Chapter 14

That evening I check my email before going to bed. Nothing from Dr. Radcliffe.

Having the grandparents over means sharing the one full bathroom in the house. It’s not bad when it’s just Dad and me. The half bath downstairs suffices in an emergency. Grandpa takes forever to brush his teeth and floss and do whatever else he does to keep his gum disease from getting worse. Grandma doesn’t rush in the bathroom either, so I’m waiting and waiting to take a shower. I try to work on my essay for American history, but stray thoughts about Haji or Dr. Radcliffe or the assault keep breaking my concentration. It really sucks.

Instead, I download photos from my camera to my laptop and fire up the photo editor. I browse through the images from last Sunday morning, a handful from earlier in the week, and ones I took today of Joe and my grandparents and Dad. I look closely at one I took of Joe about ready to take a bite of pumpkin pie. He’s smiling, showing off crooked teeth and laugh lines. He looks genuinely happy. I want him to be joyful and not to struggle through life. I understand him better now, his battle with PTSD, after reliving the assault. It’s haunting, and I know I’ll never be able to smell Manscape Bodywhiskey again without being transported back to the attack.

By ten thirty, my grandparents are done in the bathroom. I can finally shower and do my evening routine. I’m in my pajamas and tucked in bed next to my giant kittycat stuffy by eleven. I’m exhausted, and I want to sleep, but my mind is still plagued by errant thoughts, mostly of Haji. Joe must be wrong. Haji can’t possibly be into me that way. We’ve been friends forever. He is like a brother to me. He and Dalia are the siblings I never had. Still, as drowsiness fogs my mind, I decide Haji is handsome, despite his klutziness. If he ever grows into his frame, he will turn heads. His almond skin is smooth and unblemished, and his raven black hair is thick and lustrous. Running my hands through his silky hair would be wonderful.

Dad and I drop off my grandparents at the airport on Sunday afternoon. I’m sad to see them go, it’s been a great visit, but I’m glad I’ll only have to share the bathroom with Dad. The school week begins with no response from Dr. Radcliffe. I suppose he’s not going to respond, but I keep checking my email every night.

By Thursday, I’ve finished my essay for Mrs. Higgins, just in time too. I’m confident I’ll get a decent grade, probably a solid B. I grind my teeth, though, certain my work would earn anyone else an A, but she does have it out for me. I’ve done my best to avoid Haji for most of the week except while in the presence of Dalia to keep things from being too awkward. In the afternoon, he corners me in a crowded hallway between classes.

“You’re coming to the basketball game tomorrow, right? We’re playing Emerald High.” Haji talks so fast I’m surprised he isn’t tongue-tied.

“Of course. I need to get some shots for the Weekly.” I join the river of students meandering to classes.

“Wait, Allison.” Haji grabs me by the forearm.

“Personal space, Haji.” I pull my arm free.

“Just…just.” Haji stumbles over the words. “Can I walk you to the game?”

My lips form a straight line. The awkwardness between us is painful. Yet he is my friend, a great friend. As long as he understands that…my gaze shifts to his dark, wavy hair. I really like his hair.

“I won’t wear the…” He drops his voice to a whisper. “Body spray, I promise. I threw it out.”

“Okay. Come get me at—”

“The game is at seven. I can swing by at five thirty, and we can grab something to eat.”

Don’t push your luck, buddy. “I have to study. I’m still behind in some of my classes. Maybe we can do something with Dalia on the weekend.”

Haji’s shoulders sag. He almost looks like a hangdog. I’m sorry for him.

“If she’s not busy with Devin.”

Over the past week, the snow finally stopped, and the temperature warmed, so when Friday evening rolls around, Haji and I tromp through a slushy soup. Somehow slush gets inside my midcalf-high rain boots, and icy tingling makes me wince. Haji is oblivious to the cold and in good spirits, speaking about the goings-on at school and the chances of the basketball team making it to the playoffs. We only have to dodge spray from cars twice, and soon the bright lights of the high school shine in the distance.

The gymnasium is a standalone structure next to the impressive stadium with its covered bleachers capable of seating several thousand fans. People are arriving for the game, trekking through the slop to the gymnasium, a long, narrow brick of a building.

At the door, we flash our student press credentials to the pimply faced freshman and Mr. White, an English teacher, who are working the ticket booth. The light inside the gymnasium reflects off the polished floor and the gleaming wooden bleachers. A sizable crowd has come out for the game, especially the Cascadia Prep fans. Both teams are warming up. The scents of popcorn and hot dogs hang in the air. People slurp pop from straws and pose for selfies. It’s almost a carnival atmosphere.

The Cascadia Prep Titans wear blue shorts and white tank tops. Emblazoned across the shirts are the name of our school along with a cartoonish giant. On the other side of the court are the Emerald High players in green and white. A green silhouette of the Space Needle adorns their shirts.

I sling my shoulder pack around to my chest and pull out my camera. I check the battery and the capacity of the SD cards. All good.

“I’m heading to the press box,” Haji says and waves to me. “Catch up with you later.”

I glance up from my camera. “Sounds good. Wait. Take this.”

I hoist my camera and bag from my shoulders so they’re only around my neck. I take off my heavy winter coat and hand it to Haji.

“Keep track of this for me. It’s hot in here.”

“Got it.”

I watch him walk away through the crowd. The press box is a folding chair at a table out in front of the bleachers where Mikey, a Cascadia Prep senior and game commentator, has the sound equipment set up. He also runs the digital scoreboard from a tablet.

A head of long blonde hair catches my gaze. Towering over most of the crowd is none other than Leslie Chapman with her camera dangling by a strap from her neck. I’m about to turn away when she leans down toward someone. It’s Jason. They kiss. On the lips. It’s just a quick smooch, but still. I turn away and wind through the crowd toward the restrooms in an alcove next to the bleachers. I thought I was over Jason, but the betrayal still stings like a slap across the face.

Don’t cry. Pull yourself together. Leslie wants you to cry. She wants you to break down. Don’t. Don’t.

The door to the restroom swings open, and a diminutive Latina in an invisible cloud of flowery perfume walks out. A DSLR with an 80-200 mm zoom lens dangles from her shoulder. She wears a green Emerald High hoodie.

“Allison! Back photographing the games? That’s awesome. I heard about what happened…anyway, it’s great you’re back.”

“Hey, Margot. It’s great to be back. I really missed this. Taking pictures.”

Margot leans close to me and whispers, “I have to know if it’s true…are your eyes like…like robo-eyes?”

“Yeah,” I say. The high school photojournalist community is small, so I’m not surprised Margot has heard about my prosthetics. Heck, Haji probably filled her in on everything. But that’s okay. Margot is good people.

Her eyes bug out. “Seriously? No way.” Her eyes narrow as she looks at my orbs in concentration. “Look real to me. How’s your eyesight?”

I smile. “Freaking better than ever.”

I tell her about my enhanced night vision and zooming eyeballs. Her mouth drops open into a small O.

“That is the most savage thing I’ve ever heard,” Margot says.

A buzzer sounds, followed by Mikey’s baritone announcing that the game will start in five minutes.

“I better get out there,” Margot says and flashes a quick smile. “We’re going to destroy you guys. Good luck with the pics.”

I slide into the restroom. People are rushing out of stalls to wash their hands and head out to the game. I go to the one empty sink and admire my savage green hair and prosthetic eyes in the mirror. What does Leslie have that I don’t? Jason, I suppose, but he’s not much of a catch. He approves of her racist attitudes, or he wouldn’t be with her. A lousy bottom feeder, that’s what he is. I smile at my reflection then speed walk out to the game.

I position myself behind the basket just in time to catch our first fast-break. Leslie is there, blazing away with her high-end DSLR. I ignore her, drop down on one knee, and bring my camera to my eye. Focus and shoot.

“Crap,” I mutter, lowering the camera.

The shutter speed was way too slow. I check the image on the LCD, a blurry mess. I forgot to spin up the ISO. Such a rookie mistake. I spin up the ISO to 3200 and turn my attention back to the action. Emerald High just scored. Margot is right, they’re going to murder us.

As the game progresses, I start getting some nice shots, at least I think I do. I won’t know for sure until I view the pictures on a computer screen.

Leslie keeps glancing at me, like repeatedly. She looks like she wants to talk. About what? There’s nothing I want to talk about with Leslie. Honestly, it’s all I can do to concentrate on photographing the game and not spin around and sock her in the mouth. A ferocity is boiling in my gut, and keeping it in check is not easy.

The game ends with an Emerald High victory, just as Margot predicted. I make a beeline for the press box, moving against the crowd heading for the doors. Leslie heads me off. Groaning, I try to step around her, but she sidesteps to block me.

“Let me by,” I say.

“Allison, I need to talk to you,” Leslie says in a loud voice to be heard over the din.

I meet her blue-eyed gaze with a glower. “I don’t want to talk to you. Ever.”

Anger blazes in her eyes. That’s the Leslie I know.

“I’m trying to apologize. For…for everything.”

I clench a hand into a fist at my side. I see an opening in the crowd and dart through it. I glance over my shoulder, buffeting people on either side of me. Leslie doesn’t follow. She turns away and meanders with the milling crowd toward the exit.

I find Haji sitting with Mikey in the press box. Mikey is gigantic, more a bespectacled bear than a teenager. He’s being recruited by universities across the country to play linebacker.

“Hey, Allison, Haji was telling me all about your prosthetic oculi. Oculi is a wicked word,” Mikey says and stands up. “I’m super glad you’re back at school. I hope the cops catch the asshole who attacked you. See you around. Later, Haji.”

I say goodbye to Mikey as I put away my camera. Haji hands me my coat, and we leave. He walks me home despite the fact I remind him that I can see perfectly fine in the dark. Intellectually, I know it’s black out, like really dark, especially when we are away from the streetlights. But, to me, it looks like twilight opposed to night. It’s pretty awesome.

I enjoy Haji’s company, and it bites that one day soon I’ll have to break it to him that I will never be his girlfriend. He rants about the deficiencies of the Cascadia Prep basketball team and what he would do to make improvements if only he were the coach. It helps pass the time and keeps me from fretting about my issues.

Haji walks me all the way to my house before saying goodbye. As I wave good night to him, I wish he isn’t such a sweet guy and wonderful friend. It would be so much easier to reject him if he were a jerk. I bite my lower lip. Maybe, if I luck out for once in my life, it won’t come to that. Haji will fall head over heels for someone who wants to talk sports and get all cuddly while watching corny sci-fi flicks with him.

I go inside to discover Dad has stayed up waiting on me to make sure I arrived home okay. We exchange greetings, and I break the news that my school lost. He commiserates, and then we both head for bed. Before I can sleep, I have to check my email, not that I expect anything.

When I see the email from Dr. Radcliffe, I swear I have palpitations. “Oh my God.”

My hand shakes so violently I can’t control the computer with the trackpad. I take a deep breath, hold it for a second, and let it out.

I shut my eyes and whisper, “Just open it. Get it over with.”

I open my eyes to narrow slits. My hand quivers, finger bouncing over the trackpad, but I manage to click on the email. My body vibrates like a struck cymbal as I read the message: Come to the Chapel Library’s reading room tomorrow at 10 p.m. Alone.

“There’s no way I’m going alone.” I snag my cell phone off the desk.

I chicken peck out a message to Dalia and Haji on the flip phone.

—The Obsidian Roast tomorrow. Breakfast. 9 a.m. Must talk.—