ART WAS THIRD PERIOD TODAY, and once again, as Bett approached, there was a crowd around the door, necks craned upward this time.
Oh, no. Not more crap destroyed!
But it wasn’t that.
Hanging from the ceiling was an explosion of light: shards of glass painted gold and silver and glowing like a star, a mobile shining like a vehicle for a god. Anna. She had taken the shards of glass from the cherub and made this. She must have skipped her first two classes to do it, McLean and his detention notwithstanding.
“Jesus,” said Mutt. “When is she going to stop making stuff out of the crap getting busted?”
“Never,” said Anna, whirling around to face him. “I will never stop.” And, standing on one of the art room stools, she reached up with her thin hands and anchored the sculpture more firmly in place over the empty transom.
Bett’s heart beat loud as a drum. She was surprised Anna couldn’t hear it.
* * *
Dan was in this class with her. So was Doug. Fabulous.
Anna walked up to Dan and sat down next to him, looking shaky. He put his arm around her.
“Your piece is gorgeous,” he told her.
“It is,” Bett added. There. I can, too, talk to girls. Take that, Aunt Jeanette.
“Thank you,” said Anna. “That’s nice of you.”
“It’s true,” Dan insisted. “How did you do all that without cutting yourself to ribbons?”
“I did get cut to ribbons,” Anna admitted, showing her hands to him. They were covered in tiny cuts.
Stop it this minute, Bett told herself, hand over her wrist.
“I can’t stand that you can still see those horrible graffiti words on the walls by where my wings used to be,” Anna said.
“They’re scary hateful,” Bett started to say, but now Mr. Thorne, the art teacher, was talking.
“That angel head over the transom was blown glass,” he announced. “Made by a student here in the nineties who survived an IED explosion in the Gulf War but ultimately died of his wounds after he came home. He made that when he was in tenth grade, before the war, when we still had glass-blowing equipment here.”
The room was quiet. “Is his name on the soldier’s coat outside?” asked Anna finally.
“Yup,” said Mr. Thorne. “Michael Lorde.” He lowered his head a moment. “Good kid,” he said finally, looking back up at them. “Anna, I love what you made. If anyone gives you trouble for making it, tell them to see me.” He shook his head. “Okay, you all. Let’s get started. This was going to be the start of our clay unit, but you should feel free to make it a free draw period instead if that suits you better.”
“Can I say something first, Mr. Thorne?” asked Anna.
“Sure,” said the teacher.
Anna stood up. “A lot of you know this already,” she said, “but some of us have formed a group to kind of, like, stand up to whatever crazy person this is, wrecking the art. We’re having a meeting tonight. If you want to come, see me or Eli Gonzales. We’ll give you more details then.”
“I think that’s great, Anna,” said Mr. Thorne. “Keep fighting destruction with creation.”
“That’s pretty much the idea,” said Anna, and sat down again. Then everyone got busy drawing, rain slanting against the windows.
At least Dan and I won’t have to run in that wetness, thought Bett. What with detention and all.
Dan took up a pencil and began to draw his sun. Bett watched.
“Why don’t you draw something?” Dan asked her, making a careful layer of sunbeams.
“I don’t draw,” said Bett.
“You must be able to draw something,” said Dan. “You were, like, so good with your makeup.” This time he was the one who looked away.
“I could only draw on my own face,” she said, trying to keep the surprise from showing. “And it was pretty much the same every time.”
“So are my sun and my cheeseburger,” Dan pointed out.
“I think I’ll get some clay.” Bett went over to the clay bucket sitting at the bottom of the shelves Mr. Thorne used for works-in-progress for the little kids. On the lowest shelf were rows of tiny goblets. Most were endearingly awkward and clunky, with hearts etched on them or skulls. One was particularly lovely, though, smooth, with three snakey, pointy swirls curling around themselves on the clay. Bett reached out a finger to trace them.
MRS. LEDGER’S GRADE 3, the sign next to them said. NORSE UNIT.
But before she could think any more about the goblets:
“FUCK!” Across the room Doug was standing up, holding a piece of paper in his hand.
“Don’t you dare swear in here!” said Mr. Thorne.
“Look at this!” Doug yelled. “It was in my pocket! Look!”
He held up the paper so everyone could see. There was no mistaking it. It was another one of those devil pictures, horned and terrifying.
In Doug’s pocket? In his pocket? In Doug’s pocket meant . . . meant that the art psycho had been near enough to a person to actually plant a picture on him, in his clothes, without him knowing!
“It’s a death threat!” someone cried.
“Shut up!” Doug threw the paper on the floor and kicked it away.
“What the hell is going on?” someone else said, voice wavering.
“Calm down, everyone, calm down,” the art teacher said, holding his hands up as if to soothe their thoughts. But he was clearly freaked out, too. “Doug, hand me that paper. I’m going to turn it over to the principal. I think it’s time for us to step things up another notch.”
Despite her hatred of Doug, Bett found her arms were goose-bumping. Whoever was doing this wasn’t playing.
For once, she was glad her mother was involved.