A Girl Called Dust (4 page)

Chapter Five

The first week of school was over, so my
teachers were in hardcore summer-vacation-is-over mode. Junior year was going
to be no joke. I had spent a good portion of that weekend doing homework, and
it was only the beginning of the year.

Wednesday morning, I left the house to
discover Fletcher standing on the sidewalk. Just standing there staring at our
house. We didn’t usually walk to school together. We’d always met each other on
the sidewalk in front of the building.

I took a bite of my green apple, which was
nice and sour, and jogged down the walkway to meet him. “Hey. Surprised to see
you here.”

He said nothing, just stared at me with
one eyebrow raised. “You have something to tell me?” he asked finally.

“Um . . . no. Like what?”

He turned and started off toward school.

I followed him. “Fletch, is everything
okay?”

“No. Today is going to be a bad day.”

Well, that’s a great way to start the
morning. “What makes you say that?”

“I just know,” were the last words he said
to me. Fletcher walked full speed ahead, not even trying to wait for me. What
had been the point of him walking to school with me?

When we reached the parking lot, a mass of
students was gathered there. It seemed like the entire student body. Some kids
sat on the hoods of cars, some huddled in tight groups, some stood by watching
silently—but everyone seemed on edge.

“What’s going on?” I asked a group of boys
who looked like freshmen.

A boy with freckles and a buzz cut took a
break from texting. “They found another teacher, but we don’t know who yet.
Dead, like Mrs. Chin. In the same way.”

My throat tightened. “Ripped apart?”

The boy nodded. “I heard in twelve
pieces.”

I turned to Fletcher, who stared straight
ahead at the crowd. What was happening? Mrs. Chin had been a freak tragic death
by some sort of animal, but for it to happen again and to another teacher—that
was too weird.

 Mary-Kate Youngblood circulated
through the crowd, her perfect jet-black ponytail bobbing back and forth, sleek
and shiny in the morning sun. Students surrounded her, asking questions as if
she knew something the rest of us didn’t because she usually did.

Mary-Kate held her hands up. “Everybody
calm down. There’s no need to panic. That won’t help anything.”

“Why won’t they let us in?” someone
shouted at her. The crowd quieted a little to hear her answer.

“It’s my understanding that the staff is
meeting right now to discuss how to best handle this,” Mary-Kate explained.
“I’m sure they’ll let us in soon and tell us what’s going on.”

People seemed to settle down as Mary-Kate
spread her calming presence throughout the parking lot.

 If I could trade places with anyone
at school, it would be Mary-Kate. People listened to and respected her. They
went to her for advice when they had problems, and she seemed to always have a
solution. Unlike me, her voice didn’t quiver when she spoke, and she made
everything sound important. She was already the top performer in our Speech
class, while I was at the bottom of the barrel. Our teacher, Mrs. Martin,
despised me and my horrible fear of public speaking.

Mary-Kate wasn’t Lacey popular—she was the
kind of girl who was known for being smart and doing things for the school.
Since she’d announced her run for junior class president that Monday, no one
else had added their name to the ballot. Mary-Kate had been our president since
freshman year, and that wasn’t going to change. The best part about her was
that I had never seen her be mean to anyone. She didn’t gossip or insult
people. She would speak to you even if you were a nobody. She wasn’t only nice
around election time when she needed our votes; she always acted the same way.
Most importantly, she never called me Dust.

A horn blared, bringing a brief silence
over the crowd, but when everyone realized the source of the noise, they
resumed their conversations. Bruce Wiley, who simply went by Wiley, sat in his
pickup truck revving the engine. Ranson sprinted over to him. The fact that he
was good friends with Ranson was reason enough for me not to like Wiley.

I had no idea why Wiley even came to
school. I never saw him in class or even in the building. The only times I saw
him, he was hanging out of the window of his black-and-red F150 with orange
flames painted on the sides. He leaned out of the driver’s window, laughing
about something with Ranson. The two of them looked way too happy considering
someone had just been shredded to death.

Almost twenty minutes later, we were
herded into the school building. Teachers, security guards, and the office
staff stood in the main hallway, directing us to the gymnasium. Quickly and
quietly, we filled up the bleachers.

A fire

A basketball post could fall and crush
someone

The creature that’s killing teachers in
the woods could come in and kill us all

Principal Sharpe stood behind a podium in
the middle of the gym looking spent and completely exhausted. It had to be hard
to lose people he worked with.

Once everyone was settled, the doors to
the gym were closed and silence fell over the place. Everyone shut up because
we were eager to learn what had happened. Who had been killed? I made a mental
list of teachers I could recall offhand and searched for their faces around the
gym. Who was missing? I couldn’t tell, but I was thankful to see Ms. Melcher,
my favorite teacher, standing by the door of the boys’ locker room.

Principal Sharpe was a dead ringer for Mr.
Clean without the earring. He was even built like him. There was a running joke
that he always wore his shirts extra tight to show off his muscles. The lights
glared off his shiny head as he wiped sweat from his forehead with a
handkerchief. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Ladies and
gentlemen, as you have probably heard by now, we lost a teacher last night. His
body was discovered this morning.”

The victim was a he. Mr. Rollins, the
history teacher? Coach Wimberly? The shop teacher whose name I couldn’t think
of right then?

“Mr. Thompson was killed last night.”

Horrified gasps filled the gymnasium. I
knew who Mr. Thompson was, but he was the drama teacher, so I had never taken
one of his classes. He headed all the school’s productions and musicals. Just
like Mrs. Chin, he was married with children, and my heart hurt for his family.

I looked over at Fletcher. He glanced at
me and then turned to the person sitting on the other side of him, leaving me
to stare at the back of his head. What was his problem?

Principal Sharpe called for everyone to
quiet down. “I know this is shocking, everyone. We don’t have many details
since the police officers are still investigating. At this time, we want to
give the Thompson family the respect and privacy they deserve. Once this
assembly is over, you will be free to go for the day. If anyone needs to stay
and speak with a guidance counselor or teacher, you are encouraged to do so.
Please, go right to your homes, and for your own safety, stay away from the
woods.”

Stay away from the woods? That warning was
insanely frightening because Everson Woods was surrounded by them—hence the
name Everson Woods.

I took that to mean that Mr. Thompson had
been found in the woods. What was he doing out there in the middle of the
night? What had Mrs. Chin been doing out there? Maybe they had been somewhere
else and whatever had killed them dragged them there, but wouldn’t someone have
seen that?

Principal Sharpe called for a moment of
silence before dismissing us. I stayed in my seat as kids headed for the four
exits, either crying or talking excitedly. There was a crowd at each door, so
it made sense to wait until they cleared out. Fletcher hadn’t moved either. I
watched Mary-Kate speak with Principal Sharpe for a few moments before exiting
the gym herself. Knowing her, she was probably asking about floral arrangements
or what could be done for the family. That girl never wasted a second.

“Do you want to stay and talk to someone?”
Fletcher asked. He studied the lines on his palm, which seemed to give him an
excuse to not look at me.

I scoffed. “Why would I want to do that?
One therapist is enough. Besides, I think the teachers need counseling more
than us.” Mr. Thompson had been a popular teacher, and I was sure he was
friends with most of them. Also, they had to be at least a little worried about
two teachers dying in the same gruesome, mysterious way. Were they thinking
they could be next? I figured the last thing they wanted to do at the moment
was talk to a bunch of freaked-out teenagers when they had more of a reason to
be freaked out than we did.

Once the gym had mostly cleared out, I
rose and slung my backpack over one shoulder. “I guess we should go.”

Fletcher nodded and bounded down the
bleachers, while I took the stairs at the side. My long, ruffled dress required
me to take small, dainty steps.

Outside, he turned toward his house. My
stomach clenched at the thought of being alone.
Stay away from the woods
.
After what had happened to Mr. Thompson, I didn’t want to walk home by myself.
“Fletch, are you mad at me or something?”

He stopped, but he didn’t turn around.
“I’m not mad. I just think you need some time alone to think about your
actions.”

I yanked his arm and spun him around.
“What actions? What the hell are you talking about?” Even though the parking
lot was emptying, I tried not to raise my voice.

He stared me in the eyes and took a deep
breath. “I can’t tell you.”

 I was so sick of him saying that
that I wanted to punch him. “You can’t tell me what? What?”

“I have to go.” He walked away from me as
if the sidewalk was on fire.

“Fletcher!” I screamed after him, but he
ignored me, so I turned to head home alone.

 As I passed Wiley’s truck, he blared
his horn at me. I swore that horn was ten times louder than it needed to be.
“Yo, Dust! Your boyfriend’s tripping, huh? I’ll give you a ride.”

I flipped him off, mostly because I was
pissed with Fletcher. Wiley hadn’t deserved that. He was an idiot and friends
with Ranson Duvall, but he had never done anything to me.

“Whoa. What did I do?” he called after me.

I stopped walking. He was right, and
getting a ride home from a boy was something a normal girl would do. It’s not
like Wiley was a stranger. We weren’t friends, but I’d known him since
elementary school. Besides, it beat walking home alone, and the parking lot and
sidewalks were mostly empty.

I walked back to his truck, where the
passenger-side window was rolled down.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

He flashed me a smile, which was actually
kind of cute. Kind of. “It’s all right. I think we’re all a little testy
considering what happened.” He leaned over the passenger seat and opened the
door. “Hop in.”

I climbed inside and placed my backpack on
my lap. His truck smelled like a mixture of stale coffee and weed. “Thanks,” I
said as I shut the door.

Wiley backed out of the parking space. “No
problem.”

Ejected from vehicle

Explosion

Head-on collision

The truck could flip

Airbag malfunction

I reached for my seat belt, hoping that
Wiley was a safe driver. There were too many ways to die in a vehicle. I had
never been in a hurry to learn to drive. “Your airbags work, right?”

Wiley glanced at me from the corner of his
eye. “Yeah . . . I guess. Can’t say I’ve tried them out.”

Okay, that was a weird thing to ask. Stop
being weird, Arden. I had to think of something normal to say. “It’s horrible
what happened, huh?”

“Yeah, Mr. Thompson was cool. My older
sister was really into drama, so she had him every year. He taught her a lot.
Now she’s doing plays at her university.”

“I never had him, but he seemed like a
nice guy.”

Wiley flicked the radio on and
surprisingly, classical music blared from the speakers. I tried not to laugh. I
liked different music too, but I hadn’t expected Wiley to be into Chopin.

“My grandma likes Chopin too,” I said.

Wiley gave me a blank stare, and I
realized how my comment could be taken as an insult. “I didn’t mean it like
that.”

He shrugged and turned the music down. “My
dad was using my truck earlier, and he loves this stuff.” But he didn’t bother
to change the music. We paused at a four-way stop sign, and Wiley looked at me
again. “What were you and your boyfriend fighting about?”

Had he heard anything? He couldn’t have.
He was too far away and his engine was running. Maybe he could tell we were
arguing from our body language. “Fletcher isn’t my boyfriend.” Even though I
was mad at him, it hurt to say those words. “And we weren’t really fighting. We
just had a disagreement.”