Chain Letter

Chapter Seven

Neil's "small token of obedience" was demanded and carried out without injury or insult to anyone. The Caretaker wanted him to get sick in class. The group debated whether it was actually necessary for him to vomit on somebody--"How gross!" Brenda had remarked--before deciding a fainting spell would probably be sufficient. Neil chose Algebra II to throw the fit. This was ironic--the math teacher was none other than Coach Sager, who's imaginary seduction they had been listening to when they had hit the man. Neil's selection, however, had been logically arrived at. His algebra class was immediately prior to lunch, just when a diabetic would be prone to trouble with his blood sugar level. Alison did not see the fake collapse but Tony was there and told her about it afterward.

"I knew it was coming and he still scared me. Neil should be in one of your plays; he's an incredible actor. He started by swaying in his chair, trying to catch a few people's attention that something was not right. But you know the kids at our school--they went right on minding their own business. Then he turned white--how, I have no idea. Still, no one spoke up and Sager went right on lecturing about X, Y, and Z. Finally, Neil just went ahead and did it. He groaned loudly and pitched forward onto the desk, rolling to the floor. The back of his head hit the tiles with a loud thud. You should have seen Sager; he reacted as if Neil had caught fire. He ripped off his sweater and draped it over Neil's body and started fanning him with an algebra book. Coach was about to try mouth-to-mouth resuscitation when I stepped in, explaining about the diabetes. Someone ran for orange juice and as soon as we put it to Niel's lips, he opened his eyes and smiled. He hadn't even drunk any of it! The whole thing was pretty funny in a way. That is, until his mother showed up. I was sitting with him in the nurse's station when she came in. She was very upset. You would have thought her son had died. She started crying and shaking, and you could see how much does bothered Neil. He was furious with himself. I guess, one way or the other, the Caretaker is letting none of us off easy."

Joan's command sounded inoffensive enough: Come School Dressed Bozo Clown. Alison wouldn't have minded that order. She might even have enjoyed it. But to punk, tough Joan, used to wearing leather and metal, it cut to the core of her image. "No way," she swore. "Let that bastard try what he wants."

That had been last week. But something had happened between then and now that worried Joan. She wanted a meeting of all seven of them. Fran's parents both worked, so they decided to gather at her house on a Wednesday afternoon after Tony's track practice. It was to be the first time since the accident that they were all in the same spot at the same time.

"Would anyone like some homemade chocolate chip cookies?" Fran asked, bustling about the kitchen table--the same table where they had opened the Caretaker's original letter--like the typically overly anxious hostess. "How about you, Neil?" she asked, reaching for winning smile. "You don't have to worry about your weight."

Neil looked up, rubbing his eyes. He had been resting his head in his arms. He smiled. "Homemade? Sounds wonderful."

"But all that sugar . . ." Tony began.

"One or two won't hurt," Neil said.

Fran brought out a warm plate of three dozen cookies and a half-gallon carton of milk. Alison helped herself--she always craved sweets when she was worried. Why had Tony chosen to sit next to Joan?

"We should get together like this more often," Kipp remarked, his mouth full.

"We always do have such an exciting time," Joan said sarcastically.

"I see you got a new car, Kipp," Alison said. He had driven up in a red Ford, a later model. "The Caretaker didn't do bad by you, after all."

Tony and Neil exchanged glances. Alison wondered what she was missing. Unconcerned, Kipp continued to dunk his cookies, muttering, "The old one had sentimental value."