166Chapter Two: A Case of the Mondays
I cradle my gun in my hand as I run forward, looking out for any monsters that might rip me to shreds. Stacey is behind me, weakly carrying a shotgun in her hands and crying. The air is misty and warm, and the reddened sky furiously booms with distant thunder. Scattered, blood-red raindrops fill the empty streets as we continue to run away from the demons behind us.
We turn into an alley and are bombarded by a horde of pale, demonic creatures. They snarl and run forward, coming at us with their sharp, blackened fingernails. They're horrific – their dull yellow eyes mindlessly roll around in their heads, and their peeling flesh falls to the ground like bloody snowflakes. Raising my pistol to eye level, I fire over and over, blasting bullets through their skulls and trying not to get their infected blood in my mouth. Stacey submissively yanks the trigger; a deafening boom explodes from the shotgun, blowing apart a man's abdomen and spilling pieces of his stomach along the pavement. In seconds, the alleyway becomes a bloodbath as Stacey and I fire away at the infected mob. I press the trigger and send a bullet through a little girl's forehead, smiling and spitting at the tainted corpses. As the last one gets blasted to pieces, the red sky melts away, and rich yellow sunlight bathes our features.
Stacey turns towards me. "Great work, Miss Davis."
"Augh, Stacey! You know I hate my last name…"
"Miss Davis?"
"What?"
"Miss Davis, this is no time for-"
"AUGH!"
The bloodstained world fades away in a flash of light as I shoot open my eyes and try to figure out where I am. Florescent lights beat down on my eyeballs, and a fuzzy image of a classroom fades into my vision. I'm fumbling around in my seat and still half-asleep when a freezing chill takes over my legs. I jolt up and trip backwards over my chair, toppling to the tile floor and writhing around. I hear a voice in the distance.
"It looks like Miss Davis is having trouble concentrating…"
I put my hands out in front of me and push my body up off of the floor. My knees are frozen, and I stumble as I rise to my feet. I lean against my desk and let my vision clear itself.
My physics teacher, Mr. Hannigan, is striding around the classroom, swinging a steamy fire extinguisher in his hand. I look down at my legs, noticing a wide stain of cold foam in my lap.
"You shot a fugging fire esstinwisher at me?!" I slur at him, still trying to wake up properly. I hobble over to my seat, massaging my knees and squinting as the classroom becomes clear in front of me. Polite snickers fill the air as the entire class stares at my foamy, bedraggled body.
Mr. Hannigan ignores my comment. His frizzy, uncombed red hair and buck teeth make him look like a ridiculously fat version of Carrot Top. It's really not a bad comparison, actually – he's always been an… eccentric teacher. He has a weird obsession with incorporating physics into absolutely everything he does, and occasionally manages to give the class a good laugh. He's probably the most delirious, malicious and incompetent teacher at the school, but he's a funny man to have around.
"Aha! See that, class? Now, if the foam in the extinguisher jettisoned out with an acceleration of two-point-five meters per second, then what would be the final veloc…"
Dead silence. The class stares at him, a unanimous blank look on their faces.
"Nevermind," Hannigan sighs. The chubby redhead shrugs his shoulders and turns his attention back to me. "Anyway, since it seems that Miss Davis can't keep her eyes wide open in my class, she gets to write a five-thousand word essay on the history and importance of fire extinguishers in our country."
I finally get my mouth to work. "Five thousand?! What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
"Ooh! And she gets a day of detention, too."
"Augh!"
"Aha! It seems, it seems, it seems that Miss Davis would like another essay," he sings in a gallant opera voice. A soft chuckle escapes the class.
I almost scream, but I narrow my eyes and decide not to screw up my day even more than I already have. "No, Mister Hannigan."
"Aw! Are you sure, Miss Davis? I really would love to hear your opinions on Isaac Newton's laws of…"
"No."
"Well then suit yourself, Missy!" He giggles like a twelve-year old and wobbles back to the front of the class to continue his lecture, keeping his eyes on me. "I trust that you won't be dozing off again, Miss Davis."
I ignore him and cross my arms, trying to pay attention to anything besides his stupid physics lecture. "It seeeems," I mutter under my breath, mocking his stupid mannerisms. "Asshole."
My eyes absently dance around the room – it's a dull little science classroom with mold growing on the corners of the ceiling. The students stare ahead at nothing, probably paying less attention to Hannigan than "dozing Miss Davis" was. My eyes float around the classroom, scanning past a group of whispering bitches, a few nerds actually taking notes and a preppy girl poking at a pimple. The classroom is even emptier than usual, today; I take a quick head count and come up with twelve people.
"Hmm," I grunt under my breath. "That's odd."
I keep scanning until I reach the back of the room, and I suddenly lock on to a boy wrapped up in a pitch-black hoody. Hunched in the back row, he fiddles with a videogame under his desk. It takes several moments of staring before I begin to realize…
I've never seen that kid before. Is he new? His hood covers his face, so I can't exactly tell.
"Mr. Hannigan?" I say without thinking, my eyes still glued on the kid in the back row. The kid stop playing the game and looks up. I still can't see his face underneath his hood, but a cold feeling washes over me, and I realize that he's staring right at me. And for some reason… I don't bother to look away. I'm practically twisted around in my chair 180 degrees, but I stay in my position and keep looking at him.
An extravagant sigh from Hannigan. "Yes, Miss Davis?"
A few moments pass before I notice that Hannigan is clearing his throat, trying to grab my attention. I gasp and turn around, flashing a fake smile.
"What's the problem, Miss Davis?" He asks in that sing-songy voice.
"Uh… yeah, I was just curious about the new kid, sorry."
"What new kid, Miss Davis?"
"The one in the back, right over th—"
I turn to point to the faceless kid, and realize that I'm pointing at an empty desk.
"That's two essays, Miss Davis. Wow, are you going for a school record or something?"
"What?! Bu-but he was right fucking there!"
"Bim, boom, bah! That's three – count 'em – three glorious essays for the verbose Jamie Daaaavis. Give her a round of applause, guys!"
A couple of students clap once or twice, and the room is silent again.
The veins on my forehead stand out fiercely, and I bite my lip to stop myself from screaming at him again. Without another word, Hannigan smiles and flops back over to his lecture.
I still can't help but glance back at the empty seat. The kid was right there, and I wasn't hallucinating. I could feel him staring at me; it was a dead, cold feeling that washed over my nerves and made me feel worthless. And he disappeared, right out of thin air – thin fucking air – and people can't just poof away like that, it's not…
I decide to drop it. It must be that stupid CNN virus – yeah, it has to be. It's making me paranoid and getting me in trouble. You're going insane, Jamie – nobody in America is infected with that shit. It's all in your head. I sigh and begin to twiddle my pen, staring blankly at Hannigan like everyone else. The empty feeling quickly leaves me and rage fills my being as I glance at the open physics book in front of me. Thick puffs of gooey foam soak through the pages, and I groan softly.
Worst. Monday. Ever.
The rest of the fat man's class goes by agonizingly slowly, but the bell eventually rings and I make an effort to be the first one out of the room. Scrubbing desperately at the dried foam on my crotch, I stumble out into the hallway and half-run to my next class. Mr. Hannigan calls after me, a stupid smile plastered on his face. "Don't forget your essays, Miss Davis! They're due first thing tomorrow morning!"
"Yeah," I mumble, not bothering to know if he can hear me or not, "I'll get right on that."
Fat piece of shit.
I smile and wave at the bastard, walking away and doing my best to ignore the giant white stain on my pants. Maybe if you don't pay attention to it, nobody else will either. Nevertheless, I timidly hold my hands in front of my legs as I walk down the hallway. Busy students shuffle past me, bumping into me and muttering a barely-there "sorry" before skittering away and melting back into the crowd. I scan around the ocean of teenagers, backpacks, books and mp3 players, subconsciously searching for anyone that might take advantage of my embarrassing stain. I catch a few awkward glances here and there, but nobody really says anything. Nobody ever says much to the murderous gunslinger girl. Not to her face, anyway.
But the hallways aren't too crowded today, to tell the truth. It's just like Hannigan's classroom – really empty and really scattered. My head automatically shifts into Virus Mode – could that flesh-eating African disease be to blame? I can't be the only one who watched that CNN report, right? Maybe I'm not the only paranoid one either. If that is the case, then I'm not going crazy after all – aha! Take that, subconscious!
"Having one of those days, huh?" A hardly-familiar voice calls out. I glance to my left and my right, trying not to draw too much attention to myself. When I realize that nobody is trying to get my attention, I shake my head and keep walking. Silly girl. Nobody is talking to you.
A tiny tap against my shoulder. I instinctively ignore it; people in this school have a tendency to disregard the existence of other people, bumping into each other at random and treating the world like a pinball machine. It's understandable, though – places to go, things to do, people to fuck. There isn't much time for politeness. But before I'm able to wave it away as an accident, there's another tap on my shoulder; a tap that wants my attention. I turn around.
A tall kid in a black hoody is looming over me like a fucking demon. I can't see his face.
I stammer for a minute, taking it all in. He's wearing bright red Converse All Stars and his tight faded blue jeans are old and ragged. Now that I can see him standing up, I realize that he's ridiculously skinny. Unhealthily skinny. Sickly, even.
But it's not the skinniness or the distinctive clothes that strike me first. As he stands not two feet away from me, I suddenly feel… cold. It's as if little elves turned down my body temperature a few degrees. How is he doing that? Or is it just my imagination?
"Hello, Jamie," he says. He has an accent, but I can't quite place where it's from. It sounds like a fusion of different dialects that I've probably never even heard of… but I do know that it sounds absolutely beautiful. If only I could see his face, then I might be able to recognize him from somewhere.
"Do I… uh, I do… I mean, do I know you? From… somewhere?"
He shifts jerkily, like a nervous shadow. From underneath his hood, he calmly says, "You're the girl who can shoot off a mouse's ear from a mile away, aren't you? The deadly markswoman that doesn't take shit from anybody. I've heard a lot about you."
I begin to say something, but my throat suddenly feels like sandpaper.
"Here," he says simply, handing me a black, damp bandana. "To clean your pants." I stare at it like it's a dead alien fetus. When I don't take it after a while, he shrugs his shoulders, drops the rag onto the ground in front of me, and slowly walks away.
My senses suddenly come back to me. "Whoa – wait!"
But he's gone, disappeared again into the flow of the crowd.
I groan, and mutter a string of curses under my breath. After a moment, I glance at the rag on the floor; I walk toward it and hesitantly snatch it off the tile. It's folded neatly, and it's very old… and on the corner, sewn with red thread and a careful hand, is the letter 'R'. Nothing else. No embroidery, no decoration. Just 'R', stitched in fancy gothic lettering. I blankly stare at it for a moment before I shove it into my backpack.
"Yeah," I whisper to myself, "It's definitely one of those fucking days."
Jack didn't ask questions when he saw the giant foam stain on my lap. He smiled, wrapped his jacket around my waist and voila, no more stainsWe push our way through the crowd of hurried teenagers in the hallway until Jack stops at his locker.
"Fuck, Hannigan gave me detention, an essay, and ruined my jeans."
He keeps his eyes in his locker. "…do I wanna know how, or is it just a sexy secret between you two?"
"Fuck off, Jack! That fat bastard sprayed a fire extinguisher at me because I was sleeping in his class."
Mia runs up out of nowhere and playfully punches my arm. She's wearing a noisy black dress that looks like a gothic hybrid of 'The Matrix' and 'Harry Potter'. Her hair has been spray-dyed purple today, and her pitch-black eyes glint at me as she giggles.
"Hey Jammy, what's up?"
"Mia, can you stop calling me that?"
"Aw, I like calling you Jammy…"
"I don't know, I just… I don't know. I'm having a really fucking weird day today, Mia." Wow, what an understatement.
"Sure…" Her eyes drift to my waist. "…wow, that looks horrible…"
"What?" I look down at my lap and realize that the jacket is hanging open. I quickly re-tie it around my waist and mumble, "Oh… the fat man sprayed me with a fire extinguisher."
"Huh? Oh! No, no – I was talking about your whole 'time-travel-to-the-nineties' look. Who the hell wears jackets around their waist anymore? Who are you s'posed to be, Roseanne?"
I pantomime 'fuck you' and run my fingers through my bangs. "I'm only wearing it because the fat man sprayed me, alright?"
She's quiet for a moment. "The fat man? Rodriguez? What, were you on fire or something?"
"No… augh, the other fat man. Hannigan."
"Oh…"
It's silent again before she bursts into laughter.
"Shut up! I've got three essays and detention to do."
"Ha," she laughs, giving me a quick hug of shame. "Not bad for an April Monday, huh?"
I flash a fake smile. "Let me guess – you've got something worse?"
She grins and dances around me. "Actually, today you've got me beat – all I've got is detention."
"Yeah, so far. There's still one more class in the day… Mammy," I say, trying to imitate her nickname for me. It didn't exactly come out right.
"Haha, it doesn't work for me!" She playfully bites her tongue. "You'd better stop, or people might think you're racist, Jammy. Pfft, Mammy! That's rich!"
I smirk at her and shove her against the wall of lockers. I'm not surprised that she'll be rotting in detention with me. Mia has always been the 'bad kid' of the group. Mia "The Marauder" Smithson, they call her. She rarely has a day off from some sort of punishment.
I turn to Jack again, who's still rustling around in his locker. "Hurry up, Jack – I've gotta get to detention."
"I'm not going to detention."
"Yeah, but I am."
"…so why are you waiting for me?"
I sigh and yank him to his feet, wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him deeply. "That's why."
"Oh my God, I feel so blessed!"
"Shut up," I laugh, starting to walk away with Mia. I remember something and call after Jack as he leaves, "You can give me a ride home, right?"
"…I don't have detention."
"I know that. Can you stay after and give me a ride anyway?"
"No way! Your detention will last until five thirty, and I've got a shitload of homework to do."
"Pleeease?"
He starts to say something, but quickly stops himself and mumbles "yeah".
"Thanks, Jack," I say in the cutest voice I can muster.
I begin to walk to the detention hall with Mia; she stares at me in disbelief for a while.
"What? What's wrong?"
She whistles and pantomimes a whip cracking. "Man, even after three years, you've still got him wrapped around your little finger."
"That's just how we work, Mia," I say, idly checking the stain on my jeans. "It's no big deal."
"Whatever you say, Jammy."
Mia's dragging her mesh backpack on the floor; there's nothing in it but a sketchpad, a few pens and some scattered papers. She's always trying to write a novel, but never really got around to it.
"Hey, have you been watching CNN lately? Y'know, after…"
I realize that she's trying to talk about the virus, and I try to hold myself together.
"Yeah… yeah, I've been checking it out sometimes."
"That's all they've been talking about! I mean, all the time it's just 'blah blah virus, blah blah epidemic'…"
"Well, you've seen the pictures, Mia. It's horrible."
"Yeah…"
An awkward silence.
"Uh… Jamie, I need to tell you something."
"Okay."
"Something important."
"Okay."
"Something private."
"I get it already, damn!"
Mia suddenly sighs, rolls her charcoal eyes, grabs my arm and leads me into the nearest girls' bathroom. The door softly squeezes shut behind us, and Mia runs along the stalls, checking to make sure that it's completely empty. When she's sure that the coast is clear, she starts to curse loudly, punching walls. I let her finish, and slowly walk over to her, placing my hand on her arm.
"What's… ah, what's wrong?"
"Jamie, I need you to skip detention for me."
"…um, no."
"I'm serious!"
"…and why exactly would I skip detention?"
She takes a deep breath and turns around to stare into a mirror. "My brother is in the hospital, okay?"
I'm instantly halfway out of the door. "Uh huh. Sure."
"Jamie!" she yells.
I turn around to face her. "Mia, you couldn't lie your way out of a paper bag. Seriously, I need to go to detention today, all right? Hannigan was really being a dick today."
"Jamie, please…" She pitifully groans.
Annoyed, I turn around once more to see Mia starting to cry. Her pitch black mascara is melting down her cheeks, and the florescent lighting of the bathroom makes her look pastier than usual. Her eyes are a rich pink, and her arms are wrapped sorrowfully around her torso.
"Wow… are you serious?"
"I fucking said that in the beginning!" She shrieks at me.
"Mia…" I cautiously walk over to her and give her a quick hug.
"I'm scared… they told me he's really messed up, dude…"
I think for a moment before guiltily mumbling, "Yeah. Yeah, I'll go see your brother."