[One more scene from the work in progress.]
The next day, the officer boarded
the bus and briefly glanced at Denise, just as he did most of the other
kids. Denise allowed herself to breathe
normally only after she was well away from the district. There was no vision this time, neither when
the officer came aboard nor when the bus passed the chalk white building. In fact, there was no vision the next day,
either.
But the following Monday, Denise
received a shock as she reached her usual seat on the bus.
“Where’s Sheila?” she called around.
Sheila always boarded the bus before Denise. She looked around to see if Sheila
had decided to sit somewhere else, but she was nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Sheila?” she repeated to
Billy Underwood, who lived next door to Sheila in one of the lower-income
neighborhoods in the district.
Billy shrugged. “I dunno. She wasn’t at the bus stop. Maybe she overslept.”
“Sheila wouldn’t oversleep.” Denise
had stayed over at Sheila’s house several times and knew her friend always rose
early--a trait that annoyed Denise because she often liked to sleep late.
“Maybe she developed a power,” Billy
offered with a smirk.
Denise made a sound of disgust and
took her seat. Billy, as usual, was of
no help. Denise knew it was normal for kids to miss school at times, but she
couldn’t stop worrying about her friend.
She had a feeling, like sandpaper rubbing against the back of her heart,
that Sheila was connected with the vision somehow.
At recess, Denise found Sheila
sitting at a curb at the edge of the playground.
“Why weren’t you on the bus today?” she
shouted as she ran up to her friend, trying no to let on how worried she’d
been.
Sheila looked as if she hadn’t slept
in a week. “Mom took me to the
doctor. I’ve got a fever.”
“Why didn’t you stay home?”
“We can’t afford a sitter.” Sheila coughed into a tissue. “Mom said I’ll be all right if I stay away
from other kids and don’t strain myself.”
Her voice was barely a croak.
Denise watched some of the other girls
running around the playground. She
longed to join them, but she didn’t want to leave her friend by herself.
“It’s okay,” Sheila said, apparently
guessing what Denise was thinking. “I’m
used to being alone.”
Denise started to walk off, but
something held her back. It was as if
she had some sort of feeling about Sheila.
The sandpaper feeling returned.
Sheila croaked, “Why do you keep staring at me?”
Denise shrugged, figuring that if
acting dumb worked for Billy Underwood, it might work for her.
“Denise, you’re starting to bug me. Like I said, just leave me alone.”
“Well, all right,” Denise said in a
huff. She turned and jogged over to join
some of the other girls climbing on the monkey bars, but a hacking cough from
Sheila jolted Denise’s attention back.
It sounded like a cry for help.
Sheila sat on the curb as if nothing
were wrong and pulled a fresh tissue out of her sweater pocket.
Denise stared at her friends fingers
and slowly walked back to her.
“What is it now?” Sheila almost whispered.
“What’s that on your fingers?”
Sheila smiled. “Like it?
My mom painted them last night.”
Sheila splayed her fingers, revealing five painted-on sunflowers.
“Oh,” Denise said. She didn’t mean to sound disappointed, but
for a moment she expected to see something else. “I mean, they’re great,” she said, trying to
recover quickly.
If Sheila noticed the awkward
compliment, she didn’t let on. “Mom
painted her own nails the same way,” she prattled on. “Except she painted butterflies instead.”
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