Blind Spot Page 4

“It’s . . . fine,” I said. There was so much wrong with what he’d said, I didn’t know where to start. “You know about my . . . ? You told your mom?”

  “Missy told me about your impairment, and Mom’s the school nurse. I thought she could help you with Mr. Dellian.”

  “Oh.” Heat rushed to my face as I imagined all the things Missy probably told him. I tried to steer the conversation away from my eyes. “That’s kind of stupid, isn’t it? I mean, why would it matter if we sat together? Your mom bought that?”

  “I know. Stupid.” Greg gave a little laugh and pushed his hand through his curls. “So stupid. No idea why she’d believe him. As you said, I guess she thinks he walks on water too.” He shrugged as we reached my locker. “Maybe you should sit where he says. If you’re worried about not seeing the board, I’ll take notes for you.”

  God, now he feels sorry for me. “I don’t need your notes,” I said. “I’m not giving in. He’s wrong, not me.”

  “He is wrong. He’s also in control. If you sit in the back and get notes from me, you take back control.”

  “Control? I’ll be sitting where he wants me to sit instead of where I need to sit; getting notes from you instead of taking them myself. That’s not being in control; that’s being controlled.” I pulled up on the locker handle. Ugh, why couldn’t I remember to keep it unlocked? I turned back to end the conversation so he’d leave. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to tell the principal.”

  “You want to go now? I can vouch for everything.”

  “I have to catch my bus. I’ll try tomorrow.”

  “Let me know when you do,” he said, turning to go. “I’ll back you up.”

  As I walked to my bus, I wondered how Dellian could have everyone so snowed. The adults, anyway. Tricia, on the other hand, seemed to have Dellian snowed. She had him walking on eggshells around her—I actually kind of admired that aspect of her.

  Yes, she was a freak. Twirling in the hall, wearing a cloak no hard-core Star Wars fan would even wear in public, ignoring all the snide comments people made. And she’d turn on you quickly, morphing into a witch without warning, claws out, ready to take down anyone. Brutally mean one minute, sincerely sweet the next; it was obvious Tricia was psycho. But was she truly psychotic, or was it an act to keep Dellian off her back?

  Was “psychotic psycho” the way to handle him? Would he leave me alone if I were erratic and unpredictable like Tricia? Tempting, I thought, as I boarded my unusually crowded bus. But I wasn’t capable of psychotic behavior, not in front of Jonathan, or anyone really.

  The bus pulled through the school parking lot and into the left-turn lane, bringing me out of my thoughts. We were headed out of town. Crap, I thought, standing up. “Driver? I’m sorry. I got on the wrong bus.” I couldn’t see the bus numbers on the side, but my bus was always parked in the second slot. I’d just assumed it was mine, without checking with the driver.

  We lurched to a stop and I hurried past the other students, ignoring their dirty looks and “What are you, in kindergarten?” comments. My bus was long gone by now; I trudged toward the city bus stop—embarrassed and humiliated. The familiar burning at my ears brought me right back to Dellian.

  What did he want anyway? All his talk about the Americans with Disabilities Act in Life Skills—he had to be doing this to make a point. The whole premise was ridiculous. What teacher marks a student absent for sitting in the front? Especially one with an IEP that says she must sit there? It was a game. He wasn’t for real. Whatever his point, whatever his game—I thought as I climbed aboard the correct city bus—I was going to prove to him once and for all that I have life skills.

  Twenty-nine days before

  One Friday, Tricia wasn’t spinning in the hall. Nor was she shooting whipped cream at her desk. It didn’t faze me much; even freaks get sick. I was munching on one of the brownies Ruth had brought when Mr. Dellian stormed in.

  “Miss Hart! Where’s your partner?”

  “I . . . don’t know.”

  “Find her! When she’s not here, you get her here, understood?”

  Jonathan shook his head in sympathy as I walked by.

  The hall was deserted. With no idea of where she’d be, I decided to just pretend I’d scoured the school looking for her. I ducked into the girls’ handicapped bathroom and was attempting to prop my butt up on the rail Tricia-style when I heard a sniffle next door.

  “Tricia?” I pushed on the other stall door. It was locked. “Come on. Mr. Dellian wants you in class.”

  “Go to Hell.”

  “I’m already in Hell. Come on, open up! I’ve got better things to do than babysit you.”

  A leg plopped down on the ground and the lock turned.

  I shoved the door open. Tricia was hunched against the wall, staring hard at the toilet paper roll. “What’re you doing?” I asked.

  She lifted her right hand, revealing a syringe clenched in her fist. “I’m out of pot.”

  The sight of the needle made me shiver. I’d never seen a drug needle before, except in movies. “And that’s your alternative? Ever try a plain old cigarette?”

  “I don’t want to use it.” Tricia turned her hollow eyes toward me. “Pot keeps the edge off. I’ve been clean for three months.”

  “Well, you have a prescription for it, right? Can’t you go get more?”

  “I don’t have a frigging prescription!” Her voice turned to a little-girl whine. “Rodney took my stash. He says I have to do this on my own, but I can’t. I can’t.” She brought her hands up to her face. I winced at how close the needle came to her eye. “Go get me some, okay?”

  “Get you some weed? Are you insane?” I stared at the needle. This was way over my head. “I’ll go get Dellian—”

  “No! He’ll send me back to rehab.” She started to cry. “I’ll kill myself before I go back there.”

  She wasn’t my friend, or even someone I wanted for a friend; she was just a messed-up freak in the bathroom in need of serious help. The intelligent part of me knew I should get Dellian, or the nurse, or the principal, someone in authority who could help her. But the pleading whine in her voice and her crumbled state struck a chord with me. The whipped-cream-squirting, cloak-twirling, I-don’t-give-a-shit routine was all an act. Underneath she was a defeated, deflated shell of a girl struggling to reright herself. Fighting for control. Broken.

  Like me.

  SPED wasn’t where I belonged, despite what the “authorities” said; maybe rehab wasn’t where she belonged either. As messed up as it sounded, maybe smoking pot to stay clean was the right way for her. And Dellian had taken that away.

  “The pot, it really keeps you from”—I gestured at the needle—“that?”

  Tricia slapped at a tear dripping down her chin and nodded.

  It’s just pot, I told myself. Doctors write prescriptions for it all the time, right? It’s gotta be safer than whatever is in that needle. “Okay. Where do I get it? The vending machines are fresh out.”

  Tricia smiled slightly. “Go ask Jonathan.”

  “Jonathan? Webb? How would he know?”

  She leaned her head against the stall. “Just go ask him.”

  I hesitated outside of class. I needed a lie. I couldn’t waltz in and announce, “I need Jonathan in the girls’ bathroom and, oh by the way, a bag of pot too.”

  “I found Tricia,” I said, opening the door. “But she’s . . . sick. I need someone to help me bring her back in here.” I didn’t wait for Mr. Dellian to respond. “Jonathan?”

  Jonathan followed me out the door. “She’s not puking everywhere, is she?”

  “No.” Clear of the classroom, I pulled him to the wall. “She’s in some sort of drug withdrawal.” I scanned the empty hall. “She needs some pot.”

  Jonathan frowned. “She’s addicted to pot? Is that possible? I’d always heard—”

  “I don’t know what she’s addicted to!” I hated how out of control my voice sounded. I lowered it, hoping a whisper would
disguise the panic. “Something in a needle. Pot keeps her from shooting up. Can you help me find some?” My voice wavered as I gave in to the panic. “Or should we just get Dellian?”

  “No, no teachers. She’ll get in more trouble.” Jonathan put his arm around my shoulder. “Relax. We’ll help her.”

  I took a much-needed breath and nodded.

  “My friend Ethan can find some.” He looked at his watch, his arm still around me. I liked how it felt. Warm. Safe. “She have money?”

  “I don’t know. I have”—I pulled some cash from my pocket—“fourteen?”

  He took the bills from me. “I don’t think that’ll cover it.” He opened his wallet. It looked empty. “I only have a twenty, and I gotta buy gas today.”

  “I have my ATM card.” As if I had money. Social Security deposits a check every month to my savings account. Mom’s compensation for “being saddled with a disabled kid.” It’s our grocery money.

  “Cool.” He looked at his watch again. “There’s one about a block from here. We can be back before class ends. Where is she?”

  We entered the bathroom. Jonathan knelt down next to Tricia, carefully releasing the needle from her grasp. “We’re gonna help you,” he said. “Can you hold it together a while longer?”

  Tricia nodded. “I can’t pay.”

  “It’s already covered.” He smiled up at me. A brilliant, awesome smile.

  I couldn’t help grinning.

  Tricia’s eyes slid to me, a dead expression on her face.

  My grin slithered away. “We’ll be back.” I hurried out.

  “I’m really sticking my neck out for you two,” Jonathan told me. We were sneaking out the back entrance, by Auto Shop. “I could get kicked off the team for this.”

  “I know,” I said. “This isn’t my usual thing either.”

  We ran around the side of the school to the seniors’ parking lot. Jonathan jumped into the driver’s side of his Corvette and leaned across to unlock the door for me.

  “What is your usual thing?” Jonathan asked.

  Not sure what he was asking, I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  He started the engine. Some techno-bass dance music boomed through his stereo speakers. He turned it down. “You don’t know what you like to do for fun?”

  I took in the interior smell—leather, musky cologne, baby powder air freshener—and scrambled for something to say. Listen to any kind of music except techno-bass dance hits? Collect UFO photos? Watch Ghost Team episodes? I doubted any of that would scream fun to him. Nerd, maybe. Run for the hills, maybe. But definitely not fun. It didn’t matter anyway. He’d already moved on to the next question.

  The one I was dreading.

  “How come you’re still in that class? Thought they made a mistake?”

  I stared at the black-and-white bunny air freshener hanging from the mirror. What would happen if I told him it wasn’t a mistake, not as far as the school was concerned? Would he still talk to me? It’s not that I was super into him, not like Missy, anyway. But he was Jonathan Webb. Everyone wanted to be with him. Me included.

  And I was. Sitting in his car. With him. Talking. Granted, we were on our way to get money for a drug deal, but still. Being there with him made me feel normal. I didn’t want it to end with him learning I was a freak.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw him watching me, waiting for an answer. I could lie. He was Dellian’s aide, though. He’d eventually figure it out, and then I’d look even stupider for lying. “Long story,” I said with a shrug.

  “Someone as beautiful as you?” He smiled that brilliant smile again. “It’s obvious you don’t belong in there.”

  Beautiful? No one had ever called me beautiful. Not even my parents. And I didn’t believe I was or could be. Beautiful was a category reserved for runway models and actresses and Missy Cervanos. Not girls with vision-robbing eye diseases.

  Yet Jonathan had called me beautiful. Twice. Something in the way he said it made it seem a basic truth, like rain is wet and sun is warm. He said it as if he believed it, and I wanted to believe it too. Desperately.

  I think I blushed, gave an embarrassed laugh, and said something like “thanks.”

  He grinned. “I’ll be bummed, but I hope you get it straightened out.”

  “I don’t think I will. Dellian won’t let me switch. He thinks I need the class because I don’t see that well.”

  “So get glasses.” He pulled in to the bank’s parking lot.

  Funny how everyone always thinks that’s the solution. “I have contacts, but they only help some because . . .” My heart started racing. I hesitated, afraid to continue. Would I still be beautiful if I explained it to him? Which category would he be in, discomfort or pity?

  He gave me a funny look. “Did you want me to go up to the ATM with you?”

  “Oh.” No questions? There were always questions. Unless he was too freaked already to ask. “No.” I opened the passenger door. “Be right back.”

  “Take out eighty.”

  “Eighty?” My mouth fell open. “That much?” My account was for groceries only. A twenty I could explain, but eighty?

  “Maybe more. Not really sure.” He tilted his head. “Don’t have the funds?” When I shook my head, he motioned. “Come here.”

  I brought my legs back inside and shut the door.

  He leaned over. His fingers gently pulled at my hair. He isolated a strand. Twirled it around his finger. His musky scent floated in the small space between us. “Take out what you can.” He stroked my chin with his fingertips. “I’ll get the rest somehow.”

  I pulled myself back together, starting with the breath he’d stolen. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He gave me a sly, crooked grin. “You want to go to a party at Birch Hill with me tomorrow night?”

  “Seriously? Yes!” I flushed with pleasure. Jonathan Webb had just asked me out. Me. Roswell Hart. Not Missy Cervano. Not one of the gorgeously available senior girls, but me. And to Birch Hill! A campground outside the city limits that was mostly deserted from September to May. The parties there were legendary—and exclusive. I’d never been last year. Even Missy had gone only once. I couldn’t believe I was going to go, and with Jonathan Webb!

  “Cool.” He nodded toward the door. “Get what you can. We gotta get back.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take out eighty.” What was eighty dollars anyway? I could come up with a lie, tell Mom I bought organic veggies or something. It was better than making Jonathan come up with it. It wasn’t his problem. I’d brought him into this.

  Thirty minutes after leaving, we slipped back into the side entrance of the school and hurried to the handicapped bathroom.

  “Got it?” Tricia snapped.

  “Chill!” Jonathan bit back. “Give me ’til lunch.”

  Tricia’s cold eyes met Jonathan’s. After a brief standoff, she said, “Rodney sent Ruth in here.”

  “Ruth?” I said. Great, we’re busted. “Does Dellian know—?”

  Tricia’s head whipped back in my direction. “That you two were screwing ’round in Jonathan’s car?”

  I glared at her. “We were—”

  Jonathan put his hand on my arm. “Relax. Ruth won’t tell, but D’s suspicious.” He turned back to Tricia. “Convince him!”

  Tricia slowly pulled herself up and sauntered out of the bathroom.

  I trailed behind her, paranoia mounting. I’d stuck my butt out for this ungrateful witch? And now, in her drug-withdrawn, maniacal state, she was supposed to convince Dellian all was cool? I couldn’t afford more trouble, not with Dellian.

  Tricia started flailing her arms as if some invisible entity were attacking her. “Let me go!” Her right arm smacked me hard on the head.

  “Knock it off!” I shoved her arm away.

  Tricia’s lip curled into a snarl. “Grab my arm, you idiot!”

  “We can’t get her down there,” Jonathan yelled as Dellian flew into the hallway.

  D
ellian grabbed Tricia’s elbow and guided her toward class while I watched, bewildered. The way Tricia morphed so easily from on-the-edge drug addict to insubordinate SPED student, convincing Dellian as Jonathan had directed, playing him like a well-used guitar—I couldn’t help wondering. Had I just been played too?

  “Shut up!” Heather stopped stabbing her french fry in ketchup and stared at me. “Zeus put his arm around you? During class?”

  Telling her we were in his car getting money for a drug deal would’ve killed the hype. I rubbed at an imaginary blemish on my apple. “We were on an errand for our teacher.”

  “That is so awesome! Hey, Stanford!” she said as Greg joined Fritz and Ricky on the other side of the table.

  “Stanford?” Ricky repeated and looked at Greg.

  “’Cause he’s so Ivy League with his collared shirts and academic pursuits,” Heather explained.

  “Actually,” Greg said, “Stanford isn’t an Ivy League school. It’s in California.”

  “Precisely.” Heather grinned.

  Greg seemed unsure whether he’d been insulted or not. I wasn’t sure myself.

  Behind me someone began singing “Copacabana.”

  “‘She would merengue and do the cha-cha . . . ’”

  Heather, her fry midway to her mouth, peered over my shoulder. “Oh. My. God.” A blob of ketchup fell to the table. “What is she on?”

  “Dude!” Fritz said. “She must be buzzin’ hard!”

  I could see only movement above the crowd. “Is she standing on a table?”

  “Yeah,” Greg said. He turned back around, ignoring the spectacle behind him.

  The rest of us kept watching.

  Ricky whistled. “Now she’s dancing on the table.”

  “What a slut!” Heather said. “You see how short that skirt is?”

  “Ooh!” Fritz and Ricky both yelled as the girl did something.

  “What?” I asked. “Who is it?”

  “She’s crawling across the table on her hands and knees. All seductress-like,” Heather said. “It’s that nut job who always wears the cape. She’s got it draped like a boa around her neck.”

  “Great,” I muttered, a sick feeling creeping into my stomach.