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“He’s late,” Clyde said. “I just saw him go into the teacher’s lounge.”

  Audrey hesitated, and Clyde said, “It’ll just take a second.” From inside his coat, he pulled out a manila envelope.

  “What’s that?” Audrey said, afraid it was connected somehow with Wickham’s Heisenberg paper for Mrs. Leacock.

  “It’s . . . ,” Clyde began, then looked down at the envelope. His long fingers were caked with light brown clay.

  Audrey glanced down the hallway—it was almost empty now. If she kept standing here, she was going to be late. “It’s what ?” she said impatiently.

  Clyde looked both serious and fearful. “It’s . . . information I think you should have.”

  He extended the envelope toward her, but Audrey wasn’t ready to take it. “What kind of information?” she asked.

  Clyde sounded almost apologetic. “Important information.” He made his voice softer. “About someone you know.”

  Audrey’s voice was sharp. “Who?”

  Clyde looked at her uncertainly, then lowered his eyes. “Wickham.”

  A kind of rage took hold of Audrey. What right did Clyde Mumsford have to be giving her information about Wickham? In a tight voice she said, “So you’re here to debrief me about Wickham Hill?”

  Clyde stood there, stiff and quiet.

  “Where did you get this so-called important information?” Audrey asked, and when Clyde just stood there looking uncomfortable, something occurred to her, something that felt like a revealed truth. She said, “You’re the Yellow Man, aren’t you?”

  He had a caught-in-the-headlights look. “What?” he said.

  She held up The Yellow Paper. “This is your work, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, that,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you who’s behind that.” He took a deep breath and rubbed some of the dried clay off his hands. “Look, Audrey, I’m giving you this envelope because I’m worried about you.”

  Audrey had to keep herself from shouting. “You’re worried about me? What right do you have to be worried about me ?”

  Down the hall, Mr. Perry stepped out of the teacher’s lounge and ambled toward them, carrying a coffee cup and his tattered literature anthology. His hard heels clicked on the concrete floor.

  Audrey turned back to Clyde. “I’m not taking that envelope,” she said in a hard, low voice. “I don’t want your sleazy information, because I think what you’re doing right now is sleazier than anything that envelope might contain.”

  When Clyde spoke this time, his voice had more bite to it. “Well,” he said, “that’s where you’d be wrong.”

  Again he extended the envelope in his clay-caked hand.

  Mr. Perry, drawing near them, said amiably, “Miss Reed, if you were to beat me through that door, I could avoid marking you tardy.”

  Audrey glanced at Mr. Perry, then back at Clyde. “Keep your important information to yourself,” she said in a tight whisper. “In fact, keep everything about yourself to yourself.”

  As she turned to go, Clyde, in a rising voice, said, “Then ask Wickham about a girl whose name was Jade Marie Creamer.”

  Audrey felt as if she were fleeing a bad dream. She hurried through the classroom door and, avoiding all eye contact, slid into her seat.

  Mr. Perry, entering the room, said, “Today, fellow lovers of literature, I have the pleasure of introducing you to a book and a boy named Huckleberry Finn.”

  Audrey stopped listening and went back over the weird conversation she’d just had with Clyde Mumsford.

  Jade Marie Creamer.

  Who in the world was Jade Marie Creamer? And what did Wickham have to do with her? Images piled up, and questions, until Audrey almost couldn’t think.

  Up front, Mr. Perry was saying, “So if you will turn to page 1045.”

  I couldn’t tell you who’s behind that. That’s what Clyde said when Audrey showed him The Yellow Paper and asked if he was the Yellow Man. I couldn’t tell you who’s behind that.

  Which wasn’t the same as denying it, was it?

  And if Clyde was writing The Yellow Paper—and deep in her bones, she was sure now that he was—what would keep him from using his sleazy information about Wickham in the next installment of “Outed”?

  Chapter 40

  Mrs. Leacock

  Audrey had hoped to see Wickham again before Mrs. Leacock’s third-period class, but hadn’t. He walked through the door just before the bell, looking calm and assured, carrying his Heisenberg paper, his textbook, and, sandwiched in between, a copy of The Yellow Paper. He wasn’t alone. Up and down the rows, Audrey could see The Yellow Paper lying under notebooks or peeking out of book bags.

  Mrs. Leacock must have seen them, too. “Before handing in your papers, people, please pass forward for disposal any copies you may have of the yellow sleaze sheet distributed today—and please, it would behoove you not to protest First Amendment rights. In this small fiefdom, the right of privacy and personal dignity trumps one’s right to defame. So please, if you will, pass them forward.”

  A reluctant rustling; then, from silent student to silent student, the Yellow Papers moved forward.

  “Careful how you handle them,” Mrs. Leacock said. “They’re germ-bearing, and the disease is communicable among weaker individuals.”

  Mrs. Leacock stood at the head of the class, twisting her ring and waiting. She wore one of her striped sweater sets, and her nails were the exact same shade of red as the stripes across her perfectly smooth acrylic sweater. Her lipstick was freshly applied and inhumanly dark. When the Yellow Papers were collected into a stack, she held open a plastic bag for a girl in the first row to drop them into. Mrs. Leacock tied the bag’s handles and ceremoniously dropped the bag into the metal wastebasket.

  “And now,” she said, visibly relaxing, “your own papers, please.”

  From behind, Wickham handed his paper to Audrey. Audrey handed both of their essays—the type fonts like identical twins—to Greg Telman, who added his own and passed them forward.

  “Well, well!” Mrs. Leacock said as she flipped through the papers handed to her from one row. “Someone had the nerve to do Freeman Dyson’s quest to extend human life into the extreme future.”

  Audrey regarded Mrs. Leacock’s smile—dark-lipped and tight—and realized she had never seen her laugh. Actually laugh. And she couldn’t imagine Mrs. Leacock crying. She couldn’t imagine Mrs. Leacock’s personal life at all, or her past, either. She was always twisting the gold ring on her ring finger, and she was Mrs. Leacock—so she must be married— but who, really, would have fallen in love with her? And if she’d had kids, what kind of mother would she have been? Audrey tried to imagine Mrs. Leacock smothering a toddler in kisses, but couldn’t.

  Lots of her teachers would illustrate things they were teaching with examples from their own lives, but not Mrs. Leacock. No, Mrs. Leacock was there to teach you physics or human biology or chemistry, and you either learned it or you didn’t—it was all the same to her—and then, when she drove away from Jemison High and entered her private life, she locked and double-locked the door behind her.

  Well, Audrey thought, that’s why it’s called your private life— because it’s private.

  Or at least it used to be.

  But now you knew that Patrice Newman wasn’t just a World Cultures teacher, but also a former teen shoplifter. And you knew that Miss Taylor, while teaching French, was afraid of getting old. And when married Mr. Ingram stood in front of your class, you could sit there imagining him trying to walk a straight line while his girlfriend and a cop stood and watched.

  And it wasn’t just open season on teachers. It was open season on everybody. Audrey had the awful feeling that Wickham was Clyde’s next victim. What did Clyde know about Wickham, and how did he find it out?

  Mrs. Leacock slipped the fat bundle of essays into a canvas tote bag and turned to the chalkboard. She began to write, and Audrey began to copy, trying not to think about somebody out in the world whose name was
Jade Marie Creamer. She thought about writing a note to Wickham and passing it back, but made herself stop.

  You will not ask Wickham, she thought. You will not ask Wickham.

  But she didn’t have to.

  Chapter 41

  People vs. Wickham Hill

  Just before lunch that day, Audrey went to her locker and found that two sheets of paper had been slipped through the narrow vents of the locker door. Normally, Lea and C.C. were the ones who took advantage of the built-in mail drops— pushing notes, photographs, and the occasional cartoon inside—so Audrey unfolded the papers expecting diversion, but instead found herself looking at some sort of abbreviated legal printout, which read:

  Cypress County Superior Court, State of South Carolina People vs. Wickham Edward Hill

  Vehicular manslaughter. Guilty. Sentenced: 5 years parole. Driver’s license revoked.

  So this was from Clyde Mumsford. This was what he’d wanted to hand her between classes, and when she’d refused the papers, he’d stuffed them into her locker. It made her furious, and she knew she ought to crumple them up without reading them, but she couldn’t. She turned to the second page.

  It contained a downloaded article from a newspaper called The Cypress Telegram, which read:

  A Cypress County teenager was charged yesterday with vehicular manslaughter in connection with the death of a juvenile female on March 3 of this year.

  The 16-year-old male allegedly lost control of the Toyota sedan he was driving, resulting in the immediate death of Jade Marie Creamer, age 15. Two other passengers in the car were injured. The name of the juvenile driver was withheld by the court.

  According to court documents, the accused is enrolled at Leighton Hall, a private school located two miles southeast of Cypress. The Telegram has also learned that three of the passengers in the car are enrolled at the school. A spokesman for Leighton Hall would neither confirm nor deny involvement of any of its students.

  The deceased girl, Jade Marie Creamer, was a cousin of one of the other passengers in the car. She was a sophomore at Cypress West High, a member of the Thespians Club, the Model UN, and the debate team.

  The accompanying photograph of Jade Marie Creamer looked like a school picture. She wasn’t a beautiful girl, but she had perfect teeth and an expression that seemed both perky and assertive.

  Audrey flipped quickly back to the legal page. Wickham’s conviction followed the news account by just less than three months. About the right time. And it would explain why Wickham never drove.

  An image returned to Audrey’s mind, the scene she’d dreamed up while Mrs. Leacock was talking about Schrödinger’s Cat. Men and women in lab coats stood around a steel box. They said the cat was dead. They said the cat was alive. They said he was both. They checked their watches to see how much longer they had to wait for their observations to change reality. The cat, meanwhile, didn’t even know what they were waiting for.

  Audrey stuffed the papers back into the envelope. Sweat dampened her shirt and she felt almost dizzy. She headed for the bathroom, the only one she and Lea and C.C. would use, the one tucked between the C and D buildings, where almost nobody ever went.

  It is just as likely that no atom has decayed, the acid remains in the flask, and the cat remains alive.

  That’s what Mrs. Leacock had said, and Audrey had written it down.

  It was lunchtime, but she didn’t care about lunch. All she cared about was calming down. Calming down and figuring out how to keep Clyde Mumsford from crushing the flask and opening the box. It would be so easy for Clyde. All he would have to do is smear poor Wickham all over the next Yellow Paper.

  KILLER FROM CAROLINA. WHO CREAMED THE CREAMER GIRL?

  In Audrey’s mind, the trapped cat crouched and stared, waiting anxiously for something it could not even imagine, and the cat was Wickham, who had to be saved.

  Chapter 42

  Two Birds

  The C&D bathroom was empty. Someone had written “XES YEKNOM NO SEY” on one of the stalls in red ink, which made no sense to Audrey until she saw it reflected in the mirror—“YES ON MONKEY SEX.” What was she doing in a school like this, with people like these? She had no idea. Absolutely no idea.

  Audrey pulled back her long hair, twisted it, and tucked the loose ends into her collar, then wetted her face. The water felt cold, but good. She rolled up her sleeves and ran water on her forearms. She was feeling better. She closed her eyes and was touching wet fingertips to her eyelids when, from just behind her, she heard a voice, a male voice.

  “Just freshening up?”

  Audrey’s eyes shot open, and she spun around.

  Theo Driggs stood to her left, blocking the doorway.

  Audrey couldn’t think what to say. She said, “You can’t be here.”

  Theo smiled, but not enough to show his teeth. “Yeah, those are the rules. But only losers play by the rules. That’s why they lose.”

  He stepped closer and looked in the mirror at their reflections.

  Audrey said to his reflection, “You need to leave now.”

  Theo didn’t move. “Know what I’ve been thinking a lot about?” He did something with his eyes. Something that made them lift slightly, as if to put them on high beam. “You. And how far you’ve worked your way up my to-do list.” He leaned close to Audrey’s neck and took a deep breath. “God. You smell so good.”

  Audrey felt a clammy fear enfold her.

  Theo leaned closer to the mirror and seemed to be checking his teeth for food bits. As he leaned forward, a folded piece of yellow paper was observable in his shirt pocket. Theo closed his mouth but kept studying his image. His eyes were on low beam now. “A girl told me I have sensual lips. What do you think? Do I have sensual lips?”

  Audrey didn’t answer.

  Theo turned from the mirror to stare at her directly. “You don’t think we’re compatible, do you?” he said.

  Audrey still didn’t speak.

  “Why is that?” he said, and his eyes shifted to high beam again. “Because you’re rich, or because you think you’re smarter than me, or what?”

  They stood staring at each other.

  “You know, you might be smarter than me, and then again you might not. The school makes me go to this lady headshrinker, and she tells me I’ve got the big IQ.” Theo made a false smile. “She thinks I just don’t know how to channel my abilities constructively.”

  He laughed a hard, derisive laugh and kept his high beams fixed on Audrey.

  From outside, a voice called in: “Hey, Theo, what about it? We going to the car or not?”

  Theo stood between her and the door, and the moment Audrey thought she ought to scream was the moment she knew she couldn’t. Screaming wouldn’t help.

  Theo’s tone turned falsely conversational. “The thing is, compatibility’s not so easy to read. You need to go for a spin with us, spend a little time with the guys and me, get to know us.” He leaned forward, and one side of his mouth slid upward. “We’re not so bad,” he said, close enough so that she smelled a sour mix of tobacco and licorice on his breath.

  He leaned farther forward. Suddenly, without thinking, without really meaning to, Audrey said, “I know who wrote that stuff about you in The Yellow Paper.”

  Theo’s eyes, already on high beam, brightened further. “And who would that be?”

  “You’ll let me out of here?”

  A full few seconds passed before Theo nodded.

  “You promise?”

  He nodded.

  “Clyde Mumsford.”

  Audrey thought she saw Theo’s pupils actually dilate and then contract as he absorbed this news. And then he seemed to relax, as if he now had something else to look forward to.

  “You can go, Miss Caviar,” he said. But when she stepped forward, he didn’t immediately move. “Just so you know, you’re not off my to-do list.” He looked off to the side. “All that’s happened is, somebody moved ahead of you.” He was looking at her again, fastening his
salamander eyes on her, smiling at her. “I’ll get back to you after I stop the presses.”

  Theo stood aside then, and just like that she was past him, out the door, onto the pavement. Three of Theo’s friends looked up as she passed, but she kept her eyes straight ahead.

  Once she was beyond them, she wanted to stop feeling scared, but couldn’t. She also felt like a coward, but what she’d done was what she’d had to do, wasn’t it? And besides, she’d killed two birds with one stone. She’d saved herself from Theo and she’d saved Wickham from Clyde.

  Chapter 43

  Transportation Services

  All afternoon, Audrey wanted to be with Wickham, be in a warm house with him while snow fell outside, but when she and Lea and C.C. found him after school, he was at the rusty water fountain near his locker, swallowing his migraine medicine.

  C.C. asked what he was taking, and he made a faint smile and said, “Imitrex, and”—he glanced at the water fountain— “swamp water.”

  He just wanted to go home, he said, and so Audrey drove him, with C.C. and Lea in the backseat asking solicitous questions about the migraines. They seemed to come in streaks, Wickham said. They weren’t that bad. He just had to ride them out.

  Lea leaned forward. “This is what my dad does for my mom when she has migraines,” she said, and began slowly rubbing two fingers in tight circles on his temples.

  Wickham leaned back, closed his eyes, and said, “Mmmm.” “Be careful,” C.C. said. “If that cures your headache, Lea’ll start trying to convert you to her whole homeopathic lifestyle.”

  In her soft voice, Lea said, “A girl takes a few antioxidants and her friends turn on her.”

  Wickham said weakly that if she cured his headache, he’d just say “maybe” to drugs—which got a laugh from everyone, including Audrey.

  “I’ll call you when the Imitrex kicks in,” he said to Audrey as he got out, and after C.C. climbed into the front seat, Audrey backed up the Lincoln to drive C.C. and Lea home.

  The roads were lined with hard, dirty snow, and Audrey was trying to remember the night this same snow had fallen and she and Wickham had slipped inside the snow globe. It seemed like a long time ago.