After Zero Page 11

  In a way, though, it doesn’t matter why she sent them away. What matters is that my brothers are okay. Everything is going to be okay. And their music, their laughter, their faces, the prospect of being with them, doing sibling things, speaking a sibling language—it gets me out of bed and ready to face another day at Green Pasture.

  • • •

  I check that my feather’s in place as I take my seat in first period. It’s starting to look more like a feather skeleton since little pieces keep falling off, but I leave it clipped in my hair for good luck. I don’t even care when people stare anymore.

  Mr. Gankle waves a wad of papers at us. “I’ve graded your research presentations. Great work, everyone.”

  He strolls around the room and hands out our evaluation sheets, pausing at my desk. “Elise.” He sets my sheet in front of me. “You didn’t come to class on your presentation date.”

  I look down at the box labeled “Grade.” There’s a zero next to the percent sign.

  “If you were sick, I need a doctor’s note, and then we can find you another day to present.”

  I nod, even though no doctor will write me a note for reading in a bathroom stall.

  He sighs. “I’d hate for you to keep this zero when you’ve done so well on your other assignments.”

  People have committed murders and felonies, and he’s after me for not giving a class presentation? Teachers need to get their priorities straight. Miss Looping used to be an escape from adults like Mr. Gankle, but now even she has assigned a presentation. It’s too bad there are no more teachers left to like.

  As soon as Mr. Gankle moves on to another student, I scan his syllabus and the grading breakdown. Research Presentation: 5%. I exhale. That’s nothing. I can still manage an A-minus in this class, even with that zero. As long as it’s the only zero.

  I turn my evaluation sheet upside down and touch my feather. Zero is a funny number. It means something good when it comes to my tallies. When it comes to grades, not so much. But when I think of my brothers, things like grades seem small.

  • • •

  The clouds let it rip for the first track meet. Puddles are already forming on the track. Ponchos and umbrellas crowd the bleachers, some of them belonging to strangers here for the visiting team and others to Green Pasture students, parents, maybe even teachers—but I’m trying not to look. I’m trying not to think about all those eyes that will be watching me, or the fact that this isn’t just a practice anymore. That this is what we’ve been practicing for.

  When the runners for the mile race are called, a tingling feeling starts in my butt and spreads all over my body. I’m going to be sick, very sick. How can I run when I’m going to be sick?

  I go to my mark anyway and wait for the gun. Coach Ewing gives me a thumbs-up. What if I trip? What if I run out of stamina in the first lap? What if I forget to breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, and to keep my arms parallel, and to relax my hands, and then I come in last? What if—?

  Crack!

  The starter pistol goes off, and bodies shoot forward. A girl from the other team breaks into a sprint. I remember what Coach Ewing said about runners like her. She’s going to use up all her energy in the first lap and fall behind. I can’t let it bother me that she’s already so far ahead.

  I pace myself. In the second lap, I pick it up a little, but only a little. I see Mel and Sylvia watching on the sidelines—their event is the two-mile—and this makes me go a little faster. In the third lap, I pass a few runners on my team. Then a few on the other team. I glance over at the soccer field next to the track, but it’s a blur of shapes.

  In through the nose, out through the mouth. Relax hands. Arms forward and backward.

  At least six runners are ahead of me. The sprinter is still in the lead. Coach Ewing said those people fall behind in the second lap, maybe the third, but now we’re going into the final lap, and she’s still ahead.

  But she’s struggling. She’s working harder to maintain her pace.

  I lengthen my stride. I pass a runner from the other team, then another. Now there are three people between me and the sprinter. The faces on the sidelines rush by me, or I rush by them. My lungs are burning. I hear shouts. “You’ve got this!” “Go, Elise!” I catch a blur of neon-green hair. Mel’s talking to someone, not Sylvia…Fin? I can’t waste energy looking around. My legs rev, propelling me forward past the next runner, and the next, and the next. They’re all clumped in a pack, but beyond them it’s just the sprinter. I fix my eyes on her back. I can see her arms swinging from side to side, her hands clenched in fists. Bad form. She’s tired.

  I’m tired too. I can’t feel my legs. They move under me like wheels hydroplaning.

  But hydroplaning is kind of like flying. There’s no sense of traction. Like I’m close to knowing what it’s like to be a bird.

  I’m a swan, and my legs are throbbing wings.

  No one would expect the quiet one to pass the sprinter. No one would expect the quiet one to win. No one expects much of anything from the quiet one.

  I thrust my chest forward, reaching, hurling myself across the finish line. I fall to my knees. Coach Ewing runs toward me with a timer, but I can’t hear what she’s saying because all the blood and adrenaline are rushing to my head. My lungs beg for air.

  “Six minutes, two seconds, kid. Second place.” Coach Ewing bends down and thwacks me on the back. “And first for Green Pasture.” I don’t have the strength to nod in acknowledgment. All I know is that I didn’t pass the sprinter. I missed her by a feather.

  “Listen, we need you in the four-by-four relay next time. You up for it? We need our fastest runners for that race.” Coach Ewing thumps my back again and walks away, flipping through her clipboard papers and calling out to other teammates.

  I stretch my legs, fighting the numbness in them, and then drain my water bottle.

  They need me in the relay, she said. So this is how it feels to be needed. Living with my mother, I’ve gone years without knowing the feeling. Apparently Mel doesn’t need me anymore either. But now Coach Ewing needs me. The track team needs me. And for reasons I’ll find out soon, my brothers need me—and Granny P needs me—to keep my promise. When someone is needed, that means they’re vital. I’ve always wanted to be vital.

  • • •

  I’m in a pretty good mood when I reach the Karneys’ after the track meet. I even feel like whistling as I get off my bike. I don’t, though, in case someone hears. Oh, she’ll whistle, but she won’t talk? Mrs. Karney would say. That’s exactly what an ax murderer would do. So instead I just think-whistle. That is, until I open the front door and walk into Dónal.

  He’s wearing his hunting gear, including a camouflage baseball cap that says “Born to Hunt.” Classy. I want more than anything to turn around and get back on my bike, but I can’t give him the satisfaction.

  He nods at me, shotgun in hand. “Nice day for a walk.” Is he really trying to make small talk?

  I stand in the narrow foyer waiting for him to back up or move aside so I can get by.

  “Do you mind getting out of my way?” He takes a step toward me, and I catch a whiff of spearmint on his breath—the scent of the gum I had in the backpack he stole from me. “My buddies are waiting for me in the woods.”

  Of course people are only in his way, never the other way around. But I just want him to be gone, so I step aside and press my back to the wall.

  “Thanks a million.” The corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly. “I’ll tell Mark and Dakota you say hi. Unless you wanna join us?”

  I glare at him. For someone in a hurry, he’s taking his sweet time.

  “What? You didn’t have fun with us last time?” He smirks. “Suit yourself. Should be a good day for wildfowl.”

  My heart skips a beat. Wildfowl. Birds.

  As Dónal moves p
ast me, I picture him and his pals out there, chomping on my gum and cackling and shooting thoughtlessly at the sky. At innocent creatures. At Conn’s little nuthatch, or a mute swan…or Granny P’s companion. I imagine a bullet striking, a kraaa of pain, a dark shape falling. Falling…

  I lunge toward Dónal. My hands reach out and wrench the shotgun from his grasp.

  He spins around on the threshold, his mouth falling open. This is the last thing he expected of me. And the last thing I expected of myself. I grip the weapon, not sure what the next step is. Run? Hide the gun somewhere so he can’t use it? I should have thought this through.

  “What’s going on?”

  Fin’s voice. She appears with Conn on the front steps behind Dónal. Their eyes swivel from Dónal to me to the gun in my hand.

  “What does it look like?” Dónal laughs hoarsely and holds up his hands. “Come on, you don’t really want to do this, do you?”

  I look at the gun, which happens to be pointed at Dónal.

  “Listen, just put it down,” Dónal says in his most convincing victim voice. “You don’t want to hurt anybody. You don’t belong in jail.”

  Heat rips across my face. Fin and Conn don’t actually buy his act, do they? He’s the one who belongs in jail. I look back at Fin, whose eyes have narrowed to slits of suspicion. I can’t bring myself to look at Conn, in case his eyes have narrowed too. Not that I’d blame him. This would be a good time to say something. I wasn’t… I didn’t…

  But their eyes on me are muddling my thoughts, closing up my throat. I can feel the bubble sealing me in. Then Granny P’s voice echoes in my head: Don’t say a word to anyone. Louder, louder. Don’t say a word to anyone.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I drop the gun and flee upstairs.

  In the spare room, I realize I’m soaked with sweat. Why can’t I think before I act? Why did I have to grab the gun? It might not have been so bad if I could have explained myself. Did Granny P really mean for me not to say a word even at times like this? The bubble seems to think so. It scares me a little, how strong the bubble’s become. Trust the bubble, I remind myself. I guess it’s like a safety net, safeguarding my promise. I don’t want to jeopardize my chances of seeing my brothers. But I also don’t want Fin and Conn, who’ve only been nice to me, to think I pointed a gun at their brother on purpose.

  Maybe there’s a way to fix this without speaking. I knock over a pair of skis and trip over the treadmill as I fumble for paper and a pen. Now that I’m away from Fin’s and Conn’s stares and Dónal’s smug expression, I can think a little straighter.

  He was going to shoot birds, I write. That’s why I took the gun from him. That’s all.

  I shouldn’t be writing notes. Granny P didn’t say writing was off limits, but after that social media disaster, I know the trouble it could cause. Even written messages can be misunderstood. But right now this is the only way I can get Fin and Conn to know the truth.

  Conn’s bedroom door is half open. I glimpse his leg dangling from his bed. Before I can change my mind, I slip the note under his door, making sure the paper rustles audibly, and then hurry back to the spare room.

  A minute passes. Then another. What if the note wasn’t clear enough? Should I have explained more? Will he believe me? Did I just make things worse? It’s like I never learn…

  The note reappears under my door.

  I hold my breath and pick it up.

  I hate that he hunts. I’ve tried to stop him too, lots of times. Never works.

  I breathe out. Conn’s still on my side.

  I take my pen and jot down one more thing: Please tell Fin.

  I should probably be writing this to Fin herself. But writing to Conn feels easier for some reason, kind of like talking to him at Patsy’s Pastries felt easier, before Fin and Dawn joined us. If only we were discussing pizza and poetry again now, and not this.

  My hand hovers over the note, tempted to add: Dónal isn’t who you think he is. He did something in the woods… But I put the pen down and sneak back to Conn’s door to drop off the new note.

  I’m surprised when another note arrives. I thought we were done.

  See you at dinner.

  Dinner. The last thing I want to do is go to dinner. But if I don’t go, I’ll look guilty. And go to bed hungry. That’s another one of Mrs. Karney’s house rules, and my least favorite: Everyone eats meals together. If you don’t eat at the table when dinner is served, you don’t eat.

  When I take my place at the table later, Dónal is sitting in his spot next to Penny, talking and laughing and chewing with his mouth open like nothing happened. I glance at Fin. Her eyes stay on her food.

  Mrs. Karney babbles about a new pregnancy diet she’s trying, and Mr. Karney is saying “uh-huh,” though I don’t think he’s listening. I guess they haven’t been told about the incident. I keep thinking Dónal is going to say something about it. I keep dreading the moment. But he doesn’t mention it. Maybe our encounter in the woods is still hanging over his head. Or maybe he wants this hanging over my head.

  When I’m asked the occasional question—Would you like some salad, Elise? or So I hear you’re on the track team?—I get by with nods, head shakes, and gestures. The younger Karneys still stare at me, but I guess they don’t know any better, and I ignore them the same way I ignore Dónal. Fin keeps stabbing at her chicken and doesn’t speak to me or look over at me. She doesn’t even pass the mashed potatoes. She puts them down on their way around the table, just out of my reach, because she knows I won’t ask for them. And I realize then that I’ve lost some of her trust, or maybe all of it, and no note I write will be enough to get it back.

  Chapter 17

  Things could be worse. You could be…

  •A prisoner in a labor camp

  •The match girl who freezes to death in that fairy tale

  •A blobfish at the bottom of the ocean

  “You’ll see several character types in these plays,” Miss Looping is saying. “For example, ghost characters and unseen characters.” I glance up at the board, where she’s writing notes about Shakespeare that I’m supposed to be copying. Her class feels especially long today. Maybe it’s because Beady’s stare keeps boring into me. Or because Miss Looping keeps reminding us that our ghazal presentations are coming up. I’m starting to understand why people think she’s weird. Her arms move so awkwardly, and her velvet dresses are so tacky. I bet she has no life outside of teaching. I bet she has no friends and lives alone with a bunch of cats.

  Well, that’s what she gets for assigning a presentation.

  “Anyone know what a ghost character is?”

  To no one’s surprise, Arty Pilger raises his hand.

  “Yes, Arty?”

  “If I had to guess, a ghost character is a ghost.”

  Students in the back laugh.

  Miss Looping displays her always-patient smile. “It does sound like that, doesn’t it? By definition, though, a ghost character isn’t literally a ghost.” She proceeds to write the definition on the board:

  Ghost character: a character who is indicated as being onstage but doesn’t say or do anything except enter and perhaps exit

  I pause in my list-making and stare at the board.

  doesn’t say or do anything except enter and perhaps exit

  Now that’s more like it. That’s who I’d be in a show. There’s a part for me after all. I’d have gotten along swimmingly in Shakespeare’s day.

  “Keep in mind that ghost characters are generally viewed as editing mistakes,” Miss Looping says. “They signify unresolved revisions to the text. The ghost character in Timon of Athens, for instance, is thought to demonstrate the play’s unfinished state. Not to be confused with unseen characters, which are…” Miss Looping rambles on, but I’m not listening.

  A ghost character is a mistake, an imperfection.
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br />   Thanks a lot, Miss Looping. Thanks for letting me know.

  When the bell rings, I make a beeline for the door.

  “Elise.”

  I stop and turn as other students skirt around me. Miss Looping smiles and beckons me toward her desk.

  I stand there for a moment, wishing I’d kept walking—I could have been halfway down the hall by now—and then reluctantly move toward her desk.

  “I thought of a few more poets you might like,” she says. “Have you read any Poe or Tennyson?”

  How can she pretend to act all nice after what she just said? I shake my head and glare past her at the wall.

  Miss Looping’s smile falters in the corner of my vision. She leans forward on her elbows. “Is…everything all right? You looked upset today.”

  Her question catches me off guard. I blink and meet her eyes—warm bursts of chocolate. The bubble that’s been encircling me all day quivers for a second, like it might pop.

  Then I remember she just called me a mistake. On top of assigning a presentation. I don’t need her concern or her poetry recommendations. And I have a promise to keep. I nod with a stiff neck and turn away, feeling Beady’s gaze on my back.

  • • •

  Eating in the library is an acquired skill.

  I sit at my table near the poetry stacks, my book of sonnets open in front of me. I feel for my sandwich on my lap—Mrs. Karney’s ham and apple butter—and watch the librarian. As soon as she turns her back, I bring the sandwich up for a bite. When she turns again, I slip it back under the table and drop my eyes to my book. QUIET IN THE LIBRARY isn’t the only sign here, after all; the other one says NO FOOD. The trick is to not take too big a bite in case she looks up before I’ve swallowed. Chipmunk cheeks would be a dead giveaway.

  “You’re good at that.”

  I freeze mid-chew and turn. Conn is standing behind me.

  “So this is where you hang out. I’d been wondering why I never see you in the cafeteria.”

  Why is he here, ruining my routine?