Project Pallid (8 page)

For
an old woman, she was surprisingly strong. Even with four officers cramming her
into the back of the squad car, they weren’t strong enough. Her legs kicked
viciously and whirled in all directions, and even the toes of her then shoeless
feet reached out for anything and anyone they could. Her teeth snapped audibly
together, and her head whipped wildly around, as if independent of her brain.

The
cops did their best to keep out of reach, but she managed to lock her teeth
into one of them, and they sunk so deep into his forearm that they must’ve
latched onto bone. Another officer went straight for his Taser and, briefly
subdued, they scooped up her limp body and laid it across the backseat of the
cruiser.

Cameramen,
at safe distance seconds before, swarmed to press their lenses against the
windows from all angles. And even though Mrs. Arnold’s eyes were rolled back in
her head, you’d hardly know it: their backs were as white as their fronts. And
while not the most gruesome, that, above all else, was the most chilling part
at the time—she had no irises, no pupils, nothing. Her eyes had become
pristine, white orbs that reflected glints of light from their wet surfaces.

There
was no humanity left in her empty view of the world.

The
car idled and cameras rolled while the officers debated who’d transport Mrs.
Arnold to lockup—its driver needed to stay behind for treatment.
 
But the debate ended seconds later when
she snapped back to. The nearest cop jumped in, the lights and sirens flicked
on, and the car whizzed from sight without a second’s pause.

But,
in spite of the hurried departure, there were enough cameras and enough angles
of shots to catch a full picture of what had gone down.

In
one clip, she just lay there. Her whiteness glowed, in perfect contrast to the
black, leather seat. Her white hair fanned around her head, and only the
crimson stains of feeding disrupted her monochromatic starkness.

And
in the next instant, she was bolt upright. Her head whipped wildly back and
forth. Her nostrils flared. Her head tipped back. And her mouth stretched open
to release a screeching howl that tore through televisions and ripped viewers
from the inside out; my skin lifted from my body to escape it.

And
then, like she’d pick up a scent, she threw herself into the car’s windows and
banged off the divider that held her prisoner in its back. Her wailing
intensified, and street-side onlookers covered their ears in pain as they
gawked in horrified awe at the unfolding events.
 
And as an officer leapt in and the car
pulled away, its shrinking windows became clouded with streaks of spit and
smears of white: blood of the infected.

September
7
^th
:

When
I got our locker combination from Catee the second time around, I made sure to
store it in my cell phone, where it would be smudge-proof. She recited it over
and over to me as she opened our locker and resorted her things from its top to
its bottom.

She
spoke slowly and annunciated each syllable loudly: “FOUR …… TWEN-TY-SIX ……
TWELVE.” And even though I put my phone away and she
saw
me type it in
already, she kept going: “FOUR …… TWEN-TY-SIX …… TWELVE ………… FOUR ……
TWEN-TY-SIX …… TWELVE ………… FOUR TWEN-TY SIX …… TWELVE!” Until she turned and
sang out … “FOURRRR! TWENTYYY-SIX! TWELLLLLLVVVVVE!!!!!” in Cabaret style, at
the top of her lungs, and with a couple high-kicks thrown in, like she was
auditioning to host the Tony’s. And with arms stretched overhead and fingers
fluttering, she concluded her locker combination, Madison High debut.

I
felt my eyebrows raise and my eyes grow big before I nonchalantly responded to
her outburst: “I give it 3 out of 4 stars.”

Catee
pantomimed like I’d just staked her in the heart. “Just 3!?”

“Yup.
3.” My response to her theatrics was intentionally unenthusiastic, but on the
inside, she was totally cracking me up. I was amazed by how such a stunning
girl could be such a goof at the same time.

“Ohhhhhh
… I’m insulted,” Catee faked a pout. “But, I’ll get 4 stars out of you soon
enough. You just wait, Mr. Lawson.”

“I’m
sure you will,” I smiled and agreed.

A
pause of silence swooped in as the two of us stood, eyes locked, and in an
oddly new, but already comfortable silence. The hurried crowd rolled around us,
but we were somehow alone.

“So,
are you moving in or not?” Catee stepped to the side and revealed the emptied
upper shelf, breaking the magnetic silence we’d built.

“If
I can reach,” I half joked, with a look up high.

“I’m
sure you’ll manage. I’ve seen you on the floor enough already. It’s time we get
you up and into the air.”

“You’re
too good to me.”

“I
do what I can,” she said, as she crouched and unzipped my backpack.

“Hey,
don’t—

Catee
looked up to me, eyes wide and innocent. Angelic, it stopped me before I could
go any further. “What?” she asked, and passed my English book my way.

“Oh
… Um …… Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Her
smile stretched across the cold, gray hall, radiating light to its dark
recesses.

I
returned the exchange to the best of my ability and, without further complaint
or interruption, allowed her to finish rummaging through my bag.
 
Fishing out books, she passed them up to
me, one by one.

“And
we’ll just keep this one in here,” she referred to the geometry book that she
withdrew, but tucked safely away. “Got to make sure you get your homework done,
Mr. Lawson.”

“That’s
the second time you’ve called me by my last name. Did you forget my first?” I
played.

“Never,
Damian
. I just like how “Mr. Lawson” fits on you. It gives you an air of
sophistication. Makes you sound important.”

“So
what, now I’m short
and
unimportant?”

“Have
I ever called you either of those things?”

“Not
in so many words, no.”

“Well,
have I ever
implied
any of those things to you, Damian?”

“No.
I guess not.”

“So,
chill out. Relax. Stop trying to read what everyone else is thinking.”

“I
don’t do that. I was just—

“No
explanation necessary,
Damian
. From what I can tell so far, you’re a
good guy. Not like the rest of the meatheads I’ve run into this week. Be chill,
and we’ll get long just fine.”

At
this, she was back on her feet to hand me a backpack that’d become twenty
pounds lighter.

“Thanks.”

“It’s
my treat,” she spoke genuinely. “Listen, I’ve got to get going, though. My
dad’s picking me up, and he’s probably waiting. I don’t want to make him mad.”

“OK.
No problem. Are you heading out the front? I can walk with you if you want.”

“Yeah,
I am. That’d be nice. Thanks.”

“No
problem. That’s
my
treat for you.”

We
smiled and looked at each other, but we said nothing more.
 
And with my bag slung over one shoulder
instead of the obligatory two, we were on our way.

And
though the settings around us changed, the silence between us stayed constant.
All the way to the front lobby and out the double doors, we were encapsulated
in a field of it. Not that uncomfortable kind, though, where you feel like
you’ve got to say something, but you worry it’ll come out sounding stupid. It
wasn’t that kind of silence at all. In fact, it was precisely the opposite. It
was a silence that needed no words at all. It was the type that comes with the
comfort of long-term familiarity: one we still hadn’t had time to sufficiently
experience, but that existed, nonetheless.

Late
summer air punched us, and the afternoon sunlight warmed my skin as we stepped
from the front doors and descended the concrete steps to the sidewalk and to
the line of cars that cycled through, retrieving mostly underage underclassmen.
Most barely came to a halt before pulling away again, while others sat
impatiently waiting for kids who still hadn’t broken free from their friends.

As
soon as we stepped into view, the horn of her dad’s emerald green Mercedes
blared. And again. And again. And Again. And again. We’d barely moved two steps
in its direction before its taillights came on, and it sped in reverse toward
us. I wasn’t sure what to make of the quick overreaction.

“That’s
my dad,” Catee sighed. “Always the impatient one. Never a second to waste.”

“I
can see that.” The car had already come to a jarring stop by the time I
finished my sentence; it clanged into park and nestled onto its shocks.

“So,
I guess I’ll see you on Monday?” she asked.

“That’s
not really a question anymore,
Four, Twenty-Six, Twelve
,” I joked.

“You
make an excellent point. Then I’ll see you Monday morning, Mr. Lawson.”

“Can’t
wait.”

And
without another word, she pulled the heavy door of the vintage car closed
behind her with an iron clang.

I
couldn’t hear a word they said, but their body language spoke volumes of its
own. The angry energy between them was palpable, even from feet away, and I
wondered what could have spurred such an instantaneous and heated exchange. I
couldn’t imagine the girl I knew—the girl I was falling
for—could’ve been its catalyst, and so, before I’d even spoken my first
word to him, I had her dad pegged for the person he’d prove to be. A person so vile,
that I’ll show no remorse and no reservation when it’s time for me to kill him.

Somewhere
in the back of my mind, I knew I’d missed my bus that first afternoon with
Catee. It registered during those first few minutes of our
interaction—right before she dismissed Justin forever—but it never
registered as a major issue. It was the first time I’d ever called my mom for a
ride and, given the circumstances around my tardiness, I knew she’d understand.
In fact, I suspected she might even be happy when she heard the reasoning
behind my carelessness. I called with little apprehension for what she might
say as I lay on the front lawn of the school to bask in my newfound connection
with Catee.

Turns
out, I was right. Even if she was a little upset when I first told her I needed
to be picked up, she was totally cool with it when I explained the
why
behind
it. In fact, she actually sounded excited, and said that she couldn’t wait to
get there and to hear all about it.
 
And a half hour later, Mom had gathered herself and completed the
twenty-minute drive to Madison. I’d barely built a basecoat of September sun
when our beat-up Chevy came to a rumbling stop at the closest curb to where I
lay sprawled-out on the grass.

Beep!
Beep! Beep!
Her honking
stirred me to consciousness and away from the daydream I’d been having of Catee
and of the inherent possibilities in my first Madison High connection.

I
slid into the passenger seat and organized my lightened load to the floor by my
feet.

“So???”
Mom reeked of excited curiosity.

“So,
what?”

“Soooooo
… ” she dragged out, “Tell me how things went with you and Catee.”

“I
don’t know what you’re talking about, Mom.”

“You
know very well what I’m talking about, Damian,” she accused. “And if I drove
all the way into town to pick
your
butt up, I’m going to hear all about
it, so start spilling.”

“There
isn’t much to tell, Mom.”

“Well,
that tells me there’s at least
something
to tell, so get started.”

“Not
really, no. I mean, we’re sharing a locker now and—

“So,
you
did
it!?” she shouted like I’d found the cure for some hideous
disease—I wish I had.

“I
didn’t do much of anything, Mom,” I replied.

“But
you took her up on her offer, right?”

“Yeah,
Mom. I did. All right? No big deal. I just didn’t want to have to carry that
shitty backpack around anymore, that’s all.” Even though it was mostly a lie, I
didn’t feel remorse for the sparse details I was providing her. When it came
down to it, and as much as I’d always shared with her, she didn’t need to know
everything that ran through my head—especially the stuff I was thinking
about Catee.

“Don’t
use that language, Damian.”

“Sorry,
Mom.”

“So
how did it go?”

“How’d
what go?”

“The
move
. How’d it go moving into her locker?”

“That?
Oh, that was nothing. Piece of cake. She did it all, actually. As soon as I
suggested it, she just made it happen. Right from the numbers,” I flashed her
my cell phone, “down to emptying out my backpack.”

“That’s
wonderful, Damian!”

“Try
to stay on the road, Mom. It’s just a locker.”