Angelfire
Page 3
"Good for you."
Mom was a web designer and worked from home, so she had always been able to drive me to and from school, thankful y sparing me from ever having to attend daycare. My dad, on the other hand, was rarely home. He worked in medical research and there were many nights when I would go to bed without seeing him. Sometimes I wouldn't see him for a week. Lately, that was a good thing.
"So you never told me what you want for your birthday,"
my mom said.
"Lambo."
She laughed. "Yeah, sure, let's just sel the house and get you a Lamborghini for your birthday."
We final y pul ed out of the school's drive onto the main road and headed home.
"So, what do you want? I know we talked about a car, and your dad says yes."
"I don't real y know."
"Don't make me choose," my mom warned. "I'l get you a moped to drive to school on."
"I'l bet." I rol ed my eyes. "I don't know--just get me something cute, safe, and that has an MP3 adapter. I'l be set for life with that."
I woke to music blasting into my left eardrum. I grappled for my cel phone and hit the reject button without opening my my cel phone and hit the reject button without opening my eyes. A few seconds later it rang again. I opened a single eye to check the clock. It was a quarter to six in the morning. Uttering a half-mumbled curse, I dragged the phone off my nightstand and looked at the cal er ID. It was Kate. I rubbed my hand against my forehead, forcing myself out of that groggy post-nightmare haze. In the past few months, I'd been having the strangest dreams that went like period horror films, like the Dracula movie with Gary Oldman. Creepy stuff. They'd kept me from sleeping wel for the first few weeks, but I'd started to get used to them, and now they didn't bother me so much. Up until a month before, I'd woken up screaming every single night.
Too lazy to press the phone to my ear, I turned it on speaker mode and thunked it back onto my nightstand.
"What is your damage? My alarm hasn't even gone off, yet."
"Jesus, El ie, turn on your TV." Kate's voice was low and frantic. "It's Mr. Meyer. Channel four."
I reached for my remote, flipped the television on, and went to channel four as instructed. I bolted upright.
"He's dead, El ie," Kate whispered. "They found him behind that bar, Lane's."
My eyes were glued to the chaos live on-screen.
". . . the lack of blood at the scene indicates to investigators that Frank Meyer may have been murdered at another location and dumped here behind Lane's Pub along with the possible murder weapon: a very long hunting knife with a gut hook. The reason for that can only be a matter of speculation at the moment, as authorities have revealed very little about this gruesome discovery. In case you are only just tuning in, this is Debra Michaels reporting from Commerce Township, where the severely mutilated body of one of the community's most beloved educators, Frank Meyer of West Bloomfield, was found early this morning. . . ." I felt like vomiting. I saw the location behind the reporter, swarming with police, the fire department, and ambulances. Mr. Meyer?
He was one of the nicest teachers I'd ever had. I had seen him less than twenty-four hours before. How could he be dead? He was murdered? And severely mutilated?
"Do you think school is canceled?" Kate asked.
I had forgotten she was on the phone. "I'm going to talk to my mom. Meet me at my house." I hung up.
An hour later I was sitting on a stool at the island bar in the kitchen, staring at an untouched plate of pancakes. Mom only ever made pancakes when I was sick or had a horrible day, or when it was a special day like Christmas. I supposed this was one of those days when pancakes were warranted, but I couldn't bring myself to take a bite. The too-rich smel nauseated me.
Mom walked up behind me and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. "You need to eat, honey. Please? Get some food in your stomach and you'l feel better."
"I'l just puke it al up," I grumbled dismal y.
"One bite," she ordered. "Then I won't feel so bad about having to throw away this uneaten breakfast."
I scowled and stabbed begrudgingly at the mush before scooping up a bite with my fork, but it toppled over and plopped into my lap. I groaned and banged my head on the counter.
Mom frowned. "You have to be smarter than the pancakes, El ie."
I glared up at her. Weren't teenagers supposed to be the smartasses, and not their parents?
She ignored my reproachful look and handed me a paper towel to clean up my pajama pants. "Wel , I final y was able to reach someone at the school. They've been trying to deal with this tragedy al morning, so their lines have been al tied up. I'm sure every single parent in the district has been cal ing them. Anyway, school is closed today, but I suspect it'l reopen tomorrow. I know you real y liked Mr. Meyer, and the assistant principle let me know that grief counselors are being assigned, so if you need to talk to anyone--"
"I'm fine, Mom," I said. "I'm not freaking out or anything. I don't feel wel , that's al ." She was always so on top of things. She had a plan for everything.
She looked at me fondly. "You're my little miracle. I want you to be okay."
I rol ed my eyes. "You always say that."
"I'm worried about your nightmares," she said sadly.
"I barely have them anymore," I lied. I thought it would be better for her to worry less about me than she did. I stil had nightmares almost every night, but I was learning to deal with them, since the medication I'd been on was useless.
Mom was a web designer and worked from home, so she had always been able to drive me to and from school, thankful y sparing me from ever having to attend daycare. My dad, on the other hand, was rarely home. He worked in medical research and there were many nights when I would go to bed without seeing him. Sometimes I wouldn't see him for a week. Lately, that was a good thing.
"So you never told me what you want for your birthday,"
my mom said.
"Lambo."
She laughed. "Yeah, sure, let's just sel the house and get you a Lamborghini for your birthday."
We final y pul ed out of the school's drive onto the main road and headed home.
"So, what do you want? I know we talked about a car, and your dad says yes."
"I don't real y know."
"Don't make me choose," my mom warned. "I'l get you a moped to drive to school on."
"I'l bet." I rol ed my eyes. "I don't know--just get me something cute, safe, and that has an MP3 adapter. I'l be set for life with that."
I woke to music blasting into my left eardrum. I grappled for my cel phone and hit the reject button without opening my my cel phone and hit the reject button without opening my eyes. A few seconds later it rang again. I opened a single eye to check the clock. It was a quarter to six in the morning. Uttering a half-mumbled curse, I dragged the phone off my nightstand and looked at the cal er ID. It was Kate. I rubbed my hand against my forehead, forcing myself out of that groggy post-nightmare haze. In the past few months, I'd been having the strangest dreams that went like period horror films, like the Dracula movie with Gary Oldman. Creepy stuff. They'd kept me from sleeping wel for the first few weeks, but I'd started to get used to them, and now they didn't bother me so much. Up until a month before, I'd woken up screaming every single night.
Too lazy to press the phone to my ear, I turned it on speaker mode and thunked it back onto my nightstand.
"What is your damage? My alarm hasn't even gone off, yet."
"Jesus, El ie, turn on your TV." Kate's voice was low and frantic. "It's Mr. Meyer. Channel four."
I reached for my remote, flipped the television on, and went to channel four as instructed. I bolted upright.
"He's dead, El ie," Kate whispered. "They found him behind that bar, Lane's."
My eyes were glued to the chaos live on-screen.
". . . the lack of blood at the scene indicates to investigators that Frank Meyer may have been murdered at another location and dumped here behind Lane's Pub along with the possible murder weapon: a very long hunting knife with a gut hook. The reason for that can only be a matter of speculation at the moment, as authorities have revealed very little about this gruesome discovery. In case you are only just tuning in, this is Debra Michaels reporting from Commerce Township, where the severely mutilated body of one of the community's most beloved educators, Frank Meyer of West Bloomfield, was found early this morning. . . ." I felt like vomiting. I saw the location behind the reporter, swarming with police, the fire department, and ambulances. Mr. Meyer?
He was one of the nicest teachers I'd ever had. I had seen him less than twenty-four hours before. How could he be dead? He was murdered? And severely mutilated?
"Do you think school is canceled?" Kate asked.
I had forgotten she was on the phone. "I'm going to talk to my mom. Meet me at my house." I hung up.
An hour later I was sitting on a stool at the island bar in the kitchen, staring at an untouched plate of pancakes. Mom only ever made pancakes when I was sick or had a horrible day, or when it was a special day like Christmas. I supposed this was one of those days when pancakes were warranted, but I couldn't bring myself to take a bite. The too-rich smel nauseated me.
Mom walked up behind me and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. "You need to eat, honey. Please? Get some food in your stomach and you'l feel better."
"I'l just puke it al up," I grumbled dismal y.
"One bite," she ordered. "Then I won't feel so bad about having to throw away this uneaten breakfast."
I scowled and stabbed begrudgingly at the mush before scooping up a bite with my fork, but it toppled over and plopped into my lap. I groaned and banged my head on the counter.
Mom frowned. "You have to be smarter than the pancakes, El ie."
I glared up at her. Weren't teenagers supposed to be the smartasses, and not their parents?
She ignored my reproachful look and handed me a paper towel to clean up my pajama pants. "Wel , I final y was able to reach someone at the school. They've been trying to deal with this tragedy al morning, so their lines have been al tied up. I'm sure every single parent in the district has been cal ing them. Anyway, school is closed today, but I suspect it'l reopen tomorrow. I know you real y liked Mr. Meyer, and the assistant principle let me know that grief counselors are being assigned, so if you need to talk to anyone--"
"I'm fine, Mom," I said. "I'm not freaking out or anything. I don't feel wel , that's al ." She was always so on top of things. She had a plan for everything.
She looked at me fondly. "You're my little miracle. I want you to be okay."
I rol ed my eyes. "You always say that."
"I'm worried about your nightmares," she said sadly.
"I barely have them anymore," I lied. I thought it would be better for her to worry less about me than she did. I stil had nightmares almost every night, but I was learning to deal with them, since the medication I'd been on was useless.
