First period American Literature went fine, but halfway through second period, while taking Mr. Arslanian’s test, Aaron decided that he couldn’t have been more wrong about the day. Not only was he blanking on some of the information he had studied, but he also had one of the worst headaches he could ever remember. His head felt as if it were vibrating, buzzing like someone had left an electric shaver running inside his skull. He rubbed at his brow furiously and tried to focus on an essay question about the social and political ramifications of the Richmond Bread Riot. Arslanian’s fascination with obscure events of the Civil War was going to give him an aneurysm.
The remainder of the class passed in the blink of an eye, and Aaron wondered if he had passed out or maybe even been taken by space aliens. He had barely finished the last of the essay questions when the end-of-period bell clanged, a real plus for the pain in his head. He quickly glanced over the pages of his test. It wasn’t the best he’d ever done, but considering how he felt, he didn’t think it was too bad.
“I’d like to give you another couple of hours to wrap the test up in a pretty pink bow, Mr. Corbet…”
Aaron had zoned out again. He looked up to see the heavyset form of Mr. Arslanian standing beside his desk, hand beckoning.
“But my wife made a killer turkey for dinner last night and I have leftovers waiting for me in the teachers’ lounge.”
Aaron just stared, the annoying buzz in his head growing louder and more painful.
“Your exam, Mr. Corbet,” demanded Mr. Arslanian.
Aaron pulled himself together and handed the test to his teacher. Then he gathered up his books and prepared to leave. As he stood the room began to spin and he held on to the desk for a moment, just in case.
“Are you all right, Mr. Corbet?” Arslanian asked as he ambled back to his desk. “You look a little pale.”
Aaron was amazed that he only looked pale. He imagined there should have been blood shooting out his ears and squirting from his nostrils. He was feeling that bad. “Headache,” he managed on his way to the door.
“Take some Tylenol,” the teacher called after him, “and a cold rag on your head. That’s what works for me.”
Always a big help, that Mr. Arslanian, Aaron thought as he stepped lightly in an effort to keep his skull from breaking apart and decorating the walls with gore.
The hallway was jammed with bodies coming, going, or just hanging out in small packs in front of brightly colored lockers, catching up on the freshest gossip. It’s amazing, Aaron thought sarcastically, how much dirt can happen during one fifty-minute period.
Aaron moved through the flow of students. He would drop off his books, and then go to the nurse’s office to get something for his headache. It was getting worse, like listening to the static of an untuned radio playing inside his brain.
As he maneuvered around the pockets of people, he exchanged an occasional smile or a nod of recognition, but the few who acknowledged him were only being polite. He knew people looked at him as the quiet, loner guy with the troubled past, and he did very little to dispel their notions of him. Aaron didn’t have any real friends at Ken Curtis, merely acquaintances, and it didn’t bother him in the least.
He finally reached his locker and began to dial the combination.
Maybe if he got something into his stomach he’d feel better, he thought, remembering that he hadn’t eaten anything since the night before. He swung the locker door open and began to unload his books.
A girl laughed nearby. He looked behind him to see Vilma Santiago at her locker with three of her friends. They were staring in his direction, but quickly looked away and giggled conspiratorially. What’s so funny? he wondered.
They were speaking loudly enough for him to hear them. The only problem was they were speaking Portuguese, and he had no idea what they were saying. Two years of French did him little good while eavesdropping on Brazilian girls’ conversations.
Vilma was one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. She had transferred to Ken Curtis last year from Brazil, and within months had become one of the school’s top students. Smart as well as gorgeous, a dangerous combination, and one that had left him smitten. They saw each other at their lockers every day, but had never really spoken. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak to her, just that he could never think of anything to say.
He turned to arrange the books in his locker, and again felt their eyes upon him. They were whispering now, and he could feel his paranoia swell.
“Ele nâo é nada feio. Que bunda!”
The pain in his head was suddenly blinding, as if somebody had taken an ice pick and plunged it into the top of his skull. The feeling was excruciating and he almost cried out—certain to have provided his audience with a few good laughs. He pressed his forehead against the cool metal of the locker and prayed for respite. It can’t hurt this bad for very long, he hoped. As the hissing grew more and more intense, shards of broken glass rubbed into his brain. He thought he would pass out as strange colorful patterns blossomed before his eyes and the pain continued to build.
The torturous buzzing came to an explosive climax, circuits within his mind suddenly overloaded, and before he fell unconscious—it was gone. Aaron stood perfectly still, waiting, afraid that if he moved the agony would return. What was that all about? he wondered, his hand coming up to his nose to check for bleeding.
There was nothing. No pain, no blaring white noise. In fact, he felt better than he had all morning. Maybe this is just part of a bizarre biological process one goes through when turning eighteen, he thought, bemused, reminding himself again that it was his birthday.
As he slammed the locker door, he realized that Vilma and her friends were still talking. “Estou cansada de pizza. Semana passada, nós comemos pizza, quase todo dia.” They were discussing lunch options—cafeteria versus going off campus for pizza. Vilma wanted to go to the cafeteria, but the others were pressing for the pizza.
Aaron turned away from his locker considering whether or not he should still see the nurse, and caught Vilma’s eye. She smiled shyly and quickly averted her gaze.
But not before the others noticed and began to tease her mercilessly. “Porqué? Vocé está pensando que una certo persoa vai estar no refeitó rio hoje?” Did she want to eat in the cafeteria because of a certain boy standing nearby? they asked her.
Aaron felt himself break out in a cold sweat. His suspicion was justified, for in fact the girls were talking about him.
“É, e daí? Eu acho que ele é un tesâo.” Vilma responded to her friends’ taunts and glanced again in his direction.
They were all looking at him when it dawned. He knew what they were saying. Vilma and her friends were still speaking to one another in Portuguese—but somehow he could understand each and every word.
But the most startling thing was what Vilma had said.
“Eu acho que ele é un tesâo.”
She said he was cute.
Vilma Santiago thought he was cute!
CHAPTER TWO
At the back of the West Lynn Veterinary Hospital, where Aaron worked after school, a greyhound named Hunter sniffed a patch of yellowed grass with great interest.
“Someone you know?” Aaron asked the brindle-colored dog as he reached out to affectionately scratch him just above his long, whip-like tail.
The dog slowly turned his long neck and wagged his tail in response, before another scent hidden elsewhere in the grass diverted his attention.
Aaron glanced at his watch. It was a little after eight thirty, and he was exhausted. He was hoping that Hunter, who had been constipated since undergoing a procedure to remove a tennis ball from his large intestine, would finally get around to doing his thing so Aaron could go home, have something to eat, and do some schoolwork before passing out.