“Yeah.” I shut the locker and we started down the hall toward the auditorium. “I’ll definitely need to wear the guard, though.” I held out my arm and pushed back the sleeve. “The inside of my elbow is raw.”
“Wimp.”
We had found Tasha’s dad’s bow and arrows a couple weeks ago, poking around her attic one afternoon. Instead of telling us to stay out of his stuff, her dad had bought a target and some bales of hay and set up a practice range for us in their garage. I liked the feel of the bow in my arms, curving protectively above and below me, like a shield. I was getting pretty good, even better than Tasha, who I was pretty sure was practicing on the sly.
We had almost reached the double steel doors to the auditorium when the PA crackled my name: “Cassandra Renfield to the main office, please.”
Tasha and I exchanged a look. “Want me to come?” she asked.
“Nah. Go on in. Save me a seat.” I kept my voice light, though I doubted I’d make it to the assembly.
I was right. The cement of the school steps was warm on my legs as I sat in the bright sun. Nan was in the hospital again, Principal McCarthy’s assistant had told me. I’d suspected as much.
I could hear the boom-boom-boom of the bass drum and crash of cymbals from the auditorium while I waited for my cab. “I already called,” the assistant had said when I asked about getting one. “It should be here any minute.” Which would be accurate if she really meant any minute twenty minutes from now. Taxis in Ashville were notoriously slow. Nan would be in her room by the time I got there, hooked up to the IVs and drips that stabilized her blood sugar, bringing her back to herself.
A school bus turned the corner I’d been watching for my cab, slowly cruising toward me. I looked away. I hadn’t ridden one in years and wouldn’t mind if I never did again. They’d never bothered me before Mrs. Gettis, but now they reminded me of the West Lakes kids, the link between her and Mr. McKenzie that made me nearly certain what I’d see when I followed him two months ago.
When Nan told me about Mrs. Gettis that day at the hospital, I knew almost immediately where I needed to go. She’d wanted me to stay. Rest. Of course, the only other bed was Mrs. G.’s, which wasn’t going to fly.
It was a quick walk to the main branch of the Ashville Library, one I barely remembered, my mind utterly consumed with Mrs. Gettis and a much older memory.
“I’d like to see papers from a while back,” I told the librarian. “Around ten or eleven years ago, I think.”
“Those would still be on microfilm,” the librarian answered. “We’re scanning everything into computers, but it’s going very slowly. All the film is in the basement.”
It took me nearly two hours to find what I was looking for. I knew it was spring or fall, warm outside, but that still left a lot of days. When the front page flashed on the backlit screen, I knew right away that I’d found it. The school looked exactly as I’d remembered. Staring at the headline, I realized that I could have asked the librarian when it had happened. She’d have known in an instant, but I was glad I hadn’t. I didn’t want to hear her memories. I wanted to focus on my own.
SCHOOL BUS CRASH KILLS TWELVE
A school bus carrying 26 West Lakes Elementary School students plunged 40 feet off the side of a highway overpass Monday in Gideon, killing at least 12 children, according to school, police and fire officials.
A witness told police it appeared that a small car struck the bus, which then went over the guardrail of Interstate 565, crashing onto Church Street.
Police are attempting to find the driver of the car. It took authorities about an hour to transport the 26 students and the bus driver to Gideon Hospital, police officer Richard Johnson said.
The emergency room was overwhelmed. “It was a very chaotic scene and parents were just frantic,” Johnson said. “Gideon has never seen an accident like this involving students.”
He noted that the bus—like nearly all school buses—was not equipped with adequate seat belts or air bags.
Nan and I had “gone visiting” that day, eleven years before, bringing food to a housebound woman who lived outside town. I’d tried to keep up with Nan over block after block, hot in my wool coat. It was too tight, pinning my arms when I tried to swing them all the way front.
“Come on, Cassie.” Nan turned and waited for me to catch up. I could hear the shouts of children ahead. Inside the chain-link fence surrounding the school yard, sun glinted off the slide and swing chains rattled. I was about to ask Nan if we could stop there after visiting the lady’s house, when I saw them: the glowing kids. There was a whole group together, bouncing a red rubber ball. Kids not so much bigger than me. My eyes swept the playground, seeing a few more: one on the swings. One running and laughing. One sitting alone, back against the school wall. I stared, not realizing I’d stopped until Nan called from the end of the block.
“Cassie! Come on.” I ran to her, my shoes slap-slapping on the sidewalk. “Let’s deliver this food, hon, before it starts to go bad.”
Nan grasped my hand, her fingers firm around my wrist, and started to walk.
“Why are those kids lit up?”
She hesitated, frowning and looking down at me. “What kids?”
“Back there.” I pointed to the playground.
Nan turned, dropping my hand to shade her eyes. “What do you mean ‘lit up’?” She searched the playground slowly before turning back to me. “You mean by the sun?”
I shrugged. It wasn’t the sun. Some were in the shadow of the school building and some weren’t, but they all looked the same. Even from far away I could see the light around them, like a candle with something hiding just the flame.
Nan glanced at the school again, her eyes narrowed, searching. “I don’t see anything, Cass. How are they ‘lit up’?”
But I didn’t have the words, and anyway, I think I knew she didn’t see it. “Can we go to that playground after?” I asked instead.
Nan reached for my hand again and we crossed the street. “I don’t think so, sweetie. It’s for the school. Maybe we can find another one.”
I don’t remember if we went to a playground later or not, but I remember those kids. It was the kind of thing that sticks with you, maybe my earliest memory. I was four.
I’d left the library in a daze, trying hard not to think about the mark, forcing away the terrible suspicion of what it was. I’d waited until Nan was discharged from the hospital to tell her. It would be easier in the security of our home, I’d thought. Plus, I needed a few days to sort it out, make sure I wasn’t crazy or delusional, though I couldn’t really think of a way to explain it without sounding like one or both. I was going to let Nan settle in, unpack, have some tea or whatever, but as soon as the apartment door closed behind us, she said, “So, are you going to tell me what’s up?”