Quaking (23 page)

“Oh.” I swallow. “Hi.”

She starts to say something, but Rob plunks himself down on the seat in front of us, sideways, so he is looking over the seat back. He hands Susan the petition.

As the bus drives off, I see the Rat get into the car. I hold my breath.

“Wow, you were the first to sign it.” It is Susan again, holding the petition.

“Yes.” My eyes are following the car. It starts. I turn around in my seat to see where it goes.

“What is it?” Rob asks.

I try to look at him, instead of the car, which is turning the opposite way out of the parking lot.“Nothing. I am sure it is nothing.”

His intense eyes are looking at me. They are the kind of eyes that can see into you if you give them a chance. I look away.

Someone calls to him and he goes into his petition speech, dragging Susan into the conversation, too. I crane my neck behind me to see if I can find the Rat’s car. Nothing.

I try to focus on what is going on in the bus. It is the first time Susan speaks at great length. With Rob. With anyone.

For a fleeting moment I wonder if all the Robs and all the Susans and all the Matts could band together and defeat the Rat and his Vermin.

But it is my stop and I jump up.

“Bye, Matt,” says Susan.

Rob pats my backpack as I walk past his seat. “See you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? I look at him. And say nothing. God knows what will happen by tomorrow.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

 

I
run to the house. Fast. Maybe the something wrong is happening there. Right now. Maybe it is Rory. Or Jessica. Or Sam.

There is no Subaru out front. I can see no lights on in the house. I run up to the door and turn the handle. It is unlocked. I throw it open. “Sam? Sam!”

Why am I calling his name?

The house is empty. I flick on the lights in the hall and kitchen, and drop my backpack on the floor.

I see a note on the kitchen table. It is Jessica’s handwriting on a scrap of paper.

There are six apples on the counter. And a stick of butter. And a glass pan. And an index card, yellowed and worn on the edges. In old lady cursive it says “Apple Crisp.”

She is making apple crisp.To me. For me. Because of me.

I should be happy. But somehow I am in more pain than ever. Why does caring have to hurt? I never meant to get involved.

I look at the clock on the stove. It is 4:02. The second hand is creeping around so slowly I know it will never get to 6:00.And I realize now why I hate this clock. It is just like the clock on the stove when I was little. I remember watching it.Waiting for my father to get home. It is how I learned to tell time. I was an expert at knowing how many minutes of peace were left in the day. I have the same bubbly feeling inside of me. It is not excitement. It is not happiness. It is the dread of certain horror. Because I know something bad is going to happen.

I take a deep breath, try to calm down. I look up and notice, for the first time, that the rainbow peace flag is folded up on top of one of the kitchen cabinets. No one will attack this house, then. No one will know there are peace lovers inside. So why am I still quaking?

I look outside. It is already gray on its way to dark. I pick up a napkin and start shredding. What is happening out there? What are the Rat and his gang doing? I do not want to think about it. I just want to go upstairs to bed.

But my whole body is prickly, quaking, and I know I could not sleep even if I hid under a hundred blankets. Or under the bed. I have shredded my napkin completely. I pull a paper towel off of the roll and rip it into tiny bits until there is a pile of white flakes in front of me. Like snow.

The tornado inside me is twisting. I look at the clock. It is 4:06. The phone rings and I scream. Then I grab it. And the person hangs up before I even say anything. Is it a sign? I want to jump out of my skin.

I pace jerkily around the kitchen, knocking over a chair. Where is the Rat now? What are they doing? It is something. It is something bad. I know it. But I am the only person in the world who knows.Why did you have to get fired, Sam? You would have known something was wrong. You could have stopped him.

Why are you guys leaving me alone with this? It is not fair. Not right. If you “love” me, Jessica, why are you out with Rory instead of being here for me? See, it is all too confusing. I should never have gotten involved.

I am angry. I cannot stay in this darkening house by myself any longer. I have to see what the Rat is up to.

It is an insane idea. What can I do? I do not even know where he is.

Except I can guess. By the way the car turned out of the parking lot.Toward the only place I have seen them outside of school. Mel’s. They are at Mel’s. Scheming. Scheming to hurt someone.

I start to sit down at the computer and I see half a roll of wintergreen LifeSavers next to the keyboard. I jump up again. Sam should have his LifeSavers with him. He is at the Meeting House, for God’s sake! What is he thinking?

I am tripping over the furniture and walking into counters because I am pacing so hard.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

 

M
y boots are heavy. My legs are rubber. It is not a good combination.

The sidewalk feels hard and jarring, like it is sending pain on purpose ringing through my calves, jolting my knees, and punching my back.

I shiver convulsively and realize that I am not wearing my jacket. I do not even have Maggie Mahone’s shawl. It is only March. Why did I come out with just a shirt? I feel a biting cold, pain, and stinging that I do not remember feeling for a long time. But it is too late to turn back. It is almost dark.

I turn onto the main road, the cars and trucks speeding past me. Their headlights shine in my face, hard and cold. Boring inside my brain to examine me, see if I am crazy, see if I am permanently damaged. Like the doctor’s intense beam straight into my eyeballs on my fifth birthday.After my happy birthday concussion. From my father.

I choke on the diesel fumes from the trucks. And all the exhaust fumes. I smell the wood smoke from someone’s fire-place. Someone who is inside, safe and warm. And I wonder, Why am I out here?

The traffic sprays me with icy water. The air from the speeding cars is like a fan on high, producing painful wind-chill. I shudder and keep walking my jerky, spastic, quaking walk.

A truck horn blasts and I see the deer, frozen in the road for a split second before I look away. I do not want to see it run over. I hear the air brakes but no thud. I look back to see the deer running past the trees on the other side of the road.

Then a horn honks at me. Loudly. I jump to the side. I was not even on the road, for God’s sake. The driver of a pickup shouts out his window,“Careful, sweetheart!” I shudder and move on.

I finally approach an intersection where cars are stopped and I am passing them for a change. I hear the bass from a car stereo, even with the windows up. The noise gets under my skin, in my blood, through my bones. It makes me quake more.

The traffic starts up and a minivan passes. The kid inside has the light on and is reading a book.The interior of another minivan is lit up by headlights. I see two kids laughing and throwing things at each other. In an old car, a mother is obviously lecturing her daughter.Who is lecturing back.

Signs of life. But none of them has any idea what is about to happen.

Neither do I.

Maybe I am just going to Mel’s for a cup of hot chocolate. To warm me up. I am just going there because there is no one at home and I need a place to go for a little while. That is all.

No, I know it is more than that. I know this feeling. It comes straight from my gut, bypassing my brain. It is my Early Warning System.

And it is never wrong.

I round the corner. I can see Mel’s down the street. I stop. And wait. Frozen. I do not want to see what is going on inside. This is stupid. Senseless. I turn to go back but my feet will not move. They are one with the sidewalk, riveted to the feeling of a hundred million footsteps that came before them. I look back at Mel’s and stare for a minute.Two minutes. Too many minutes.

The Rat and the Wall flow out of Mel’s like blood oozing from a gaping wound.

I shrink against the corner building and try to blend in. They are standing there doing their stupid rituals. Slapping each other on the back. Lighting a cigarette. Throwing the match on the sidewalk. Someone mutters something and they laugh. The biggest guy pulls a beer bottle out of his jacket, and the group goes into a huddle like they are playing football. I cannot hear anything they are saying, but I watch. And wait.

Finally, the Rat punches his fist in the air.They laugh and trail down the street away from me.

I watch them.Walking off. My feet turn. And start to follow. I do not want this. I do not need this. But I cannot stop.

I follow at a distance the ugly scourge that is the Rat and his gang. They reach their car and get in, two in the front, three in the back, and drive to the next street, and make a right. Out of sight.

I run, trying to catch them, and realize that it is insane for me to run after them when they are in a car. How will I ever keep up?

I am gasping for air when I reach the corner and turn right and cannot see the car.

And then I do. It is several blocks down, on the left, at a gas station. I walk to catch up, but not get too close, still watching.The lights above the pumps are harsh but they do not make things look bright. The Wall is not filling up the tank. They are pumping gas into a small gas can. Now one of them has gone inside the building. The others gather around the trunk, put the gas can inside, but look around them, as if hiding something else inside the trunk.

They are still a block ahead of me when they leave the station. Slowly. Now two blocks. I start to run again. Block after block. The traffic lights slow them down so I can still see them. Sometimes I get too close and stop and look away. Scared that they will turn around and see me. Scared that I will turn around and lose them. Scared of what they are about to do.

And it is when we get to the next street and they turn left and I pick up my pace so as not to lose them that I finally figure out where we are. And what they are going to do. And who they are going to hurt.

I can see the lights inside the Meeting House from here.

My legs stop. My breath is rasping, grasping for air. The scream dies in my throat. My tears are the only things moving and they burn my cheeks.

Surely the Rat and the Wall will drive on. Surely they are not going to do the unthinkable. Surely, no.

But they do not move on.They park the car on the same side of the road as the Meeting House. The driver stays in the car, keeps the engine running.The others get out and go to the trunk. I hear the clank of bottles, probably beer, and a “shhh!”

And then I see what they are doing. They are filling the bottles with gas from the can.

My throat is so blocked now I cannot scream. I cannot even whisper. No sound will come out. My whole body is shaking, quaking.

They are putting rags in the bottles.

Finally, I move my head. Forward. Trying to break through the invisible barrier. My feet follow. Slowly. I am trying to run, but it is like I am in a nightmare. I am barely shuffling, disabled by what, I do not know, but I can hardly stay upright and it is a struggle to move forward.

Scream! I have to warn Sam. In case I cannot get there in time.

“Sa—!” It comes out as a squeak. It does not even sound like “Sam.”

I swallow, breathe in a raspy breath, “Saaa,” and cannot finish. But I make myself keep saying it. Like Rory. Over and over. Louder and louder. “Saaa, Saaa, Saa-uh-Saa, Saaam!”

And I am moving faster now. I am getting closer to the Meeting House. “Sam! Sam! Get out!” I have to run right past them but I do not care.

I hear a shout. I see some of them move.Toward me. Fast.

But I do not stop.

I keep going, running, forcing myself to look only at the Meeting House windows, only at the light—

I feel a shove from behind, flinging me forward, landing me on the sidewalk so hard that I hear a loud crack from the side of my face. Afterward, it is silent.

Until I hear singing coming from the Meeting House. I recognize it. The George Fox song.

Angry and scared voices hiss behind my head, above me.

“What do we do?”

“Put her in the bushes!”

“Just get her out of here.”

“Do you think anyone heard?”

“Shut up!”

“Is she dead?”

“I said shut up!”

I feel the wetness from the sidewalk creeping through my shirt, icing my stomach, chest, and arms.

Someone shoves me and rolls me over like I am a sack of potatoes. He can kick as hard as he wants but he cannot destroy what is inside. I have a strong spirit and the Rat will never take that away from me, no matter what he does.

And I realize why they might think I am dead. I am still not breathing. My eyes are closed. And I am not struggling. Good. Let them think I am dead.

It is hard not to gasp for air. But I have done harder things. I think of George Fox and I know, like him, I can do this. They push me under some bushes. The twigs of the bushes stab my chest and scratch my face. It hurts. Still I do not open my eyes. I am about to pass out from not breathing. I want so badly to gasp a breath of air.