Song of the Phoenix

Song of the Phoenix 

By Joy Reid

It seemed no-one could recall anything unfavourable about good old Mick, Mick the geek, the computer jerk who had laughed with helplessness when Tom Barton had suggested that he had more than a passing fancy for cats. Somehow, with his death, Mick "whom we will all greatly miss" had been rinsed clean of the taint of nerdom. Somehow, overnight, Michael Malone had become a celebrity.

Elissa shuddered and asked to leave the room. Mr Kennedy nodded his permission, shiny face stretched tight in an approximation of grief. "Take your time," he stage whispered mournfully as she made for the door, "I'll understand if you're not back before the bell."

Queer little tremors travelled down Elissa's legs as she sloshed across the water-logged quad on her way to the toilet block. How could they? How could they even begin to pretend that they cared? She shook her head, wearily. The depth of human hypocrisy seemed always capable of sinking a fraction or two lower. When, when would she stop being surprised?

Having entered the cinder block facility, Elissa opened several cubicle doors before she settled on a toilet that seemed marginally cleaner than the rest of the filthy offerings. She dropped the seat then plonked down to brood. All around her the scribblings of frustrated teenagers fought for attention. Elissa's eyes moodily traced the lop-sided hearts, the scrawled out former lovers, the comments on suspect virginity... and worse. She sighed, at least there was that compensation; she would never have to be confronted by Mick's faltering adoration again. She'd never asked for his attention. She'd only stepped in that time and interfered to give the bullies something to think about, and because, well, she couldn't stand the way everyone just stood back with smug, "here's fun" looks on their faces. How could she predict that her actions would be interpreted as meaning something more? She sighed again, regretfully.

Mick had taken to writing her poems; dreadful, sentimental, nicely rhymed - but! They'd appeared in her locker stuffed between the pages of her books. They'd been embarrassing and kind of sad, too. Now Mick was dead. Electrocuted by his computer; a makeshift contraption of spare parts and obsolescence. It seemed too appalling to be true. Too Steven King, too..., too who was that other writer - Koontz? Just too implausible.

On impulse, Elissa leapt up and searched for the felt tip pen she knew would be hidden somewhere high in the cubicle. When her probing fingers drew it out, she brushed back the hair from her face, hesitated a moment, then wrote in large letters: Michael Lives. A small, satisfied smile turned up one corner of her mouth. There! Let them chew on that. She replaced the pen and left.

Had she remained, Elissa would have been witness to a disturbing phenomenon. As the badly hung door swung complaining back, her message crept creepily into view. The bold, black lines she'd drawn, lines that intersected a dozen Gemma or Mary or Liz luvs Troy or Brad or Matt were suddenly highlighted by miniature tongues of flame. They flared instantly, searing the words into the woodwork, then they were extinguished. Small curls of blue smoke remained licking the edges while an acrid smell as of burning, rose.

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"Check this out," Tom yelped excitedly. Someone's ditched the school logo and put up another screen saver." 

"Gis us a look. Hey, way cool." 

"You know Mr Roth hates anyone booting up before he gets to class," Elissa reminded them.

"You trying out for teacher's pet now that Geek Boy's gone, Lissie baaaaby?" 

"No, I'm just reminding you of what happened, last time."