Places No One Knows (12 page)

Night is a long, unbroken sprawl, followed by another. And another.

It's been four days since Marshall lay on the couch looking up at me with hot, bleary eyes. Four days since I sat next to him and touched his neck and he rested his hand on my thigh. Four days since I've seen him. Since I got even the barest suggestion of a good night's sleep.

I've tried all the conventional wisdom—hot milk and boring books. A double dose of Benadryl, which left me numb, thirsty, and still very much awake.

The candle burns on my nightstand, but no matter how dutifully I count, nothing happens. After two hours and no luck, I admit that persistence isn't accomplishing anything, and blow it out.

Monday was supposed to be the day that sent everything clanking back to normal. No one can stay sick for more than seventy-two hours, right? That's impossible. It's inefficient.

But he still isn't at school. The assignment in Spanish is a study guide, but it's just to pass the time. We don't have to turn it in because then she might have to grade them. Sometimes when I blink, the room goes shimmery around the edges. I draw spirals in all the spaces where the
-er
verbs should go.

The memory of Marshall's hand on my bare leg has its own kind of secret life. It creeps in, getting mixed up with lagging cross-country times and homework until suddenly, there it is, covering up everything else.

Tuesday. Tuesday is better.

And I know my debatable sense of well-being should be because when Mr. Aimsley hands back our Virginia Woolf papers, there's an A at the top of mine, or because Maribeth is waiting for me with coffee before trig and tells me the pattern I found for crepe paper flowers is a good one, but the reason it's better is because when the bell for sixth period rings, Marshall walks into Spanish, looking tired but upright.

I watch him in my compact and wait for him to look at me. He doesn't. When I accidentally make eye contact with CJ Borsen, he winks and rubs my ankle with the toe of his sneaker. I pretend to dig through my bag for an eraser or a pen—I can't decide which. I take out a box of paper clips and suddenly everything feels so fake I'm nearly dizzy. I have this disturbing idea that the entire classroom might just be set dressing.

At the front of the room, Denning is looking quietly defeated, and I feel sorrier than usual. I wonder what drives a person to become a high school Spanish teacher. Maybe she is in witness protection, or some vengeful god is punishing her for a past life. There are so many other career paths that don't involve daily humiliation.

“Who'd like to hand back the tests?” she asks miserably, preparing for our collective lack of response.

When I raise my hand, she looks surprised but smiles wanly. When it's a choice between me and anyone else, most teachers will fling themselves on the safety of the sure thing.

I make my way up and down the rows, sorting through papers.

When I get to Marshall, the smell of his hair makes me want to faint in some blissful, recreational way that would be good in a Victorian novel, but just seems totally impractical in real life.

I settle for breathing deeply as I flip through the sheaf of tests, looking for his name.

He hasn't failed it. He's missed a few points here and there for accent marks, forgotten that
poner
is irregular.

At the bottom, Mrs. Denning's prissy handwriting declares,
Nice work
It's good to see you starting to apply yourself. If you still want some extra credit, see me after class.

I set the paper facedown in front of him and he doesn't look up. His hands are resting on the desktop, long and clean and still. I remember his palm on my thigh and wonder if it haunts him. If it even occurs to him.

Without stopping to consider the consequences, I lean closer, letting my breath wash over the back of his neck—a long, slow exhalation that sends a deep flush creeping all the way up to his hairline. His ears are burning.

I continue along the row of desks, leaving him staring at the blank side of his paper and blushing furiously.

In the space of less than one week, Autumn has become a different person. She deserves a movie montage, complete with some twitchy, fast-paced song by Mindless Self Indulgence or The Offspring. Her hair is shiny, her clothes preppy to a competitive degree. She even walks differently. But that's probably because she's wearing wedges instead of her Vans.

I find her waiting at my locker like a softer, pinker version of herself. The Pearl Perfection eye shadow makes her look harmless.

“Wow,” I say, but it comes out sounding breathless.

She stands with her ankles crossed, twisting a lock of hair around one finger. Then she smiles her hard, sly smile and her face looks normal again. “I know, right?”

I'm admiring her newly unclumped eyelashes, adjusting her sideswept bangs to camouflage her rook piercing, when Maribeth shoves between us, smiling her sweetest, fakest smile.

The way she's blinking, fast and innocent, does not bode well. “Hi, new person. Waverly, I need to talk to you. I just saw the sketches CJ's been working on for the centerpieces, and they're not going to work.”

I gesture with both hands like I'm presenting a game show contestant with a new car. “Maribeth, this is Autumn.”

Maribeth turns to Autumn, studying her with deep concentration. “Okay…” Her voice is dubious, her eyebrows pegged at dramatic angles.

Autumn tucks her hair behind her ear and moves closer to me. The way she ducks her head makes it seem like she's using me as a buffer, which is something no one has ever done.

I'm the unnerving one—Maribeth Whitman's blank-faced vizier, high priestess of precalculus. Her quiet mercenary, her black cat. The girl who needs help remembering how to smile. I am Maribeth's ever-watchful familiar. She, beloved by multitudes. Me, beloved only by her.

But now Autumn is shoulder to shoulder with me, her back against the row of lockers, her arm touching mine.

Maribeth opens her eyes wide, her mouth an exaggerated O of delight. “Waverly, what is
this
? Making friends and influencing people? Are you sure you're okay? Is your motherboard functioning properly?”

Autumn makes a matching face. “Version update! Waverly's real people now!”

Maribeth is not amused. “
Where
did you find her, again?” she says to me. Like Autumn is from a foreign country, or at least not standing right there.

“She's on cross-country with me.”

Maribeth's expression says,
And therefore…?
It says,
So are a lot of other completely insignificant people, but none of them are standing here breathing my air, so what's the deal, Waverly? Enlighten me.

“She does art,” I say. “And we need someone to help with the centerpieces.”

Maribeth studies me, then seems to soften. “Oh, so that'll be great, actually! I mean, we're still one short since Loring quit.”

The way she says it is bright, like she's talking about an incident that has nothing to do with her. Like Loring's absence is voluntary. I wonder if it's what she actually believes.

“Perfect,” I say. “Autumn can come over tonight.”

“Perfect!” Maribeth responds. She might even mean it.

She twists her necklace around her finger, turning back to Autumn. “We're doing cut-paper lanterns with those little fake electric candles. Four-sided, maybe five. It would be good if they had a floral motif—no lilies.”

Then she tosses her hair over her shoulder and leaves us standing at the open locker.

Autumn leans against the bank of metal doors, watching Maribeth disappear into the crowd. “What the fuck was
that
?”

I shrug and straighten my textbooks. I can't begin to count the times Maribeth has called me
alien
and
cyborg
and
genius
and
robot,
but this is the first time I've been embarrassed for someone else to hear her do it.

Autumn is looking at me now, waiting for clarity. Waiting for something.

I rake my bangs out of my eyes. “By the way, I probably should have asked. How do you feel about paper lanterns?”

“Pretty much like how I feel about steel wool or dwarf hamsters. So, when she breathes like that, does it mean she has something bitchy on her mind and she's just not saying it?”

I nod. “That's her judging sigh.”

Autumn laughs the way that no one ever laughs when I talk—bright and uncomplicated, with her head thrown back.

It's not until we're halfway to the gym that something occurs to me. Maybe she wasn't shrinking close for protection after all, but stepping in front of me.