Chapter 5

A Troubled Way Home

After the assembly, Heather struggled through classes as best she could. Most of her teachers congratulated her, but there was always that look deep within their eyes, the look that questioned why anyone would sabotage the school’s claim to fame. Sometimes the look showed pity.

Sometimes the look was a bit more sinister.

Her history teacher focused the day’s warm-up activity on Benedict Arnold, asking students to write about what they would do if they had discovered a traitor. When asked to share their journal entries, more than the usual number of students volunteered, reading descriptions even Shakespeare would be proud of—descriptions ranging from personal torture to public humiliation to capital punishment. And all the time, the eyes in the classroom seared into her face, prying to see the effect of their torturous descriptions. Heather’s stoicism hid her true emotions; their descriptions frightened her to the bone.

Heather wished she had English, but that class wouldn’t meet until Monday. Ms. Phillips was Heather’s favorite teacher and had even subscribed to Heather’s blog. She was always encouraging Heather to pursue writing. She cared little about Orchard Valley football’s rise to fame and had often spoken at public budget hearings on how much of the school’s budget was spent on athletic equipment and upgrades rather than books. Ms. Phillips, Heather knew, would be the one teacher unconditionally proud of Heather’s award.

But on this day, Ms. Phillips was nowhere to be found. On this day, not a sympathetic face greeted Heather. On this day, the whole world hated her.

After school, Heather could barely decide which option was more dangerous: riding the bus home or walking. Walking home, she would be more likely to be left alone. Yet if someone did happen to follow her, there were plenty of places they could harass her without adult supervision. But riding the bus carried its own challenges. It would be packed with students, and the supervision was minimal at best. Still, it would be over quickly, and Heather could always sit in the front.

Heather stood at the front of the school trying to muster the courage to board the bus across the parking lot. Her backpack pulled at her shoulder with the added weight of her new trophy, and she couldn’t imagine walking home with it. Still, her feet felt like cinderblocks. They would not obey her decision to board the bus. Every now and again, students turned to scowl at her on their way to their cars.

“Nice going, Traitor. Way to ruin football,” they said. And some of the comments were not as friendly as that.

Amidst it all, a familiar black car pulled up to the curb. A familiar figure reached over to roll down the ancient window of the 1987 Chevy Caprice.

“You’re going my way,” the driver said.

Heather shuddered. It was Burton Childress.

“No,” she mumbled.

“You’re not going my way?” His voice was deep and penetrating and seemed to reach into her very soul.

There was something captivating about that voice: if it weren’t for the sinister echo, his voice would be quite attractive, the perfect voice for a movie narrator. But something dark lingered within that voice, and Heather’s heart sped.

“The last time I checked, we lived right next door to each other.” His eyes pierced hers. “So you’re going my way.”

“I—can’t,” was all Heather could manage.

“Tsk tsk. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. Though I gladly would have, as I offered this summer. I would gladly stand in your place in exchange for the recognition you received today. And that’s more than you can say for your source. He has thoroughly abandoned you.”

“I didn’t do this for him,” Heather said.

“Ah, so it is a him after all! A football player, I gather, from his reluctance to step forward.” Heather’s look betrayed her, and Burton smiled. “It is a football player, then. This shouldn’t be difficult to narrow down.”

Heather leaned into the passenger seat through the window. “Tell me you won’t try to find his identify! Promise me!”

“Oh, I promise you, all right. I promise you that I will seek his identity until it’s found.” He spoke with complete seriousness. His eyes glinted as if he were beginning an inquisition to find someone no less hateful than a murderer.

Heather backed up and removed her hands from the car as if it were made of flesh-scorching molten metal.

Burton smiled. “Let me drive you home, and maybe I can forget about finding your source.”

“Do you promise? If I ride home with you, you’ll drop your search?”

Burton leaned down so that Heather could stare straight into his dark eyes. Through a glare in the windshield, they reflected the brake lights of the car in front of him and seemed to glow red. “May-beee,” he groaned like a demon.

With that, Heather clutched her bag and ran out to the buses without once looking back.

On the bus, she kept her trophy stuffed securely in her backpack, and she sat as close to the bus driver as possible. No one ever sat up front, and Heather hoped she’d be able to sit alone and enjoy an uneventful ride home. She almost had her wish until just before the bus pulled away. A burly senior hurried on board. Heather shrank into her seat. Seniors never took the bus. Most of them drove to school or knew someone that did.

“Oh good,” the senior said loudly enough for the back of the bus to hear, “I was hoping for a seat up front!”

Heather felt a shock run down her spine and into her guts. She raised her eyes only to meet the hateful gaze of Jared Winters, the former captain of the football team. Only his father’s personal connections had allowed Jared to remain a student at Orchard Valley. Not all the students who had used steroids were so lucky.

Heather shuddered. Jared had a red Mustang convertible. In fact, she saw it glowing in the student parking section. Jared had no legitimate reason to take the bus home, and that was bad news for Heather. As she feared, Jared squeezed his large frame into her bench. “Mind if I sit here?”

Heather remained silent.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked.

Heather looked at the bus driver, hoping for some help, but the bus driver simply shut the door and drove off with a belch of noxious exhaust and the squeal of a brake, oblivious to the teenage drama just behind her.

Heather squeezed herself as closely as she could to the window, but Jared seemed to fill in whatever space she’d made. She pushed her backpack between them. As Jared’s gelatinous form pressed further against her, it met the hard, sharp trophy which was stowed in the backpack. Like a frightened animal, he recoiled from it.

But her small victory did not last long.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked again.

His volume and tone of voice told Heather that he knew exactly who she was. He was like a terrifying cat that chose to play with its prey before eating it.

“I said,” Jared shouted, turning toward the back of the bus to broadcast his torment. “Don’t I. Know you. From somewhere.”

“I don’t think so,” Heather whispered.

“Oh, I know.” He eyed the back of the bus to make sure he had an audience.

He did.

“You’re that girl who was on stage today. The one who got that nice little trophy. The trophy for being a good girl. Is that what you think you are? A good girl?”

By now, the other students had quieted, save for those who laughed at the torment Jared inflicted on his latest victim.

“Is your trophy there in your backpack? Do you mind if I take a peek?” With that, Jared stood up and faced backwards, picking up Heather’s bag. He tore it open, pulling the zipper apart at the seam. He reached into the dark interior of the bag and did not expect to be greeted by the sharp tip of the obelisk.

“Ouch!” he shouted, incurring the raised eyebrow of the bus driver in the rearview mirror. Jared held up his bleeding hand. “What the—” he asked Heather, as if she herself had caused the trophy to stab him. He lowered his voice so it was deep and gruff. “You’re a traitor.” He leaned in toward her so that his mouth was but an inch from her ear, and he spat venomous hatred. “And traitors always pay.” He brought his bleeding palm to his mouth and licked the blood, flashing Heather with a satisfied glance. Then he shoved her backpack into her and made his way to the back of the bus, where accolades from the others welcomed him.

Heather peeked into her bag, and a ray of sun shone through the window and onto her black trophy. The light glinted off the golden plate at the bottom as if the trophy itself were winking at Heather—as if it were in cahoots about the nefarious prank it had just pulled on Jared. Heather had to blink twice to assure herself that she was not hallucinating. But it was still there—that blinking, shining trophy that seemed to have a will of its own.

Living at the end of the street, Heather was the only one to exit at her bus stop. She hurried towards her house, glancing behind to make sure no one was following. When the bus pulled away, a dozen angry faces stared daggers from the bus windows. The noisy yellow vehicle drove out of sight and the exhaust fumes cleared, revealing an old Chevy Caprice parked in the shoulder underneath a shady grove of trees, its driver’s eyes locked intently on Heather as she hurried into her house, locking the deadbolt behind her.

Inside, the house was empty. Mother was at work, and Ruby was not yet home from school. Heather stowed her backpack near the entryway and made her way to the kitchen. When she managed to pour herself a drink and sit down, she realized just how badly her hands shook with the significance of the day. She turned to her familiar friend, her laptop, and opened up a new document, the only friend who would listen and understand.