hadn’t a clue what Skye would have done in this situation. She wasn’t sure Skye—even Skye, so famous for airing her emotions, her opinions—would have let loose in the restaurant.
You should only alienate folks when you mean and want to do it.
Well, that was fine. A fine philosophy. For those who could control themselves. For those who weren’t on the edge …
How had she got here?
Marnie left the restaurant. To her surprise, Ms. Slaight’s battered Volkswagen Jetta was pulled up to the curb just outside the door. Ms. Slaight sat upright in the driver’s seat, her window rolled down and both her hands flat on the wheel.
“I am a teacher,” she said evenly. “You are a student in my charge. I am responsible for getting you back to campus. Get in.”
“I’ll walk,” said Marnie.
Ms. Slaight turned her head and looked fully at Marnie. “You will get in now.”
Marnie got in. Ms. Slaight started the motor. Marnie closed her eyes, feeling the tension in the car like a physical force. Miles passed, and then Ms. Slaight stopped the car. “Get out,” she said.
Marnie opened her eyes. Everybody was telling her to get out, these days. They were not oncampus. Where were they? “You want me to walk the rest—”
“Get out,” said Ms. Slaight.
There was something in her voice. Worse than before. Worse than ever before.
My fault, Marnie thought. My fault.
Marnie got out. She would rather walk anyway.
But Ms. Slaight got out too. She grasped Marnie’s arm and forced her away from the car. She looked down into Marnie’s face, and her expression was like nothing Marnie had ever seen before. It hypnotized her. As if from a distance, she could hear Ms. Slaight speaking.
“I didn’t want it to be this way between us, Marnie Skyedottir. But from the very first time I met you, I think I knew that it would have to be.” And she raised her other hand. There was something in her clenched fist.
Marnie later remembered everything else, but not the actual feel of the sharp blow to her head.
CHAPTER
11
W aking up again—a few hours later? the next morning? afternoon?—was among the worst experiences of Marnie’s life. Not absolutely the worst; nothing could top the weeks after the plane crash that killed Skye. Marnie had retched helplessly nearly every morning then, too.
Just not over a concrete floor.
And her head had not hurt quite so much, perhaps.
And beneath her, her bed—oh, God. Marnie rolled quickly to her side again and retched a little more. She hadn’t had lunch, so there wasn’t much to come up. She kept her eyes closed and rested her forehead on the back of her hand. Canvas was stretched on the cot frame beneath her, silence hung heavy around her, and dull artificial light burned beyond her closed eyelids.
She remembered everything. Which did not help.
Drearily, breathing carefully in and out, in and out, she reflected that she’d do anything for a glass of flat ginger ale. Well, she wasn’t psychic, but she had the feeling she was not going to get it. She felt her lips curve into an involuntary grim smile and then rapidly retreat to a compressed line.
She reached up and gingerly explored her left temple with her fingers. There was a large bandage taped there. That was something; some care had been taken. She felt its edges; then a soft center of cotton. Beneath—She inhaled in a rapid little pant, and then took her hand down and tried to regulate her breathing again. She longed to curl up into a tight ball but was afraid to move. It wasn’t just her head. Her whole body ached, as if she’d been thrown down a flight of stairs.
She opened her eyes and looked blearily out at the room. It was a small square, with cement-block walls, no windows, and the dank feeling of a basement. The only objects in the room seemed to be the folding cot on which Marnie was lying, and a child’s large plastic sand bucket that incongruously depicted Yertle the Turtle. A single bare lightbulb hung
You should only alienate folks when you mean and want to do it.
Well, that was fine. A fine philosophy. For those who could control themselves. For those who weren’t on the edge …
How had she got here?
Marnie left the restaurant. To her surprise, Ms. Slaight’s battered Volkswagen Jetta was pulled up to the curb just outside the door. Ms. Slaight sat upright in the driver’s seat, her window rolled down and both her hands flat on the wheel.
“I am a teacher,” she said evenly. “You are a student in my charge. I am responsible for getting you back to campus. Get in.”
“I’ll walk,” said Marnie.
Ms. Slaight turned her head and looked fully at Marnie. “You will get in now.”
Marnie got in. Ms. Slaight started the motor. Marnie closed her eyes, feeling the tension in the car like a physical force. Miles passed, and then Ms. Slaight stopped the car. “Get out,” she said.
Marnie opened her eyes. Everybody was telling her to get out, these days. They were not oncampus. Where were they? “You want me to walk the rest—”
“Get out,” said Ms. Slaight.
There was something in her voice. Worse than before. Worse than ever before.
My fault, Marnie thought. My fault.
Marnie got out. She would rather walk anyway.
But Ms. Slaight got out too. She grasped Marnie’s arm and forced her away from the car. She looked down into Marnie’s face, and her expression was like nothing Marnie had ever seen before. It hypnotized her. As if from a distance, she could hear Ms. Slaight speaking.
“I didn’t want it to be this way between us, Marnie Skyedottir. But from the very first time I met you, I think I knew that it would have to be.” And she raised her other hand. There was something in her clenched fist.
Marnie later remembered everything else, but not the actual feel of the sharp blow to her head.
CHAPTER
11
W aking up again—a few hours later? the next morning? afternoon?—was among the worst experiences of Marnie’s life. Not absolutely the worst; nothing could top the weeks after the plane crash that killed Skye. Marnie had retched helplessly nearly every morning then, too.
Just not over a concrete floor.
And her head had not hurt quite so much, perhaps.
And beneath her, her bed—oh, God. Marnie rolled quickly to her side again and retched a little more. She hadn’t had lunch, so there wasn’t much to come up. She kept her eyes closed and rested her forehead on the back of her hand. Canvas was stretched on the cot frame beneath her, silence hung heavy around her, and dull artificial light burned beyond her closed eyelids.
She remembered everything. Which did not help.
Drearily, breathing carefully in and out, in and out, she reflected that she’d do anything for a glass of flat ginger ale. Well, she wasn’t psychic, but she had the feeling she was not going to get it. She felt her lips curve into an involuntary grim smile and then rapidly retreat to a compressed line.
She reached up and gingerly explored her left temple with her fingers. There was a large bandage taped there. That was something; some care had been taken. She felt its edges; then a soft center of cotton. Beneath—She inhaled in a rapid little pant, and then took her hand down and tried to regulate her breathing again. She longed to curl up into a tight ball but was afraid to move. It wasn’t just her head. Her whole body ached, as if she’d been thrown down a flight of stairs.
She opened her eyes and looked blearily out at the room. It was a small square, with cement-block walls, no windows, and the dank feeling of a basement. The only objects in the room seemed to be the folding cot on which Marnie was lying, and a child’s large plastic sand bucket that incongruously depicted Yertle the Turtle. A single bare lightbulb hung
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