Death of the Mad Hatter (3 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WO

(
Alice Mae: Present Time)

Closing my assigned locker door behind me, I stood up inside of it
as much as I was able. My head skimmed the metal top. What I’d give for a sip of
Drink Me
juice
so I could fit properly inside.

The locker wasn’t nearly big enough to
provide everything needed for proper education, much less to conduct surveillance. This was my eleventh school I’d attended in my search for a boy named Ryley Edward Edgar. He and Lauren jumped ship and moved more frequently than a band of fugitives on the run. But, I supposed they were just that; persons of interest, being hunted by a royal twat. I wondered if Robby dropped the bomb and told them about the nightmare he escaped from, or the life he left behind in Wonderland.

After my most recent incident with the Queen of Hearts, I’d been
“encouraged” to complete a search and rescue mission for the boy. Along with everyone else in Wonderland, I desperately needed to please Hearts. If I somehow screwed up this assignment, I feared that the next time I returned to Wonderland, I’d be in two separate pieces—my head and my body. Thus, my obligation to the queen was clear: Bring Ryley Edward Edgar to Wonderland using
any
means necessary.

I was ninety-nine percent sure that I’d finally found the
infamous boy that Hearts wanted. Even so, I had to be one hundred percent sure this dorky boy was the one she wanted. I wasn’t taking any chances, not anymore.

“After I take his photo
and am sure he is the one
, you’ll need to deliver this to Hearts, Mr. Ruth.” I held up the white rabbit and looked him square in the eye. The bunny didn’t move. Yet, I knew he heard me. “But not until I’m confident he is the one she wants. I don’t need another lesson in tactical reconnaissance from the Joker.”

I careful
ly set Mr. Ruth down so I could get to my camera. My fabulous, perfect, fashionable heels barricaded the bunny between my ankles. I didn’t care if he wasn’t animated when he was in the form of a stuffed animal. I knew from past experience that the moment I wasn’t paying attention, he would transform into a living mini lop and hop away faster than I could say
runaway rumperbabbits romp around in ridiculous rendezvous residences
.

Peering through the locker
vents, I memorized the hallway since I hadn’t much time to study the school’s layout before enrolling so had to study the blueprints in more depth tonight. Nevertheless, I knew my locker was nowhere close to his, and I needed to document his existence without too many watchful eyes. So I needed to get creative. Thus, I’d stalled to keep Ryley from making it to class on time. I hoped my efforts weren’t in vain and waited for the young man with a disheveled hairstyle to stroll by my locker from the principals.

Not more than ten minutes later, Ryley walked by with a pink slip in his hand
. I squealed then slapped my hand over my mouth, hoping to prevent more noises from fleeing. He eyed my locker, and I swore that he could see me spying on him through the metal slits. His russet colored eyes darkened in the same way his father’s had when suffering with male-PMS.

Even if I hadn’t “befriended”
Robby Edgar, I’d know Ryley was a
wondrous
specimen. His chameleon-like eyes darkened and lightened, depending on his emotions. It was a trait only known to people who had associations with Wonderland. Mine changed too, but it was only by happenstance from spending so much time in that realm.
A big thank you to the Joker for that,
I thought bitterly.

I snatched my vintage Polaroid camera from my backpack.
“Smile pretty for the camera, you nincompoop.”

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

(Ryley: Present Time)

Insanity—plainly defined as a deranged state of mind or lacking the ability to rationalize. Hands shot i
nto the air when the half-deaf literature teacher, Mr. Blanch, asked for the interpretation of Ernest Hemingway’s deteriorating mental condition. He circled the desks with his hands behind his back. Wrinkles lined his button-up shirt and there was a stain on his pants that had to have been there since spring semester. It was one of the many markers that made me believe the rumors that “wife-number-three” skipped town. Also, a tan line encircled his finger where his ring had been.

Mr. Blanch stopped circling the room and leaned against his desk
, which never had a single paper on it. As far as I was concerned, the desk was purely decorative.

“Care to explain what mental
illness the infamous author suffered from, Miss Frick?” Mr. Blanch asked.

“Dementia,” Courtney said, flipping her red hair over her shoulder—her signature move. “The infamous author was clearly deranged
, even though he was brilliant.”

Most buddies in my class deemed gingers to be either
smokin’ hot or ugly as sin. Like with most stereotypes, I didn’t take much of a stand, but I bet that a gang of starving vampires wouldn’t eat her because she was so drop-dead gorgeous. She batted her ridiculously long eye lashes that framed her bright green eyes. She was beautiful and smart—if you were into that kind of thing. And judging from all the sideways glances the guys in my class were giving her, I wasn't the only one wanting to call her
mine
.

“—do you think? Ryley Edgar, am I boring you?”

Verbal diarrhea, coming out in the form of an “umm,” was my reply. Mr. Blanch crossed his arms over his chest. He could have called me out, since it was completely obvious I had no clue what he’d asked, but he had
some
tact. I swear he could sense when his students were losing focus, or perhaps he just singled out the male students who had drool dripping down their chins.

Courtney turned around in her chair and mouthed me the answer. For all I knew, she was speaking French because I was
god-awful at reading lips, especially hers. I was as functional as a brain-dead sloth when I looked at her lips.

“Speak up, Ryley,” Mr. Blanch said. “You know I can’t hear out of my right ear after the IED detonated in my Humvee.”

Had I mentioned that this teacher was a decorated war hero? I’d never seen him in anything other than a long sleeve shirt, even though summer in Rockingham felt about as refreshing as huddling in a blast furnace.

A knock at the door saved me, or so I thought. In walked the last girl I expected to see
, Alice Mae. She strode in with a sense of confidence most girls would never have wearing her getup. She had to be color blind.

Alice Mae handed Mr. Blanch a note. He read it quickly and
said, “Ah yes, Miss Liddell, I heard through the grapevine that the Mighty Ravens were expecting a new student.”

Mr. Blanch pointed to a seat next to me and said that he needed to continue with class if we were going to stay on track for the school year. I fought the urge to leave the second Alice Mae’s keister touched the plastic seat beside mine. I won’t admit that I was checking out her butt, but she did lower her hand and waved until I looked up.

Great, now she probably thought I was into her. This day couldn’t get any worse.
Mr. Blanch continued on with his lecture, but I wasn’t listening. Every one of my brain molecules was focused on Alice Mae. My mind was spinning trying to figure out she knew my name before I mentioned anything, and how she knew my dad was alive.

Sh
e smiled apologetically. As if reading my mind, she said, “Your father is—”

“Don’t bring him up, not again, no
t ever,” I said in a low voice and glanced up at the teacher. Mr. Blanch armed himself with a dry erase marker and was standing in front of the newly furnished white boards that had been screwed in over the old black boards. There was still chalk on the ledge. Apparently the school budget provided for new state-of-the-art paraphernalia, but wasn’t going to be bothered to clean out the old technology—like chalk and erasers. That was a small town for you. When Mr. Blanch turned around to write, I leaned over to Alice Mae so I wouldn’t have to speak loudly. “If you cherish your reputation at all, you won’t mention him in public ever again. Or I’ll make it my personal mission to ensure that your life is so miserable your nightmares give you warm-fuzzies.”

She mumble
d something that sounded like “get in line.”

“Ryley, let’s have another go at this,” Mr. Blanch said
grimly.

There were times I thought he was faking the whole part-deaf bit.
Or the last decade of teaching had conditioned him to the signs of when his students weren’t paying attention. I sat up tall in my seat.

“D
o you suppose all his brilliance led to Hemingway’s untimely death?” Mr. Blanch asked.

I shifted nervously. I didn’t like to discuss such matters of insanity, especially not in class. I guess it wasn’t like anyone knew about my family history of mental illness, except for Dax
, and apparently Alice Mae. I was determined to keep everyone else in the dark. There wasn’t any need for them to know my dad wasn’t playing with a full deck.

“I suppose,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Eccentric people are prone to insanity. It is believed that musicians, writers, and artis
ts are susceptible to psychosis. That’s why they can create such great works, but it comes at the price of their sanity.”

“I beg to differ.” Alice Mae fiddled with her pencil, not the standard number two. Oh, no—she held a purple colored pencil
with several bite marks.

Mr. Blanch said, “Enlighten us why.”

Alice Mae opened her mouth to explain further, but then jumped in her seat like someone startled her. She kicked her backpack and cursed under her breath. From the bunny reference, I assumed that Mr. Ruth had upset her somehow. The stuffed animal was by her feet, but I hadn’t seen her take him out.

“Your departure is premature,”
she scolded so quietly, I was positive I was the only one who’d heard her. “I said to deliver it to Hearts
after
I was sure he is the one.”

When our
eyes locked, she smiled. It wasn’t the kind of smile that one wore for a camera. No, she smiled like she was committing a crime and was going to thoroughly enjoy it.

She nudged the rabbit with her foot.
“Fine! Deliver it to the queen when no one is looking, but if I’m mistaken, it’s your head, Mr. Ruth.”

Inside the mesh pocket where Mr. Ruth belonged was a trademark square-picture of an instant p
hoto. On the picture was me. Me!?!? When had she taken a picture of me? A heart was scratched around my face. I glanced at her fingernails; the photo residue was embedded in her nails. She grabbed her stuffed animal and shoved it back in the mesh pocket, hiding the Polaroid.

Mr. Blanch tapped his desk, using the red marker he had used to make the
whiteboard bleed ink. He asked again, “Why do you disagree with Ryley’s observation, Miss Liddell?”

Alice Mae looked like she was surprised to see him still
in the room. She shook her head, clearing her mind. When she spoke again, she was as self-assured as ever. “Crazed or disillusioned—people know they are certifiably insane, or they haven’t come to the realization that they belonged in a straightjacket… yet.”

I cringed when she said
straightjacket.
No one else in the class seemed to notice my adverse effect to
that
word, except Alice Mae. She tilted her head to the side and sucked harder on whatever candy she had in her mouth.

“That’s an interesting perspective.” Mr. Blanch went on with
the lecture, discussing the various authors who had mental illnesses. Marquis de Sade, Leo Tolstoy, Sylvia Plath, and others made the list.

I couldn’t disagree with Alice Mae’s definition of insanity—not completely. Everyone was a little bit nuts, in
their own way, but we all weren’t completely bonkers. Granted, some people were a wee bit crazier than others. Usually, most kept their madness hidden, but it was clear that Alice Mae chose to embrace her lunacy. She should try out for the One Acts this spring. She was theatrical, to say the least.

As soon as the bell rang I asked,
“When did you take my picture?”

“
A photograph? Of you?” she asked, picking up her backpack. The rabbit and the photo had vanished. She shrugged her backpack over her shoulders and smiled innocently. “To which photo are you referring?”

“You can play dumb all you want, but I know that you have a
Polaroid with my face on it,” I said. “It was behind that stupid rabbit.”

Alice Mae winced when I said
stupid,
but recovered quickly with an inviting smile. “Why Ryley, aren’t you a little full of yourself?” she said, and rolled the candy against her teeth. “If I wasn’t mistaken, I’d say that you imagined the photo and the bunny.”

“Right, I made the whole thing up,” I said sarcastically.

“A confession. Fabulous! I didn’t think we’d get to this part of the game so quickly,” she said, and glanced at the watch my father gave me. She stared just a little too long to be merely curious. The edges of her lips tugged when she noticed the spade etched into it.

Why shouldn’t I be surprised that she picked out the
only
thing that had belonged to my father—a man that no one else knew was alive? “What game?” I said, covering the timepiece with my hand.

“Let’s pretend we’re playing a Who’s Who game
but everyone’s a liar,” she whispered flirtatiously. “It is rather curious why you’d fantasize about me taking your picture, don’t you think?”

“What do you want with me?”

She wiggled her finger. I stood up and stepped as close to the girl as I could manage. She glanced over her shoulders to make sure no one was listening, and then she stood on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear.

“It is not
me
who wants anything from you.”

With that
, she turned around and pranced out the door. I stood numbly by my desk. It took a bit for me to process her comment. She didn’t want anything from me, but someone did? What the hell did that mean? I grabbed my backpack and chased after her. However, Courtney was waiting for me in the hall. Normally, this would be cause for celebration. Now, it was just irritating. Alice Mae had gotten away.

“What’s up?” I asked,
stealing a look down the hall to see if Alice Mae was still in sight. Maybe I could still catch up with her.

She walked as close to the hall lockers as possible.
When she passed a lock, she tapped it with a bobby pin. If the lock was opened, it closed. If the lock was closed, it opened.

Was she a witch casting spells on the locks?
I rubbed my eyes; I had to be seeing things.

“—my parents are going to the lake house this weekend,” Courtney’s fingers were turning white from holding her books so tight.

I rubbed the back of my neck and stole another glance at Alice Mae. More unbelievable than the unlocking locks business was what I saw next. She was chatting with Becky, Courtney’s best bud and co-captain of the cheer squad. Becky was the Asian version of Courtney: fit, pretty, and smart, and had just a little too much sass.

What
could those two possibly have in common?

Courtney cleared her throat
. “So do you want to come over to my place on Saturday and watch a movie or not?”

“I have other plans this weekend.”

“With Alice Mae?”

I laughed, “Not in the foreseeable future.”

Becky and Alice Mae parted ways. What had they been talking about? Becky was head cheerleader and Alice Mae… well, I couldn’t picture her with pom-poms.

Courtney asked,
“Then why are you still looking at her?”

I
snapped my attention back to the redhead. “I’m not.” Obvious lie, but what was I supposed to say?

Courtney didn’t look convince
d either. “I’ll be right there, Becky. Ryley was just blowing me off.”

I pulled out my phone and recorded a voice message to Courtney. “I swear that I am not interested in Alice Mae. She is a pathetic attempt for a girl—for a human being.
You’re the one I want, Courtney. So how about I take you out another weekend? We could check out Aftershock.” I hit the send button. Her phone buzzed a second later.

“You can say what you want, but that freak still turns your brain into mush,” Courtney said
wounded.

I knew I was being a simpleton
, but I couldn’t pinpoint the reason why she was so miffed. “Ummm, I’m sorry? You think you have competition with her? You’re the hottest thing in this building!”