Winter in Hell

Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me, whatever) is appreciated. Please write to: theangstguy@yahoo.com

Synopsis: Two cynical outcasts, seniors at Lawndale High School and the best of friends, struggle through another difficult day.

Author’s Notes: This story is rated R for language and adult situations. The events herein take place in mid-December, in the same year in which the Daria TV movie, Is It College Yet? takes place in Lawndale. It is assumed that readers are familiar with the characters of the Daria show, so detailed explanations of who is who are not needed.

“Winter in Hell” began life as a different story entitled, “Alone on a Wide, Wide Sea,” which recounted some of the events of the summer after IICY. After several months of fruitless struggle to finish it, it was merged with “Breakable,” an earlier script fanfic along the same lines, and it mutated into this version.

This tale was written to mesh with a number of earlier Daria fanfics, with the kind permission of their authors. This story is not meant to be a definitive follow-up to any Daria fanfic; it is one possible outcome of many in the future Dariaverse. A description of which stories are linked to this one and how they are connected appears at the end of this tale, to avoid giving away certain plot elements early on. My heartfelt thanks go out to Brandon League (“Contemplation (Jeffy's Journey)”), Crusading Saint (“Attraction Anxiety”), Mike Yamiolkoski (“Outage”), Renfield (“Holding On”), and Wyvern (“Inheritance”) for allowing content from their stories to be used here.

Acknowledgements: My eternal gratitude goes out to the beta-readers for this tale. Two, Thea Zara and Crusading Saint, previewed an early portion of this and offered valuable feedback. The beta-readers for the entire story were (in random order): Thea Zara, Brandon League, Renfield, Deref, RedlegRick, EastVan, Robert Nowall, Crusading Saint, Wyvern, THM, Brother Grimace, TerraEsperZ, and Steven Galloway. The detailed feedback resulted in extensive changes to the story, but the comments made the final version stand far above the original. Thank you!

4:27 a.m.

Darkness

She awoke in darkness with the sure feeling that she’d just caught the flu. Her nightgown, shorts, and underwear were soaked with sweat, and she radiated fever heat like a blast furnace from head to toe. She also had the unmistakable sense that if she took off her covers and got out of bed, she would chill to the bone.

She had to go to the bathroom, though. She couldn’t stay in bed for long, even if she wanted.

Maybe she did have the flu. She hoped with all her heart she did. If it was not the flu—she put off thinking about the consequences. Of course, this had to happen on a Monday morning, she thought. “Figures,” she murmured aloud—and grimaced in pain. Her throat was raw, and she thought a railroad spike had been driven between her tonsils. Wide awake, she rolled over, glanced at the red numerals on the bedside alarm, then flopped on her back again and pulled the covers up to her nose. She could wait on the bathroom a little longer just to stay warm.

Today was the first day of the last week of school before Christmas break started. Nothing was going right, but nothing had gone right for months now. With crises in progress at home and school together, she had nowhere left to escape. Her stress level had surely ruined her disease resistance. If she didn’t have the flu . . . well, the stress was still to blame for her fever. She had five days left to slog through classes at Lawndale High School. Five days more to walk over the broken wreckage of her life and be reminded of her outcast status. Then, Christmas—

She snorted. What a laugh. What’s there to celebrate? She had long ago stopped being particularly religious. Was she expecting a cheery gathering of parents and children opening gaily wrapped gifts around a decorated tree, as she saw every day in saccharine TV commercials? What was left after everything she valued had been destroyed, trampled flat at home and school by her family and peers? Or ruined by me, she reminded herself. What is there to be thankful or happy about? Nothing, except—

I am thankful I have her for a friend.

She nodded, looking into the dark. That was all that made life bearable. I am so lucky to have her. She’s the only real friend I’ve ever had. I don’t know what I would do without her. I can’t imagine why she’s stuck with me. I’ve certainly not been worth the trouble, with my lousy moods. I’m a drag on her life. She would be happier without me—but knowing she’ll be there with me is the only reason I can stand to go on.

She rubbed her face. Sick or not, she had to be at school in a few hours. Today she had to turn in her English Lit report on “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” which had taken her days to research in the library and on the Internet. It had been a struggle and a half, but it was done, and she was proud of the result. If it was good enough, she could drag another B or even an A out of Mr. O’Neill-Barch’s class. Another one, imagine that! What would her parents say if they knew? If they cared. If they suspected she existed.

She shivered violently. Damn. It didn’t matter now if she stayed under the covers or not—she was chilling fast, and she had to pee. Steeling herself, she flung back the covers and got out of bed. The chills began two seconds later as she crossed the carpeted floor to her bedroom door, heading down the hall on bare feet. By the time she got into the bathroom, she was shaking so badly she almost fell down on the white tile floor. She shut the door with nerveless fingers, hurried to the toilet—

—and discovered it was not the flu.

“Ouch! Damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

The burning sensation was ferocious, as bad as it had ever been. She snatched a dry washcloth from the sink, bit down on it, and screamed into the cloth as loudly as she could. She made herself do this three times. It helped only a little. She almost cried, but it wasn’t worth it. Nothing was worth it.

Worse, she now itched down there. She hated that even more than the burning. It took all her willpower to ignore the itching, which at its worst almost drove her mad—and it was always at its worst. There were days when she wished the itching would simply kill her so she could find blessed relief.

Genital herpes, however, never killed anyone. You only wished you were dead.

Her stress had revived it, she knew. The doctor she had secretly gone to see at the Middleton Medical Arts Center had told her all about it. High levels of stress nearly always reactivated the herpes virus. It was just getting started on its work again.

Resigned to her suffering, she considered taking a hot shower and getting dressed, even as early in the morning as it was. She elected against it; she desperately wanted a little more sleep, a little more time to hide away under the covers and stay warm. She waited until the pain subsided, if not the itching, then flushed and washed her hands twice with lots of soap and the hottest water she could stand. Even then she felt contaminated, poisoned from down there outward, even to the ends of her hair.

She glanced up at herself in the bathroom mirror. Long tangled strands of brown hair covered her face, and dark circles hung under her haunted brown eyes. I almost look like I’m wearing glasses, she thought. Her nightshirt was spotted with sweat stains from her fever, and she still shivered all over from the chills. Even then, at her lowest, she cracked a smile. She was amused at this close-up view of her downfall.

How are the mighty fallen in the midst of battle, saith the Bible. How are the mighty fallen.

“Sandi Griffin,” she said to her reflection in the mirror, as if hailing a long-unseen acquaintance. “It’s old Sandi Griffin. You look like shit.”

6:28 a.m.

Sandi’s bedroom, the Griffin residence

A voice inside her head told her, quite sensibly, that it didn’t matter what she wore anymore. She wasn’t the president of the Fashion Club. There was no Fashion Club now, only that pathetic wannabe imitation that Brooke Spencer now ran, the Morning Glories. Put on a jacket, t-shirt, and jeans. Put on a trash bag, even. No one cares what you look like. Why should you?

It did matter, though. It did matter. She tended to dress conservatively these days, but she had no objection to some bright color when it worked, and today she felt like she needed it: a magenta-pink vest over an off-white blouse, with periwinkle pants and a brown belt, gold buckle. She looked at her neck scarves and chose a silk gold and black one, found her favorite gold earrings and tiny cameo necklace, two bracelets, her gold-faced watch, a nice ring . . . and she was good to go. She stuffed a pair of pink shoes in her book bag, put on her winter-walking sneakers that she would change out of at school, and she headed back to the bathroom.

She took her Acyclovir to blunt the worst of the symptoms—should have taken it yesterday when I thought an outbreak was coming on, should have taken it then. She then spent a little time combing out her long brown hair and fixing her face—not as much as in the old days, but enough to get rid of the circles under her eyes and add highlights in the right spots. It didn’t have to be perfect. It just had to look good, to show Brooke and the Morning Glories and the rest of the senior class and the whole goddamn Lawndale High School that Sandi Griffin was not dead yet.

Even if she sometimes wished that she was. Even if she often wished it, but would never go there. Death still frightened her, and she had a little bit left of her pride.

She left the bathroom at 6:51 and walked to the stairs—but stopped at the top step and looked down the hallway to her left. Why do you want to go there again? What did they ever do for you, anyway? They hated you as they got older, and you didn’t like them much, either, so why go on about it, just because they were your brothers?

But they still are my brothers.

Then, where are they? Why did they leave you and Mom, and run off with . . . ?

Moments later, she stood in front of the open door to the room where Sam and Chris had once slept. She almost forgot about the itch.

The boys’ room had furniture in it, but it was as empty as a promise. The pale blue walls still had their racecar and babes-in-swimsuits posters. The closets were still full of their clothing, unworn for over four months now. The carpet was unmarred by dirt or footprints since it had last been vacuumed. Sandi’s mother Linda talked often about converting the boys’ room into a new office, but she only talked.

I wonder how it feels for her, Sandi thought. I wonder how it feels to have children who one day run off with your husband and leave you behind. I knew they argued with Mom all the time, but I never dreamed they wanted to leave. I never dreamed Dad wanted to leave. One day at the end of summer, he doesn’t come home from work, and the boys don’t come back from summer camp, and I’m home alone and I take the call from camp that the boys have left with Dad, do I know what’s going on? I call Mom, and she can’t get Dad, who doesn’t come home, and some gum-chewing guy comes by the house that night and serves Mom with divorce papers, and there it is.

The family is gone. It’s over.

And I didn’t even know there was much of a problem. I had popularity and dating on the brain. I missed everything but the finish.

Sandi walked into the boys’ bedroom. She looked down at the beds, looked in the closet, smelled one of Sam’s athletic t-shirts hanging there. It still smelled like he did.

You called me a bitch before you went to camp. She tried to picture Sam before her. It helped to smell his shirt again. I accused you of going through my room and taking stuff, which of course you had, only I didn’t know just what you had taken. I should have checked right then. I said you were in my stuff again, and you just went off and called me a bitch—a stupid, worthless bitch who didn’t belong in the family. You’d called me a bitch before, but not in the way you did before you left. You said it like you meant it, like you hated me. Then you called me the C-word. I couldn’t even believe that. I had no idea you would say such a thing to me. I wonder now if you weren’t on drugs or something. You weren’t very nice to me—to anyone—for weeks before you went to camp.

And you’d started punching me when you got mad. I couldn’t believe you would do that, either. That hurt. We used to hit each other when we were kids, but now when you hit me you really hurt me, and you called me a bitch and the C-word and you shoved me into the kitchen wall so that I banged my head on a shelf, and when I looked up next, holding my head and trying not to cry, you were gone, outside getting in the car with Dad, and he drove you and Chris off to the bus pickup for camp. And I told Dad later, but he blew it off. He didn’t care if you hit me. Boys will be boys, Sandi, stop complaining about everything, man, how you like to complain, just like your mother.

He didn’t care about me. I don’t know if he ever cared about me. He loved you boys. I wish he had loved me, too. Sandi swallowed, staring into Sam’s shirt. What did he think when he looked at me? Did he see Mom? Was he glad to wash me out of his life, as glad as he was to wash her out, too?

What happened, Dad? Why did you leave me?

She waited for an answer, but nothing came. She let go of Sam’s shirt and walked out of the room, leaving the door open.

Downstairs in the kitchen, she found a handwritten note from her mother, placed at Sandi’s usual place at the dinette table: WORKING TONIGHT IN STUDY, STAY THE HELL OUT. Her mother, the vice president of marketing for KSBC-TV, was consumed with reworking the budget and sweating over how long she’d be able to keep her job. Sandi saw a newspaper article on Saturday saying layoffs were rumored to be coming at the station. Times are hard all over, she thought as she threw out the note.

Sandi made a small breakfast for herself—milk, cereal, a banana. She ate quickly and put the dishes away in the dishwasher, made sure everything was in its place, everything neat and orderly. She didn’t know if her mother was up or asleep, at home or at the television station. She didn’t check.

Getting ready to go, she looked down where Fluffy’s food and water dishes sat empty on the floor. Where are you, Fluffy? Her mom had let him out of the house by accident a week ago, and he had run off. Did you get sick of me, too? Did you find someone else who would love you more than I would? I really did love you. I put up with almost everyone else, but you I loved. Are you even still alive?

She felt her forehead and cheeks. The herpes outbreak fever was raging. She was sweating again, and she still itched. Her hands strayed down, jerked back. Can’t touch it, it will spread the virus, can’t touch myself there, can’t touch at all. The doctor warned me to never touch my eyes if I touched myself down there, if I thought I had the virus on my fingers. I could go blind, spread it all over. Can’t touch it, ever.

The digital thermometer said her temperature was 101.9. She took two aspirin and two Tylenol with another glass of milk.

It was time to get her only friend and share a walk through Hell.

7:17 a.m.

Outside the Morgendorffer residence

The cold, dark sky was half-lit by orange streetlights. A handful of diamond stars survived the glare, twinkling down over Lawndale. Frost decorated every lawn in the town. Sandi pulled up into the Morgendorffers’ driveway, shivering like mad with a long overcoat on and her car’s heater turned up full blast. Dawn was still forty minutes away.

She tapped the horn lightly once and searched the bright windows of the red, two-story home for Quinn’s face. Was that her peering out through the big window? No, it was her mother, Helen, already dressed for another day at the legal office downtown where she worked. What a job that must be, she thought, doing battle in corporate law all day long. Helen was as tightly wound as a human being could get, but she was okay. Sandi knew her own mother had a low opinion of Helen, but Linda had a low opinion of everyone but herself.

Sandi saw Helen reach for Quinn as her daughter ran for the front door, forcing a hug and kiss on her. Sandi did not remember when her mother had last hugged her. She did not think it had happened since . . . since she couldn’t remember.

Sandi’s breath formed a cloud of ice before her face. Mom, do you still love me? Do you love me even though I did it with a boy and caught herpes, and the whole world knows? Do I really want to hear the answer to that? Will you leave me, too, someday, or just throw me out? I’m old enough to be thrown out, I guess. It’s your house now.

Moments later, the front door opened and Quinn hurried out, her backpack in her left hand. She wore moon boots, designer jeans, and a waist-length white fur coat with no hood. Sandi felt her heart leap when Quinn grinned at her. The day got better, even if only for a moment, and she rose above her fever and the hellish itch.

Sandi unlocked the passenger door with a pushbutton on her door armrest. Quinn ran around the car, threw the door wide open, and flung herself into the passenger seat, dropping her backpack on the floor between her legs. Freezing air poured in after her. “Hi!” she cried, half laughing and half yelling, and slammed the door. She had her safety harness on in a second, her arms a flurry of motion. “Man, it’s cold!” she screamed. “Turn up the heater! I hate this! I hate this!”

“Gee, Quinn, and a cheery good morning to you,” Sandi said in her deep, Valley Girl drawl. She smiled as she reached up to put the car into reverse. It took a moment as her hand shook violently, even with gloves on.

“Sandi, are you okay?” Quinn said. She leaned over, studying Sandi carefully.

“Oh, I’ll live.” Damn it. “I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”

“Anything wrong?”

Sandi got the car onto the street and put it into drive, setting off for school. She was sweating under her overcoat at the same time she was shivering to death. “I’m having another outbreak,” she said in a low voice.

“Oh.” Quinn settled back into her seat. On impulse, she reached over and gently covered Sandi’s right hand with her own, as Sandi gripped the steering wheel. Even through her gloves, Sandi still felt the warmth of Quinn’s touch—and was grateful.

“I’ll be okay,” Sandi said, eyes on the road. “Don’t worry about it. You have your report for Mr. O’Neill, I presume? I meant O’Neill-Barch. I’ll never get used to that.”

Quinn gasped, then bent over and unzipped her backpack. Sandi slowed the car, expecting they were about to head back to Quinn’s house.

“Here it is!” Quinn pulled a handful of crumpled papers out in triumph. “Thank God! I thought I’d left it in my room. That would’ve been great.” She stuffed the papers back into the backpack and leaned into her seat, running her hands through her short hair.

Sandi could not help a glance at Quinn. I like her hair style better all the time, she thought. The reflection of the headlights coming through the windshield fell on Quinn’s wildly spiked pixie cut. It was too dim yet to see it, but in full sunlight, her super-short orange-red hair looked like a burst of flame with yellow tips on some of the spikes. It had been tricky to pull that one off, but it had worked.

Sandi looked back at the road. I still miss her hair long, like it was until just after school started, but at least now it’s a million times easier to care for. And it still looks cute, even if she doesn’t think so. She’s never going to lose that cuteness.

“O’Neill had better not give me a hard time about my paper,” Quinn said, looking out the window. “I worked on that damn thing until my eyes crossed, then I had to find that stupid poem for self-esteem, too.” She rubbed her hands rapidly together in her lap.

“Where are your gloves? Not fashionable to wear them now?”

“Huh? Oh, crap. I forgot ‘em.” She jammed her hands into her fur-lined coat pockets. “We’ll be inside all day anyway.”

“Hey, I wanted to ask if you want to go by Middle-Mall after school. It’ll be crowded, but I’d kinda like to get away for a little.”

“Shopping?”

“Mmm, no, just wanted to—”

“Piano?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay.”

“Wanna go to Cranberry Commons instead? They have a piano shop there.”

“No, I’d kind of like to avoid everyone around here, you know?”

“Sure. Right after we get steamed?” This was Quinn’s term for Mr. O’Neill-Barch’s Self-Esteem for Teens class, which met three days a week after school.

“One second after the clock hits four.”

“I found a poem for him. He’ll love it.” Quinn snuggled down into her fur coat. “I used to torture Daria so much about that.”

“What?”

“Oh, she was in the self-esteem class, too, after we moved here. Just once, though, and she tested out early.”

“That’s right, she did. She and Jane each had to give a speech—”

“And Jane pretended to freak out and ran off!”

“That was so funny! And O’Neill was chasing her!”

“It was funny. Boy, I gotta tell you I was so pissed when Daria told everyone I was her sister. Those were the days. I thought I would die if everyone knew.”

Sandi smiled. “Well, I knew about that. It was so funny to listen to you go on, pretending she was your cousin.”

“Yeah.” Quinn took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t know how Mrs. Manson figured Daria had to take that class, the self-esteem one. She sure didn’t need it.”

“Huh. You know, I always thought Daria was—I dunno, I never thought she liked herself much.”

“Well, yeah, that’s sorta true, but she didn’t like anyone else, either, so it all balanced out. Nobody came up to her standards, you know? Not even her. She wasn’t mean, she just . . . I think she saw things as they really were, you know.”

Sandi hesitated. “She didn’t like me, either? Not that it matters or anything.”

Quinn glanced at Sandi, then looked away. “She didn’t like the Fashion Club. It wasn’t you in particular, Sandi, not that I remember. She never said a bad thing about you to me, just about the club as a whole. She thought we were all like shallow and stupid to go on about makeup and clothing and accessories like we did.”

A short silence filled the car.

“She was right there, I guess,” said Sandi.

“Yeah, I guess she was at that. Hey, you know, she’s coming back again for the holidays.”

“From Boston?”

“Yeah. Jane’s driving back with her.”

“Jane Lane.” Sandi sniffed and rubbed her nose. “Did I ever tell you I got stuck in an elevator with her once?”

“With Jane? No way. When was this?”

“It was over a year ago. I was too embarrassed to tell you about it. This new hairspray I used gave me this awful rash all over my face, and—”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, it did! I was red all over!” Sandi laughed, to her surprise. “I went to see this dermatologist downtown to get some skin cream to fix it, and I didn’t want anyone to see me like that, so—”

“Hey,” said Quinn, “was that the time you wore that head scarf and sunglasses all day long, for like a week?”

“Um, yeah, that was it. Jane and I—”

“And you got all over my butt that time that I wore a head scarf?”

“Oh, Quinn . . . I’m sorry. You know what I’m like.”

Quinn waved it off. “Forget it. Go on about you and Jane, in the elevator.”

“Oh. Well, we got on the elevator and the power went out. We were stuck in there for an hour or two, and we tried to get out, but nothing worked, so we like talked a lot. I thought she was like this major geek at first, but it turned out she wasn’t. She was . . . she was cool. Abrupt, for sure, but she was okay. She showed me her artwork, and it—it was really good.” She stared ahead at the road. “We were kind of like almost friends for a bit. We never talked much, but we left each other alone. She was okay.”

Quinn took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t know if Jane ever liked me that much. I went by her house one time, when you and I weren’t doing real well, and she got really sick of listening to me rattle on. I was really nervous and talked my head off about fashion crap. She was glad to get rid of me when Daria came by.” Quinn looked out the windshield, rubbing her hands together again. “I guess she was okay, though. She knew where she was at, you know? She spoke her mind, but she really knew where she was at.”

They drove in silence for a little. “Daria was nice to me once, too,” Sandi said. “She told me some things that helped me out once, when I was . . . when I was worried about Fluffy, maybe getting sick and dying. It was sort of weird, but it did help.”

Quinn stared at her. “You asked Daria for advice on that?”

“Well, it was after Tommy Sherman died, and everyone was—”

“Oh, yeah, I remember.” Quinn’s head bobbed. “Never mind, I get it, I get it. She’s helped me out before, too. She gave me some really good advice, summer before last.” She paused, lost in thought. “In the end, though, it didn’t help very much.”

Sandi had an inkling of where this was going. She drove and said nothing.

“She told me I had to give people a chance to get to know me. I had to let them see the real me, but I had to be prepared to get slapped in the face. Pow.”

Sandi clenched her teeth and hoped this would blow over quickly.

“So I did, and boy, wasn’t that the best advice I ever got. I should’ve just let it go, but I had to push it. I had to go after him to make sure he got to know the real me. I really wanted him to see the inside me, the smart me.” Quinn abruptly laughed without a trace of humor. “He sure did that! He sure got to see the inside me! He got to see it all!” She laughed again, then rubbed her eyes. “Boy, did he ever! He saw it all! Like it really matters now. I shouldn’t even go on about it. It doesn’t matter. It never did.”

Sandi waited a few seconds more, then asked in a low voice, “Who else is coming over for the holidays?”

“Oh . . . my Aunt Amy’s coming by for a couple days, between Christmas and New Year’s. She’s my mom’s youngest sister. That’s all.”

Sandi glanced at Quinn again. They were almost at the high school. “What’s she like?”

“Amy? Oh, she’s okay. We don’t get to see her much. She travels a lot ’cause she’s an art dealer, but she doesn’t live that far away, maybe three hours by Interstate, way past Middleton. I think being around Mom drives her nuts. I like her outfits. She can be sorta cool.” Quinn sighed. “The only thing is, she doesn’t like me very much. I heard her tell Daria one time that she was her favorite niece.”

Sandi made a face. “Ouch.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Quinn looked out the window, away from Sandi. “You know, it’s all family, they . . . you know, they do what they want. Sometimes they don’t care what we think. It’s like your . . . your mom and you. What can you do?”

Sandi nodded as she pulled into the parking lot. “What can you do?” she repeated. “Beats the hell out of me.”

7:45 a.m.

Sandi’s locker, Lawndale High School

They had five minutes before the bell rang and summoned them to History. Their faces were still red from the freezing run across the parking lot to the school. Sandi’s locker was on the second floor by the library, next to the stairwell. She has just finished changing shoes for the day.

“Tonight’s the big climax, excuse the pun,” said Quinn. Her fur coat gone, she now wore an open blue-jean jacket over a hot coral halter-top. “Six couples on a cruise ship seeing which partner is the last to cheat. Passion and fashion without compassion, like the ads say. We can’t miss it. Come over and watch it with me after we go to the mall.” She hesitated. “If your mom doesn’t mind,” she added.

“She doesn’t care,” said Sandi absently. “She’s working at home tonight.” She tried to look like she was deciding what books to take. In reality, she was itching like crazy now, and she sensed that the outbreak was spreading to her thighs and rear. The Acyclovir wouldn’t take hold for a couple of days. This was going to be a very bad week.

“Well, she should, if . . .” Quinn’s voice trailed off. An uncomfortable expression ran over her face but cleared away in moments. Her voice came back, confident again. “The show should be a riot. I saw on this preview that showed—”

“Herpo!” Someone shouted it in the stairwell, his voice crudely disguised. “Hey, Herpo Marx! What’s happenin’, Herpy?”

The high level of noise in the corridor dropped instantly. Everyone up and down the hall looked at Sandi—then at Quinn. Quinn’s head snapped in the direction of the stairwell, and she darted to it in a second, shoving her way past other students to get there. She stood at the stairwell and listened. Faint laughter rang down from the third floor. She then turned and walked back toward Sandi’s locker. “It was Matt,” she said when she came back. “Matt Wyndham. He’s that new kid. He asked me out Friday, so I know his voice. I have to stop at the office before class. You go on in, I won’t be long.”

Sandi nodded as if nothing had happened, though her face got a little red. She continued to pull books out of her locker. Matt was toast. She knew someone had put him up to a very bad prank, because no normal kid at Lawndale would dare make fun of Sandi if Quinn were around. Sandi ignored the insults and laughter as best she could. She never turned anyone in, no matter what they did to her. It wasn’t worth it. Some kids, if they thought they could get away with it, used to do a lot to her. Sandi just took it.

Quinn, however, had never once failed to turn in someone who harassed Sandi. Only newbies and troublemakers made that mistake now. On the rare occasions when the main office refused to listen, Quinn got her lawyer mother to call the principal, Ms. Li, and threaten big-time legal action. Helen had connections with other attorneys who prosecuted school-harassment cases—so the main office always listened. Sandi’s mother Linda gave only minimal support to this pressure, complaining that it took valuable time away from her work. Still, since school opened in August, one student had been expelled, five suspended (one twice), and two had transferred away. Ms. Li claimed credit for keeping the school on a zero-tolerance footing, though Lawndale had a worsening local reputation as a police-state institution.

Quinn’s self-control was gone, too. I bet you get that blown fuse from your dad and mom, Sandi thought. Just looking at Quinn wrong could ignite a screaming rant and another complaint to the office. No one knew what had happened over the summer to change her—no one but Sandi. And, of course, that one other person.

No one but newbies asked Quinn out on dates now, especially after what happened to Jeffy. Jeffy had said or done something wrong one day while talking to Quinn, and now he went to school at Carter County High, expelled forever from Lawndale. What had he done? No one knew but Quinn and Ms. Li. No one dared ask.

Quinn didn’t date even if asked and didn’t care. Sandi had lost count of the times Quinn had ranted to her about how sick she was of everyone, how sick she was of being everyone’s fool. Quinn had a new nickname around Lawndale High: Red Dragon. No one dared call her that to her face, but it was accurate enough, once she had burned off your skin with her fiery breath, then summoned her mother to destroy all you had left to you.

Still, Sandi thought that being called Red Dragon was better than being called Herpo Marx any day. But being called Herpo Marx was loads better than what was going to happen to Matt Wyndham within the next hour.

Nice meeting you, Matt, Sandi thought as she closed her locker and spun the combination dial. Too bad you had to leave so soon.

8:19 a.m.

Mr. DeMartino’s American History class, Lawndale High School

The first-hour history lecture doubled as a hypnotic sedative. Many students were yawning and drowsy, particularly if they’d partied late the night before. Sandi didn’t have to worry about that. She not only didn’t party these days, but her spreading outbreak ensured that sitting would be very uncomfortable, bordering on painful. And early American colonial history was not quite the equal of that damnable, burning itch.

Carefully adjusting her position to reduce her pain, Sandi leaned forward and looked around the classroom. Her gaze fell upon Kevin Thompson, still Lawndale’s star quarterback and the only other nineteen-year-old senior besides Sandi. His head had fallen forward to rest on his desk, a faint snore drifting from his direction. He sat only two seats in front of Sandi, with Jamie White—Kevin’s best friend—between them. Mr. DeMartino clearly didn’t care if Kevin slept through class; Kevin was such a moron that having him snooze was a blessing for everyone. How anyone put up with him was a mystery, though being good at football had helped.

At least I have the excuse of being held back a year before I went into first grade, she thought, unlike this bozo, who flunked his senior year and now has to repeat with us. I wonder if he’s dreaming of his bimbo ex-girlfriend in far-away college-land. He’s asked out every girl in twelfth grade except Quinn and me, but he still doesn’t have a regular new “babe” to cuddle, except for those obligatory one-night post-game romps with the cheerleaders. I wonder if the story’s true that the cheerleaders draw straws, and the loser gets Kevin. Ms. Li says she likes him because he’s still making those touchdowns, so maybe she should take him under her wing, or whatever metaphor is appropriate for that sort of . . . affair. Ewww, I just grossed myself out. Grossed out or not, she began to yawn.

Something tickled Sandi’s right elbow. She reached over with her left hand to scratch, and incidentally intercepted the slip of paper Quinn was trying to give her. She waited until Mr. DeMartino’s back was turned to a map of the early American colonies at the front of the classroom before she glanced down at the unfolded note.

WHAT DID BROOKE DO TO HER FACE?

Sandi tried not to smile, which was almost impossible. She glanced to her left at Brooke Spencer, two rows away, who had apparently applied her makeup this morning with a trowel and a roller brush. Sandi flipped the note over and, under the guise of taking notes on the Massachusetts Bay Colony, wrote out her response.

FOR SHAME! LET US NOT MAKE (TOO MUCH) FUN OF THOSE LESS FORTUNATE.

She then refolded the note and, while scratching her right elbow again, passed it back to Quinn, who sat behind her.

Sandi glanced at Brooke and shrugged before looking back at the map, where Mr. DeMartino was pointing out Massachusetts and talking about religious issues. Brooke, you are the sorriest looking fashion authority in the history of high-school fashion clubs. You go and reconstitute your own fashion club after I disband the old one, make yourself president, then you come to school wearing a dress that would be uncouth in a trailer park, with makeup that the Three Stooges must have applied with thrown pie pans. A fine example you set for young women in your senior year. I have more fashion under the nail of my little finger than you’ve had in your whole life, and those three years I ran the old Fashion Club were the—they—oh, what the hell does it matter now? Damn, why can’t I drop it? Why do I care? Why bother with it? I should forget it and move on, damn it!

Sandi sighed and looked down at her desktop. She had moved on, hard as it was. It was just hard to keep from looking back when you had so little left in the present and nothing at all in the future. Cashman’s, I can always do floor sales. I can’t get into any good college with my test scores. Quinn can go anywhere.

But I’ll still be here, working retail, long after she’s famous and gone.

Her eyes began to fill. She suppressed the thought savagely and kept her control.

Something tickled her arm again.

LUNCH HERE AT SCHOOL OR OUT SOMEWHERE?

Sandi mulled it over, but only briefly. Students were not supposed to leave the school grounds for lunch, but many did anyway. Cafeteria food was going downhill.

OUT. I’M NOT FEELING SOCIABLE.

She specifically wasn’t feeling like having the whole school stare at her and whisper while she was having such a massive outbreak. She squirmed in her chair, trying not to make a face. How the mighty have fallen.

Mr. DeMartino turned to the class, his near-psychotic gaze falling on Sandi—no, on Quinn, behind her. “Miss MORGENDORFFER! What was so SPECIAL about the United Colonies of New England?” Mr. DeMartino’s right eye seemed to pop out of his head whenever he emphasized a syllable while speaking. You never got used to seeing it.

Quinn didn’t miss a beat. “It was the first colonial federation in America, sort of like the United States only a lot weaker. The colonies organized for mutual defense against the Dutch and Native Americans, but the whole thing fell apart after forty years because the individual colonies couldn’t agree on doing things together. It was the issue of states’ rights versus federal rights, more or less played through for the first time.”

“OutSTANDing! You have filled the intellectual VOID left at this school when your sister DARIA departed for college. I would CLONE you if only we had money budgeted for it. As it IS, I can’t even get good toilet paper on my current SALARY. But that’s neither here nor THERE.” He turned to the colonial map.

Sandi smirked at the remark about toilet paper, though she suspected he had a point about his salary. Cashman’s probably wouldn’t pay much better, but at least she would know her subject. Her thoughts stayed ahead to the evening. Sandi carefully tore off a paper scrap to make up her own note to Quinn.

“Miss ROWE!”

Sandi looked up, but Mr. DeMartino was looking at Stacy, three rows to her left. Stacy was chipper today: bright flower-print dress, hair styled nicely, pearl earrings, fresh-faced, Lawndale’s very own girl next door.

“Yes, Mr. DeMartino.”

“Tell the class, if you will, WHY the colony of Rhode Island was FOUNDED?”

“Um . . .” Her face screwed up with anxiety. “Religious . . . freedom?”

“ExACTly, Miss Rowe! CongratuLAtions for not allowing your many DUTIES as Lawndale’s Homecoming Queen to interFERE with your STUDIES!”

Surely this is another sign of the Apocalypse, Sandi thought as Mr. DeMartino turned back to the colonial map. Stacy Rowe, the human doormat, comes back to school in her senior year after not talking to me for most of the summer, runs for Homecoming Queen—and wins. Goes to show you what a buttload of nonstop assertiveness therapy will get you. It put a little steel in the doormat, even got her that awful job at the mall in Middleton, working at the Cheddary shop in that geeky farm girl outfit. Well . . .

Sandi sighed and looked at the map without seeing it. Good for her, I guess. I probably had it coming, her shutting me out forever. It was too easy to walk on her, too easy to take advantage. I probably had something to do with her needing all that assertiveness therapy. I wanted to make her my slave when she told me she’d tried to hex me, when I had that throat problem last spring. We sort of made up, but sort of not. I was pissed that she’d even think of doing something like that.

So, maybe that’s the reason she won’t talk to me. Her shrink probably told her to blow me off, like I’m bad for her ego or something. I might make her flower of self-esteem wilt. If that’s it, then . . . Sandi shrugged. Well, good for her. Good for her. She looked down at her blank note to Quinn.

I WOULD LIKE TO COME OVER FOR TV. WANT ME TO BRING SOMETHING?

She scratched her elbow. The note disappeared. She crossed her legs, which was a mistake because it made the itching worse. She uncrossed her lags and grimaced. No chance of falling asleep in class now.

I’ve changed, too, she reflected. I’m not like a totally new person, but I am different. I’m not in control of anything anymore. I’m not a better person, oh no—just one who lost her control. My home life is a zero, my social life crashed and burned months ago when everyone found out I had herpes, and the whole school either hates me or laughs at me. God damn that jerk Oakwood quarterback. I hope he drops dead and rots, and I hope I see it happen. Sandi couldn’t even bring herself to name the boy who had been her only sex partner and would probably forever be her only sex partner. One time, she had it one time and it wasn’t even a good time—and never again.

Quinn had tried to talk sense to her about it. Lots of people got herpes and had good lives. Quinn’s cousin Erin had it, though no one was supposed to know. It happens, bad stuff always happens, but herpes sure wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. There was medicine, and the condition did improve over time. You still had a good shot at a good life, just like everyone else. And you could have sex again—or so the rumor went.

Sandi’s mouth twitched. Yeah, right, lots of people get herpes and go on to have normal lives. They aren’t me. I made myself out to be so very hot for so long, I walked on the backs of the whole student body, and then this came along and BOOM, it blew up on me just like that. Everyone was either thrilled to see me screw up or terrified that if they touched me, they’d get herpes. I was the Lawndale Leper.

And Mom almost threw me out of the house, she screamed at me like I’d stabbed her. God damn you, she screamed, does everyone know? Everyone? You stupid little spread-legged tramp, how could you do this to me?

Beats the shit out of me, Mom, I yelled back. I’m the one with herpes, not your big sorry ass, and she slapped me and that was about the last thing we ever said to each other, four months ago. She sniffed. On the good side, though her home life was a zero, at least it was quiet. She and her mother left each other alone. Sandi was out of the house before seven, and she called ahead and left notes or phone messages if she was going to be out late. Her mother stayed in her home office with the door locked most of the time when she was home. There was hardly any need to wave hi anymore. Just her and her mom leading separate lives, alone in a very big house. Sandi was gone all Thanksgiving Day at the Morgendorffers, and she wasn’t even missed.

All this in part because Sam got into Sandi’s room before going to camp, went through her drawers, and found the lab report from the Middleton Medical Arts Center. I should have burned it. I should have torn it to pieces and put it through a shredder and burned it with gasoline, before Sam found it and somehow put it on the Internet and highlighted it right on the front page of the Lawndale High School website. School hadn't opened, so no one could be found to rework the webpage until four days had gone by, and by then it was too late, the whole fucking planet knew, the whole fucking planet, and everyone from Alaska to Antarctica had a good long laugh at Sandi Griffin—courtesy of her brother, who then went to camp. Nothing could be proven, but I knew that he—

Her elbow tickled.

WE’VE GOT PLENTY. WHY NOT STAY OVER TONIGHT? ARE YOU OKAY? YOU’RE BREATHING LOUD.

Sandi crumpled the note up. She swallowed and concentrated on slowing her breathing down. I have nothing left—no, she had to correct herself—I have one good thing left in my life. I have a friend who never gives up on me. I’ll never know why, but she’s the only good thing left in my life, and I’m so grateful for that.

That, and having my HIV test come out negative. Thank you, God.

It was not a good idea to reflect on either point for too long, she knew. One foot in front of the other, one day at a time, and the good times will come back at last, Mrs. Manson, the school psychologist, had told her in an unwanted moment of impromptu hallway therapy.

Fat lot you know, Sandi thought. Stick to helping the people who deserve having your butt-ugly face stuck in their business.

She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth together. The itch was driving her mad.

“Miss GRIFFin!”

Her eyes snapped open and focused on Mr. DeMartino, who stared back with great intensity. She straightened in her seat, kept her face impassive. She did not blink as she looked back. Never show your fear, never.

“DeSPITE your continued fixATION on fashion and costuming, I have more reGARD for your inTELLigence than for that of certain OTHERS in this class”—Mr. DeMartino did not look in the direction of the sleeping Kevin—“so I will direct a GENeral question to you. If you WOULD, tell the class the most unusual thing you recall READing about life in the New England COLONIES.”

After a pause to collect her thoughts, Sandi asked, “Anything other than their weirdo movie-prop daywear?”

Mr. DeMartino’s eyes narrowed. “Anything you think WORthy of MENtion.”

Sandi frantically searched her memory. She was on the verge of defeat when she remembered something from a history magazine article she’d skimmed the week before, when preparing a short essay on colonial dress and sumptuary laws. “Massachusetts once had a law that, like, banned Christmas. If you celebrated Christmas, they fined you.”

Mouths dropped all across the room.

“What?” cried Stacy Rowe. “They what?”

“It’s true,” Sandi went on, surprised at Stacy’s reaction. “I don’t remember why, except that they had some kind of major geeky religious problem with it, so—”

“That’s not possible! That’s a lie, Sandi!” Stacy was almost out of her seat, her face white with fury. Everyone stared at her, their mouths dropping open still further. “No one in America would ever ban Christmas!”

“Miss ROWE, if you PLEASE!”

Stacy blinked and came to, looking at Mr. DeMartino and the rest of the class as if they had appeared before her out of nowhere. “Eeep,” she gasped, and she sat down. “I’m sorry!”

What the hell was that? Sandi wondered in amazement. Was that the assertiveness talking, or did I finally rub you the wrong way? How long had you waited to go for me like that?

Mr. DeMartino’s severe expression softened for a moment, and he turned to give Sandi the barest smile. “Miss GRIFFin, my regard for you has DOUBLED in a single STROKE. Yes, Massachusetts in 1659 did INDEED forbid the celebration of CHRISTMAS—something the REST of you might wish to ponder as you lie SNUG in your overpriced, upscale MANSIONS next week. Perhaps fearing its eventual doom from commercialiZATION, Massachusetts banned Christmas for thirty YEARS.

“And Miss Rowe—SINCE you have displayed such an extreme INTEREST in this topic, please write a PARAgraph about this incident for us by FRIDAY, and read it aloud to the CLASS. Your Homecoming Queen patriotism is appreciated, but your open-MINDedness is just as WELCOME.”

Stacy’s lower lip trembled, but she took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, Mr. DeMartino.” She looked down at her desktop, red-faced and somber. “I’m sorry.”

“Christmas has been cancelled?” Kevin Thompson cried, awake but confused. “Those bastards! How could they do that? I was going to get some presents!”

Giggles and laughter ran through the entire class, the tension mostly broken. Sandi couldn’t help but smile. Only Stacy didn’t laugh.

Mr. DeMartino gave Sandi one last look of approval before turning to Kevin. “Mr. THOMPson,” he began, “so glad you were able to JOIN us in the space-time continuum from your last secret mission into DREAMland!”

As Mr. DeMartino gleefully turned his wrath upon the hapless Kevin, Sandi noticed several students glancing at Stacy, then giving Sandi angry looks. She knew immediately what was up. They blame me because she blew her cool and snagged a punishment assignment. Screw it, they can all be mad at me. I give up. I can’t baby-sit the oh-so-precious feelings of every dope in this whole school.

Her elbow tickled.

IS IT OKAY IF I CALL YOU A BRAIN?

Sandi smiled and wrote back.

IT’S OKAY WITH ME, PINKY.

Sandi looked around and noticed Brooke giving her a particularly dark gaze for a moment before turning away. Trouble coming, her senses warned, but she shrugged and looked down at her history book. There was nothing she could do about it now—nothing but wait.

10:52 a.m.

Sandi’s locker, Lawndale High School

The day continued on its way down a difficult track. In Phys Ed, Ms. Morris was working through a year-end fitness profile for every student, and today was chin-ups, push-ups, and rope climbing. Sandi scored far below average in every category and earned a reprimand from Ms. Morris for trying to hide in her office. (She didn’t buy Sandi’s excuse that she was looking for ointment to put on a rope burn.) Worse, Sandi didn’t want to change in front of the other girls with her outbreak spreading over her butt and thighs, so she dawdled until she could slip out of sight for a few seconds and get into or out of her gym suit. She skipped the shower altogether and put on a lot of deodorant instead. Quinn wasn’t able to help, being tasked by Ms. Morris to keep push-up scores.

Quinn had Basic Business Management with Mrs. Bennett next, and Sandi had French III. Word in the halls was that Matt Wyndham had been suspended for three days for harassing other students. The news surprised no one.

Halfway through French, Sandi became nauseated and excused herself from class. She suspected her Acyclovir was causing it as a side effect. She made it back, pale and weary, after fifteen miserable minutes in the restroom. The smirks of the other students ate at her, but she pushed it aside and finished class in what she thought was good order.

Now she was at her locker, waiting for Quinn to show up so they could sneak out of school for a light lunch somewhere, but her paper was missing—her English Lit paper on “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” She flipped through her books and notebooks. It had been folded up inside her English notebook, which she’d accidentally taken to French class, but now nothing was there.

The bottom dropped out of her already troubled stomach. “No,” she whispered. She began going through everything in her locker.

Quinn appeared out of nowhere, car keys swinging around her index finger. “Hey, ready?”
“Wait,” Sandi gasped. She dropped her English Literature book while trying to flip through it. “Damn it! Just a second!”

“What’s wrong, Sandi?”

It wasn’t in her locker. It must have fallen out in French, or between French and her locker or Phys Ed. “My paper’s gone.” Her chest was too tight. It was hard to breathe and talk. “I have to find my paper.”

“Your Lit paper? Oh, sure, let’s go.”

They retraced Sandi’s steps back to French and found the classroom dark and empty. No English paper lay on the floor under or near her desk. The hallways were crowded, but it was easy to see that no English paper was there, either. They looked in hallway trashcans, washroom garbage cans, under desks, in broom closets. They ended their search in the gym, watching Ms. Morris yell at a bunch of ninth graders trying to do push-ups.

Overheated again and starting to sweat, Sandi felt her legs get weak. She leaned against a wall, head back, hands covering her eyes. “Oh, shit,” she muttered. “Oh, shit. Don’t let this happen to me, please.”

“C’mon, let’s keep looking.”

“It’s gone. Someone took it.”

“Who? You mean, in French?”

“I got sick and had to leave class. Someone must have gotten into my stuff. I left it all under my desk.”

“Could you have left it in the car?”

“No. I looked at it before History, just checking it, then put it back.”

“If it was taken in French, then Mr. Winston would have noticed, right? Let’s go ask him. Maybe he saw someone pick it up.”

Mr. Winston was in the teacher’s lounge. He was a huge, gentle bear of a man who spoke French with a Quebec accent. He shook his head. “I did not see anyone take your papers, Miss Sandi,” he said. “But, then, I was not watching always, eh? I write on the blackboard a lot, you know? My back is turned like so, eh?” He demonstrated, looking over his shoulder as he turned away from them briefly. “I hope you find your papers, Miss Sandi. I cannot help, and I am sorry.”

Sandi and Quinn wandered aimlessly down the first-floor hallway.

“They got me,” Sandi said in defeat. “Some of Brooke’s little Morning Glories sit next to me in class. One of them must have gone through my stuff and stolen the paper. Or I lost it because I’m such a stupid idiot dope for not putting it in my locker like someone with brains would do. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I worked so hard on it, so goddamn hard. . . .”

They ate a short dispirited lunch in a corner of the cafeteria. Sandi picked at her food. After she and Quinn left, she couldn’t remember a thing she had eaten, or if she’d even had dessert.

As they left the cafeteria, Brooke and four of the Morning Glories came in.

“Oh, hi, Sandi!” Brooke cried, a strange look of glee on her face. “You’re looking fashionable today!”

“Halloween’s over, Brooke,” Quinn said, her voice a dangerous monotone. “You can wash off the clown paint.”

Brooke gave Quinn only a glance. Knowing Quinn’s temper, it was unwise to start anything with her. “We’ll see you in English in a few minutes,” she said to Sandi, grinning. “Should be an interesting class. Ta ta for now!”

Brooke and the Morning Glories left, snickering.

“Bitch,” Quinn hissed softly.

“Come on,” said Sandi, tugging on her arm. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”

They went to their lockers. It was time to face the consequences.

12:00 noon

Mr. O’Neill-Barch’s English Literature class, Lawndale High School

Sandi went directly to Mr. O’Neill-Barch’s desk when she walked in, with Quinn behind her. He was frantically searching for his class notes in his briefcase.

“Mr. O’Neill?” she started. “I meant O’Neill-Barch, sorry! If you have a moment, please, I—”

“Sandi! I haven’t read your paper yet, but it looks excellent,” Mr. O’Neill-Barch said, not looking up at her. He pulled handfuls of paper from his briefcase, then put them back, shaking his head in frustration. “I’ve always been quite the fan of Coleridge. I had only enough time to skim what you wrote, but you seem to have hit exactly the right note in your analysis. Please don’t think that my ignoring you at the moment has anything at all to do with you personally. I’m just a little at loose ends. Oh, darn it.”

Sandi blinked. “What? You read my paper?” Other students in the class looked on in curiosity. Quinn walked around and stood by Sandi’s side, looking puzzled.

“Oh, yes, your paper, the one on the ‘Ancient Mariner.’ Ah-ha! Found my notes! Just have a seat, and we’ll get on with class. I’m sure you did an excellent job.”

“What?” Sandi repeated. Her head swam. “My paper?”

Quinn took Sandi by the elbow and led her to their seats. “Let him think he’s got it,” Quinn whispered. “If he thinks he’s lost it, he’ll give you an A out of guilt.”

Brooke’s parting words about “an interesting class” came back. Wait—what if she switched papers and gave O’Neill some awful thing she wrote up herself, to embarrass me? Overcome with dread, Sandi started to get up from her desk.

“Ah!” said Mr. O’Neill-Barch. He pulled something from the mess on his desk and held up a collection of papers, stapled at the top. He smiled at Sandi. “Here it is!”

“May I see it, please, for just a moment?” Sandi called, her voice too high. She started forward, one hand out. She was way out of order, but if Brooke had doctored the paper, she could be in huge trouble.

Mr. O’Neill-Barch looked puzzled, but he handed her the paper. She flipped through it.

It was her paper. It had some scuffmarks, wrinkles, and an odd stain on it, but it was her paper. Stunned, she handed it back to the teacher. “How did—”

He waved her back to her seat. “Oh, I’m sure you did just fine. I’ll grade it with the others. Don’t worry.” He turned to address the class. “Now that Sandi has brought up the topic, let’s turn in our books to page two-eleven and look at ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’ by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”

“Ancient whaaat?” Tiffany Blum-Deckler asked, looking up from filing her nails.

“Mariners,” said Kevin. “They’re a baseball team in Seattle.”

“Uh, Kevin,” said Mr. O’Neill-Barch in a strained voice, “we’re talking about mariners as in sailors, not baseball players.”

“But I know for a fact they play baseball! They’re not my favorite team, but—”

“Kevin, thank you. I understand. Let’s go back to the topic at hand. The poem you picked for your report, Sandi, is rather long, but we have time for a few stanzas. Let’s have a discussion! To start out, would you read the section starting at line, um, two thirty-three, down to the bottom of that column, line two fifty-three?”

“Sure,” she said, still lightheaded and confused. How did my paper get here after all? Who did it? Am I going crazy?

“This is a poem about baseball?” Kevin said. “Cool!”

“No, Kevin, this . . . oh, forget it. In the selection we’re going to discuss, the mariner is the only survivor of his ship, and he describes what he sees. Sandi, if you would, please read for the class.”

Sandi looked down at the volume on her desk. She swallowed and hoped her voice would hold out. As she read, her voice grew deeper and rougher. No voice or sound interrupted.

“Alone, alone, all, all alone,

“Alone on a wide, wide sea!

“And never a saint took pity on

“My soul in agony.

“The many men, so beautiful!

“And they all dead did lie:

“And a thousand thousand slimy things

“Lived on; and so did I.

“I look’d upon the rotting sea,

“And drew my eyes away;

“I look’d upon the rotting deck,

“And there the dead men lay.

“I look’d to heaven, and tried to pray;

“But or ever a prayer had gusht,

“A wicked whisper came, and made

“My heart as dry as dust.

“I closed my lids, and kept them close,

“And the balls like pulses beat;

“For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky,

“Lay like a load on my weary eye,

“And the dead were at my feet.”