13 to Life (4 page)

A tray clicked down at the one open spot at our table—directly in front of me. “What don’t you get?” a male voice asked coolly.

I looked up and groaned.

Pietr had found me. He sat down casually, ignoring the frowns of his throng as they were forced to find other seats.

I tried to ignore him, but Sophia’s eyes slid wisely from him to me and back again. “Sophia”—I pointed to her—“Pietr.” I pointed to him. “Sarah. Pietr.” Again I jabbed a finger in their directions.

Amy didn’t wait for an introduction. “I’m Amy,” she said. “I hear you’re Pietr.”

He smiled. Sarah and Sophia giggled at me.
Some friends.

Pietr speared a piece of mystery meat loaf with his fork and popped the first bite into his mouth, chewing like eating was an exercise in efficiency, not something to be enjoyed. Well,
that
I understood, looking at my own wilted lettuce. “So, what don’t you get?” he asked again.

I refused to answer, trying to seem absorbed in the search for a crouton with some crunch. I was absolutely unlucky today.

“There’s really nothing
to
get,” Pietr continued. “He’s out of your league.” Stated with such simplicity it sounded undeniable.

My eyes must have gone saucer-wide at the insult. Amy’s hand grabbed my wrist; my fingers were tight around the fork I was ready to launch at my newest nemesis.
“What?”
I demanded, narrowing my eyes.

He hadn’t paused in his eating but had nearly finished his meat loaf and was preparing to move on to a double helping of Salisbury steak. He glanced over my head. “Jess.” He fixed his glinting eyes on me. “You are a thinker. You probably get good grades and may even be on the debate team and school newspaper staff, but you aren’t that guy’s type. He’s a jock.” He chewed and swallowed. He glanced over my head again. “A popular jock, from what I can tell. And they don’t date your type without a reason.” He looked at me, his eyes gleaming boldly. “So what do you think a guy like
that
wants?”

My hand shook, holding the fork. I could tell without looking that Amy’s fingers had gone white in her effort to restrain me. It was the most Pietr had spoken to me, and every word sliced like a knife.

Because he was right: Derek definitely wanted something.

Pietr was well into his Salisbury steak when I finally said, “What business is it of yours?” Amy released her grip on me, patting my hand. Sarah’s eyes stayed on my fork, mindful there might yet be bloodshed. She freaked out pretty easily now, even if she didn’t remember exactly why.

Sophia simply sucked on her straw, listening intently.

“I guess it isn’t,” Pietr admitted around another mouthful of meat. “I just thought a male opinion . . .” He looked beyond me
again.

“What? Because we can’t figure this sort of thing out on our
own?” I leaned across the table, making it clear I could be just as much the aggressor as he could be the transgressor.

He leaned across the table to meet me, his nose nearly touching mine. The strange and nearly minty crispness of pine made my nose tingle. He smelled like the northern woods in winter. Clean, sharp, and full of mystery.

He stopped chewing, his eyes holding mine—and glittering dangerously. He swallowed. “Perhaps you should consider the motivation of people a little more honestly.” He glanced again at something behind me.

I turned in my seat to see what kept taking his attention from our brutal conversation. Was it someone? No. He kept looking above. . . . The clock?
Ugh
. Did he think he was wasting time here? I faced him once more. “So what’s
your
motivation, Pietr? You don’t even know me!”

He pulled back, a slinking move like shadows sliding. “Good point.” He smiled, a sudden slip of his lips across startlingly beautiful teeth. “I try to look out for people who look out for me. It can be a fatal flaw in my family, I suppose.” His eyes seemed to cloud with memory. A blink cleared them, and he added, “You are my guide, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I
shouldn’t
be the one guiding you around Junction. There are a dozen girls who’d jump at the chance.” I dropped the fork onto my tray so it clattered, and, reaching into my pocket, I brought his schedule into view. I slapped it down in front of him. “Just hand one of
them
your schedule, okay?”

“No.” He slid the schedule back without giving it a glance. “You were assigned a job—”

“A penance, probably,” I muttered.

“Whatever.” He swept the last bits of food onto his fork and chewed thoughtfully. “I’m
your
problem.”

“You got
that
right.” I stood, leaving to empty my tray.

Pietr shadowed me as I slammed my tray into the trash, knocking it around loudly to reinforce that I was angry. Withdrawing my tray, I smacked it down on a nearby stack.

Pietr followed suit, unfazed.

“What?” I asked, pausing back at our lunch table. “Afraid I’m gonna ditch you?” I grabbed my backpack, a pencil falling out and skittering over the table.

“No. I’m not afraid.” He reached past me, brushing against me as he retrieved the pencil. I shivered, a sort of static electricity snapping along the edges of my body.

As he straightened back up to offer me my pencil, I could swear he
sniffed
my hair.
Totally inappropriate.
“I could find you, regardless.”

“And how do you think you’d do that? I know this school way better than you.”

He glanced at my hair long enough that I fidgeted with it. “I’d find you.” He was so self-assured it angered me more.

“Fine,” I snapped, grabbing my pencil and glancing at the clock on the wall. “Let’s just see how easy that’ll be. I’ll be at your next class,” I added, folding his schedule and slipping it into my back pocket. “Meet me there.”

He blinked at the challenge and before he could speak, the bell rang, four hundred students leaped up from scattered tables and rushed toward three sets of doors. I allowed myself to be swept away by the mob, drifting and dodging along and keeping my head low as I raced through the corridors and took stairs two at a time.

I paused on the landing between floors, certain I’d lost him. But he was suddenly at the base of the stairs. I pulled back from the banister and watched. It was odd, observing him. He swung
his head from side to side, like he was searching for some invisible clue to my path.

I thought about how he’d smelled my hair. I gave it a cursory sniff. Mmm. Super-Stress-Free Mint Shampoo. Yeah. Even
it
wasn’t helping my peace of mind. Maybe I needed the conditioner, too.

Pietr started up the steps, and I lurched into the jostling crowd and continued trying to evade the guy I should have been guiding.

I zipped into the classroom, nearly sliding into my seat. Mr. Miles gave me a curious look. I chuckled. I had covered a vast and winding route to get to the proper social studies class. I pulled out my notebook and fumbled for a pencil. Hadn’t I organized them in math? Yeah, and dropped one at lunch. I promised myself, as I continued rooting around, next time I’d actually zip up the compartment I put them in. Anyhow, I was victorious! Pietr surely would learn a lesson in humility by getting lost, and now I just needed a pencil. . . .

People began taking their seats. I could hear the groans and squeaks of the seats even with my head nearly in my bag.

Someone tapped my desk.

“What?” I asked, not looking up. Someone sat beside me. I pulled back from my backpack, only to see Pietr holding out a pencil for me.

Defiant, I thrust my hand into my bag one last time and—aha! I withdrew the pencil and held it high in triumph.

Mr. Miles boomed, “Whoever pulls the sword from the
stone, wait—the
pencil
from the backpack—she shall be . . .” He paused dramatically, cupping his ear with a hand to signal us to reply.

“Prepared,” Pietr offered, never looking away from my face.

My sneer melted under the heat of a fierce blush.

Mr. Miles laughed. “Good enough. Pietr, right?”

Pietr nodded.

“Very good. Everyone’s been talking about your family already. Not much else to do at Junction High, I guess.” Mr. Miles clapped his hands together.

“Today, students,” he began, “we will be examining a mystery of World War II. Wait! Before the groans start, let’s remember that World War II defined the roles many countries still play today. Although it was a relatively recent war—I know, I know, it was forever and a day ago, to you
whippersnappers.
” He stooped, squinted, and teasingly wheezed out the term before continuing with a wink, “There are portions of it that we historians still eagerly research. History is not dead!” He glanced at the room full of students and said, “Now that I’ve delivered our public service announcement, you may all groan.”

Everyone but Pietr and I did. Pietr watched Mr. Miles and then glanced at me to judge my reaction. I loved history class and would never say otherwise. Mr. Miles was so sarcastic and quirky I felt I understood him best of all my teachers. He examined things from all angles—even the improbable ones. Like a good reporter should. I flipped open my notebook and prepared to take a lengthy amount of notes.

Mr. Miles turned to the board and scrawled
Porrajmos.
“This is the word that is equated with the genocide of Gypsies during World War II. It translates to “the Devouring.” We’ve spent quite a bit of time on the war, the Holocaust, and its victims, but today I think we should deal with one of the oddities. . . .”

He wrote:
Fearing the Forest.
“Man has always tried to tame the wilderness. We timber ancient forests, we strip-mine. . . . We have an instinctual fear of wild places and wild beasts, so we have historically tamed them so we feel more in control. This primitive fear impacts how we live and how we react in strange situations.”

Pietr’s foot began to tap softly. He glanced at Mr. Miles, then at the clock, then at his notes. Then the clock, his notes, and Mr. Miles.

Mr. Miles told us how, as Hitler sent extermination squads out after the remaining Gypsies and Jews, his troops balked at the idea of entering one forest. It was reportedly haunted, and the SS was superstitious. But Hitler didn’t grasp the meaning of
no
and made them go in.

Pietr continued to fidget. He may have had a gift for attracting girls, but he also had the ability to make someone nervous. His leg began to shake, and then he began to drum the fingers of one hand on the desk softly as he wrote with the other.

“Pietr,” I warned.

He stopped and focused on taking notes. For six solid minutes.

Mr. Miles explained that only two soldiers survived, and one didn’t last long. The accounts they gave were so garbled they landed the sole survivor in an asylum.

Pietr was tapping again. Maybe
he
needed some time in an asylum. But an asylum might be quieter, calmer than here. I sighed, thinking about a quiet padded room with no drama. . . . Maybe
I
needed to be committed.

I set down my pencil, flexed my hand, and refocused. Mysteries and oddities of history made great fodder for stories later. I didn’t intend to be a school journalist forever. And someone in an asylum was a person journalists wrote
about
—not a person
who did the
writing.
I probably shouldn’t view an asylum as a comfy vacation spot. Counselor Maloy might just be willing to provide me with a ticket to one.

“What do you think wiped out so many soldiers in that forest? Why did the last man go insane?” Mr. Miles tapped the board. “Let’s brainstorm. Call out ideas—nothing’s stupid and nothing’s wrong in a brainstorming session,” he reminded us.

Mr. Miles wrote
ambush, Special Forces, armed Gypsies,
and
traps
as fast as students said them. Then, as we loosened up and remembered Halloween wasn’t too far away,
ghosts, vampires,
and
werewolf
made the list. Mr. Miles paused. A few girls were giggling, a thin echo of the boys chuckling in the back.

Mr. Miles said, “You may find it interesting that the one soldier who was questioned claimed things flew out of the trees and reported giant wolves swarmed out of the shadows.”

The giggling gave way to “No way” and “Nuh-uh . . .”

“Uh-huh.” Mr. Miles smiled. “So of course they locked him away. Now let’s look here. . . .” He turned back to the brainstormed list. “These were all interesting possibilities. Let me just clear up a couple minor things. . . .”

Special Forces weren’t in the area at the time, and although an ambush appeared to have happened, Gypsies would have been hard-pressed to get weapons sufficient to take out so many armed soldiers. “So these—quite ironically,” Mr. Miles commented, circling them with red, “make our
impossible
list. And we all know that once the impossible is ruled out, all that remains, however improbable, is the truth.”

At
ghosts, vampires,
and
werewolf,
he paused. “Only one I’d change here.” He erased the end of
werewolf
and made it plural. “Think of it like this—if werewolves existed”—he winked—“wouldn’t they follow a social structure somewhere between
that of wolves and humans? Wouldn’t they hunt and work as a team whenever possible?”

“Wait—so are you saying monsters wiped out the SS?” someone called out from the back of the room.

“Absolutely.”
Mr. Miles grinned. “
Monsters
destroyed the SS. Maybe not monsters like werewolves, maybe not like vampires or ghosts. Think about it. The SS was filled with—and led by—some of the cruelest monsters in history. And they were all purely human.”

“So what really
did
happen in the forest?” someone else asked.

Mr. Miles shrugged. “You tell me. History’s not really dead as long as the living wonder about it. And that”—he pointed to the clock, and the bell sounded—“would be the bell. Quick reminder,” he added as the class began to rise. “Today you all will be heading out to your Service Learning assignments. Vans will roll out five minutes after the dismissal bell. Don’t be late.”