Chapter Twelve

Who falls from all he knows of bliss,
cares little into what abyss.
~Lord Byron

THE FIRST TO ARRIVE IN LIT CLASS, I rubbed my shiny report cover as if polishing gold. I’d never been more excited for a class or a school day in my life. Being early beat the hell out of staying in the halls where gossip still swirled about the fight, Geoff, and me. Tiffany cornered me in the restroom after first period, wanting to know the details of how Geoff had dumped Haley at The Grind, but I managed to neither confirm nor deny.

I hadn’t been sitting for long when Geoff swung into the room. Our eyes met and held as he walked to my row. With his paper rolled loosely in his hand, he sauntered past my desk, and a small, folded triangle of notebook paper fell into my lap.

I unfolded the paper discretely under my desk as the other students filled the desks around me.

My dad is here, but I don’t know why.
I don’t think he knows about last Friday night.
I worked all weekend on this stupid paper—
This better be good.
BTW, you look beautiful today.

I smiled and glanced back at him. He’d propped his feet under the desk in front of him, drawing his body to its full long length with his head resting on the back of his seat. He gave me a coy grin.

I turned back around, loving the fuzzy warmth spreading through me. Maybe now that Geoff had fallen from the good graces of the beautiful people, he’d sit at my table for lunch. I had yet to tell him about the date in his dad’s appointment book or find out what he thought about my eerie drawings of the past.

The bell rang, and I refolded the note, stashing it safely in my pocket. Mrs. Sutton entered the room, took roll on her computer, and then stood stoically at the front—our cue to shut up.

“Today, your research papers are due, and I hope you all know enough about your authors to stand before the room and give a brief overview of their accomplishments and contributions to the literary world.”

A collective groan swelled to a dissonant chorus in the room.

“We’ll start with our Romantic Era poets and authors—” she lifted her voice to wrestle her detractors back into quiet submission “—as we have a guest today who I’m told is very influenced by their work. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ramsey?”

“Quite so.” The noisy arguments ceased as our visitor pushed open the classroom door and came inside. I ducked my head, hiding my eye rolling. How long had Ben been outside waiting to make his grand entrance? He gave a smarmy smile, moving to take the barstool seat Sutton offered in the front corner of the room. “Thank you for having me. I was flattered when the dean called with your invitation.”

“It’s we who should be flattered.” Sutton tucked her hair behind her ear as she settled behind her desk and smiled. “Having you for a guest is a real treat for us. Class, if you don’t know, Ben Ramsey is Geoffrey’s father and an author. You’re on your…eleventh book?”

“Thirteenth. Lucky thirteen.” He chuckled, crossing his arms and looking smug as he scanned the class.

Sutton took her goo-goo eyes off Geoff’s dad and directed her next words at us. “Now, guys, I want you all to know I’ve talked with Mr. Ramsey about this assignment, and he understands you’re only just now learning about your authors. You’re certainly not experts, so don’t feel intimidated by his presence. He’s merely going to add a little of his knowledge when you’re finished. Please don’t feel like you have to tell us every little detail about your author. Just a brief overview to get things started, and then we’ll ask Mr. Ramsey to take over from there.” She struck a listening pose with hands folded and tucked under her chin, elbows resting on the desk before her.

Ben crossed his legs and nodded encouragingly at her words.

My heart thudded. Was she joking? Who wouldn’t be intimidated? It was bad enough to be asked to speak unprepared, but in front of the president of the Dead Romantics Fan Club? I could only imagine how Geoff felt.

“Let’s start with John Keats. Miss Bensimon?”

Tiffany slid from her chair, taking her paper with her as she went to the slaughter. Behind Sutton’s lectern, she faced the class, made a big show of opening her paper, and then flashed a flirty smile at Ramsey. Her efforts made no difference, however, as the author rolled up his shirtsleeves. I felt slightly sorry for her as she mumbled her way through a biography of Keats, so generic it would’ve fit half a dozen oldsters from the era.

“Um, thank you, Miss Bensimon.” Sutton took Tiffany’s paper with a frown. “Looking forward to reading your work. Now maybe Mr. Ramsey could enlighten us further?”

Ben added a few details about the author’s life. Restrained for once, he was brief and unemotional. I prayed it would last, for Geoff’s sake, if not for mine. What could be more embarrassing than having your father exuding his obsessive passion for a nineteenth century poet in front of your classmates?

Mrs. Sutton explained Derrick Winters had Percy Bysshe Shelley as his author, but Derrick was absent.

My face went up in flames as the eyes around the room turned on me. Earlier, I’d heard the linebacker was fine, taking advantage of his swollen jaw to have a couple days at home. Stephen was back, since Derrick wasn’t pressing charges and no witnesses came forward, and the yearbook co-editor was soaking up his newfound popularity.

“So next we’ll hear Miss Rodgers with Shelley’s famous wife, Mary.”

I stood, and the whole room went deathly quiet as I took the lectern, feeling Ramsey’s gaze at my side.

My fingers shook as I opened the cover of my paper, and I glanced up from the black print to the two dozen pairs of eyes watching. Magnetically, Geoff’s face drew my attention as he smiled with encouragement.

I can get through this. Geoff thinks I can, too.

I cleared my throat and began, “Mr. Ramsey was my expert, so he answered my interview questions. Before I spoke to him, I didn’t know much of anything about Mary Shelley except that she wrote Frankenstein, but I soon learned she was way more than a one-hit wonder.” Mrs. Sutton and the class laughed, but I clung to Geoff’s gaze, afraid to look anywhere else but his friendly face. “She was born the daughter of a radical eighteenth century writer and was raised to appreciate literature. She couldn’t help it. Writing was in her genes, but as much as she might’ve wanted to be an author, she couldn’t. She was a woman, and in those days, writing wasn’t considered a proper occupation for a lady. But Mary’s love of words brought her together with her husband, and they hung out with other writers and thinkers who encouraged Mary’s desire to write a novel.”

I glanced at Mrs. Sutton, seeking her nod of dismissal.

“Thank you, Chelsea.”

I released a long breath. Done!

“So was she a one-hit wonder?” Someone, maybe Connor Stein, asked from the back of the room.

I looked to Ben. He watched me, waiting for my response.

“She wrote other things,” I answered as I left the lectern for Sutton’s desk, “like lesser-known novels. When Percy died, she was a young widow struggling to pay the bills, so promoting her famous dead husband’s poetry was more important to her. Some people say her writing helped inspire the feminist movement.”

“Very nice.” Sutton beamed as she accepted my paper from my quaking hand. “Do you have anything to add, Mr. Ramsey?”

Returning to my seat, I caught a quick smile from Geoff.

Ben shook his head. “Not really. I haven’t read Chelsea’s paper, and I wouldn’t want to sway your judgment before you grade her work. On a personal note, I believe mortality weighed heavily on the minds of writers of her day. Illness and death were frequent visitors, so Shelley tackled the subject with creativity. How to prolong life and cheat God. A fascinating topic—or at least I’ve always thought so, as a mystery writer.”

Was it my imagination, or was Mrs. Sutton sitting a little taller in her chair? “I’m so glad you approve of our chosen authors. The next Romantic we’ll hear about is Lord Byron, and let me tell you, I was very impressed to discover your son has memorized some of Byron’s poetry.”

Yeah, hear that, Ramsey? Even Sutton was impressed. You should be, too.

Geoff took the lectern without a glance at his father. He raked back his heavy fringe of hair and bent over his paper. His face took on an expression of deep concentration. My insides coiled and constricted, feeling worse than when I’d stood in the same spot.

“My author was George Gordon, Lord Byron. His writing and life inspired the literary character type known as the Byronic Hero.” Geoff cleared his throat and leaned against the heavy podium. “Some people are born with an all-consuming desire or need to write, and Byron was one of them, just like Mary Shelley.” He paused to share a shy smile with me and then dropped his gaze. “And I guess like my dad and even my brother. But Byron’s creativity was therapeutic to him. He had a lot of guilt in his life and no other way to cope with it. His works were quite successful and made him famous. He enjoyed the fame as much as he could and tried to be happy.”

“How did he do that?” Mrs. Sutton prompted.

Geoff gave a small laugh. “Like any guy would. He partied hard, had a lot of women, enjoyed excesses until he became encumbered by debt. Just stupid stuff. But nothing made him happy, really.”

“Thank you, Geoffrey.” Mrs. Sutton smiled, eyes twinkling.

Geoff backed away from the podium, prepared to turn in his paper, but Ramsey spoke from his chair. “Is that all?”

Geoff turned to his father slowly. My heart froze.

Ramsey unfolded and stood. “The girls have both extolled the merits of their authors’ writings. Have you nothing to say about Byron’s works?” His voice was crisp, affronted.

I picked up my pen and squeezed, wishing it was the man’s neck.

“What else would you have him say, Mr. Ramsey?” Mrs. Sutton frowned as the author joined his son at the lectern.

“May I?” Ben took the paper from Geoff, who stood back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The author scanned the first page and turned to the next. “So far you’ve covered the man’s family, his physical defect, his failures in his relationships, but where’s his poetry, his novels?”

“They’re in there,” Geoff said in a hushed voice.

Ramsey shook his head. “You go on and on about Byron’s life, his loves, but I only see a paragraph about Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, the story that took him years to write and immortalized him.”

“Dad…” Geoff’s neck was scarlet.

Ramsey chuckled, holding the paper under his nose as he read silently. “Boy, you’ve gone and botched this. It sounds as if you nicked it straight from an encyclopedia.”

Someone behind me snickered. I wanted to kick Ramsey.

“I did nothing of the kind,” Geoff mumbled, staring at the floor.

“Listen to this.” Ben waved the paper at Mrs. Sutton, as if to get her attention—as if she wasn’t already watching the train wreck occurring before the whole class. He read the first paragraph with derision.

Geoff’s paper sounded perfect to my ears. In fact, I envied his ability to make facts less boring—the way he understood the subject and could explain it to everybody else. Was anything wrong with it?

“‘—and furthermore, Byron’s writings are semi-autobiographical. The explorations of the characters mirrored the self-explorations of the writer.’” Ramsey chortled, lifting his gaze to address his son. “He bonked married women, young boys, and even his half-sister. Don’t try to gloss it over.”

The class howled with laughter. Ramsey continued to read, adding more asides, seemingly fueled by his audience’s rapt attention.

Ohmigod! I wished Sutton would stop him. Take the paper and stuff it in his mouth, for God’s sake!

Geoff’s head hung low, his hair hiding his face from everyone. He’d tried so hard to please the man, but there was no way that would ever be possible. Ramsey, you’re a detached, heartless monster.

“Clearly you have no comprehension of the writer.” He went on, reading and ranting, “Here you say he ‘is a detached, heartless monster.’ What are you even talking about, Geoffrey?”

Riveted by his words—the same words I’d just spoken in my head—I sat up. Had I imagined it?

Geoff’s lips parted in surprise. I concentrated on his dad. Ramsey, you’re an unbelievable prick.

“‘An unbelievable prick.’” Ben scowled, glancing back and forth from the page to its author.

I dropped my pen and gripped the edge of my desk. Was anyone else hearing this? I glanced around. The others were laughing.

I searched for more thoughts I’d longed to get off my chest.

“‘My mother doesn’t deserve you. You’ve ruined her good heart with your evil influence.’” Ramsey closed his mouth and squinted, as amazed at the words on the page as I was to hear them spoken aloud.

My thoughts were in Geoffrey’s paper? Or maybe just in Ramsey’s head. How was it possible?

Geoff’s face was ashen as more words tumbled from his father’s lips. “‘I am a bastard, a thief, and a liar, stealing land that belongs to the Old Ones. I defile it with my touch as I defile everything else I touch. I will surely die a painful death from my actions—’”

Oh shit! Where had that come from? Not from me.

Mrs. Sutton was out of her chair faster than I’d ever seen the middle-aged lady move, reaching for Geoff’s paper. “Okay! I’ll read the rest for myself, uh, Mr. Ramsey. Thank you. I-I think the dean wanted to speak with you today…uh…before you leave.”

Ben stood shell-shocked and immobile. His face purpled with rage.

“Actually,” Mrs. Sutton added in a tight voice, “you and Geoffrey both should go down to the dean’s office. I’ll be there as soon as this class is over. I think we need to speak to each other.”

Ben stalked out with his hands in fists. Geoff followed sluggishly, scratching his head. In the doorway, he glanced back at me, wearing a look on his face as if he’d just been sideswiped by a diesel truck.

It’s my fault.

I waited in the same chair outside the dean’s office that I’d waited in the day I’d discovered Stella’s stuff had been cleaned out of her locker. This time, I held the strap of Geoff’s backpack in a white-knuckled grip in front of me.

“Chelsea, if you’ll leave that with me, I promise I’ll give it to Geoffrey,” the secretary reassured me again from behind the front counter.

“No thanks.”

There were raised voices coming from behind the dean’s door. Mr. Ramsey’s, maybe. Mrs. Sutton had already come out of the office while I’d been waiting and returned to her classroom.

“I can’t give you an excused tardy. You know that, right?” The secretary’s lips pinched with disapproval.

I nodded. Geoff’s stuff made the perfect excuse for me to wait on him in the office, but I had half a mind to bust into the room—to confess to causing the problem.

But what had I done? And how had I done it? I had no explanation.

The dean’s door flew open, causing the secretary to jump.

“…and I promise you, Stewart, he won’t get off easy this time!” Ben strode out, arms swinging as he barreled through the exit to disappear into the hall, Geoff’s paper rolled in his grip like a baton.

The dean followed. “Mrs. Roush, could you file this please.” He handed her a form.

I swallowed hard as Geoff came out of the office and our gazes collided. “I brought your stuff,” I announced as I got up, lifting his bag.

He nodded, eyeing our audience. When he took the backpack, his hands covered mine and lingered for a moment. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The adults were still talking in hushed voices by the secretary’s desk. Geoff leaned to my ear with an eye on the exit. “I didn’t write any of that,” he murmured.

“I know,” I whispered.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” He looked at me in wonder.

“Not all of it. I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know I could. H-H-How—?”

He touched my arm, interrupting. “I’ve got to go. I’ve been suspended…again. This isn’t good. Will you meet me at Anita’s after you get out of school?”

“Sure.”

“Geoffrey?” Mr. Ramsey snapped, standing in the doorway, having come back for his son. Spotting me, Ben opened his mouth as if he had something to say, then turned away.

Geoff slunk silently toward his father.

Before the pair was out of my sight, I exclaimed, “Oh, I almost forgot, Geoff. I found The Red Herring.”

He gave me a wink, and the door closed behind him.

“There’s my artist friend. I knew you’d come visit me again.”

I hung back, waiting at the end of a long row of sweetgrass baskets as Anita made change for a lady with New York tags on her car. When she was done with her customer and we were alone, I spoke up.

“I’m looking for Geoff. I don’t see his car, but he asked me to meet him here.”

Having to stay at school the rest of the day had been like a prison sentence. As soon as Dorothy brought me to the house, I went to speak with Ben, hoping to somehow ask him to go light on Geoff, but Rose told me on the way out that he’d barricaded himself in the office with a bottle of scotch. Mom had gone for a long stroll along the river. I hadn’t taken the time to find her or ask if I could borrow the car. If she wanted to chastise me later for taking it without her permission, so be it.

“I ain’t seen ’im.” Anita shook her head. She was wearing a fuchsia scarf wrapped around her gray curly head, and the color brought out a slightly pink tinge in the apples of her cheeks. But worry filled her normally smiling eyes. “He came by yesterday, and the day before. He comes by almost every day to see Lewis, you know, but not today. Is somethin’ wrong?”

Dread settled deep in my stomach—worse than before.

“He left school early. I need to tell him something.” I stopped myself from mentioning her brother. I didn’t know if Flint wanted her to know about his financial troubles.

“You can ask Lewis if he knows where to find him.”

At her invitation, I went to the door and knocked.

After a minute, the thumping music inside lowered and Lewis’s tall frame stood before me, wearing a T-shirt with cut-off sleeves and sweat glistening on his shoulders.

Anger hardened his eyes when he saw me. “Now what?”

“Yeah, hi to you, too.”

“Don’t you have shopping to do somewhere? This ain’t the mall.”

I pushed past him and went inside.

I don’t know what I’d expected Anita’s house to look like on the inside, but what I found I would’ve never imagined. Vibrant oil paintings hung on the walls with lively subjects, rich ebony wood furniture stood apart from cream walls and carpeting, and mounted hunting trophies covered every surface. Playful squirrels froze in macabre stances. A fox paused with its foot forever held mid-stride. A buck’s head emerged from above the mantle. And the biggest of all, a full-bodied stuffed impala stood guard by the fireplace.

I stared open-mouthed at the rigid creature with two twisting antlers, body so lifelike I expected it to walk at any moment.

Lewis shut the door and crossed his arms, glaring at me. “That’s Bill. He’s from Africa. Uncle Flint has a customer from Savannah who goes on safaris. He’s a doctor or something. You gonna tell me what you’re doing in my house?”

I collected my thoughts and stepped over a barbell laden with weights to stand in the middle of the living room. “Have you heard from Geoff today?”

His jaw hardened. “Don’t tell me you’ve come here so I can play messenger for you two again. This is some real shit, you know?”

I shook my head. “I know. I’m sorry. Look, this time it’s important. He got kicked out of school today. Something weird happened. His dad’s pissed. No, really, really pissed,” I insisted when Lewis’s eyes rolled.

He nudged the barbell with his shoe, rolling it out of the way. “I might’ve gotten a text from him. Tell me what happened.”

“How much has Geoff told you about…my art?”

“Your art?” His eyebrows flew up.

I shook my head. “Never mind. He and his dad had a huge blowup at school. I think it might be my fault. Actually, I’m sure it is. I’m so worried about him.” Lewis’s rigid face made me suddenly uncertain of myself. “I know you don’t want me bugging you, but I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t urgent. I haven’t even had a chance to tell Geoff about the date I saw in his father’s appointment book.”

“What date?”

“Saturday. Something about Y.S. I’m thinking that stands for Yemassee Shores, right?”

“Probably.” Lewis cursed. “That soon? Damn it!”

“So you see, I have to tell Geoff. Or you can. Please?”

He sighed. “His dad took his phone away. And his keys.”

“I was afraid of that.” My legs wobbled. I sank into the closest chair.

Lewis paced beside me with uncertainty wrinkling his brow before he finally perched on the arm of my chair. “Yeah, so he sent me one last text before his old man took away the phone. He said to tell you something.”

“What?”

He stared at his hands on his knees for a long moment. “I’m supposed to tell you to talk to Mama and…”

“And?”

He looked down at me with cold eyes. “And tell you to stay away from him.”

His words and tone of voice were a slap in the face, but I knew better. “You want me to think he’s angry at me! I completely agree he should be mad, but the fact that he left a message at all tells me differently.”

Lewis shot to his feet. “You wanna see the text? I can go get it.”

I rose and craned my head back to look him in the eye as we stood toe to toe. “It doesn’t matter what it says. He’s worried that I’ll—”

“Who’s worried about who?” Anita shut the front door behind her. We’d been so busy arguing that I hadn’t heard the latch when she entered. “What are you young people fightin’ for? I heard your voices clear outside.”

We both stepped back. Lewis folded his arms. His expression was impassive, looking everywhere but at Anita and me.

I took a steadying breath and told her, “Like I said, Geoff’s in trouble. I’ve done something awful. I don’t even know where to begin.”

Anita frowned. “Well, it don’t matter where you begin. You can tell me if you want.” She collapsed into a recliner beside an end table made of deer antlers and gestured for me to take the chair adjacent to her. “Go get this young lady some tea, Lewis. Where are your manners?”

As Lewis trudged out of the room, I unloaded everything that had happened so far, entrusting all the weirdness to the Gullah storyteller and ending on the events of the morning.

Lewis came back in time to catch most of it, handing me a drink before leaning on the back of his mother’s chair.

“I don’t know what’s going on. At first I thought I was nuts, but now…What do you think?” I took a sip of tea.

She rubbed her chin with her thumb. “Let me ask you this: what do you know about your father’s family?”

“What do they have to do with anything? They’re in Atlanta now. Grandma and Grandpa are Dad’s only family. Why?”

“Do you know if either of your paternal grandparents are Geechee?”

I glanced at Lewis, who merely shook his head, nostrils flared in disgust, but still listening.

“I don’t know. They’re both African American. They’ve never said. But I think they’re from South Carolina originally.” I set my tea down.

Anita nodded. “My grandma, who was Geechee, had the sight. She used to get warnings from the haints, tellin’ her when a storm was comin’ or when to take the cornbread outta the oven before it burnt.”

Lewis snorted.

Ignoring him, Anita reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Geoffrey told me he thought you had a gift. The sight can be both a blessing and a curse. Mama told me Grandma also had haints who followed her around, messin’ with her, messin’ with other folks. They could be right mean or right helpful. Problem is, you never know which haint has holdt of you.”

I shook my head. “I don’t have the ‘sight.’” I wore short sleeves to school on days it was freezing and styled my hair for a half hour before I walked out into pouring rain.

She grinned with a touch of sympathy. “You’re a conjurer. You see things that happened in the past and make things happen. You said you probably made Mr. Ramsey get paint on him and say those things in front of your class.”

“I didn’t tell anybody to do that.”

Her mouth quirked up. “You wanted to, right?”

Definitely.

She must’ve seen the guilt in my eyes, because she patted my hand. “That was probably a haint. They interfere somethin’ awful when they wanna.”

“You’re joking. I’m being stalked by haints…who just happen to attack people who make me mad?” Where were those interfering spirits when I was having trouble with Misty Lawrence calling me names on the playground in fifth grade?

She chuckled. “I wouldn’t assume anything about what these haints might want, child. And you shouldn’t either.”

“So do you think one of these haints attacked Stella and controlled her body? She nearly died.”

All humor left her face, and she dropped my hand to grip the armrests of her chair. “I think somethin’ evil had hold of poor Stella. You said you’ve been drawin’ a Boo Hag?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If a Boo Hag had Stella, it wore that poor girl to within an inch of her life. That’s what it does—wears a body until it’s useless, then of course it wants some other young person.”

“But why, Mama?” Lewis asked.

“’Cause it’s gotta have the skin. It’s always about the skin.”