Sinister - 2. Chapter 2

Sam left for school early enough to bike through the back roads. There were far fewer people and the scenery was better. The quinoa fields had a ramshackle charm that Sam especially liked. Hillcrest's recent prosperity was largely due to quinoa, a new variety suited to its climate and a lower altitude than the South American strains. Sam smiled at the thought of how the urban foodies who were making Hillcrest farmers comfortable were exactly the sort of people for whom the church professed disapproval.

He managed to get through his first three classes without incident. On his way to art class, though, in a moment of inattention, he almost collided with Gabe Watson, just the sort of in-crowd jock he was usually so careful to avoid.

Gabe pushed him into a locker. "Did you just touch me? With your left hand? Fuckin' lefty!"

Gabe's girlfriend Rachel tugged on his sleeve. "Come on, Gabe, we'll be late."

Gabe kept his gaze on Sam. "Just keep your fuckin' whaffo hands off me, cack-hand."

Sam didn't even know what 'whaffo' was short for, but if it was an insult and it started with 'wh,' it was a safe bet that the phrase started with 'wrong hand.'

"Gabe, don't make a big deal out of it," Rachel whined.

"Fuckin' lefty just tried to put a hex on me. That's what they all do."

Don't respond, don't make it worse, Sam thought. He focused on getting to class. But that meant passing a gaggle of popular girls discussing plans for a party. "Oh, no, don't invite her," one said. "She's so gauche."

Perfect people like Gabe and his perfect girlfriend Rachel, or Gabe's jock friend Jesse Davis with his perfect boyfriend Toby Marsden, had no idea what it was like to have to hide who they were, to have to keep quiet about it every day. Sam comforted himself with the thought that they probably didn't have a quarter of his mental discipline, honed during years of watching what he said and did, lest his secret slip.

But how much of a secret was it, anyway? Kids had teased him since first grade when he picked up a pencil with his left hand. The teacher saw him and whacked the offending hand with a ruler, then berated him in front of the class. So Sam learned to write with his right hand. He learned to use right-handed scissors. He threw a ball with his right hand. He held the ping-pong paddle in his right hand. But the same kids who over one summer forgot every word of Spanish they'd ever been taught had flawless memories of his first-grade humiliation.

Secretly, he wrote with his left hand when he was alone. And when he started drawing, which was a solace to him like no other, he used his left hand when it was safe. He was always careful to wash every trace of color from his left fingertips immediately afterward.

In art class, the students were turning in their projects at Mr. Price's desk. As Sam laid his watercolor down, Mr. Price looked at it and raised an eyebrow. "Sam, I'd like to see you for a few minutes after class, please."

"But I have to--"

"You can spare a few minutes of lunch hour. I need to speak to you."

"Yes, Mr. Price."

Sam felt his face flush as he walked to his seat. He tried to concentrate on the in-class assignment, a charcoal still-life, but his rising dread was distracting. His right hand was particularly clumsy today. Five minutes before the end of class, Mr. Price collected all the sketches, then stood near the door. There was no getting past him, no getting out quietly.

Let's get this over with, Sam thought. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Price?"

"Yes, Sam. I looked at your watercolor during class. Your homework. It's very good."

"Thanks."

"All your homework is very good. It all shows real skill."

Where was this leading? "Thanks, Mr. Price."

"It's so good that I'd like to meet the artist."

"What?"

"Sam, it's obvious that your homework and your in-class work are not done by the same person. Now, you don't have to be Michelangelo to take this class. I don't demand that a student have flawless draughtsmanship or execute perfect perspective. But I do expect honesty. And you didn't paint that watercolor."

"Yes, I did."

The teacher laid Sam's watercolor and charcoal sketch side by side. "I don't believe it. The person who did this charcoal sketch could not possibly have painted this watercolor."

"But I did."

Mr. Price folded his arms. "All right, show me."

"What?"

"Paint or draw me something of the same quality as this watercolor, right here, right now."

This is so unfair, Sam thought. I finally take an art class and I'm not even allowed to paint. An unaccustomed emotion started rising through his fear: anger.

Calmly, evenly, Sam said, "All right, Mr. Price, I'll show you."

He got his sketch pad and a set of pastels. He looked out the window at a tree in full fall color. Working quickly, he sketched a blaze of yellow, orange, red, green and brown that perfectly captured the tree framed by the window and the dull tones of the of classroom, using his left hand.

He heard Mr. Price gasp softly at first. Then there was no sound as the drawing developed. When Sam finished, the teacher took the drawing and looked at it, then at Sam, then at the drawing again. He scrutinized it and nodded. "Now I understand." Then he tore it in quarters.

"Sam, I can't have you in this class. I should report this. In fact, I could lose my job for not reporting you. I happen to believe that your... kind can't help what they are. So I'm not going to report it. Just drop this class, and what you did won't leave this room." Using a paper towel, he picked up the pastels Sam had just used and threw them in the wastebasket.

"It's not fair. It shouldn't make any difference."

"It's still illegal in this state, Sam."

"What am I going to tell my parents?"

"Stop it. Do you know how some people would have reacted? I consider myself an open-minded person, but I'm sorry, I can't deal with this. This is too much. You have to leave. You'll have to come back for me to sign your slip withdrawing from the class. Other than that, I expect not to see you here again. You have my word that I will not tell anyone. Now please leave."

Sam rushed to his locker. He had fifteen minutes to eat the bag lunch he had brought. Fortunately, he had not planned to buy lunch in the cafeteria today; it would be closing in a minute or two. He scouted an out-of-the-way bench and sat to eat.

Glen rounded a corner and spotted him. "Sam!" He walked up and sat on the bench beside him. "Don't forget Science Club today after school. Room 214. Right after school."

"I don't know if I can make it."

"Hey, something wrong?"

"I just got kicked out of a class."

"What did you do? Blow up the chemistry lab?"

"It was art class."

Glen whistled. "How the hell do you get kicked out of art class?"

"Personality conflict with the teacher. It's an elective. I'll just pick something else. Metal shop or music or something."

"But you like art. Your pictures are really good."

"Well, I guess I don't need to take the class, then."

"That sucks." Glen stood. "I really think you should come to Science Club."

"Why? What do you do in it?"

"Just come. You'll find out. I think it will cheer you up."

"Ma expects me at four."

"Just for a few minutes."

"Okay, maybe."

Sam's mind wasn't on his afternoon classes. Algebra was more incomprehensible and pointless than usual. Spanish might as well have been Greek.

At the last bell, Sam hurried to his bike and started pedaling home. After half a mile, curiosity tugged at him. He pedaled back to school and went to room 214.

He opened the door and heard an electric crackle. On a table was an antique electronic device. He heard a tinny voice.

Glen was fiddling with the dials -- with his left hand. At another table, Naomi Green was writing with her left hand in a journal. Ruth Morris was at the blackboard, chalk in her left hand. Noah Blackburn was cutting some paper with an odd pair of scissors -- left-handed scissors.

Sam looked back at Glen. "Is that a -- radio?"

"It belonged to my grandfather. Still works."

"Doesn't it have to have an antenna?"

"Don't look too close at the school flagpole."

The tinny voice said, "This is Adam Talbot, signing off for Radio Free America."

Sam's eyes opened wide. "Adam Talbot? Our Adam Talbot? Adam whose parents kicked him out a year ago?"

Glen grinned. "That's the one."