Undercurrent (12 page)

CHAPTER 12

I make it back to school about a half hour later. I’m soaking wet,
and my teeth are chattering. I really hope I didn’t give myself hypothermia again, but I’m not feeling sleepy or weak or anything. And I’m not burning up and wanting to take off my clothes, which I heard is what happens just before you die.

I am feeling totally confused, though, by what I just saw: my old biology teacher dropping some weird device into the falls. And the whole thing about it being a message—if so, who was the message meant for?

I asked that very question at the time but never got an answer. Mr. Schroeder blew me off and headed down the trail.

I stood there for a few minutes, puzzling over what just happened. Mr. Schroeder remembered my name, at least, but he seemed to have me mixed up with some student who acted up in class. To be honest, I can’t remember anyone behaving like that; he was a great teacher, and everyone pretty much hung on every word he said. Which, for Crystal Falls High, is amazing.

I also found it strange that he didn’t even mention my accident, especially with us standing right there at the scene. Surely everyone in town had heard about my going over the falls.

Once Mr. Schroeder was gone, I remembered the hooded guy. But there was no way I could catch up to him now. I couldn’t go out on the bridge, not even crawling on all fours. It was too intense.

So I headed back, this time along the marked trail, which came out on a road that eventually leads to the school. By then Mr. Schroeder was nowhere in sight.

Classes are still in session when I get back. Retrieving my dripping gym bag from behind the school, I hear the bell ring for lunch. This is perfect timing, because it means the front doors will be unlocked in a minute. Which is great, because I wasn’t looking forward to having to use the intercom, which would have meant reporting to the office.

Making my way around the building, I look back at the field and the site of the now-vanished library. Once again I get the same awful feeling in the pit of my stomach as a memory returns to me.

It happened a couple of weeks ago. I had gone to the library annex after school, hoping to pick up a few books that I needed to complete a project on a mythological creature of my choice. I’d decided to go with Bigfoot, the reclusive monster Cole and I had spent hours hunting down in the woods near our old house. Assuming he lived off chips and chocolate bars, the litter we’d found suggested we were hot on his trail a number of times.

Of course, the assignment was due the next day, and as usual I had put off the research until the last possible moment. But within minutes I had my hands on two books—
Myths and Mysteries of the Natural World
and
Real-Life
Monster Hunters
—which together seemed enough to add a few facts and plump up the bibliography section of my Bigfoot project.

Looking at the evidence, I had to admit to feeling more skeptical about the creature, but whatever—that wasn’t as important as finishing my project. As far as I was concerned, Bigfoot existed, period. Heck, I’d even seen him working the kitchen in the local taco shack, if the teacher asked.

Unfortunately the librarian wouldn’t let me check out the books until I paid my late fees, which were now closing in on ten bucks. Having blown everything I had at the cafeteria on pizza and two chocolate puddings, I began begging and pleading, promising to bring her the money the next day.

“I’m really sorry, Callum,” the librarian said. “But I let you take out books before, when you had a fine, remember? And even those haven’t been returned.”

She had warned me; it was my own fault.

“Look, you can always work right here in the library,” she added.

Glancing up at the clock, I confirmed there was nowhere near enough time to do a decent job. So I either had to make my peace with failure or scribble out some nonsense and hope for a D plus. Bigfoot is still a mystery, after all; I could pretty much make up my own theories.

But then there came a tap on my shoulder. Willow was behind me, fanning herself with a crisp ten-dollar bill:

“Wow, it’s hot in here!” she declared. “I think I might need to strip off some layers.”

So maybe her phrasing came off a little racier than she’d intended as she slapped the money on the counter. But the image of Willow throwing off clothes along with my gratitude proved too much. I was overcome. It was groveling time.

“What’s wrong?” she asked worriedly, seeing my face go so red. “Callum, are you having some sort of allergy attack or something?”

Desperate, I made up some weird explanation. Willow laughed like I was crazy but thankfully didn’t ask any more questions. I took out the books and polished off the assignment later at home. The effort got me a B, my best grade of the year—
a B for Bigfoot
, I remember thinking.

Entering the school, I become absolutely certain this happened. It’s not a fantasy or something I dreamed up in my coma—it happened. I’m sure of it. Which must mean that, somewhere, the new library annex still exists. And wherever that is, Willow can’t be far away—hopefully not looking any deeper into my story about the strange spores that come off library books.

The thought frustrates me. What does it matter? Because I’m not living there anymore, apparently. Now I live in a town where my old friends completely hate me, and the wrong people seem to love me. It feels like a very dangerous combination.

And unlike in the Crystal Falls I remember, I don’t have a big brother to protect me anymore. Which means until I can get to the bottom of things, I need to start looking after myself. Whatever that takes. Because I’m getting sick of the way people treat me, the things they think. Sick of it!

“Ha-ha-ha,” a kid cackles quietly to his friends as I pass on the way to my locker. They all turn, their eyes lighting up at the sight of my soaked clothes. “Did Harris go over the falls
again
?” the first kid says. “Or just piss himself?”

This is not the first time I’ve heard crap like this. Usually it’s to my face. And each time I just ignore it or maybe say something back if I can think of anything smart, which I usually can’t until five minutes later when it’s too late.

But this time something snaps in me. I can almost hear it, my patience, breaking like a dried, old twig. And the next thing I know I’ve got ahold of the kid by his greasy brown hair and am slamming his head as hard as I can not once, not twice, but three times into a nearby locker.

The sound is incredible, stopping everyone in their tracks. Shocked, I let him go—but instantly regret it. The guy is a dangerous little prick, I now recognize, the toughest sophomore in the whole school. And he is surely about to come at me with fists flying. Being a year older and a couple of pounds heavier isn’t going to help me much. I should have just kept on hammering.

But instead of retaliating, the kid falls down on the floor. “Come on, man!” he shrieks. “It was just a joke!” He’s clutching his head: a picture painted in tears and snot. His friends step away, terrified, leaving the boy lying helpless at my feet. I’m free to abuse him as I please.

But he’s not getting up. So I’m done here. I pick up my gym bag and continue down the hallway, kids pressing themselves against the lockers to get out of my way.

That’s right: Move. Amped up on adrenaline, I feel ferocious—like a wild animal making little creatures scurry away. It’s a strange feeling, both sickening and unsettling, yet somehow pleasurable at the same time.

Stranger still is the certainty that I won’t have to pay a penalty for what I’ve just done. Because no one has shouted or called for a teacher. And no one is going to report me, I know. Because they’re afraid of the consequences. Look at what happened to Little Mr. Big Mouth, and that was over a few words. Get me in actual trouble? I’d be scared, if I were them.

One of the frightened faces comes into focus. It’s Willow. I don’t know exactly what she saw, but she looks horrified.

I turn away and continue on to my locker.

If anyone missed me while I was off school property, no one says anything about it. Putting on a stale T-shirt I find at the bottom of my locker, I quickly eat some lunch, sitting soaked from the waist down.

Ivy is in the cafeteria sitting with Hunter, Ricky, and a bunch of other people from the jerk population. From time to time, she looks up at me and flashes a smile. I smile back—until Hunter catches us and gives me a murderous look.

Okay, it’s time to stop playing that game in here.

And it’s a good thing I’m quitting the football team first chance I get, I think. Other than Holt the Buffalo, it’s not looking like I have that many friends on the team. Add that to all the bruisers on the other teams, who are ready to bring me down on the field? Er, no thanks, Coach.

I coast through the rest of the day, trying to avoid any interaction with other students. With my violent outburst in the hallway, it’s a lot easier. I’m in a bad mood, everyone appears to have heard, and they don’t want to test me.

When the bell rings, I don’t linger. Getting my jacket, I slip out of the building, not even bothering to check my homework and bring home the necessary workbooks. This is how my brother used to leave, I remember—he just tossed a couple of random books into his bag and took off. And I have to admit: When it comes to leaving, not caring sure saves time.

Walking home, I’m on my own, feeling relieved to be out of school. My pants are dry, except in the crotch, which is beginning to chafe. No wonder I’m in a bad mood! I can’t wait to get home. But it’s a long walk, especially alone.

Reaching Main Street, I notice again how changed things are. The street is dirty and dingy, totally unlike the well-kept dining-and-shopping stretch that I remember swelling with tourists in the summer. The souvenir shops that sold Crystal Falls magnets and snow globes are gone, as is Electronica Veronica.

I think again about the time Bryce and I saw Mr. Schroeder shopping for components in the store—and then of the cylinder he dropped in the falls and the box with the lights on it. The two devices looked like they were assembled at home.

Well, I never saw Mr. Schroeder buy anything here, that’s for sure. Peering through the dirty window, it looks like the store has been closed for years. The counter and cash register are covered in dust, and there are crumpled bags and empty boxes strewn on the floor. I’m pretty sure I can make out a dead rat in a distant corner, its neck snapped in a trap.

“Something interesting in there?” growls a voice behind me.

I know it’s Ross, the warehouseman, before even turning around. He doesn’t look like he’s mellowed since we last saw each other. If anything, he seems even more pissed off.

“Nothing,” I reply, stepping back defensively. “I was just wondering why the store is closed.”

“Why is it closed?” Ross scoffs. “Why do you think? Because the whole town is going bankrupt.”

“Huh?”

“Wake up, kid. If it weren’t for Holden’s, there’d be tumbleweeds blowing down the street. Now—”

“What do you mean?” I interrupt. I don’t remember things being bad in Crystal Falls. In fact, I remember just the opposite. “What about all the tourism?”

“Tourism?” he says, scoffing. “Why would tourists ever come to this hellhole?”

“Why? I don’t know. To go camping,” I offer. “And hiking. And to look at the falls.”

“To look at the falls?” Ross laughs. “Get real, Cal. No one’s driving out to see a bunch of brown water falling over a cliff beside some eyesore of a town.”

Brown water? What is he talking about? There’s a reason they call it Crystal Falls, after all. But I remember how it looked earlier, when I saw Mr. Schroeder standing on the bridge.

“How long has the water been brown?”

“I don’t know, a few years. Someone upriver is stirring up all the silt or dumping stuff or whatever. All I know is it went brown and stayed brown. And the town turned to shit with it.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, enough of that.” Ross shoves me up against the window. “What’s this about you having photos?” he demands.

With my jacket balled up around the fist at my throat, it’s hard to even get a word out. “What?” It’s the best I can do.

“You texted me a minute ago saying you had ‘hot pics’ I’ll definitely want to purchase.” He twists my jacket some more, this time really choking me. “What are you talking about, Harris? What pictures?”

He releases me enough so that I can speak. “Huh? I have no idea!” I protest. “Look, I really don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“The hell you don’t!” Ross shouts. “You just didn’t bank on running into me downtown! Now tell me: What pictures are you talking about?”

“Ross, I don’t have any pictures. I don’t own a camera. And hey, I don’t even have a cell phone right now, so whatever text you got wasn’t from me!”

“No phone, oh, really?” Ross says. “Mind if I search you then?”

I do mind, actually, but this is not the time to be asserting my rights to privacy. “Whatever, man,” I reply. “I don’t care.”

Ross spins me around and slams me up against the window. He pats me down like he’s a cop and I’m some criminal he’s nabbed. A couple of people pass by but don’t even give us a second glance.

“See?” I say, when he’s finished. “Nothing.”

“The bag. Open the bag.”

I take off my backpack and do exactly as he says, and then I stand there, getting awkward looks from passersby as Ross rifles through my stuff. I cringe, knowing I wouldn’t want to feel around the crumb-filled depths of my schoolbag. But he doesn’t stop until he’s certain the phone isn’t in there.

“All right, smart guy, who has your phone?” he demands.

“Nobody has my phone. Because I don’t have one. I lost it going over the falls.”

“You don’t say?”

“Yes. And why do you think the text was from me anyway? Did someone write my name on it?”

“Of course not, moron. You know you never put your name on your messages.”

I never put my name because I’ve never texted you, I think. “Then how do you know it was from me?”