Ancient Forces Collection (30 page)

“I’d say he had five minutes of sleep last night,” Scott said, leaning closer to Krissi. “Five minutes, tops. I told you something’s up with him. I bet he was up in the middle of the night watching that Madame Whacko I was telling you about.”

Krissi’s eyelashes fluttered. “Really? Okay, you’ve got to tell me all about this place you guys, like, went to after school. And don’t skip anything.”

Last night, at Becka’s suggestion, Scott had planned to call Krissi to talk about Philip. As usual, Scott got distracted and forgot. After first period, he caught up with her and made a plan to talk with her during this study hall.

The bell sounded and, as Scott started to answer, the librarian stepped into the room. “What’s Mr. Lowry doing here?”

Krissi tossed her auburn hair. “Beats me. I almost never see him doing study hall duty, you know?”

Scott nodded. “Well, he’s cool. The last time I was in detention, he let us talk as long as we didn’t cause a riot.”

Mr. Lowry stood at the front of the room tapping a thin, black attendance book against his thigh. Scott noticed most of the other students ignored his presence. This was, after all, a talking study hall. Unlike the silent study hall in room 305, where conversation was forbidden, Scott knew the students here were normally allowed to talk as long as they kept the general noise level lower than a sonic boom.

“May I have your attention,” Mr. Lowry announced, mustering up a commanding voice.

A girl with thick glasses turned in her seat and started to shush the others.

“As you may have guessed, I’m a substitute teacher for this period.” He circled around the teacher’s desk and leaned against the front edge. “I understand that this is usually a talking period. Today, however, will be different.”

Several students groaned.

Mr. Lowry started to pace back and forth at the front of the class as if addressing the troops. “As of this moment, there will be no talking — ”

More groans.

“No talking . . . no eating . . . no sleeping — ”

Another round of whines and moans.

“And there will be no passing of notes,” he said, pointing with the black attendance book like a battle-ax.

One of the jocks on the basketball team blurted, “Mr. Lowry?”

“Yes?”

The jock leaned back in his chair, legs sprawled as if in a lounge chair at the beach. “Um, sir. In case they didn’t tell you, this isn’t junior high.”

Several of his buddies snickered.

“What’s next? No gum chewing?” he added with a laugh.

Mr. Lowry stared at him as if torn between ordering him to do five hundred push-ups or settling for a swift boot to the seat of his pants. “Young man, what is your name?”

He looked around as if Mr. Lowry were addressing someone else and then said, “Who, me?”

He marched forward three steps. “I’m waiting.”

Every eye in the room was on him. The student cleared his throat. “Jordan Bolte.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bolte, for that wonderful idea.” Mr. Lowry turned to face the others. “At the suggestion of Mr. Bolte, there will be no gum chewing either.”

“Oh, that’s great, Jordy,” one of his buddies said, with a punch to his arm.

“For those students with PDAs, cell phones, or any kind of instant messengers,” he said, scanning the faces through narrowed eyes, “if you want to keep them, I’d suggest you turn them off and put them away. Thank you. I have a pounding migraine headache and will not tolerate any extraneous noise.” Mr. Lowry took a seat behind the desk and opened the roll book. He started to take attendance.

Scott exchanged a look with Krissi. Scott whispered, “What came over him?”

Krissi shrugged and then silently mouthed the words,
Now
what?

Scott threw up his hands. He hadn’t planned on this curve-ball. Whatever Mr. Lowry’s reason, which, for obvious reasons, Scott wouldn’t dare question, the option of talking was nixed.

Krissi took out a sheet of paper and a pen. She motioned to him to do the same.

Scott wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. Without speaking, he mouthed back, “Pass a note?” What if they got caught? If only he had remembered to call her last night.

He looked into Krissi’s pleading, green eyes and guessed that if he didn’t tell her what he knew, Krissi would nag him through the entire forty-five-minute period. What harm could there be in telling her the basics? Besides, Mr. Lowry, he reasoned, was a substitute study-hall teacher — a tough one, sure. But he was a seasoned student. He knew all the tricks of silent communication.

What were the odds of being noticed in the last row?

He slipped out a piece of paper, clicked open his pen, and began to write in large block type, stealing quick glances in the direction of the teacher. As he worked, his heart started to pound. The last thing he needed was another detention. When he finished, he propped up a textbook and, with a suppressed cough, signaled to Krissi.

Krissi, trying not to be too obvious, tilted her head. She squinted. Scott lifted the paper for a better view behind the book. She squinted again but couldn’t read it. Frustrated, Scott pretended to look at the ceiling and then the bulletin board before scanning the front of the room.

Mr. Lowry’s head was down as he called names and scrawled marks in the attendance book.

Krissi tapped her pen twice. Scott looked at her as her eyes widened, as if to ask, “Are you going to give that to me or not?”

Scott’s heart tapped away. He knew he was taking a risk. A big risk. No way would he want anybody but Krissi to see what he had written. Against his better judgment, he carefully folded the paper several times. His movements were slow and deliberate so as to attract as little attention as possible. When finished, the paper fit in the palm of his hand.

He stole a final look at the teacher and then sniffled.

As if on cue, Krissi pretended to accidentally knock her pen onto the floor between them. It rolled toward Scott. As smooth as a well-rehearsed play, Scott picked up the pen and handed it to Krissi, slipping the note into her hand in the same motion.

Although the adrenaline was pumping through his veins, Scott lowered his book, satisfied that they had pulled it off. He exhaled a slow, long breath.

Several seconds passed when, from across the room, he thought he heard someone say, “I’ll take that.”

Scott’s heart skipped a beat. No mistake about it. Mr. Lowry’s eyes, like two laser-guided missiles, zeroed in on Krissi.

“Excuse me?” Krissi said, playing dumb. She tried to smile.

With a wave of the hand, Mr. Lowry beckoned. “I may spend most of my time in a library, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Hand me the note.”

“I . . . I just — ”

“Now, please.”

Krissi looked at Scott and winced. Her otherwise fair complexion reddened. As she walked to the front of the class, he knew they were busted. Big time. Talk about a bad dream. Make that a nightmare. Krissi dropped the note on the desk and turned to leave.

“Don’t move. Remain by my desk,” Mr. Lowry said, promptly unfolding the page.

The clock on the wall ticked away a painfully long minute.
If only the floor would open up and swallow me,
Scott thought, burying his face in his hands.

With a jerk, Mr. Lowry stood up and faced the class. “I’d like for the person who wrote this to join her.”

Scott tried to swallow, but his throat was as dry as sand.

At first, he didn’t move — couldn’t move was more like it. His feet felt as if they were encased in cement. What choice did he have? Every eye in the room was on him. He inched out of his seat and sulked his way to the front. The room was so quiet, Scott could hear the blood throbbing along the edge of his earlobes.

“People,” Mr. Lowry said, obviously delighted to enforce the rules, “this is how we handle those who can’t follow basic instructions.”

Scott took his place alongside Krissi, drooping his shoulders as if waiting to be court-martialed. From the corner of his eye, he couldn’t help but see the angry scowl on Philip’s face. Scott looked away. He tried to focus on a spot on the floor instead. His mind ran wild.
Whatever you do . . . starve me . . . use Chinese
torture on me . . . just don’t read that out loud.

Mr. Lowry raised the note for all to see, as if holding the scalp of someone from a warring tribe. He lowered the paper and held it at arm’s length. “I now have something to share with the group.”

Scott stopped breathing.
Oh, great, I’m so dead,
he thought.
Looks like for once Krissi won’t be blamed for starting the rumors.

Mr. Lowry adjusted his reading glasses. He began to read the note out loud. “ ‘Krissi, you know how much Philip is changing? Well, I think he’s depressed. Like, big time. He tries to look like he has it together, but I think he’s losing it. He even went to a psychic yesterday. That’s messed up. As if a lady in a turban really knows anything about the future. That just shows you how desperate he must be. I think he needs you now more than ever . . .’ ” Mr. Lowry stopped. “I think that’s about enough,” he said, crumpling the note in his hand.

Yeah,
Scott thought,
enough for Philip to want to skin me
alive.

8

T
he white FedEx truck stopped in the middle of the road, its flashers on. The driver, wearing shorts, clutching a clipboard and an eight-by-ten flat envelope, hopped out. She hustled to the building and rang the bell.

The door opened. “Yes?”

“Hi. Package for — ” The driver paused to scan the label, then added, “For a Rita Thomas.”

At the sound of Rita’s name, a brief spike of fear surged in Madame Theo’s heart. Instinctively, she peeked up and down the street to see if anyone might overhear the conversation. She knew she couldn’t be too careful.

“Yes . . . thank you, that’s me,” Madame Theo said, reaching for the clipboard. She kept inside the door, her heart still jumpy.

“I’ll need your signature right there,” the driver said, pointing toward the bottom half of the form. “And, if you would, print your name next to it . . . on the second line.”

Madame Theo carefully filled in the required information with the pen attached to the clipboard.

“Nice day, isn’t
it?” the driver said, making small talk while Madame Theo took her time signing the document as if she were creating a work of art. “I hear they’re calling for rain.”

“We could use some, couldn’t we?” Madame Theo said, putting the finishing touches on her masterpiece. She looked up. “Here you go.”

“Thank you very much,” the driver said, retrieving the clipboard. Using a handheld scanner, she swiped the bar code on the label, typed in the date and time on the side of the scanning device, and then holstered it like a gun on her belt. She started to hand over the envelope when, for no apparent reason, she stopped and took a good look at Madame Theo.

Madame Theo, her hand extended to receive the package, returned the gaze. She raised an eyebrow wondering what was wrong. Why didn’t the FedEx lady give her the envelope?

“You want to know something funny?”

Madame Theo pretended to be interested. “What’s that?”

“It’s just that your face looks really familiar.” The woman tucked the clipboard under an arm. She made no further effort to release the envelope. “Aren’t you on TV?”

Madame Theo felt her face flush.
Where is this going?
“Yes, such as it is,” she answered, her posture matter-of-fact. “We’re on in the middle of the night, for now, that is.”

“That’s it,” the driver said with a broad smile. “The other night I couldn’t sleep. My husband was out of town, and I always have a hard time falling asleep when he’s away. Anyway, that’s when I must have seen you on TV.”

Although not an impatient person, Madame Theo was growing restless. She was dying to review the material from her former lawyer. She kept an eye on the package, like a vulture eyeing its next meal, and forced a smile. “I’m glad to know there’s at least one person in the audience watching. Now, if you don’t mind, I had better get back to work.”

Perplexed, the driver tilted her head to one side.

“Is there something wrong?” Madame Theo asked.

“Actually, before I can leave this with you,” the driver said, withholding the envelope, “I’ll need to see some form of picture ID from you, ma’am.”

“Excuse me?” Madame Theo’s heart skipped several beats. “I . . . is that necessary?”

“You see this little orange sticker?” she said, holding up the package as if presenting evidence to the jury. “I can only leave this with the person who’s named therein.”

“So?”

“You signed this as Rita Thomas.”

“Indeed. That’s me.”

“But last night, on TV, you were Madame Theo.”

Madame Theo tucked a loose strand of hair back underneath her turban. She was beginning to see where this was going and started to steam. Why did her lawyer put Rita’s name on it? He, of all people, should know a move like that would cause complications. Now what?

“You see,” the psychic said in a soft, confidential voice, “Madame Theo is my . . . my stage name. So I’ll just take that and we’ll move on, okay? I’m expecting a client any moment.”

“I still need to see some form of ID,” the woman said, her tone pleasant but firm. “Driver’s license. Passport. Just something with a picture. It’s company policy.”

Madame Theo sighed.

“I’m sure you know we do this for your security. Must be important stuff if it’s got one of those orange stickers.”

What was the point of arguing? Madame Theo ducked back inside the room, fished her wallet out of her frumpy, oversize bag, and returned to the door. With a flip, she opened the flap and presented her California driver’s license.

“Nice picture,” the FedEx lady said, studying the two-by-three plastic card. “Says here you’re Theodella Smith.”

A nod. “Naturally, in my line of work, I go by Madame Theo. But, yes, that’s my full name.”

The FedEx ser vice woman handed back the license.

“What about the package?” Madame Theo asked, expectant, trying not to sound too anxious.

“I’m really sorry, ma’am. Unless you have another picture ID bearing the name of Rita Thomas, I’ll need to return this to the station.”