Twice Shy (21 page)

"Sorry," she said. She handed him the test. "I think I did okay."
We're all going to die.

"Good," he said. "Just one more to go and you should be all set."

"That's great, Mr. G. How's next Tuesday?"
Dylan's going to bite somebody, and they'll quarantine the town and burn everything and everyone.

"Next Tuesday is fine."

"Okay."
Nothing is okay. We're going to burn and it's all my fault.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Sure," she said.
My mom tried to kill herself so I broke her finger.
"Bye Mr. G."
So she wouldn't be like me.
She walked out of the room.
She'd rather die than be like me.

She remembered something about Fey trying to talk to her about something as she passed her locker. She couldn't figure out how she got home. She helped make her mom some dinner, did her homework, and got in the bath.

She'd rather die than be like me.
It didn't matter. She closed her eyes, sank into the cold, chemical syrup and thought of fire.

Chapter 23

The weekend came and went without a ZV outbreak, without kidnapping or murder charges, without any talk of Dylan at all. Minus the omnipresent feeling of impending doom, it was almost boring. It was as if the world-changing events of the previous Tuesday had never happened, as if Dylan had never been killed in their basement, never reanimated, never escaped. Aside from her mother's broken finger, life was...
normal.

*  *  *

Late Thursday afternoon, Ani was halfway through a book report on
The Jungle
when her mom came in the door and plopped down the groceries.

"How was your appointment, Mom?"

She pursed her lips. "Not bad, all said. Nothing new, and what's there is a bit better. The chemo and radiation seem to be doing the trick."

Ani grinned. "That's great!" She started sorting the groceries into fridge and not-fridge.
Since when does mom eat Nutella?
"Isn't it?"

"Yeah, sweetie, it is. Better than we'd hoped, anyway. They're going to knock it into remission and then do a more aggressive treatment—it's called consolidation—to keep it from coming back." She grabbed the milk, eggs, and butter and put them in the fridge. "Hopefully."

"So that's, like, a cure?"

Her mom shrugged. "A month ago I would have given me eight-to-one odds. Now I'd say it's more like three-to-one."

Ani hugged her around a box of Mac 'n' Cheese. "Better is better, right?"

"Better is better."

*  *  *

Monday the twenty-eighth was a "Superintendent's Conference Day," which meant another day off for students, but staff had to work. Her mom stood at the door, taking an inventory of her possessions before leaving for the day. Ani sat on the piano bench facing the living room, an easel in front of her. The thought of Dylan sneaking up behind her made playing the piano unacceptable. The way was cleared for her to bolt into the basement should the need arise.

Her mom's eyes lit on the bookshelf, then locked on Ani. "One more time."

Ani returned the stare and repeated the instructions. "If Dylan shows up, get to the basement. The new shotgun is at the bottom of the stairs, loaded and chambered. Hold him there or shoot him if he runs. Under no circumstances shoot in the house proper or outside. Call that number you gave me. No cops, no neighbors." Ani also had the pepper spray in her pocket—they'd tested it out on her and it hurt like hell, so it should work on Dylan.

The morning passed without incident, and by noon her canvas was an abstract nightmare of red, black, and gray, more a feeling than a picture. The mailman walked by, so Ani went to the window and looked outside, careful not to touch the curtains with her paint-smeared hands and forearms. Mr. Washington was taking advantage of the thaw to clean sticks out of his yard, the mailman was still on the block, and down the street a Frontier Communications crew fiddled with something on a telephone pole.
Plenty of witnesses.

She didn't bother to put on a jacket as she got the mail, waving to Mr. Washington on her way back inside. He waved, and she tried not to think of poor Mac, dead in the street. She closed the door, latched the dead bolts, and looked at the pile—three bills, four pieces of junk mail, and a padded envelope.

The manila envelope was sealed but had no postage and no writing. She frowned, turning it over in her hands.
Nothing on the back, either.
From inside the envelope a phone rang.

She sat on the piano bench and tore the envelope open. Inside was a cheap Nokia pre-paid. It rang again. The caller ID gave a phone number but no other information. She pressed 'Send' and put the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

Silence. Then, "I need your help." Dylan's voice was husky, coarse.

Ani looked out the window. If he was hiding in view, she couldn't see him.
But he knew the moment I got the mail.
She picked up the house phone and dialed her mom, holding the receiver to her head so they could both hear Ani's side of the conversation.

"I don't see any reason why I should ever help you, Dylan. You tried to kill me."

"This isn't about you," he said. "I need an injection, or... or..." His voice faded into a pathetic whimper. "I'm so hungry." Her mom picked up as she replied.

"Dylan, you need to come back to the lab—"

"I can't do that. I won't be chained to a chair again. I'd rather die than be under the control of that woman." Ani tried to listen for anything on his end of the phone that would betray his location. She heard only silence. "I need the serum. Soon."

"I have extra serum," Ani said. Dylan was crazy, but he didn't deserve this. No one deserved this. "I can give it to you."

"Stall him," her mom whispered. Then she hung up.
So you can kidnap him again? Chain him to the chair? Kill him again? Burn him?

"I'm not going in there," Dylan said. "Put it in the mailbox and I'll get it."

"Okay," Ani said. "I'm sorry for what happened to you, and I'll help you, but you have to stay the hell away from me. If you come into my house again, I'll kill you for real." She peeked outside—Mr. Washington was still there, and so was the Frontier crew—then walked to the mailbox. She pulled the auto-injector from her purse, put it in the box, and hurried back toward the house.

"Thank you," Dylan said. She shivered in revulsion at the thought of him creeping on her. The phone clicked.

"Hello?" she said. The dial tone rang in her ear.

She was halfway up the sidewalk when Mr. Washington called to her in his deep baritone. "Hey, Ani!"
No, no, not now.

She lurched to a stop and turned to face him. "Yeah?"

"You forgot to put the flag up."

She looked back at the mailbox, rolled her eyes for effect, and shambled toward the road. A pickup truck drove past, and she eyed the bed.
Are you in there, Dylan?
She walked back up the sidewalk, thanked Mr. Washington, and went inside.

She felt safer behind the locked door, and safer still near the shotgun. Ani wondered if her mom would get home before Dylan got to the mailbox. She waited on tenterhooks for something, anything to happen.

A man in dark blue sweat pants and a brown RIT hoodie jogged up to the mailbox and put his hand on it, as if resting. Ani could only see his mouth, but she was sure it was him. As Dylan opened the mailbox and grabbed the injector, Mr. Washington cried out. "Hey, you! Stop!" Dylan took off, Mr. Washington in pursuit.

Ani bolted out the door. "Mr. Washington! It's okay!" In his early eighties, he didn't have a chance in a footrace anyway.

Confused, he turned around. "That man stole your package!"

She threw up her hands. "I saw from the window. Don't worry about it. It's not worth getting hurt over. I'll just send another one."

He started back toward her. Dylan ducked behind the Miller's house and disappeared from view. Mr. Washington scowled at her. "You playing straight with me, girl?"

"Yes," Ani said. "It's no big deal."

His scowl deepened as her mother's Audi screeched around the corner. She slowed as she approached the house and angled into the driveway. She killed the engine and made a show of taking her time getting out.

Mr. Washington frowned at her the entire way. "Sarah," he said as she shut the door. "A man just took something from your mailbox. Something left there by your daughter just a minute ago."

"Thank you," her mom said, grabbing Ani by the arm. "We'll discuss this inside." She marched her up the walk and into the house, then slammed the door. With a glance to the window she said, "I'll think of something." She turned her attention to Ani. "You gave him your auto-injector."

"Yeah," she said. "I figure he'll be back for another one and you can try again. I couldn't stall him any longer."

"That's okay," her mom said. "We'll get him next time." Her eyes scanned the neighborhood from behind the blinds. "We have to."

"I know, Mom." Ani looked at the Audi. "What did you tell work?"

"Nothing. I answered my phone and then left."

"Are you going to get in trouble?"

She thought about it. "Mr. Washington witnessing makes an excuse more difficult. Not medical, not psychological... I'll come up with something." She looked at Ani. "Now, tell me what happened."

*  *  *

The weekend passed without further incident. Ani had almost gotten used to the vague feeling skittering in the back of her head—the feeling that at any moment the entire town would become a charnel house of blood and fire. Sunday night she reminded her mom to write out a check for SAT registration.

*  *  *

Ani sat next to Fey in the cafeteria. She set her SAT registration form on the table and scanned the directions. "Did you remember your check?" she asked.

Without looking at her, Fey used the dull half-pencil they'd each been given to fill in the bubbles. Ani tried again. "Do anything fun over the weekend?" Fey picked up her form and slid down to the end of the table.
Oh, great. What now?

By the time Ani had finished her form, Fey was gone. She went to her locker, gathered up her books, and headed to the bus. The late run was less crowded than the two-thirty, and the bus was half empty. Fey sat in the second seat back, well forward of their normal spot. Ani walked up to her, but she didn't move to let her past, so Ani sat in the seat across the aisle.

Fey stared straight forward, her music so loud Ani could hear the lyrics. Ani tapped her on the shoulder. Fey tore the headphones off her head and glared at Ani. "What?"

Ani cringed back. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," Fey said. When she moved to put the headphones back in, Ani grabbed her wrist.

"No, seriously?" The bus jolted forward and rolled out of the bus loop.

"Yeah, seriously. You've barely said shit to me in two weeks. It's like I'm a fucking ghost."

"Tiffany, language!" the bus driver snapped.

She changed her tone without letting up her glare. "Sorry, Mrs. Sidlauskas." Ani thought about it.
Yeah, maybe this one's on me.

"Sorry, Fey. I didn't realize—"

"No, of course you didn't. Again. You've been a fu—" Her glare flashed to the rear-view mirror. "A freaking zombie lately."

Ani bit her lip. "I know. I've had a lot going on."
You don't have the slightest idea.

"Not for nothing, but the world don't disappear when your life gets all emotional. You can talk to me."
No, I can't.
"Tell me anything."

Ani's mind raced for a reasonable topic. She lowered her voice. "My mom has cancer."

Fey's mouth opened. "You're shitting me." Mrs. Sidlauskas glared at them through the mirror. Fey stood up. "Yeah, give me a fucking detention, see if I care."

The bus lurched to a stop. They didn't get the chance to finish the conversation.

*  *  *

Ani played the piano until ten o'clock, waiting for Fey's inevitable call. Her mom had gone to bed early—she'd been doing that a lot—so she kept the phone next to her. She took it with her as she stripped for the bath, then gave up. She looked down at the icy, chemical goop and a thought occurred to her.

She shuffled to the computer and opened up a web browser. In the search field she typed "formalin carcinogen." The first link was the Wikipedia page for Formaldehyde. She clicked it, scrolled down to "safety," and read. A phrase jumped out at her.

*  *  *

Formaldehyde is a known human carcinogen associated with nasal sinus cancer, nasopharyngeal cancer, and acute myeloid leukemia.

*  *  *

Her mother's words came back to her as she closed the browser and shut down the computer.
I gave up everything to be your mother. Everything.
She couldn't cry, so she did what her mom would want her to do. She got in the bath.

*  *  *

That Friday they got their third marking-period grades. She had an A in band and art, of course, and everything else was a B... Except for English. The C crawled up from the page and infected her brain, where it pulsed and throbbed in time with her clockwork heart.
HOME-school. HOME-school. HOME-school.

Ani didn't bother begging Mrs. Weller for clemency—that road was a dead end with road-kill on it.
No point in waiting.
As soon as the eighth-period bell rang, she skipped her locker and went straight to the nurse's office.

Her mom sat at her desk, scribbling on a form, her brow furrowed in concentration. She glanced up and then back down. Ani waited until she finished, then stepped farther into the room. Her mom set down the pen and met her eyes. "Well?" She held out her hand.
I'm screwed.

"I'm screwed," Ani said. She handed her the report and tried not to gnaw on her bottom lip. "English is a 'C.'"

Her mom's lips formed a tight line. "Almost an impressive recovery."