Drowning Instinct (3 page)

By the time I made it to the second floor, my stomach was churning. Great. I couldn‘t even handle a perv janitor. No way I was going back downstairs, not while that guy was around. Maybe hide in the bathroom? Bathrooms were safe, even in the dark.

Especially in the dark. Lock myself in a stall, plug into my iPod, tune out, and let the blackness fold around like a blanket.

The upstairs hall was quiet. Lockers lined white cinder-block walls, which were broken at intervals by closed classroom doors.

All except one, on the right. A spray of fluorescent light splashed onto the floor, and there was music, something lush and bittersweet.

Well, okay, so a teacher was getting a jump on the first day of classes, so what? I was going to my locker, no big deal. I‘d just slide by, pray my locker door didn‘t make a racket, then dump my stuff and duck into the bathroom at the other end of the hall.

I moved fast, on the balls of my feet, quiet as a mouse. The music was everywhere.

It billowed. Walking into the swell of violins was like passing into a fine mist, and I couldn‘t help it. I slowed, just a little, tossing a quick glance to the right—

And stopped dead.

Because Oh. My. God.

3: a

It was your standard chemistry classroom: desks and chairs in the center ringed by lab benches and high stools, with a demonstration bench up front. Chrome spigots, sinks.

Nothing special.

Nothing, that is, but him.

His back was to me. He stood at the far side of a lab table, staring out a bank of windows overlooking the woods to the northeast. The sky was a clear, crisp cerulean blue.

The rays of the rising sun bathed his shoulders and back, which were flawless and very muscular, a rich, warm gold.

Because he was naked.

I had turned to stone. I just . . . Bob, I just couldn‘t move. You have no idea, or maybe you do. Like when you first saw the girl who would be your wife. . . . Maybe it wasn‘t a thunderbolt moment for you, but even my parents, as messed up as they are, remember the instant they first laid eyes on each other. So I remember every second of that first time.

He was . . .

He was
beautiful
, like something out of a dream. When he shrugged into a pale blue button-down, sunlight rippled over valleys made of muscle and that smooth, smooth skin.

His hair, dark and curly, fired with red and blond highlights. His movements were fluid and graceful and utterly unselfconscious because he thought he was alone. He was a demigod, and I was, welll. . .
awed
. Like someone this perfect just couldn‘t
be
.

I know that sounds hokey to you, Bob. But that‘s how I felt. That‘s the truth and that very first moment of sun and light and beauty is one I will never, ever forget.

Maybe I made a sound. Or he knew he was being watched. Either way, he sensed something because he began to turn and move away from the windows. That‘s when I saw he wasn‘t naked but wearing khaki slacks cinched around a trim waist. His mouth unhinged in surprise. ―Wha—?‖

―Sorry!‖ And then I was bolting, a freaked-out little bunny scuttling down the hall.

Bathroom, bathroom, where was the bathroom . . . there! I darted for the door at a dead run, thinking:
If I can just get away. . . .

Of course, it was locked. I hit pretty hard, too. The impact balled in my shoulder then shivered down my right arm. I staggered back and then the lid of that stupid coffee cup popped like a cork from a bottle of Champagne. A gush of tepid cappuccino sheeted over the door and sloshed over my skirt and bare legs. Sticky liquid crawled down my calves and leaked into my shoes.
Oh no no no . . .

―Whoa, whoa, hey.‖ He was in the hall now. ―It‘s okay, it‘s okay; relax, I‘m not going to hurt you; it‘s
okay
.‖

I burst into tears.

4: a

His name was Mr. Anderson, and he taught chemistry, which I had eighth period.

Back in his classroom, he handed over a wad of paper towels and pointed me to a back room: ―There‘s a sink. Plenty of soap. Take your time.‖

The back room was a kind of office with a couple computers, a coffeepot, a fume hood, and a short hall leading to more doors and a storage room lined with shelves of chemicals. Music swelled from a Bose stereo squatting on a windowsill.

The putty-colored stain on the khaki skirt I‘d laid out so carefully the night before was dark and precisely centered over my crotch. A fist-sized splash of coffee splotched my shirt. Even after everything dried, I would look—and smell—as if I‘d taken a bath in a coffeepot. Great. At least my canvas slides were dark blue.

There was a cake of Dove at the sink. I washed off my arms and splashed water on my face then inspected myself in a small mirror hanging on the wall. My eyes were raw and red as if someone had thrown a fistful of sand, but otherwise I didn‘t look too bad. Only now what? God, I was so embarrassed. Maybe I could just hide out here until the bell rang and—

―You okay back there?‖ Mr. Anderson called from the classroom. ―Need anything else?‖

How about a new life?
―No. I mean, I‘m fine, thanks. Be right out.‖

Come on
. Forking a handful of hair from my forehead, I hefted my backpack onto a shoulder and blew out, the way I used to right before a big race.
He’s only a teacher; he’s
not going to bite. Just apologize and go.

Mr. Anderson was back at his windows, in a wedge of bright sun, sipping coffee from a black
X-Files
mug. When he heard me, he looked over and smiled. ―Better?‖

I nodded, tongue-tied, all the words I‘d thought about saying jamming up behind my teeth. Mr. Anderson‘s face was lean but square with high cheekbones, just the suggestion of a cleft in his chin and a broad forehead framed by thick, dark curls. His eyes were a startling, bright, silver-blue, like ancient ice, and his skin was bronzed from time in the sun. ―Th-thanks,‖ I finally managed. ―I‘m . . . I‘m sorry I made such a mess.‖

―Don‘t worry about it. You were just lucky that coffee wasn‘t hot. While you were cleaning up, I did the hall. One less thing for Harley to complain about.‖ He raised his mug.

―Need a cup?‖

―No,‖ and then thought that sounded rude, so I added: ―I don‘t really like coffee. It was my mother‘s idea.‖

―Smart woman. Coffee is the elixir of life.‖ He hesitated. ―Look, uh, about earlier . .

. what I was doing . . .‖

―It‘s okay,‖ I said, quickly. ―Honest.‖

He put a hand up. ―Let me apologize, okay? All I wanted to say was I‘m sorry I scared you. You kind of caught me out. I wasn‘t expecting anyone around this early,
obviously
.‖ The way he rolled his eyes made me giggle and he grinned. His teeth were square and very white. He had a nice smile. ―That‘s better. I‘m training for an Iron Man.

Summer‘s no problem but once school starts up, I have to squeeze in time when I can. You a runner?‖

―I used to run cross-country,‖ I said and then wondered why I was telling him anything. Well, he
had
been nice. He could‘ve kicked me right back downstairs.

―For real? What‘s your time for a 5K?‖ I told him, and he made impressed sounds.

―Not bad. You done any middle distance? Eight or fifteen hundred?‖

―No. I haven‘t run in a while, actually. I mean, I haven‘t been training. Anyway, I just liked to run. I like . . . speed.‖ That wasn‘t quite what I meant to say, but
to fly
sounded, well, weird and I was supposed to be acting normally.

―I like the power,‖ he said. ―You know, when everything‘s working the way it should and nothing hurts? You slip into that zone where you‘re skimming the ground, almost like you‘re running alongside the earth instead of on it.‖

―Slipstream,‖ I said. It just came out.

He nodded, his eyes serious. He wouldn‘t be the kind to laugh even if he thought I was an idiot, I knew that. ―That‘s right. Only real runners get that.‖ He paused. ―So . . . you interested in training again? I‘m the track and cross-country coach and, well, I could always use another pair of legs, especially varsity girls.‖

Then he ran a hand through his hair and let out a little laugh. ―Sorry. School hasn‘t even started and you‘re new and already I‘m trying to sell you on a sport. You‘d probably like to settle in before getting yourself weighed down with a million obligations. Come on, I‘ll walk you downstairs to the library just in case Harley‘s still lurking.‖

He waited as I checked my left palm where I‘d penned my locker combination that morning. Unfortunately, between the coffee and washing up, the writing was faded and blurred, and I messed up the combination twice. Mr. Anderson waited a beat then said,

―You have to twirl it twice clockwise to reset the mechanism and . . . Here, let me.‖ He reached past. ―What‘s the combination?‖

I told him. This close, he smelled of sunlight, pine needles, and Dove soap. He spun the knob right, then left, then once around clockwise, and then stopped on the last number before giving the handle a yank. The locker clanked open.

―Thanks.‖ After I‘d stowed my stuff, we walked back down the hall, past his classroom. That lush music was still playing, and I said, ―That‘s really nice. I‘ve heard it before—in a movie.‖ I thought a second. ―
Blume in Love
, that last scene where they‘re in St. Mark‘s square.‖

―Yeah?‖ Cocking his head, he closed his eyes, listened a moment, said, ―You know, now that you mention it . . . that‘s right. But George Segal?‖ He gave me a curious look.

―He‘s not even
my
generation. How do you know the movie?‖

If there‘s one thing you have plenty of time for on a psych ward, it‘s watching DVDs. But I couldn‘t say that, so I just shrugged. ―I like movies. So, what‘s the music?‖

―It‘s from an opera,
Tristan and Isolde
. Wagner was kind of a Nazi, but I love his music. Like the helicopter scene in
Apocalypse Now
? That‘s Wagner, too.‖

―Really?‖

―Mmm-hmmm. ‗Ride of the Valkyries.‘ Robert Duvall is . . .‖ And Mr. Anderson kept that up all the way down the stairs, this steady patter about opera and films with classical music scores.
2001
even
I
knew, but
Alien
?

Harley was nowhere to be seen. As we neared the library, Mr. Anderson said, ―So where do you live that you have to come in so early?‖

―Lakeside.‖

His eyebrows lifted. ―Yeah? We‘re practically neighbors. I live maybe twenty miles west, a little past Plymouth in the Kettle Moraine. Why are you going to school here?‖ He listened as I gave him the SparkNotes version of my rehearsed speech:
We live up north,
only my mom’s bookstore is down here and Turing is such a great school, so blah, blah,
blah.

―Which bookstore?‖ he asked.

―MacAllister‘s.‖

―Really? Cool. My wife‘s a big reader.‖

―Oh.‖ That he had a wife was like a pinprick. I felt myself deflate, which was completely stupid. Of course, he was married; he was
gorgeous
. Was he wearing a ring?

No, I didn‘t think so, but no way in hell I was going to look, not then. Not
ever
. Jesus, how many different ways can you spell
loser
? ―What does she like to read?‖

―Romance, mainly, and literary fiction. She likes someone locall. . . uhm . . .

Simmons, I think.‖

―Meryl? She‘s a really good friend of ours. My mom‘s known her since they were kids. Mom usually has a big writers‘ party the last weekend in September and Meryl comes down from her farm up north to, you know, sign books and stuff.‖

―Seriously? My wife will be impressed.‖

―Maybe I can get her an autographed book. Or Mom can invite you to the party.‖ I was babbling. What did I care if his wife had a signed copy of Meryl‘s latest? As we got to the library doors—open, mercifully, and the lights were on—I finished, lamely, ―For the reading, I mean.‖

―Sure, that would be nice,‖ he said, but his eyes were already dropping to his watch and I could tell his mind was leapfrogging ahead to the rest of his day. ―Well, you‘ll be okay now. See you eighth period, Ms. Lord.‖

The librarian was half asleep and sucking from a gallon coffee mug. She just gave me a vague wave and grunted that I could sit anywhere I liked. I prowled until I spotted a solitary desk snugged beneath a window at the end of a stack. I knew as soon as I saw it that this was the perfect spot: books to my right and a window on the world to my left.

Only much later did I realize that the view faced northeast, same as Mr. Anderson‘s windows. We might even be looking at the same thing at precisely the same moment, although I had a feeling that whatever he saw would be different. After all, I was on the ground level and he was directly above, with a clearer, sharper, brighter view.

And that . . . well, I don‘t know, Bob. But when I realized that?

It just seemed like this really good omen.

5: a

The first bell rang, but Ms. Sherman didn‘t flinch. Her fingers toyed with her letter opener: long and pointed with a blocky handle fashioned out of green stone. ―Of course, all our students are exceptional. It‘s not that I want to give you the wrong idea, that you‘re somehow all alone, dear,‖ she said. Dropping the opener, she twined her fingers together.

For a second, I worried she was going to start praying. ―But it‘s not uncommon for very bright students to be more . . .
sensitive
or socially awkward. I just don‘t want you to feel as if no one understands.‖

―Okay,‖ I said, ―thanks.‖ Not five minutes after I settled down in the library, Ms.

Sherman had ambushed me for a little face time to see how I was getting on. Considering school hadn‘t started yet, she probably wanted to reassure herself that the crazy new girl wasn‘t going to go postal her first day. I was only glad she hadn‘t seen me almost break my arm running away from Mr. Anderson.

Ms. Sherman and I had met during orientation two weeks earlier. She was like all guidance counselors: earnest and eager to convince me that it was safe to open up about all my troubles, what we said was confidential, blah, blah, blah. Her eyes were moist and dark brown, like a cocker spaniel‘s.

―There are other students here who are under a psychiatrist‘s care or been in a hospital or institution,‖ she said, clearly deciding to abandon the nuanced approach. ―So there‘s no need for you to feel alone. How often are you seeing your therapist?‖

Shit. If I said twice a week, that sounded like I was barely holding it together. Every week was only a little better. Of course, since I wasn‘t seeing
anyone
. . . ―Every month,‖ I lied. ―I used to go more often, but . . .‖ I let that dangle.

―Curious.‖ She thumbed open a manila folder, flipped through papers, ran the manicured ice pick of a fingernail down one page. ―Your parents neglected to give us your therapist‘s name and number.‖

―Why do you need it?‖

―Just in case.‖

―In case what?‖

She paused, studying me with her big wet eyes. A thought-bubble ballooned over her head:
Oh hell, I hope she’s taken her medication this morning; is she on meds; where
is
that panic button?
―In case you run into difficulties,‖ she finally said, only gently, like she‘d just walked into a sickroom with a terminal patient. ―We like to know who to call.‖

Ghostbusters
? God, Bob, I
swear
that was on the tip of my tongue. The moment was so
perfect
. But, no, she might not have a sense of humor and then I‘d only sound weirder than I already was. ―Wouldn‘t you just call my parents?‖

―Jenna.‖ Her lips compressed. She was all through being sweet and understanding.

―Is there a reason we shouldn‘t know who you‘re seeing?‖

―Because it‘s private? It‘s none of your business?‖

―Really, Jenna, there‘s no need for hostility. We only want—‖ She broke off as her phone buzzed. She picked it up, said hello, listened for a few seconds, then said, ―I‘ll be right there.‖ Hanging up, she scraped back her chair. ―Look, I don‘t want to be blunt or cruel about this, dear, but we simply don‘t want to risk a repeat of your, ah . . . difficulties.‖

―I thought you said you guys were used to kids with problems.‖

Her face set. ―Wait here.‖ She left, pulling her door shut with a sharp, incisive snick.

I waited. A skinny rectangle of reinforced glass—the kind with chicken wire—was set in the office door. From my chair, I could see into the hall for only a few feet in either direction. I heard muffled voices, the buzz of a phone. A woman walked by, her arms full of papers. She flicked a bland look through the caged window the way you might eye a drab zoo animal of no particular interest and kept going. There was a clock above the door that ticked off the seconds in loud, percussive pistol shots.

I stared at Ms. Sherman‘s letter opener. The blade was brassy and pointed and looked pretty sharp. My fingers moved in a spastic little twitch, like the legs of a hermit crab. I fired a glance back at the door. No one in the window.