The 13 Guests, Chapter 1: Report Cards
Here's yet another story from the adventures of the 13 Friends. (I really should get some other storylines up here . . .) In order for the end of this one to have its full effect, you'll have to dig through the archives and read the prologue of The 13 Guests about the Carpenter's Curse. Enjoy!
***
The 13 Guests
Chapter 1: Report Cards
"Tab? Hey, Tabbitha?" Tabbitha slowly slipped out of her daze and looked sleepily at the chocolate-colored girl across from her. "Have you heard anything I just said?"
"No . . ." Tabbitha said, then came back to reality completely. "No. I'm sorry Kris."
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I just . . . didn't get much sleep last night."
"I know how you feel," Kris said. Tabbitha nodded, although she had a feeling that Kris had no idea how she was feeling. "Did you get your report card yet?"
"Uh . . . no," Tabbitha lied. "Not yet."
"Me either . . . I know I didn't do well in English again. That woman hates me I swear . . ." She was off again, but Tabbitha was barely listening. She had been barely listening to everyone who talked to her for the past few weeks now . . . just enough to be able to give basic responses to their questions. Enough to make them think she was all right, even though she wasn't.
A redheaded girl, who was way too good-looking for a high school sophomore, sat down next to Kris. Molly had taken the place of Kris's best friend since Jessie had moved away, although they no where near as close as the original "Inseparable Pair" had been. "Kris, are you griping about English again?"
"I'm failing that class because the teacher hates me Molly, I think I have every right to gripe about it." Molly sighed.
"You always get like this when report cards come out."
"That is because I always, without fail, get an English teacher who hates me."
"What about your other subjects?"
"Probably failed geometry, I'll be fine in history. Biology's so-so. American Lit is the only class I'm really doing well in." She sighed. "Well, no sense in delaying the inevitable. Wish me luck." She stood and walked stiffly to the office as Molly shook her head.
"She's gonna give herself a heart attack if this keeps up," Molly said. Tabbitha nodded numbly. "I mean, look at my report card." She shoved a little slip of paper in Tabbitha's direction.
AMERICAN HISTORY . . . . . . B
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . C
CHOIR . . . . . . . . A
ENGLISH II . . . . . . . . C+
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . C
HUMANITIES . . . . . . . B
PHYSICAL EDUCATION . . . . . . A
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . D
"Now that's not exactly a glowing report card, but I'm not worried about it!" Molly was saying. "And Kris's is going to look better than mine."
"Yeah," Tabbitha said, shoving the report card away from her.
"I just don't get that girl . . ."
"Damn that woman!" Tabbitha and Molly turned to the angry voice. Another redhead was storming over to the table. Other people, students and teachers alike, moved quickly out of her way. She sat down and slapped her report card angrily on the table. "One lousy grade! Would it be so hard for her to give me a B?" Tabbitha looked over at Susan's report card.
ADVANCED ENGLISH II . . . . . . C
AMERICAN HISTORY . . . . . . A
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . A
FRENCH II . . . . . . . . A
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . B
JOURNALISM . . . . . . . A
PHYSICAL EDUCATION . . . . . . A
"Susan," Molly said. "This is good."
"She gave me a C! A C!" Susan said, snatching back the report card and looking at again, as if expecting it to change. It didn't.
"One C isn't a big deal, especially when it comes from Gollee. Hell, a C is good . . . she must love you."
"She does not love me!" Susan said. "Because I think she is wrong!"
"Is she?"
"Most of the time!"
"Have you talked to her?"
"Yes," Susan said. "She said she gave me the C for ‘being difficult.' What she really means is being right!"
"How is she wrong?"
"Her pronunciation of words, for one thing, and the fact that she can't put a coherent sentance together more complicated than ‘See Spot run.'" Susan said. "Her literary interpretations . . . which I guess technically aren't wrong, but that is not to say that someone else can't have a different idea! And when I tell her in class that I have a different idea, she tells me it's wrong . . . Kris can tell you, she usually backs me up on this! But we're the only ones who speak up, and she's made our labels very clear: Kris is an idiot and I'm a troublemaker, which means that our opinions aren't given much credit, even though there's not a damn thing wrong with them!" She sighed loudly. "And that's not even the really irritating thing!"
"I was wondering," Molly said, "‘cause, you don't seem really irritated yet." Susan ignored her.
"She's not supposed to give the grade based on whether or not I'm ‘difficult.' She's supposed to give the grade based on whether or not I do the work, which I do, pass the tests, which I do, and participate in class, which I most certainly do. No where in her sylibus does it say anything about lowering a grade because a student speaks her mind!" A disgustingly skinny girl with long blonde hair walked over.
"Golee's class, right?" she said sitting down. Susan nodded. "Figured. What happened?"
"Amy, please don't get her started," Molly begged.
"She gave me a damn C," Susan said. "Because she doesn't like what I have to say."
"Susan, the only time she does like what people have to say is when they're saying ‘Yes, of course, you're absolutely right, Mrs. Golee.'"
"I know that!" Susan said.
"I have the same problem. Look at this." She pulled out her report card and showed it to Susan.
ALGEBRA II . . . . . . . A
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . B
ENGLISH II . . . . . . . . D
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . C
GEOGRAPHY . . . . . . . A
HEALTH . . . . . . . . A
HOME ECONOMICS . . . . . . B
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . A
"Okay, so things could be worse," Susan muttered.
"Things could be a lot worse," Amy said. "Especially judging by the looks of Kris," she added, looking over to where Kris was standing, looking at her report card. She didn't look happy.
Samantha, heavily freckled and the third redhead of the group, came and sat down next to Tabbitha. "Hey." Tabbitha nodded her greeting. "Kris is pretty upset." Tabbitha nodded again.
"How'd you do, Sam?" Susan asked. Sam showed her the report card.
AMERICAN GOVERNMENT . . . . . A
BAND . . . . . . . . A
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . B+
ENGLISH II . . . . . . . . C-
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . B
HEALTH . . . . . . . . A
HUMANITIES . . . . . . . A
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . B
"Sam," Susan said. "How'd you get a B in biology?"
"B-plus," Samantha corrected.
"Yeah, but still . . ."
"I forgot a couple assignments. Don't worry about it."
"Sam, you're the best student in that class. Don't you want to check it out? It could be a mistake."
"No, it's fine," Samantha insisted, getting uncomfortable. "It's not worth the trouble. Just drop it." Susan gave her one last look, then shrugged and handed her report card back to her.
Kris sat back down, clearly upset. She set her report card down on the table in front of her.
AMERICAN LITERATURE . . . . . A
ADVANCED ENGLISH II . . . . . . F
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . B-
CHOIR . . . . . . . . A
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . D-
HUMANITIES . . . . . . . A-
PHYSICAL EDUCATION . . . . . . A
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . WP
WORLD HISTORY . . . . . . B+
"I don't want to ask Chris for help again," Kris was saying, "but I think I'm gonna have to."
"Kris," Amy said, "how is it that you get A's in one English class but not the other?"
"Huh?"
"You've got an A in American Literature, which is a branch of the English curriculum, but not in your general English class."
"Yeah . . . and we're looking at a lot of the same type of literature. The thing is that the lit teacher doesn't use the textbooks, and Golee thinks they're the bible."
"Well, that may be your problem," Amy said, "and it's really no problem at all. This is the first grading period of the year, right? It might take some time for you to get used to the teacher, and for the teacher to get used to you. You've got seven months. Keep doing what you're doing, and see if Golee won't lighten up a bit. Your English grade can only get better from here, right?"
"I suppose."
"And if that doesn't work, nearly everyone at this table can show you how to master the art of BS." Kris smiled, slightly.
"What about geometry?"
"Umm . . . you might want Chris's help on that one." A purple-haired Amy appeared and sat next to her sister. Whatever Amy was, her twin sister Amber was incredibly not.
"Okay, Amy," she said. "What mindless optimism do I have to blot from their memories today?"
"None whatsoever, Amber," Amy said. "But if you want to take a crack at the intelligent, thoughtful optimism I gave them, be my guest. I'll just be back here knocking you in the head with a sledgehammer."
"Tabbitha?" Tabbitha didn't hear. "Tab?" Sam gave her a tap on the shoulder.
"Huh? Oh, sorry Sam."
"Are you feeling okay?"
"I'm fine. A little tired."
"You're not eating," Sam pointed out. Tabbitha looked down, remembering that she did have food in front of her.
"I'm not very hungry."
"You didn't eat yesterday either," Samantha pressed. Tabbitha sighed.
"No, I didn't, Sam." Samantha dropped it, catching the tone in her voice. But Tabbitha knew she hadn't heard the end of this.
"What you have ignored, yet again," Amber was saying, "is that Golee is going to be just as stubborn as them."
"You don't know that for sure," Amy said. "It could be that no one has tried."
"Spoken like a true hopeless optimist."
"Thank you." Another girl, also way too good-looking for her own good, but with brown hair, sat down.
"Hello all!" Mandy said, cheerfully. Tabbitha didn't even have to look at this girl's report card. Mandy took easy classes, and therefore got all A's. She also took classes like sociology and was pathetically good at them. "So, how did everyone do on their report cards?"
"Fine," Kris said curtly.
"Fine? What does that mean?"
"It means, I did fine."
"That doesn't tell me anything."
"What Kris is trying to say," Susan said, "is shut up and mind your own business, Mandy."
"I was just . . ."
"Mandy," said a short, blonde girl, sitting down across from her. "Drop it." Mandy dropped it. She might not listen to the others, but she listened to Libby.
Tabbitha didn't have to look at Libby's report card either; it looked a lot like Mandy's, except with harder classes, and possibly a B or two. The difference was that Libby wasn't nearly as condescending as Mandy, and was usually able to talk the girl down from her high horse. Usually.
Samantha's boyfriend, a nice-looking and friendly young man, came over. Matt Morton wasn't a part of the group, but he might as well have been given the time he spent with them. Just about everyone liked him . . . except Susan, but then she was a law unto herself.
"What kept you?" Samantha said.
"I needed to work out a schedule conflict," Matt said.
"And . . ?"
"We'll see, but I should be all right."
"Did you get your report card yet?" Sam asked. Tabbitha sighed. Couldn't they talk about anything but grades?
"Not yet, no," Matt said. "After lunch, when the line dies down."
"Must be great," Susan said, "to be so perfect that you don't even have to worry about grades." Matt sighed.
"Just because I don't give myself an aneurism over one C doesn't mean I think I'm perfect." Susan's face reddened.
"Were you looking at my report card?"
"Yeah, Susan, I used my x-ray vision when I sat down . . . also I heard you down the hall, along with everyone else in this county." Samantha sighed. Arguments like this occurred nearly every day between these two, and Sam had long since learned that the best thing to do was just let them go at it.
"English, right?" Matt said.
"Anything else about my personal life you'd like to know, Matt?" Susan sneered, sarcastically. "My love interests, my secret thoughts?"
"Just the grades for now. We can talk about the rest later."
"Would you like to know why I got the C?"
"I already know why you got the C."
"Heard that down the hall too?"
"Didn't have to."
"Oh you've been sitting in on my English classes now?" Matt rolled his eyes.
"Susan, I had Golee too, remember? I know how she is with her grading."
"And how did you fair?"
"I did fine." Susan sighed.
"Of course you did!" she said. "You were probably one of those grinning yes-men in her class."
"Don't be ridiculous, I disagreed with her every bit as much as you do. But unlike you, I disagreed tactfully."
"Excuse me?" Susan was growing angrier by the minute. And she hadn't been in that great a mood to begin with.
"I know you, Susan," Matt said. "Something gets your dander up, and you get ornery about it. You've gotten so into the habit of disagreeing with Golee, that it's second nature to you now. Even if you agree with her, you'll find some fault in what she's saying, and you'll point it out just to make her look bad."
"That's not true at all!" Susan shouted. "Don't you dare try to tell me what I'm doing wrong! You don't know me that well!"
"I think I know you better than you think."
"Oh yeah?" They had attracted the attention of most of the nearby tables, but none of them seemed to care. One of teachers started to come over . . . then saw who it was and made his way quickly to the other side of the cafeteria.
"I don't have to take this shit from a jackass like you," Susan spat, "who thinks he's so perfect, he has the right to--,"
"Oh for God's sake!" Sam exclaimed. "Can't we have lunch together once without the two of you going at each other?"
"It's a lost cause, Sam," Molly said. "Not worth the trouble."
"Both of you," Samantha said, "just shut up for the next five minutes, all right?" The two gave one final glare at each other, then went back to their lunches. An awkward silence fell over the table.
"So," came a quiet voice next to Tabbitha, "where are we in the saga of Matt vs. Susan?" Tabbitha turned to Peter, the owner of the quiet voice.
"Stalled on account of Sam," Tabbitha said, listlessly. Peter looked at her. He was much older than he looked, and his stare could be disconcerting.
"You okay?" Tabbitha sighed, again.
"Fine."
"You're lying to me."
"Yes, I am. Anything else?"
"All this talk about grades has got you upset, I notice," he said, seemingly offhand.
"Between you and Sam, who needs a mother?" Peter shrugged, and let the matter drop.
"Let's say," Susan said, suddenly, "that you're right."
Sam sighed. "Five minutes, exactly. You will take me literally, won't you?" Susan ignored her.
"What do you recommend I do?"
"Well, I have a suggestion," Matt said. "But I don't think you can do it, and I know you're not going to like it."
"Well, I haven't liked anything you've had to say so far. Might as well keep going." Matt looked up at her.
"Don't be so quick to find fault with everything she says, and don't say that she's wrong. You can disagree with her without making her look stupid. You're complaining about how stubborn she is, but you're just as stubborn. Admit that you might be wrong once and a while. It's not like it's completely out of the realm of possibility." He paused. "Do you think you can do that?"
"Obviously you don't think I can," Susan muttered.
"Prove me wrong then," Matt said. "Bring your grade up next quarter. Prove to me that you can be right and get a B or an A in the class at the same time."
"I don't have to prove anything to you," Susan said. Matt sighed.
"Ten bucks," he said.
"I'm sorry?"
"We'll make a bet out of it. Ten bucks says you can't put aside your stubbornness and raise your grade in English." Susan stared at him for a moment, but not angrily.
"All right," she said, holding out her hand. "You're on." They shook on it. "Get ready to lose."
"I only hope I do," Matt muttered. Susan didn't hear him.
Tabbitha barely noticed the rest of the lunch period. Suddenly the bell was ringing, and Tabbitha's amount of food was only marginally smaller that it had been before. She moved slowly, not caring whether she got to class on time or not. She didn't notice the worried looks from Samantha and the others as she threw her largely uneaten lunch away, nor did she hear Samantha say, "I'll come see you after school." All that was on her mind were the words on the little piece of paper that sat crumpled in the bottom of her book bag.
ALGEBRA I . . . . . . . . F
AMERICAN HISTORY . . . . . . D
ENGLISH II . . . . . . . . F
HEALTH . . . . . . . . C
HOME ECONOMICS . . . . . . WF
PHYSICAL SCIENCE . . . . . . D-
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . WP
***
Tabbitha looked at her report card. I didn't look any better than before.
"Tab?" A knock accompanied the voice. "Are you in there?" Tabbitha crumpled up her report card and tossed it onto her desk.
"Come in, Sam," she said. The freckled redhead walked in.
"Hey," Sam said. "How's it going?"
"Fine," Tabbitha lied. Samantha looked at her a moment, then sat down.
"I have an unbelievable desire to knock their heads together," Samantha said.
"What?"
"Susan and Matt. Everyday, it's the same thing; one of them says something and they're off again."
"Oh. Right."
"It never stops. Every time we have lunch, we have to listen to them argue."
"Yeah," Tabbitha said, not really listening.
"There are days when I can't decide which is worse: them not shutting up . . . or you not putting two words together." Tabbitha sighed.
"I've been tired," she said.
"Yes you have," Samantha agreed. "For the past month. Not sleeping?"
"Not very well, no."
"So, something's bothering you?"
"No, nothing is bothering me. I'm fine." Samantha sighed and looked at her.
"You know, it's funny," she said, offhandedly. "We've known each other since we were infants, and you still think you can lie to me."
"Don't worry about it, all right?"
"I haven't been worrying about it for the past month."
"Yes you have," Tabbitha said. "You always do."
"Fine," Samantha said. "I haven't said anything for the past month."
"And I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it that way."
"I'm sure you would, but I'm used to not being appreciated," Samantha said. "What's wrong?" Tabbitha sighed.
"Honest to God, I don't know," she said. "All month, I'm tired and yet I can't sleep. I have no interest in anything and yet I desperately want to be doing something. I'm bored with eating. I mean, how do you get bored with eating?" She shook her head. "I don't seem to care about school, and yet I was upset over my grades today."
"Bad?"
"Well, I have a GPA of two-thirds. You tell me."
"And you don't know why?"
"That's the most frustrating thing . . . I have no idea why I'm feeling this way. I have no reason to feel this way. I just do."
"Could it be . . ." she stopped, as though she didn't want to continue.
"Clinical depression? You can say it." She sighed again. "I thought about that . . . I don't know. I don't think so. That tends to run in families, and there's no record of that in mine." She paused. "It's not simply that I'm depressed. Things make me depressed. Certain . . . certain things make me feel bad. Babies, little girls, windows. There's this kid at school that does it. There's no connection between them, they just . . ." She suddenly lost interest in what she was saying. "Mostly, I just have this immense feeling of . . . hopelessness. Like something terrible's gonna happen, and there's nothing I can do about it."
"Maybe you should talk to someone," Sam suggested.
"What do you think I'm doing now?"
"I was thinking along the lines of a doctor."
"I know what you were thinking. I don't want to see a doctor."
"Why not?" Samantha asked. "You'd rather feel depressed?"
"Sam, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not a big fan of letting people know there's something wrong with me."
"Well Tab, in case you haven't noticed, I don't care." Tabbitha looked at her.
"Well that's nice Samantha, but I think I'll be the one to decide what my friends know about me." To Tabbitha's surprise, Samantha started laughing.
"Tabbitha . . . how stupid do you think your friends are? They've been worried about you too, all month! But they're not letting on, because they figure it's my job to find out what's wrong with you. And for a while, it has been my job, but I'm about ready to delegate someone else for it, because I'm getting tired of pulling teeth trying to get you to open your damn mouth and talk to somebody." She wasn't laughing anymore, nor was she sitting. "You are drowning in yourself and you don't even seem to care!"
"Well, if I don't care, then why are you bothering me with this?"
"Because I care!" Samantha shouted, angrily. "And you can be damn sure I'm not the only one! For God's sake, just talk to someone!" Tabbitha stood up.
"Sam, I gotta tell you, you've gone miles toward cheering me up! Thank you! I'm so happy, I'll just go out and kill myself now!"
"Yeah, you go ahead and do that Tab! Because God forbid that you actually try to figure out what's bothering you!"
"Maybe you haven't been paying attention! I . . . DON'T . . . CARE!!! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!!!" The two girls stared angrily at each other for several minutes, until Samantha broke the silence.
"All right," she said, quietly, but no less angrily. "I'll go, if that's what you want. I'll leave you alone." She started for the door. "But I'll tell you something . . . you've got a lot of friends who aren't going to leave you alone. You want to know what's bothering you as much as anyone and we both know it." She paused. "Do everyone a favor and cut the bullshit, okay?" And with that, she left.
Tabbitha watched the doorway for a few more minutes before getting up and re-closing the door. She hated fighting with Samantha. Usually, Tabbitha was able to cow Samantha with a gaze or a word. But when Samantha set her mind to something, she could be just as intimidating as Tabbitha, if not more so. And Samantha used force in the worst possible way; subtly, gently probing and pushing and hinting and nudging, until something came out. And when that didn't work–as it hadn't this time–she got angry. And though Samantha's anger had a low frequency, she well made up for it with intensity.
And the worst part was, she was right.
Ten minutes later, Tabbitha sat in Jerome's living room. Jerome was a lot like Samantha; soft-spoken, gentle, and smarter than Tabbitha. And he wasn't mad at her. Tabbitha had always been a cynical girl, and she trusted few people. There were four outside her family that she felt like she could talk to in times like this. Samantha was always Tabbitha's first choice, but after their spat, she wanted to give her a day or two to cool off. Jerome was another of the four, even though she hadn't known him that long. It was as though he carried an ambience of comfort around him; anyone could trust Jerome.
"What's on your mind?" he asked.
"Many, many things," Tabbitha said. "I just had a fight with my best friend, my grades are dropping, I've been contemplating dropping out of school . . . and I'm depressed."
"I've noticed," Jerome said. "You've been out of sorts for a month or so."
"Jerome . . . you have magic with the mind. Can you tell . . . is it a physical problem? Something dealing with clinical depression or bipolar disease, or something that can be diagnosed?"
"Well," Jerome said. "The mind is a mysterious organ. But as near as I can tell, yours is functioning normally. It must just be in your head." Tabbitha sighed. If it had been a medical problem, it would have been easier to fix. A psychiatric problem was a different entirely. "Why don't you tell me about it?" Tabbitha shrugged.
"I don't know that much about it," she said. "It's very strange . . . I just wake up in the morning, and I feel terrible. It's like when you wake up on a Monday, and you know it's going to be a bad day, you know? Except, it's been going on all month."
"And the feeling doesn't go away?"
"Not really . . . it lessens, but it never really passes. And certain things trigger it."
"What sort of things?" Tabbitha sighed.
"Closed doors . . . windows . . . babies . . . there's this kid at my school, a freshman, Tim Way, I think his name is . . . he's this clumsy kid I see around every so often, but I don't really know him . . . but every time I see him, I get depressed. It's as though . . . he reminds me of someone that made me sad once, but I don't know who."
"I see," said Jerome. "You say you start feeling depressed when you wake up? What sort of dreams are you having?"
Tabbitha shrugged again. "Bad ones, I guess. I don't really remember . . ." She thought for a moment. "Wait, I do remember one. I'm in a big house, and I'm looking for someone out a window. And I hear this baby screaming, and I want to go help it, but I'm afraid that if I leave the window, the person I'm waiting for will come, and I'll miss them. Finally . . . I go to help the baby. I follow the sound of the cry, and I go to what I think is his crib . . . and the crying stops. I look into the crib, and there's no baby there." She shook her head. "I don't understand it."
"Neither do I," Jerome replied.
"So . . . what should I do?" she asked. Jerome leaned forward.
"I think you should try to figure out what's bothering you," Jerome said. "And the key seems to lie in these objects that seem to depress you. Your instinct is to avoid these objects, but I want you to do the opposite. Face them. Try to remember or figure out what it is about them that bothers you." Tabbitha nodded.
"That makes sense . . . I guess . . . thanks, Jerome," she said. Jerome . . . why did saying his name bother her so?
***
Tabbitha didn't go home from Jerome's house; she drove away from Samuel Springs, letting the car take over. The car took her to an ice cream shop outside Forrest Falls. Frozen Forrest Falls was a fairly popular place during the summer. Business had dwindled somewhat since the start of the fall. Around Thanksgiving, the place would probably close for the winter. Still, there was a fairly substantial crowd eating ice cream around the building. Tabbitha parked next to a billboard that read "Try our new Pumpkin milkshake!" Tabbitha smiled, and decided to forego the honor.
Tabbitha approached the empty order window. It had been another long day, and what she needed now was a--
"Strawberry milkshake?" The voice was accompanied by a hand holding a Styrofoam cup filled with cold, pink mush. Tabbitha took in the smell of the strawberries before taking a sip.
"Thanks, Susan," she said to the owner of the voice. The redhead behind the counter smiled.
"I saw you coming," Susan said. Susan was the third person Tabbitha could talk to. She, like Samantha, had been a best friend for as long as Tabbitha could remember. But she was as unlike Jerome and Sam as one could hope to get, as her argument with Matt that day had shown. Still, when she wasn't angry, Susan was a very nice, if overly serious, person.
"No charge," Susan said, as Tabbitha reached into her pocket. "This one's on me."
"Thanks," Tabbitha repeated, sipping her shake.
"You wanna talk?" Susan said. Tabbitha sighed, then nodded. Susan turned. "Dani! I'm going on break, would you take over for me?" Tabbitha walked over to a table by the back door. Susan joined her.
"Sam was here earlier," she said. "I think she might have scared away some of the customers." Tabbitha almost smiled.
"She's pretty pissed at me," she said.
"You're not alone," Susan said. "She lit into me about my argument with Matt today. I could tell she was already upset, so I didn't fight back." Tabbitha nodded. "I feel so bad for her. It can't be easy, dating him and being best friends with me at the same time."
"Why do you always fight with him?" Tabbitha asked.
"I don't know," Susan said. "We've never liked each other, ever since we were little kids. Something about a water balloon down the pants . . . anyway, it's been going on for so long, and neither one of us is very good at forgiveness." She smiled. "You know, he's the reason I hate being called Susie? He always called me that, and so I started associating the name with him." She sighed. "But today was my fault, I'll admit. I was upset, and I started the argument. I still think he's wrong, mind you . . . but I started the argument."
"Well, we both managed to piss off Sam today," Tabbitha said.
"How'd you piss her off?"
Tabbitha sighed. "You know I haven't been myself this past month."
"Yeah, I noticed," Susan said.
"Sam finally confronted me . . . we got into a fight." Susan nodded.
"Yeah . . . I thought it might be something like that. What's bothering you?"
Tabbitha took in another mouthful of shake and told her everything she had just told Jerome. Susan listened, without interrupting, until she finished.
"Jerome thinks I should try to confront what's making me depressed," Tabbitha said.
"That makes sense," Susan said, nodding. "That's what I would do. Were you just looking for a second opinion?"
"Mostly, I'm just looking for someone to talk to," Tabbitha said. "My own age, I mean. You and Sam are the only ones I trust." She sighed. "It's so weird, though, that only certain things trigger this feeling."
"Usually when that happens," Susan said, "those objects would be reminding you of something bad that happened to you."
"Except I can't remember anything happening to me involving windows or babies." She paused. "Maybe . . ."
"What?" Tabbitha shook her head. "Tab?"
"You won't buy it," she said.
"How do you know?"
"You're a card-carrying skeptic," Tabbitha said.
"Well, luckily for you, I left my card at home. Go ahead and try me," Susan said.
"Well . . . how much stock do you put in divination?" Susan smiled.
"You think it might be some sort of warning?"
"Jerome says it's possible," Tabbitha said. "He says there are people who exist that can tell the future."
"You think you might be one of them?"
"I can't think of any other explanation, except the possibility that I'm going crazy." Susan sighed, and thought for a moment as Tabbitha finished her shake.
"If I weren't a skeptic, as you say," she said, "I would probably agree with you. However, as I am a skeptic, I think that the explanation is this; there is something, subconsciously, that's bothering you, which is registering in your dreams, and your dreams are, in turn, causing you to react the way you do to everyday objects. My recommendation, in either case, is the same as Jerome's; try to figure out what it is that's bothering you. But I would add something else; don't try so hard at it." Tabbitha looked at her, questioningly. "I know you, Tab. You want to figure this out, and you're going to be bouncing somewhere between depressed, lethargic Tabbitha and gung-ho, ‘let's figure this out, and do it fast' Tabbitha. So, find a happy medium, and relax. Go through your normal routine, as if you aren't looking for something. And eventually, it'll come to you." Tabbitha smiled.
"Thank you, doctor," she said. Susan smiled.
"I better get back to work. Good luck." She gave her a final pat on the shoulder before returning to her job. Tabbitha sat for a while, thinking about what she said, trying to get the last bits of milkshake out of her cup. Finally, she threw the empty cup away, and walked back to her car.
***
Tabbitha never actually made it to her car. Halfway back, she decided she'd rather go for a walk than drive home. Her feet carried her inside the city limits of Forrest Falls. Forrest Falls was not that much bigger than Samuel Springs, either in area or population. In fact, Forrest Falls was almost a mirror image of the town Tabbitha had grown up in. The one immediately noticeable exception was the central intersection. Forrest Falls had a simple four-road intersection, whereas the designer of Samuel Springs had elected to be difficult. The intersection in Samuel Springs had been replaced with a circular road, surrounding a grassy hill. For drivers, this meant that if one wanted to go straight through Samuel Springs, they'd have to stop, make a left or right turn, go halfway around the circle, and make another turn on the road continuing on the other side. In other words, driver hell, as Tabbitha had recently discovered.
Her course took her past her old elementary school, an old brick building that had been among the first built in the town, the pub, which was run by Dani Elder's mother and served quite good food, and Tricia McCarry's general store, which Tabbitha tried to avoid, as Tricia McCarry was a particularly grouchy lady who hated children. Tabbitha crossed the other main road through the town, then turned and crossed to the other side of the street she was traveling on, not entirely sure where she was going. It wasn't until she turned into an old brick road that she realized, and started consciously heading to Alan Wyse's house.
Mr. Wyse was an old friend of the family, and was the oldest of the four people Tabbitha could talk to, unless she counted all of Jerome's five hundred years locked in his house. He had taught English at the middle and high schools up until his retirement a few years ago. He had always been something of a mentor to Tabbitha. Tabbitha had received advice from two age groups now, and although Alan had not seen as many years as Jerome, he had lived more of a normal life than the magician had.
Tabbitha approached his house. It was one of the smaller, historical buildings of the town. The beige siding was in need of a new coat of paint and the roof was missing some shingles. Mr. Wyse had lived alone for some time and, although he was remarkably fit for his seventy-odd years, there were some things he was simply no longer able to do.
Mr. Wyse, white-haired and slightly stooped, answered Tabbitha's knock. He could tell immediately that something was wrong. Without a word, he left the house. The two of them walked down the brick street together as Tabbitha told the older man about her depression. Mr. Wyse remained quiet as she spoke, and for quite a bit after she finished and asked, "So, what do you think is wrong with me?"
"What do you think is wrong you?" he asked finally, speaking for the first time. Tabbitha shrugged.
"Sam says I bottle things up too much, which I'm trying to fix right now. Jerome and Susan seem to think that if I confront what's bothering me, I'll figure out what's wrong."
"That's what other people think," Mr. Wyse pointed out. "What do you think is wrong?"
Tabbitha sighed. Mr. Wyse had an annoying habit of making Tabbitha think. "I don't know," she said. "I agree with all of them, somewhat. But I've been trying to figure this thing out all afternoon, and I'm no closer to a solution now than I was when I started." She shook her head. "It's just too unusual to be a passing feeling."
"I agree," Mr. Wyse said.
"But I don't think it's a physical problem either. I think there's really something bothering me."
"Yes, I agree with that, too." They walked in silence for a moment or two. Streetlights were beginning to come on. Every so often, Tabbitha could see, through the window, a small child being dressed in some sort of costume by a parent.
"Trick or treat night," Mr. Wyse said. Tabbitha smiled. She had some very fond memories of trick or treat night . . . and some not so fond ones as well. "You going out?" Mr. Wyse asked. Tabbitha laughed.
"No, the last time I went out on trick or treat night, I ended up lost in the woods during a storm. Anyway, I don't have a costume."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."
"You going out?"
"Not this year. Someone has to stay behind and provide sugar for the small children. And I don't have a costume either."
"This used to be my favorite time of year," Tabbitha said. "I loved being scared to death. I loved the concept of . . . vampires, and werewolves, and experiments gone horribly wrong." She smiled. "The last ghost story I told . . . y'know, there are days when I wish something like that would happen to me. I wish I could trapped in a haunted house, with no exit and no end in sight. I'd love to wander through labyrinthine passages with no clear idea where I'm going and no idea what sort of monster I'll run into next." She sighed. "I'd love for something that simple to frighten me. The things that frighten me now . . . they just aren't any fun."
"I know. I went through something similar. It's called maturity." Tabbitha smiled.
"I never thought I'd grow up. For the past few months . . . I think what I've been afraid of is . . . losing something. Or never finding something. One of them. At the same time when I feel like nothing exciting will ever happen to me . . . I feel like something big is about to happen . . . something life-changing . . . and whatever it is, it's going to be a lot harder to deal with than report cards." They stopped walking.
"Would you like to know what I think your problem is?" he said. "You're a thirty-year-old woman in a sixteen-year-old body. You've outgrown your surroundings. You're waiting for something to happen, because something should be happening. Be patient . . . I know that's hard for you, but try. You'll have to live with this life a little longer. But if you believe that something big is about to happen . . . then by all means, let it happen." Tabbitha smiled. As she did, the sky darkened. They both looked up in alarm. "Odd. It was clear a moment ago."
"So much for trick or treating," Tabbitha said. There was a threatening rumble. "Maybe that big thing is about to happen after all."
"I wasn't thinking of a thunderstorm when I said that," Mr. Wyse said. "You'd better get yourself home before it hits. Unless you'd like to stay at the house until it passes over."
"No, I'll be fine. It'll be good driving experience. Anyway, thanks for talking to me."
"Anytime," Mr. Wyse said. "I'm retired; I've got nothing better to do, right?"
Tabbitha sighed, for once not sadly. "Alan, if you were fifty years younger . . ."
"If I were fifty years younger, I'd be the most miserable man alive," the old man said. "Ten years younger, maybe . . ." The clouds rumbled again. "Better get going."
"Good idea," Tabbitha said. "See you later."
"Bye now." The old man turned and hurried back to his house, looking up at the still-darkening sky. The wind was picking up, and Tabbitha could feel the air thickening. She continued down the road. The road ran into the street which would eventually lead Tabbitha to Frozen, and her car. Whether she would still be dry by then remained to be seen.
It was not to be. She hadn't even reached the end of the brick road when the deluge hit. Tabbitha was soaked within two seconds; it was like the time Libby had dumped an entire cooler of ice water on her head, except without the ice. The fall of water became so heavy that Tabbitha could no longer see where she was going. Her eyes were forced down to her feet, where she could see the water collecting in the little dips within the bricks.
Lightning crackled overhead, and Tabbitha broke into a run as the air vibrated with thunder. She ran out into the road, checking briefly for headlights, no longer caring which direction she went, as long as she got out of the rain. She found a small side street and entered it. The rain was so heavy, she didn't even see that the street sign said Florence Court.
Tabbitha ran. She ran past other houses without even realizing they were there. Something seemed to be drawing her to one house in particular, at the end of the street. The asphult turned into unkempt grass. Tabbitha tripped over a bit of long since trampled barbed wire as lightning struck a nearby tree. She got to her feet, put her hands over ears, and kept running. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth, so that she had to breathe through her teeth to strain it out. She stumbled onto an unstable stairway, leading onto an even less stable porch. The roof over the porch offered no protection from the rain, so Tabbitha ran for the door, not seeing the number 24 nailed on the wall next to it. Without even bothering to knock, Tabbitha threw open the mercifully unlocked door and slid her way inside. The door shut behind her.
Tabbitha collapsed to her knees and didn't move. She struggled to catch her breath as water dripped from every part of her. She blinked several times to clear the rainwater out of her eyes, and tried in vain to wipe off her face with her equally wet jacket sleeve. As her body calmed, she stood slowly, and took in her surroundings. It was dimly lit, but clearly not abandoned. She was standing in a large room, probably a living room. The furniture was sparse: a sofa, a chair, a table. There was a staircase to the right leading upstairs to a balcony that overlooked the room, and another door straight ahead that lead to what was probably a kitchen. Tabbitha would have to find the owner and apologize for the intrusion. She wasn't too worried. Residents of Forrest Falls were mostly friendly, and she knew a lot of them personally. She took a breath to call out for someone.
Then, a thought made her stop. There was something oddly familiar about this house and this room. And whatever it was, it gave her the chills. She took another look around the room. Just above the door, the upstairs balcony continued. There was a semi-circular window looking out to the street. There was something unsettling about that window . . . and the door. In fact, there was something unsettling about his whole house.
Forgetting the owner, Tabbitha made for the door. The storm was letting up a bit; she could brave a little more water to get to her car. She turned the knob and pulled. The door refused to budge. She turned the knob and pushed, with no better result. Was it the humidity? Or maybe the wind. These old doors could stick with the slightest change in the weather. Still, it didn't seem like that was what was keeping the door shut. It felt like something else, some other force. It was almost like . . . magic . . .
Tabbitha let go of the door as if it had shocked her and took a step back. It couldn't be . . . and yet as she heard the kitchen door opening behind her, she knew exactly who was coming through it: a tall man with straight dark hair.
"Good evening," said Phillip Drollinger, the butler. "Welcome to the Carpenter house. Mr. Carpenter will see you now."
***
"What's next?"
***
The 13 Guests
Chapter 1: Report Cards
"Tab? Hey, Tabbitha?" Tabbitha slowly slipped out of her daze and looked sleepily at the chocolate-colored girl across from her. "Have you heard anything I just said?"
"No . . ." Tabbitha said, then came back to reality completely. "No. I'm sorry Kris."
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I just . . . didn't get much sleep last night."
"I know how you feel," Kris said. Tabbitha nodded, although she had a feeling that Kris had no idea how she was feeling. "Did you get your report card yet?"
"Uh . . . no," Tabbitha lied. "Not yet."
"Me either . . . I know I didn't do well in English again. That woman hates me I swear . . ." She was off again, but Tabbitha was barely listening. She had been barely listening to everyone who talked to her for the past few weeks now . . . just enough to be able to give basic responses to their questions. Enough to make them think she was all right, even though she wasn't.
A redheaded girl, who was way too good-looking for a high school sophomore, sat down next to Kris. Molly had taken the place of Kris's best friend since Jessie had moved away, although they no where near as close as the original "Inseparable Pair" had been. "Kris, are you griping about English again?"
"I'm failing that class because the teacher hates me Molly, I think I have every right to gripe about it." Molly sighed.
"You always get like this when report cards come out."
"That is because I always, without fail, get an English teacher who hates me."
"What about your other subjects?"
"Probably failed geometry, I'll be fine in history. Biology's so-so. American Lit is the only class I'm really doing well in." She sighed. "Well, no sense in delaying the inevitable. Wish me luck." She stood and walked stiffly to the office as Molly shook her head.
"She's gonna give herself a heart attack if this keeps up," Molly said. Tabbitha nodded numbly. "I mean, look at my report card." She shoved a little slip of paper in Tabbitha's direction.
AMERICAN HISTORY . . . . . . B
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . C
CHOIR . . . . . . . . A
ENGLISH II . . . . . . . . C+
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . C
HUMANITIES . . . . . . . B
PHYSICAL EDUCATION . . . . . . A
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . D
"Now that's not exactly a glowing report card, but I'm not worried about it!" Molly was saying. "And Kris's is going to look better than mine."
"Yeah," Tabbitha said, shoving the report card away from her.
"I just don't get that girl . . ."
"Damn that woman!" Tabbitha and Molly turned to the angry voice. Another redhead was storming over to the table. Other people, students and teachers alike, moved quickly out of her way. She sat down and slapped her report card angrily on the table. "One lousy grade! Would it be so hard for her to give me a B?" Tabbitha looked over at Susan's report card.
ADVANCED ENGLISH II . . . . . . C
AMERICAN HISTORY . . . . . . A
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . A
FRENCH II . . . . . . . . A
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . B
JOURNALISM . . . . . . . A
PHYSICAL EDUCATION . . . . . . A
"Susan," Molly said. "This is good."
"She gave me a C! A C!" Susan said, snatching back the report card and looking at again, as if expecting it to change. It didn't.
"One C isn't a big deal, especially when it comes from Gollee. Hell, a C is good . . . she must love you."
"She does not love me!" Susan said. "Because I think she is wrong!"
"Is she?"
"Most of the time!"
"Have you talked to her?"
"Yes," Susan said. "She said she gave me the C for ‘being difficult.' What she really means is being right!"
"How is she wrong?"
"Her pronunciation of words, for one thing, and the fact that she can't put a coherent sentance together more complicated than ‘See Spot run.'" Susan said. "Her literary interpretations . . . which I guess technically aren't wrong, but that is not to say that someone else can't have a different idea! And when I tell her in class that I have a different idea, she tells me it's wrong . . . Kris can tell you, she usually backs me up on this! But we're the only ones who speak up, and she's made our labels very clear: Kris is an idiot and I'm a troublemaker, which means that our opinions aren't given much credit, even though there's not a damn thing wrong with them!" She sighed loudly. "And that's not even the really irritating thing!"
"I was wondering," Molly said, "‘cause, you don't seem really irritated yet." Susan ignored her.
"She's not supposed to give the grade based on whether or not I'm ‘difficult.' She's supposed to give the grade based on whether or not I do the work, which I do, pass the tests, which I do, and participate in class, which I most certainly do. No where in her sylibus does it say anything about lowering a grade because a student speaks her mind!" A disgustingly skinny girl with long blonde hair walked over.
"Golee's class, right?" she said sitting down. Susan nodded. "Figured. What happened?"
"Amy, please don't get her started," Molly begged.
"She gave me a damn C," Susan said. "Because she doesn't like what I have to say."
"Susan, the only time she does like what people have to say is when they're saying ‘Yes, of course, you're absolutely right, Mrs. Golee.'"
"I know that!" Susan said.
"I have the same problem. Look at this." She pulled out her report card and showed it to Susan.
ALGEBRA II . . . . . . . A
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . B
ENGLISH II . . . . . . . . D
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . C
GEOGRAPHY . . . . . . . A
HEALTH . . . . . . . . A
HOME ECONOMICS . . . . . . B
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . A
"Okay, so things could be worse," Susan muttered.
"Things could be a lot worse," Amy said. "Especially judging by the looks of Kris," she added, looking over to where Kris was standing, looking at her report card. She didn't look happy.
Samantha, heavily freckled and the third redhead of the group, came and sat down next to Tabbitha. "Hey." Tabbitha nodded her greeting. "Kris is pretty upset." Tabbitha nodded again.
"How'd you do, Sam?" Susan asked. Sam showed her the report card.
AMERICAN GOVERNMENT . . . . . A
BAND . . . . . . . . A
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . B+
ENGLISH II . . . . . . . . C-
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . B
HEALTH . . . . . . . . A
HUMANITIES . . . . . . . A
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . B
"Sam," Susan said. "How'd you get a B in biology?"
"B-plus," Samantha corrected.
"Yeah, but still . . ."
"I forgot a couple assignments. Don't worry about it."
"Sam, you're the best student in that class. Don't you want to check it out? It could be a mistake."
"No, it's fine," Samantha insisted, getting uncomfortable. "It's not worth the trouble. Just drop it." Susan gave her one last look, then shrugged and handed her report card back to her.
Kris sat back down, clearly upset. She set her report card down on the table in front of her.
AMERICAN LITERATURE . . . . . A
ADVANCED ENGLISH II . . . . . . F
BIOLOGY . . . . . . . . B-
CHOIR . . . . . . . . A
GEOMETRY . . . . . . . D-
HUMANITIES . . . . . . . A-
PHYSICAL EDUCATION . . . . . . A
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . WP
WORLD HISTORY . . . . . . B+
"I don't want to ask Chris for help again," Kris was saying, "but I think I'm gonna have to."
"Kris," Amy said, "how is it that you get A's in one English class but not the other?"
"Huh?"
"You've got an A in American Literature, which is a branch of the English curriculum, but not in your general English class."
"Yeah . . . and we're looking at a lot of the same type of literature. The thing is that the lit teacher doesn't use the textbooks, and Golee thinks they're the bible."
"Well, that may be your problem," Amy said, "and it's really no problem at all. This is the first grading period of the year, right? It might take some time for you to get used to the teacher, and for the teacher to get used to you. You've got seven months. Keep doing what you're doing, and see if Golee won't lighten up a bit. Your English grade can only get better from here, right?"
"I suppose."
"And if that doesn't work, nearly everyone at this table can show you how to master the art of BS." Kris smiled, slightly.
"What about geometry?"
"Umm . . . you might want Chris's help on that one." A purple-haired Amy appeared and sat next to her sister. Whatever Amy was, her twin sister Amber was incredibly not.
"Okay, Amy," she said. "What mindless optimism do I have to blot from their memories today?"
"None whatsoever, Amber," Amy said. "But if you want to take a crack at the intelligent, thoughtful optimism I gave them, be my guest. I'll just be back here knocking you in the head with a sledgehammer."
"Tabbitha?" Tabbitha didn't hear. "Tab?" Sam gave her a tap on the shoulder.
"Huh? Oh, sorry Sam."
"Are you feeling okay?"
"I'm fine. A little tired."
"You're not eating," Sam pointed out. Tabbitha looked down, remembering that she did have food in front of her.
"I'm not very hungry."
"You didn't eat yesterday either," Samantha pressed. Tabbitha sighed.
"No, I didn't, Sam." Samantha dropped it, catching the tone in her voice. But Tabbitha knew she hadn't heard the end of this.
"What you have ignored, yet again," Amber was saying, "is that Golee is going to be just as stubborn as them."
"You don't know that for sure," Amy said. "It could be that no one has tried."
"Spoken like a true hopeless optimist."
"Thank you." Another girl, also way too good-looking for her own good, but with brown hair, sat down.
"Hello all!" Mandy said, cheerfully. Tabbitha didn't even have to look at this girl's report card. Mandy took easy classes, and therefore got all A's. She also took classes like sociology and was pathetically good at them. "So, how did everyone do on their report cards?"
"Fine," Kris said curtly.
"Fine? What does that mean?"
"It means, I did fine."
"That doesn't tell me anything."
"What Kris is trying to say," Susan said, "is shut up and mind your own business, Mandy."
"I was just . . ."
"Mandy," said a short, blonde girl, sitting down across from her. "Drop it." Mandy dropped it. She might not listen to the others, but she listened to Libby.
Tabbitha didn't have to look at Libby's report card either; it looked a lot like Mandy's, except with harder classes, and possibly a B or two. The difference was that Libby wasn't nearly as condescending as Mandy, and was usually able to talk the girl down from her high horse. Usually.
Samantha's boyfriend, a nice-looking and friendly young man, came over. Matt Morton wasn't a part of the group, but he might as well have been given the time he spent with them. Just about everyone liked him . . . except Susan, but then she was a law unto herself.
"What kept you?" Samantha said.
"I needed to work out a schedule conflict," Matt said.
"And . . ?"
"We'll see, but I should be all right."
"Did you get your report card yet?" Sam asked. Tabbitha sighed. Couldn't they talk about anything but grades?
"Not yet, no," Matt said. "After lunch, when the line dies down."
"Must be great," Susan said, "to be so perfect that you don't even have to worry about grades." Matt sighed.
"Just because I don't give myself an aneurism over one C doesn't mean I think I'm perfect." Susan's face reddened.
"Were you looking at my report card?"
"Yeah, Susan, I used my x-ray vision when I sat down . . . also I heard you down the hall, along with everyone else in this county." Samantha sighed. Arguments like this occurred nearly every day between these two, and Sam had long since learned that the best thing to do was just let them go at it.
"English, right?" Matt said.
"Anything else about my personal life you'd like to know, Matt?" Susan sneered, sarcastically. "My love interests, my secret thoughts?"
"Just the grades for now. We can talk about the rest later."
"Would you like to know why I got the C?"
"I already know why you got the C."
"Heard that down the hall too?"
"Didn't have to."
"Oh you've been sitting in on my English classes now?" Matt rolled his eyes.
"Susan, I had Golee too, remember? I know how she is with her grading."
"And how did you fair?"
"I did fine." Susan sighed.
"Of course you did!" she said. "You were probably one of those grinning yes-men in her class."
"Don't be ridiculous, I disagreed with her every bit as much as you do. But unlike you, I disagreed tactfully."
"Excuse me?" Susan was growing angrier by the minute. And she hadn't been in that great a mood to begin with.
"I know you, Susan," Matt said. "Something gets your dander up, and you get ornery about it. You've gotten so into the habit of disagreeing with Golee, that it's second nature to you now. Even if you agree with her, you'll find some fault in what she's saying, and you'll point it out just to make her look bad."
"That's not true at all!" Susan shouted. "Don't you dare try to tell me what I'm doing wrong! You don't know me that well!"
"I think I know you better than you think."
"Oh yeah?" They had attracted the attention of most of the nearby tables, but none of them seemed to care. One of teachers started to come over . . . then saw who it was and made his way quickly to the other side of the cafeteria.
"I don't have to take this shit from a jackass like you," Susan spat, "who thinks he's so perfect, he has the right to--,"
"Oh for God's sake!" Sam exclaimed. "Can't we have lunch together once without the two of you going at each other?"
"It's a lost cause, Sam," Molly said. "Not worth the trouble."
"Both of you," Samantha said, "just shut up for the next five minutes, all right?" The two gave one final glare at each other, then went back to their lunches. An awkward silence fell over the table.
"So," came a quiet voice next to Tabbitha, "where are we in the saga of Matt vs. Susan?" Tabbitha turned to Peter, the owner of the quiet voice.
"Stalled on account of Sam," Tabbitha said, listlessly. Peter looked at her. He was much older than he looked, and his stare could be disconcerting.
"You okay?" Tabbitha sighed, again.
"Fine."
"You're lying to me."
"Yes, I am. Anything else?"
"All this talk about grades has got you upset, I notice," he said, seemingly offhand.
"Between you and Sam, who needs a mother?" Peter shrugged, and let the matter drop.
"Let's say," Susan said, suddenly, "that you're right."
Sam sighed. "Five minutes, exactly. You will take me literally, won't you?" Susan ignored her.
"What do you recommend I do?"
"Well, I have a suggestion," Matt said. "But I don't think you can do it, and I know you're not going to like it."
"Well, I haven't liked anything you've had to say so far. Might as well keep going." Matt looked up at her.
"Don't be so quick to find fault with everything she says, and don't say that she's wrong. You can disagree with her without making her look stupid. You're complaining about how stubborn she is, but you're just as stubborn. Admit that you might be wrong once and a while. It's not like it's completely out of the realm of possibility." He paused. "Do you think you can do that?"
"Obviously you don't think I can," Susan muttered.
"Prove me wrong then," Matt said. "Bring your grade up next quarter. Prove to me that you can be right and get a B or an A in the class at the same time."
"I don't have to prove anything to you," Susan said. Matt sighed.
"Ten bucks," he said.
"I'm sorry?"
"We'll make a bet out of it. Ten bucks says you can't put aside your stubbornness and raise your grade in English." Susan stared at him for a moment, but not angrily.
"All right," she said, holding out her hand. "You're on." They shook on it. "Get ready to lose."
"I only hope I do," Matt muttered. Susan didn't hear him.
Tabbitha barely noticed the rest of the lunch period. Suddenly the bell was ringing, and Tabbitha's amount of food was only marginally smaller that it had been before. She moved slowly, not caring whether she got to class on time or not. She didn't notice the worried looks from Samantha and the others as she threw her largely uneaten lunch away, nor did she hear Samantha say, "I'll come see you after school." All that was on her mind were the words on the little piece of paper that sat crumpled in the bottom of her book bag.
ALGEBRA I . . . . . . . . F
AMERICAN HISTORY . . . . . . D
ENGLISH II . . . . . . . . F
HEALTH . . . . . . . . C
HOME ECONOMICS . . . . . . WF
PHYSICAL SCIENCE . . . . . . D-
SPANISH II . . . . . . . . WP
***
Tabbitha looked at her report card. I didn't look any better than before.
"Tab?" A knock accompanied the voice. "Are you in there?" Tabbitha crumpled up her report card and tossed it onto her desk.
"Come in, Sam," she said. The freckled redhead walked in.
"Hey," Sam said. "How's it going?"
"Fine," Tabbitha lied. Samantha looked at her a moment, then sat down.
"I have an unbelievable desire to knock their heads together," Samantha said.
"What?"
"Susan and Matt. Everyday, it's the same thing; one of them says something and they're off again."
"Oh. Right."
"It never stops. Every time we have lunch, we have to listen to them argue."
"Yeah," Tabbitha said, not really listening.
"There are days when I can't decide which is worse: them not shutting up . . . or you not putting two words together." Tabbitha sighed.
"I've been tired," she said.
"Yes you have," Samantha agreed. "For the past month. Not sleeping?"
"Not very well, no."
"So, something's bothering you?"
"No, nothing is bothering me. I'm fine." Samantha sighed and looked at her.
"You know, it's funny," she said, offhandedly. "We've known each other since we were infants, and you still think you can lie to me."
"Don't worry about it, all right?"
"I haven't been worrying about it for the past month."
"Yes you have," Tabbitha said. "You always do."
"Fine," Samantha said. "I haven't said anything for the past month."
"And I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it that way."
"I'm sure you would, but I'm used to not being appreciated," Samantha said. "What's wrong?" Tabbitha sighed.
"Honest to God, I don't know," she said. "All month, I'm tired and yet I can't sleep. I have no interest in anything and yet I desperately want to be doing something. I'm bored with eating. I mean, how do you get bored with eating?" She shook her head. "I don't seem to care about school, and yet I was upset over my grades today."
"Bad?"
"Well, I have a GPA of two-thirds. You tell me."
"And you don't know why?"
"That's the most frustrating thing . . . I have no idea why I'm feeling this way. I have no reason to feel this way. I just do."
"Could it be . . ." she stopped, as though she didn't want to continue.
"Clinical depression? You can say it." She sighed again. "I thought about that . . . I don't know. I don't think so. That tends to run in families, and there's no record of that in mine." She paused. "It's not simply that I'm depressed. Things make me depressed. Certain . . . certain things make me feel bad. Babies, little girls, windows. There's this kid at school that does it. There's no connection between them, they just . . ." She suddenly lost interest in what she was saying. "Mostly, I just have this immense feeling of . . . hopelessness. Like something terrible's gonna happen, and there's nothing I can do about it."
"Maybe you should talk to someone," Sam suggested.
"What do you think I'm doing now?"
"I was thinking along the lines of a doctor."
"I know what you were thinking. I don't want to see a doctor."
"Why not?" Samantha asked. "You'd rather feel depressed?"
"Sam, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not a big fan of letting people know there's something wrong with me."
"Well Tab, in case you haven't noticed, I don't care." Tabbitha looked at her.
"Well that's nice Samantha, but I think I'll be the one to decide what my friends know about me." To Tabbitha's surprise, Samantha started laughing.
"Tabbitha . . . how stupid do you think your friends are? They've been worried about you too, all month! But they're not letting on, because they figure it's my job to find out what's wrong with you. And for a while, it has been my job, but I'm about ready to delegate someone else for it, because I'm getting tired of pulling teeth trying to get you to open your damn mouth and talk to somebody." She wasn't laughing anymore, nor was she sitting. "You are drowning in yourself and you don't even seem to care!"
"Well, if I don't care, then why are you bothering me with this?"
"Because I care!" Samantha shouted, angrily. "And you can be damn sure I'm not the only one! For God's sake, just talk to someone!" Tabbitha stood up.
"Sam, I gotta tell you, you've gone miles toward cheering me up! Thank you! I'm so happy, I'll just go out and kill myself now!"
"Yeah, you go ahead and do that Tab! Because God forbid that you actually try to figure out what's bothering you!"
"Maybe you haven't been paying attention! I . . . DON'T . . . CARE!!! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!!!" The two girls stared angrily at each other for several minutes, until Samantha broke the silence.
"All right," she said, quietly, but no less angrily. "I'll go, if that's what you want. I'll leave you alone." She started for the door. "But I'll tell you something . . . you've got a lot of friends who aren't going to leave you alone. You want to know what's bothering you as much as anyone and we both know it." She paused. "Do everyone a favor and cut the bullshit, okay?" And with that, she left.
Tabbitha watched the doorway for a few more minutes before getting up and re-closing the door. She hated fighting with Samantha. Usually, Tabbitha was able to cow Samantha with a gaze or a word. But when Samantha set her mind to something, she could be just as intimidating as Tabbitha, if not more so. And Samantha used force in the worst possible way; subtly, gently probing and pushing and hinting and nudging, until something came out. And when that didn't work–as it hadn't this time–she got angry. And though Samantha's anger had a low frequency, she well made up for it with intensity.
And the worst part was, she was right.
Ten minutes later, Tabbitha sat in Jerome's living room. Jerome was a lot like Samantha; soft-spoken, gentle, and smarter than Tabbitha. And he wasn't mad at her. Tabbitha had always been a cynical girl, and she trusted few people. There were four outside her family that she felt like she could talk to in times like this. Samantha was always Tabbitha's first choice, but after their spat, she wanted to give her a day or two to cool off. Jerome was another of the four, even though she hadn't known him that long. It was as though he carried an ambience of comfort around him; anyone could trust Jerome.
"What's on your mind?" he asked.
"Many, many things," Tabbitha said. "I just had a fight with my best friend, my grades are dropping, I've been contemplating dropping out of school . . . and I'm depressed."
"I've noticed," Jerome said. "You've been out of sorts for a month or so."
"Jerome . . . you have magic with the mind. Can you tell . . . is it a physical problem? Something dealing with clinical depression or bipolar disease, or something that can be diagnosed?"
"Well," Jerome said. "The mind is a mysterious organ. But as near as I can tell, yours is functioning normally. It must just be in your head." Tabbitha sighed. If it had been a medical problem, it would have been easier to fix. A psychiatric problem was a different entirely. "Why don't you tell me about it?" Tabbitha shrugged.
"I don't know that much about it," she said. "It's very strange . . . I just wake up in the morning, and I feel terrible. It's like when you wake up on a Monday, and you know it's going to be a bad day, you know? Except, it's been going on all month."
"And the feeling doesn't go away?"
"Not really . . . it lessens, but it never really passes. And certain things trigger it."
"What sort of things?" Tabbitha sighed.
"Closed doors . . . windows . . . babies . . . there's this kid at my school, a freshman, Tim Way, I think his name is . . . he's this clumsy kid I see around every so often, but I don't really know him . . . but every time I see him, I get depressed. It's as though . . . he reminds me of someone that made me sad once, but I don't know who."
"I see," said Jerome. "You say you start feeling depressed when you wake up? What sort of dreams are you having?"
Tabbitha shrugged again. "Bad ones, I guess. I don't really remember . . ." She thought for a moment. "Wait, I do remember one. I'm in a big house, and I'm looking for someone out a window. And I hear this baby screaming, and I want to go help it, but I'm afraid that if I leave the window, the person I'm waiting for will come, and I'll miss them. Finally . . . I go to help the baby. I follow the sound of the cry, and I go to what I think is his crib . . . and the crying stops. I look into the crib, and there's no baby there." She shook her head. "I don't understand it."
"Neither do I," Jerome replied.
"So . . . what should I do?" she asked. Jerome leaned forward.
"I think you should try to figure out what's bothering you," Jerome said. "And the key seems to lie in these objects that seem to depress you. Your instinct is to avoid these objects, but I want you to do the opposite. Face them. Try to remember or figure out what it is about them that bothers you." Tabbitha nodded.
"That makes sense . . . I guess . . . thanks, Jerome," she said. Jerome . . . why did saying his name bother her so?
***
Tabbitha didn't go home from Jerome's house; she drove away from Samuel Springs, letting the car take over. The car took her to an ice cream shop outside Forrest Falls. Frozen Forrest Falls was a fairly popular place during the summer. Business had dwindled somewhat since the start of the fall. Around Thanksgiving, the place would probably close for the winter. Still, there was a fairly substantial crowd eating ice cream around the building. Tabbitha parked next to a billboard that read "Try our new Pumpkin milkshake!" Tabbitha smiled, and decided to forego the honor.
Tabbitha approached the empty order window. It had been another long day, and what she needed now was a--
"Strawberry milkshake?" The voice was accompanied by a hand holding a Styrofoam cup filled with cold, pink mush. Tabbitha took in the smell of the strawberries before taking a sip.
"Thanks, Susan," she said to the owner of the voice. The redhead behind the counter smiled.
"I saw you coming," Susan said. Susan was the third person Tabbitha could talk to. She, like Samantha, had been a best friend for as long as Tabbitha could remember. But she was as unlike Jerome and Sam as one could hope to get, as her argument with Matt that day had shown. Still, when she wasn't angry, Susan was a very nice, if overly serious, person.
"No charge," Susan said, as Tabbitha reached into her pocket. "This one's on me."
"Thanks," Tabbitha repeated, sipping her shake.
"You wanna talk?" Susan said. Tabbitha sighed, then nodded. Susan turned. "Dani! I'm going on break, would you take over for me?" Tabbitha walked over to a table by the back door. Susan joined her.
"Sam was here earlier," she said. "I think she might have scared away some of the customers." Tabbitha almost smiled.
"She's pretty pissed at me," she said.
"You're not alone," Susan said. "She lit into me about my argument with Matt today. I could tell she was already upset, so I didn't fight back." Tabbitha nodded. "I feel so bad for her. It can't be easy, dating him and being best friends with me at the same time."
"Why do you always fight with him?" Tabbitha asked.
"I don't know," Susan said. "We've never liked each other, ever since we were little kids. Something about a water balloon down the pants . . . anyway, it's been going on for so long, and neither one of us is very good at forgiveness." She smiled. "You know, he's the reason I hate being called Susie? He always called me that, and so I started associating the name with him." She sighed. "But today was my fault, I'll admit. I was upset, and I started the argument. I still think he's wrong, mind you . . . but I started the argument."
"Well, we both managed to piss off Sam today," Tabbitha said.
"How'd you piss her off?"
Tabbitha sighed. "You know I haven't been myself this past month."
"Yeah, I noticed," Susan said.
"Sam finally confronted me . . . we got into a fight." Susan nodded.
"Yeah . . . I thought it might be something like that. What's bothering you?"
Tabbitha took in another mouthful of shake and told her everything she had just told Jerome. Susan listened, without interrupting, until she finished.
"Jerome thinks I should try to confront what's making me depressed," Tabbitha said.
"That makes sense," Susan said, nodding. "That's what I would do. Were you just looking for a second opinion?"
"Mostly, I'm just looking for someone to talk to," Tabbitha said. "My own age, I mean. You and Sam are the only ones I trust." She sighed. "It's so weird, though, that only certain things trigger this feeling."
"Usually when that happens," Susan said, "those objects would be reminding you of something bad that happened to you."
"Except I can't remember anything happening to me involving windows or babies." She paused. "Maybe . . ."
"What?" Tabbitha shook her head. "Tab?"
"You won't buy it," she said.
"How do you know?"
"You're a card-carrying skeptic," Tabbitha said.
"Well, luckily for you, I left my card at home. Go ahead and try me," Susan said.
"Well . . . how much stock do you put in divination?" Susan smiled.
"You think it might be some sort of warning?"
"Jerome says it's possible," Tabbitha said. "He says there are people who exist that can tell the future."
"You think you might be one of them?"
"I can't think of any other explanation, except the possibility that I'm going crazy." Susan sighed, and thought for a moment as Tabbitha finished her shake.
"If I weren't a skeptic, as you say," she said, "I would probably agree with you. However, as I am a skeptic, I think that the explanation is this; there is something, subconsciously, that's bothering you, which is registering in your dreams, and your dreams are, in turn, causing you to react the way you do to everyday objects. My recommendation, in either case, is the same as Jerome's; try to figure out what it is that's bothering you. But I would add something else; don't try so hard at it." Tabbitha looked at her, questioningly. "I know you, Tab. You want to figure this out, and you're going to be bouncing somewhere between depressed, lethargic Tabbitha and gung-ho, ‘let's figure this out, and do it fast' Tabbitha. So, find a happy medium, and relax. Go through your normal routine, as if you aren't looking for something. And eventually, it'll come to you." Tabbitha smiled.
"Thank you, doctor," she said. Susan smiled.
"I better get back to work. Good luck." She gave her a final pat on the shoulder before returning to her job. Tabbitha sat for a while, thinking about what she said, trying to get the last bits of milkshake out of her cup. Finally, she threw the empty cup away, and walked back to her car.
***
Tabbitha never actually made it to her car. Halfway back, she decided she'd rather go for a walk than drive home. Her feet carried her inside the city limits of Forrest Falls. Forrest Falls was not that much bigger than Samuel Springs, either in area or population. In fact, Forrest Falls was almost a mirror image of the town Tabbitha had grown up in. The one immediately noticeable exception was the central intersection. Forrest Falls had a simple four-road intersection, whereas the designer of Samuel Springs had elected to be difficult. The intersection in Samuel Springs had been replaced with a circular road, surrounding a grassy hill. For drivers, this meant that if one wanted to go straight through Samuel Springs, they'd have to stop, make a left or right turn, go halfway around the circle, and make another turn on the road continuing on the other side. In other words, driver hell, as Tabbitha had recently discovered.
Her course took her past her old elementary school, an old brick building that had been among the first built in the town, the pub, which was run by Dani Elder's mother and served quite good food, and Tricia McCarry's general store, which Tabbitha tried to avoid, as Tricia McCarry was a particularly grouchy lady who hated children. Tabbitha crossed the other main road through the town, then turned and crossed to the other side of the street she was traveling on, not entirely sure where she was going. It wasn't until she turned into an old brick road that she realized, and started consciously heading to Alan Wyse's house.
Mr. Wyse was an old friend of the family, and was the oldest of the four people Tabbitha could talk to, unless she counted all of Jerome's five hundred years locked in his house. He had taught English at the middle and high schools up until his retirement a few years ago. He had always been something of a mentor to Tabbitha. Tabbitha had received advice from two age groups now, and although Alan had not seen as many years as Jerome, he had lived more of a normal life than the magician had.
Tabbitha approached his house. It was one of the smaller, historical buildings of the town. The beige siding was in need of a new coat of paint and the roof was missing some shingles. Mr. Wyse had lived alone for some time and, although he was remarkably fit for his seventy-odd years, there were some things he was simply no longer able to do.
Mr. Wyse, white-haired and slightly stooped, answered Tabbitha's knock. He could tell immediately that something was wrong. Without a word, he left the house. The two of them walked down the brick street together as Tabbitha told the older man about her depression. Mr. Wyse remained quiet as she spoke, and for quite a bit after she finished and asked, "So, what do you think is wrong with me?"
"What do you think is wrong you?" he asked finally, speaking for the first time. Tabbitha shrugged.
"Sam says I bottle things up too much, which I'm trying to fix right now. Jerome and Susan seem to think that if I confront what's bothering me, I'll figure out what's wrong."
"That's what other people think," Mr. Wyse pointed out. "What do you think is wrong?"
Tabbitha sighed. Mr. Wyse had an annoying habit of making Tabbitha think. "I don't know," she said. "I agree with all of them, somewhat. But I've been trying to figure this thing out all afternoon, and I'm no closer to a solution now than I was when I started." She shook her head. "It's just too unusual to be a passing feeling."
"I agree," Mr. Wyse said.
"But I don't think it's a physical problem either. I think there's really something bothering me."
"Yes, I agree with that, too." They walked in silence for a moment or two. Streetlights were beginning to come on. Every so often, Tabbitha could see, through the window, a small child being dressed in some sort of costume by a parent.
"Trick or treat night," Mr. Wyse said. Tabbitha smiled. She had some very fond memories of trick or treat night . . . and some not so fond ones as well. "You going out?" Mr. Wyse asked. Tabbitha laughed.
"No, the last time I went out on trick or treat night, I ended up lost in the woods during a storm. Anyway, I don't have a costume."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."
"You going out?"
"Not this year. Someone has to stay behind and provide sugar for the small children. And I don't have a costume either."
"This used to be my favorite time of year," Tabbitha said. "I loved being scared to death. I loved the concept of . . . vampires, and werewolves, and experiments gone horribly wrong." She smiled. "The last ghost story I told . . . y'know, there are days when I wish something like that would happen to me. I wish I could trapped in a haunted house, with no exit and no end in sight. I'd love to wander through labyrinthine passages with no clear idea where I'm going and no idea what sort of monster I'll run into next." She sighed. "I'd love for something that simple to frighten me. The things that frighten me now . . . they just aren't any fun."
"I know. I went through something similar. It's called maturity." Tabbitha smiled.
"I never thought I'd grow up. For the past few months . . . I think what I've been afraid of is . . . losing something. Or never finding something. One of them. At the same time when I feel like nothing exciting will ever happen to me . . . I feel like something big is about to happen . . . something life-changing . . . and whatever it is, it's going to be a lot harder to deal with than report cards." They stopped walking.
"Would you like to know what I think your problem is?" he said. "You're a thirty-year-old woman in a sixteen-year-old body. You've outgrown your surroundings. You're waiting for something to happen, because something should be happening. Be patient . . . I know that's hard for you, but try. You'll have to live with this life a little longer. But if you believe that something big is about to happen . . . then by all means, let it happen." Tabbitha smiled. As she did, the sky darkened. They both looked up in alarm. "Odd. It was clear a moment ago."
"So much for trick or treating," Tabbitha said. There was a threatening rumble. "Maybe that big thing is about to happen after all."
"I wasn't thinking of a thunderstorm when I said that," Mr. Wyse said. "You'd better get yourself home before it hits. Unless you'd like to stay at the house until it passes over."
"No, I'll be fine. It'll be good driving experience. Anyway, thanks for talking to me."
"Anytime," Mr. Wyse said. "I'm retired; I've got nothing better to do, right?"
Tabbitha sighed, for once not sadly. "Alan, if you were fifty years younger . . ."
"If I were fifty years younger, I'd be the most miserable man alive," the old man said. "Ten years younger, maybe . . ." The clouds rumbled again. "Better get going."
"Good idea," Tabbitha said. "See you later."
"Bye now." The old man turned and hurried back to his house, looking up at the still-darkening sky. The wind was picking up, and Tabbitha could feel the air thickening. She continued down the road. The road ran into the street which would eventually lead Tabbitha to Frozen, and her car. Whether she would still be dry by then remained to be seen.
It was not to be. She hadn't even reached the end of the brick road when the deluge hit. Tabbitha was soaked within two seconds; it was like the time Libby had dumped an entire cooler of ice water on her head, except without the ice. The fall of water became so heavy that Tabbitha could no longer see where she was going. Her eyes were forced down to her feet, where she could see the water collecting in the little dips within the bricks.
Lightning crackled overhead, and Tabbitha broke into a run as the air vibrated with thunder. She ran out into the road, checking briefly for headlights, no longer caring which direction she went, as long as she got out of the rain. She found a small side street and entered it. The rain was so heavy, she didn't even see that the street sign said Florence Court.
Tabbitha ran. She ran past other houses without even realizing they were there. Something seemed to be drawing her to one house in particular, at the end of the street. The asphult turned into unkempt grass. Tabbitha tripped over a bit of long since trampled barbed wire as lightning struck a nearby tree. She got to her feet, put her hands over ears, and kept running. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth, so that she had to breathe through her teeth to strain it out. She stumbled onto an unstable stairway, leading onto an even less stable porch. The roof over the porch offered no protection from the rain, so Tabbitha ran for the door, not seeing the number 24 nailed on the wall next to it. Without even bothering to knock, Tabbitha threw open the mercifully unlocked door and slid her way inside. The door shut behind her.
Tabbitha collapsed to her knees and didn't move. She struggled to catch her breath as water dripped from every part of her. She blinked several times to clear the rainwater out of her eyes, and tried in vain to wipe off her face with her equally wet jacket sleeve. As her body calmed, she stood slowly, and took in her surroundings. It was dimly lit, but clearly not abandoned. She was standing in a large room, probably a living room. The furniture was sparse: a sofa, a chair, a table. There was a staircase to the right leading upstairs to a balcony that overlooked the room, and another door straight ahead that lead to what was probably a kitchen. Tabbitha would have to find the owner and apologize for the intrusion. She wasn't too worried. Residents of Forrest Falls were mostly friendly, and she knew a lot of them personally. She took a breath to call out for someone.
Then, a thought made her stop. There was something oddly familiar about this house and this room. And whatever it was, it gave her the chills. She took another look around the room. Just above the door, the upstairs balcony continued. There was a semi-circular window looking out to the street. There was something unsettling about that window . . . and the door. In fact, there was something unsettling about his whole house.
Forgetting the owner, Tabbitha made for the door. The storm was letting up a bit; she could brave a little more water to get to her car. She turned the knob and pulled. The door refused to budge. She turned the knob and pushed, with no better result. Was it the humidity? Or maybe the wind. These old doors could stick with the slightest change in the weather. Still, it didn't seem like that was what was keeping the door shut. It felt like something else, some other force. It was almost like . . . magic . . .
Tabbitha let go of the door as if it had shocked her and took a step back. It couldn't be . . . and yet as she heard the kitchen door opening behind her, she knew exactly who was coming through it: a tall man with straight dark hair.
"Good evening," said Phillip Drollinger, the butler. "Welcome to the Carpenter house. Mr. Carpenter will see you now."
***
"What's next?"
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