The Fog (16 page)

Down the stairs they went, through the doors, out into the hall near the cafeteria. The cafeteria was empty, chairs stacked on tables for the janitors to mop. The school was silent, as if every class had been dismissed or were taking final exams behind closed doors.

Mr. Shevvington was happy. Miss Frisch was smiling.

This is how they talked to Val. To Anya. And Val and Anya believed. Well, I don’t believe. I will never believe. And I won’t go into the nurse’s office either, thought Christina. She said loudly. “What are you doing to try to get Anya back in school, Mr. Shevvington?”

“Unfortunately getting back into school is not easy,” said Mr. Shevvington. “A girl nearly eighteen who leaves of her own free will. … We can’t just re-enroll her.”

“If Anya had the flu, she’d be out for a week and you’d let her back. If I can get her to — ”

“You,” said Mr. Shevvington, “are going nowhere near Anya. I’ve seen what happens when you and Anya are together, with your jealousy and your violence.”

She lost control. “I am not violent!” shrieked Christina, hitting him with her book bag.

Miss Frisch dictated into her cassette, “The patient punctuated her statement that she is not violent by hitting the principal with all her strength.”

Christina began laughing hysterically. Hysteria had never happened to her before, nor had she ever witnessed it. The laughs that bubbled out of her were creepy and frightening. She wanted to stop herself, to cut the laugh away, like the crusts off bread, but the laughter continued. Miss Frisch held her cassette right up to Christina’s face, like an oxygen mask, and dictated over the sound of the crazy laughter. “The patient laughed at Anya’s predicament.”

Past the art room.

Past ninth-grade history.

Past the foreign language labs.

That must be where the fear forms are, thought Christina. In the nurse’s office. They’ll make me fill out one of those forms and then they’ll know what I’m afraid of, and they’ll attack, just the way they did with Val and with Anya.

I must not go into the nurse’s office!

They passed the first set of auditorium doors and the row of pay phones in the lobby.

They passed Miss Schuyler’s room. Christina’s math teacher sat alone, correcting papers. She waved at Christina.

Mr. Shevvington coughed, politely putting a hand up to cover his mouth. The hand that had gripped Christina’s arm. She was half free. She considered biting Miss Frisch to make her let go the other arm, but the thought of that creature’s leathery skin against her tongue, inside the privacy of her mouth, was too terrible. She stomped on Miss Frisch’s foot instead.

Miss Frisch cried out, wincing — and let go.

Christina ran into Miss Schuyler’s room.

“Why, Christina,” said Miss Schuyler. “You’re here early. But never mind. I have it all ready. Good morning, Mr. Shevvington. Good morning, Miss Frisch. How nice of you to bring Christina for her tutoring.” She smiled at them sweetly. “You need not stay. Christina and I will be fine.”

Fine? Christina ached from fear. Her knees hurt, and her spine seemed fractured. It was hard to stand, impossible to walk. Miss Schuyler kicked a chair beneath her and she collapsed on it.

“Decimals,” she said. “Quite simple, really, Christina. Begin on page forty-four of this workbook.”

Miss Frisch said, “Christina is scheduled to have mental health counseling this period, Miss Schuyler.”

Miss Schuyler laughed incredulously. “I could believe Christina would teach a class in mental health, but she certainly requires no personal assistance, Miss Frisch.”

Christina held onto the workbook. Was there more than one war going on in this school? Was Miss Schuyler at war with Miss Frisch?

“Christina has been having a difficult time lately,” said Mr. Shevvington, turning his serene, convincing gaze upon Miss Schuyler.

But nothing happened. Miss Schuyler was not convinced. She merely raised her eyebrows and touched her old-fashioned, honey-colored braids. Christina wondered how long the braids were. So thick that Miss Schuyler could be Rapunzel, and let them dangle out of a tower window. Miss Schuyler said, “Really, Arnold. I hope you have not been listening to rumor. That is the mark of a poor administrator.” She turned away from him and said, “Christina, dear, page forty-four, please.”

Christina could not even read the page numbers she was so nervous, but she flipped some pages and took the pencil Miss Schuyler handed her.

Mr. Shevvington and Miss Frisch left the room.

Christina said, “How did you know? Why did you save me?” Tears lay inside her eyes, and her chin and her knees were shivering, like separate leaves on a tree.

Miss Schuyler said, “You looked desperate, my dear. I thought I would give you a few moments to compose yourself. Now tell me what upset you, Christina.”

Christina told everything. Not because she was sure of Miss Schuyler, but because it was time to tell. Time to let go and bring in an ally.

Time to surrender? thought Christina, half aware that Miss Schuyler could be another one. One of THEM. Am I falling into their hands? she thought. Is it a trick, like multiple posters?

But it was too late. She had told all.

There was not much time. Another math class would soon fill the room. No doubt Mr. Shevvington or Miss Frisch would be there waiting in the hall to catch her.

Miss Schuyler frowned. “Christina, that is quite a tale.”

Christina felt herself turning to nothing, following in Val’s and Anya’s footsteps. It was a pitiful feeling. Not like a balloon being popped — sharply, with a pin, but oozing, air seeping out invisible leaks until there was nothing left of the balloon but an empty piece of color on the ground.

There would soon be nothing left of Anya. Anya would not even have color. She dressed in nothing but black and white now. Like a photograph of herself.

Miss Schuyler said, “I think I will get in touch with Blake first. A nice young boy. He’s at Dexter Academy, as I recall. Now do not be afraid of the principal or that counselor. They have no supernatural powers, Christina. Nobody does. They have managed to upset you so much that you are imagining things. The wet suit is simply some out-of-season kook in a wet suit and the poster is merely a poster.” Miss Schuyler frowned slightly, tapping her pretty cheek with her pencil. Christina had not previously thought Miss Schuyler a pretty woman. Perhaps the person who rescued you was always beautiful.

“However it is quite clear to a newcomer in the school, such as myself,” said Miss Schuyler, “that there is some association between the Shevvingtons and Miss Frisch.” Miss Schuyler pushed the pencil into the honey braids and left it there, like a miniature six-sided yellow sword. “Something unhealthy,” said Miss Schuyler. Her pretty frown grew heavier, until it took over her entire face, aging her first one decade, and then another. “Possibly even, something cruel. But why?” She took Christina’s face between her two hands, and held, it, as if Christina had more to tell.

“Val and Anya,” said Christina, “were sweet and innocent. And — and they’re doing one each year. Maybe they did girls in other towns. Maybe — Miss Schuyler, where did they come from, the Shevvingtons? What have they left behind? Are they teachers because — ” Christina could hardly say it, because Miss Schuyler was a teacher, a wonderful teacher. “Are they teachers because every year there are new ones? New innocent girls they can rob of their souls?”

Because what fun would it be to destroy somebody nasty and mean? Christina thought. You would not enjoy destroying Gretch or Vicki. You would have the most fun ruining the nicest people.

Miss Schuyler took the workbook out of Christina’s hands. Christina had not written a single number down, or even a single decimal.

“Christina,” said the teacher dryly, “I am convinced that our principal is not a nice man. But I find it hard to believe he has an actual program he executes in town after town, destroying the souls of innocent victims.”

I lost her, thought Christina. Grown-ups can only tolerate half the truth. I went too far, telling her all. Next time I tell anything, I must tell only little easy pieces of it. But then who will bother to help me?

Christina tried to stay granite. She tried to find the bright side. I have half an ally, she told herself. She half believes me.

Miss Schuyler seemed to look so far away she might have had a view all the way to Burning Fog Isle.

Christina thought, But Anya’s parents and mine are quite literally at sea. How safe, how delightful for the Shevvingtons! They will take each of us from Burning Fog. They will take away our souls. “What can you do, Miss Schuyler?” said Christina, her hands knotted like the nets of lobster traps.

“I can do nothing. They have convinced the entire school system of their kindness, their understanding, their perfection. But I will watch them, Christina, and I will be your protector. So do not worry.” Her eighth-grade class began coming in. Very gently Miss Schuyler added, “And don’t magnify it either, Christina. It’s not so dreadful as you’re making it out to be. It’s not nice. But it isn’t deathly, either.” She drew the pencil out of her hair, like a conductor closing off the chorus, and turned to her class.

Christina left numbly.

Out in the hall hundreds of teenagers knew exactly where they were going, and whether they had their homework done, and which book to carry. Christina knew nothing. Her head swirled. Her brain must look like her mother’s marble cake — chocolate and white spiraled together as the wooden spoon drew through the batter. She felt loose and unconnected.

Out of the chaos emerged Mr. Shevvington. He connected to her wrist again. Firmly. “Come into my office.”

“I don’t feel well,” she said. “I need to lie down.” Miss Schuyler is wrong, she thought. It goes way beyond what she saw.
The Shevvingtons are evil.
And nobody knows but me.

Mr. Shevvington smiled. “That’s fine,” he said. “The nurse’s office is just where we want to be.”

Vicki and Gretch, arm in arm, stopped in the hall to watch them. “Why, Mr. Shevvington,” they said, “is she still sick? Poor, poor Christina.”

Mr. Shevvington said, “I think perhaps you girls have been hard on little Christina.” He made her sound like a pitiful, stupid thing that people tried not to sit next to because of the smell. “Christina needs help, you know, and popular, pretty girls like you, Vicki, and you, Gretchen, could help her.”

Vicki and Gretch tossed their hair like synchronized swimmers and preened in the hallway.

Remarkable, thought Christina. He can sound like Mr. Understanding, Mr. Deep-concern-for-troubled-girls, and yet he’s made it infinitely worse. On purpose.

“A little bit of attention from girls who know how to behave properly,” Mr. Shevvington continued, “would be the making of Christina.”

Christina’s loose, cake-batter brain became a loose, cake-batter stomach. It roiled and turned inside her like Candle Cove with the coming tide.

“We’re pretty busy,” said Vicki.

Gretch nodded.

Mr. Shevvington was very sympathetic. “Of course you are,” he said. “You’re the kind of girls who will be class leaders and team captains. I’m not suggesting that you adopt her as a cause and give up homework for her!” He laughed warmly. “Just a few minutes here and there.”

Like taking a dog for a walk, thought Christina.

Vicki said, “Well, I suppose after school, maybe we — um — ” Vicki tried to think of something she could fit Christina into.

Christina threw up.

It was wonderful. Disgusting, hot slime came up out of her stomach, burning her throat and mouth, and hurling itself on Gretch’s designer jeans and Vicki’s beautiful university logo sweatshirt. It dripped crudely down their chests and onto their pretty shoes.

Gretch screamed. Vicki clawed at herself. Christina said, “I need help. Please? Since you’re so popular?”

Mr. Shevvington wrote out late passes for Vicki and Gretch. They went sobbing to the bathroom. Christina he hauled down to the nurse’s office. What a weapon, thought Christina. She said to him, “I feel very unsettled. I may throw up again.”

Miss Frisch was apparently not free this period. Mr. Shevvington told her to clean herself up and lie on the white cot in the corner behind the screen, and he would be back shortly. Christina drank from the water fountain until the horrible taste was out of her mouth, but she didn’t have to clean her own clothing up; she had missed herself.

It’s all in the timing, she thought, proud of herself.

And then she thought,
I’m in the nurse’s office.
I am sure the fear files are here.

She looked around the room. White walls with posters on dental hygiene and sexually transmitted diseases. A large sink with jars of cotton wads, Q-tips, and tongue depressors. An arsenal of aspirin and some witch hazel.

Christina began flinging open doors. Behind the counter doors were rolls of paper towels, bandages, Kleenex. In the wall cabinets lay every size of Band-Aid known to man.

She whirled to go through the desks. Only one drawer was deep enough for file folders. It did not open immediately. Christina played with the pencil drawer until whatever catch attached to the file drawer loosened up, and she could ease it open.

She flipped through the tabs of the file folders. Statistics. Racial characteristics of the school system. Measles and inoculation data. No good.

She shut that drawer and went to the other desk. Reports on diseases, conditions, symptoms, and cures. Come on, come on, Christina thought, where are your student-by-student files?

She scanned the room.

There was a computer screen on the counter in the corner.

She turned it on, pawed through the little plastic box of diskettes, and read the labels. They were individual files, all right, but the master disk was not among them. Christina turned to the nearest desk and began rifling through the shallower drawers.

There was a sharp explosive flash behind her. Miss Frisch had photographed Christina going through the desk drawers.

A
LL IT TAKES IS
one rainstorm, thought Christina Romney. The lovely scarlet-and-gold autumn leaves are torn from the trees and the foliage season is gone: Bare branches and a dark horizon are all that’s left.