Ghost Hand (#Wattys2016)

Chapter 3, Rescue from the Restroom

I charged into the girl's restroom at the end of the hall, glancing under stall doors and checking for feet. Thankfully, they were all empty, so I chose one with a working latch and locked myself in. I sat down on the toilet seat, trying to catch my breath, and looked down at my hand. It still had tentacles instead of fingers. If anyone saw that, I was screwed.

I dug Mr. G's pass out of my pocket. As usual, he'd neglected to fill out the time on it, which gave me a few minutes to play with. But if I didn't show up for English soon, I'd get reported to the office, and my mother would find out. And I could not explain any of this to my mother.

I stuffed the pass back in my pocket and tried not to freak out. Part of me wanted to run. Run and keep running. But another part of me knew that was stupid. I couldn't run from my own hand. Maybe I should have gone with Marcus. He had made my hand go back to normal, but I was pretty sure of one thing; leaving school with some guy I didn't know without telling anyone was a very bad idea, no matter what he was promising.

Still, I wasn't done with Marcus. He had a lot of explaining to do.

First though, I had to make it through the school day without my hand going postal again. And for that I needed help. Help I could trust. I needed Emma.

Emma Campbell had been my best friend since third grade when we'd discovered we both had a crush on Eric Meyers. Emma's mom, Charlotte Campbell, was Greenfield High's drama teacher, so Emma always spent last period helping back-stage with whatever school play was in the works.

I pulled my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans. The battery was low, but I tapped out a text to Emma and pressed send.

Four minutes later, my phone chimed a return message. Good. Emma was already on her way with a hall pass from her mom.

I looked down at my ghost hand. It was still all blurred around the edges, like someone had attacked it with a crimping iron. Why was it doing this to me? An image flashed in my head from some bad horror film—a severed hand with a bloody stump dragging itself down a long hallway by its fingernails. Except this was worse. My evil hand was still attached to me.

The restroom door banged open, and I yanked my legs up, listening while Brittany Randolph and Leah Hodge used the toilets, washed their hands, and shared a quick cigarette and some mindless chatter. They were freshmen, so I didn't pay much attention to them until they mentioned Passion Wainwright.

"Maybe she's pregnant," Leah said, "That can make you faint and shit."

"You actually think the Virgin Mary screwed someone?" Brittany sneered. "Not likely. I don't think she's pregnant. I think she's schizo."

"Well yeah, but—"

"No, I don't mean just praise-Jesus crazy. I mean so messed up in the head she needs a shrink. My dad saw her coming out of Dr. Black's office the other day."

Dr. Black's office. The way she said it made my mother's workplace sound like a crack house. So, Passion had been seeing my mom and, as usual, I was the last to know. Dr. Sophie Black, psychologist extraordinaire, took her doctor/patient confidentiality very seriously. She never told me anything, which was pretty ridiculous in a town so small and nosey you couldn't take a crap without the neighbors overhearing and asking you how it had all come out. Still, that meant Passion's parents did know about her cutting and had gotten her some help.

After Brittany and Leah left, I lowered my aching legs, only to hear the door open again. I left my legs where they were and hoped for the best.

"Olivia?"

"Emma, I'm in here." I wagged my foot under the stall door. My backpack zipper was undone a little, so I slipped my phone into it. Then I opened the door and ushered Emma in. "What took you so long?" I asked. There wasn't much room. It was a challenge just getting the door closed again.