Prom

Development

The next morning, Amy took the toothbrush Beatrice had left for her out of its box. It was simple, a flat ruby body and a square, white head of bristles with a pale blue stripe down the center. But the bristles were very stiff. Much stiffer than the bristles on Amy's old toothbrush. They hurt when they rubbed against her gums, and soon the green foam of toothpaste around her teeth was tinged with red. Her mouth tasted of mint and blood. It was a good taste. Besides, the pain woke her up. She felt fresh. Energized, even. Thanks, Beatrice. She squeezed out another dollop of toothpaste and brushed again, making sure to get at every part of her gums. Then she flossed. She got deep in the spaces between her teeth, let it hurt, let herself bleed.

She was practically buzzing as she bounced down the stairs towards breakfast. She poured an extra large helping of lucky charms into her SpongeBob bowl, her favorite one from when she was little. Filled it up to the rim with milk. It tasted bland. She picked up the box, looked at the expiration date. No problem. Weird, it was OK yesterday. Now it was like mulch. She didn't worry about it, choked down about half of the bowl, strained out the milk in the sink and dumped the soggy cereal into the trash. Her dad had left her some coffee in the coffee maker, so she poured it in a mug and took a sip. Bitter today. Never mind. She was feeling good.

Green leaves fluttered on trees on the way to school. The sky was a plush blanket of cotton ball clouds, bathing everything in a soft, gentle light. She passed Wilhelm Elementary and waved to the crossing guard with his stop sign and neon yellow belt. He waved back. A little girl skipping across the street in front of a stopped pickup truck waved at both of them and everybody smiled.

Since last night, Amy had been bursting to tell somebody about Beatrice. Her first chance was in homeroom. Mr. Simmons had his back turned and was annotating the S.M.A.R.T. system of note taking on the board. Amy’s friend Kala sat directly to her left. She was slumped over her desk, head propped up with one hand. Amy scooted closer. The metal legs of her chair made a harsh scraping sound against the linoleum, and Kala tilted her head slightly to look over.

Amy leaned in close, lowered her voice to a whisper. “I have something to tell you, but you can’t tell anyone and you can’t think I’m crazy.”

“Okay.” Kala’s voice was flat. Her expression didn’t change. I bet this will wake her up, thought Amy. She leaned in even closer.

“I saw Beatrice Walker last night.” Kala’s eyes widened. She took her head off of her hand, seemed to study Amy’s face. Something in her expression was different than Amy had expected, and it bothered her. Kala looked stricken, fascinated, horrified – but not surprised. Amy wasn’t sure what to say. They regarded each other in silence until Kala broke it with an urgent whisper.

 “You got one too?”

For a moment, Amy was overcome with shock, and it was her turn to give Kala the appraising look of a fellow knower of dark knowledge. So she wasn’t the only one. It seemed to bother Kala, but it made Amy feel even more comfortable than she already had. There wasn’t anything so weird that a friend couldn’t help you through it.

She reached for Kala’s hand and squeezed it.

Kala squeezed back. She looked down. “It was so disgusting,” she said. “Who could make something like that?”

It took Amy a second to process. Her smile faded. “What do you mean, make?”

Kala looked at her, bewildered. “They’re fake. Aren’t they?”

 “What are?”

Kala froze for a second. Then the emotion drained from her face and she pulled her hand away. “I thought you got one,” she said. “Pictures of Beatrice.”

There was something about the way she said it. Amy felt a chill. “What kind of pictures?”

Kala looked away, shook her head. There were dark circles under her eyes and her skin looked puffy. Amy suddenly wondered if she had gotten any sleep the night before. Pictures, she thought. She imagined Beatrice’s face, her laugh, and some of the rumors she heard. She felt uneasy now and to calm herself she ran her tongue under her sharp upper canines, but there was barely any blood and her mouth tasted so sour she hardly noticed it anyway.

Then Kala’s eyes were on hers again. “What did you mean you saw her?”

Amy took in her worry, her fatigue. She didn’t want to make it worse. “Just a dream,” she said. Kala shook her head with a mixture of envy and contempt, then blew out a long breath of air and rested her head back on her hand. Amy bit hard at the inside of her cheek, and she squeezed her fists with the pain until there was a thin sheet of blood down one side of her tongue and she felt better again.

And then she started getting thirsty. By the end of second period it was so bad she left her books on the desk and ran outside to the water fountain as soon as the bell rang. But the inside of her mouth was so raw and cut up from that it hurt to drink, and the little water she managed to swallow didn’t seem to help her thirst at all. Her throat was so parched she thought she could feel it cracking when she moved. She spent the first half of third period chewing on her index finger to distract herself, carefully avoiding her sharp canines but at the same time so tempted just to flick the tip across one of their sharp points and get a fresh taste of blood. It was funny how quickly some bad habits could get out of hand when you were stressed.

Gradually, the thirst died down, and by the time the bell rang at the end of the period it was gone. Still, she made an effort at lunchtime to drink an extra orange juice, even though it tasted sour and stung the cuts in her mouth. The energy that she had started the day with was by now long gone, and she felt the beginnings of a headache. Nobody mentioned Beatrice Walker, and she didn’t bring up the subject. She didn’t say much of anything.

The thirst came back midway through the afternoon, and this time it didn’t go away. She stopped by a convenience store on the way home and stood in front of the glass wall of the fridge. There were hundreds of drinks there. Waters, juices, sodas. She was so thirsty, but she didn’t want any of it. Finally, she settled on a V8. She cracked open the can right there, poured it into her mouth, but it tasted like old ketchup and she coughed it out in a big bubble.

She stared up at her reflection in the glass wall, thick red smeared all around her mouth and dripping down her front lip. And then she realized.