Snowed (The Bloodline of Yule Trilogy Book 1) Page 5

  I hadn’t anticipated this kind of fallout from Thursday’s demonstration, but someone’s got to move over. I look to the seat across the aisle, this one with a boy and a girl who look bored, shoulders slumped, busily texting on their phones, trying to keep at least six inches between them because god forbid someone should think they were a couple.

  Many people are already sitting three to a seat. It’s tight, but they could fit another person. They have to. The girl sits closest to the aisle. I try to meet her eyes, but she shakes her head, massive hoop earrings wagging.

  I turn to another seat, where a sullen sophomore in skinny jeans sits with his legs spread, eyes closed as the ear buds implanted in his head make loud crunching noises. He doesn’t acknowledge me when I talk to him. Not even when I touch his leg with my foot. He’s pretending he can’t hear me.

  The bus driver yells, “Sit down so we can get going!”

  “Oh, this is absurd.”

  Aidan says this. Aidan! I glance back at him, those eyes blazing with ire. He points at the freckled freshman. “You,” he says with shocking authority. “Do you really want the new Xbox for Christmas? And a copy of your favorite game, Road Kill, which you’ve only played at your cousin Tyler’s house?”

  The boy gapes at Aidan as if he were an ancient Egyptian god.

  The bus driver shouts, “Sit. Down!”

  Aidan then turns to the girl with the hoop earrings. “And you—do you really want your father to buy you that bright yellow Volkswagen bug for Christmas? That is, if you pass your driver’s test on this third try?”

  The girl’s eyes widen. “What? How did you…?”

  “Then move over. Both of you.”

  They scoot aside in unison. The freshman drops his bag to his feet. Aidan sits beside him, extending his hand to the seat created by the frightened girl, inviting me to sit. He turns to the boy. “Satan Claus?” Aidan looks away and laughs. “If you only knew.”

  I sit down. Aidan is freaking me out. Yet at this moment, he looks peaceful, even happy as he watches the scenery slip past. What just happened? Was it like the dinner table incident? Did he really know things about these two people? Or was it just bluster? He just learned about computers. How does he know about Xboxes? And of all things, what they want for Christmas? That commanding voice—it came out of nowhere.

  Since ours was the last stop before school, we reach our destination twenty minutes later.

  Charles isn’t with us. His loser friends used to pick him up but they didn’t always make it to school. After that day the truancy officer visited, everything changed—for a while, anyway. Dad usually leaves too early to take us to school, but today he took Charles because he’s now forbidden to hang out with Noah. Aidan and I opted for the bus because it meant we got to sleep in later.

  We pull up and everyone pours off the bus. Two police cars are parked along the front curb with a gray Mustang. A news van lurks in the parking lot, a reporter talking to the camera. Teachers wearing black armbands usher arriving students to the gymnasium. The assistant principal’s voice echoes over the outdoor intercom. “Please join us in the gymnasium for first period. Attendance is mandatory.”

  Pulling up his hood, Aidan says nothing as we plod toward the gym. Girls dressed in black sob with Beth Addison outside the entrance, comforted by a number of broad-shouldered football players. They are too absorbed in their grief to notice us slipping inside with the torrent. I don’t know how they’re going to fit the entire school in here. Since I’ve been coming here, we’ve never had a full student assembly. I notice a couple of kids from the bus chattering and pointing at Aidan. He breaks away from me and moves to a section higher up on the bleachers. Maybe he’s trying to draw attention away from me, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s scouting the crowd.

  My chest aches as I notice Keiko sitting with a couple of girls I don’t know. I desperately want to reconnect with her. I slip my phone out of my pocket. The texts have already started. “You suck Satan” and “atheist bitch.” I blow past those charming messages and compose a new one to Keiko.

  I’m sorry I hurt you.

  No response. She doesn’t take out her phone.

  I compose another text. Something that is sure to get her attention and tickle her curiosity.

  I know who found the body.

  Nothing. She doesn’t even check her phone. It then occurs to me that her parents have probably confiscated it.

  Crap. Now they’ll know if they read it.

  Mrs. Cartwright, our principal, speaks into a microphone. “Everyone take a seat so we can get started!” A lot older than my mom, yet somehow not nearly as intimidating, she towers over the spindly assistant principal, Mr. Landau, who stands at the doorway, directing stragglers. The first period bell rings. Beside Mrs. Cartwright is Detective Bristow wearing a dark brown suit and striped tie under his trench coat. Behind him are two police officers. I recognize one from Friday.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Mrs. Cartwright says. “I know that news gets around and that many of you already know about the tragedy, but for the rest of you I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings. Darren Jacobs, one of our star athletes, passed away in a senseless act of violence this last Friday.”

  A low roar ripples through in the gymnasium. The drama queens swoon, people text madly on their smartphones, others merely gawk with disbelief.

  “We’re going to miss Darren very much. Some students are organizing a candlelight vigil for Thursday night. Check the website for event details. Today, with the exception of first period, we’re having a regular school day but tomorrow is Veterans Day and the school will be closed. We have counselors in the office if you feel like you need to speak with someone. You can also talk to me, Mr. Reilly, or Mr. Landau. And do talk about this with your friends, your family, your clergy. Right now, you might be in shock. This deeply affects all of us.” Mrs. Cartwright looks troubled. I’ve never seen her so serious. “I want to introduce you to Detective Bristow from the Oak County Sheriff’s Department. Listen very carefully to what he has to say. Your life might be at stake. Thank you.” She hands the microphone to the detective.

  “Good morning,” he says, sounding exhausted. “I’m Detective Jim Bristow. First I want to say how sorry I am for your loss. It’s a tragedy to lose a good friend, teammate, and fellow student who contributed so much to his school.”

  Clearly the detective never knew Darren. He was a mediocre student, a bully, and a closet druggie.

  “As you probably read in the news, Darren Jacobs’ body was found behind the bleachers on the sports field. We’re conducting an investigation and we need your help. If you have any information about Darren’s death, please do not hesitate to contact me or anyone else at the Sheriff’s Office. Contact information will be distributed in your homeroom classes, including an anonymous tip line that you can call twenty-four-seven. Officers Wasnowski and Polk will be patrolling campus for the next few weeks.

  “In the meantime, it is extremely important that you be alert and travel in groups. You have a beautiful school here with open hallways, surrounded by nature, but that makes it very hard to secure against threats. So, please follow some basic safety procedures. If you venture beyond the classrooms, do not walk alone. That’s not just for the athletic teams and other folk who use the football field. That also goes for those of you who walk to and from school. Stay together. Stay safe. And if you see anything suspicious, contact a school official right away. Lastly, do not try to engage with a suspicious person or animal. If you feel threatened, call nine-one-one and get out of there. Darren was a big guy. I hear that he scored, what, seventy touchdown passes last season? And rushed almost four hundred and seventy yards? Yet he was no match for his assailant. No matter how tough you think you are, or how tempting it might be, disengage, okay? And call the authorities. Thank you.”

  He’s not calling it a homicide. Maybe they’re not allowed to say until they know for sure.

  The photo. Should
I show it to him? Maybe they know what has glowing blue eyes. But will I get into trouble for having taken the photo?

  In homeroom, I fold up the flyer with the hotline number and stick it in my backpack. The detective’s card is tucked in one of the zippered pockets. Mrs. Linklater announces that the Winter Dance will take place but not until the weekend after Thanksgiving, and that it will include a fundraiser for Darren’s favorite charity—his youth group, Inspiration International.

  I never go to dances. I’m especially glad I’m not going to this one.

  Those glowing blue eyes and Darren’s dead body haunt me through the day. A smoky gray sky promises a downpour as we head for homeroom. A crowd converges in the hallway. The only person who acknowledges I exist is Michael Allured.

  “So, you staying safe with your mad nunchuk skills?”

  He makes a noise that sounds like an asthmatic ninja whipping around invisible nunchuks.

  “Michael, if I could wield nunchuks, I would have used them already on certain BFJs.”

  “True. Your lack of mad nunchuk skills is concerning.”

  And then he takes off. I have no idea what that was supposed to mean. Michael then sends me these odd texts:

  Is your Aidan friend in the mafia?

  ?

  Or is he John Edward’s secret love child?

  ??!

  Personally, methinks he’s related to Sherlock Holmes aka Benedict Cumberbutt.

  Apparently Michael’s hearing gossip from our fellow bus riders. On the bus this morning, I tried not to stare at Aidan’s hair. He caught me looking and mouthed, “What?” I shrugged, feigning ignorance while I almost died of embarrassment. I then tried not to stare at his perfectly sculpted nose. It contrasts with the lazy waves of sable hair falling over his forehead.

  This crush is ridiculous.

  Mr. Reilly’s class rolls around. Without their leader, Darren’s followers fail to find a voice. Mr. Reilly appears more serious than usual, which is quite a feat.

  “I’ve set aside the curriculum I’d planned for today in favor of something a little lighter.” He approaches the chalkboard and picks up a piece of chalk. “I realize it’s a cardinal sin to talk about Christmas before Thanksgiving, but since we have entered the Industrial Age in our reading, let’s talk about modern American cultural values and ideas that stem from that time period. A little history-lite, if you will. But I assure you it ties into what we’ve been studying.”

  He writes: A Visit from Saint Nicholas

  Oh, great. Another one of Mr. Reilly’s tangents. I’m pretty sure no one else talks about this stuff in their American history classes.

  “The American poet Clement Clarke Moore published this poem anonymously in eighteen twenty-three. What else was happening that year? Anyone?”

  No answer. He writes on the board: The Monroe Doctrine.

  “In early December of that year, President James Monroe declares America’s neutrality in European conflicts. Step-by-step, America continues to distance itself from the UK and Europe, further establishing its independence. Meanwhile, this poem single-handedly established Christmas culture in America, distinguishing it from British and European customs and traditions. To this day, this depiction of Saint Nicholas remains the dominant iconography for the American celebration of the holiday.”

  I recall Aidan humming Christmas music in his room. He must be loving this lecture. I glance at him and discover that he’s slumped backward, arms crossed, his features locked in fury. I look away quickly. What could he possibly be so pissed about?

  Mr. Reilly continues, “Can anyone tell me the origins of Christmas?”

  One of the BFJs raises his hand. “It’s a celebration of the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”

  “That is a correct statement, but it is not the correct answer,” Mr. Reilly says, much to my relief.

  Another BFJ raises her hand. “But the word ‘Christ’ is in the word. You can’t ignore that. There’s this whole war on Christmas by people like you trying to deny that fact.”

  “I did not deny it, Ms. Barnsworth. I asked, what is the origin of the holiday? In other words, what else is happening at this time of year that humanity has celebrated?”

  I raise my hand.

  “Yes, Ms. Jones.”

  “The winter solstice. It was a time of feasting for ancient cultures. They’d slaughter their cattle so they wouldn’t have to feed them during winter and eat the meat in preparation for the next four months of possible starvation.”

  “Very good.”

  Another BFJ complains. “Oh, just ask Satan. She’s sure to tell you the truth. Not.”

  Mr. Reilly walks to his podium and scribbles something in his book. “Mr. Katz, you have detention. Bullying is not tolerated in my classroom. Report to the office after class immediately.”

  Gasps of disbelief. Even I can’t believe that Mr. Reilly did that. The administration is definitely on the move. My cell phone buzzes with more texts. I turn it off.

  Aidan raises his hand. He’s learned the ritual. Mr. Reilly calls on him. “The feasting originally occurred at the ancient Roman festival of Natalis Invicti, also known as The Birth of the Unconquerable Sun. As for December 25 being about the birth of Jesus, some scholars claim it was first the birth date of Mithras, a god worshipped by a Roman cult that rivaled Christianity for the first four centuries. The birth of Mithras may or may not have been linked to Natalis Invicti—it might not be in December at all—but one thing is for certain: the word ‘Christ’ does not appear in the word ‘Sunday,’ which was a sacred day to Mithras and other sun worshipers long before Constantine the First declared Christianity to be the official religion of Rome.”

  He flashes me the biggest grin.

  The classroom is silent.

  I’m stunned, too. Not just because of that jaw-dropping response, but because no one has ever backed me up before. Teachers sometimes. Students never. Since I first arrived at Oakwood, I’ve felt like I’m from another planet. No one speaks my language.

  I suddenly have a crush on Aidan so fast and so huge that it feels like a hockey player slamming into me. My heart swells so tight, I think my ribcage is going to explode.

  Mr. Reilly grins, returning to the chalkboard. “Mr. MacNichol is correct.” He then writes: Myth. History.

  “Where does one end and the other begin? And who determines which is which?”

  Chapter 10

  The day is about to end with AP English Literature and Composition for what promises to be a heavy discussion about One Hundred Years of Solitude. Mauricio Babilonia’s yellow butterflies are already suffocating my thoughts. Or are they Aidan’s butterflies? Is that what I imagine I hear at my window at night? Butterflies rather than bugbears?

  But as I’m on my way to English, another text appears from Michael.

  Can you come over to consci? NOW?!? Holy crap!

  The Consumer Science building is on the far side of campus at the border of the thick forest that hedges the northernmost part of the school. I might not manage to evade Officers Wasnowski and Polk patrolling, and I might get in trouble for being late to discuss the butterflies. Screw it. I take off for the Consumer Science building, a fire in my legs. It’s a crazy day. Surely Mrs. Hohlwein will overlook a lapse or two.

  I try to maintain a casual air, pretending I belong on that side of campus—the side where people take classes about baking, basic computer skills, and setting up checking accounts. Why is Michael over here?

  And why does he need me?

  Officer Polk (or Wasnowski?) rounds the corner of my Economics class, which is halfway between English and Consumer Science. I can’t control my face, and I wince when I see him, surprised. I notice for the first time the arsenal on his duty belt: gun, Taser, ammo clips, Maglite, handcuffs, pepper spray, baton.

  I keep walking, flashing him a weak grin that I hope says, Hi. Sucks that you’re here but glad you are.

  He passes with a nod.

  Skir
ting the outer end of the ConSci building, I turn the corner and stop. I don’t see Michael anywhere.

  Is this a setup? I’m out of sight. Anyone wanting to jump me could do it here. Michael would never do such a thing. But what if they’re forcing him or they’ve stolen his phone?

  It’s a setup! Run!

  I spin around to head back to English when I hear Michael’s voice.

  “Hey! CJ!”

  He leans out from the trees, scanning for teachers and cops. Two others trail him. Judy coughs. Leo makes faces, pinching the bridge of his nose. Nice to see those two got together after the meeting. Or did they? Or maybe she and Michael are together? Regardless, it looks like Judy’s clicked with the guys the way I have, which makes me happy.

  I dive into the forest with them.

  “You won’t believe this,” Michael says, stomping into the foliage. “I wanted you to see it before The Expendables find it.”

  Prickly fir branches swipe our faces, damp needles dusting the grassy ground. The scent of broken flora underfoot soon gives way to an overwhelming stench. Leo and Michael raise their shirts over their faces like bandits, revealing their thermal undershirts. Judy just coughs more and pinches her nose. “Get ready,” Michael says, voice muffled.

  Covering my nose with my arm, I nod. We step into a tight cluster of cedars. Michael points at a half-eaten possum on the bloodstained ground, lips drawn back and teeth bared, flies crawling over its gaping belly.

  I shrug. “Nasty. Looks like bobcats got it.”

  Michael shakes his head. He steps between the trees and points at another mutilated possum. And another. Four altogether, two draped over the branches.

  “Bobcats don’t do this.”

  “People do this,” Leo says. “Sick people.”

  He’s right. A person like the one who killed Darren.