Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,31

unconsciousness, and I’m falling. No. Can’t let myself pass out. Have to remember.

Sister.

Too close to the edge of the rock, I slip on a sludge-coated corner and tumble forward into the water, shatter the smooth surface, and go under. Cold water seeps into my hair, my clothes and shocks me to my core. I float, stunned and weightless under the green water, at the edge of unconsciousness. The cold seeps into my skin, legs, arms, ears, internal organs, the roots of my hair. But still I float, serene, not even trying to kick my feet or pull toward the surface.

The water is shallow, no danger, not really. And yet. Deep enough. A calm feeling spreads through my veins like water warmed by a secret hot spring. Drowning would be so easy, so sweet.

Then a strange image flashes behind my eyeballs. Open music box, tinny music playing, plastic ballerina twirling. And then I see her. My sister. Big blue eyes, long eyelashes. Yellow-white hair, pink shirt, one pink sneaker. The music box grinds to a halt, ballerina twisted to one side, broken. And there is blood. My sister’s screams fill my head, jar me from my peaceful drifting.

Save her.

Jamming my feet down, I find the pond’s spongy bottom and push myself to the surface, where I fill my lungs with cool fresh air and cough and cough.

I take the long way back to the high school, through the woods, away from the streets. My teeth are chattering and my body is shivering so hard it hurts. Icy pond water squishes in my sneakers with every step and my cold, drenched clothes weigh about fifty pounds, or at least it seems like it. By the time I get there, it’s afternoon and the school is already growing dark and silent under clouds threatening rain.

Opening the back door of the school with Sophie’s keys, I’m thinking of warm, dry clothes from the lost and found and a hot shower in the boys’ locker room. But then I’m stopped short by a shrill beeping sound. It’s coming from the keypad on the wall near the door, which flashes the words enter code in a small gray screen.

Oh crap. Even though I opened the outside door with the key, there’s some kind of backup security system that needs a code. Just a few numbers punched in, that’s all. In a panic, I pound a few keys, as if somehow randomly I’ll hit the right combination. Stupid. After about thirty seconds, it’s all over. The burglar alarm starts screaming, a continuous, pulsing wail. The police are probably on their way.

I run down the hall, toward the auditorium to my hiding place above the stage. Just in time, I realize I’m leaving wet footprints behind me. The pond water is squishing out of my sneakers leaving a trail. I duck into the boys’ room, where I take off my wet sneakers, my wet clothes, and quickly dry off with paper towels. Then I wad up more paper towels, rush back into the hallway and do my best to dry the footprints, pushing the towels around with my feet. I run back to my hiding place, dressed only in my underwear, clothes bunched in my arms.

Just as I’m scrambling up to the platform above the stage, the sound of a door forced open echoes down a long hallway. There are low murmurs, voices I can’t make out. Abruptly, the alarm is silenced, leaving my ears ringing as I huddle in a ball, shivering. I’m terrified that I left footprints leading to my hiding place; sure they’ll hear my heavy breathing and the jack-hammer of my heart.

Disembodied voices and footsteps echo through the school. Approaching, closer. Too afraid to peer down into the auditorium space, I try to slow my breaths. Two men are here. I hear their voices.

“Just a false alarm, Terry. Second time this month. Everything seems secure.”

“Well, hold on,” says the cop named Terry. In moments, his footsteps echo on the wooden stage. I can see the beam of a flashlight, sweeping the stage. Can he hear me breathing? I cringe, motionless. Then I hear the drip.

The wet pile of clothes next to me is dripping through the spaces between the platform boards. Water plops gently to the floor below.

Eyes shut tight, I wait for the officer to shout orders at me, or climb up to get me, handcuffs ready to snap on my wrists.

“Terry, come on, there’s nothing here.”

“There’s a little water here on the