Call Me Grim (2 page)

I’m being stupid. There’s nothing to fear. There’s nobody here except me and my artist’s imagination. But I still feel it. Somebody’s eyes are on me, scrutinizing me, looking through me. Either that or someone walked over my grave, as Gran would say.

“That’s a beautiful piece,” a smooth voice says behind me.

I jump and whirl around. My hand instinctively reaches for the inhaler in my back pocket.

“Holy Jesus! You scared the crap out of me.” I hold my other hand over my galloping heart.

The boy who was checking out the still-life at the other end of the aisle is at my side. His faded blue eyes study me with interest.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” The guy’s smile is warm, but I can’t shake the cold feeling that settles in my stomach. He nods to my painting of Kyle and I follow his gaze. “I was just saying that’s a beautiful painting. Great sense of composition.”

Of course I’m proud of my work, but I’d hate to come off as a self-congratulatory jerk to a guy I just met, especially since he just scared the bejesus out of me.

“Yeah. It’s okay.” I pray the blood drains from my cheeks before he notices.

“It’s more than okay. It’s…I don’t know.” He touches his chin thoughtfully. “Passionate. Emotional. Just look at the use of color. This artist has talent.”

Oh. He doesn’t know it’s my painting. Well, why would he? He doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him. As far as I know he could be the Philly museum guy, though I doubt it. He’s only about my age. But it doesn’t matter if he is. I’m not about to tell him it’s my painting after he said such nice things. I feel weird enough as it is.

“So, are you an artist?” I ask to get his mind off my work.

“Ha! Unless you count origami, no.” He shakes his head and his black hair feathers across his forehead. “I’ve tried, but I’m terrible. My sister’s the artist in the family.” A soft smile lights his face. “She’s great.”

Ah. Now it makes sense. His sister has a display in the show. He’s here for her.

“Where’s her display?” I say. “I’d like to see it.”

“Oh.” He shifts his weight and slips his hands into his pockets. “She’s not in this show.”

“She’s not?” I ask, surprised. “Then, who are you here to see?”

“You, Libbi.” His smile is friendly, but there’s something more to that sparkle in his eyes. The hairs on my arms stand up like little soldiers.

The cold feeling I got when I first saw this guy never really went away, but now ice blasts through me like my blood has been replaced with Freon. I’ve never seen him before. Why would he say he’s here to see me? My signature scrawled at the bottom of the canvas is barely legible to me, and I wrote it. So how does he know my name?

“Something bad is going to happen to you tomorrow,” he says.

“What?” I say, because I’m shocked and my mind is too numb to think of anything else.

“Listen. What I’m about to say might sound crazy, unbelievable even.” He nervously twists a silver ring on his right thumb. “But I don’t have a lot of time, and I need you to hear me out. It’s important. Okay?”

“Okay.” I swallow. What else can I say? He has me cornered.

The guy opens his mouth, but before he speaks, his eyes dart over my shoulder and his lips smack shut.

“Libbi?” Mom’s voice drifts down the aisle behind me, and I sigh with relief. Saved by my mom.

“I’ll talk to you later, when we can be alone.” The guy turns and faces the painting opposite mine.

“Alone?” I ask, but he ignores me. He leans in close to the painting, so close he could count the brush strokes.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry I’m late.” Mom slips one arm around me in a half-hug.

“It’s okay.” I give the creepy guy one last look. He said something bad was going to happen to me. Is he just crazy, or does he know something I don’t? Maybe both. He might be crazy enough to have something bad planned for me.

A shiver passes down my body, but I shake it off. I’m letting my imagination get to me again.

“Was the restaurant busy?” I ask to get my mind off the guy and his insane prediction.

“Nuts.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But never mind about that. I’m here now, and I’m dying to see this award-winning painting of yours.”

The guy glances over his shoulder at us, his eyes wide with surprise. Maybe he didn’t think a girl could paint a winning piece. I ignore him.

“You know I placed?” Disappointment settles over me and kicks the creepy-crawly feeling the guy gave me to the curb. “Who told you?” I pout. I wanted to tell her myself.

“I ran into Max while I was looking for you.” She points at my painting decorated with the blue ribbon. “Is that it? Oh my goodness, Libbi. You got first place?”

“Yeah,” I say. At least Max didn’t spoil that.

“That’s so great.” Tears swell in her eyes. Jackpot.

I can’t help myself. I peek at the weirdo who complimented my work. He’s crazy, I’m sure, but I still sort of want him to know the painting he liked is mine. Maybe that makes me a little cuckoo myself, but I don’t care.

He meets my eyes. His gaze slides back and forth between my painting and me, his face the definition of stunned disbelief. Yeah, he definitely knows it’s my painting now.

Suddenly, his jaw clenches and his eyes harden. He mumbles something that sounds like “I can’t do this,” and then he turns and practically jogs away.

He can’t do what? My brain fills in the answer with lots of awful, scary possibilities.

For the rest of our time at the show, I continuously glance over my shoulder for the creepy guy, but he’s not anywhere.

Good. Take your insanity somewhere else
. But part of me worries that he’s waiting, out of sight. Biding his time until he can follow me home. Where I’ll be in my room. Alone. Like he wanted.

The creep is back.

I may not be able to see him, but I know he’s here, somewhere. Call it intuition. Or maybe it’s just the eerie memory of when the guy stared me down last night. I don’t know, but I’m not taking any chances.

I hunch over my history final and release my thick hair from behind my ears. It swings forward like a dark-brown curtain and hides my face.

Show’s over, buddy.

I can’t look around, not with Mr. Winkler on “cheater duty.” Hopefully, the guy will get bored and go wherever the hell he went last night when he took off.

The final is what’s important. I need to focus on this test.

I read the next question on the page, but the loser’s gaze bores through my dark shield of hair and my arms erupt in gooseflesh. Before I can skim the multiple choice answers, my eyes betray me and shoot up to scan the classroom.

Mr. Winkler sits at his desk scratching at some poor schlub’s paper with his red pen of doom. His bald head gleams in the harsh fluorescent light. God, I hope it’s not my paper he’s destroying. I can’t afford another bad grade in this class.

I quickly scan the rest of the classroom through the part in my hair, but everyone is working. Eerie feeling or not, nobody’s looking at me.

But I know someone is watching. Just like last night, I can feel his stalker stare.

This is ridiculous. I shake my head and rub my arms to dispel the goose bumps. This guy has freaked me out so much I’m imagining his eyes on me now. I don’t have time for this. I have an exam to finish.

The tip of my pencil hovers over the letter C, and something in my peripheral vision shifts.
I snap my head up and finally see him.

The guy I caught staring at me at the art show last night, the guy who warned me something bad was going to happen to me today, stands at the tiny rectangular window in the door. He tilts his head and his ice-blue eyes lock on mine, sending a shiver through my body.

Shake it off, Libbi,
I tell myself.
He’s just a crazy boy with a crush.

Actually, with his tousled black hair and his nose pressed against the glass like that, he looks a little like a lost puppy. If he wasn’t so creepy, I’d almost feel sorry for him. But couldn’t he choose a better time than the middle of my history final to eyeball me? Plus, he said he wanted to talk to me alone, and this is most certainly not alone.

I point to my partially finished test and mouth, “Final exam.”

He nods. A half-smile lifts the corners of his lips.

“Bye.” I wave my hand.

“I need to talk to you,” he mouths.

“No,” I reply, but he continues to stand at the door.

Dude, catch a clue already. I spin away from the door, sneak a peek at Mr. Winkler, and shove the eraser of my pencil between my teeth. I yank the eraser out of its metal holder and flick it at the back of Haley’s head. Her chair squeaks as she jumps and whips around to glare at me.

“What?” she whispers.

“Look.” I point over my shoulder with my pencil to the classroom door. “That crazy guy I told you about is at the window.”

We turn to the door together, but the window’s empty. He must be a shy creeper.

“Where?” Haley says.

“Never mind. He’s gone.” I slump back in my chair. At least I can finish my test in peace.

“Is there a reason you and Haley are chit-chatting in the middle of the final, Libbi?” Mr. Winkler’s cheeks flare as red as the pen he sets aside. He stands from his desk.

“Sorry, Mr. Winkler,” I say. “We weren’t cheating or anything. I thought I saw someone out in the hallway.”

“Well, I’ll be the judge of who’s cheating.” He stomps up the aisle toward us and snatches Haley’s test off her desk as he passes.

“Hey, I’m not done,” she protests.

“That’s too bad, isn’t it?” He seizes my test as well. “Maybe next time you’ll keep your eyes on your own paper and your lips sealed.”

Haley’s eyes bulge and her face flushes crimson. She presses her lips together into a thin, pink line. I know just by looking at her that Haley is too pissed to defend herself. This is my fault. I should have just ignored my stalker and left her alone.

“That’s not fair,” I say.

“Cheating is not fair.” Mr. Winkler sprays me with spittle. “Do I need to send you to the office to discuss this with Mrs. Greener?”

“No.” I wipe his spit off my cheek. There’s no way I’d willingly submit myself to Greener. I’ll have to actually talk to Winkler after class, though that’s not much better. Kyle calls Mr. Winkler “Mr. Sprinkler,” and after sitting in the front row for nine months, he’s earned the right to call him whatever he wants.

“Okay then.” Winkler marches up to his desk with both of our tests clutched in his pudgy little hands. Once he’s safely resumed his red pen massacre, Haley glances over her shoulder at me and gives me a look that makes me wish I could dissolve into the seat.

“Thanks a lot,” she whispers and whips around to the chalkboard before I can say I’m sorry. Her curls bounce as she folds her arms over her chest.

Kyle turns in his seat and gives me a sympathetic glance. At least
he
isn’t mad at me, but his sister is pissed. Haley would never cheat. And she’d never fail to finish a test. Haley never fails at anything. I’ll have to make this up to her.

The bell rings a few seconds longer than usual, signaling the end of the school day. The scattered pile of papers on Winkler’s desk grows as people deposit their exams and file out.

“Haley,” I call, but she races out the door ahead of everyone. She doesn’t even look at me. Okay, making it up to her might cost me more than a close encounter with Winkler the Sprinkler. I reach under my chair and grab my book bag by the straps.

“Don’t worry, Libs.” Kyle smacks his books down on my desk. “She’ll get over it.”

“Yeah, maybe. She’s pretty ticked.” I swing my bag over my shoulder and shrug. “Why don’t you go on without me? I want to try and smooth things over with Winkler. If you wait, you’ll be late for practice.”

Kyle slips his drumsticks out of their home in his back pocket and taps a quick rhythm against my desk as he considers me. Any other day, he’d say, “I can be late,” and wait for me anyway, but not today. Kyle’s the drummer of the band Red Motive, and there’s a huge Battle of the Bands at school tomorrow night. The winner gets to play three original songs at prom. Not even his huffy twin sister could keep him from band practice today.

“Are you sure?” He raises his eyebrows.

“I’m a big girl, Kyle. I can walk home by myself.”

“Okay.” Kyle scratches his cheek and smirks. “But I hope you realize that trying to convince Sprinkler to change his mind is like trying to convince the Pope he’s not Catholic.”

“Yeah, I know.” I squeeze between him and my desk and into the aisle. “But Haley doesn’t deserve to fail and I can’t afford to. I have to try.”

“Good luck with that.” Kyle claps me on the shoulder on his way to the door. I lift my hand in a feeble good-bye and trudge up to Mr. Winkler’s desk.

“Mr. Winkler, we weren’t cheating. I swear. Haley would never—”

“Like I said, I’ll decide that when I grade the exams.” He stuffs the pile of tests and other papers into his briefcase. “You’re wasting your time. And mine.”

“But we really weren’t—”

“I don’t care. You were talking, and that’s the same as cheating in my book.” He snaps the clasps of his briefcase closed.

“But we weren’t cheating.” I slap my hands down on his desk in frustration. “And it wasn’t even Haley’s fault. I made her look at me.”

“I know that.” He levels me with his eyes. “I’m not stupid, Libbi. You need an A on this test to pass the class.”

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“Oh, really?” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Well, maybe a little bit, but we weren’t cheating.”

“I’m not discussing this any further with you.” He snatches his briefcase up and pushes his chair in with his knee.

That’s it? He won’t even hear me out? My nails dig into my palms. I take a deep breath and count to three.

“That’s so unfair,” I say instead of the four-letter-word tirade that presses against my teeth.

“Go home, Libbi.”

“Fine.” I barrel across the classroom and through the open door, yanking the doorknob as hard as I can. The door slams and the lockers on either side rattle. Good. I hope I broke Mr. Sprinkler’s door.