Another wave of sickness washed over me. I puked again. When I leaned back, Brian was standing in the open doorway.
“Damn, Della. You really are sick,” he said.
I wiped the side of my mouth and put a palm over my forehead. How long had they been home? Had I been so sick I didn’t even hear them come in?
“When did you get back?” I asked.
“Just now,” he said.
I heard Mom’s heavy steps walk behind him. “Della!” she shrieked. “My goodness, have you been doing this the whole time?”
“No,” I said, sitting down on the cold tile and leaning my back against the wall. “I just started. All I need is some water and I’ll be fine.”
Mom felt my forehead, still damp with sweat. “Poor thing. Do you need medicine?”
“I just need rest,” I said, closing my eyes. It was true. I couldn’t remember the last time I had steady sleep. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to sleep through the night again.
“Get your sister some water,” she told Brian.
He waited in the doorway a second longer before turning away.
Forty
Now
It’s almost noon when I wake up on Friday. I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept so long. Danny’s on call all weekend at the hospital, so I won’t see him again until Monday. I think I need a few days alone. Maybe by the time he returns, I will feel better.
I roll over and unhook my cell phone from its charger. The screen lights up to reveal I have three messages from Pam.
At 10:45: Have you heard?
At 11:08: Call me as soon as you can. Please.
At 11:23: Are you okay?
I squint in confusion, wondering if I’ve forgotten some commitment. Surely not, what with school ending yesterday. The only other message I have, from Danny, reads: Good morning, lazy. I love you.
Sorry, love. I was resting. Hope you can do the same, I text back. Then I dial Pam’s number.
“Hey,” she whispers when she answers. “Give me a second.”
I bite my thumbnail, waiting silently. The urgency of her messages disturbs me.
“Della, you still there?” Pam asks, this time her voice at a normal volume.
“Yes,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“You’ve not heard?”
“Heard what?” I ask, sitting upright in the bed. “Truthfully, I just woke up. You’re the only person I’ve talked to all day.”
“Oh.” She sounds grief-stricken. “I forget you’re not on social media and stuff.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s Marge,” she says. “There was an incident this morning at school. She had an allergic reaction and went into anaphylactic shock.”
“Oh my gosh,” I say, slapping a hand against my chest. “Will she be okay?”
“She had an EpiPen with her, thank goodness. That slowed the reaction. They’re keeping her at the hospital for a few hours to make sure she doesn’t have a second episode.”
“I don’t understand how this could happen. Marge is hyper-cautious when it comes to anything, especially her allergies.”
“Some of the students said they were munching on leftovers from the bake sale. She must have eaten something that wasn’t marked.”
Again, this seemed unlikely. Marge was the one who took extra care in making sure each ingredient was displayed, to make sure this didn’t happen.
“Students,” I repeat. “What students? And what was she doing at the school?”
“She and the Spirit Club were decorating for tonight’s Prom,” she said. “After all her hard work, she won’t even get to attend.”
It feels like the entire room is spinning. Like the floor beneath my bed has disappeared and now I’m stumbling for foundation. Marge. Prom. I take a deep breath. Had I predicted this?
“Who all was there?” I ask.
“I told you the Spirit Club. I think some other teachers volunteered.”
“Was she there?”
“She?” It takes her a second to realize who I’m speaking about. “Della, it’s not like that.”
“Was she there? Was Zoey there?”
“I think so, yes.”
I take a deep breath. The last time I talked to Marge, she’d told me she wasn’t allowing Zoey to go anywhere after Prom. Did Zoey resent Marge’s rules? Did she poison her to get her out of the picture?
“I told you this would happen,” I say, pushing the covers off my legs and rocketing off the bed.
“I really don’t think that’s the case here,” she says, but she doesn’t sound as convinced as she has in the past. There are too many coincidences. There are too many people in Zoey Peterson’s way who end up hurt. “If she wanted to hurt Marge, I don’t think she’d do it in a gym full of people.”
Marge doesn’t have a handy drinking problem like Ms. Peterson did. Regardless, Zoey found a way to incapacitate her, if only for the night, doing it in front of an audience so no one could blame her.
I clench my fists and lean over my dresser. “I’m just so frustrated. I tried telling everyone Zoey was a threat. I tried telling Marge.”
“Look, I wasn’t trying to rile you up,” she says, no doubt revisiting our conversation from yesterday. “I called because I wanted you to know about Marge. I know you two are close.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Pam.”
I click off the phone.
What are the odds both her mother and Marge would be harmed only weeks apart? I’d assumed Ms. Peterson asked Zoey about the Spring Fling after-party, and that’s why she’d attacked her. Living with Marge benefited Zoey. Why would she wait until now to hurt her? It must be about tonight. Prom.
I don’t think Zoey has anything planned for the actual dance. It’s what might happen after Prom that worries me. Like Brian, and all predators, Zoey must have figured out a routine for isolating and attacking her victims. An unsupervised party with lowered inhibitions and flowing alcohol seems like the perfect place. It worked with Darcy.
I don’t know what I’m going to do about it, but I’m no longer waiting for bad things to happen. Not when I have a chance at stopping them.
Forty-One
Spring 2006
My
