The Scarlet Letterman (16 page)

But what he wanted to say I’ll never know, because as soon as he sees my red vest, he realizes he can’t.

And then he turns away from me just as two Guardians come up from behind and stand in front of me, as if to block him from my view. By just handing me my notebook, he could’ve been punished, but I guess the Guardians aren’t in the mood. And technically, he didn’t speak to me, so maybe handing me my notebook was a minor offense.

I watch, helplessly, as Ryan walks away from me, down the steps and onto the campus lawn. He never once glances back at me and I watch him until I can’t see him anymore.

I glance back up at the Guardians standing near me, but even they don’t make eye contact with me. I push past them into the library.

Once inside, I try to refocus on my mission: getting to Hana’s latest note. In the copy of
War and Peace,
I find another note from Hana. She writes:

Hi M,

We were skeptical about Heathcliff, but Samir says your story checked out. We think you might be right. I don’t know if I can trust Heathcliff yet, but Samir says we can. Apparently, last night Heathcliff saved Samir from being beaten up by a group of hard-core guys on his floor, so Samir is now a fan. I guess we’ve called a truce with Heathcliff. He really wants to help get you out of figurative expulsion and he seems to be playing nice — for now. He’s keeping a low profile so as not to tip off the faculty about him being back. We’re working on trying to figure out what to do next. In the meantime, check out aisle 4, row 2 for more info on Blake.

TTFN,

H

Is this possible? Could Heathcliff and Samir, Hana, and Blade have made nice? It’s a big leap of faith on Hana’s part, so I appreciate it. It’s hard to explain how much I know that Heathcliff is innocent this time, but I know I’m right.

I head to the library aisle to read up about Blake.

I discover several things quickly. Blake was born in England in the mid-1700s. He was considered a little eccentric even in his own time, in part because he claimed even then to see angels. He wrote almost exclusively poems about religion, and I read that he was an artist. He was the only poet up until then to illustrate his own works.

I read through everything they have at the library, and before I know it, it’s time for mandatory in-room study time. I only make it for a half hour working on my theology paper (it’s for Blake, and somehow I’m pretty sure that I’m going to fail) before I need a break.

Bored, I head to my window in hopes of finding another note dangling there, but there is none. The roof is empty. I glance down at the grass, and to the trees beyond, looking for I don’t know what.

That’s when I see a dark figure standing under my window, leaning against the statute of Shakespeare. Initially I think — Hooded Sweatshirt Stalker! But, in the dim light, I see this person has a head and some rumpled hair. Not the stalker then.

As I watch, he steps out a little into the light, and I see him grab a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and tap one out. The flame from his silver lighter illuminates his face in the dark, giving me a brief glimpse of his nose and stubble and big black eyes before it all goes dark again.

It’s Heathcliff.

He’s waiting outside my window. How long has he been there?

I wave to him, but he only nods his head once, slowly. I stare at him for a beat or two, before I head back to my desk to finish up my paper.

When I get ready to go to sleep, I still see him outside my window.

He’s there, leaning against the same tree, the light of his cigarette burning red in the dark.

Twenty-four

Heathcliff knows better
than to talk to me, for fear of raising Guardian suspicion, but he does follow me at a discreet distance throughout the next couple of days. I feel a lot less lonely, knowing he’s there, and he takes up a permanent vigil outside my window at night. The boy apparently doesn’t need sleep.

On Friday after dinner I notice, however, that he isn’t at his usual post. I wonder what this means, when I hear a strange sound coming from across campus.

It takes me a moment to realize the sound is actually music.

The spring break dance! I’d completely forgotten. I strain to try to pick out the song, but I can only really hear a bass beat. It’s so weird to hear music again after not hearing it for months.

I have a sudden flash of what I’m missing: the gym decorated in streamers and banners; a DJ spinning songs; Samir and Hana finally hooking up by making out in a dark corner; Parker manhandling Ryan on the dance floor; Blade and her new date doing a swing dance, whirling around in the middle of the gym. And for once — no school uniforms. Everyone is in silk and satin. I should be glad I’m missing it, but I’m not. Being the campus pariah totally sucks.

That’s when there’s a new sound at my door that has nothing to do with music. It’s a loud thump, followed by a thud. When I rush to the hall, I see the Guardian who’s normally standing there crumpled in a heap at my feet.

Above him is Heathcliff, fists clenched at his sides in a fighting stance.

Before I even think twice about it, I throw my arms around his neck and hug him. It’s like hugging a wall, he’s that broad and tall.

“You’ve come to save me!” I say, stating the obvious.

“Duh,” Hana says, stepping out from behind Heathcliff. Samir is with her, too.

“So you and Heathcliff really are friends now.”

“Not exactly friends, but working on it,” Hana says.

“Come on, we don’t have much time,” Samir says. “Everyone is at the dance. Now’s our chance.”

Both Samir and Hana are not in uniform. They’re wearing what look like party clothes. Samir is in a suit without a tie, and Hana is wearing a purple silk sleeveless dress, which doesn’t exactly go with her black-framed glasses, but oh, well. I have to introduce that girl to contacts one of these days.

Even Heathcliff is looking dressier than usual. He’s got on a white shirt, loosened at the collar, and a black blazer. All he’s missing is the cumberbund and the bow tie and he’d be in a tux. His dark, thick hair is ruffled, but in a perfectly ruffled kind of way. And he’s sporting his trademark stubble.

“Our chance for what?” I ask. “To slow dance?”

“To clear your name — hello!” Hana says, grabbing me by the arm and pushing me back into my room.

“But first, you need to change.”

“Wow — nice!” Samir says when we emerge about ten minutes later. I’m wearing my only formal dress — a peach-colored chiffon halter dress — with my hair thrown up in a messy bun, and enough smoky eye shadow so that even my own mother might not recognize me. But then again, that’s the point. I’m supposed to be in disguise. Besides, I’m showing off enough leg so most people probably won’t be looking at my face. In fact, Heathcliff is staring at a spot just above my knees. When he catches me looking at him, he flushes, ever so slightly. I guess that means he approves.

“So are we going to sit around all day staring at Miranda’s legs, or are we going to get busy snooping?” Hana asks.

“Legs?” Samir asks tentatively.

“Wrong answer, you goof,” Hana says, smacking Samir with her satin evening handbag.

Hana and Samir take us to Macduff dorm, where Blake is supposed to live. The entire dorm is empty, like most of the rest of campus, since pretty much everyone is at the dance. This includes Blake, who is acting as one of the dance chaperones, as well as most of the Guardians, who are on double duty making sure the large gathering doesn’t turn violent. With this crew of delinquents, it’s always a possibility.

Heathcliff enters Blake’s room first, making sure the coast is clear. When he signals us in, I expect to find a typical faculty room — mostly bare, with lots of books, and no bed. Instead, I find myself standing in a room covered from floor to ceiling in drawings. Drawings of angels and devils. Of men, and lambs, and tigers.

“But how are the drawings related to the real tiger?” Hana asks, getting close enough to one of the tiger pictures to rub her hand down its edge. “Is he bringing the tiger alive somehow with the sketches?”

“Um, guys, look at these,” Samir says, pointing to one wall. It’s covered in pictures of hell. Gruesome, vivid pictures of bodies being torn limb from limb and demons eating pieces of flesh. In other words: serious ick factor.

Heathcliff frowns at the pictures as he takes a step closer to them.

“Looks like something Blade would like,” Hana says.

“I don’t know about that,” I say. “These might be even too gross for her. Speaking of Blade, where is she?”

“At the dance,” Samir says. “She’s keeping an eye on Blake for us. Make sure he stays put.”

“Yeah, it’s not exactly a rough assignment,” Hana says. “If you ask me, she just didn’t want to miss her slow dance with Number Thirty-one.”

I glance back at Heathcliff to see if he’s listening, but he’s moved forward to the wall of grossness and is peeling back one of the drawings. Soon he rips it down completely. He grabs another and another, tearing them all down.

“Hey! What are you doing!” Samir cries.

But Heathcliff doesn’t stop, he takes down enough pictures until we see the wall beneath, which shows a little door, Heathcliff pushes on the door and it swings open. Another hidden passageway. Just like the one in Ms. W’s room.

“How did you know that was there?” Hana asks Heathcliff, who shrugs.

“The pictures,” he says, pointing to the hellish ones, “are supposed to encourage people to stay away from his wall.”

I can see his point. I certainly don’t want to look too closely at a demon gnawing on a man’s leg.

Hana gives Heathcliff a look of grudging admiration. Heathcliff may not read much (or barely at all), but he’s definitely not dumb.

Heathcliff grabs an unlit torch from the wall and lights it with a silver lighter from his pocket. He offers me a torch, too, and I take it as I follow him into the dark passageway.

“Um, guys, we’re not actually
going
in here?” Samir asks, even as Hana follows us. “Guys? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

After a few seconds, though, we hear the patter of Samir’s feet. “For the record, this is a
terrible
idea,” he says.

“Just be quiet, and quit stepping on my heels!” Hana hisses at him.

Along the way, Heathcliff lights other torches and hands them back to us, so we’re each carrying one. The torchlight flickers against the walls, throwing shadows along the narrow hallway. I move close to Heathcliff, taking hold of the back of his shirt so that he doesn’t lose me in the dark. Instinctively he turns and grabs my hand with his, holding it tight as he moves forward into the darkness. His hand is big and strong and comforting. I instantly feel calmer.

Something small and black flies by our heads then. It looks like it might be a bat. It’s followed by one or two more. Suddenly Samir shouts “Dracula!”

Heathcliff rolls me over against the wall, as if protecting me from whatever it is. By the time we realize it’s not Dracula at all, but just a couple of loose bats, the wall gives way behind me, spinning us both around into a tiny storage room. Our torches have gone out in the struggle. Heathcliff fumbles in his pocket and picks out his lighter. He flicks it on and the small room is illuminated. I see a couple of boxes, and on top of them — a hooded sweatshirt. And not just any sweatshirt.
The
sweatshirt. From Headless Sweatshirt Stalker Guy. I pick it up and show Heathcliff, who nods slowly.

“We have to find a way out,” he tells me. With barely enough room for us both to stand, Heathcliff feels around us for the trigger that opened the door. He reaches his arm across me and suddenly, I feel the extreme closeness of him, the strangeness of our situation completely leaving my head, as I feel the warmth of his breath on my ear.

Heathcliff glances down at me and notices me looking at him. The flickering flame from his lighter casts shadows along his face, but I can see his eyes. They’re dark and unreadable.

He stops searching for an exit and stares at me a long while, and I realize that I’m alone with Heathcliff in close quarters. My heart starts to speed up just a little. And just as I start to wonder if he’s going to kiss me, he leans in, draws me closer to him, and covers my lips with his.

I’m momentarily stunned, and not just because a strange boy is kissing me, in a hidden passageway, while we’re stuck in a closet. But from the sheer electricity of his lips on mine. There are enough volts in this kiss to power my hair dryer and more. It’s like —
POW!
— I’m seeing stars.

Every other thought I’ve ever had leaves my head and there’s just me and Heathcliff, with his lips on mine. And a small voice in my head tells me Ryan never kissed me like this.

And the world seems to be spinning and I realize belatedly because it is. The door to the secret closet is spinning again, and suddenly Heathcliff and I are back out into the hallway, with Hana and Samir staring at us.

Hana gives us a stern and disapproving look.

“Um, I hate to interrupt you
love birds,
but we’ve got an insane teacher to catch, or don’t you remember?”

My face feels red and I don’t know if it’s because I’m embarrassed, or because Heathcliff had such an effect on me, but I blubber, “We found the sweatshirt — from the stalker — in there.”

“Let’s see,” Hana says, pulling on one of the wall torches. She lets it go, just as the wall-door is halfway open, so we can easily go in and out. The torchlight from the passageway illuminates the storage room.

“Look, the vault books,” Hana says grabbing
For Whom the Bell Tolls
and
To the Lighthouse
from an open box. They’re Coach H and Ms. W’s books — the ones that hold their souls. She whips open the covers. But unlike last semester, when I freed them by opening their books, this time no Coach H or Ms. W appear.

“Am I doing something wrong?” Hana asks me.