Prism Read online

  “You’re just going to walk past me?” the guy called after me. “You seemed like you were in such a rush when you smacked into me!”

  Cheeky, he was. How very endearing. I didn’t turn around.

  When I got to my locker, Maria was wiping beads of sweat off her face. They were iridescent, like tiny prisms. “Slow,” she huffed. “You’re slow today.”

  “You’re no athlete yourself, dearest.” I opened my locker and shoved books in and out of the space: Englchemiforeign-langualgebra. All my subjects blended after a while.

  Down the hall I saw Mrs. Mimms lighting a cigarette, a wavy band of smoke trailing from her face. I nudged Maria. “Mrs. M is um, smoking.”

  She turned to look at Mrs. M, then squinted her Eurasian eyes at me. “I don’t get it, but some people can’t get enough of it.”

  I said, “That’s nicotine for you.”

  She looked at me like I had six heads. “Nicole who?”

  “Maria, can you stop?” I snapped my head back. “You’re not allowed to smoke indoors and she’s a teacher—”

  “Um, Kaida. Since when are you not allowed to smoke indoors?”

  I crossed my arms and saw Mrs. M blithely light up Joy Tallon’s cigarette, as casually as if she were picking up a dropped book.

  “Am I in the twilight zone? Not only is that weird, it’s totally illegal.”

  “Okay, Kaida, let us review,” Maria told me. “A) it’s not illegal, and B) since when did you care what’s illegal and what’s not illegal?”

  I scratched my scalp. It was dry. It could use a good deep conditioning. “What have I ever done that’s illegal? And don’t say like, vandalize the school. Because everyone draws on their lockers.”

  She pulled up close to me and whispered, “Coyote Cream. Jace told me in the kitchen this morning I’d better keep my eye on you.”

  “What?” Why had she been talking to my brother about me? “Okay, that’s definitely not—”

  “Shut up!” she said. “Let’s just talk about this later.”

  The last bell trilled and I couldn’t find Maria.

  “Hey,” a tentative voice sounded behind me.

  I turned around and faced the gangly, Gumbyesque figure of Zeke Anderson. “Sorry for acting weird this morning,” I said, noticing that Leslie Barker and her mousy friends were staring at me.

  “Yeah, no…it’s fine,” Zeke answered.

  Yeah, no. What an odd sequence of words. And yet, right now, they were a succinct summary of how my day had been.

  “I mean you weren’t really acting weird.” He started to touch my shoulder and then decided no, and pulled his hand back. “Look, can I walk you home?”

  Leslie’s eyebrows shot up. I’d never noticed them before, but they were arched.

  “Sure, walk me home. But I live on Agatha Street. Don’t you live—”

  “Far away, but I think I need to talk to you.”

  “Your girlfriend looks like she’s going to kill me. Or kill me and then you.”

  “I’ve explained it to her. Got all your stuff? Need to stop by your locker?”

  “No, I’m all right.”

  He turned and waved to Leslie and a jealous smile formed with her pale lips. Not to worry, Les, he’s all yours. “Let’s just go straight home. Straight to my home, I mean.”

  We shot out of school until we were alone. “Okay…so don’t get me wrong.” He squinted as he looked up at the glaring sun. “You were kind of in my dream last night.”

  “Context, please.” My heartbeat was a galloping horse.

  “It was weird. Really, um—”

  “Vivid,” I interrupted.

  Zeke gave me a sideways glance. We were on a street lined with stores. He stopped walking and leaned against the wall of a bagel store. “Yeah. Vivid. Really vivid. How did you know that?”

  “I think I had the same dream.”

  A few cars whooshed by. I stared at the sidewalk, then began to cross the street.

  “Kaida, watch out!”

  Zeke ran and pulled me out of the street, but another person wasn’t so lucky. I heard a screech and a scream and then a loud thump! In the middle of the road lay an injured man, vibrant red liquid splashed over his face and arms as if he’d been doused in ketchup. My hands went numb and my fingers felt like sandbags as I took out my cell phone and tried to dial the digits. But I couldn’t get my mind to cooperate.

  In the meantime, Zeke had whipped out his cell phone. “Omigod!” He dialed three digits. Presumably 911. Suddenly he took my phone away from my ear and dialed. “What the hell!” he stammered as he redialed. “It’s—it’s not connecting.”

  “Try again.”

  He did. “Nothing.”

  “Try my phone again.”

  Once again, Zeke redialed. “It’s like…nothing!”

  As I looked around, I saw cars coming and going. Although the passing traffic avoided the body, the vehicles continued on their way, oblivious of a bleeding body in the middle of the street.

  Slow down, you idiots, my brain yelled out. Yield! There were a few people on the street. “Someone!” I sputtered ineloquently. “There’s a man! A hit-and-run!”

  Zeke flailed his arms. Everyone says when someone is hurt, you should scream. Nobody says that it’s nearly impossible to do this. When something bad happens, it’s hard to find your voice. It gets lost between your stomach and your feet. Somewhere in your thighs maybe.

  Eventually we did scream, but no one came to help. We were screaming and jumping up and down, but everyone was ignoring us.

  About five minutes later, a van pulled up—or something that looked like an ambulance, but snow white without a siren or any other typical ambulance markings. Instantly, the insane traffic had grounded to a halt, cars keeping a big distance from the accident scene. Pedestrians had suddenly disappeared.

  Just me and Zeke and a dying man.

  Four men dressed in bleached white garb got out of the vans. They had white hats on their heads and white aprons across their bodies and wore surgical masks on their faces. They looked like they had arrived from the morgue and were ready to do an autopsy except the man wasn’t dead yet. I could tell because I heard moaning and his legs were still twitching.

  They picked up the body with their latex gloved hands and put it inside the back of the van. There wasn’t a gurney, and no one made any attempt to stop the bleeding. It looked to my untrained eyes as if there had been no medical intervention whatsoever. As the last of the men closed the hatch of the vehicle, he glared at the two of us.

  “What are you lookin’ at?”

  “Me?” Zeke said. “Nothing, sir.”

  I was rendered absolutely speechless.

  “Keep walking,” he barked at us.

  Immediately the two of us took off at a fairly decent trot. When we were safely away from the scene, I stuttered out, “W-what was that? Who was that?”

  “I have no idea!” Zeke answered. “Maybe we should talk another time.”

  Without waiting for my answer, he took off like hunted prey. I stood stock still, my mind back on what had just happened. Throwing that poor man into the ambulance like he was a sack of garbage—like he wasn’t human at all. My head pounded as hard as my heart was beating. What was going on? Did I fall and hurt my head? Was that the reason behind my weird dream? But what about Zeke’s dream?

  Was I dreaming now?

  More like having a nightmare. I closed my eyes and saw only red. Those horrible men had started off dressed in white, but within seconds they had become soaked in scarlet.

  They weren’t afraid of blood, it seemed.

  Or of death, for that matter.

  7

  Once, in a dream, I couldn’t dial my own telephone number. I punched numerical buttons in a myriad of orders, 3-6-8-2, 9-8-7-1, but nothing came out right. That’s how I felt now. No matter how I processed what had just happened, the events remained twisted. The images…I couldn’t shake them loose.

  Wh
en I got home, Jace was sitting on the family-room couch, flipping through television channels. There was an advanced physics textbook on his lap and several pieces of paper sprawled out before him. My brother was wearing khaki cargo pants and a white-turned-gray-from-too-many-washings T-shirt. His hair was messy, probably from raking it with his fingers. He did that when he concentrated on schoolwork.

  I stopped at the doorway between the kitchen and the family room, attempting to catch my breath. I was profoundly affected and if I approached Jace in the wrong way, he’d just accuse me of being hormonal or hysterical.

  “Jace…I need to talk to you.”

  His eyes were still glued to the television. “Sure.”

  I sat on the couch. It was ugly but comfortable, igniting an ongoing debate between Mom and Dad as to whether it should be chucked or saved.

  “This couch is a catalyst for so many arguments in this family.” I was picking at my nails.

  He looked up from the TV screen and regarded my face. “Somehow I don’t think that’s what you want to talk about.”

  Just get it all out. “I saw a guy get rammed by a car after school,” I announced flatly.

  “Ugh! That’s messed up!”

  “It was terrifying. And the worst part was that no one seemed bothered by it. Everyone around pretended it was no big deal.” Except Zeke, and there was no reason to get him involved right now.

  “The first time I saw something like that, I was freaked out, too.” He turned down the television. “I understand.” He seemed to be collecting his thoughts. “Speaking from older brother experience, I can tell you don’t worry. It’ll pass.”

  “Don’t worry? There was blood everywhere.”

  Jace looked up me. “Didn’t the cleanup crew show?”

  “The cleanup…” My mind was whirling. “Some guys in white took him away in a van…is that what you mean?”

  Jace looked at me as if I had just come from the moon. “It’s over, Kaida. Don’t talk about it anymore. It’s messy stuff.”

  I was momentarily stunned. “Nine-one-one didn’t work.”

  Jace looked at me with a puzzled expression. “Nine wha-what?”

  “Nine-one-one.” When Jace still didn’t get it, I said, “You know, the emergency line.” I paused. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Something inside him snapped. “Kaida, are you being provocative just to get attention? It’s sad, but things like this happen all the time. It’s part of life. Just deal.”

  “Thanks for being so understanding.”

  His eyes softened. “Look, I’m sure you were scared when you saw all that…mess. It must have been gross. But it’s over. Stop worrying about it.”

  “Are you crazy?” I stared at him. “Am I crazy?”

  “That’s a very good question!” He became angry, grabbing his schoolwork and jumping off the couch like someone had lit his cargo pants on fire. “Maria did get you drunk.” He heaved a disappointed sigh. “Kaida, this is part of your nasty little hangover. Go hydrate yourself!” He stomped to the stairs, but not before giving me a hard glare. “Stop talking, Kaida. Keep your thoughts to yourself and your mouth shut tight.”

  That, I thought, is something I have never been able to do.

  The next morning I met Maria right before first period. I wanted to tell her all about the accident, but she had a glazed look in her eyes.

  “Feel.” Maria pressed my hand to her throat. “It feels puffy.”

  “You have a cold, babe, take a sick day.”

  “Shhhh…” Maria got annoyed. “Stop talking like that.”

  “Take a day off. What’s the big deal? No important tests coming up.”

  “I’m fine!” She was emphatic.

  But she wasn’t fine. I tried a different approach. “Go to the nurse and—”

  “The nurse?”

  “Yeah…the school nurse.”

  She laughed and hit my shoulder. “You’re in a mood. Should I also be seeing the school purse? How about the school curse?”

  I couldn’t respond. It was getting easier to take Jace’s advice and keep quiet because nothing was making sense. I put the accident recitation on hold.

  Maria brightened. “Food would help. I’m starved. Let’s get lunch.”

  “Good idea.” The cafeteria was packed. I checked the menu posted on the walls, and it was macaroni day, hence the hoards. “I’m going to just grab a candy bar from the vends.”

  Maria considered her options. “Not in the mood for sugar. I think I’ll brave the crowds.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m willing if you are, babe.”

  “Then let’s do it.” I mock-dived into the thick swarm of teenagers. Maria laughed, then disappeared into the teenage mob. A second later, I regretted my decision not to go with a candy bar.

  “Ow!” I complained. “Come on, now!” Within a few moments, my toes had been stepped on, my hair had been ripped on someone’s button or pin, and my arms had been smacked in three different places. Plus I was nowhere near the front of the line. I was sandwiched by Ellen Garten in front and Mr. Addison, my history teacher, in back. Today he was wearing a golfer’s cap.

  “Hello there, Hutchenson.”

  “Hi, Mr. Addison. Would you like to go ahead of me?”

  He gave me the famous “Addison smile”—lopsided with just a touch of irony. “That wouldn’t be very democratic.”

  “I never knew Buchanan was a democracy.”

  “True enough, Hutchenson. I thank you for your offer, but I’m willing to suffer the slings and arrows with the plebes. Are you all set for the upcoming field trip?”

  My heart started racing…field trip…nightmares.

  “…all right?” he asked.

  Mr. Addison was talking to me. “Yes, sir, I’m fine.” But I wasn’t. “I think I’m just hungry. Are you sure you don’t want to go ahead? It’s taking a long time.” I backed away. “I insist.”

  My teacher was staring at me. “Okay. Thank you, Kaida.” Another smile, but this one was kindly. “Eat a good lunch, all right?”

  I nodded. After a fifteen-minute Herculean struggle, I obtained a minuscule dollop of macaroni in a tiny bowl with a side of potato salad. I exited the line, dreaming of those few cheesy bites of macaroni, they’d be so glorious, so victorious, so—

  “Gah!” I shouted as a large guy bumped into me.

  My hard-fought-for and well-earned macaroni lay on the floor.

  And I had almost made it to my table.

  “Clean that up!” a prissy girl shouted from her table. Her glossy hair was slicked back into a high ponytail, the kind that always gives me headaches. Her large wet eyes grew in diameter and she shook her head impatiently. “Do it before someone friggin’ slips!”

  “Since when are you so concerned about public welfare?” I snapped back.

  But it seemed like she genuinely was. She left her table and reappeared a minute later with a bunch of paper towels, scrubbing at my pathetic floor-tainted macaroni. “It’s people like you!” she snarled at me.

  “I was going to clean it up,” I explained. “You were just too quick for me.”

  “Yeah, right!”

  I didn’t know why she was so angry. I was still staring at the shiny spot on the floor when someone tapped my shoulder. I snapped out of my daze.

  “I do believe it’s our second encounter.”

  I looked up—way up—trying to place the face to the smooth voice. The boy was half smiling, with a trace of a five o’clock shadow.

  I liked him already.

  “You bumped into me yesterday morning,” he stated with unabashed bluntness.

  I sucked in air. “Au contraire, mon frère, you bumped into me.”

  “Is that so?” He shook his head, and bluish black waves undulated. I suspected he dyed his hair—a kind of lame thing for a guy to do—but it didn’t matter because the color looked so good on him. He folded his arms across his chest. “I disagree with that assessment. But I do
admit that I bumped into you just now. Think of it as revenge.”

  “Or karma.”

  “Same thing, different forces.” He looked at the shiny spot. “I am sorry about the macaroni, though. Do you want me to get you another one?” he asked.

  “Nah, I’m all right. It’s still too crowded.”

  “We can share. I’ve got enough for two. I even have two forks.” When I hesitated, he said, “Offer only goes once.”

  I held out my hands like a scale, each palm on either side of me. I tipped one up and the other down, then reversed it. “I think I’ll take advantage and say yes.”

  We sat at a cafeteria table occupied by three people who were hunched over textbooks, concentrating on AP calculus. I spotted Maria a few tables away, and she regarded me with an expression that was both confused and entertained.

  He handed me a fork and we dug into the gooey mess. It was perfect. As soon as it hit my mouth, I started feeling better. Food was normal and ordinary. After the last couple of days, normal and ordinary were good. After studying him, I decided he might have looked vaguely familiar. How someone that cute could have escaped my notice was puzzling. “So,” I began, “had we ever met before yesterday’s collision?”

  The AP study group gave us dirty looks and left en masse for another table. He laughed. “Is it my breath?”

  “Grinds…don’t you love them?”

  “Some people just have to work harder than others.” He shoveled macaroni into his mouth, but at least he chewed with his mouth closed. “We’ve never met because I just got here. I’m trying out the school for a couple of weeks. I got into Fairfield Prep on scholarship, but I wanted to see how I liked the public school. Hey, are you friends with Jenna Michaels?”

  “No, not at all. Why would you think that?”

  “Because she dyes her hair wild colors, too.”

  “Jenna has blue hair,” I pointed out. “I have purple. Purpleish.”

  “What’s your real hair color?”