Touch

36

(Rowan Blanchard as Josie Splitzerman)

It's the following morning, about twenty minutes before the warning bell, and I'm actually relieved to be in school. I don't think Mom slept at all last night.

And neither did I. While she was busy pacing back and forth in the kitchen , drinking cup after cup of her dandelion tea, I lay in bed with my light on and the door open a crack, completely freaked out. At breakfast, I tried to ask Mom about Aunt Belle, but she wasn't up for talking.

Nor was Dad. Both just sort of sat at the table, staring off into space, Dad with his coffee and Mom with more tea. Neither mentioned anything about me wanting to talk last night.

Neither ever noticed that I sneaked away. The corridors at school are eerily deserted this morning. I look out my homeroom window, curious about whether there's been a fire drill, expecting to see rows of students lined up in the parking lot.

Instead, there are swarms of people hanging around by the football field. And so I head out there, too, not quite prepared for what I see.

Polly Piranha, the school's mascot, has once again been vandalized. Someone's changed the words that float above her fins from Freetown High, Home of the Piranhas to Freetown High, Home of the Convicted Murderer.

I look around for Zayn, wondering if he's seen it. Meanwhile , a group of freshman boys is practically in stitches on the sideline. And they're not the only ones.

People are laughing. Boys are high-fiving. Groups of girls are giggling between whispers. I turn to go back inside when I spot a mob of people crowded around a freshman girl.

She looks upset. Her face is red, and there are tears streaming down her cheeks. I get close so I can listen in. They're asking her questions about Zayn, about the notes he's supposedly left on her locker, the way he's been following her around, and how he's allegedly been staring her down in history class.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," she says, tucking her fists into the pockets of her coat. I move to the front of the crowd, until the girl and I are face to face. "What?" she asks, giving me the once -over. "Is your name Josie?" I ask.

"Who wants to know?"

"I do," I say, taking a step closer. She shuffles her feet and continues to study me; her deep brown eyes look me up and down. I hand her a tissue from my bag. "Are you Josie Splitzerman?" I ask. She takes the tissue and wipes her face.

There's a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. "Yeah," she says, finally. "Well, then, can we talk a minute... over there?" I gesture to a spot behind a row of parked cars. Josie tucks her curly auburn locks behind her ears and then returns her hands to her pockets. "I guess so," she says, still sniffling.

We move away from the crowd, making sure no one follows. "Is it true what I've been hearing?" I ask once we're behind the school van.

"If you're referring to the way Zayn Malik's been harassing me, the answer is yes."

"Can you be a bit more specific?"

"About the harassment?" I nod, noticing that her neck is all blotchy with hives. "It all started in history class," she says. "He kept staring at me, like he was trying to psych me out."

"Did he touch you?"

"Touch me?" She cocks her head, visibly confused. "I mean, did he grab you, or bump into you in any weird way?" She looks back at me, completely puzzled.

"He keeps his distance. He has some bizarro phobia, you know."

I manage a nod. "But that doesn't keep him from watching me," she continues. "It doesn't keep him from leaving notes on my locker, or following me home."

"He followed you home?" She nods. "A friend of mine spotted him sitting in the bushes across the street from my house."

"Did you do anything about it?"

"Of course I did. I told my parents; they called the school; my dad consulted a lawyer."

"And?"

"And what's it to you?" she asks, her lips bunching up. "Why are you asking me all this?"

"I'm just trying to figure things out." I look back toward the sign, and the word Murderer. "What's there to figure out? The guy murdered his girlfriend."

"He wasn't found guilty."

"Because the judicial system is stupid. The police told my dad there's nothing we can do about him, that he has rights, that there's nothing illegal about looking at someone or even watching their house."

"You called the police ?" I ask, remembering how Zayn suggested that I do the same.

"Well, yeah, we called them. He was hiding in the bushes," she reminds me. "Did you actually see him?"

"I didn't have to." She shrugs. "My friend saw him. She said he didn't even try to hide the fact that he was there. He just sort of sat there, huddled up, watching her watch him, like part of him enjoyed it. Like he didn't even care about getting caught."

"And, so, did you catch him? Did you go out there?"

"My dad went out, but Zayn was already gone. You could totally tell where he was hiding, though . My neighbor's bush was all mangled and broken. Apparently not evidence enough, though, even with my friend's word. He has to do something big for the police take us seriously."

"Something big?"

"Be careful," she warns me. "And watch your back, if you know what I mean." She peers over my shoulder, where a group of onlookers is forming. "No." I take a step closer.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't talk right now," she says, superconscious of the crowd. "But if you don't believe me about what's going on, just check this out." She pulls a note from her coat pocket and hands it to me. "It was taped up on my locker this morning."

I unfold it and stare down at the message.

The words You're Next! are scribbled across the page in black ink.

· · ·

The things you can't see are the things that are more real. ~ Tom Hanks

~ Malum