Vixen (27 page)

I’m just curious, and I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone by making the subject of my curiosity the topic of my senior thesis, but we can all see how that’s backfired.

Even Constantine can see it. He’s standing here in my kitchen looking at me with…I don’t know. Pity? Concern? No, that’s not quite it. He almost looks like he’s weighing whether he should try to help me, but of course, that’s absurd. That can’t be it.

No matter how much it looks like it.

I clear my throat. “Sorry, I’ve got to get to class.” I tear the bottom bit of paper off the open notebook page and jot my name and number as well. “Can you call me if that’s rabid?”

“I will call you,” Constantine vows with a somber smile.

And behind the smile, he still has that look, like he’s trying to decide…

But he shakes his head, plucks up the baggie, and heads out the front door.

I hurry out a few minutes later, in time to make it to class. It’s not until I turn my phone back on after class and listen to the message from the Diagnostic Testing Lab (whose call back number is identical to the number I called that morning) that I realize a couple of things.

One is that the University apparently doesn’t send somebody to pick up bats—you have to bring them the animal and fill out a form.

The other—and this is the one I probably would have realized earlier if I wasn’t in a hurry and trying to cover up the fact that I’d murdered the bat in question—is that when I called earlier, I left my name and phone number and a brief message about a bat.

I didn’t give them my address.

Foundlings

Hastings, Nebraska, USA

Monday, December 18, 1989

The north wind blasts me with such force, I stagger half a step back through the library doors before bracing myself and pressing forward.

It’s going to be a long walk home.

Three whole blocks. Normally three blocks is nothing, but today, in this wind, with fine pellets of snow assaulting my eyeballs like tiny ice bullets, three blocks is forever.

I’m clutching a stack of books to my chest. Now I angle my arms higher so the books cover the left side of my face. I hate to make the books bear the brunt of the weather, but if any of us are going to get home through this, we’ll all have to sacrifice a little. Besides, I’m holding them spine up. The pages are protected, more or less. And they’re library books, with that plastic coating that may not be bullet-proof, but is at least ice-bullet-proof.

My hood is strapped tight to my head by Velcro tabs just under my chin. If I angle my face to the right, the wind doesn’t blast my eyes quite so hard, but it also makes it more difficult to see.

At the corner, I glance both ways before heading straight north, into the wind and icy sleet.

Now there’s no way to angle my face to stop the wind. I can look straight down at my shoes, but then I can’t see anything of where I’m going.

I just want to get home.

There’s a shortcut through the alley. Instead of walking a full block north, I could turn off halfway, take the alley for two blocks, and go in through the back door.

Not only would it be faster, but the houses and trees would help cut the wind.

The only reason I don’t take the shortcut every time I walk home from the library, is that’s where the seniors like to hang out and smoke.

I am a freshman. Worse than that, I’m a freshman carrying library books.

As I’m considering the option, a particularly forceful blast of wind shoves me back, peeling the hood away from my head.

For a second, it’s all I can do to stand strong against the gust without slipping on the pellets of ice accumulating on the sidewalk.

Then I tuck the library books between my knees, wresting my hood back into position, pick up the books again, and press on as far as the alley, where I turn.

Shortcut it is.

I mean, what are the chances the seniors are out there smoking today, in this weather? They’d have to stand up tight against the buildings just to keep their cigarettes lit. Besides, I’ve only ever seen them there on my way home after school. I stopped home first, then went to the library for almost an hour. Surely, even if they were there earlier, they’re not there now.

Right?

I hasten my steps. If I wasn’t wary of slipping and falling on the ice, I’d break into a run. Even being careful, I nearly slip and fall twice, flinging my arms out wide to keep my balance, exposing the library books to more sleet. I should have brought my backpack, but when I left the house an hour ago, the sun was shining.

I’m halfway through the first block of the alley when I see them, stepping like shadows from the back of a building, the tips of their burning cigarettes lit like burning eyes.

Like six burning eyes.

With six bulky seniors behind them.

I glance side to side, but the topography of the alleyway hasn’t changed since the last time I walked it. Buildings line both sides, blocking the wind, and blocking my escape. Unless I want to turn around and go back the way I came, there’s no way out but to keep going, past the guys.

I weigh the choices.

Honestly, I would turn around and run if it wasn’t for the likelihood that they’d come after me. These might not be the kinds of guys I want to walk past while carrying an armload of library books, but they’re most certainly not the kind of guys I want to turn my back on. They’re faster than I am even when it’s not icy out.

“It’s that Rude Boy.” One of them recognizes me.

I keep walking toward them, nodding to acknowledge his greeting, because I know from experience if you don’t acknowledge their greeting, they will hold you by your collar with your feet off the ground until you apologize.

“Rude Boy,” another one calls as I draw closer. “Why you so rude, Boy?”

“It’s Rudy,” I explain in my most non-confrontational voice, because if you don’t answer a direct question like that, you might end up with a black eye—which is a much more difficult injury to explain to your parents than bruised ribs or skinned knees. “Short for Rudyard.”

The guys all laugh.

Laughter is good. It might even mean they’re in a good mood today. Maybe I will make it through the alley after all. I’ve almost reached the place where they’re standing. I’m maybe ten feet from the senior closest to me.

“Rude Boy,” another one of them calls, as if daring me to correct him.

Here’s the thing—I have an overbite. It’s not so bad most of the time. I don’t even notice it, really. But growing up, it gave me what I guess you’d call a speech impediment. It wasn’t bad. My teachers could all understand me. Anyone who was actually trying to understand, could understand.

Of course, these guys aren’t trying to do anything but pick a fight. They don’t want to understand me, so they exaggerate the way my words sounded.

I guess when I said
Rudyard,
it didn’t come out sounding like Rudyard.

“Rude Boy? Oh, what’s wrong, Rude Boy? You’re short of yum yums? You’re short of dum dums?” They’re not particularly bright when it comes to witty taunts. Now they’re just being silly, mocking me.

That, by itself, would not be so bad, but they’re also lining up across my path, forming a solid wall of seniors, blocking the alleyway.

I stop five feet from them, just out of arm’s reach.

Clearly, I should have run when I had the chance. Now it’s too late. I don’t even have a head start.

“Rude Boy’s just short.” One of the taller guys announces with a chuckle.

I chuckle, too. Maybe they’ll decide I’m not hurting anything. I’m not worth their time. Maybe they’ll let me pass.

I’ve talked to Master Sparks, my taekwondo instructor, about what to do in moments like this. He’s taught me all the typical self-defense moves—plenty of kicks and punches, but mostly evasive maneuvers. Master Sparks is big into avoiding confrontation, especially when outnumbered.

His most recent advice? Just keep walking. Pinch your eyes shut, and picture the place you most want to be.

Though I can’t imagine it will do me any good, I try it. Maybe it’s because I trust and respect Master Sparks, but more likely, it’s just because I have no better options. I’m not going to win a fight against six guys bigger than myself, nor am I likely to outrun them on the ice.

And I don’t even want to think about what might happen to these library books if they get ahold of them.

I pinch my eyes shut and picture myself on my bed in my room at home, out of the sleet an blasted cold, with the hand-stitched quilt my grandmother made of blue and green and red cotton.

My warm room, out of the wind, with the radiator under the south window sending out heat in visible waves.

I can almost feel it.

“Ahhh! Rudyard! You dummy, don’t scare me like that. You’re squishing me.”

It’s my sister. She’s on my bed—of course she is. Her bedroom, though bigger and prettier than mine, is a terrible place to be on a blasting cold day like this, because it’s on the north side of the house and the wind rattles straight through the windowpanes. Judy loves to sneak into my bedroom and read, lying backward atop my bed so her book sits in the puddle of sunlight that would have been streaming through the south window up until the storm hit.

I don’t have a problem with my sister being in my room.

I do, however, have a problem with
me
being in my room.

How did I get here? I shouldn’t be here. What just happened?

Judy’s kind of freaking out and squealing. “It’s not funny to scare a person like that. I didn’t even hear you coming. How did you get up the stairs without making them creak? Or were you hiding out up here the whole time? I thought you were at the library.”

“I was at the library.” I hold out the books in my hands as evidence, and there it is. “Do you see that?” I step closer to my sister so she can see the ice crystals before they melt. “It’s sleeting outside.”

“You let library books get sleeted on?” Judy sounds aghast.

I’m staring at the sleet as it melts into tiny puddles and even starts to evaporate in the warm room.

“I didn’t bring my backpack,” I explain. “When I went to the library, it wasn’t storming yet. I got caught off guard.”

Judy squints down at the melting ice crystals. “How did you get upstairs without me hearing you, before the sleet melted?”

How much do I tell her about what happened? Do I admit I was just in the alley, and now I’m here, and I have no idea how I got here? Or will she think I’m crazy? But she saw the ice and she didn’t hear me coming. If anybody’s going to believe me, Judy will.

“Are Mom and Dad home yet?” I glance furtively around the room.

“Still at work. It’s not after five yet.” Judy’s sitting on the edge of my bed now, her book on her lap, one finger slid between the pages to mark wherever she left off reading when I landed on her.

“Do you want to know how I got up here without creaking the stairs?” I sit on the edge of the bed beside her.

“Yeah.”

“I was walking home from the library. The wind was blasting me, and my library books were getting sleeted on, and I thought,
I need to hurry up and get home
, so I took the shortcut down the alley.”

“But what about those guys—wait, it’s storming out. They wouldn’t be crazy enough to be out there in the sleet.”

“They were out there. They started giving me a hard time. I thought about turning around and running back the way I came, but it’s icy, and if I slipped and fell—”

Judy shudders so hard, the bed shakes and the floor creaks.

I continue, “You remember what Master Sparks said to do?”

Judy’s in taekwondo with me, so she was there when Master Sparks gave his advice.

She rolls her eyes. “He said to close your eyes and imagine yourself in a safe, peaceful place.”

“Did he say safe and peaceful? I guess I don’t remember his exact words.”

“Something like that. Whatever he said, I don’t see how it could help. You didn’t try that, did you? Those guys would probably tackle you if you did that. You’re not hurt, are you?” Judy leans around and looks in my face.

That’s when it occurs to me—maybe they hit me, and I got a concussion and walked home the rest of the way in a daze, and only snapped out of it when Judy started screaming at me. “Do I look hurt?”

“No. You look perfectly fine. Maybe a little red from the cold.”

There goes that theory. If the guys hit me hard enough to knock me out, it would have to leave a mark.

“How did you get away from them and get up here without creaking the stairs?”

I look my sister full in the face. We’re twins, so in some ways, looking at her is like looking at myself, expect a girl-version of myself. Sometimes she understands what I’m thinking and feeling and reflects that back to me. Occasionally, it’s handy. Other times, it’s annoying.

Right now, I feel like I need her help, because I honest and truly do not know how to explain what happened.