Chương 21: Chapter 20 - Starbuck

At some point, darkness stops being the absence of light and becomes its own thing—an element as real as water. That's a perfect metaphor, I reflected, because I am absolutely swimming in the stuff. I wandered down the center of the hallway on the theory that it would be safer. There weren't many objects around me, but I was the kind of person that would walk, face-first, into a perfectly innocent pillar.

Since I was in the center of the hall on the third floor, that meant the cathedral-style vaulted ceiling was at its peak above me. I was a fathom deep in the darkness, hoping I wouldn't run into the shadowy version of an angler fish. The thought had barely crossed my mind when I saw a light at the end of the hall. It bobbed up and down in the darkness— Exactly like an angler fish! my ever-sensible brain decided to point out. The light was moving toward me.

I stopped where I was and watched, my breath coming shallow and fast. The light prevented me from seeing who was behind it, but I could make out their legs and feet. Their easy gait brought them closer and closer. Hadn't they seen me? I stepped back. The light rose. I winced and put up a hand to shield my eyes.

"Miss Cole?" Thank god, the voice was familiar. And it'd be hard to talk if you had big, jagged teeth sticking out everywhere.

"Sorry," he said. The light returned to the floor. Probably-not-an-angler-fish took a few steps closer and held his phone out to the side so I could see who was behind it. It was Mr. Turner. He was close enough, I could see all the tiny lines of concern and confusion around the edges of his frown.

"It's past eleven," he said.

"What are you doing here?" I don't normally think of myself as a proud person, but it turns out that the last scrap of your dignity is the hardest to part with. It hurt to admit the truth, but I was willing to do almost anything to get some help.

"Don't laugh," I commanded.

"I'm lost. I've been trying to find my way back to my room for the last hour." To his credit, Turner didn't laugh, and he bit the inside of his lips to try to hide his smile.

"Without a light?"

"My phone ran out of power." I'd used it to play music the entire time I'd been inspecting the school. Darius had only commissioned me for my eyes, and I figured it'd be impossible for me to hear anything unnerving if my ears were otherwise occupied. And I hadn't heard anything unnerving. No strange noises or creepy echoes—not even the person who came through at ten to clear out the halls and turn off the lights.

"Come on," Turner said.

"I can take you. It's not far. My room is down the hall from yours." He motioned with his phone and started back the way he'd come. I followed.

"What are you doing out this late?"

"The teachers living in the school are assigned areas they're expected to walk after hours to make sure none of the boys are sneaking around."

"Does it work?" I asked. He shrugged.

"About as well as you'd expect it to. Most of the boys are smart enough to hide when they see us coming." He turned his head and smiled.

"You're the first straggler I've caught all year." I blushed and looked away. He went on, "Fortunately, you're not a student, so there won't be any paperwork." He led me to a set of stairs I would have sworn I'd never seen before in my life, and we descended. The halls looked more familiar on the second floor. When we turned the corner, I almost cried for joy. I finally knew, for sure, where I was. Turner pointed.

"You're down the hall and around the next corner. This is my stop." He jerked his thumb toward the door beside us.

"Would you like to come in for a drink before you go?" My thoughts tried to expand enough to take in the question. Then— pow! They exploded, leaving my mind blank and startled.

"A drink?" I said.

"God knows, I could use one," he said.

"You're welcome to join me. Wuller, as generous as he is, probably didn't include a stocked liquor cabinet in the guest rooms." I inspected Turner's face, hoping to read his expression. It was too relaxed and casual to be anything other than a simple, friendly invitation. I was mostly glad, but there was a tiny speck of my soul that was, maybe, a little disappointed. I still wasn't sure about the drinking age in England, but I was sure that I wasn't going to admit I was young enough I had to ask.

Especially to the man who already had to rescue me from my own incompetence.

"Thank you," I said.

"I'd like that." Turner's room was a copy of the one I shared with Darius and Conrad, except that it was cluttered and crowded, like a real home. Along the edges and tucked in the corners were stacks of books, a rumpled jacket, and a crate full of bulging three-ring binders. A mess of shoes lived near the back wall. His desk was larger than the one in our room, and it was covered with piles of paper. Beside the desk was a small fridge.

Turner walked over to it while I checked out the posters he'd stuck up on the walls. There was one or two historical posters—fitting, considering what he taught—but the rest were all from one video game franchise.

"Assassin's Creed?" I said. He pulled out two glass bottles and shut the fridge. As he straightened up, he said, "Do you play?"

"I never got the chance." He popped the caps, put the bottle opener back on the fridge, wandered over, and handed me a bottle.

"You're missing out." I inspected the bottle's label.

"It's cider," he said.

"Is that all right?" Oh. Well. Cider.

"That's fine," I assured him. He motioned to his seating arrangement. I sat on the edge of the small sofa. He took the armchair next to it. The moment I took a sip, my cheeks tightened and my lips twisted into the world's most ridiculous expression. I coughed and twisted the bottle around to get another look at the label.

"Okay." I coughed again.

"It says cider." Turner was smiling at me.

"Not what you expected?" I took a second sip.

"Is this what it's supposed to taste like?" This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. I could taste the apples, but they were angry apples—apples that had recently lost a fight with a can of hair spray. Something occurred to me. I rubbed my forehead, which did a good job of hiding my face and preventing me from seeing Turner's amusement.

"It's hard cider," I said.

"In America, we call it hard cider."

"Implying that there's some kind of soft cider?" I dropped my hand back to my lap.

"Yes, sir." Turner was giving me an odd look, so I explained.

"It's nonfermented, unfiltered apple juice. That's what we call 'cider.'""You thought I was handing you a bottle of apple juice?"

"Hey! What do I know about your country's weird bottling practices!" Turner laughed as he leaned forward and held out his hand.

"Would you like me to take it?" I had only tried alcohol once before I was diagnosed with cancer. I had been sixteen and eager to fit in. A friend of a friend had snuck some whiskey into a party, but nothing in the world would have made me eager enough to take more than a sip of that stuff; I'd have gladly sabotaged my entire social life first. Since it had only been a sip, I felt like it didn't count. Meaning this was my first official bottle of booze. I was not about to surrender it.

"No, no!" I waved away his hand.

"You offered. No take-backsies." I took another swallow.

"Tell me about some of the boys you've caught after hours." We drank while he told me stories about all the creative things the boys would do to get in trouble. Turner was one of those expressive storytellers that are always fun to listen to. He'd make faces as he spoke, and you could hear the emotions in his voice. Given the subject matter, that meant he often sounded baffled, frustrated, or irritated—but no matter what other emotion was there, I couldn't help noticing that he smiled as he spoke.

"You like being a teacher, don't you?" I asked. His next smile was more self-conscious.

"Uh, I do. I'm one of the lucky ones."

"Lucky?"

"When you start a job, you think you know what you're getting into. You think you're ready for it. Then you find out that nothing is like what you expected. But at least I love my job like I thought I would. I guessed right."

"Do you like Setlan on Lee?" His smile wavered.

"Mostly," he said.

"It's got a huge, old building, beautiful grounds, decent pay, and Wuller's a good headmaster."

"Is he?"

"He mostly leaves his teachers alone—which is ninety percent of everything I want from a headmaster. This is a good school. It has its quirks, but they all do." When he finished, he lowered his eyes to the coffee table between us and took a long swig at his bottle.

"You're not smiling anymore," I noted. He raised his eyes to me. He tried to look confused, and maybe a bit amused, but the tension was still there.

"Is something wrong?" I asked. His social mask slipped away. Under it was a somber expression.

"Things have gotten…harder…recently," he said.

"It's more stressful. If things keep going the way they do, it could get a lot more stressful quickly."

"How so?"

"Staffing problems. Wuller's always had a hard time keeping his teachers—they don't always get along with the boys—but they used to have the decency to wait until the end of the year before leaving. We've already lost two this year. Two more are considering it."

"Is it the psychic powers?" Turner shook his head, then let out a brief laugh.

"You may think I'm crazy, but the psychic powers weren't that big of a deal. When they first appeared, we were all stunned. You know—what is this? But then it was right there, in front of us, every day, and a week later, it was an everyday thing."

"No, no," I assured him with a smile.

"Believe me, I get it. I promise." I thought about Iset telling me that I would get used to the weirdness.

"And I think you'll be surprised how little time it takes." A well-wrapped genius. That's what she was. Turner went on, "Whatever's happening, I don't think it's the powers. At least, it's not only the powers."

"Then what is it?" Turner took a long, slow breath.

"I don't know. I wish I could explain it—I wish I understood it. Then maybe I could do something about it." He hesitated.

"It's almost as if some kind of tension has been growing under us. At first I only noticed it when I was alone, but now it's always there." He paused to take a swig of cider. When he continued, his voice was even quieter.

"It's getting to the boys. They can't focus. They get frustrated too quickly…" His voice trailed off. As Turner had talked, I'd become aware of a faint sense of unease, living at the edge of my perception. The moment I realized it was there, it bloomed like ink in water. I took a swallow to try to wash the feeling away.

"And you think it's affecting the teachers?" I asked.

"I think it's affecting everyone." One side of Turner's mouth lifted in a smirk. He amended his statement: "Everyone except Wuller."

"Oh? Why does he get to be the exception?" Turner tried to look serious, but I could see the laugh lines around his eyes.

"This is between you and me, right?"

"Sure."

"Wuller's a big, lovable bull."

"Lovable?" By then I was three-quarters of the way through my cider, and I was pretty sure I was buzzed. Not only because of the pleasant fuzziness coating every thought, but also because of how much I was delighted by Turner's use of the word "lovable." He continued, "He's got amazing focus and a lot of energy, but it can be hard to get through to him. If you want to put a new idea into his head, you have to use a hammer and chisel. He's not the kind of person who'd pick up on anything subtle." I grinned.

"So, not the most sensitive man."

"No."

"But you are?" Yup. I was definitely buzzed. When it came to teasing people I didn't know, I was normally a lot more careful. My sense of caution and my bashfulness had both been left behind in the haze. If it wasn't for the lousy taste, I could probably learn to like alcohol. The history teacher looked away to hide his shy smile. It was all cute and awkward. He leaned forward and put his empty bottle on the coffee table.

"Uh, I don't know if I'm the most sensitive man." He leaned back in his chair.

"Teaching isn't for the faint of heart. Neither is history. But I know I'm more sensitive than that." His smile faded.

"I can actually feel the tension."

"What does it feel like?" Turner glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. When he saw that I was serious, he put an elbow up on the arm of the chair and his hand went to his jaw. He gazed at nothing as he considered the question. He was still gazing at nothing when he answered.

"It's like walking through a field full of moths. You can't move without feeling them. You're always surrounded, always being touched. And when you take a step, there's always this little crunch." He shivered. When he saw me watching him, he cleared his throat and sat up in his chair.

"It's no wonder the boys are uptight," he added. Moths. Something light. Something that should have been harmless—right up until their wings brushed your bare neck on a summer night.

"Are you thinking of leaving?" I asked. At first, Turner didn't move. Then he shook his head.

"No." He said louder, "No, I couldn't. I'll stick it out. Things are always changing. I can wait to see what happens." In his face I thought I could see the tension, slowly twisting him up, and the stone wall he'd put his back against to keep himself standing.

"It's the boys, isn't it?" I said.

"You're staying for the students." His shy smile was back.

"Yeah, I guess I am. I think we suit each other well. I teach them history, and they teach me patience." My nose wrinkled. That always happens when I trade in a real laugh for a quieter smile. Turner said, "You won't get that kind of a deal at one of those elite schools for the well-behaved."

"You mean one of the ones the students have to test to get into?"

"Eightieth percentile or bust."

"I don't know if they'd tolerate your jeans at a school like that."

"I hadn't even thought of that." Turner let out an exaggerated shudder.

"Well, they've got all the good teachers they could ask for. I'll stay here."

"I'm glad to hear it," I whispered. I took one last swallow of cider and put my bottle next to his.

"You're done?" he asked. There was a fifth of a bottle left.

"I'm a lightweight," I said.

"That's about all I can handle." I wasn't sure how true that was, but it seemed like a reasonable guess considering the way my head slow-danced as I got to my feet.

"Thank you," I said. Turner stood to see me out.

"For the cider?

"For the cider. For bringing me back to familiar territory." For being the kind of person who cares, I thought. He walked me over to the door.

"Can you find your way back to your room?"

"I'm not that much of a lightweight." I opened the door.

"Good night, Mr. Turner." He reached over my head to hold it open.

"You're not a student. You can call me Paul."

"Ha! Are you kidding? If any of the four musketeers heard me call you that, we would never hear the end of it."

"Four musketeers? Ah. You mean Osborn and his crew. That's a very good point. Good night, Miss Cole." I waved and left. Outside, the cloud cover had broken up. Bits of moonlight came in through the windows, lifting some of the darkness from the halls. I didn't need to worry about any pillars, innocent or otherwise. Being mildly intoxicated made walking feel strange. I wasn't swaying around or anything, but whenever I took a step, I had to balance my weight on my foot to ground myself.

It was kind of fun, like finding your feet after you've spent too long on a swing. I put my hands in my pockets and hummed as I walked. The humming followed me. I stopped and turned around. There was no one there. I stared at the shadows for a long time, searching for any hint of movement. There was nothing. I slowly turned back around and kept walking. This time, I didn't hum. The walls did. I put my hands out to try to steady myself, but there was nothing to hold on to.

I turned in a circle, trying to find the source of the muted noise. No matter where I turned, it was always behind me. A weak tune, barely clearing closed lips. Another sound joined it—a whisper that grew into a dozen whispers. I turned and turned. Someone was crying. Someone was wailing. There was the high sound of a whistle, coming from a hundred miles away. But there was nothing! I couldn't see anything —only the blur of the hall as I spun. Then, a sudden silence. I stopped turning and stared.

The shadows never moved. But they weren't where they were supposed to be. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't see it, knelt down, then curled up on the floor. Right before I lost consciousness, I thought I felt something brush my neck.