Rising (9 page)

Ben shook again.
 
The bell rang to end the conversation.

“You still picking me up tomorrow for the game,
Gabe?” asked Zack.

“Oh, yeah.
 
Sure.”

Ben rambled on about what a pain it was the
last time they had to board up his house and leave for a hurricane, while Clara
and I listened silently.
 
As we walked
into C Wing, Mrs. Jaden stood at her door, handing out half-sheets of paper to
students as they entered.

“Hello, lady and gentlemen,” she said
playfully.
 
“You may form your own
literary discussion groups, but if you can’t do it cooperatively then I’ll make
your group for you.”

“Not a problem,” said Ben lightly.
 
“I’ve got my group right here.”

Ben hooked one arm around both of us.

“Groups of four, Benjamin,” said Mrs. Jaden.

Most of the desks had already been filled.
 
I pointed to the group of desks where Derek
Touchet
sat alone.

“Oh, man,” whined Ben.
 
“Do we have to?”

“He’s not that bad,” I said.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Come on, Ben.”

“Whatever.”

The three of us sat down as Mrs. Jaden closed
the door.

“Alright.
 
You have your discussion questions in hand.
 
Now, as we’ve done before.
 
This is for an open discussion of your
assigned reading over the weekend.
 
You
must all participate and answer the questions.
 
You may have one recorder in each group, although I advise everyone to
take notes.
 
Decide amongst yourselves.
Now get started.
 
You have fifteen
minutes.”

“Okay,” said Ben, pushing the pen and paper
toward Clara.
 
“You can be our recorder.”

“Why me?” she asked defensively.

“Well, because you’re—”

“Because I’m a
girl
?” she drawled.

Her eyebrow arched in a threatening manner, and
her fiery eyes flashed at all three of us.
 
Derek stared at his desk, Ben’s mouth dropped open, and I smirked at
Ben.

“No,” protested Ben, “I was going to say
because you’re new, you know, to our group. And, my handwriting’s just
terrible, and—”

“Right.”

“I’ll do it,” I offered, saving Ben before he
shoved his foot in his mouth any further. “Okay, first question is ‘Having
nearly completed the novel, what do you think the overall theme is?
 
Explain your answer.’ ”

“Well, that’s obvious,” said Derek
haughtily.
 
“The theme is about survival
at all costs.”

“Yeah, that sounds pretty good,” agreed Ben.

“How do you mean?” asked Clara.

“Yeah,” said Ben, “How do you mean?”

“Did you even read all of the chapters?” I
asked Ben.

He shrugged.
 
Derek ignored us both and puffed up a little with the attention from
Clara.

“It’s simple really.
 
It’s about survival of the fittest, which
includes intelligence as well as brawn.
 
Ralph survives because he uses his intelligence and inner strength to
make it.”

“So, you’re saying that those who are good and
moral like Simon and Piggy shouldn’t survive?” asked Clara accusingly.

“I’m not saying they should or shouldn’t,” said
Derek, “but obviously being good or moral has nothing to do with survival.
 
They’re weak characteristics.”

“So, what exactly made them weak?” continued
Clara.

“Mostly their fear.
 
At first they felt strong with Ralph as their
leader, but as more boys left their group, they lost confidence and gave in to
their own fears.
 
That’s when Golding
decided to do them in.”

“Who’s Golding?” asked Ben, but nobody answered
him.

It looked like Derek’s arrogance made Clara
want to scream.
 
I could feel her anger
rising since I was so close to her.
 
She
couldn’t argue with this logic that the more fearful, weaker characters were
doomed to die in the savage wilderness.
 
I think she knew he was right.

“I don’t think it’s about survival at all,” I
said, trying to relieve the tension.
 

“What do you think, Gabe?” asked Ben,
pretending to be interested while stifling a yawn.

I ignored Ben who obviously didn’t know what
the hell was going on.

“I believe the theme is more about the breakdown
of humanity when removed from civilization.
 
I mean, whether they were good or bad back home made no difference in
whether they survived or not on the island.
 
I think Golding was showing how the primal instincts of people, even in
our good guy Ralph, start to take over when civilization is no longer there to
keep those instincts at bay.”

“Yeah,” said Ben, “I’m going with what he
said.
 
Who is Golding again?”

Derek looked around the room as if he were no
longer interested, while I jotted down a few notes.

“I put what everyone said.
 
Okay, next question is, ‘How would this story
be different, if at all, if it were a group of girls instead of boys stranded
on the island?’ ”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Ben,
looking at Clara in angst.

Clara giggled then said, “Let
me
answer that question.”

I listened attentively to Clara as she
explained the wickedness of adolescent girls and how the island would have gone
up in smoke had girls been in charge—all to Ben’s absolute amusement.
  
I was just watching her, enjoying that
warmth coming from her.
 
It only barely
dulled that dizzying sensation of hers, but it made it much more bearable.
 
At least I understood this emotion, probably
because I was feeling it quite strongly, too.
 
When class ended, I felt an unwillingness to leave.
 
I found myself following Clara toward the
exit when I still had a class in this hall.
 
When we reached the double doors, Clara stopped and leaned back against a
locker.

“I’ll talk to my dad about us doing that science
project as a team.”

“Mm-hmm,” I said, taking in the way her auburn
hair fell across her brow, partially covering one eye.

“I mean, is that okay with you?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I couldn’t stop admiring her—the way she stood
with her head slightly tilted to the left, the way she bit on her bottom lip,
the way her eyes sparkled like gold in the bright sunlight.

“It’s hard to believe we may have a storm
coming soon with nice weather like this, huh?” she asked nervously.

“Mm-hmm.”

I leaned one shoulder against the locker,
completely unashamed of being overly friendly.
 
Clara laughed.
 
I finally pulled
myself out of my little dream-world and noticed she was giving me that strange
examining look again.

“What?” I asked, half smiling.

“What do you mean what?
 
You’re the one who’s acting all—”

“All what?” I asked, knowing I had that tilted
smile still plastered on my face.

“Never mind.
 
I’ll catch up to you after 7
^th
period.”

I found it strange how last week all I could do
was find ways to get her out of my head.
 
Now, all I wanted to do was think of her.
 
I was making myself crazy with my lack of focus
in school lately. It wasn’t until Art class that I was finally distracted from
thoughts of Clara.
 
We were supposed to
be working on our abstract art project, but I still hadn’t started.
 
Jeremy Kaufman sat across from me, streaking
his painting with deep blues and purples.
 
He was completely in the zone, painting away and bobbing his head to
Ratt
or something
along those lines.
 
Mrs. Fowler never
minded Jeremy listening to his music, espousing the philosophy that music
inspired art.
 
I just sat there staring
at a blank canvas when Mrs. Fowler leaned over my shoulder.

“You know, Gabriel.
 
You don’t have to use paint and canvas.
 
Why don’t you try another medium?
 
That charcoal sketch of yours was so wonderful
last semester.
 
Why don’t you try that?”

I pulled up a stool to one of the long design
tables with a large white sheet and a piece of charcoal.
 
I started to streak the edge with bold lines
then shaded with my finger, not knowing where I was going with this.
 
At first, I had no inspiration at all, but
then my fingers began to move fluidly on their own.
 
Tall contour lines formed the trunk of a
cypress tree.
 
I smudged in moss on its
limbs with my thumb.
 
A few shaky lines
streaked down from the sky in the background. Then the figure in the forefront
took shape—the slouching, skeletal body covered in a crackled-skin cloak—no—wings.
 
Finally, I anxiously darkened the wide,
gaping mouth in a screaming ‘O.’
 
A
distant aching swelled inside me as my heart raced.
 
I heard the far-away hiss and—

“Gabriel,” Mrs. Fowler set her hand on my
shoulder and I jumped suddenly.
 
“Oh,
sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to startle you.
 
Well, that’s quite interesting—
very
surreal.”

I noticed Jeremy Kaufman across the table, staring
at my drawing with his mouth hung open.
 
I’m sure he was thinking I was some pathetic psycho obsessed with death
and darkness when I really just wanted to get away from it all.

“I’ve got to go, Mrs. Fowler,” I said, quickly
rolling up the parchment.
 
“I forgot I’m
supposed to meet with Mr. Dunaway about the Science Fair.”

“Alright.
 
See you tomorrow.”

I hated to lie, but I had to get out of
there.
 
I felt overwhelmed by the sudden
memory of the nightmare.
 
A nightmare
that crept under my skin like a distant memory coming back to haunt me.
 
I could hardly ever remember it during the
day, but it was so clear now.
 
I was
struggling with thoughts of why this was all happening to me when I rounded the
corner and stumbled right into Clara.
 
An
overpowering surge of her numbing vibe made me stagger backwards and fall.

“Oh, Gabriel, I’m so sorry.”

Luckily, it looked like the physical contact
had knocked me over.
 
She didn’t seem to
notice that I was reeling from some invisible force.
 
I wondered what she would think of me if she
knew.
 
I wondered how long it would take
for that warm sensation of hers to disappear.

“It’s okay.
 
I was going to see your dad.”

“About the Science Fair?
 
Already taken care of,” she said, helping me
to my feet and picking up my rolled parchment.

“I’ll take that,” I said, “you don’t want to
get your hands dirty.
 
It’s charcoal.”

“I want to see your work.”

Clara pulled away teasingly.

 
“No,
Clara,” I said, knowing I sounded defensive.

She opened it anyway and stared dumbstruck at
the charcoal figure.
 
I felt a sharp pang
of fear burn through me.
 
But, it wasn’t
my own fear.
 
Clara’s fingers began to
tremble while still holding the paper.
 
         
“Clara?
 
Are you okay?”

“You drew this?” she whispered, almost
inaudibly.

“Yes,” I said, taking the paper and rolling it
back up.
 

The look of sheer terror pained me, but more
than that was the fear that I could still feel radiating from her.

“How did . . . how did you draw this?” she stammered,
looking up at me with a confused expression.

I was worried by the tearful look in her
eyes.
 
I also began to fear why she
reacted so personally to an imaginary creature from my nightmares.

“What do you mean, Clara?
 
Tell me why you’re so afraid of this.”

She seemed to calm herself just for a minute.

“It’s the monster from my dream.”

4

GABE