Farsighted (Farsighted Series) (8 page)

Instead of giving him the chance, I decide to elaborate on my
very interesting
classes. “Like Advanced Chem, I can tell it’s going to be great. The teacher Mr. Brown, well, actually, he insists we call him Dr. Brown, he seems really smart. We’re going to be learning about acids and alkalis this week, you know, rookie material, before we can move into more advanced chemical compounds, isotopes alloys—all the good chemistry stuff.”

“That sounds great, Alex. I was never very good at chemistry. I was always better in social studies, learning how the human brain works, why certain people do the things they do, why—”

I can see what Dad’s trying to do, trying to segue into a discussion about my so-called problems. No, thank you. “I’m not much a fan of the social sciences,” I say, raising my voice up and down in an imitation of excitement. “This semester, Mrs. Warszynski is teaching World History. Man, she is tough. Goes on and on about dates and figures and important people and whatever. It’s hard to type as fast as she speaks, and I can type pretty fast. Well, you know, you converted the notes from when I was absent. She’s something else, she is, Mrs. Warszynski. On the first day of class, the first day, she jumps into a lecture about Tsarist Russia…” I recall every piece of information I remember from that lecture and keep talking, barely pausing long enough to gasp for air between my hap-dash run-on sentences.

Finally, we arrive at school. I’ve successfully held off Dad’s questioning, at least for today, at least for this car ride. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away with doing the same thing on the way home. I reach for the door handle, eager to be free, but at that exact moment all the locks on the van click shut.

“Alex, I got a call from your guidance counselor yesterday. She said that you weren’t
just
sick. Said you had a mental episode of some sort.”

What? She said she wouldn’t call. God, I don’t want to deal with this right now. I decide to sit and listen until he’s done, then make a break for it as fast as I can.

“Listen, I understand. It’s hard growing up and all of that. But I really need you to quit making a public spectacle of yourself. I haven’t told Mom, because there’s no point in upsetting her over this. But you need to get a better grip on reality, okay? And I need you to be honest with me and willing to talk about whatever you think is going on here. Got it?”

I snap my fingers in assent and return my hand to the door handle.

Dad unlocks the doors, and I get the heck out of there.

***

I survive my first few classes without incident. Seems the other students would rather keep their distance from me, now that I appear violent
and
crazy. I guess that’s one good side effect of my haunting hallucinations—makes for a better high school experience, at least when I’m not crying and yelling in the middle of the crowded cafeteria.

Simmi catches up with me at lunch. She slides onto the bench across from me at our table on the cafeteria periphery. “Hi,” she chirps, acting completely normal and happy. Not a trace of awkwardness regarding yesterday’s incident.

“Hi,” I reply with a big smile.

“Hey, Alex,” she says, “have you met Shapri yet? I invited her to eat with us today.”

“Oh, yeah. Hi, Shapri,” I say, taking a bite of my bologna and mustard sandwich.

“Hi,” Shapri says.

“She’s in our chem class, too. She helped me with the lab yesterday, since you weren’t here. There’s an odd number in the class anyway, so Dr. Brown says we can work in a group of three, if that’s all right with you,” Simmi adds.

“Yeah, yeah. Great.” My mouth is still full of crust-less Wonder Bread and mushed-up meat byproducts. I swallow and attempt to come up with more thoughtful conversational insights for my companions. Instead I ask, “How was the lab yesterday? Sorry to have missed it.”

“Oh, super easy,” Shapri says, hijacking the conversation. “We finished way before the end of the period, so we just sat around and chatted. Simmi and I’ve got a lot in common.” Both girls giggle.

I still don’t know what I think of Shapri. If Simmi likes her, does that mean she’s all right? Or is Shapri trying to steal my new best friend away from me? The hairs on the back of my neck bristle like an angry wolf’s hackles. I hope the girls don’t notice.

“We’re both new in town, and like science better than the arts, and we both love spicy food, and…” Shapri says the first part quickly and then trails off. She and Simmi giggle again.

Oh, jeez. I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to handle hanging out with two constantly giggling girls. Simmi’s not like this, not when Shapri isn’t around. She’s quiet, reserved, thoughtful. “Well, that’s great,” I say, trying to sound enthused. “What else did I miss, besides class? Any interesting gossip?”

“Nah, same old boring suburban routine. We always had so much more going on in New Orleans,” Shapri says with a wistful sigh. She takes a soggy bite of something using her school-issued spork—I can’t smell any real foods at all, just paprika and cumin. Shapri’s food doesn’t seem so different from Simmi’s.

“In Delhi, too, but the kids were nicer to each other. No Brady-type person was around to proclaim a social pecking order or determine who’s worthy of kindness and who isn’t,” Simmi says, twisting the cap off a bottle of a delicious-smelling grape juice.

I smile inwardly. Simmi gets me. I decide not to say anything more on the topic of Brady, since there’s no way I can without coming off like a loser.

“Oh, in New Orleans, there were fights! This one time, a kid had to go to the hospital. So scary! My dad says to keep to yourself so as not to be an instigator,” Shapri says soberly before laughing. “I hope the two of you aren’t instigators. I don’t need any trouble.”

This comment’s got to be a jab at me, since everyone thinks I was the one who started the fight with Brady last week “I don’t need any trouble either,” I bark out like a Doberman. Go ahead, try to invade my yard.

Silence falls, as if I’ve somehow said something wrong, even though Shapri said almost the exact same thing. Simmi laughs good-naturedly. “So we all agree we don’t need any trouble? Sounds like a deal.”

Shapri sniffs and crumbles her lunch bag into a ball. “Hey, what were you doing back at my mom’s shop again yesterday? I thought the place weirded you out.”

“Oh, no, it doesn’t weird me out,” I say, trying to figure out if Simmi is looking at me strangely—I don’t think she is, so I continue. “And, how did you know I was there? Did your mom tell you what we talked about?” I ask hesitantly. As far as I can tell, Shapri hasn’t got any idea what’s going on with me, and I would like to keep it that way.

“Of course I know. My dad told me. He tells me everything. Hey, Simmi, did you watch that new reality show that started last night? That one girl was off-her-rocker crazy!” Shapri starts, trying to direct the conversation away from me.

After swallowing a big gulp of the spicy mush she eats for lunch, Simmi asks, “Oh, I don’t watch much TV. Do you think I’d like it?”

“Listen, next week, you come over to my place and—”

“Did you kill Simmi?” an adult male asks. He’s accompanied by the smell of rubbing alcohol and cotton. This time, I recognize the hallucination, or vision, right away. I’d never be able to detect something as subtle as cotton over my companions’ lunches—those spices drown out everything, even Simmi’s coconut hair as she bobs her head from side-to-side. I stiffen, trying my best not to react openly to the vision.

“Dax, did you kill Simmi?” the man asks again, more persistent this time.

Through tears, the boy says, “Why would I kill Simmi? I love—loved—her. I wouldn’t kill her!”

“Be honest. What is the likelihood of a tennis ball coming through the window and lodging itself in her windpipe?”

“Maybe it’s unlikely, but that’s exactly what happened.”

“The handful of servants on duty that day claim they heard you arguing with her right before the event occurred. Wouldn’t that be a motive?” the man questions, hardly varying his tone.

“What are you talking about? Can’t you tell I’m upset she’s gone? If it was my fault, would I be this upset?” Dax yells, presenting a sharp contrast to the other speaker’s sterility of emotion.

“Well, a crime committed in passion can lead to remorse after the fact. I’m not saying you premeditated the murder or that it was rational in any way…”

Dax starts to hyperventilate. He yells even louder than the first time, “I didn’t kill, Simmi! Quit asking me if I did!”

“You’re getting angry now, aren’t you, Dax? I see you have a hard time controlling your emotions, especially rage.”

Dax screams in pain. There’s a loud crash as several objects of various size and weight all hit the ground at the same time. The floor trembles; the air does, too.

“You’re capable of anything when you’re mad, aren’t you?” the man asks flatly. “Like vandalizing a doctor’s office. Or committing murder?”

Dax yells again and throws himself at the man, the doctor. The doctor presses a button. Something beeps. “Send in the representatives from Fairfax,” he says, panicked. “Now!”

A small group of people march toward Dax and the doctor, their feet a pattering frenzy on the tiled floor. “C’mon now. Come with us,” one urges.

“We won’t hurt you,” another says. “We’re here to help.”

The last croons, “You’ll like Fairfax. It’s a good place to relax.”

Dax screams as the men overtake him. Suddenly, the screaming stops as the scent of some strong chemical becomes overpowering. They drugged him.

“Take him, quickly,” the doctor says. “This is what his parents wanted. Best to keep this matter out of the courts, when it’s so evident the boy needs psychiatric care, not the penitentiary.” He sniffs and drags a cloth across his face, stirring up the scent of blood. “Besides, his father is a good friend of mine, a respectable man of good stock. We shouldn’t hack down the entire family tree because of one bad apple.”

The vision fades, leaving in its place the sounds and smells of the lunch room.

I shiver. I don’t think Dax is at fault for Simmi’s death, but everyone else seems to. I need to learn the truth. Did Dax kill Simmi, or did somebody else? Maybe if I solve this puzzle, I’ll be able to prevent anything bad from happening. Now, I have clues.

The boy’s name is Dax. He seems to come from a rich family that has servants. And, they’re taking him to a mental hospital called Fairfax. If I can figure out where Fairfax is, maybe I can figure out where Dax is right now. Then all I’ll need to do is keep Simmi away from that place, because whether or not Dax is responsible for her death, I know he’s around when it happens.

“Mmm! That’s so good,” Shapri says, smacking her lips.

“See, I told you,” Simmi says, closing the lid of her Tupperware container and pushing it back into her lunch bag with a crinkle.

The bell rings, announcing the end of the lunch period.

Shapri rises from the table, “C’mon. Let’s get to class. You know Dr. Brown’s policy on tardiness.”

“I’ll catch up with you in class. I need to get my chem book from my locker,” Simmi replies.

“Okay, see you in a little bit,” Shapri says, speeding off and taking her voice with her.

Once Shapri is out of earshot, Simmi turns to me. “Alex? Did something happen just now?”

“What? No.” How does Simmi know? I tried so hard not to betray my emotions this time.

“All of a sudden you got really quiet, and you didn’t answer when Shapri asked you a question, and you looked troubled,” she whispers.

“Oh, well…” I search for words to explain all these things, but I come up short.

“It’s Shapri, isn’t it? She made you upset. I know she’s a bit abrupt, but she’s a nice girl. Give her another chance, will you?” Simmi requests, putting her hand on my shoulder as we walk side-by-side down the hall.

“Yeah, I guess she did upset me. I’ll try harder to get along,” I say, delighted that Simmi has understood the situation; now I don’t need to lie to her.

She continues to talk to me, but I have a hard time focusing on her words. The only thing I feel is a pulsing sensation of warmth where Simmi’s hand touches my shoulder. She’s still holding onto me, spreading the rapture through my entire body. I can’t think about Shapri or Dax or anything. Instead, I focus on the peace flowing forth from Simmi’s hand.

Chapter 6

Many times the needed solution is right before the traveler’s eyes. If he cannot see it, the lighting of a torch may reveal a previously hidden answer. Behold the power of the flame.

At home, I look up Fairfax Psychiatric Hospital on my talking Web browser. I learn Fairfax is an institution that’s almost two hundred years old and is located in Connecticut. What would Simmi be doing all the way over there? It’s nowhere near here. Does Dax even live in Connecticut, or is he—
was
he—just sent there?

I do a search on the word
Dax
—I try spelling the name every possible way I can think of—Dax, Daks, Dacks. Spelled the first way, I get a whole bunch of information about the German stock market and some more about a comedian named Dax Shepard. The comedian is in his thirties, so I doubt he’s the Dax I’m looking for. Spelled
Daks
, I find out about a London fashion designer and an info-tech package called, “Data Analysis and Knowledge Spaces.” On my final search, I learn
dacks
is a trendy slang word for track pants. I file this bit of knowledge away for later.