Dead Wednesday Page 4

  Worm has no experience with this sort of thing. It happened so fast on the bus, he had no time to process it, much less react. What should he do if she targets him again? Fire a smile back? Sure. But what else? Say something? If so, what? What do you do when the most beautiful girl in school singles you out among all others? What would Eddie do? What will Eddie do if she announces to the school, I love Worm?

  9:25 a.m.

  The last class had no light. This class, Science, has no seats.

  They’ve all been pushed back around the edges. The teacher directs the students to sit on the floor in a circle. When everyone is seated, she comes to the center of the circle and turns a lunch-size paper bag upside down. When she pulls up the bag, a pile of dirt is left on the floor. The teacher crumples the bag and leaves the room.

  The circle. The dirt. Such common, familiar things. But here, where they don’t belong—they have an effect Worm cannot put a word to.

  Twenty-two black shirts in a circle. No one looks up. No one speaks. Twenty of them on their cells. When they glance up from their cells, it’s usually at the pile of dirt. They should have taken everybody’s cell. Now that would be dead.

  Worm’s place in the circle is where anyone else would call perfect. He’s directly across from Bijou. (A line between them would be the circle’s diameter. Halve it for the radius. Area of circle = πr2.)

  He’s both thrilled and terrified. He pretends to be busy with his cell phone. Bijou is intently pecking out a text to someone. OMG—what if it comes up on my screen! So far it hasn’t. Like most of the others, she sits cross-legged. The top she wears is mint green. He dares not stare long and hard enough to be sure, but he thinks there’s a similar color on her eyelids.

  No instruction to keep quiet has been given or is needed. But things need to be said.

  The urge to utter her name is overpowering. Worm whispers to Eddie: “So why did Bijou dump the Hulk?”

  Eddie shrugs. “Who knows.”

  “You think she got tired of him?”

  Shrug. “Who knows.”

  “How did she dump him? Bijou.”

  “Who knows.”

  “Maybe she wants somebody in her own grade.”

  Shrug, no words. He gets a disapproving glare or two, but he can’t stop.

  “Or maybe she wants to play the field, huh? Bijou?”

  “Could be.”

  Eddie’s lack of interest surprises Worm. “Think she has her eye on anybody?”

  Shrug.

  “Somebody’s gonna be a lucky dude.”

  Not even a shrug.

  Worm has used up his first batch of questions. While he’s thinking about more Bijou things to say, he steals glances at her. She’s now whispering to her neighbor, Mean Monica. Hopefully, she’s giving her a few tips on how to be nice. Bijou’s honey-blond hair is in a ponytail today. Whispering seems to animate her, as the ponytail swings back and forth. Worm has never seen anything so captivating.

  Worm decides he better not be too obvious, so he chats Eddie up about other stuff for a while. And finally circles back: “She doesn’t even act like she’s beautiful, know what I mean?”

  “Who?” says Eddie, who Worm is diverting from his own phone duties.

  “Bijou.”

  Eddie nods.

  “And y’know, she’s really nice.” And figures he better add: “From what I hear.”

  Shrug.

  Interesting how their roles have reversed in this circle around the dirt. Worm the talker, Eddie listening. But of course cool as ever. Worm keeps checking his cell screen for a text, just in case. And he brazenly stares at Bijou for seconds at a time. If she’s going to look up and toss him a smile, he doesn’t want to miss it. As it turns out, somebody does smile—Mean Monica—so briefly he almost misses it. He wonders who it’s aimed at.

  Worm is halfway through the next question—“And you know what else”—when Eddie abruptly speaks: “I’m making my move.”

  Worm is bushwhacked. “Huh? What?”

  “Before school lets out.”

  “Huh?”

  “The bus.”

  Something below Worm’s stomach falls off a shelf. “What bus?”

  “When she got on. Gave me a dy-no-mite smile.”

  Worm is standing on a chair with the rope around his neck. Only he can kick the chair away. At last he does. “Who?” he croaks.

  The bell rings. Eddie gets up. “Who do you think? The Beautiful One.”

  10:20 a.m.

  Worm finds himself in Social Studies. He doesn’t remember walking here. This is another dark room. It fits.

  Everything makes sense now. She was smiling at Eddie, not him. Duh. Like, really? It’s almost funny, now that he thinks of it.

  It’s been a lunch line of feelings. First he tasted devastation. But to his surprise, devastation came as a tiny portion, just a spoonful on his tray and on to the next feeling, a whole buffet of them. Many he cannot identify. He thinks one might have been envy. Another: brotherhood (with the Hulk). He takes a taste of each and moves on. The only one that isn’t small is the last, a big plop in its own bowl. It’s relief.

  Oh, not that it wasn’t wonderful while it lasted. That sweet Cupid’s arrow in his chest did things to him that Eddie could never. Someday, he thinks, if he can work up the nerve, he should thank Bijou. According to his calculations, for 113 minutes he had forgotten about his face.

  Confidence. For 113 minutes it was more than a word. For 113 minutes he was admitted to the world of Eddies and Bijous, where the spotlight is a sun that never sets, where bold people never fear looking into a mirror and know exactly what to do with a smile.

  But confidence came with a downside. He discovered he was uncomfortable in Eddieworld. Eddie has answers; all Worm has are questions. Eddie’s words—“I’m making my move”—sent him back to his comfort zone, back to himself, underground, sliding unseen through the roots of life. Take away the half day of weirdness and freedom, and what’s left is a comfortable, familiar fact: for a worm every day is Dead Wednesday.

  11:00 a.m.

  In Language Arts, Worm decompresses from the early-morning drama. As a sideline watcher, he relies on things happening to him to energize his life. Often the happenings are supplied by Eddie, but Eddie is not in this class. So when his pocket goes ping for the hundredth time, Worm decides to give his mom a break. He reads her text:

  SHE’S HERE!!!!!!

  He pockets the cell. Tell her to come to the fight, he think-answers. He looks at the clock. Ninety minutes till fight time. He wonders what Eddie has in mind for the rest of the day.

  The desks have all been arranged in pairs—facing each other. Close. The Language Arts teacher, Mr. Fitzpatrick, might as well have written on the blackboard:

  WELCOME TO HELL

  FOR SHY PEOPLE

  And so he finds himself knees to knees with Preston Dodds. Preston arrived in these parts only this year and still knows practically nobody. Like Worm and Claire Meeson, Preston Dodds is shy, and so much less. At least Worm and Claire speak when spoken to and hang with friends. Preston Dodds has been here since September, and in all that time no one has ever detected a personality. He apparently was born without one. Not only does he not speak—he doesn’t smile, laugh, clap, cheer, or blow his nose. He’s never been seen in the boys’ room. He sits in the same seat on the bus every day, cinches his seat belt immediately, and speaks to no one. Whenever possible, he keeps his hands in his pockets, as he is doing now, sitting across from Worm.

  Worm looks around. There’s almost no eye contact. Kids are looking at their cells or, more than in the other classes, reading a book. Well, it is Language Arts.

  Nearby, Claire Meeson is knees-up with Monica Biddle. They’re whispering, but Worm can hear.

 
Claire: “I don’t know why I did it.”

  Monica: “It wasn’t you.”

  Claire: “It wasn’t me.”

  Worm doesn’t have to be a genius to know what they’re talking about: Claire at the homeroom doorway, going, “Hip! Hip! Hooray!” He agrees, it wasn’t her. And wishes she wouldn’t beat herself up over it. She just got caught up in the fun, that’s all, before the weird classrooms and Mr. Haliburton yelling, “Show some respect!”

  It surprises Worm to see Meeson the Meek being chummy with somebody as prickly as Monica Biddle. It surprises him even more to realize that he hardly ever sees Mean Monica alone.

  But he can’t listen to whispers and glance around the room forever. Sooner or later his attention is driven to the body smack in front of him, which he’s sure is the point of this whole thing. Force them to face each other as flesh-and-blood people, not texts on a screen (as adults are always reminding them), appreciate each other as living creatures so they’ll be careful not to kill each other when they get on the road or whatever.

  Preston Dodds rarely looks anyone in the eye, or any other part of the face, for that matter. Since he sat down, he’s been staring at the bare desktop. It’s the only known virtue of Preston Dodds: you can stare at him all you want and he won’t look back. He seems to have no cell phone. By comparison, Worm is a circus clown.

  Still, shy is shy, which is all it takes for others to ID the two of them as a pair, a perverse brotherhood. As he stares for a moment at the Kid Who Never Looks Back, Worm gets the unsettling feeling that this may be the way others perceive him. Worm Tarnauer = Preston Dodds. Unsettling quickly becomes unbearable.

  He looks at the clock….

  11:30 a.m.

  Sixty minutes till fight time…thirteen more minutes of being in the same lifeless coffin with Preston Dodds.

  Which is what drives Worm to do the unthinkable: he stands. Of course, doing so causes every head in class to turn his way, but even that is better than having to face the Kid with No Personality for another second.

  He goes to the back of the room, to a place he’s never been: Mr. Fitzpatrick’s own book collection. Shelves and shelves of books. You can sign one out. Return it late and your fine is the teacher’s favorite food, a Reese’s peanut butter cup.

  He’s an alien in Bookland. Books mean two things to Worm: (1) get ready for a test, and (2) clean the cabins of the people who write them.

  He has no idea what to look for, can’t recall a single title. Graphic novel, he thinks. Pictures, at least.

  He crouches, tilts his head to title-read, and…“Doink.”

  That same voice…the water fountain girl’s…and something hitting his ear. A little green nugget plipping to the floor. And here’s the voice again, friendly this time—“Tic Tac?”—and a hand is coming into his field of vision, and sure enough, it’s holding a tiny, clear plastic box of more little green nuggets. “Hold out your hand,” the voice says. He holds out his hand, and the tiny box shakes and three Tic Tacs drop into his palm. “Put them in your mouth. Never know when somebody’ll wanna kiss you.” The voice is more than just friendly, as if it knows him. But he can’t place it. He puts the mints in his mouth. His eyes follow the arm—raspberry pj sleeve—up to the shoulder and on to the smile…the face….

  11:32 a.m.

  “Worm…Worm!…”

  The voice is distant, like it’s coming from the far end of a tunnel.

  “Worm…wake up.”

  Faces…faces swimming above him…

  “He’s choking!”

  Pounding on his back…A sound comes out of his mouth, followed by three little green nuggets, falling to the floor, rolling….What’s he doing on the floor at the back of the room?

  Faces swimming…Claire Meeson…Monica Biddle…Otter, others, crowding, worried…

  He stares at the little green nuggets…remembers something…Tic Tacs…face….

  Hands lug him, prop him against the bookshelves…voices pepper:

  “What happened?”

  “You OK?”

  “He fainted.”

  “Did he eat breakfast?”

  “Did you eat breakfast?”

  “Help him up.”

  “No, let him sit. Don’t move him.”

  “He just fainted, moron. He didn’t get hit by a truck.”

  “Can you stand, Worm?”

  He’s tired. He thinks he just wants to sit here for a while.

  “I’m getting the nurse.” Claire Meeson’s voice.

  “No!” he shouts, the prospect of attention knocking him back to himself.

  He gropes for a shelf. Hands pull him to his feet.

  “What happened, Worm?”

  Give them an answer. End this. “Skipped breakfast,” he lies through the grog. “Desk.”

  Hands help him, wobbling, to his desk. Hands, voices fussing over him. A hand in his face holds the three green Tic Tacs.

  “Who were you expecting to kiss, Worm?” It’s Otter.

  Big yuks all around. Relief too, he can tell.

  “I know what happened,” says Mean Monica, grinning in his face. “He wandered too close to the books and got dizzy and fainted!”

  Louder yuks this time. Worm’s allergy to books is well known.

  He waves them away, prays for the bell to ring. “I’m good,” he tells them. “Never skip breakfast.”

  They drift back to their seats. They try not to stare. They’re as intent as he is to pretend nothing happened. Nobody is paying the least bit of attention to the girl in pajamas sitting on his desk.

  11:34 a.m.

  “Oh boy. I was afraid of this. You OK now?”

  It’s her. The “doink” voice. The sitter on his desk. The brain burp that happened at the bookshelves has followed him to his seat. Inches away, Mr. Personality stares at his desktop.

  Unlike many of his teenage classmates, Worm hasn’t yet left the days of obedience behind. He follows the rules. Somebody tells him to do something, he does it. Ask him a question, he answers.

  He nods.

  Huge release of minty breath above him. “Great.” A hand squeezes his shoulder.

  “You can look, Worm,” the voice says. “I won’t bite.”

  It’s come to this. Deep inside he knows now. But doesn’t know. Believes. But doesn’t believe. Can. Not. Believe. But the voice knows him…knows his name….

  The hand is still on his shoulder. He looks. Resists the temptation to touch it. Follows it up the arm to the shoulder, the neck, the face…which hasn’t changed. It’s the face from the back of the room.

  The face on the card.

  The poster.

  The face of Rebecca Ann Finch.

  She smiles, giggles. “I was going to try a dumb joke, like, ‘You look like you saw a ghost.’ But I won’t. Know why?”

  “Why?” he says, not thinking.

  Several heads in the class turn. Be careful.

  “Because you don’t look that way.”

  She’s right. Baffled? Unhinged? Out of his gourd? Yes. But scared? No.

  She’s holding out the little plastic box. “Tic Tac? Try again?”

  He just stares. So she pours several into her own hand and pops them into her mouth, closes her eyes, rattles them around, going, “Mmm…mmm.” Now her face is sideways into his. She opens her mouth, showing her green tongue, and he gets a minty gust as she goes “Huhhh…” into his face. “Am I kissable now?”

  He nods dumbly.

  “Where’s the card?” she says, still friendly but businessy now too. “Hah…,” she goes, “where else?” She reaches into his pocket, pulls out the card. She groans. “I have never taken a good picture in my life.” She punches his shoulder, hard, like it’s his fault.

 
Twenty-five faces turn. Claire Meeson is rising, pointing. “You…are going to the nurse.”

  He plucks the card from Becca’s hand, shoves it in his pocket (only later will he wonder: What did they see?), stands. “Going. Nurse,” he blurts as he runs from the room, leaving a wake of black shirts and mouths in the shape of eggs.

  11:39 a.m.

  In the hallway.

  Worm walks. Stops. Tries to sense if he’s alone. Not sure. Takes a deep breath, turns around. She’s not there.

  Maybe it was just a classroom thing. The Dead Wed Effect. Probably hit his head when he fainted. He feels for a bump.

  Boys’ room. He heads there.

  11:40 a.m.

  Worm busts in. Hunches in front of the stalls, hands on knees, gasping, like he’s just finished a marathon.

  A deep breath.

  A glass of water.

  Sit down.

  Walk.

  He’s thinking of all the things you’re supposed to do when you’re stressed out, stuff he’s seen on TV.

  Count to ten.

  Hit a punching bag.

  Scream.

  “ ’Sup, dude?”

  He jerks up. Two black-shirted Deaders are at the urinals. He didn’t notice. With all the free-ranging eighth graders, Dead Wed is the busiest day of the year in the BR.

  Worm waves. “No problem. Got a cold. Congested.” He fakes a cough.

  One of them nods, chuckles. “Didn’t want to miss today, huh? Going to the fight too?”

  Worm gives a thumbs-up.

  Splash water on your face.

  He goes to a sink, splashes water on his face…cups his hands…drinks….

  The black shirts are leaving. The talky one sends a guy punch to his shoulder. “You da Deader.”