Alpha Girl (5 page)

‘Get in!’ he called over the thundering rain.

I shook my head. ‘No, I’ll get the inside of your car all wet!’

‘Just do it,’ he ordered, reaching across and unlatching the door, letting it swing open.

I obliged, jumping into the passenger seat and closing the door quickly so no more water would get into the car.

‘You’re drenched,’ Mr. Stone commented as I began to wind up the window.

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, removing the sopping Jacket and stuffing it into my bag.

‘Don’t be sorry,’ he laughed. ‘You’re going to catch a cold. Don’t you have anyone to pick you up after work?’

I shrugged. ‘My parents are busy,’ I said as I pulled my brown hair from my face and tied it into a messy bun at the back of my head. Mr. Stone watched me as I did this, his hands on the wheel. We hadn’t moved from the curb since I’d gotten into the car, which vibrated rather violently as it idled. I wasn’t sure the car would make it to my house.

In this dim light I took a moment to study his face. Mr. Stone was an attractive man, clearly in his thirties. Short stubble lined his jaw as though he hadn’t shaved for a day or two. He often had a disheveled quality to him as though there weren’t enough hours in the day to do something as simple as shave.

His nose was straight, and his jaw was strong, but that wasn’t what I liked about Mr. Stone. It was his eyes; they were kind, and honest.

I’d been staring at him for far too long.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked. ‘I’ll take you home.’

‘It’s only a few blocks from here,’ I said. ‘On Maple Street.’

‘That’s near me,’ he replied, putting the car into first gear with a loud crunch and pulling away from the curb.

We sat in silence as he drove. I watched the windscreen wipers go back and forth, as though they were playing an absurd game of tag. They screeched loudly with each swipe as the perished rubber scraped against the windscreen.

I wanted to say something intelligent, but I knew nothing I said would be good enough.

‘It’s interesting what you told me,’ Mr. Stone said suddenly, ‘That first day in class.’

I tried to recall what he was talking about. ‘What?’

He frowned as he drove, glancing sideways at me. ‘You said that no one likes you.’

‘So?’

‘Well that doesn’t seem true.’

‘It is. Everyone thinks I’m a freak.’

‘I’ve seen you sitting with that group of girls at lunch time.’

‘They tolerate me,’ I said. ‘But they don’t actually like me.’

‘Why not?’

‘Maybe I smell bad.’

Mr. Stone sniffed the air mockingly. ‘You don’t smell bad,’ he reassured me. I wanted to tell him that he smelled amazing, but thought it would be inappropriate. ‘You seem to have quite a sense of humor. After that, and the essay-’

‘I wasn’t trying to be funny,’ I replied, shifting uncomfortably. My work shirt was soaked through, and clinging to my body like plastic-wrap.

Mr. Stone glanced at me, but quickly focused on the road ahead. It was a wonder he could see at all; the rain was so heavy, it was
like a grey veil had been placed over the windshield.

‘I think you’re an intelligent girl,’ he said after a minute. ‘You just seem distracted most of the time.’

I didn’t respond. I just sat there, with my hands curled in my lap.

‘Is this your road?’ he asked, turning onto Maple Street.

‘Yes, number eleven.’

Mr. Stone pulled up in front of my house and peered through the window. The lights were off, and the house was dark.

‘Is anyone home?’ he asked, checking the time on his dashboard, which read eight-fifteen.

‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘But I have keys.’

It seemed he wanted to say something else, but he kept his mouth shut. I sat there for a few seconds as the awkward silence stretched onwards.

‘Well, thanks for the lift Mr. Stone.’

‘See you at school, Rose.’

I got out of the car and slammed it behind myself, running up the driveway without glancing back at Mr. Stone’s car. Once inside, I hurried to the window and peered through the curtains, watching him drive away, until his headlights vanished down the street.

I had been correct in my assumption; no one was home.

Just the way I liked it. Just the way I was used to it.

Sunday – 2 days to go

After the attack, I never cried. Nor did I play with the other children. I was absorbed in my own world, contained entirely within my head. I didn’t need to interact with others to have fun.

Apparently I was unnerving; I’d sit perfectly still, my eyes glazed over. My parents had even taken me to a psychologist to find out if there was something wrong with me mentally. The shrink decided that I was perfectly fine - to an extent.

Of course, my parents knew that I was not normal.

So I often hid my daydreaming, and only did it when I was alone. However, I slipped up quite often, especially during class.

I wasn’t sure if I was imagining things, but I always felt as though Mr. Stone’s eyes were upon me whenever my attention was focused elsewhere during class. I’d look up in the hopes of catching him, but was always disappointed.

Soon, I was looking forward to his classes; looking forward to seeing him. Mr. Stone was delightful, and was the first person I’d ever actually liked.

Monday – 1 day to go

I was sick again. It had been twenty-eight days since my last ‘episode’.

‘
That time of the month
’ my mother referred to it, but the sickness had nothing to do with my period.

I broke into cold sweats, and shook violently. I’d vomit until my stomach was empty, and I wouldn’t be able to eat at all. This was the only time my parents were around to take care of me.

It got worse at night.

I’d scream and thrash, completely delusional with fever. The first time this happened I was nine, and my parents took me to the hospital. It hadn’t been long since I’d left after my attack.

The doctors said my temperature was a record high; I should have been dead, or at least brain-dead.

I had no diagnosis and they expected me to die within the hour. They advised my parents to take me home and make sure I was comfortable, which they did.

What a load of shit.

I experience this living hell every single month, and it doesn’t get any easier. Luckily for me the worst of it only it lasts between fourteen to eighteen hours, though I can feel the effects beginning a day before, and it usually takes another full day for me to recover.

I would be forced to miss three days of school, and two shifts at the café. My teachers were used to my absence. At first they’d assumed I was bunking-off, but a letter from my parents quickly set things straight.