Locked (The Heaven's Gate Trilogy) (4 page)

No matter what, my mother
would want me to be polite, I reminded myself.  After all, she’d asked for Mrs.
Bibeau to stop by.  She was doing this as a favor.

When I turned the corner
back into the front room, I spied Mrs. Bibeau, peeking into boxes and tallying
up Mom’s recent redecorating changes to discuss at her next Bridge Club.  I
swallowed my anger and cleared my throat, giving her time to settle back on the
sofa before I came in.

I waited a grudging ten
minutes while she continued to press me for more information, peppering her
conversation with gossip about our neighbors.  Time seemed to drag until finally
she took my hints about studying and left me to my own devices, satisfied that
she could give a good report to my mother and had gotten enough dirt to dish to
make the visit worth her while.

I watched her march back
up the cul de sac, her apron strings flying in the wind.  As soon as I was sure
she wasn’t coming back, I tried my Mom’s cell phone, ready to bemoan my
miserable day.  But the phone rolled over directly to her phone mail, so I hung
up.  I pressed redial, pressing it over and over until I finally gave up,
throwing the phone onto the sofa.

The entire day had been a
study in frustration.  I looked at the book I’d taken out of my backpack – a
book I’d already studied two years ago at Holy Innocents – and shook my head,
tossing the book aside.

“This is not what was
supposed to happen,” I pouted to myself out loud.  “Not at all.”

I was getting ready to
recount my various injustices again when a little voice in my head rebuked me. 
But nobody looked at you like a freak, did they? 

I shoved my books into my
book bag, sullenly acknowledging to myself that I had, indeed, been treated as
normally as any new kid in school would be.  It dawned on me that while I’d
always stood apart at Holy Innocents, my presence had been accepted.  I wasn’t
ignored, nor was I constantly ridiculed and teased.  After ten years, I was as
much a part of the environment as the dusty chalkboards and smelly gym.  At
least until the incident that finally drove me to move in with Mom.  How long
would it take to become invisible in this school?

I sighed.  Maybe things
would seem better after I’d eaten dinner.  I went to the extra freezer tucked
away inside our pantry, thinking I’d just heat something up.  When I lifted the
door, row after row of Trader Joe’s eggplant parmagianas stared back at me.  I
dug around inside, but no matter how deeply I dug, I found nothing else except
eggplant. I let the freezer door fall closed and turned to the pantry shelves –
similar, repetitive rows of just a few items stood at military attention on the
shelves. 

Sheesh.  I knew my mom
liked structure in her life, but this was a bit much.

I left the pantry behind
and walked back through the kitchen.  For a second, I thought about calling my
mom one last time.

She’s not here to fix
things for you,
I
admonished myself as I reached for the delivery menus Mom had left behind. 
You’re
going to have to take care of it yourself.  Just like you wanted.

****

The next morning, after
running the gauntlet of the bus ride, instead of going to Shop Class I went
straight to the front office.  I waved Mom’s vaunted red folder in my hand,
demanding to speak with the principal. 

“I can’t stay in these
classes,” I asserted, causing the nice lady behind the counter to blanch.  “I
took some of these when I was a freshman.  I can’t be stuck in them for a whole
semester.  My entire schedule is wrong.  My mother is going to be very unhappy
when she finds out, especially after all the trouble she went through to
register me properly.”

“We don’t need to bother
the principal with that, honey,” the lady scurried around the counter and
snatched the folder from my hands.  “Why don’t you take a seat here while I see
what I can do?”

I parked myself on a
bench inside the office and waited, proud of myself for having taking a stand. 
Behind me was a glass wall, veiled by half opened blinds.  I could hear the
voices inside.  Or voice, I should say.  Only one person was talking, and by
the stern tone, it sounded like a serious conversation.  A quick glance at the
nameplate by the door informed me this was the Principal’s office.  I strained
harder, trying to hear what had gotten someone in trouble.

The door swung open and a
pimply boy in saggy pants shuffled out, trailing his backpack behind him.

“This is your last
warning, Ethan,” the voice trailed out after him.  “I don’t want to see you
back in here for the rest of the semester.”

“I bet Ethan doesn’t want
to be back, either, by the looks of it,” a low voice, smooth as honey, whispered
conspiratorially.

I jumped in my seat.  I’d
been so intent on eavesdropping that I hadn’t noticed anyone sitting down by
me.  But now that I had, I couldn’t stop staring.

The boy sprawled out
across the bench, somehow managing to fill the small space with his entire
body.  His outfit was odd – more California surfer boy than Georgia public
school:  baggy khakis, bleached almost white, and a tank topped by a white
linen shirt that was definitely out of season.  When he shifted his position,
his pants stretched across his taut thighs – underneath all that fabric, he was
lean and muscular.  He didn’t have the shaggy haircut I associated with most
boys my age – ‘Bama Bangs, as my father always called them.  His hair was
clipped close, almost military in style.  It was a contradiction to his laid
back attire.  And he was tan.  No, tan doesn’t do it justice.  He seemed to
glow, he was so golden.

He broke through my
reverie with his chuckle, blue eyes sparkling with humor.  “I think it was the
smoke bombs in the boys’ bathroom this time.  Van Aken hates that.”

“Van Aken?” I asked,
aware that I was gawking and feeling strangely stupid as I tried to follow the
conversation.

“The principal,” he said,
cocking his head to one side as he looked me up and down.  “You don’t look like
you belong in the principal’s office,” he said.  I felt myself flush. 
Flustered, my hand flew to the back of my head, smoothing my long hair over my
neck, making sure my scarf was still in place.

The lady from the front
desk slipped by us, cracking the door to the Principal’s office open to whisper
something to him as she shoved in some files.

“Michael? Michael Boyd?”
the principal’s gruff voice cut me off before I could respond.

“That’s my cue,” the boy
said, and with a wink, uncoiled from the bench and slipped inside the office.

I didn’t have to strain
to hear their conversation; the principal’s voice boomed and Michael, in turn,
was not intimidated, talking back to the principal as if he were an adult.  Out
of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman behind the counter hanging on
their every word.

“What’s this business
about you being absent again?”

“I had a written excuse. 
Surely this is not a problem?”

“Are you just doing this
to make me look like a fool, Boyd? Because I won’t be made to look like a
fool,” the principal threatened in a thick Georgia drawl.

“Sir, this has nothing to
do with you.”  Michael’s voice was calm and conciliatory.  “I just had other
things to do those days.”

In the pause that
followed, I could almost imagine Van Aken scowling.  “It’s that damned
emancipation.  If you had adults who could advise you, we wouldn’t have to deal
with all this foolishness.”

“Yet I am emancipated,
and am legally able to make these decisions for myself.  I promise you, I have
and will continue to make good use of the guidance counselors here to avoid
making any foolish mistakes.”

Emancipated? What does
that mean?
I thought
to myself.

“Well, as you say, you
are legally able to make these choices for yourself.”  I heard a shuffle of
papers as the Principal apparently signed off on some form.  “Just don’t make a
habit of it.  This is a school, not a country club.  I can’t have you messing
up my No Child Left Behind performance with a string of unexcused absences,
even if you can write your own damn note.”

“Thank you, Mr. Van
Aken,” Michael said smoothly. 

The door swung open and
the counter attendant scrambled to look busy. Michael came out and passed his
form to her, pinning her with a wide smile.  “I think this should do it, Mrs.
Thompson,” he grinned. 

“Michael,” she said,
nearly blushing with pleasure as she took the paper from his outstretched
hand.  “You give us all fits with this emancipation business, don’t you?”  He
laughed and shrugged.  “Do me a favor, hon, and bring this new girl to her
classes.  We had a little mix up yesterday but I think we’ve got it all
straightened out.”  She passed another form across the counter to him.

He scanned it quickly. 
“Hope?” he asked, flashing me a brilliant smile.  “Let me show you to your
class.”

****

I still hadn’t gotten
into Home Ec, but Art was a step up from Shop.  All of my other classes seemed
to have been magically rearranged, and oddly enough, Michael was in most of
them.

“It’s because we’re both
new,” he’d replied when I asked him about it halfway through the day.  “Nowhere
else to go.”

“That doesn’t sound
right,” I frowned, nibbling the eraser on my pencil as I settled into the AP
environmental science class we now shared.

“Well how about that
we’re just smarter than everyone else, so it’s natural we’d end up in the same
classes?” His eyes danced as he took in my puzzlement.  “C’mon, Hope, I can’t
be your stalker.  We only just met.”

His choice of the term “stalker”
stopped me in my tracks.  Stalker is only one step away from kidnapper.  Was it
just a coincidence he’d used that word?  What did he know about me?  I was
surprised, and secretly ashamed, with how easily I’d wrapped myself in the
mantle of my father’s paranoia, but it didn’t stop me from asking my next
question.

“Just how new to this
school are you?” I demanded, telling myself not to be drawn in by his easy
jokes.

“Just off the turnip
truck three weeks ago,” he smiled, putting a finger to his lips to quiet me as
the teacher stepped to the front of the room.

My day was a whirlwind of
new classes, but with Michael as tour guide it was not as overwhelming.  He
seemed to radiate a sense of authority so that the endless torture of being
singled out as the new girl miraculously stopped.  One look from him and people
swallowed their questions, bit off that smart comment before it even left their
lips.  Everyone kept a wide berth of us so that by the time we emerged from our
last class, I felt like I was secure in my own little bubble.

Who could have that
kind of effect on teenagers
? I thought to myself.  I peppered him with questions, trying to figure
him out.

“Where are you from?”

“Here and there,” he said
vaguely, not even bothering to hide the grin that stole across his face.

“But where most recently,
before Dunwoody?”

“What is this, a crime
scene? Relax, Hope, there’s nothing fishy about me that you have to uncover.”

“So where are you from?”
I pressed him.

He turned to the locker
bay and started twirling a combination absentmindedly while I fumbled with
mine, waiting for his answer.  “I grew up on a commune in Iowa,” he said.  “I
didn’t really have parents; the whole community raised me.  You know, that
whole ‘takes a village’ thing.”

“A commune?” I said,
unsure of what that meant.

“Some called it a
commune.  Some called it a cult.  It doesn’t really matter.”

“Oh,” I said dumbly,
trying to take this in.  “So what happened to your parents? I mean, your
commune?”

“It was shut down by a
police raid last year.  And because I was over sixteen, the District Attorney
gave me the option of staying with the community as they went through social
services and the courts, or of being declared an emancipated youth.”

“An ‘emancipated
youth’?”  The term was starting to make more sense to me as I began to
understand his situation.

“For all intents and purposes,
I am treated as if I were eighteen.  It means I operate on my own.  No adults
telling me what to do.”

“But how…?”

“I had distant relatives
here in Georgia and apparently a bit of money stashed away that my real parents
had never told me about.  It was against the rules, you see, to have any
private property or money on the commune.”

“So your real
parents….?”  I left the question hanging in the air, afraid of what he might
say.

“It was all a big
mix-up.  They weren’t really brainwashing people or anything.  So they have
moved on to California.  And now I’m here.  I live by myself and drive myself
to school and every now and then a relative checks in on me.”  He flashed me
that brilliant smile again and shrugged.  “I know it’s an odd story.  Probably
one of the strangest you’ve heard.”