Page 43 of Cackle

It’s a freak occurrence that the spider survived.

Or maybe he ate the spider on purpose. Maybe he’s one of those kids who were dropped on their heads as babies and like to cut the tails off of cats and set things on fire. Maybe he’s a psychopath masquerading as a normal teenager in Adidas athleisure wear.

I should go to the nurse to check in. See if Chris is okay. I should ask her, How could this happen?

Maybe it does happen. Maybe it’s not as strange and sinister as it seems.

I leave the bathroom and plod in the direction of the nurse’s office. A few students are milling about, leaning on lockers. Gossiping, kissing, texting. They don’t pay any attention to me and that’s fine.

I don’t want to be seen, to be noticed, because I can feel sweat beginning to drip down. I can feel it wetting the hair behind my ears. I can feel it traveling down my back. I wonder why I’m sweating, why I’m so nervous. My heart is pounding sadistically. Like it’s trying to escape.

What do I have to be nervous about? I didn’t do anything wrong.

The door to the nurse’s office is open. There are two desks up front, and behind them a series of curtains and cots. The room appears to be unoccupied. It smells like hand sanitizer and teen body spray.

“Hello?” I say.

A face appears from behind one of the curtains. It’s a student.

“Hey,” they say.

“Is the nurse here?” I ask.

“No,” they say, like I’m the biggest idiot alive.

“Is Chris Bersten here?”

“No.”

“Was he here?”

“Like, when?”

“Within the past hour.”

“Nah,” they say. They disappear back behind the curtain.

“Cool. Thanks,” I say with zero attempt to conceal my sarcasm.

I guess it’s not my problem. I did my due diligence.

I go back down to the basement, to my classroom, and get my bag. I leave my papers, my planner, all of the students’ homework assignments.

Not tonight, I tell myself. Tomorrow. Or never.

As I’m walking out, I run into Madison and Beth. They’re sitting in the stairwell eating long ropes of licorice and writing in colorful notebooks with gel pens.

“Hi, Miss Crane,” they say.

“I was just telling Beth about what happened in class,” Madison says.

“I don’t think we should be talking about it,” I say, stepping over her backpack to get by.

“All right, but I was just saying, I obviously hope he’s okay, but I mean, as someone who appreciates literature, what an incredible example of poetic justice.”

“Good night, Madison. Night, Beth.”

I stop at Simple Spirits on the way home for a bottle of wine. Or whiskey.