climbed into bed, did I feel
worse
instead of better? I didn’t feel any sense of closure or any less a sense of —
dread
was the only word for it. Ever since I’d set foot on this island, that’s all I’d felt, this pressure on the back of my neck, like something was going to happen, something bad.
Something bad had already happened! I’d seen
him.
It was over!
So why was I up half the night, unable to sleep? Not because of the thunder, either. It almost seemed as if — but it couldn’t possibly be, because it was so stupid — but it was like I missed the familiar weight of that necklace around my neck.
What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I get with Mom’s “make a new start” program?
When I thanked Alex the next morning as I climbed into his car, he asked what for.
“My bike,” I said. “Didn’t you lock it up last night when you left my house? And switch off the lights?”
“Uh,” he said. “No. When I left — which I guess was right after you got home, because your mom said you’d gone upstairs. Thanks for saying good night, by the way. Oh, and for taking off like that and leaving me alone with Grandma. That was supersweet — your bike was already chained up and the lights switched off. I thought you’d done it.”
“No,” I said, feeling cold all of a sudden. Except that the AC in the car Grandma referred to as Alex’s junk heap was broken, so we had to drive with the windows down, and it was already over eighty degrees outside. “I didn’t.”
“Huh,” he said. “Well, that’s weird. But not the weirdest part.” He honked at some tourists who’d wandered out into the middle of the street to take photos of a large banyan tree. “Hello, what do these people think, it’s Main Street at Disney? Some of us actually live here, you know.” He honked some more.
“What’s the weirdest part?” I asked, after the tourists had hurried out of the way and Alex had floored it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this.
I wasn’t sure I didn’t want to hear it, either, though.
“Oh. Only that there were all these dead poinciana petals up and down your front walk. Just lying there. And this was
before
that storm. So they couldn’t have been blown there by the wind. I thought that was kind of strange, because there are no poincianas on your street. So how did they get there?…Oh, well.” He turned up the radio. “Ready for school?”
I swallowed. “No.”
I cannot well repeat how there I entered,
So full was I of slumber at the moment
In which I had abandoned the true way.
DANTE ALIGHIERI ,
Inferno
, Canto I
M om signed me up for a nationally recognized (which was the only reason Dad approved. Otherwise, he said, it was boarding school in Switzerland for me) program at Isla Huesos High called New Pathways.
New Pathways was for “troubled” students: boys like Alex, whose dad had just been paroled from jail and whose mom had been pretty much MIA since he was born, and so he’d been forced to live all his life with Grandma, who ran the island’s only knitting store, Knuts for Knitting. And yes, it was as bad as it sounded.
New Pathways was also for girls like me, who’d died and then come back with a bit of an attitude.
Really. New Pathways: Whatever you have, it’ll cure you (not its official slogan).
“It comes highly recommended,” Mom kept telling me all summer. “You’ll still go to regular mainstream classes, like everyone else. You’ll just get extra supervision during the year by social workers with cognitive behavioral and counseling experience. They
really
know what they’re doing, Pierce. I wouldn’t have enrolled you if I didn’t think they could help.”
Uh, I thought, but didn’t add, also Isla Huesos High School wouldn’t have taken me if I hadn’t been enrolled in New Pathways, because of what happened to Mr. Mueller.
But whatever. With boarding school for rich kids with social problems in Switzerland being my only other choice, what was I
worse
instead of better? I didn’t feel any sense of closure or any less a sense of —
dread
was the only word for it. Ever since I’d set foot on this island, that’s all I’d felt, this pressure on the back of my neck, like something was going to happen, something bad.
Something bad had already happened! I’d seen
him.
It was over!
So why was I up half the night, unable to sleep? Not because of the thunder, either. It almost seemed as if — but it couldn’t possibly be, because it was so stupid — but it was like I missed the familiar weight of that necklace around my neck.
What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I get with Mom’s “make a new start” program?
When I thanked Alex the next morning as I climbed into his car, he asked what for.
“My bike,” I said. “Didn’t you lock it up last night when you left my house? And switch off the lights?”
“Uh,” he said. “No. When I left — which I guess was right after you got home, because your mom said you’d gone upstairs. Thanks for saying good night, by the way. Oh, and for taking off like that and leaving me alone with Grandma. That was supersweet — your bike was already chained up and the lights switched off. I thought you’d done it.”
“No,” I said, feeling cold all of a sudden. Except that the AC in the car Grandma referred to as Alex’s junk heap was broken, so we had to drive with the windows down, and it was already over eighty degrees outside. “I didn’t.”
“Huh,” he said. “Well, that’s weird. But not the weirdest part.” He honked at some tourists who’d wandered out into the middle of the street to take photos of a large banyan tree. “Hello, what do these people think, it’s Main Street at Disney? Some of us actually live here, you know.” He honked some more.
“What’s the weirdest part?” I asked, after the tourists had hurried out of the way and Alex had floored it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this.
I wasn’t sure I didn’t want to hear it, either, though.
“Oh. Only that there were all these dead poinciana petals up and down your front walk. Just lying there. And this was
before
that storm. So they couldn’t have been blown there by the wind. I thought that was kind of strange, because there are no poincianas on your street. So how did they get there?…Oh, well.” He turned up the radio. “Ready for school?”
I swallowed. “No.”
I cannot well repeat how there I entered,
So full was I of slumber at the moment
In which I had abandoned the true way.
DANTE ALIGHIERI ,
Inferno
, Canto I
M om signed me up for a nationally recognized (which was the only reason Dad approved. Otherwise, he said, it was boarding school in Switzerland for me) program at Isla Huesos High called New Pathways.
New Pathways was for “troubled” students: boys like Alex, whose dad had just been paroled from jail and whose mom had been pretty much MIA since he was born, and so he’d been forced to live all his life with Grandma, who ran the island’s only knitting store, Knuts for Knitting. And yes, it was as bad as it sounded.
New Pathways was also for girls like me, who’d died and then come back with a bit of an attitude.
Really. New Pathways: Whatever you have, it’ll cure you (not its official slogan).
“It comes highly recommended,” Mom kept telling me all summer. “You’ll still go to regular mainstream classes, like everyone else. You’ll just get extra supervision during the year by social workers with cognitive behavioral and counseling experience. They
really
know what they’re doing, Pierce. I wouldn’t have enrolled you if I didn’t think they could help.”
Uh, I thought, but didn’t add, also Isla Huesos High School wouldn’t have taken me if I hadn’t been enrolled in New Pathways, because of what happened to Mr. Mueller.
But whatever. With boarding school for rich kids with social problems in Switzerland being my only other choice, what was I
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