Conversion (7 page)

A scream rang out, and we all spun in our seats to see what was going on. A girl I didn’t know, a skinny little thing with thick glasses and a bob haircut, had slumped over on her friends with her arms and legs sticking out at right angles. She was perfectly still for an instant, and then her mouth opened and her tongue stuck out and her entire body started to vibrate.

Cries of “Oh my God!” and “Has she got it, too?” burst from mouths all over the room, bouncing off the walls of the chapel, rising to a cacophony. Miss Hocking leapt out of the pulpit and sprinted down the aisle, wading through the sea of students’ legs to reach the spasming girl.

“Everyone stay calm!” the upper school dean commanded into the microphone. “Girls! She’s going to be fine! I need you to stay calm!”

Girls were standing up, elbowing each other to get a better look, and some of the little kids had started crying. The nurse held her hands on either side of the bobbed-hair girl’s head while the girl’s arms and legs shook with terrible force. Her heels beat on the floor, and her mouth issued gagging sounds that sounded primitive and animal-like.

Another scream pierced the rising chaos in the chapel, and we all looked around in increasing frenzy to see where it had come from. A second girl, this one a junior, had collapsed onto her back, arms and legs bicycling in the air, her head thrashing, her mouth spewing nonsense as all her friends looked on in horror. The force of her kicks pushed a pew out of line with a groan of wood scraping over the flagstone floor.

Everyone stood up, moving like bees in a hive. I realized that Emma and I were clutching each other, our fingers digging into each other’s upper arms, our shoulders pressed together, and she whispered, “Colleen, we’ve got to get out of here.”

I nodded, struck dumb by what I was seeing. Anjali and Deena had been swallowed by the crowd, and I couldn’t see them.

“EVERYONE. I want you to WALK. Single file. Down the aisle. And report to your advisories. NOW,” the upper school dean commanded from the lectern. “Teachers, let’s help our girls get organized. I want everyone to stay calm. Stay calm!”

If the dean thought we would obey her, she was mistaken. The girls of St. Joan’s surged for the chapel doors, elbowing each other, screaming, some girls tripping and falling, teachers standing waist-deep in a tide of girls, pawing at our heads as we crested past them to keep us from bowling them over as we built up and then spewed in a torrent through the doors.

Over all of us, her eyes turned beatifically to heaven, stood Saint Joan, her body licked in flames.

February

CANDLEMAS

Moreover, no operation of witchcraft has a permanent effect among us. And this is the proof thereof: For if it were so, it would be effected by the operation of demons. But to maintain that the devil has power to change human bodies or to do them permanent harm does not seem in accordance with the teaching of the Church. For in this way they could destroy the whole world, and bring it to utter confusion.

MALLEUS MALEFICARUM
, PART 1, QUESTION 1

DANVERS, MASSACHUSETTS

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 2012

G
ood evening. Tonight, the mysterious illness that has taken over a local private school. What’s causing it? And are your children at risk? St. Joan’s Academy, an elite private school here in Danvers that’s long been a finishing school for the daughters of the North Shore elite,” the broadcast began.

I snorted. I mean, it was sort of true, I guess. Except that fully a third of us were on scholarship in one way or another. Even I had a little one, not that I liked to broadcast that to people. But say “private girls’ school,” and people just assume it’s going to be only one way. Plaid skirts and rainbow parties and people with their parents always going out of town. I may wear a plaid skirt, but how often do my parents go out of town? Approximately never, that’s how often.

“. . . has been shaken by a bizarre illness that has doctors scratching their heads. School officials aren’t saying what they think is causing the strange symptoms, which are manifesting as odd tics, twitching, and outbursts of disordered speech, but they are confirming that at least five students, ranging in age from thirteen to seventeen years old, are affected. And parents are worried.”

“I just think they know more than they’re saying,” said a bleached-blond woman whose face was frozen in a stapled-back rictus of imitation youth. Below the close-up of her face a TV news caption read
CONCERNED PARENT.

“Kathy Carruthers is a parent of a student at St. Joan’s, and she says that she’s worried for her daughter’s safety,” the voice-over explained.

“I mean, so far, no one’s been able to give us a straight answer,” Leigh’s mom continued. “We just want to know how to keep our girls safe. I think it’s really time that the school showed some accountability. After all, what’re we paying for?”

The picture cut to the school nurse, her makeup expertly done, her white coat pressed.

“We are not at liberty to comment on the medical condition of our students,” Nurse Hocking said. She managed to sound serious and concerned at the same time, which I suspected was why she, and not the upper school dean or Father Molloy, who just sounded pissed off whenever he talked to the media, had become the face of Mystery Illness 2012.

“Laurel Hocking is the nurse at St. Joan’s, and she says that although she understands that the parents have some concerns, there is nothing going on that should worry them,” the newscaster summarized.

“What I can say is that these are nice, wonderful, special girls, and we’re all very concerned about their welfare. All five students are being given excellent care, and we’re very close to figuring out what’s causing the symptoms. We’ll be holding a community meeting for students and parents within the next few days, and we really appreciate the community’s concern.”

I was impressed. She had already mastered the art of not saying much of anything at all.

The picture cut to TJ Wadsworth in her purple skirt suit standing by the Gothic doors of the upper school, a drainpipe gargoyle salivating over her shoulder, the tip of her nose pink with cold. The steps were crusted with ice and salt, and I wondered if she had a parka waiting for her in the news van.

“Harvey, the school isn’t commenting on the record further. But right now, it’s safe to say that as far as the Mystery Illness goes, we’re left with more questions than answers. All we can do, as a community, is ask what’s really happening to the girls at St. Joan’s. For Channel 7 News, this is TJ Wadsworth, live in Danvers, Massachusetts.”

My phone was ringing before I could even press the mute button.

“Did you see it?” I asked without preamble into the phone.

“I was just watching. Did you know it was five now for sure? I can’t believe they only talked to Leigh’s mom.” Emma sounded amused more than anything else.

“I’d heard five, maybe more. I heard they talked to a whole lot of people. But Clara’s parents won’t speak to anyone.”

“I heard Clara’s mom’s looking into hiring a publicist.”

“What?” I said. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“What for?”

“To handle the media, I guess. I don’t know. Damage control?”

“What damage? Her daughter had a bad reaction to a vaccine. What’s to control?”

“I’m not saying it’s what I would do,” Emma said.

“Hang on,” I said. “Someone’s on the other line.” I clicked over.

“Hello?”

“Did you see it?” Deena.

“I was just talking about it with Emma.”

Deena squealed. “How Botoxed is Leigh’s mom’s face? Tell Emma I say hi.”

“Hang on, I’ll conference it,” I said.

I frowned down at my cell phone, poking buttons, and then held it up to my ear.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Hello? Hello?” said Deena and Emma, overlapping.

More squeals, cries of greeting.

“Deena, Emma said she heard Clara’s mom’s hiring a publicist.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Deena said.

“It’s crazy!” I insisted.

“It’s not if she wants to make sure the media portrays them okay. I think it’s smart, them not talking to anybody yet.”

“See?” Emma said, as though that had been her position all along.

“What’s with everyone being so paranoid? That report seemed okay to me.”

“Kinda,” Deena said. “Except for the part where TJ Wadsworth is trying to make it sound like there’s some big cover-up going on, when they really just aren’t allowed to talk about it. Like, legally.”

“Yeah,” Emma agreed. “The Rutherfords are kind of a big deal. If I were them, I’d definitely think about it. They’re probably worried about news coverage hurting Clara’s college chances.”

“Oh my God. Do you think it could?”

“I mean, how could it not?”

“I don’t know,” I ruminated. “I mean, maybe it could help. Make you more interesting, you know? Memorable. My mom is always saying you have to be memorable.”

“If she gets in to Tufts and I don’t, I swear, I’m going to freak,” Deena muttered.

“Deena, you’re being crazy. You are so much smarter than her.”

“Yeah. But my dad doesn’t play as much squash.”

“I still think it’s weird,” I said. “Why wouldn’t they just come out and say what it is? People have reactions to shots all the time.”

A silence on the three-way call.

“Um,” Deena said. “Yeah. I don’t know. Unless that’s not what’s causing it.”

“You are so paranoid,” Emma pointed out.

“Just because I’m paranoid,” Deena countered, “doesn’t mean I’m not right. I think they don’t actually know what it is.”

“What I want to know is, who are they?” I asked.

I’d been combing Facebook and Instagram for days and I couldn’t figure it out.

“Clara,” Deena counted off.

“The Other Jennifer,” Emma added. “And the third one was Elizabeth.”

“It was?” I asked, interrupting Deena, who was saying, “How do you know?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No!”

“I heard, like, three days ago. I thought you guys knew already.”

“Who told you?”

“How should I know? I don’t remember. Someone.”

“I checked her Facebook, ’cause I wondered. I mean, she hangs out so much with Clara and them. But she posted a status yesterday and it just said something about homework. It didn’t say anything about being sick.”

“Well, would you want people to know you were twitching and falling all over yourself? I wouldn’t. I’d pretend like everything was normal.”

“So who are the other two?” Deena wondered.

“Probably the ones who collapsed during chapel.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know them.”

“Me neither.”

We paused, worrying.

“Do you think it’s contagious?” one of us said in a small voice.

“Nah. They’d have said something,” another of us insisted. “They’d close the school. Bring in the CDC or whatever.”

“Have you guys tried Googling it?”

“Oh, yeah. But it seems like it could be most anything. Tourette’s. Allergic reactions. It’s too vague. Web MD can’t figure it out.”

“Me neither.”

“Anyway,” I said, eyeing the television screen, where the newscast had moved on to talking about the weaknesses in the Patriots’ offensive line. “Did your parents see it?”

“My dad did,” Deena said.

“My mom is home, but she won’t watch TV,” Emma said. “What about Mike and Linda?”

“Not home yet,” I said.

“Did you guys hear Mr. Mitchell might be back this week?”

“Um, I’m not in AP US,” Deena reminded Emma.

“Sorry, that’s my other line again,” I said.

“That’s okay, I’ve gotta go anyway. Catch you tomorrow,” said Deena.

“Me too. Bye!” Emma rang off.

“Bye, guys,” I said.

I clicked over.

“Hello?”

“Did you see it?” asked a young male voice pretending to be a young female voice.

I rolled onto my back on my bed and grinned.

“Yes,” I said slowly. “Did you?”

“I did,” the young male voice said, back to its normal male self. “The wardens do let us have television here, if I bribe them with cigarettes. So what’s the real story, huh? Can you tell me? Is this a secure line?”

“Spence,” I sighed. “You should know better than to ask if this is a secure line. Use the code phrase.”

He cleared this throat. “Excuse me. This is Charlie’s Kitchen. I have an order of . . .” He paused with fake gravity. “
Waffle fries
for delivery. Did anyone there order some . . .
waffle fries
?”

“I believe I did,” I said, smiling.

“What the hell is this?” my father asked the mudroom.

When I roamed back into the living room an hour or so after getting off the phone, I found my father frowning down at a paper in his hand, the gutted envelope it had come in bunched in his fist.

“What the hell’s what?” asked my mother, coming up behind him.

She read for a minute, frowned, and plucked the paper out of his hands for a closer look.

“Colleen? Do you know anything about this?”

It was a letter, on heavy cream St. Joan’s stationery, announcing that there would be a “community meeting” the following night for all parents and students in the upper school. Everyone was to convene in the chapel, and St. Joan’s families were kindly requested not to speak to the media. My brother, Michael, was sitting at the breakfast table with my copy of
The Crucible
open for some reason, and earbuds in, plugged into what looked like a new phone. There wasn’t any music playing in the earbuds, I suspected. It was a trick I’d taught him. He just wore them because it created a quiet barrier between him and the rest of our family. I knew he was listening to us.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “I heard they might be having a meeting.”

“A meeting? What for?”

“Is this about drugs?” My mother planted her hands on her hips and gave me a look straight out of a parenting pamphlet from the YMCA.

“What?” I blinked. “No! Jeez.”

“Do you think we both have to go?” my father asked my mother. “Someone should stay here with Mikey. He’s got a test. And there’s Wheez.”

This was the way my family usually remembered it had a fifth member, my baby sister, Louisa, who was seven and big on stealth. Sometimes it felt like I went days without seeing her. She could be under my bed for all I knew. I wasn’t even sure if she was home right then.

From the tension in my brother’s body I knew he was listening very hard. He went to St. Innocent’s, our affiliated boys’ school, where he was in eighth grade, and for the first time I wondered if there was talk about the Mystery Illness among the boys, too.

“I can go. I guess.” My mother didn’t sound pleased. “If it’s important.”

My father rested a paternal hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye in that “we’re really communicating” way that he had, which made me pity him in spite of myself.

“It’s not about drugs, Colliewog?”

I sighed. “It’s not. I swear. I’ll show you.”

I herded my parents back to my room, which they both hesitated to enter, each waiting for the other to go through my door first. While they sorted that out, I opened my laptop and booted it up. They stepped around heaps of clothes and made a big show of being careful not to touch any surfaces. My mother avoided looking at my Killers poster in a way that was almost acrobatic. I could hear the forcible restraint of them not commenting on the state of my room.

Both my parents’ breaths warmed the back of my neck as I brought up the video of the report. A soft footfall while it was loading let me know that Michael had crept in after them, his headphones draped around his neck like a rosary.

“Nice phone, Mikey,” I muttered to him. I’d been lobbying for a new phone for months.

“Oh, this?” he said, pretending to be casual. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t get to have a phone ’til I was in high school, you know,” I remarked as three dark curly heads crowded together around my shoulders.

“I didn’t get to have a phone ’til I was thirty,” my mom said. “And then I paid for it myself.”

My father stifled a laugh.

“Hilarious,” I muttered.

I hit play on the news clip. Then, without warning, a fourth head materialized at my elbow. So Wheez had been under my bed after all.

“Hi, Wheez,” I said to her.

“Hi, Colleen. Don’t worry, I still don’t have a phone.”

“Oh, God,” my mother said to the video screen. “Kathy Carruthers.”

“What, Kathy Carruthers?” my father asked.

“Well, I mean. Just look at her.”

“Linda, come on.”

“Sorry.”

They watched the rest of the video in silence. At one point, Michael whispered, “Five!”

When it was over, my parents straightened up and looked at each other.

“Okay,” my mother said. “We’re both going.”