As we wait to transfer Tomlin’s questions to our journals, Quan and I play tic-tac-toe on our half of the dry-erase table. It’s the only way I can keep myself from staring at the mirrored wall on the north side of the room.
The scent of chalk dust and chemicals irritates my nose, though it’s pleasant compared to Kat’s overpowering perfume and the stench of dry-erase markers saturating the air. Roxie, the resident artist, draws sketches of me on their half of the white surface. She puts an impressive likeness on a cross made of musical scores, my hands and feet nailed in place by quarter notes and whole notes, my eyes blocked out with treble clefs. It’s an obvious reference to the idiot I’ve made of myself during rehearsals and auditions over the past three days, and my cheeks grow hot when both girls start snickering.
Quan fakes a body-jolting sneeze. Eraser in hand, he swipes it through Roxie’s masterpiece as he drags his arm back across the table. I mime thank-you and he tips an imaginary hat, snubbing Roxie’s dagger glare.
By the time Tomlin reaches us to drop off our remaining lab materials, we’ve wiped our entire table clean.
“Each group needs to check the screw top on their spring scale,” our teacher stresses. “Make sure it’s calibrated to line up with the capital N. It takes a specific amount of force to stretch that spring. You want to be sure you’re measuring the stretch accurately when recording your newtons.”
Just as he hands off the final scale, there’s a knock at the door. He opens up enough to step out but ducks his head back in. “Everyone get started. Mister Jippetto’s here to discuss theater props. I’ll be out in the hall if anyone has questions.” Then the door shuts behind him.
The class erupts in whispers and the sounds of books being shuffled, wooden planks being adjusted, and journal pages being flipped.
“Well, shoot.” Kat pouts her lips. “Our scale is broken.” She holds up the tool that I could’ve sworn wasn’t missing the top piece earlier when Tomlin placed it next to her. “This would be a good opportunity for Rune to see the walk-in closet where the Prof keeps all the extra supplies, don’t you think, Roxie?”
The girls exchange twin smirks, devious enough to light up a warning inside me like a fiery red flare.
Roxie offers to show me the way, but Quan stands up instead. “I’ll take her,” he says.
We walk side by side toward the back of the room where a door waits. I don’t have to try to ignore our classmates watching us. My mind is preoccupied with the movement I’m catching in the mirrors via my peripheral vision, as if something or someone’s following alongside me. A reflection . . . a shift in the atmosphere . . . an omen, maybe.
I won’t let myself go there, remembering my logic from the night before. It was the caretaker that I saw the day I arrived. The one who’s standing in the hall right now talking to Tomlin. As soon as I meet him in person, it will be confirmed.
We arrive at the closet and Quan tugs the door open. The light switch doesn’t work, so neither of us can see inside. He shrugs. “Let me get a flashlight.”
I nod and opt to wait at the threshold while he heads to Tomlin’s desk. My eyes adjust to the shelves along the left wall. There’s a box labeled: TUBULAR SPRING SCALES. I step inside to dig through it.
A shiver races through me when something rakes the top of my head. Lifting my hand, I feel the outline of a shoe tugging my hair. I look up in the same instant Quan arrives and flips on the flashlight, revealing a body swaying above me on a noose tied to the light fixture.
Icy terror freezes me in place. I scream, my vocal cords strained to near breaking and my bones shaking as if they’ll shatter.
Quan drags me out and props me against the wall. The world seems to move in slow motion. “Rune, you okay? It was a dummy. Someone played a sick joke.” His eyes narrow to angry slits as he looks over his shoulder to our table, where Kat and Roxie are doubled over, snorting with laughter.
My heart pounds in my chest, trying to speed things up again. Trying to hammer me back together.
Puzzled classmates join with the laughter—a timid chain reaction—first confusion, then relief that they weren’t on the receiving end of the prank. Tomlin rushes in with the caretaker at his side. The man is tiny, comparable to Audrey’s petite height, but portly. Still trying to catch my breath, I concentrate on him. His white beard and flannel shirt paired with a handkerchief cinched around his neck are a cross between a pint-size lumberjack and Santa Claus. He lifts a silver charm hanging under his handkerchief and blows it. The class silences as the sound of birdsong fills the room.