15
Reversal of Fortune
NOT SURPRISINGLY, Hazel gives me the cold shoulder later that morning in Home Ec. I mean, we’re supposed to be writing down recipes for our end-of-semester five-course-meal project, but basically she’s just texting her other friends while I flip listlessly through a couple of the ancient recipe books from Ms. Haskins’ library. (Although, if I had any other friends, I guess I’d be doing the same.)
This happens to us every so often. Maybe two, three times a year. I mean, girls, back me up here: that’s normal, right? You spend 99 percent of your time with the same person every day and, odds are, you’re going to snap eventually.
Usually I can joke her out of anything, but today I’m not in the joking mood, so I figure I’ll annoy her to death. (Sorry, bad joke, wrong class, wrong day, wrong lifetime.)
“Hey, Hazel,” I say in a singsong voice as she focuses on her jeweled pink cell phone. “What do you think about possibly preparing roasted turkey with sage and sausage stuffing for our end-of-the-year project?”
Nothing; she doesn’t even look up from her phone. I smile to myself and ask, “Hey, Hazel, what do you think about possibly preparing roast pork and sauerkraut for our end-of-the-year project?”
With each question, my voice grows less sing-songy and more passive-aggressive, until toward the end there I’m practically shouting as I turn the recipe book pages. “Hey, Hazel, what do you think about possibly preparing pheasant under glass with roasted parsnips for our end-of-the-year project?”
It goes on like that, ad infinitum, well, until even I can’t take it anymore. Finally, I practically scream one last suggestion. “Hey, Hazel, what do you think about possibly preparing a big, fat, heaping dish of ‘kiss my ass; I’d never lie to you’ with a side order of ‘go to hell; I haven’t done anything wrong’ for our end-of-the-year project? Hmm, how’s that sounding to ya?”
Without so much as a glance in my direction, Hazel stands up, pockets her phone, grabs her bag, walks to the back of the room, and asks Ms. Haskins for a pass during the last 15 minutes of class.
She never returns.
Not long after she’s gone, Ms. Haskins walks over to me. Her voice all concerned-like, she says, “Maddy, are you …okay?”
Her tone is only vaguely teacherly; it’s like she’s talking to a friend at a bar or restaurant or something. With her husky, breathy voice, she sounds at least five years younger—and ten shades cooler.
I’m all ready to lie, to perk up, get chipper, and blow her away with some great, enthusiastic, pompom, “ooh-rah” BS, but there’s something about the authentic concern in her eyes, so I kind of sigh, deflate from the shoulders on down, and say, honestly, “I don’t know, Ms. Haskins.” I wasn’t going to, but something about an adult taking an interest in me at this very vulnerable minute crumbles my resolve.
She sits atop Hazel’s empty stool. “Did you catch something from Hazel?”
I don’t know what to do with that. Either my brain isn’t working right, or the question is so ridiculous my overworked system can’t handle it right now.
Ms. Haskins clears her throat. “Well, she just asked me for a pass, saying she wasn’t feeling well, and I couldn’t help but notice that, well, you don’t look so hot yourself …”
I shake my head. “It’s not Hazel, Ms. Haskins. I just …woke up like this.”
No one’s quite saying what “this” is yet, but it’s obviously something, what with all the stares in the hall and now Ms. Haskins’ worried face. If I thought I could become a zombie overnight and put on some makeup and go to school the next day and no one would notice, well, I guess I’ve got another think coming.
“I’m trying to be tactful here, Maddy, but you don’t look …how should I say this? I guess I’ll say it: you don’t look well. At all. Is there anyone who can drive you home?”
“Drive me home? Right now? We still have four periods left. I mean, if I leave now I’ll miss Art.”
Ms. Haskins doesn’t answer, but I figure if a teacher is telling you to go home, there’s a reason for it.
“Is it that bad?” I say, looking down at her $200 shoes. Again, she doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at me until I brave her sorrowful expression and look back. She finally nods, biting her lip, and hands me an office pass so I can go check out.
I thank her, embarrassed, thoroughly, and get up to walk out. I’m watching Ms. Haskins walk back to her desk, wanting her to turn around so I can thank her again, to let her know I appreciate her honesty, when I spot Bones and Dahlia lounging in their own little corner of the room.
I’ve seen hundreds of stares this morning, but this is a first: smiles. Bones and Dahlia are smiling as I catch their eyes. I shiver. What with their pale skin, pronounced cheekbones, and those spooky yellow eyes, it’s not a good look on them.
And suddenly I remember their threat: “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to face us alone.”
So I make a simple plan for the day: Stay close to people you know.