Misfit Page 13

  But by this point, there’s something even more pressing than her sudden popularity. She’s already eaten the extra bunch of grapes she brought, and now she’s starving. It’s not like any hunger she’s ever felt before. Her entire body is cold and aching, crying out for fuel. She stalks through the cafeteria line, but even a quick glance at the lasagna turns her stomach. She moves right along to the desert station where she has her choice between a piece of chocolate cake, an apple, or a banana. Of course, each student is only supposed to take one.

  “Hey, Chuck,” she says to the lunch cook. “I know this is against the rules, but can I just have an apple and a banana and forget everything else?”

  “Uh . . .” Chuck’s mouth hangs open. He looks like he’s just gone brain-dead. “S-S-Sure, Jael. Have as much as you want!”

  “Seriously?” asks Jael. She feels strangely like she’s taking advantage of him, but the hunger is painful.

  “You bet. As much as you can carry.”

  “Thanks, Chuck,” she says. Feeling elated and sketched-out at the same time, she snatches up a pile of fruit and quickly walks over to the table that Britt has staked out.

  “Wow,” says Britt. “I can’t even explain how good you look today.”

  “Um,” says Jael, attacking an apple.

  “For real,” says Britt. “What are you doing? Is it makeup?

  Some new skin cream?”

  “We both know my dad wouldn’t buy that stuff,” says Jael around a mouthful of apple.

  “So, what is it?” asks Britt. “Come on, you’re supposed to tell your best friend these kinds of secrets.”

  Secrets. Jael is used to keeping secrets, but she feels like she’s nearing some kind of breaking point. Maybe if she just tells Britt . . . but she promised her dad she wouldn’t. That was the deal with staying here. A vague look from the Mons is one thing, but just flat-out telling someone? And what if her dad’s right?

  What if Britt totally flips out and turns on her? She is hard-core Catholic, after all.

  “I just blossomed, I guess,” she says at last. She takes another big bite of her apple and swallows. She can actually feel her blood sugar rise and her muscles loosen. “Grew into myself or something.”

  “I’ll say,” says Britt. Then she gives Jael a wicked smile.

  “Say . . . didn’t I see you leaving school with Rob McKinley yesterday?”

  “Uh, yeah,” says Jael.

  “So?!” says Britt. “How’d it go?”

  “Oh, fine,” says Jael. It seems like her date was weeks ago, rather than just last night. “It was cool.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “We just went to Denny’s.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah. It really was . . . nice.” But what now? This morning he couldn’t even look at her.

  “Come on, do I have to beg? Details?”

  “Really, we just walked to Denny’s, had something to eat, then he walked me home. He’s a really nice guy. And actually pretty deep, in his own way.”

  “Do you think you guys will go out again?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Listen. He’s a total flake. Don’t take it personally if he . .

  . you know . . . well, I’ve just heard that he gets distracted and loses interest in a girl quickly. You should ask him out next time.

  Keep things going.”

  “Sure,” says Jael. “Maybe I will.”

  “Really?” asked Britt. She doesn’t look convinced.

  “Yeah,” nods Jael. “Really.”

  Britt squints at her again. “There really is something different about you today. . . .”

  “Hey, Jael.”

  Jael looks up. A big jock stands at their table.

  “Yeah?” she says, biting into her second apple.

  “Uh . . .” He looks like he’s trying very hard to be cool. “You, uh, doing anything tonight?”

  She stares at him for a moment, totally incredulous. Then she says, “Get lost,” and goes back to her apple.

  “Uh . . . ,” he says, like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s just heard.

  “No, really,” says Jael. “Bye.”

  He wanders off, looking bewildered.

  “Are you crazy?” asks Britt. “That’s Andy Link!”

  “If you say so,” says Jael.

  “The best soccer player Mercy has had in, like, forever.”

  “Yeah, that’s totally my type,” says Jael.

  “Who cares,” says Britt. “He’s hot, he’s rich, he’s popular!

  What more do you need?”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure those are the three things I don’t need.” She tosses aside her apple core and decides to switch it up with a banana. She never used to like bananas, but now it’s hard to stop herself from shoving the whole thing in her mouth at once. Just as she’s taking a big bite, she hears “Hey, Jael.”

  “What?!” she says around a mouthful of banana and looks up.

  It’s Seamus Buchanan.

  “Sorry, Seamus,” she says. “Didn’t mean to snap, I just . . .”

  But he’s giving her the look.

  “I . . . uh . . . That is . . . I was wondering if—”

  “No,” she says. “Whatever it is, no.”

  Seamus nods, almost gratefully, and stumbles away.

  “You know,” says Britt. “He’s never dated anyone. Never even asked anyone out.”

  “Well, good,” says Jael. “Glad I didn’t give him the chance to break his record.”

  But Britt doesn’t laugh. In fact, she doesn’t even smile. It takes Jael a moment to place the expression on her face, because she’s never seen it before. Britt is jealous. How can Jael explain to her that it isn’t her fault? That it’s all weird demon magic . . .

  Yeah, sure, thinks Jael. Because then Britt would be completely relieved.

  Jael finds that if she keeps her head down and walks fast enough, it prevents guys from stopping her in the hall to ask her out. Even still, they continue to call out to her as she passes, some of them pleading, others almost angry. She can’t live like this. If her uncle can’t fix this, she’ll have to start walking around with a paper bag over her head. That would probably attract less attention.

  “Jael?”

  She keeps walking. She just doesn’t have it in her to tell one more guy to go away.

  “Jael.”

  This one is persistent. She quickens her pace.

  “Miss Thompson!”

  Jael stops. That’s a teacher voice. She slowly turns back.

  Father Ralph is at the other end of the hallway. When she looks at him, he flinches. She can see the crazy stare in his eyes, but he fights it back.

  “Miss Thompson,” he says, his voice a little unsteady.

  “Please come here.”

  He gets more uncomfortable the closer she gets to him. By the time she’s directly in front of him, a deep red flush covers his face. He doesn’t look her in the eyes, but instead stares down at the book in his hands. The history text with the big hole burned into it.

  “Didn’t you hear me calling?” he mumbles.

  “Sorry, Father. I thought you were a student.”

  “Oh . . . well . . .” He stares at the book like he’s trying to remember why he’s holding it. Jael notices he’s wearing a Superman belt buckle today. For some reason, that strikes her as kind of pathetic. He was so confident yesterday. So sure of his little speech about magic and miracles, Satan and Superman.

  And now he is face-to-face with something that he doesn’t believe exists. Somewhere deep inside, he is aware of that, and she can smell his confusion. His fear.

  He clears his throat and asks, “What class are you going to right now?”

  “English.”

  “I need to speak with you for a moment. I’ll write you an excuse.”

  Jael follows him into his office and sits in the green chair across from his desk. He doesn’t lean on the edge of his desk this time, th
ough. Instead, he immediately sits down behind it. Like he wants to keep something between them.

  “We still need to talk about this.” He places the book on his desk. There is a strained sound to his voice. “You obviously can’t work with this one, so it needs to be replaced.”

  “Okay,” says Jael.

  “Now, I realize . . .” It’s like he has to force himself to continue talking. “I realize that you and your father don’t have a lot of money, and the school fees to replace a lost book are a little overpriced, honestly. But there is a used bookstore in the U District where you can probably find one much cheaper. So I suggest you bring this one along.” He pushes it across the desk to her, still not looking up. “To make sure you have the correct edition.”

  “Thanks, Father,” says Jael. She shoves the book in her bag.

  “That’s really cool of you to think of that. I’ll do it this weekend.”

  “Wonderful,” he says. A muscle in his jaw twitches spastically.

  “Is that all you wanted, Father?” she asks.

  “Um . . .” The bell rings out in the hallway and he flinches.

  “Yes.”

  He looks like he could freak out at any moment, but she wants to make sure of one thing before she leaves.

  “So, Father?”

  “Yes?” He’s sweating now.

  “Sorry about that . . . uh, joke I made yesterday. You know, about my necklace being from Hell and all. You know I didn’t mean that literally, right? It’s like you said: Lucifer and Hell and all that stuff. It’s just a state of mind.”

  “Right,” he says through clenched teeth. “No, of course. I didn’t think for a moment you actually believed . . .”

  “Oh, good,” says Jael. “I’ll get the new book this weekend.

  I promise, Father.”

  “Great,” says Father Ralph. He’s clutching his desk like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling out of his chair. His eyes keep flickering over at her, then away, like he’s afraid to look at her but he can’t help himself. It’s strange. Jael can almost see the things going on his head. In fact, she catches his gaze for just a second and . .

  She gets a confused welter of images of her . . . naked. . . .

  She’s out the door in a second, feeling sick. The class period has started, so the hallway is empty. She leans her hand against the wall, closes her eyes, and takes a deep shaky breath. She knows that priests are just people and everyone has weird thoughts, and whatever freaky succubus thing she’s doing is making it worse. But there is a part of her, the stupid little girl who cried on Good Friday, that still holds on to some sad hope that priests are somehow better than the rest of the screwed-up human race. And even though she’s past this and she knows better, it just pisses her off. She wants to go back in there and somehow show that liar his own thoughts. Ram it down his goddamn hypocritical throat. . . .

  A burning smell hits her nose and she jerks her hand away from the wall. Underneath is a black scorch mark on the paint.

  “Oh, God . . . ,” she whispers. She stares at her hand. Waves of heat pour off like an asphalt road in summer.

  “Miss Thompson!”

  Jael jerks her head up, holding her hand behind her back.

  Father Aaron stands at the other end of the hallway, his arms crossed, glaring at her.

  “Go to class, Miss Thompson,” he shouts down the hallway.

  “Y-Yes, Father.”

  He turns sharply and walks down another corridor, out of sight.

  Jael looks back at the scorch mark on the wall. She rubs at it to see if it will come off. But it’s burned in so deep, it looks permanent. This is all permanent. This is her life now, and things will never go back to the way they were. Her father warned her.

  She’s got nobody to blame but herself.

  She carries that realization with her the rest of the school day. It settles on her like a weight. It sinks into the muscles in her back until it feels like someone’s knotted them in a tight French braid. She avoids any contact with anyone for fear of seeing some weird sex thing in their eyes. She avoids touching anyone so she doesn’t accidentally burn them. She feels so isolated. So trapped within her secret. All she wants to do is escape. Get home where at least she doesn’t have to pretend like everything’s OK.

  But then, as she’s leaving, she sees Rob with his skater buddies. She feels this intense craving for him. It twists up in her stomach and all she wants to do is take him back to that cozy booth in Denny’s and talk about stupid school stuff and weird chemistry ideas all night. She’s walking briskly toward him before she’s even made a conscious decision to do so.

  “Hey, Rob,” she says.

  They all go silent and stare at her, except Rob, who looks everywhere else but at her. There is panic in his hazel eyes.

  “Rob, can I talk to you a minute?” she asks.

  “Uh . . .” It’s almost like her presence causes him physical pain. “I . . . uh . . . have to, uh, do something . . . uh, right now.

  Sorry.” And he hops on his board and takes off.

  “Shit,” she says.

  As she watches him escape, she gradually becomes aware of the fact that his friends are still staring at her.

  “So, Jael,” says Chas. “You, uh, doing anything tonight?”

  Jael hoped that the walk home by herself would give her some peace. But cars slow down as they pass, like they’re looking at a traffic accident, and one even runs a stop sign. When another car almost drives up onto someone’s lawn, she decides that’s all she can take. She hitches her bag up on her shoulder and runs home. She makes it to her front door in minutes, not even winded, but she doesn’t take the time to appreciate that because she is suddenly so hungry she feels like she’s about to pass out. She bursts into the house, stumbles to the kitchen, and throws open the refrigerator. She finds a bunch of broccoli and just stands there devouring it, stalk and all, with the fridge door still open.

  “How was school?” she hears her father behind her.

  “Terrible,” she says between mouthfuls.

  “I knew it!” he says. He paces around the tiny kitchen, cracking his knuckles. “I could see it coming a mile away. I can’t believe I even let you—”

  “Nothing happened, Dad. It was just . . . awkward.”

  He stops and gives her a suspicious look. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I have to talk to Uncle Dagon,” she says.

  “He said he’d be by in the next few days.”

  “No, right now. I can’t do this for another couple of days.”

  “Do what? Jael, you promised that if there’s a chance someone suspects—”

  “It’s not like that,” says Jael. “Nobody suspects.”

  “Well, then? What is the problem?”

  “It’s just . . .” He is the last person on earth she wants to talk to about this. She can’t even look at him. “Please, I just need him.”

  “I have no way to contact him right now,” he says, almost like he enjoys saying it.

  “What about that thing you did with blood in the bowl?”

  “If you do it more than once in a lunar cycle, there can be problems.”

  “Problems?”

  “Accidentally contacting the wrong demon.”

  “Well, then I’ll do it.”

  “Absolutely not,” says her father. “I will not have you cutting yourself for any reason. It’s the weekend. Whatever this problem is, clearly it’s not so dire that you feel the need to share it with me. You can just stay home until your uncle shows up on his own to fix it.”

  “Fine, I’ll just do it without your help,” says Jael.

  “You haven’t the slightest idea what you’re doing,” says her father. “You don’t even know the incantation.”

  “Maybe I don’t even need that stuff. Maybe only normal people need that stuff,” says Jael. “Mortals.” She spits out the word with a contempt that makes her father’s eyes go wide. It surprises her, too, but to
cover that up, she gets to work like she has some idea what she’s doing. She fills a bowl with water and grabs a paring knife from the drawer. She sits down at the table and holds her hand out over the bowl.

  “Jael . . . ,” says her father.

  Before she can change her mind, she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and drags the knife across her palm.

  There’s no pain, just a strange screeching noise.

  She opens her eyes hesitantly, expecting to see gushing blood and other nastiness. Her hand is unharmed, but the knife is now a flat, warped piece of metal.

  “Damn.” she says. “Shit, damn, damn, damn—”

  “See?” says her father. “I told you to stay home. I told you that you had no idea what you were getting into. You’re in way over your head, Jael, and I have no idea how we’re going to—”

  Jael flings the ruined knife across the kitchen, sending it skittering across the floor and into the hallway. She presses her palms against the table and blinks rapidly to clear the emerging tears. “Thanks for the support, Dad,” she says between clenched teeth. “You know, it’s almost like you don’t want me to get this. Maybe you don’t want me to get any of it. My family. My mother. Half of myself.”

  She stares at him for a long time, waiting for him to defend himself. But he doesn’t. He just stands there with that stupid tough-guy look of his. That hurts a lot more than she thought it would.

  “Dad?” she says, her voice starting to crumble.

  It hangs in the air like that for a moment, then he looks away and quietly says, “Silver. It has to be a silver knife to cut through your skin.”

  There’s a brief flutter of hope in Jael’s chest, but it sinks immediately. “We don’t have any silver, do we?”

  Without a word, her father leaves the kitchen. She hears his slow, deliberate footsteps as he walks into his bedroom and pulls open a dresser drawer. A few minutes later he comes back holding a narrow ivory case. He takes the lid off and holds it out to her. Inside, on a red satin cushion, is a small silver knife with a bone handle.

  “This . . .” She takes it from him. “This was . . .”