Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins, page 21
At this point, the room sounded like a tire with a leak. Everyone was trying as hard as they could not to explode into laughter.
Holden patted Mr. Lee on his sweaty head, wiped his hand on the front of his shirt, and said, “That’s okay, man. Someone obviously forgot to take his meds this mornin’. I’ll just find my own seat.”
He strolled toward a row of empty desks and looked across the room, right at Maggie. “Hey, Blue Eyes!” he shouted with an enthusiastic wave. “You look different than you did down at the pond. Oh . . . dude! It’s ‘cause you’re dressed!”
As though on cue, everyone turned their attention to a completely horrified Maggie who slid down in her chair and blushed through about six different shades of red.
Holden winked as if he and Maggie had known each other for years and plunked down at an empty desk at the other side of the room.
Again, as if they were cued to do it, every student slowly turned their attention from Maggie to Mr. Lee who was now shaking uncontrollably, breathing sporadically, and clutching the sides of his desk. His tiny sunken eyes bulged widely in the sockets. Slowly, and without saying another word, he stood and walked toward the door. He practically ripped the handle off of it as he flung it open and staggered out into the hall.
Cynthia Dix, the straight “A” braniac in the class quietly speculated, “Oh my gosh! He’s having a coronary!”
Other students added their comments, and the buzz of twenty-two murmuring teenagers filled the usually silent classroom.
Maggie glanced over at Holden. He was leaning toward a group of girls who were whispering to each other, grinning widely and listening intently as if he were trying to overhear some juicy bit of gossip. He sat back up, but then leaned toward another group in exactly the same way.
After several minutes, the door flew open and Mr. Lee finally strode back into the room and glared angrily at Holden. All conversation came to an abrupt halt. He was still quite scarlet in the face, but his breathing seemed to be more normal. After a long pause, he sneered, “We are reading the Chapter eighteen review, Mr. Guarlo.”
For a few seconds, Holden just stared at Mr. Lee's twitching face in awe. Then, he shrugged his shoulders, looked down at his still closed text book, and quipped, “Cool Mr. L . . . but where I come from that’s like third grade stuff.”
Several students gasped aloud at Holden’s unbelievable nerve.
“Oh, really,” Mr. Lee sneered, weaving his way through a maze of desks until he was standing directly in front of Holden. “Why don’t you just prove that, Mr. Guarlo?” He slapped Holden’s desk, but was far too wimpy for the slap to make much of an impact. “I want a ten page essay on rational expressions, including examples and information sources on my desk by the end of the day this Friday.”
Mr. Lee’s entire body seemed to be shaking in an effort to keep from strangling his new student. “I want it typed and single spaced,” he hissed as he tried to come up with anything else he could add on to make the assignment more difficult. “If you fail this assignment, Mr. Guarlo, you will fail my class!”
The Math Nazi smiled triumphantly, confident that there was not enough information in the world to produce a ten page report on this particular subject. He tapped a bony finger on Holden’s book, and in his usual garbled voice said, “You’d better get started.” He turned and walked back up to the front of the room and sat back smugly in his desk chair.
Holden’s face still bore a ridiculous grin, as he reached in the tattered brown book bag at his feet and pulled out a yellow paper folder. From where Maggie sat, she could see that written on the front of it, in beautiful black calligraphy, were the words;
“Rational Expressions Defined”
A Report by Holden Guarlo
Positively stunned, she watched as Holden sauntered up to Mr. Lee’s desk and casually placed the yellow folder on it in front of a ghostly pale, sweaty, wide-eyed and shaking Math Nazi.
“Thank you,” he hissed and threw the folder onto the heap of papers. “Just go sit down and leave me alone!”
Holden chuckled. “Duuude, two words . . . day . . . spa.”
This time, almost everyone in the room laughed out loud.
“Silence!” The Math Nazi’s voice was much higher-pitched than normal. “Read!”
The class fell silent.
Holden looked over at Maggie once more, shrugged and whispered, “Sheesh.”
She lowered her head, glanced around nervously out of the corner of her eye, and pretended to be reading. She didn’t move again until the bell rang.
CHAPTER XXIII
VOICES IN THE FOG
During the break between first period and second, the halls of the high school came alive. The seven minutes in between classes were always pretty loud, but as students hurried down the musty halls and toward their next classes, all conversation seemed to be centered on this new, crazily dressed, and overly confident Holden Guarlo. (Glenhill is a very small community after all—news travels quickly.) Even Maggie was excitedly telling Bridgette and Lorrine, about Holden’s psychological assault on Mr. Lee.
“It was so bizarre,” she shouted over the din. “I mean, he had a report on Rational Expressions already written in his book bag! How many people do that?”
Lorrine pushed her plastic rimmed glasses up on her nose, shrugged her shoulders, and looked at a group of kids that were walking past.
It appeared that there was one very annoying side effect to Holden’s arrival at Glenhill High. Everyone assumed that Maggie knew him somehow; and now they were all eyeing her suspiciously.
“Why is everyone staring at you, Margaret?” Lorrine inquired.
Maggie glanced around at the herds of students making their way through the school. They were whispering amongst themselves and looking at her like she’d grown another head.
“Well,” she explained, “he sort of singled me out in class.”
“What do you mean?” Bridgette asked.
“Um . . . he acted like . . . well, he said that he saw us that day at the pond,” she explained.
Suddenly an odd sinking sensation welled up in the pit of her stomach. She felt queasy and dizzy, just like she had at home earlier. “Uh . . . I . . . uh . . . .”
“Hey, are you all right?” Lorrine asked. “You’re looking rather pallid!”
Maggie leaned up against her locker for support and shot Lorrine a desperate, pleading look. Both Bridgette and Lorrine stared at her with concern.
“What’s wrong?” Bridgette asked. Her normal smile disappeared as she watched Maggie’s color change from pure white to a sickly purple.
She couldn’t answer. She felt strange. It was almost like she had been lassoed around the middle and was being tugged backward. Only, it felt like the lasso was attached to the inside of her body—like someone was trying to pull her insides out through her back.
“Lorrie,” Bridgette’s voice seemed distant. “I think we’d better get her to the nurse’s office. She looks like she’s gonna pass out!”
Suddenly, Maggie heard a faint “whooshing” sound coming from somewhere behind her. The sound faded in and out, but grew increasingly louder with each whoosh.
“All right, but can you take her?” Lorrine answered, “I can’t be late for my next class.”
“What? Well neither can I!” Bridgette protested.
They started arguing back and forth, both blurting out a list of reasons why the other should go.
“Fine,” Lorrine finally exclaimed, “I will do it!” She glanced over to see how Maggie was hanging in, but then frowned and asked, “Hey, where did she go?”
Both of Maggie’s friends looked straight at her with confused and bewildered expressions on their faces.
Bridgette shrugged her shoulders and suggested, “Maybe she ran to the bathroom. She did kinda look like she was gonna puke!”
“Hey! Hello!” Maggie snapped. “I’m right here!” She felt like she was about to be pulled backwards through her locker. “Hellooo!”
Bridgette and Lorrine, who seemed oblivious to the fact that she was standing right in front of them, turned and started to walk away.
“Hey! You guys! Where are you going?” she called out desperately. Just then the whooshing sound stopped and the yanking and tugging on her insides ceased so suddenly, that she almost fell over backward.
She glanced down at her feet and realized that she was no longer standing on the grimy grey linoleum that covered the floors of the school. She was instead in a large open field; thick, tall grasses of deep brown and rust swayed gently around her.
Hanging in the air, just above the grass, was a bizarre, pale green fog. The fog filled the sky as high as Maggie could see.
“Oh, no,” she panicked. “Am I . . .” Her blue eyes widened, “dead?” She whispered the word “dead” as she felt her stomach and sides. Everything seemed to be intact. “Okay, girl,” she said, taking a deep breath to calm herself down. “Get a grip! Think! If I’m dead, Bridge and Lorrine would have seen me being, well, dead. They’re acting like I’m invisi . . . .”
She stopped short, absolutely refusing to say something so absurd. “So, what’s going on?” she questioned aloud.
She turned back toward Bridgette and Lorrine and saw them talking as they walked further and further away from her. “Bridge! Lorrine! You guys,” she cried out, but they just kept walking. They could not hear her calling.
She was somehow in two places at once. She could see the halls of the school and the few students who were now hustling to make it to class on time, but behind her—where a row of lockers should be—was the large, foggy field. She looked toward the big double doors of the school, only to find that they had become part of the field. In the distance, dark, undefined shapes moved behind the murkiness.
As she watched the shapes twist slowly through the fog, she heard a faint sound—a woman’s voice—coming from where the shapes were. Maggie closed her eyes and listened, trying to make out what the woman was saying.
“Grass? Grass?” The woman’s voice was distant and quiet, but it sounded like she was saying “grass.”
“Grass?” Maggie had hoped for something a little more enlightening. She was perfectly aware that she was standing in a field of grass!
She squinted, in an effort to make out what was moving in the haze, but all she could see were the shadows.
As she leaned closer to the blurred forms, the “whoosh” that she had heard before, started whooshing again. It grew until it had amplified to a loud roar. As the roar reached a riotous crescendo, there was a blinding flash of blue light, and Maggie was back, standing in front of a row of purple and gold lockers.
She looked at the floor, which was once again dirty, gray vinyl, and at the double doors which were where they were supposed to be.
She stood alone in the high school hall, trying to figure out what had just happened.
“What in the world is going on with me?” she questioned out loud. She searched her thoughts for some logical explanation for how the morning had unfolded, but nothing came readily to mind. In the few short hours since she had gotten out of bed, there had been nothing but chaos.
After lingering for a few more stunned seconds, she decided that she had better get to her next class. She didn’t want to walk into class late—that was always awkward—but she couldn’t think of anything else to do instead.
“I got sick . . . I was in the bathroom throwing up . . . I must’ve eaten something . . . .” She tried to think up a good excuse to give her teacher for her tardiness. “Well, at least it’s Ms. Devereaux, and not Mr. Lee.” She shuddered at the mere mention of him.
After a few minutes, she reached the back auditorium door leading to the stage where her advanced drama class met. This was Maggie’s favorite class due largely to Ms. Devereaux, the eccentric, but always cheerful drama teacher. Ms. Devereaux’s quirky charm was a welcome ray of sunshine after dealing with Mr. “Math Nazi” Lee.
“Oh, Maggie dear,” Ms. Devereaux smiled sweetly as she came in.
She half-heartedly smiled back as she stopped to take in today’s version of her wonderfully unique teacher.
One could never be sure what to expect when they entered into the presence of Angelique Devereaux. Today, she wore a bright pink, ankle-length taffeta skirt that was held out widely at the bottom by layers and layers of lime green netting. Her top was a flowing, white peasant blouse with small, pink polka dots on the large, billowing sleeves. Her long, thick, silvery hair was tied up in a green scarf with crinkly fringe on the ends, and her eyes were framed by large, hot pink glasses. Due to the brightest pink lipstick imaginable, her lips seemed to be leaping off her face.
She walked over to Maggie and took her warmly by the hand. “I was worried about you, love. You do look pale! Brigeet said that you were not feeling well.” Ms. Devereaux’s voice was soft and soothing, with the slightest hint of a French accent. “Will you be here tomorrow, do you think?”
“Um,” Maggie frowned, “I’m here now.”
She realized as she spoke that something wasn’t right. As she looked past her teacher to the students busily rehearsing skits, she noticed that these were not her usual classmates.
“Oh, fantastic!” she moaned. She couldn’t believe that yet another bizarre twist had been thrown into her day. She looked at the back wall of the auditorium where large Roman numerals formed a gigantic clock.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” she moaned.
The clock read 11:35—nearly two hours after her friends had left her standing in the misty field at her locker.
Maggie stood staring at the auditorium clock without moving for several seconds. It wasn’t hard for Ms. Devereaux to see that she was upset. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks; her breath was choppy and her chin quivered uncontrollably.
The kind and caring teacher touched her on the shoulder in an effort to console her, but it was too late for that. Maggie was convinced that she was on a fast train to Looneyville, and no amount of consolation could stop it.
“Uh . . . I’ve . . . gotta go!” she mumbled shakily. She couldn’t think clearly anymore. She had to get out—right now!
She took three steps backward and turned away from the eyes of the other students who had stopped acting to look at her. As she ran across the stage and back towards the hall, her eyes became so clouded with tears that she didn’t see the large stage curtain right in front of her.
“Oh! Uh . . . Maggie!” Ms. Devereaux tried to warn her, but it was too late! She smacked into the heavy purple velvet curtain so hard that it knocked her feet out from under her; she landed flat on her back on the floor with a loud thud.
Several gasps and a few sniggers filled the room behind her.
She heard Ms. Devereaux repeating, “Oh, my dear . . . oh, my dear!” as she rushed over to see if she was hurt.
Maggie gasped, trying to regain the breath that had been knocked out of her by the hard wooden stage floor. She knew that she couldn’t bear to face anyone after the way she had just humiliated herself. She sprang to her feet and ran clumsily across the stage, down the steps to the door, and out into the hall.
The tears now literally jumped from her eyes and onto her wet cheeks. She leaned against a locker, and sliding slowly down it to the floor, curled up into a sobbing, hysterical ball. “Wh-at . . . is . . . is happening to me-he . . . he?” she blubbered. She looked up at the ceiling and yelled, “What else could possibly happen?”
“Hey, Blue Eyes!”
She couldn’t believe it! There, standing a couple of feet away was none other than Holden Guarlo, sporting a big, goofy grin. Without saying another word he sidled up next to her, and slid down right beside her on the floor.
She couldn’t speak. She was somewhere between shocked and furious. She clenched her fists and seriously thought about slugging Holden as hard as she could, but as she turned to face him, something caught her off guard.
Up close, Holden had the most incredible eyes. They were not just green, but fluorescent emerald. She stared at his incredible eyes for several seconds, completely mesmerized.
“Hellooooo,” Holden waved his hand in front of her face. “I know I’m B-E-A-Utiful, but you are totally making me blush by staring!” He frowned just a little.
Maggie snapped back into reality and sighed disgustedly. “What are you doing here?”
Holden’s nerdy smile was back. “Rough day?” he asked, ignoring her question entirely.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Again, Holden ignored her and continued, “Ya know, it’s crazy, Blue . . . things happen you can’t explain . . . you think you’re losin’ your marbles . . . and then someone comes along who understands, and it all seems to be okay.” He spoke like he was some sort of great philosopher.
Maggie’s jaw dropped open. He seemed to understand a little too well—with the exception of someone coming along and making things okay.
“What are you talking about?” she asked, almost afraid of what the answer would be. “Are you some sort of freakish mind reader or something?”
“Nah,” Holden chuckled.
“Okay, then.” She wanted some answers. “How is it that you knew I had blue eyes from across the room,” she stood up and started to yell, “and you just happened to have a ten page report on rational expressions with you . . . and you knew about the pond! How can you sit here and tell me exactly what I am feeling, when I haven’t told you a thing? Who are you?”
Fortunately, they were in the hall where the only classroom was the stage used by the drama classes. Everyone was used to overly exuberant conversations emanating from this area of the school. Otherwise, Maggie’s shouting would have drawn a great deal of attention.
Holden, too, jumped to his feet; he grabbed Maggie by the shoulders. She tried to pull away, but he had a very firm grip. He looked at her with condescension, shook her three or four times, and then let go.
