“We have workshops!” it says. “Sign up now.”
“England is a little far,” I mutter, and scroll down the page to where there’s a special section about techniques to prevent psychic attacks. One of them is creating a protective field of energy, like a white light.
“Ha!” It’s like what I do when I try to heal people.
Two freshman kids look up from their computer with amused expressions.
Mrs. Hessler gently calls over, “You okay, Aimee?”
“Yep. Great, thanks.” I lower my voice to the appropriate library volume level. “Sorry I was loud.”
Mrs. Hessler’s smile is heart-singing. “It’s good to be happy in the library.”
I give her a cheese-ball thumbs-up, then read through the page really quickly, before googling “protective herbs.” I am going to do everything I can to protect the people I love. That’s that, River Man. Aimee Avery is on your ass. People think I’m all peace and love all the time, and I am, but part of that is wanting to keep people safe—safe from arguing, from meanness, from evil river men … The problem is that except for occasionally healing Benji’s baby cuts and scrapes, I haven’t actually practiced healing people. It always felt too much like my mom, too much like crazy …
There’s still time, so I look up “Alan Parson.” There are 2,190,000 results, and most of them have to do with the Alan Parsons Project, which I guess is some ancient rock band. So I narrow the search to “Alan Parson Oklahoma football.”
There is article after article. The first thing I pull up is a newspaper account from The Oklahoman newspaper’s online section. The headline reads: FOOTBALL PRODIGY PARSON LIFTS TEAM TO WIN. There are even pictures of him running on the field, ball clutched to his chest, his thigh muscles straining against his uniform.
He clutched me to his chest.
I close my laptop. I am being ridiculous. Okay. Big breaths.
I almost groan out loud. This is happening way too fast and everything is way too heated.
“Aimee? You okay?” Mrs. Hessler asks again.
I nod.
“I heard Courtney passed out yesterday. How is she doing?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “She’s supposed to be in school today. I haven’t seen her, though, but even before today she wasn’t always acting …”
“Like herself ?”
“Yeah.” I pack up my stuff. “Exactly.”
The bell rings. The freshmen leap out of their chairs, gathering up their stuff. I do the same.
Mrs. Hessler taps me on the shoulder right before I get to the door. “Aimee?” I stop and turn around, wondering if I’ve broken some library rule. “When Courtney passed out, did she do anything funny?”
“Her eyes rolled into her head.” I shiver. I hate remembering it.
“Oh … oh …” Mrs. Hessler looks strangely uncomfortable. “Did she have … Was there a lot of acne suddenly?”
I pull my computer tightly to my chest. “Yeah. There was. Why?”
She fiddles with her fingers nervously. “No reason. I was just wondering. That’s all. Do you need a slip? Are you going to be late?”
“No.” I can’t quite figure it all out. “No. I’ll be fine. Thanks, Mrs. Hessler.”
“Wait a minute, Aimee.” She goes to the counter and writes out a slip anyway, then she pulls out a pink file folder and walks back to me. “Take this. Read it. Okay?” I hesitate, but she pushes it into my hands and says, “Please. It’s information I’ve collected. It’s … well, you read it and make your own conclusions.”
I take the folder, totally confused. “Thanks.”
She raises her hand and waves as I hustle away. I turn back and look. She’s still standing at the door, watching, a very sad expression on her face.
I open the folder in math because I can’t wait. The first page is tiny articles from some old-fashioned newspaper. There aren’t even any bylines on them. Mrs. Hessler has circled one with a red felt pen. It’s from 1876.
DEATH IN RIVER—Last evening’s entertainment in East Goffs Town, by the “Goffs Harbor” club, was attended by many, and the program was carried out favorably. The essay by Mrs. Joshua Petengale was received with great favor and exemplified much labor in composition.
However, post the performance, Mr. Emulus Black, though suffering from a cold and fever, insisted that he could indeed make it back to his home on the Union River without assistance. This assertion seems to have been mistaken. Early this morning portions of Mr. Black’s body were found upon the river banks by Mrs. William Goodale. The means of his demise are not currently apparent and may not be suitable for the finer sex’s reading.
Shuddering, I look up. Mr. Block is droning on. The next piece is also a microfiche, but seems to be an editorial.
TOWN CURSED?—With the recent death of Mr. Emulus Black, the old heathen rumor of East Goffs Town’s curse has resurfaced. For those unfamiliar, it is said our town’s esteemed founders angered Indian woodland spirits by building this fair community without making sacrifices to trees and river. It is the opinion of this newspaper that belief in such legends is morally dangerous and criminal.
I want to go get Alan. Instead, I flip to the next page. It’s another microfiche article circled in red.
MYSTERIOUSLY INJURED—Doctor M. S. Hutton of 24 Maple Avenue came staggering into the First Congregational Church Sunday morning in an overcome condition, about a quarter of an hour into the service. He was unable to converse much, but it is said that he kept uttering the phrase, “Man in the river.” After a cursory examination, it became apparent that the respected citizen had been sorely injured with blows to the head and bore thick scratches around his wrists and ankles. Preparations to carry him to the closest doctor, his colleague, one Dr. Llewellyn Allen in Blue Hill, were unsuccessful because he rapidly died from his injuries or from the shock which had befallen him. A group of men from the church attempted to spot any men injured in the river but could not. No one else from the town is missing. What happened to the good doctor is as yet a mystery as far as we can ascertain at this time.
There are three more articles from the same week talking about two women going missing. They were last seen by the river. One woman’s body was found dismembered on the shore. There is a bit of a panic in the town. People are not allowed to go to the river by themselves. The newspaper runs a picture of the woman: she is small-faced and large-eyed and beautiful.
She reminds me of my mother.
The next page is dated 1938. In the headlines, there are more mysterious deaths in the river. I flip through some more. It’s the same stories every couple of decades. People die. They are found dismembered.
I put my hand on my forehead, like that’s going to keep my thoughts under control. I turn a page. It’s a newspaper story about my mother. It doesn’t say her name.
A Goffstown woman died in the Union River Sunday morning. Coast Guard units, local police and the harbor master responded to the scene. Foul play is not suspected.
I put my head on my desk.
I swallow hard. I will not cry. The desk is cold against my forehead. It smells like lemon cleaner, and if I close my eyes it is dark—dark and nothing, which is what I want to be right now. Nothing.
“Miss Avery?” It’s Mr. Block, with his comb-over hair and big red cheeks. “Miss Avery? Are you with us?”
People laugh.
I lift up my head, blinking against the light. “Not really.”
People laugh more, like I’m making a brilliant joke, but I’m not.
Mr. Block lets himself smile for a second, then hitches up his green cords and scratches at his bald spot. He leans back so his butt is resting on the edge of the desk and knocks off a pencil. Emily scoops it up off the floor and gives it back to him.
“Thank you, Miss Portman,” he says, then turns his attention to me. “Miss Avery, how about you tell us about the fundamental theorem of calculus.”
Ugh.
It is all I can do no
t to bash my head back down against the desk. It’s so heavy. My voice is heavy. But I push myself out of the bleak and say, “It’s that integration and differentiation are contrary operations.”
“Contrary?”
I blink. “Inverse. I meant inverse.”
He shakes his head. “I like contrary. That’s good. That’s really good.”
He smiles again, and I know he’s throwing out a lifeline to me, but it’s like I just can’t reach out and take it. He lifts himself away from his desk as though movement is the easiest thing in the world and scoots over to the blackboard to write it out: Fba F(x)dx = F (b) − F (a)
He turns and smiles at us. “There it is folks, the secret of the universe.”
If only it were that easy.
Right before she died, my mother’s feet were always moving. She’d sit down, and her feet would tap, tap, tap on the floor like they were revolting against the stillness of sitting, like they were meant to move and move and move.
One time we were having lunch, even though it was only about 9:30 in the morning. Benji was in this car-seat thing that could be taken in and out of the car and she put it on top of the table, next to a stack of library books we’d just gotten that morning. He slept there, rocking gently, his toy teddy blankie draped over him. I was having lunch—Annie’s macaroni and cheese, the all-natural kind, and some apple juice. My mom sat down. She stood up. She sat down. Her foot went tap-tap-tap against the floor.
“It’s hard to sit still,” she said. “Aimee, it’s just so hard sometimes for Mommy to sit still. There’s time to sit still when you’re dead.” She gave this funny laugh, short and hard. Her laugh stuck in my throat, made it hard to swallow my Annie’s macaroni and cheese. “Or maybe I should say there’s time to lie still when you’re dead, time to lie still when you’re dead, I mean. Oh, what do I mean? I have no clue. No idea. No clue. People’s jaws are so interesting, aren’t they, Aimee? You could almost imagine their skeletons when you look at their jaws.”
I looked at her jaw; it was pointed, thin. The skin stretched over it. She had boo-boos on it, small sores.
“You’re going to be quite the artist and you should draw people’s jaws first, I think, because that’s how you know the structure of the face. Oh, that sounds like I’m talking about a house, doesn’t it? The structure of a face. The structure of a house. The structure of a heart.” She stood up. She stared at me. Her face was sleek and nothing. “I’m going to go outside and cut down some trees. I do not like those trees leaning near the house. It’s not safe. My family has to be safe. That’s my responsibility.”
She rushed toward the door. It was March. She didn’t have a coat on. She didn’t have boots on. Snow covered everything.
“When I’m gone, you watch after Benji,” she said. “You keep him safe.”
And then she was gone for good.
I dreamed the night before that happened. I dreamed about her at the river, walking to the edge with a big machine in her hand. I dreamed that there was a man standing in the river, his face a skeleton. He was ready for her. I think he might be ready for us, too.
• 12 •
ALAN
I have first lunch, and when I get to the cafeteria Aimee is already there with Hayley, waiting for me at the end of the lunch line so we can go through together. Her hair stands out like a fire in a world of fog. I want to walk up to her and bury a hand in her hair, ruffle it up a little before running my hand down her back.
I look at the line, then glance around the cafeteria. Looks like they’re pushing chicken fingers and mac and cheese today.
Her little oval of a face becomes almost as red as her hair. She shakes her head as Hayley whispers something to her. I try to think of something to say and brilliantly come up with, “How’s the Cheeto?”
“Bidding was up to $850 this morning.”
I stop moving forward with the line. “Are you kidding me? For a Cheeto?”
“A Cheeto with boobs.”
“I wonder if I can find John Wayne in one of these chicken fingers,” I muse. I survey the crowd. Blake’s at his regular table, glaring at us. Great. I wonder if just talking to Aimee is a punishable offense.
Aimee doesn’t notice him. She laughs, then says, “I’ll look for Buddha’s face in my macaroni.”
“We’ll retire from high school and live off our freaky food fortune,” I say.
Hayley smiles. “That would be brilliant.”
Aimee starts to say something else, then stops, looking at something behind me. I turn around and see Courtney approaching the back of the line. She looks sick. Her face is swollen and covered in zits. A lot of them are leaking, and people are pointing and backing away from her. Her expression is weird. She looks angry, but amused. Her eyes are too bright, like she has a fever.
“Get away from me,” she growls at the general population. Yes, growls. Courtney’s head whips around and she singles out a tall boy in a Boston Red Sox jersey. The boy’s face goes pale. Courtney looks around again and picks out a brunette girl in a Goffstown High School Student Council T-shirt. She staggers toward her and the girl backs away, panicked.
I push out of line and start back toward her. Aimee is right behind me. Courtney turns her head to look at us, and her lips, which I can now see are dry and cracked, split in a wicked grin.
I stop. This is not the girl who fell asleep in my OU cap last night.
Her eyes focus on Aimee.
“Court?” Aimee whispers. “You okay?”
Her mouth opens but no words come out.
“Come on, Courtney, let’s go,” I say, reaching out to her. “I’ll take you home. You look like you don’t feel good.”
Next thing I know I’m flying over the blue railing that separates the lunch line from the rest of the cafeteria. I land on a table, sliding across it and into the laps of two people sitting there. Their food is smashed into my clothes. The cafeteria is deadly silent.
“Court?” Aimee asks. “Court, can you hear me?”
Then, just like yesterday, my cousin folds up like a rag doll and starts to fall. But Aimee is there, and this time she catches Courtney. She can’t hold her up, but she slows her fall so that Courtney doesn’t crash to the floor again. Everson and several other teachers are running to them while I struggle to get off the knees of the guy and girl at the table. Blake is laughing behind his hand as he strides up the aisle. I finally manage to stand up. Chicken strips and sticky macaroni fall off my right side and back.
“Sorry,” I say, then hurry back to Aimee and Courtney. Blake is already there. He has his arm around Red’s shoulders like she belongs to him.
“Don’t pick her up!” Everson yells. “Get back! Everyone just get back. Go eat your lunch.” He jerks a radio off his belt and gives orders. “We need an ambulance in the caf, right now. We have a girl down.”
Blake is pulling Aimee away from Courtney and saying something to her, but I can’t hear it. I can only stare at Courtney and remember how she was last night. I try to push my way through to her.
“She’s my cousin,” I insist. Everson and the others hold me back. Everson is solid, like a wall. What was he at Colorado? A linebacker? Defensive end? He doesn’t move.
“Settle down, Alan,” he says.
“Is she okay? Is she breathing?” I demand.
“She’s breathing.” He puts his hands on my chest to stop me. “Help is coming.”
I have this urge to lash out, to try to knock the vice principal out of my way. It comes and goes quickly. You just don’t hit teachers and principals. Especially not principals built like brick walls. “She’s got a concussion,” I explain.
“I know,” he answers. “She needs a doctor. We’ve got the ambulance coming. She’ll get help.” He looks me over. “Go to the office and tell Ms. Murillo I sent you to get a clean shirt, then go see if you can clean the cheese off your jeans in the bathroom.”
I look past him to Courtney lying on the floor, out cold, not moving, an
empty husk of a person.
“She’ll be okay,” Everson promises.
“Come on, Alan, I’ll go with you.” Aimee is there, taking my hand in hers, pulling at me. Blake is standing in the background, staring. Everson looks at her and nods.
I follow Aimee to the office and she tells the secretary I’m there for a clean shirt. The secretary goes to a cabinet and pulls out a blue GHS shirt and hands to it me. I mumble a thank-you, then Aimee pulls me out of the office and toward the nearest restroom.
“Go change and clean up,” she says. “I have something to show you after.”
I come out of the restroom with my black Motorhead T-shirt wadded up in one hand. My hip is damp from scrubbing the sticky cheese off the denim. Aimee is still there, waiting on me. I wonder if she’s made up with Blake. I wonder if she’d tell me if she has.
“They just took Court out on the gurney,” she says. “She was awake. I got to hold her hand and tell her we love her. She was acting groggy but not—you know …”
I have to look away. A lump jumps up in my throat and my eyes water just a little. I didn’t even really know my cousin a week ago, but after last night we’ve become family. I nod, then turn back to Aimee and figure to hell with Blake. I grab her and crush her against me and kiss the top of her head. I didn’t know her last week, either, and now she is my only anchor in a world that is getting more screwed up by the minute.
“We have to fight this thing,” I say into Aimee’s beautiful red hair that smells like sunshine and flowers and sanity.
“I know,” she says, and her voice is muffled against the new blue fabric of my chest. I realize how tightly I’m holding her and ease off a little, but don’t let go. There’s still the threat of watery eyes and I’m not ready for her to see that.
“What can we do?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” But I think I do. The question is, can I do it? Am I strong enough? For the briefest second I wish my father were here to tell me, to witness, but I tackle the wish away.