Chapter 1 - The First of His Last Days
Tuesday, May 5, 1983 ā Sumter, South Carolina
An elementary teacher for thirty-one years, Beatrice Daugherty believed two things: One, first grade teachers should not have a favorite student. Two, she had a favorite student. It was little Jeremy Mailer.
āMrs. Daugherty, Mrs. Daugherty!ā
As usual, it was Tara the Tattler breaking the classroom rule against speaking while the teacher was either absent from the room or had her back turned. Taraās high, whiny voice carried through the room as usual.
At the blackboard, Mrs. Daugherty chose to ignore the child. With only a month left in the school year, if Tara hadnāt learned that rules applied to her, there wasnāt much point in beating a dead horse, as the saying went.
With a posture so impeccably straight it could shame a yardstick, Beatrice Daugherty kept sketching a cat, a mouse, and a doghouse. She used bold, sweeping strokes and four different colors of chalk. It was one of her funner lessons, one sheād been giving for yearsāon things that belonged and things that did not. Once the main characters were complete, she added a piece of cheese, an Easter bonnet, a kazoo.
Mrs. Daugherty was slimāalmost painfully soāand as she worked, the hem of her purple-flowered dress swayed against her knees, reminding some of her students of the brass bell she rang three times a day to signal the end of recess. Her left hand clutched a crumpled tissue, curled behind the small of her back. Her salt-and-pepper hair was tied in a terse bun. Were she ever to let it down, it was doubtful any of her students would recognize her.
āMrs. Daugherty!ā
This time the plea carried genuine fear, and it wasnāt Tara speaking. It came from Gerald, a chunky little boy who spoke so seldom that Beatrice barely recognized his voice.
āThereās something wrong with the new kid,ā Gerald went on, sounding almost surprised at his own boldness.
āHeās not new,ā Glenna hissed. āHeās been here since Christmas.ā
Beatrice paused, set the chalk on the tray, and turned. In the small cotton-farming community of Sumter, these children had gone to preschool, kindergarten, and first grade together. By ānew kid,ā they meant Jeremy.
At first, sheād been skeptical about accepting him. For the first half of the school year, his parents had tried homeschooling. Then they recantedānot because it was hard work, but because they realized there were things he wasnāt getting. Things like learning how to make friends. Another concern had been Jeremyās size. Runt wasnāt quite the word, but he was smaller than most of the kindergartners.
What the boy lacked in size, he made up for in grit, determination, and healthy doses of old-fashioned optimism. His reading was well beyond grade level. Twice a week when the class went to the library, Jeremy was the only one brave enough to choose a chapter book. In her experience, that alone made him rare.
His spot in class was the front row, dead center, and instinctively her eyes swung that way.
But it wasnāt Jeremy sitting there now.
Whoeverāwhatever sat in his chair flooded her with revulsion.
It wore Jeremyās white shirt with the broad flat collar, but it was soaked through, dripping as if heād just climbed out of a swimming pool. His hairāshort, crew-cut bristles of whiteāwas drenched too, rivulets running down his forehead and neck.
His head was turned away. His arms hung slack at his sides. He could have been a mannequin. Nothing about him moved.
āJeremy? Sweetheart?ā Her voice wavered. Cold spider-legs of dread skittered up her spine.
Jeremy heard her. He was a good boyāor at least he tried to beāand when adults spoke to good boys, it was polite to look at them. So he began to turn his head.
But why was it so difficult? Why did it hurt?
Oh. He knew. Carl sat behind him. Carl was what Mrs. Daugherty called a prankster. Sometimes Carl leaned forward and grabbed Jeremyās ears. Jeremy didnāt like it, but Carl didnāt have other friends. And a person couldnāt be happy without friends.
Jeremy bit down and tried harder.
Finally, he got his head to turn.
Why was it suddenly so cold?
For the rest of her life, Beatrice would swear she heard the tendons inside Jeremyās neck wrench and snap, like someone twisting the head off a desiccated mummy. She clamped a hand over her mouth.
Thisāthis thingāno longer had the tender face of a little boy. Not anymore. His skin was translucent and crisscrossed by deep purple, pulsing veinsāor were they cracks?
Then Jeremyās eyes found her.
They were wide. Unblinking. The color of watered-down bleach. But worse than the color was the focus.
Whatever those eyes were fixed on, it wasnāt in this world.
No recognition. No confusion. Just that awful, vacant stillness. As if he were staring through her into something far away.
Then he smiledā and buckled forward.
Hard.
His face smashed into the wooden desktop with a sickening crack. For one stunned second, he didnāt move. The class gasped.
Then, just as suddenly, he sat upright and smiled the odd, bashful grin of a little boy who had just farted in front of everyone.
Blood poured from his nose, spraying with each exhale, streaming down his upper lip and soaking his shirt. His eyes rolled. He gave a shaky inhale.
Thatās when the screaming started.
Chairs toppled. Children cried out and scattered. One slipped in the panic. A boy tripped over a backpack, hit the floor, and kept crawling. Somewhere, someone sobbed Jeremyās name. Another just shrieked over and over.
But Beatriceās eyes stayed locked on him.
He was swaying.
Unstable. Loose. About to fall sideways.
And if he did, heād crack his head wide open on the tile.
She didnāt think. She didnāt plan. She movedādiving like a ballplayer stealing home, terrified sheād be too late.
She caught him just as he pitched sideways out of the chair.
His body collapsed into her armsāboneless, cold, and too light. His head lolled back, blood smearing across her blouse.
āJeremy,ā she gasped, arms trembling as she cradled him. āI got you, sweetheart. I got you.ā
But he wasnāt moving.
