The Lost Causes of Bleak Creek(30)

He scrambled to pick up the scooter, then frantically kicked the fire extinguisher toward the ditch.

Before he had a chance to get out of the road, a monstrous diesel pickup was almost on top of him. The truck swerved into the left lane, just missing Rex, then skidded to a stop.

He looked into the cab, the driver hardly visible in the dying daylight.

The automatic window slowly rolled down.

Wayne Whitewood.

Rex swallowed hard.

Whitewood didn’t appear alarmed or angry. He just sat there in his light blue dress shirt, staring blankly at Rex like he was sucking his soul out through his eyes.

Rex looked at the ground.

“I’m sorry, I just tripped,” he said, an attempt to fill the painful silence.

He noticed Whitewood tightly gripping the steering wheel, his hands sheathed in white gloves that looked like the ones worn by the First Baptist hand bell choir.

“Also, I’m really sorry about what happened the other day,” Rex said, continuing the one-sided exchange. “I hope you’re doing okay.”

Without taking his eyes off Rex, Whitewood released the steering wheel, then methodically took off each glove.

He held his hands up toward Rex.

Bright red streaks lined his palms and fingers, some spots blistered, others scabbed. It made Rex’s stomach turn.

“Um…sir, I am so sorry about that.” Rex had no idea what to do other than keep apologizing.

Whitewood slowly pulled his hands back down, then carefully put his gloves on. Finally, he released Rex from his stare and turned his eyes to the road, the oversized vehicle beginning to slowly roll forward.

Rex stood holding his scooter as he watched the taillights disappear around the bend.

He wanted to throw up.

Instead, he ran quickly across the road, scooped up the fire extinguisher, and disappeared into the pines.





8


“CANDIDATUS HAS NOT embraced her new name,” Alicia’s roommate said, all freckles and frowns as her index finger singled out Alicia.

Each day after lunch at the Whitewood School, the entire student body—what looked to be about seventy-five kids—crammed into the meeting hall for Reports, a seemingly endless session devoted to classmates publicly reporting any questionable behavior they’d seen from their peers.

“She has an A written on the wall above her bed,” Freckles said. “Her old initial.”

“What?” the helper asked, a woman in her late thirties Alicia had seen getting her hair done at Loretta’s Beauty Salon. “You defaced school property?”

Alicia offered a shrug.

The helper turned red and snorted, like an angry bull in a cartoon. “How did you acquire a writing implement?”

“I didn’t, Helper,” Alicia said.

“What? Then how— What did you write with?”

“Blood,” Alicia said, her heart pumping fast as she put on a face that said Oops, is that bad? She’d taken a staple from their only textbook—a Xeroxed stack of pages called The Whitewood School Learning Guide—to prick her finger, tracing her bleeding digit up, down, and across the wall to form an A. It was no Perfect Strangers poster, but it would have to do. She’d intended to write her whole name until she saw the blood was already getting thinner; she worried she’d only partially complete it, accidentally marking her territory with her least favorite nickname of all time. (Ali. She hated when people called her Ali.) Doing it this way was simple, powerful, and to the point. And, as she’d hoped, her roommate had noticed it right away.

The helper covered her mouth in disgust, then puffed out her chest and gave what appeared to be the evil equivalent of the Care Bear Stare before stomping over to the wall intercom and pressing a button. “Send any available helper immediately,” she said. “We need transport to the Roll.”

A few students gasped. Though Alicia had been expecting this, fear crept in now that it was actually happening.

“We have been trying to guide you, Candidatus,” the helper continued through gritted teeth. “To help you. To warn you. But you don’t seem to understand. Headmaster has had his eye on you since you set foot in this school, and you’re treating it like some kind of joke.”

“Well, it has been a real riot, Helper,” Alicia said, only making the exasperated woman angrier. The door opened and in walked another helper, a burly, clean-shaven man with a flattop whom Alicia remembered working at Thomble and Sons Hardware.

“Sayonara, Candidati,” Alicia said solemnly as Flattop guided her by the shoulders into the hallway, then past the cafeteria and through the locked-from-the-outside exit. This was Alicia’s first time leaving the school since arriving a few days earlier, and she savored the late-summer air like she would a delicacy. It was a short walk to a row of small stand-alone buildings.

“Welcome to Thinking Shed Number One,” Flattop said, nudging her through the door of the first building.

“You guys have a cute name for everything?”

“Watch your mouth, Candidatus.”

The pleasant smell of the outdoors was replaced by the stench of rotten eggs, the same odor that would sometimes come from Bleak Creek plumbing after a big rain. The floor, walls, and ceiling of the Thinking Shed were covered in faded green tiles, making it not so much a shed as a giant walk-in shower. In the corner of the room sat a large tub filled with cloudy water, likely the source of the putrid bouquet.