“Why? Did you eat it?” Shirley said with a wicked smirk. She rose from the pile of pots on the floor and stood with the others.
Anne belched loudly, put her hand under her T-shirt, and rubbed her tummy as she came nearer. Shirley’s smirk erupted into a laugh. Daphne was relieved at the gastric sign of friendliness, even if it was blatantly superficial. At least those two shared a sense of humor.
Any lightness to the mood vanished entirely, though, when Mary asked cattily, “But you did bring it, didn’t you?”
Clearly annoyed, Anne pulled out the vermilion velvet bag, hooked an index finger beneath the knot in the string, and let it dangle before them. Her stance was defiant, as usual; challenging. It did not set the stage for a quiet evening, and Anne was right about one thing—too much noise was a dangerous thing.
If I’m going to do anything about this, it’d better be right now, Daphne thought, so she pushed Mary slightly behind her as she stepped away from the counter to meet Anne. As she walked, she grinned in as broad and friendly a manner as she was able.
“Anne, it’s so good to see you. How are you feeling?” Daphne asked with the deepest possible sincerity.
Anne responded with a sour expression. “Oh, someone woke up feeling all Mother Teresa today. Well, save it, Saint Daphne. Nothing’s changed, and you’re crazy if you think I’m biting that hook.”
“That’s what I said,” Mary muttered.
Daphne sighed. “All right, I admit this isn’t easy, but I do want to try. I know we haven’t always been very supportive of you since your arrival, and it doesn’t really matter why. I’d like that to change, starting now. Can’t we give it a try?”
Anne pondered the question. “Give me another three turns.”
“No!” Mary said, shocked.
Anne snickered. “Then forget it.” She walked past Daphne and plopped the bag on the counter. Small, hard things shifted inside it. “I’m not going to pretend we’re some lame-ass support group that needs each other’s Oprah-love. We’re all here for ourselves. We all want one thing—out. I’m just honest enough to admit it.”
“Anne, please…,” Daphne began.
“Don’t bother. I told you it was useless,” Mary said. “She is what she is.”
“Shove it, Mary,” Anne said, circling to the far side of the silvery table. “I’m sick of you. I mean, how long have you been here anyway, like a century? Two? All that time, and have you figured out anything useful about the Headmistress, or the bones, or even what it means to be a ghost? So who’s the big loser here? Me or you?”
“That would depend,” Mary said stiffly, “entirely on the game you choose to play.”
Anne stopped short. Her eyes narrowed, her face changed. Daphne thought she caught a hint of something new there, something wrong. Guilt? Fear? Mary seemed to notice it too, and then Shirley.
And there they all were, just staring at Anne again.
Making the problem worse.
“Whatever,” Anne mumbled. “We going to roll the bones, or do the catty thing all night?”
They opened the bag and the small reddish-brown things clattered onto the silvery kitchen table, looking a bit like dinner leftovers—skull, pelvis, thigh, claw, and limb, all from some unknown animal, all picked clean, all carved with different symbols on each side.
“Shirley told the last story, so you’re first, Anne,” Daphne said.
Maybe if she wins again tonight…
Anne looked at the others, grimaced, and scooped up the bones. She concentrated as she shook them in both hands, then rolled them onto the counter. There was no match.
“Doesn’t matter,” the dark-haired girl said quietly.
“Of course not,” Daphne said, trying to sound reassuring. “You’ll get another turn.”
Anne ignored her. Mary took the bones up next and seemed to take a moment to pray before she let them roll. Whatever deity she was appealing to apparently said no, though, because she lost as well.
Absently, Daphne took them into her hands for her own turn, but her eyes remained on Anne. The dark-haired girl had stepped away from the counter, away from all of them, to lean against a far wall and look around. When Anne noticed Daphne’s attention, she glared at her and then went back to scanning the room. She seemed to be checking out all the exits, perhaps imagining in her mind which would be the quickest. But why?
Probably my imagination, Daphne thought. Why can’t we all get past this? It only makes everything ten times as sad, ten times as frightening.
Daphne rolled the bones, sending them to the silvery surface with a small crash. They turned, spun, and settled, but she wasn’t looking at the counter—she was still looking at Anne, watching the girl’s tense body language, noting the way she kept shifting her sharp shoulders away from the group and putting her eyes squarely to the door.
Where do you get the energy to hate everyone so much?
“Daphne?” Shirley squeaked.
How alone you must feel.
“Daphne?” a softer voice came. Mary’s.
Telling everyone and everything to go to hell, Jonathan.
Jonathan?
“Daphne, look at the bones,” Mary said.
“Eh?”
She turned and looked down. The three markings matched. She’d won.
And the story, though she barely realized it, had already begun.
1
Go to hell, Jonathan Barnes thought, looking up at the round, sweaty face of his English teacher. Mr. Weaver hovered over him like an angry bear in a cheap blue sweater-vest, ready to take off his head.
“Answer the question,” Weaver said.
This sucked. When the teacher first asked his question, four kids had shot their hands up like Weaver was handing out cash. But did he call on Anni Moss or Derek Peterson or one of the geek twins, Matt and Pat? No. He jabbed his fat finger at Jonathan.
“Mr. Barnes?”
Jonathan shrugged.
“Am I supposed to decipher an answer from Maybe not, but Jonathan had a gesture the guy could decipher. It consisted of a single finger. Shouldn’t take the teacher long to break that code.
“I’ll ask you again,” Weaver said. “What was Iago’s motivation in turning Othello against Desdemona?”
“I guess he didn’t like him very much,” Jonathan said.
His classmates laughed. Mr. Weaver lowered his head and shook it slowly.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Barnes. I’m sure Shakespeare would appreciate your carefully thought-out response. When jotting down his little play, his greatest concern must have been conveying the notion that Iago didn’t like Othello very much. Rarely has a layered piece of classic literature been so brilliantly reduced to the obvious.” Weaver gave him a final look of disgust and turned away. “Can anyone else add to what Mr. Barnes has told us, or should we just accept his wisdom and move on?”
The same four hands shot up.
“Yes, Anni?”
Ass, Jonathan thought, bowing his head, pretending to take notes. Of all his teachers, Gary Weaver was the worst. The guy had loathed him on sight and did everything he could to bust Jonathan’s chops. Even when Jonathan answered questions correctly, Weaver made a wisecrack, like his hatred was an allergic reaction to Jonathan’s presence. He’d been through it before—with teachers, with classmates. After a while, you just got used to the crap and ignored it.
Jonathan looked up from his notes. Scanning the class, his eyes immediately caught sight of a girl in the second row on the far side of the room by the door. His heart raced a little as he gazed at her profile.