A Soul's Kiss (12 page)

Hannah

Monday morning

I was so screwed. I thought these last three horrible days were a result of that stupid accident. Now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe I was getting a conscience. My mom worked all weekend and I actually used the vacuum cleaner, threw some laundry in the wash, and unloaded the dishwasher. Not that she would notice, but I was quite helpful. The headaches persisted, though, and in between my being little-Miss-Perfect I slept. A lot.

Anyway, now I faced a make-up test in first hour. I knew Mr. Bayer would make me take it even though I missed school Friday. No excuse was good enough for the grizzly Bayer. I failed this class last year and he didn’t have an ounce of sympathy for me. Flirting didn’t even work with him. So, like I said, I was screwed. Screwed because I didn’t make a cheat sheet. Screwed because I sat in the front row and the two juniors on either side of me knew less than nothing.

And screwed because I kept doing oddball stuff. Like when I was getting ready this morning I parted my hair on the wrong side without even thinking about it. And I started making oatmeal for breakfast. I
hate
oatmeal.

Another weird thing was when I stopped at Michael’s locker and couldn’t remember the combination. Weirder yet, I had an urge to stab a girl that walked by. I could clearly picture Michael knocking the knife out of my hand as I looked down at that blonde’s face. Not like a vision. Like a real memory.

I took a deep breath then and decided I’d wait for him at the locker I shared with Brittany. I walked slower than the rush of kids that just got off the bus. They surged through the hallway while I moved like mud. I spotted a red-headed guy near the fountain and my heart did one of those cliché flip-flops. He was hot. Tyler, I thought, but I had no clue why that should be his name.
Hey, Tyler
. He took a step toward me and for a split second the impulse to touch him was overpowering. Then I came to my senses as a syllable or two tumbled out of his gorgeous mouth and I flipped him off.

I could feel the heat of his staring after me. Kind of cool. I sashayed my hips and kept thinking about his mouth. I could just imagine what it would be like to kiss those lips. Maybe, if I didn’t get pregnant by Michael, that guy could be option two. I’d have to do a little research.

Brittany met me at our locker. She had some good news for me, and then I raced to first hour when the bell rang. I almost passed the classroom.

Mr. Bayer pulled two desks out into the hall for me and another girl. I stared at the first page of the test and then looked over at Shelly. She was writing furiously and keeping her arm positioned to hide her answers. I wished it was multiple choice. I’d have a chance then. Stupid fill in the blank. I read number one and didn’t have a trace of an idea. I closed my eyes and tried to remember Bayer’s lecture, the blackboard, the book, anything.

Nothing.

I opened my eyes and looked at number two. But number one’s answer was filled in.
What?
I didn’t know if it was correct—how would I know? And it was really sloppily written. I erased it and wrote it more legibly. It kind of seemed familiar. Maybe that
was
the right answer. Maybe I
did
know this stuff and the accident unclogged my brain. I filled in number two with my eyes open, my writing neat. I knew the answers to about eighty percent of the test. Cool. I finished before Shelly and dragged my desk back into the classroom. I never had this feeling before—like I accomplished something. Cool.

I paid attention, took notes even, for the last fifteen minutes of class.

Tyler

Monday morning

First hour dragged on. More grammar crap. I helped Rashanda collect the books at the end of the hour, and when we were in the storage room I asked her if she had an update on Jessica. She wouldn’t look at me. Man, she must be so upset, but she shook her head no and mumbled something about maybe Jessica being back in her body. Sleeping in the coma. The bell rang and the sudden noise of thirty kids getting to their feet made me feel rushed.

“Rashanda, I got a question for you,” I said, before I lost my nerve.

She started to go out the storage room door, but stopped, still not meeting my gaze, which was good, because I knew my freckles were melting into a crimson smear. “Uh, about that time you were with Hannah and Michael . . . um, and you got abducted . . .” Crap. I didn’t figure her for the panicky type, but she definitely seemed alarmed.

“What are you talking about?” she turned toward me and lifted her eyes, but focused on the shelf behind me.

“Um, I know all about it. I know . . . because Jessica knows.”

Her frown went deep. She didn’t say anything.

“We need to talk,” I said. “After school? Do you have practice?”

“I’m not going,” she said.

I followed her to her desk where she pulled a burgundy book bag up from the floor and brushed it off. I tried not to stammer, “You live close, right?” It wasn’t courage that made me continue. “I’ll walk you home. Maybe we can figure this out.” A sudden memory, my own, flashed before my eyes as she nodded. I remembered that time at the game when I helped her pass by Hannah and her groupies. Her nervousness around Hannah made sense to me now. It fit with a particular piece of knowledge that Jessica left in my dream.

Rashanda

Monday morning

Was it a sin to start to fall for a guy when your best friend was in the hospital dying? I saw Tyler a few times this weekend and got flustered each time. I didn’t actually blush because of my complexion, but the heat radiated from my face like a furnace blast and my mouth got so dry I couldn’t speak. It couldn’t have been my imagination that Tyler was looking at me like he cared about
me
. Sure, he still was obsessing over Jessica, but maybe that was just an outward display to hide his real feelings.

I could not, nor did I want, to get that image of “the kiss” out of my head. It was just a dream for him and Jessica. It wasn’t real for them. Therefore, whatever they thought it meant, it didn’t really mean anything. I could probably write an essay on its symbolism though—that they both were looking for completeness or maturity or understanding. But it was something totally different for me. It was hope.

I knew for a fact that Jessica liked Michael. She said so all the time. She wasn’t even a little bit interested in Tyler. Tyler, on the other hand, had never said boo about his feelings for Jessica. I always just assumed that he was interested in her because he seemed to be looking her way all the time. But I was always there, too. Maybe he darted his eyes to her to hide the fact that he was really watching me.

He followed
me
to the concession stand. He asked
me
what we were doing after the game. He kept seeking out
me
at the hospital.

I almost died when he spoke to me at the end of first hour today. We were putting away the grammar books when he asked me about the abduction. I’m not the type to be rendered speechless, but I was momentarily dazed. How could he know? I never told anyone, not even Jessica. I had no words to respond so I went to my seat and grabbed my bag. When he offered to walk me home, a delicious thrill robbed me of my tongue again and I nodded my consent. I hoped nobody saw me, the best friend of the girl in a coma, walking out of English class with a goofy grin on my face.

Just five classes to get through and then . . . oh, this was so not like me.

I spent all of second hour doodling in my notebook. I listed all the times I thought I’d misinterpreted Tyler’s intentions. Number one was the first day of school when we reached the back entrance at the same time. He held the door for me and gave me one of those cowboy nods with a half smile. He asked me how my summer was and I told him that I spent almost every day at the pool with Jessica. His smile widened and I assumed it was because I mentioned her, but maybe not.

Number two was at the football game. “Tyler could be plan B for Homecoming. I’ll bet I could get him to ask you,” I had said to Jessica.

“Nah, he likes you,” Jessica replied. Why would she say that if she didn’t know something? When he put his hand on my elbow and guided me past Hannah and her entourage I thought she might be right. What stopped me from thinking that was true?

Number three was last Thursday when I saw Jessica leaving with Michael and the others. What had Tyler said then? I remembered that he touched my arm, tried to pull me back, and said something about Jessica wanting to leave with Keith, his stepbrother. That didn’t make any sense to me then and it didn’t now either. I wouldn’t put it past Jessica to find a way to be close to Michael, but if Tyler wasn’t concerned about her going off with his brother, or stepbrother rather, then maybe he wasn’t fixated on her after all.

Oh, no. I almost groaned aloud in class when I realized how stupid I must have sounded to him, babbling about a kidnapping and racing off after them.

Number four was Tyler fixing that flat tire. Sure it was Jessica’s car, but I was driving it. He did it for
me
. He must have.

I doodled out numbers five through seven, listing times we were together at the hospital this past weekend. He kept seeking me out. We went to the hospital gift shop together. When I was all upset about Jessica, we had found a secluded spot off the waiting room—a grieving room—and he put his arm around me as we fell asleep. I wouldn’t let myself think of it as anything but friendship then, but now as I thought of his arm around me I got all goose-bumply.

I could hardly wait for the end of the school day. Maybe he would hold my hand as we walked. If he talked about Jessica it would only mean that he needed a familiar subject to break the ice. “I’ll walk you home. Maybe we can figure this out,” he said. And he’d talked about my abduction. Possibly he had figured out Michael and Hannah’s gang pranks. Maybe he’d been a victim, and he wanted to figure out what we could do to turn them in. That had to be it.

Jessica

Monday morning

This must be what it’s like to be a baby. I fall asleep and wake up in a new place. I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t talk. I don’t understand everything I hear. Somebody spoons food into my mouth. I can’t control my arms and legs. Well, mostly. Sometimes Hannah relaxes control just enough for me to take over for a bit.

I’m torn between excitement and dread as she, we, walk into school this morning. Excitement because we stop at Michael’s locker first. Dread because I really don’t want to be in her shoes when Michael shows up, which is kind of conflicting because I guess you could say that I really do want to be in her shoes when it comes to Michael.

We look at the combination lock and I think of mine: 38-8-12. Hannah slaps at the lock and we turn and lean back. A group of kids come in from the buses and I see Kayla from drama class pass by. I have a flashback about our skit and realize that I don’t know what grade we got on it. I remember Mrs. Clark had asked me to practice something . . . what was it? The girl? The girlfriend?

Suddenly we’re moving along with the crowd and heading down the hallway.
Slow down
. Oh, how I want to take control.

I see a familiar red face at the end of the hallway.
Hey, Tyler!

Oh my gosh, he sees me. This is great.

And then Hannah whips me away, all angry. What is with this girl? Things go black for me for a while before I hear another voice.

“Hi, Hannah.”

“Hi, Brit.”

“Feeling better? Because if you’re not I have some news that will perk you up.”

We stop and I get a sense of anticipation coursing through Hannah’s body.

“What?”

“You got enough nominations to put you on the ballot for Homecoming Queen.”

“Awesome. Who’s my competition?”

“Well, uh, your best friend for one . . . me.”

I feel Hannah’s body tense up. I can’t see who she’s talking to. I don’t know any seniors named Brit, or Brittany.

“Oh, great, good for you.” Hannah’s voice is not sincere. She’s worried or else guilty. And anxious. And stiff. “Who else?”

“Claire, Emily, and Krista.”

This girl named Brit waits for a response and I can tell that Hannah is full of anxiety. A door opens in her head and I step through, the blackness gone. Now I can see Brittany’s face. Nice. Average.

And pathetic. That isn’t my estimation—that comes from Hannah’s thoughts. Here she is talking with her supposedly best friend, yet at the same time her thoughts are mocking her. Hannah has set her up. I know it like I know my locker combo. The nomination process is pretty simple—get as many signatures as you can and the top five are on the ballot. Hannah had coerced signatures from dozens of people for these other girls and herself so she would be on the ballot with girls who didn’t have a chance against her.

I want to return to that black place and not listen to her phony conversation, but I seem destined to wait mutely if not blindly. I search around for some Michael memories, but the doors stay closed.

*  *  *

First hour with the grizzly Bayer. All right. I have this same class fifth hour. Hannah grips the test like she wants to crumble it up into a ball. Such anger. She doesn’t want to fail this test. Take it easy, I try to tell her. I give her a little more help than I should, but it feels better to ease that rage she has going and mask it with my signature serenity. I try to visualize swimming underwater to help calm her down.

I succeed because she is utterly cool as we walk to second hour. I keep the water imagery going partly to give myself something familiar and peaceful to concentrate on. It wasn’t my idea to be inside of Hannah . . . well, I guess it was, but not for this long. I wanted to get in and get out. Figure out some stuff, maybe learn a little bit about Michael.

I go from black thoughts to bright lights as Hannah’s body passes under the fluorescent tubes in the hallway. When did she leave the classroom? I feel something in her hand. A wooden hall pass. We’re on our way to the girls’ bathroom. Oh my gosh, I can really feel the urge now. I’m going to wet myself if she doesn’t hurry up.

We open the door and go in. A girl slouches in front of the sinks. No, two girls. No, wait.

“What are you looking at?” Hannah’s voice is surly. I thought she was pretty when I used to see her with Michael, but this tone is as ugly as the reflection we both can see in the bathroom mirror.

Amy Harper winces, but another girl, one that isn’t reflected, one who saw me in this same restroom last Friday, vanishes, as if Amy sucked her own spirit back into her heart. Now all I can see is the contrast between Hannah’s tall blonde figure and Amy’s dark hunch. Shouldn’t I be reflected, too? At least to my own eyes? I try squinting and think I detect a bit of a glow around Hannah’s neck and jaw.

Amy stubs out her cigarette and edges around Hannah, around us. I stare at her, try to get Hannah to smile, but I’m just along for the ride.

As soon as the bathroom door swings shut with Amy’s exit, a small window of regret in Hannah’s mind opens a crack. I see and hear the memory of Amy’s abduction:

“Thanks so much for the ride,” Amy says to Hannah. She wipes the wet strands of soft brown hair out of her eyes. “Talk about a sudden storm, huh?” She pats at the water drops that mushroom into large splotches on her fluorescent pink beach robe.

“No problem.” Hannah’s voice is sweet. “I’ve seen you at the beach all summer by yourself. Do all your friends work?”

“Mm-hm. Mostly babysitting jobs. I have one, too, but I don’t have to be there until later. What about you? I noticed all your friends left a little while ago.”

Hannah smiles. “Yup, off to work. Where can I drop you?”

“Oh, it’s not far. Two blocks that way, an easy walk to the beach. You can turn left right there.” A silence. “Oh, you missed it.”

Hannah’s smile is still plastered hard on her mouth, humorless as she answers, “We’re so close to this really cool spot and I heard that some really hot guys hang out there. It’s like a clubhouse sort of. I just want to check it out real quick. There’s no hurry, right?” She drives on and turns into a two-track lane, pleased with Amy’s silent compliance. She turns off the windshield wipers as the rain lets up and pulls up close to the old Quonset hut. “Have you ever been here before?”

Amy shakes her head no; her hands rest lightly over the wet beach towel in her lap, a bottle of baby oil cradled in its folds. She’s curious.

Hannah gets out of the car first and waves an encouragement to Amy who follows, bringing the towel and baby oil with her. The closer they get to the hut the louder the strains of music become. It sounds like Jason Mraz. Hannah smiles and moves her head with the music, singing along. She knocks a one-four-two pattern on the door and several voices, male and female, call out in response, musically in three notes, come i-in.