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Our protagonist sees something at the end of the corridor. A shadowy figure—
Oh, please. Talk about cheap thrills. Go for original… mysterious…
Take two.
What's that she sees? A child's lunch bag, bright yellow and new, out of place in this old, condemned house.
Keep the film rolling. Don't let my mind wander—
A sob echoed through the silent rooms, then broke off, dissolving into a wet snuffling.
Crying. Right. From my movie. The protagonist sees a child's lunch bag, then hears eerie sobs. Something moved at the end of the hall. A dark shape—
I flung myself forward, racing for my bag. I grabbed it and took off.
Three
“Chloe! Hold up!”
I'd just dumped my uneaten lunch in my locker and was walking away when Nate hailed me. I turned to see him edging sideways through a group of girls. The bell sounded and the hall erupted, kids jostling like salmon fighting their way upstream, carrying along anything in their path. Nate had to struggle to reach me.
“You took off from film club before I could grab you. I wanted to ask if you're going to the dance. ”
“Tomorrow? Um, yeah. ”
He flashed a dimpled grin. “Great. See you there. ”
A swarm of kids engulfed him. I stood there, staring after him. Had Nate just tracked me down to ask if I was going to the dance? It wasn't the same as asking me to the dance, but still. . . I was definitely going to need to rethink my outfit.
A senior whacked into me, knocking off my backpack and muttering something about “standing in the middle of the hall. ” As I bent to grab my bag, I felt a gush between my legs.
I snapped upright and stood frozen before taking a tentative step.
Oh God. Had I actually wet myself? I took a deep breath. Maybe I was sick. My stomach had been dancing all day.
See if you can clean up and if it's bad, take a cab home.
In the bathroom, I pulled down my pants and saw bright red.
For a couple of minutes, I just sat there, on the toilet, grinning like an idiot and hoping that the rumor about school bathroom cams wasn't true.
I balled up toilet paper in my panties, pulled up my jeans, and waddled out of the stall. And there it was, a sight that had mocked me since fall: the sanitary napkin dispenser.
I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a five-?dollar bill, a ten, and two pennies. Back into the stall. Scavenge through my backpack. Find… one nickel.
I eyed the machine. Drew closer. Examined the scratched lock, the one Beth said could be opened with a long fingernail. Mine weren't long, but my house key worked just fine.
A banner week for me. Getting short-?listed for the director spot. Nate asking me about the dance. My first period. And now my first criminal act.
After I fixed myself up, I dug into my backpack for my brush and emerged instead with the tube of hair color. I lifted it. My reflection in the mirror grinned back.
Why not add “first skipped class” and “first dye job” to the list? Coloring my hair at the school bathroom sink wouldn't be easy, but it would probably be simpler than at home, with Annette hovering.
Dying a dozen bright red streaks took twenty minutes. I'd had to take off my shirt to avoid getting dye on it, so I was standing over the sink in my bra and jeans. Luckily no one came in.
I finished squeezing the strands dry with paper towel, took a deep breath, looked… and smiled. Kari had been right. It did look good. Annette would freak. My dad might notice. Might even get mad. But I was pretty sure no one was going to hand me a twelve-?and-?under menu anymore.
The door creaked. I shoved the towels in the trash, grabbed my shirt, and dashed into a stall. I barely had time to latch the door before the other girl started crying. I glanced over and saw a pair of Reeboks in the next stall.
Should I ask whether she was okay? Or would that embarrass her?
The toilet flushed and the shadow at my feet shifted. The stall lock clicked open. When the taps started, though, her sobs got even louder.
The water shut off. The towel roll squeaked. Paper crumpled. The door opened. It shut. The crying continued.
A cold finger slid down my spine. I told myself she'd changed her mind, and was staying until she got things under control, but the crying was right beside me. In the next stall.
I squeezed my hands into fists. It was just my imagination.
I slowly bent. No shoes under the divider. I ducked farther. No shoes in any of the stalls. The crying stopped.
I yanked my shirt on and hurried from the bathroom before it could start again. As the door shut behind me, all went silent. An empty hall.
“You!”
I spun to see a custodian walking toward me, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Th-?the bathroom,” I said. “I was using the bathroom. ”
He kept coming. I didn't recognize him. He was maybe my dad's age, with a brush cut, wearing our school janitorial uniform. A temp, filling in for Mr. Teitlebaum.
“I—I'm heading to c-?class now. ”
I started walking.
“You! Get back here. I want to talk to you. ”
The only other sound was my footsteps. My footsteps. Why couldn't I hear his?
I walked faster.
A blur passed me. The air shimmered about ten feet ahead, a figure taking form in a custodian's shirt and slacks. I wheeled and broke into a run.
The man let out a snarl that echoed down the hall. A student rounded the corner, and we almost collided. I stammered an apology and glanced over my shoulder. The janitor was gone.
I exhaled and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the blue uniform shirt was inches from my face. I looked up… and let out a shriek.
He looked like a mannequin that had gotten too close to a fire. Face burned. Melted. One eye bulged, exposed. The other eye had slid down near his cheekbone, the whole cheek sagging, lips drooping, skin shiny and misshapen and—
