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Mr. Gunthrie went on an hour-long rant about the flickering light over my desk, throwing away an entire class period. Ms. Dalton couldn’t find any of her notes and even forgot her Diet Coke. Students who normally paid Miles for his services began taking matters into their own hands, and detention was full for the first time all year.
I wondered if the gloom was affecting me, too, but I got the feeling it had more to do with the thin envelopes I kept getting from colleges and scholarship foundations. Most of them started with “We regret to inform you . . .” I tried not to take it personally—how many mentally ill, lower-class high school girls could there be in Indiana? Probably more than I thought—but handing each one over to my mother was like running the gauntlet of passive-aggressive pep talks. Are you sure you signed up right? Maybe you just forgot something. Should I have Leann explain things to them?
Needless to say, I didn’t enjoy spending time at home. But school wasn’t much better.
In March, I began to notice people pointing at me as I walked by in the hallway, ignoring me when I tried to talk to them, and blatantly not believing things I said. I wouldn’t have cared so much if it hadn’t been exactly what had happened at Hillpark after they’d found out.
At the end of March, the entire club was assembled in the main gym for the band competition. The bleachers were full with spectators, along with the bands from other schools. McCoy employed half the students in seventh-period gym to string up golden ribbons around the scoreboard and create a “tribute table” where people could sign a petition to finally get the scoreboard plated in gold and pick up a complimentary tiny scoreboard magnet. (Obviously, it was a smashing success.)
From what I saw, most people thought this was a joke: honoring the scoreboard like this was a quirky little thing we East Shoalers did to cover up the fact that it had killed someone. I never got wind of anyone accusing McCoy of losing his marbles.
When the competition started, we were kicked out of the scorer’s table by the guy announcing the bands. We stood next to the main doors with our backs pressed to the wall. I stuck close to Miles, because there I didn’t feel the need to check every instrument for contraband items and Communist propaganda. If something strange was actually going on, Miles would tell me.
One band finished their set, and another came in to take its place. The announcer left his post, complaining about never getting restroom breaks. In the relative quiet, I began to nod off against Miles’s shoulder.
“Excuse me, everyone?” Celia’s voice filled the gym. I jerked awake. The room went silent.
“Hi,” she waved from the scorer’s table. “I just wanted to take a moment to remind everyone that all proceeds from today’s concession sales are going to benefit the American Schizophrenia Association.”
You’re the obstacle, idiot! the little voice roared.
“Alex,” Miles said urgently, pulling me toward the door. “Alex, you have to get out of here—”
But I was rooted to the spot, my brain frozen.
“All of this is in honor of our own paranoid schizophrenic, Alexandra Ridgemont, who transferred to our school after graffitiing the Hillpark School gymnasium.” Celia turned and looked at me, along with everyone else. She waved, smiling. “Hi, Alex.”
Her last words were lost in the empty air of the gym; Miles had shot across the bottom of the bleachers and ripped her microphone’s power cord from its extension. He charged up to the scorer’s table and took the microphone itself away from her, but the damage was done.
I was in a tank full of sharks.
Eyes bore down on me from all sides. The band members stopped moving their instruments. A few people on the other side of the bleachers stood up for a better look. Theo had come in from the concession stand and now hovered by the far doors with Evan and Ian, their faces pale.
My hand fumbled for the door. The push bar slipped under my fingers once, twice—finally I was able to push it open, and I sprinted for the nearest restroom.
I locked myself in a stall, threw up, and curled into a ball on the tile and squeezed my eyes shut. I tugged on my hair, wishing it wasn’t so damned red, wishing my mind worked the way it should, wishing things would go back to the way they were when I was seven, when everything was real and I didn’t know any better.
When I finally calmed down enough to open my eyes. I was still sitting on the floor in a bathroom stall in a public high school, I was still crazy, and my hair still looked like I’d dunked my head in a tank of ketchup.
Miles must’ve been keeping people out of the bathroom, because no one came, and every so often he would pound on the door and call my name and say that he hadn’t told anyone.
I wanted to tell him that I believed him, that Celia could have found out other ways. But I couldn’t get myself to move, and I couldn’t open my mouth.
“Lexi?”
I pushed myself to my feet, wiping away whatever tears were left, and cracked open the bathroom door. Dad stood there, smelling like freshly dug dirt and wild herbs. Behind him, the hallway was empty. Miles had gone. Dad didn’t say anything, just pulled me into a hug and walked me out to the car.
Chapter Forty
My dad was better at calming me down than I ever gave him credit for. I think some of it was the way he smelled. The other part was his choice in movies.
“Dad, you could be Indiana Jones.”
“You think so?” he replied. “I’d have to grow a bit more scruff than I have now.” He rubbed his unshaven face. “Ooh, I could go as Indiana Jones for Halloween next year. Think your mom would agree to dress up as my spunky yet sexy female companion?”
“I dunno. You’d have to look really good. And probably bribe her with chocolate.”
He laughed, and the doorbell rang. He went to answer it while I settled into the couch with the bowl of popcorn. Charlie had avoided the living room since we’d returned, and my mother—thank God—had been at the grocery when Miles had called my house.
I tried to ignore what was going on in the hallway. Dad would scare away anyone, unless it was Miles. But I had a feeling Miles was going to give me some space.
“I wanted to check on Alex and make sure she was okay. I heard about what happened at school.”
Tucker.
“Yes, she’s fine,” Dad replied. He peeked into the living room. “Hey, Lex Luthor, you feel up to guests?”
I pushed myself off the couch and peered around the doorframe into the hallway. Tucker stood on the front step, worry on his face. His hand brushed nervously through the huge pot of fresh white geraniums my mother had set on the porch. Behind him, the trees along the street were in full bloom, bursting with the colors of spring.
