CHAPTER THIRTY-four

I had a hard time falling asleep last night. Now it’s morning, and the sun seems too bright, and I’m irritable. I’m sitting on a bench in front of the office, waiting for Seth to walk through the front doors. He has to know what he saw between Bobby and me at the gym wasn’t what he thought it was. Not that I should even care. Our relationship is over. But I know how rumors get started in Holcomb.

At least he’s alone when he arrives. Talking to him is harder with Alex around.

“Seth,” I say, but he just walks past. I grab my bag and catch up with him at his locker. “Seth, you’ve got to listen to me.”

“Do I?” he says.

“What you saw last night—”

“I don’t care about what you do, Carly. I’m going to be late for class.”

“We still have a minute.”

He doesn’t even bother to answer. Instead he slams his locker shut and walks down the hall. I’m about to chase after him when there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see Alex. He smiles and hands me a note just as the bell rings.

Mrs. Ford—the school’s art instructor, resident oddball, and my homeroom teacher—nearly shuts the door in my face. I apologize and slink to my seat.

“I have a splitting headache. I need peace and quiet,” she says, sitting at her desk at the front of the room. She closes her eyes and rubs her temples.

I start to open the note.

“No notes in my classroom,” she snaps, her eyes suddenly open.

But it’s too late. I can’t help but gape at what’s on the scrap of paper: a crude drawing of a tree with two stick figures holding hands, ropes around their necks, hanging from a tree branch.

Mrs. Ford stands up and walks over to me. “Carly, I told you,” she says, grabbing the note from me. Then she lets out a little cry. Her face turns as white as a ghost. If it wasn’t the drawing that did her in, it was the line underneath it.

 

Carly and Bobby hanging from a tree, D-Y-I-N-G.

 

She turns to me, her jaw slack.

“I didn’t draw it,” I say, shaking my head.

“Who then?”

Everyone in the classroom points to someone else.

A few months ago, some troublemakers locked all the doors to all the classrooms at school and hid the keys. We were stuck sitting in the hallways, talking so loud that the teachers got tired yelling at us to be quiet. At least we had no homework that night. The janitors went around unlocking each door. It took a while, and when we got inside the classrooms and took our seats, we couldn’t stop laughing. The teachers were frazzled.

The boys who were responsible got a lecture, but that’s it. I think Principal Williams was just too glad the day was over to deal with punishments. There was a group of them, from out near where Landry lived, who were always pulling those types of pranks. Especially on Mrs. Ford. She’s gullible. She’s also a jumpy mix of very bohemian and very religious. Not a great combination in a teacher. The result is an unfortunate habit she has of running to the storage closet in the back of the room, shutting herself inside it, and praying for us. We can hear her through the door. It’s always the same prayer, too.

“Dear Lord, they do not know what they do. Please take away their sins. Cleanse them, dear Lord, cleanse them.”

As she stands there now in shock, looking over all the kids, the classroom door opens. It’s Bobby. He’s late. I want to crawl under my desk and hide. Mrs. Ford looks at him and then at me. She pushes the paper into my hands and heads straight for the storage closet.

Alex and Seth chuckle. Soon we’re all listening to the muffled words we know by heart now.

Bobby looks over at me. “What’s going on?”

I hand him the piece of paper. He takes it, gives it a once-over, and tears it up. The pieces fall to the floor. He sits in silence for the rest of the period, avoiding everyone’s eyes—including mine. The instant the bell rings, he’s out the door. Running.

Mrs. Ford slowly emerges from the closet.

Once everyone is gone, I scoop up the fallen bits of paper and hurry out of the room. I spot Landry in the hall. He’s grinning.

“So, Mrs. Ford was praying again?”

“Yes, we’re all cleansed now,” I mutter. I toss the bits of paper in the trash can and head to my locker. Landry follows. He’s in a better mood than he was last night, and I’m relieved. It means the rumor mill hasn’t begun to churn. It’s still too early in the morning. He leans against the lockers as I dial my combination and grab my history book and composition notebook.

“She and Mr. Helms should spend some time together,” he cracks. “I bet they’d hit it off.”

I turn to him. “Did he tell you about the ghost he saw?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Do you really think he saw something? I mean, other than the guy that they arrested?”

Landry shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he did see something.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” I ask.

He’s still smiling, but his eyes are distant. “Maybe, I don’t know, though sometimes I think I feel my uncle’s spirit,” he says. He pauses and looks right at me. “About yesterday, I didn’t mean what I said outside Hartman’s Café. I was just . . . frustrated. Okay?”

I nod, but I’m not listening. My mind is a thousand miles away. Thanks to Landry and Mr. Helms, I’m suddenly thinking of Aunt Trudy.