A Girl Called Dust (7 page)

Paige rolled her eyes. “Sheba doesn’t go
in your room. She hates you.”

Yes, she did hate me, and the feeling was
very mutual, but Sheba had no business being in my bedroom. “Just take
responsibility for your deranged cat.” The door opened wider, and Quinn held
out two plates stacked on top of each other with pizza crusts.

“Hey, will you throw this away?”

“No!” I shrieked. “I’m not your maid.”

Quinn scrunched her face. “You’re going
downstairs anyway.”

“I am not. I’m going to my room.”

“Please do, and stay in there, weirdo,”
Paige shouted before slamming the door in my face. “She’s so annoying,” I heard
her tell Quinn.

I sighed and went back to my room. A small
part of me was jealous of their closeness. I would never be a part of their
little sisterhood. Just like at school, I was this strange object that didn’t
belong. Mom and my aunt Sarah were super close too, and I wondered what was so
wrong with me that not even my own sisters wanted me around.

Chapter Seven

Most people looked forward to Fridays, but
I dreaded them, well at least every other one, because that was when I had my
therapy sessions. Dad always left work early to take me to see Dr. Scarlett
because Fridays were also when my sisters had cheerleading practice for the
neighborhood optimist team. As far as Mom was concerned, cheerleading trumped
driving her crazy daughter to her therapy session, so Dad got to do the honors.

“What are you doing this weekend?”
Fletcher asked as we walked to my house after school.

“Homework. Hanging out. You want to come
over on Sunday for dinner? I’m sure it’ll be fine with my parents.”

“Can’t. I’m doing something with my
parents on Sunday.”

I gave him the side-eye on that, but maybe
he was. “All right, then the next Sunday.”

“Okay.” But he didn’t sound too
enthusiastic about it.

“What are you going to talk to your doctor
about?” He always wanted to know what Scarlett and I were going to discuss. Maybe
he wondered if I talked about him.

“I don’t know. I guess about Mr. Thompson.
There’s really nothing else on my mind.” Usually I talked about whatever popped
into my head, no matter how trivial. Anything to make the hour pass faster.

Fletcher studied his feet as he walked. I
wanted him to come home with me and hang out like a real friend. Watch some TV
and raid the fridge. I needed that. “I have a little time before Dad comes to
get me to take me to Scarlett’s. Want to come inside?”

“I’m coming next Sunday.”

“I know that, but I’m asking you if you
want to come now.” I felt stupid, almost as if I were begging.

“I-I can’t right now.”

“Why? What do you have to do?” I never
knew what Fletcher did with his free time when he wasn’t around me, but every
time I asked him, he said he was watching TV or doing homework. I didn’t
understand why we couldn’t do those things together.

“Why can you come over Sunday but not
now?”

He sighed and tilted his head upward,
squinting from the sun. “I haven’t asked my parents’ permission.”

Whatever. I’d asked him over a million
times before, and if he’d wanted to come in, he would have.

Fletcher watched a loud pickup truck
rumble down the street. “You should stay away from Wiley.”

My eyes widened at the mention of Wiley.
“What?” I hadn’t even realized that Fletcher had seen us together the other
day. It was funny that Wiley had said the same thing about him.

“You heard me.” Fletcher sounded testy,
which was rare for him.

“Who the hell are you to tell me who to
stay away from?”

“I’m your friend. He’s just not a good
person.”

I frowned at this accusation. I couldn’t
recall any time I’d seen the two of them interact, so I didn’t know how he’d
come to that conclusion. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to mention how
Wiley had offered to relieve my stress.

“I can make those kinds of judgments
myself, thank you very much. At least Wiley is straightforward and says what he
means. He doesn’t speak in riddles.”

Fletcher stopped walking. “I don’t want to
walk you home if you’re going to act like this.”

“Then don’t. I never asked you to.”

Fletcher turned on his heels and stomped
in the opposite direction.

Just how I needed to kick off my weekend.

I could choke on her cookies or lemon
water

The heavy lighting fixture hanging over us
could fall on my head

A short in the lamp could electrocute us

I could fall on the pair of scissors on
her desk and they could puncture my heart. Why does she have scissors on her
desk when she treats crazy people?

“What are you thinking?” Scarlett asked.
She sat in her special mahogany chair against the wall and across from the
couch where I lay. She’d told me to make myself comfortable, so I had kicked
off my boots and stretched my legs out across the couch like always.

Scarlett had been talking about something,
and I was unintentionally ignoring her. “I’m wondering why you have scissors on
your desk.”

She sighed but moved to her desk and threw
the scissors into her drawer. Scarlett settled back into her chair. “I’m sure
you’ve been thinking about more than the scissors on my desk.”

“I’m just saying. You treat crazy people,
so you shouldn’t leave them lying around.”

Scarlett pressed her lips together. “My
patients are not crazy, you included.”

“Okay, unbalanced,” I said, putting the
word “unbalanced” in air quotes.

She chuckled to herself. “What else is on
your mind?”

“That picture could fall and break your
neck.”

A huge framed picture of the ocean was
mounted on the wall over her head. I assumed it was supposed to be peaceful,
but all it made me do was think of the many ways a person could die in the
ocean. The possibilities seemed infinite. Just when I thought I’d run through
all the ways, I’d think of some more.

Scarlett clicked her pen and scribbled
something on a pad. “Why are you thinking about that?”

I sighed. I couldn’t count how many times
I’d told the woman I couldn’t help the way my mind worked. “I don’t know. It
just popped into my head.”

Scarlett raised an auburn eyebrow at me.
“You control your thoughts, Arden. If you don’t want to think about death all
the time, you don’t have to. That’s your choice.”

Scarlett was right about a lot of things,
but she was wrong about that. Did she really think I
wanted
to think
about death? I couldn’t remember a time in my life when I hadn’t. When my
parents took me to see
The Nutcracker
at age six, instead of enjoying
the show like a normal child, I imagined the Prince dropping Clara during a
lift and her skull smashing against the stage. At Bailey’s eighth birthday
party, I pictured the inflated water slide collapsing and suffocating us. I was
twelve when we discovered that Paige was allergic to strawberries. For days all
I could think about was her lips swelling and turning blue while her throat
closed, making breathing impossible. Of course I’d rather be thinking about the
boy I had a crush on or the next dress I was going to design, but I couldn’t.
When death wanted to invade my thoughts, there was nothing I could do to stop
it. That was one part of me Scarlett would never be able to cure.

I decided to change the subject. I knew I
didn’t want to talk about Mr. Thompson. Fletcher never came up in any of our
conversations because he was hard to explain. “I’ve been thinking a lot about
my friend, Bailey.”

Scarlett placed her pad on the small table
beside her and leaned forward. “It’s been a while since you’ve mentioned
Bailey. What’s going on with her?”

“I’m not sure. This year when we came back
to school, she was completely ignoring me. Now her friends are treating her
kind of bad. I want to say something to her sometimes, but I don’t know what. I
feel like she doesn’t really want me to talk to her.”

Scarlett stared at me for a moment as she
formulated my prognosis—loser who can’t get over a friend who has clearly
gotten over her.

“As I recall, Bailey stopped being your
friend. Why do you still want to be friends with her?”

I shrugged. “I still care about her. We
were best friends for a long time. I feel like she wants to be friends with me
again, but she won’t because of Lacey Chapman.”

  
“Do you really want a friend like that? Someone who will ignore you because of
what Lacey said. Someone who’s friends with the girl who treats you poorly.”

   
“No. I guess not.”

“Why don’t we focus on making some new
friends. You’re a wonderful person, Arden, and you could have plenty of friends
if you really tried.”

She sounded like Mom. I didn’t know if
they were right, but maybe if I tried, I could make a friend or two.

Scarlett ran her fingers through her
frenzied curls to pull down the glasses perched on her head. Why, I don’t know.
Maybe she needed to see me better. “What about the teacher who was killed in
the woods? He was a teacher at your school.”

I cringed. I’d been hoping to avoid that
conversation.

“Yeah, but I didn’t know him personally.
I’d never had him for any classes.”

“Still. That has to be scary. You have to
be feeling some type of way about it.”

“It makes me sad and worried. Something
bad is killing people, and no one knows what it is. They’re only guessing.”

“Whatever it is,” Scarlett said, “it seems
to be confined to the woods, so I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

“My parents said the same thing.”

Scarlett winked at me. “Then we must be
right. Can I see your journal?”

I reached into my backpack and handed it
to her. She would usually skim it and only discuss things that popped out at
her. I watched her as her eyes darted from left to right and then stopped.
“Let’s talk about what happened in speech class.”

Groaning, I sat up and faced Scarlett. I
wasn’t proud of my outburst, and everyone in my class, Mrs. Martin included,
thought I was a lunatic. “I don’t know. I hate speech class. It’s hard enough
to get up there and talk in front of a group of people, but they make it so
much harder. They’re always laughing and whispering when I’m up there, and I
just got tired of it.”

Scarlett nodded. “I love the fact that
you’re speaking up for yourself and saying how you feel, but I’d like you to
work on something. Speak up more often. Right when something is bothering you.
That way your anger doesn’t build up and explode the way it did that day.”

“I feel like if I shut up and take it, I’m
wrong, but then when I say how I feel, I’m still wrong.”

Scarlett smiled and closed my journal.
“You’re not wrong for speaking up. You just have to find the right way to go
about it.”

We talked some more about school and
Bailey. Though I’d never tell Scarlett or my parents, it felt good to get some
things off my chest. My goal for the next two weeks was to reach out to someone
new and try to make a friend.

Maybe the session helped just a little
bit.

Chapter Eight

Monday, school was slowly returning to
normal. A substitute had been hired for Mr. Thompson until a permanent
replacement was found. Apparently a teacher for drama was a little harder to
find than other subjects, although from what I heard, no one would be able to
fill Mr. Thompson’s shoes.

The day was going fine until second
period, which was usually my favorite time of the day. Ms. Melcher, who taught
biology, was my favorite teacher so far. She was interesting, and she never let
the kids call me Dust in her class. I liked to think that she was kind of like
me when she was younger, so she understood me. Most teachers didn’t, or else
they couldn’t remember how traumatizing high school could be for the socially
tragic.

That day we were doing partner work. Ms.
Melcher had split us up into pairs, and of course I was the odd man out since
no one ever wanted to sit at my station.

“Arden, you can work with Trista and
Marley,” Ms. Melcher offered since they sat at the station beside mine. They
both scrunched their faces like they smelled rotten meat. Lacey and Bailey were
working together at the front of the room.

I swallowed hard. “I’d rather work alone,
if that’s okay.”

Ms. Melcher frowned and thought for a
moment, probably wondering if it would be best to let me be a loner or force me
to work with someone. “Okay, I suppose it’s all right this once.”

Relieved, I picked up my project sheet and
began reading. I loved to dissect things, and I wasn’t squeamish like some of
the others.

At the top of the page in bold letters
were the words “Crayfish Dissection.” Directly underneath read:

You do not have to dissect the crayfish.
You may choose the alternative of using the computer software. You must still
label the parts of the crayfish and describe each part’s function.

I thought the computer program was a
cop-out and that everyone should have to dissect the actual crayfish. Watching
the process on a screen wouldn’t be nearly as educational as performing the
task on your own.

Objectives:
• Describe the appearance of various
organs found in a crayfish.
• Name the organs that make up systems of the crayfish.

Materials:
 
• safety goggles, gloves,
magnifying glass, a lab apron, plastic Ziploc bag, preserved crayfish, pen,
dissecting tray, paper towels, scissors, forceps, dissecting needle, and
dissecting pins.

Mary-Kate’s hand shot up, and she spoke
before Ms. Melcher even recognized her. “I will not dissect an animal, Ms.
Melcher. I don’t believe in the use of real animals for biological studies. The
practice is outdated and unnecessary.”

Ms. Melcher was busy readying trays for
those of us who would be dissecting. She nodded wearily. “I know your stance,
Mary-Kate. Please take note of the alternative assignment and grab a laptop
from the cart.”

Mary-Kate did that, and almost half the
class followed. I went to the back and grabbed the equipment I needed. One
thing I didn’t like about dissecting was the smell of the formaldehyde, which
was still evident even with the mask, but after a few minutes, I got used to
it.

I took a white tray with a reddish-pink
crayfish from Ms. Melcher. The crayfish looked like a tiny lobster. After I put
on my goggles, gloves, and mask, I picked up my scalpel and looked at the very
first direction.

*Place
the crayfish on its side and locate the cephalothorax and the abdomen.

Done.

*Look
at your diagram. Note the individual segments of the abdomen.

   
By the time I had done that, there was a commotion going on at the station
beside me. For some reason, Lacey had joined Marley and Trista. The three of
them were huddled over one laptop, their heads bobbing furiously as they
whispered about something. At the front of the room, Bailey watched them over
her shoulder.

   
Whatever was going on with them wasn’t my business, so I tried my best to
ignore them. By the time I had located the rostrum and the eyes and the five
pairs of appendages, Bailey’s head was bowed and her shoulders moved up and
down. Ms. Melcher, who had been circulating around the room observing, stopped
by Bailey’s station and placed a hand on her shoulder.

   
A moment later, Bailey left the room with a yellow hall pass, and Lacey and her
bees were cackling beside me. I threw Lacey a look, and she narrowed her eyes
at me. “What are you looking at, Dust?”

   
I tried to go back to work, but I couldn’t concentrate. Bailey needed someone,
and even though she didn’t deserve my help or sympathy, something inside of me
couldn’t help but feel for her.

    
I went to the back of the room where Ms. Melcher was organizing equipment.

    
I cleared my throat. “Ms. Melcher, I know only one student is allowed out of
class at a time, but I really think I should check on Bailey. I’ll only be a
minute.”

    
Ms. Melcher smiled. She understood, and that’s why I liked her. “I think that’s
a good idea. Grab a pass from my desk, but don’t be too long.”

    
I grabbed the pass and headed for the bathroom down the hall. Sure enough, I
could hear Bailey sniffling from a stall.

   
“Bailey?”

   
No answer, but she stopped sniffling.

   
I stopped in front of the last stall. “I know it’s you in there.”

   
“Arden, please. Just go away.”

   
“What’s going on? Lacey’s been treating you, well, kind of like you’ve been
treating me.”

    
Nothing came from the other side of the door for a moment. “I’m sorry. She said
we weren’t supposed to talk to you at all this year. Not even to say hi.”

    
“You can’t put all the blame on Lacey. She can’t make you do anything.”

    
Bailey blew her nose. “It’s not that simple. Arden, you just don’t understand.”

    
I understood perfectly. Lacey had made a hobby out of making sure I didn’t have
any friends, and she was good at it. “Why is she mad at you?”

    
“Because of Trent.”

     
Of course, a boy. But I couldn’t recall anyone named Trent. “Who’s Trent?”

     
“This guy we met at a Hudson University party. He and I hit it off and started
dating, but that was a big mistake apparently, because Lacey wanted him too.
She wants me to break up with him, but I won’t. If he were just any guy, I
would have, but I really, really like Trent. More than I’ve liked any boy. So
that’s why she’s pissed.”

     
I stepped away from the door, shaking my head. “Let me get this straight. Lacey
orders you not to be friends with me and you have no problem doing that, but
when she wants you to stay away from this Trent guy, you refuse?” Why could she
stand firm for Trent but not me?

     
“Arden—”

    
“Whatever, Bailey. See you back at class.” Coming to comfort her had been a big
mistake. She deserved whatever Lacey was doing to her. I stomped toward the
door. What was I thinking, caring about whether she was okay?

    
The lock on the stall clicked and Bailey stepped out. “Arden, it’s not like
that. Lacey has nothing to do with why we’re not friends anymore.”

    
“Really? Then why aren’t we?”

    
She opened her mouth to say something and then shrugged. “I—uh.”

    
She looked so sad and broken in that moment, and all I could think about was
the girl who had been my bestie for so many years and how I didn’t want her to
look like that anymore. “Forget it. Let’s go back to class. You can be my
partner. I’ll do all the dissecting.”

    
I waited for her to wash her face, and then we headed back to class. Lacey and
her minions threw us dirty looks, which I told Bailey to ignore. I’d become a
pro at that. She still looked sullen. Who knew what kind of trouble she would
get into with Lacey for being my lab partner?

   
I showed Bailey where we were on the lab sheet, and she put on her safety gear.
She looked at the dead crayfish and made a face. “Gross.” Her voice sounded
muffled behind her mask.

   
I pointed all the parts of the crayfish out to her. Andres Bryant, who sat at
the station in front of us, chuckled when I mentioned “sex organs.” I wanted to
ask him how old he was, but when it came to Andres, the self-proclaimed class
clown, it was best not to engage.

   
I picked up the scissors. “Now for the fun part.” Holding the crayfish down
with one hand I began to cut its back open, being as delicate as I could. Using
the forceps, I pulled the skin back. Bailey gagged beside me, but I had to give
her credit for sticking it out.

    
Looking at the inside of the crayfish the smell of something titillated my
nose. The odor of the formaldehyde wasn’t weird anymore. I smelled something
else. Fish, meat, and salt. The salty smell made me think of the saltiness of
the olives I loved to eat.

    
 “Arden?”

     
I looked over at Bailey. I’d almost forgotten she was sitting there. She
pressed her mask to her nose. “Can we move this along? I think I’m going to
puke.”

   
I nodded and looked at my lab sheet, matching the parts on the labeled diagram
to the actual crayfish. The stomach. The ventral nerve cord. The heart. The
intestines. The liver . . .

   
Next thing I knew, my dissection tray was empty and something was sliding down
my throat quick and easy. Everyone around me broke into gasps.

   
Andres almost fell off his stool. “Holy shit!”

   
“Mr. Bryant!” Ms. Melcher scolded, but she was staring at me, confusion etched
across her face. “Arden, where’s your crayfish?”

   
I looked down at my tray again and then over at Bailey, who was standing by and
gazing at me as if I were a dead bug she’d found in her food. If I’d ever seen
the look of total disgust on her face that was it.

   
“What?” I asked.

    
She backed away from me even more. “You just ate that crayfish. Like swallowed
it.”

   
“Ewwww!” the class groaned like a bunch of five-year-olds. If they hadn’t known
what happened before, they knew then.

    
Everyone stood, circling me, watching as if I were some kind of circus
attraction. I immediately felt like I was going to suffocate. Why wouldn’t Ms.
Melcher tell them to sit down?

    
 What Bailey said happened couldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t swallow a
raw crayfish. What person in their right mind would do that?

     
I searched the floor for the crayfish. It must have slid off the tray, and
Bailey had made up the rest for some reason, but the crayfish wasn’t anywhere.
The taste of something foreign and indescribable had invaded my mouth, and I
knew she was telling the truth. Bailey was back in her seat at the front of the
room, and I was one hundred percent sure she would never speak to me again.

    
Ms. Melcher clapped her hands to get the class’s attention. “Okay. Everyone,
back to your seats. Back to work.”

    
Reluctantly everyone moved back to their stations, but that didn’t stop them
from whispering and sneaking their phones out to text, which was strictly
forbidden during classes.

Without a word, Ms. Melcher removed a pink
clinic pass from her top desk drawer. I left my seat to retrieve it, saving her
the trouble of saying anything. In the nurses’ office, I explained my story to
Nurse Jean while she listened with raised eye brows.

“How do you feel?” she asked tersely as if
I were wasting her time.

“Fine. The same way I always do.”

She took my temperature and checked my
eyes with a tiny light. “I’ll call your mother. Go back to class for now. If
she thinks you should come home, I’ll call for you. Don’t eat any more science
projects.”

   
Back in class, Ms. Melcher wouldn’t even look at me. I spent the rest of the
period too stunned to complete my paperwork. What was wrong with me? After what
seemed like forever, the bell rang to dismiss us. I took my time packing up so
that almost everyone would leave before me. I didn’t need to hear their
conversations about me.

    
Once the room was nearly empty, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and
attempted to slink out of the room, at least until Ms. Melcher called for me.

    
“Arden? A minute, please.”

    
Reluctantly, I slumped over to her desk, where she scribbled something on a
notepad. “Yes, Ms. Melcher?”

    
She still wouldn’t look at me. “What . . . what happened?” 

    
I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said, because I really didn’t know. “I just . . .
it just happened.”

    
Finally, she made eye contact. She stared at me for a long time, and I realized
for the first time how gray her eyes were. I wished she would go back to not
looking at me. I was going to be late to my next class, but I couldn’t worry
about that. This was the one teacher who actually liked me, my favorite
teacher, and she thought I was some kind of freak, which was probably true.