Every Other Day
Page 7
Vacant, empty eyes.
“I need to be elsewhere.”
That statement got me another look. This one said I have concluded that you are on drugs.
Clearly, I was getting nowhere fast. There was a part of me that wanted to just turn and stalk out of the room. I seriously doubted he would physically stop me, but that scenario would have inevitably ended with someone calling my father. I’d be labeled as a troublemaker.
There would be conflict.
I really didn’t do conflict.
Think, Kali, I told myself, and then, all of a sudden, the answer was there, accompanied by an angelic chorus of hallelujahs.
“Tampons!”
Mr. McCormick jumped like I’d hit him with a Taser. “Excuse me?”
“Tampons,” I said again.
“Ms. D’Angelo, I’ve been teaching for six years. I’m well aware that there may be certain … er … female issues—”
I cut him off. “Tampons.” It was ridiculous. I couldn’t stop saying the word, and he couldn’t stop flinching. “Somebody stole mine. All of them. I need to go.”
Mr. McCormick said absolutely nothing, but he handed me a bathroom pass. He seemed to know that I wouldn’t be back, but accepted my absence as the price that had to be paid to keep me from saying that dreaded word one more time.
As I stepped into the hallway, any thrill of victory I might have felt subsided, because I couldn’t deny, even for a second, what I’d known since I saw the symbol on Bethany’s back.
Whether I was in class taking a test or out wandering the hallways, there wasn’t anything I could do to save her. I was weak. Human. There was no instinct pounding in my temples, compelling me toward a battle I’d inevitably win. I had no idea where Bethany was, and even if I found her, what was I going to do—talk to the little parasite? Ask it to let her go? Tell the school nurse?
Who was I kidding? By the time the ouroboros symbol appeared on a person’s skin, it was too late for medical science to intervene. The only thing that could save Bethany Davis’s more-popular-than-thou, oh-so-charming personage was a trade, and even that was supposed to be pretty much impossible. But hypothetically, if the chupacabra did find someone it liked better, it might leave Bethany before it sucked all of the life out of her.
And if that person happened to be me …
I glanced down at my watch.
Seventeen hours and twelve minutes.
If I could last that long with a psychic, parasitic hellbeast sucking the blood out of my body and the thoughts out of my brain, I’d be fine, because seventeen hours and twelve minutes from now—eleven minutes from now—I’d change. My blood would change.
And the bloodsucker would die.
As far as plans went, it was imprecise, but at the moment, it was all I had.
“Can you tell me what class Bethany Davis is in right now?”
The secretary had her own version of Mr. McCormick’s I know what you’re up to look, and I wasn’t altogether surprised to find myself on the receiving end of it. If I’d had any other choice, I wouldn’t have just marched myself into the office to ask, but it was a pretty big school, and I didn’t think that popping my head into every classroom, looking for Bethany, would go over much better.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in class, Ms….,” the secretary trailed off, as she realized that she didn’t know my name.
I was loathe to provide it for her, but given that there couldn’t have been more than three Indian kids in the entire school, I seriously doubted she’d have trouble tracking me down if she was so inclined.
“D’Angelo,” I said. “Kali. I’m new. And I really need to talk to Bethany. It’s an emergency.”
The secretary leaned over her nameplate, and even though I knew she was human down to her artificial fingernails, I got the distinct feeling she could see my soul. And that she was thinking of eating it.
“Kali D’Angelo,” she repeated.
If I’d had any school-yard sins to confess, they would have come pouring out of my mouth, just listening to her say my name. But I really did try, for the most part, to be a good kid. To not cause trouble. To be left alone.
“Look, Mrs. Salinger,” I said, stumbling over her name, terrified that I’d slip up and inadvertently address her as Mrs. Soul Eater instead. “It really is an emergency.” True. “My dad works with Bethany’s dad,” I continued—also true. “And if I don’t find her right now …”
My voice cracked. With a shake of her head, Mrs. Salinger handed me a tissue, assuming, I suppose, that I was on the verge of tears.
“Does this have something to do with a boy?” she asked.
Boy? I thought. Bloodsucking menace to society? Same difference, really.
“Yes,” I said seriously. “It does. Please don’t eat my soul.”
It took me a few seconds to realize that I’d added that last part out loud.
“Ummm … I mean …”
Mrs. Salinger held up a hand. “There’s not a thing that goes on in this school that I don’t know about, Kali D’Angelo. People talk. I listen. I do not, for the most part, eat souls.”
“Of course not—I didn’t mean to—”
My feeble apology was cut off by the sound of blood-red nails hitting a pristine keyboard. I felt like Mrs. Salinger was adding my name to the roll call in hell.
“Bethany’s got drama this period,” she said finally. “I believe the class is in the auditorium doing a cold read of The Glass Menagerie.”
“The Glass Menagerie,” I said, unable to keep from dumbly repeating everything the woman said.
“Go on, now.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I hightailed it out of her office and to the auditorium. I needed to find Bethany before I lost my nerve or found my common sense. Her life depended on my being simultaneously brave and stupid.
Lucky her.
As I opened the door to the auditorium, I braced myself. Every single person in the room turned and looked at me.
This time, at least, I had a cover story. “The office needs to see Bethany Davis,” I said.
The drama teacher mumbled something that I couldn’t decipher, but I guess he must have given Bethany permission to leave, because a moment later, she was sauntering toward me: sugar and spice and eyes that said did I give you leave to speak my name, lowly serf?
I could tell already that this was going to be buckets of fun. When Bethany reached the door, she turned around and smiled, waving at the teacher in a motion that looked more like the work of a hypnotist than a teenage girl. Exactly five seconds later, the two of us were in the hallway, headed toward the office.
“Wait,” I said. The word came out high and squeaky, even though my voice is normally closer to the “husky” end of the spectrum. When Bethany didn’t stop, I reached out to grab her arm. She tried to shrug me off, but I tightened my grip.
“What is your problem?” she huffed. “You delivered your little message. Now, shoo.”
I didn’t move, and since I had a hold on her arm, neither did she.
“Oh, I know what this is about,” she said, her green eyes widening in a way that made me think, for a split second, that maybe she did.
“You do?” I asked.
Her widened eyes narrowed. “You’re Skylar’s new little project, and you think that since I’m with Elliot, and he shares an unfortunate number of his chromosomes with Little Miss Loose Legs, you have an in.”
For a few seconds, I considered letting go of her arm, turning around, and walking off. If she was retaining enough of her memories to be this much of a bitch, she clearly wasn’t in that much danger.
But I couldn’t make myself do it. Couldn’t drop her arm. Couldn’t turn around. All I could do was drop the act.
“Do you have a tattoo?”
“Excuse me?” Bethany did the ice-queen motif to perfection, but at the moment, I had bigger things to worry about than painting a giant social target on my forehead.
“It’s a simple question. Yes or no—do you have a tattoo?”
Something in my voice, or maybe my eyes—which had a tendency to go nearly black when I was on a hunt—must have convinced her that I was serious, because she actually answered me.
“I need to be elsewhere.”
That statement got me another look. This one said I have concluded that you are on drugs.
Clearly, I was getting nowhere fast. There was a part of me that wanted to just turn and stalk out of the room. I seriously doubted he would physically stop me, but that scenario would have inevitably ended with someone calling my father. I’d be labeled as a troublemaker.
There would be conflict.
I really didn’t do conflict.
Think, Kali, I told myself, and then, all of a sudden, the answer was there, accompanied by an angelic chorus of hallelujahs.
“Tampons!”
Mr. McCormick jumped like I’d hit him with a Taser. “Excuse me?”
“Tampons,” I said again.
“Ms. D’Angelo, I’ve been teaching for six years. I’m well aware that there may be certain … er … female issues—”
I cut him off. “Tampons.” It was ridiculous. I couldn’t stop saying the word, and he couldn’t stop flinching. “Somebody stole mine. All of them. I need to go.”
Mr. McCormick said absolutely nothing, but he handed me a bathroom pass. He seemed to know that I wouldn’t be back, but accepted my absence as the price that had to be paid to keep me from saying that dreaded word one more time.
As I stepped into the hallway, any thrill of victory I might have felt subsided, because I couldn’t deny, even for a second, what I’d known since I saw the symbol on Bethany’s back.
Whether I was in class taking a test or out wandering the hallways, there wasn’t anything I could do to save her. I was weak. Human. There was no instinct pounding in my temples, compelling me toward a battle I’d inevitably win. I had no idea where Bethany was, and even if I found her, what was I going to do—talk to the little parasite? Ask it to let her go? Tell the school nurse?
Who was I kidding? By the time the ouroboros symbol appeared on a person’s skin, it was too late for medical science to intervene. The only thing that could save Bethany Davis’s more-popular-than-thou, oh-so-charming personage was a trade, and even that was supposed to be pretty much impossible. But hypothetically, if the chupacabra did find someone it liked better, it might leave Bethany before it sucked all of the life out of her.
And if that person happened to be me …
I glanced down at my watch.
Seventeen hours and twelve minutes.
If I could last that long with a psychic, parasitic hellbeast sucking the blood out of my body and the thoughts out of my brain, I’d be fine, because seventeen hours and twelve minutes from now—eleven minutes from now—I’d change. My blood would change.
And the bloodsucker would die.
As far as plans went, it was imprecise, but at the moment, it was all I had.
“Can you tell me what class Bethany Davis is in right now?”
The secretary had her own version of Mr. McCormick’s I know what you’re up to look, and I wasn’t altogether surprised to find myself on the receiving end of it. If I’d had any other choice, I wouldn’t have just marched myself into the office to ask, but it was a pretty big school, and I didn’t think that popping my head into every classroom, looking for Bethany, would go over much better.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in class, Ms….,” the secretary trailed off, as she realized that she didn’t know my name.
I was loathe to provide it for her, but given that there couldn’t have been more than three Indian kids in the entire school, I seriously doubted she’d have trouble tracking me down if she was so inclined.
“D’Angelo,” I said. “Kali. I’m new. And I really need to talk to Bethany. It’s an emergency.”
The secretary leaned over her nameplate, and even though I knew she was human down to her artificial fingernails, I got the distinct feeling she could see my soul. And that she was thinking of eating it.
“Kali D’Angelo,” she repeated.
If I’d had any school-yard sins to confess, they would have come pouring out of my mouth, just listening to her say my name. But I really did try, for the most part, to be a good kid. To not cause trouble. To be left alone.
“Look, Mrs. Salinger,” I said, stumbling over her name, terrified that I’d slip up and inadvertently address her as Mrs. Soul Eater instead. “It really is an emergency.” True. “My dad works with Bethany’s dad,” I continued—also true. “And if I don’t find her right now …”
My voice cracked. With a shake of her head, Mrs. Salinger handed me a tissue, assuming, I suppose, that I was on the verge of tears.
“Does this have something to do with a boy?” she asked.
Boy? I thought. Bloodsucking menace to society? Same difference, really.
“Yes,” I said seriously. “It does. Please don’t eat my soul.”
It took me a few seconds to realize that I’d added that last part out loud.
“Ummm … I mean …”
Mrs. Salinger held up a hand. “There’s not a thing that goes on in this school that I don’t know about, Kali D’Angelo. People talk. I listen. I do not, for the most part, eat souls.”
“Of course not—I didn’t mean to—”
My feeble apology was cut off by the sound of blood-red nails hitting a pristine keyboard. I felt like Mrs. Salinger was adding my name to the roll call in hell.
“Bethany’s got drama this period,” she said finally. “I believe the class is in the auditorium doing a cold read of The Glass Menagerie.”
“The Glass Menagerie,” I said, unable to keep from dumbly repeating everything the woman said.
“Go on, now.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I hightailed it out of her office and to the auditorium. I needed to find Bethany before I lost my nerve or found my common sense. Her life depended on my being simultaneously brave and stupid.
Lucky her.
As I opened the door to the auditorium, I braced myself. Every single person in the room turned and looked at me.
This time, at least, I had a cover story. “The office needs to see Bethany Davis,” I said.
The drama teacher mumbled something that I couldn’t decipher, but I guess he must have given Bethany permission to leave, because a moment later, she was sauntering toward me: sugar and spice and eyes that said did I give you leave to speak my name, lowly serf?
I could tell already that this was going to be buckets of fun. When Bethany reached the door, she turned around and smiled, waving at the teacher in a motion that looked more like the work of a hypnotist than a teenage girl. Exactly five seconds later, the two of us were in the hallway, headed toward the office.
“Wait,” I said. The word came out high and squeaky, even though my voice is normally closer to the “husky” end of the spectrum. When Bethany didn’t stop, I reached out to grab her arm. She tried to shrug me off, but I tightened my grip.
“What is your problem?” she huffed. “You delivered your little message. Now, shoo.”
I didn’t move, and since I had a hold on her arm, neither did she.
“Oh, I know what this is about,” she said, her green eyes widening in a way that made me think, for a split second, that maybe she did.
“You do?” I asked.
Her widened eyes narrowed. “You’re Skylar’s new little project, and you think that since I’m with Elliot, and he shares an unfortunate number of his chromosomes with Little Miss Loose Legs, you have an in.”
For a few seconds, I considered letting go of her arm, turning around, and walking off. If she was retaining enough of her memories to be this much of a bitch, she clearly wasn’t in that much danger.
But I couldn’t make myself do it. Couldn’t drop her arm. Couldn’t turn around. All I could do was drop the act.
“Do you have a tattoo?”
“Excuse me?” Bethany did the ice-queen motif to perfection, but at the moment, I had bigger things to worry about than painting a giant social target on my forehead.
“It’s a simple question. Yes or no—do you have a tattoo?”
Something in my voice, or maybe my eyes—which had a tendency to go nearly black when I was on a hunt—must have convinced her that I was serious, because she actually answered me.
