The Perfectionists

Chapter 26

THURSDAY AFTER SCHOOL, MAL HOVERED outside Elliot's office. The sun streamed in through the windows, making dappled patterns on the carpet. Traffic swished by out the window, creating soothing, soporific white noise. Elliot hadn't noticed her yet, but instead was staring very intensely at something on his computer screen. Mal wondered what it was. A psychologists' forum? The Auradon Times? Porn?

Then Elliot glanced up. He paled and jumped, then smiled awkwardly. "Mal!" he said in a loud voice. "I didn't see you there! Come in, come in!"

Mal slouched into the room, pulling the hoodie securely over her head. She slumped down on the couch and hugged a pillow. She could feel Elliot looking at her.

"Is everything okay?" Elliot asked with hesitation.

Mal shrugged. He could probably sense how antsy she felt. How prickly. She'd hesitated at the front door of the building for at least ten minutes before actually stepping inside, unsure she wanted to face his questioning during this session. Because she knew there would be questioning. Even crazy Mal was accountable for her meltdowns.

Elliot sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "So, Mal. I'm guessing you don't want to talk about the cemetery."

"No," Mal barked. She covered her ears. "No, no, no."

"Hey, it's okay." Elliot rose from his seat, stepped forward, and gently lifted her hands away. He met her eyes, his bow-shaped lips curving into a smile. "Listen. We don't have to talk about it. I promise. We can talk about something else."

Mal blinked. "W-why don't you want me to talk about it?" she demanded.

"Because obviously you're not ready," Elliot said, raising his palms. "And that's fine. You have your reasons for not liking cemeteries. We can explore that, or we'll talk about something else. I'll never push you on anything."

Mal sat quietly for a moment, letting this sink in. It felt like reverse psychology, but annoyingly, it was working. "It's like something prevented me from going in there, a mental block or something," she stated, trying to make sense of her emotions. "You know how psychics can tell if a place is cursed or tainted or if something bad happened there? It's a feeling like that, maybe."

"What do you think happened there?"

Mal shrugged. "I don't really know. People died, obviously. Maybe that's all." Elliot nodded, but it looked like he didn't completely believe her. Mal wasn't sure she believed herself, in fact—but she knew she didn't want to walk through those gates."

"Are you angry at me for taking you there?" Elliot asked, looking worried.

Mal shook her head. "Not exactly," she said quietly. "I mean, I guess I felt a little ambushed. But I didn't know I was going to react that way until I was actually there."

"What did the reaction feel like?" Mal shut her eyes. "I wish I could explain it. But I can't. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Mal." He smiled, looking straight at her. No one ever looked straight at her these days. "We can take our time." He paused and looked down at his hands. "There's no rush."

They smiled at each other, and Mal's heart did another leap. It wasn't like her to make emotional confessions to people. Even the old Mal kept her emotions pretty close to the vest. But she needed someone in her corner besides Evie.

Then he jumped up. "You know, I have a book on articulating emotions that might help you. Hang on—it's in reception. Let me grab it."

He swept out the door quickly and was gone. Mal sat back, her heart still hammering. But she felt good, too—it really felt like Elliot got her.

She looked around his office, thinking how little she knew about him. There wasn't a lot out on his desk—just an old-fashioned banker's lamp, an empty in-box, and a molded-plastic flower with a solar panel that wiggled its leaves in the thin sunlight. Who was Elliot Fielder? What made him tick? Did he have family in the area? Was he married? What did he like to read? What sort of music did he have on his iPod? What was he looking at on his computer when she came in?

Wouldn't anyone wonder about some basic facts? Elliot knew so much about her, after all, it seemed only fair to reciprocate.

She glanced through the crack in the door again—he was still looking through the books on the main bookshelf. Quietly, she stood and moved to his computer. As she wiggled the mouse, the National Geographic nature-photos screen saver disappeared, and a log-in screen popped up.

On a whim, she picked up the keyboard and turned it over. When she worked in the attendance office her sophomore year, she'd taped all the passwords she had a hard time remembering there. Great minds must think alike because there was a piece of paper printed with small, tight print.

FIELDER_E/pr0m3th3us_b0und

Before she could think about it twice, she typed it in.

A photograph filled the computer screen. At first, Parker blinked. She immediately recognized the location. It had been taken in the Arbor Mall just outside the food court. A girl in a black hoodie sat alone at a table, sipping Coke from a straw, her long hair peeking out over the collar of her sweatshirt.

It was . . . her.

She clicked on an arrow icon. Another picture sprang up—her again. She was sitting on her mom's porch, smoking a cigarette, her hoodie pulled over her face. Another arrow click. The next photo was taken from a vantage just across the street from the school as she disappeared through the big double doors. Another showed her in sneakers and shorts and that same hoodie, jogging by the lake.

It hadn't been her imagination at all. Someone had been following her. Elliot.

"What are you doing?"

Elliot stood in the doorway, a paperback book in one hand. His face was as white as a cloud, his eyes suddenly hard. She shot up, knocking something off his desk by accident, but she didn't stop to pick it up.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice shaking with barely controlled rage. "What the hell are these pictures doing on your computer?"

"That computer is full of confidential information," he said, slapping the book down on the couch and taking a step toward her. "Do you realize how much trouble I could get in if you saw the wrong thing?"

She gave a high bark of laughter. "The wrong thing? Like the fact that you're stalking me?"

He moved faster than she would have expected. Suddenly his hand was like a vise around her wrist. "You have to listen to me, Mal."

But before he could finish his sentence, a scream tore from her throat. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. She barely knew who she was. Panic seized her, and all she knew was that she had to get away. She kicked Elliot's knee with all her strength. A dull crack filled the air. His hand unclenched, and she bolted for the door.

Then she ran and ran, until her lungs heaved painfully in her chest and her legs felt like rubber. If she could have, she would have run forever—away from Elliot, away from Auradon, and away from her horrible life.