In Sight of Stars(17)

“It’s not that clever,” Sabrina says under her breath, making me like her more by the minute.

I watch as she arranges the carrots on her plate into a starburst. It makes me wish I’d taken some. The carrots seem better than the burger. For art purposes, anyway. At any rate, I’m getting the sense that this Martin kid is the reason she seemed relieved when I—any other person—walked in. Poor girl. Wonder how many meals she’s been stuck alone with him.

“And she plays violin,” Martin is saying. “She’s supertalented but way more humble than I am. But trust me, I’ve heard her. There’s a room here for music therapy, right next to the room where we do GT.”

“GT?” I ask, looking at Sabrina.

“Group therapy,” Martin answers, without giving her a chance. “She played at Carnegie Hall once, did you know that? And, not with her school, but by invitation. Well, of course you don’t know, you haven’t been to group yet. Dr. Howe says you’re going to be joining us soon. Euclid doesn’t like to come either, so some days it’s just the two of us, so we basically know each other’s whole life stories.”

“No we don’t,” Sabrina says, “and his name isn’t Euclid.” Martin’s eyes dart to hers, this time with alarm, which makes me feel bad for the kid.

I push my plate away, vaguely wondering how many times he’s gotten beaten up. I’m betting more than once. Which is cruel of me, I know. I get that it’s just his insecurity speaking. But seriously, he’s the kind of kid that annoys everyone except his grandparents, who probably think he’s the smartest, cutest kid in the whole world.

My eyes move back to Sabrina. She shifts uncomfortably, which makes me feel worse for her, like I should at least try to acknowledge the stuff that he’s said about her.

“That is pretty cool,” I say, “to have played at Carnegie Hall.” I turn back to Martin. “And you sound pretty accomplished, too.”

“I am,” Martin says, “but with great genius comes great madness, you know?”

“Isn’t that power and responsibility?” I ask, and Sabrina’s eyes meet mine and she laughs.

“Whatever,” Martin says. “I’m not dumb. I know that’s Spider-Man you’re quoting from. So, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your deal?” he asks. “What is it?”

“I’m a senior. From the city.” I leave out the part about Northhollow. I’ve lived here for less than a year, and I don’t want him asking if I know so-and-so’s older brother or sister. Bottom line is, I’m not about to tell this kid my life story.

“What else…?”

“Not much.” I look back at Sabrina and decide to offer a little more. “I paint. I’m hoping to go to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston this fall.”

“Aha!” Martin says. “See? An artiste! I rest my case. Genius. Madness. Art.”

*

I awaken to a stubby dwarf nun in a black habit with white collar and headpiece, standing at the door of my room. It’s dark, save for the low blue light of the television, so her figure is backlit, like some strange apparition, from the brightness from the hall.

“Good evening, Mr. Alden.” I blink and wait for my eyes to adjust. “I brought a little treat for you. I didn’t expect you to be sleeping so early. Seems to be a habit of yours.”

I push up on an elbow and try to make sense of things.

She moves toward me, purposefully, and I blink again. The combination of short and heavy makes her waddle, and with the get-up she’s wearing, she looks uncannily like a sturdy penguin. At the side of the bed, she stops and sets down a two-pack of Twinkies. My mind slips back to the Yodels and the note. This must be Sister Agnes Whatever.

“I’ve been anxious to meet you. You’re quite the heavy sleeper.”

“Not usually,” I say. “I think it may be the medication.” She reaches over me with effort to turn on the overhead light. I squint against the onslaught.

Dunn’s house … the lights in my eyes …

“Too bright?” She switches it off again. “The TV is fine. Anyway, I’m Sister Agnes Teresa,” she says. “Very nice to finally meet you.”

Sister Agnes Teresa. Right. That’s what it was. I crane my neck to look past her to the old-fashioned digital clock by the side of the bed, but it’s turned on an angle, so I can’t make it out.

“Barely nine P.M.,” she says.

I fell asleep after dinner.

The dining hall with Martin and Sabrina.

“It’s easy to lose track of time here,” she says, moving to the end of the bed. She folds her too-short arms across her chest and studies me. I’m suddenly starving. I eye the Twinkies.

“Well, good, here we are.” She nods at the table. “Go ahead. Eat them. That’s why I brought them to you. Not that they won’t stay fresh for a lifetime.” She chuckles. I unwrap them and scarf one down, enjoying the sugary goodness. “Would you like some water?” She waddles to the pitcher on the table near the head of my bed.

“Yes. Thanks. But I can get it.”

“Nonsense.” She works hard to lift the plastic pitcher, stretches to retrieve my plastic cup from the rolling table.