harmless, but the force behind it, and what it seemed to represent, were terrifying.
Mr. Nelson seemed to have forgotten about teaching, and was staring, fascinated at this unusual display of antagonism from his students.
And then the bell rang. Amy shot out of her seat, not bothering to collect her stuff.
Amy left school early. Lunchtime to be precise. During the next class, the same thing had happened. Not wanting to be cornered in the cafeteria, she left.
Angrily rubbing her eyes, she paid no attention to where she was going. Frustration and anger surged through her. She felt so helpless. She started running, trying to leave her emotions behind. For nearly five minutes, all that existed was the hard pavement under her feet, and the wind in her face. But she had to stop eventually.
She gasped and wheezed and panted, her burned skin screaming in protest. She was peeling atrociously; she probably looked like a snake shedding its skin. No wonder the students had gotten so much braver, she must look like a fool.
Amy looked up. She was standing in front of a dark mansion. Amy was confused, then frightened. Where was she? Nothing looked familiar. She looked around very carefully, and then realized she was on the other side of town.
People's curtains were starting to peel back, like eyelids, staring at her. Not feeling completely rational, Amy turned and walked up the path, anything to avoid those eyes.