Prophets for the End of Time| Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
Prophets for the End of Time
Science class fell right before recess, and Clayton Pinkes had no idea what Mr. Kallur meant when he said, "I’ll be collecting your science reports at the end of class." Science report? A major, end-of-year, open topic project, and Clayton hadn’t the slightest recollection of any report being assigned, nor of any due date being listed on the chalkboard. He looked around the room for allies to support his claim that there had never been discussion of a science project. Everyone was busy pulling reports from folders, book bags, and back pockets.
"Psst, Pinhead."
Clayton looked across the aisle to Paolo Diosana, whom he had every intention of beating up at recess.
Paolo passed over a packet of ten handwritten pages. The handwriting was Clayton’s. The title page reads, "the benefits of Kerguélen cabbage. by Clayton Pinkes." Clayton hadn’t written it, of course. But it was Clayton’s handwriting.
Two months ago he would have been impressed, but he’d had enough of angel tricks. He was still set on beating up Paolo.
Kallur took his time picking up the reports, making sarcastic comments as he took each one, riffling through the pages, then stuffing it in his leather briefcase. "Mr. Lanpher, ‘The Circulatory System.’ A taste for blood, I assume. Mr. Raymond, ‘The History of Science.’ Just what I like, a well-focused, narrow treatment. Miss Manczac, ‘Our Friend, the Koala Bear.’ High drama and adventure here, Miss Manczac. Mr. Roach, ‘Human Reproduction.’ I trust you enjoyed drawing the diagrams. Mr. Pinkes?"
Clayton was going to say, "I don’t have it," and he actually did say that, only his mouth took over on its own and kept on going and he said, "I don’t have it typewritten."
"That’s fine, Mr. Pinkes. Typing was an option, not a requirement."
Clayton handed over the report.
" ‘The Benefits of Kerguélen Cabbage.’ " Kallur stood there for a moment, obviously unable to think of anything sarcastic to say. "Kerguélen cabbage, Mr. Pinkes?"
Clayton’s mouth took over again. "Yes. It’s a vegetable found only on the Archipelago of Kerguélen, long valued by the explorers of that region for its antiscorbutic attributes."
"Kerguélen," said Paolo Diosana, leaning across the aisle to see the paper. His eyebrows were pulled together from the feigned strain of thought. "Yeah. I remember now. That’s the one that’s two thousand miles southeast of Madagascar, isn’t it?"
"Right," said Clayton’s mouth. "A collection of about three hundred islands with no indigenous fauna, although the native flora is believed to be of great antiquity."
Kallur looked harshly at them both. Damn you, Paolo, Clayton thought. Damn you, leave me alone.
Kallur picked up Paolo’s paper. "Mr. Diosana, ‘Our Friend, the Deadly, Cannibalistic Black Widow.’ " Kallur stared over the top of the paper at Paolo.
Paolo shrugged. "The Kerguélen cabbage topic was already taken."
The recess bell rang, almost as if on cue. Of course it was on cue, Clayton thought. For Paolo everything was on cue, everything perfect. Everything playing by the rules of Raphael the angel, Paolo Diosana, prankster from on high. Clayton rubbed his lips against the sleeve of his white dress shirt.
He hunted the school grounds during recess for some sign of Paolo and finally spotted him over behind the far side of the church, near the apartment complexes, where students were forbidden to play during school hours. Paolo was alone.
"Hey, Clay." Clayton turned and saw Julie Ward standing beside him. He swung his head back toward the far side of the church. Paolo was still standing there.
"Julie?" Clayton asked.
She laughed and blushed. "Well . . . yeah, that’s still my name."
"I’m sorry, I just thought you might be Paolo."
She tilted her head and looked at him queerly.
"I mean, not that I thought you were Paolo, but, I mean, Paolo was gonna meet me here."
"Oh," Julie said. She still looked puzzled. "Anyway, Lisa Collins and me are having a pool party at my house this Saturday. We’ve got about ten people coming. Do you think maybe you and Dickie Lanpher could come, too? It’s at noon."
Clayton glanced back toward Paolo, and realized his anger had made him forget he should be nervous as hell standing here talking to Julie. He stuck his hands in his pockets—dumb move, but he’d committed to the action and would look stupid changing it now. "Yeah, sure," he said as casually as he could. "I’ll, uh, check with Dickie, and, uh, we’ll let you know." He shrugged and nodded his head seven or eight times, stopping when he realized he must look like a rooster.
"Great!" She touched his shoulder and leaned toward him. For a second he thought she was going to kiss him again—no, not again, she’d never kissed him—but she leaned close to his ear instead and whispered. "It’s just, ya’ know, I think Lisa really likes Dickie Lanpher. It’d be great if you could both be there."
"Yeah," said Clayton, "that’s cool." She turned and ran off toward where the girls gathered at recess.
Yeah, that was cool, Clayton thought. Lisa liked Dickie. Julie’d shared secret info, they were both in on it now. That was good. That was better than anything Paolo had done. He shivered, and again he wiped his lips on his sleeve. He walked toward the far side of the church where Paolo stood.
Paolo wasn’t alone. As Clayton got closer he could see Paolo talking, and closer still he could make out who he was talking to. Sister Leo Agnes. Clayton halted about twenty yards away, but Paolo turned and waved him to come closer.
"Why, Clayton Pinkes." Sister Leo Agnes was smiling, but it wasn’t her usual tight-lipped smile. It wasn’t even her imitation of Sister Assumpta’s understanding, loving smile. It was . . . well, it was a smile that Clayton had never seen smiled before by anyone.
"Hello, Sister."
"Hello, Clayton."
"Hi, Clay."
"Hello, Paolo."
Silence and that smile of hers.
Paolo pulled a small notepad from his breast pocket. He opened it and ran his finger down one of the pages. "Oh, gosh, I’d forgotten, Sister. I’d pencilled in Pinhead for a fist fight this afternoon."
"Oh, dear."
"Now, now, there’s no problem. I’ll just need to rearrange the schedule by a few minutes. I’ve always been a terrible organizer. Take your time."
Sister Leo Agnes glanced over at Clayton. The smile wavered. She looked nervous.
"Go ahead," Paolo said to her. "It’s all right, he’s with me."
Sister nodded. "Well, I suppose one thing I really regret is the rigid tone I always took with my students. I could have been kinder. Sister Assumpta, now she was kind. It came naturally to her. I’ve always envied that gift. Yes, envy is the word."
Paolo chuckled. "What if I were to tell you that she’s always envied your gift of instilling discipline in children, even as the rest of the world around them became more and more lenient?"
"She envying me?" Sister Leo Agnes’s face began to brighten. "I never imagined . . . . Well, what about that? Now, just what about that?" The smile was back.
Clayton scratched the back of his left calf with the toe of his right shoe. "Sister, how have you been feeling? Is your flu better?"
"Hold on, Pinhead," Paolo said, twisting his wrist and glancing at his watch. "I just need a few more minutes."
Clayton opened his mouth to protest, but he stopped himself. It was like the time Paolo had rolled up his sleeves, the same conviction from Paolo, the same authority. Clayton shut up.
"Where to now?" Sister asked.
Paolo shrugged. "That’s the catch. I have no idea. I’ve never known."
"Really?" said Sister.
Paolo said, "Really," and he said it in a whisper.
A very soft breeze started, and Sister’s eyes went wide. Her mouth formed a circle, as if she were saying "Oh," but she made no sound.
"Can you feel it?"
Sister nodded.
Paolo held out his hand a few inches from her face. "Me, too."
Clayton’s right forearm began to tingle. He flexed the fingers on his right hand, and the tingling grew to a buzzing, as if his arm had fallen asleep. It was only the lower part of his arm, below the elbow and above the wrist. The buzzing became burning, and the burning became a violent electric pulse. He cried out, but neither Sister nor Paolo looked toward him.
Then one of his flashes: himself in a bed with metal railings on each side. "It’s like I can still feel it," he said, and Elizabeth, standing beside the bed, ran a gentle hand through his hair, saying, "You lost the arm, Clay. It’s gone."
Back again, out of the flash. Sister had begun to . . . fade? disappear? twinkle? She was like a ghost, and Clayton tried to yell. Nothing came. He looked toward Paolo. Paolo’s eyes were closed.
Sister’s voice was like an echo from the far end of an empty classroom. "Keep your faith, Raphael." Then she vanished.
"Sure," Paolo said.
Clayton stepped to where Sister had been standing. "What did you do to her?"
"She’s gone, Pinhead." Paolo opened his eyes. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the blue rubber ball. He bounced it off the pavement, caught it, bounced it again. "She died earlier this morning."
The soft breeze stopped, and Clayton began to feel the June heat in the tightness of his collar. He looked up, all around, not sure what he expected to see. He looked back at Paolo. Paolo was grinning, and the sadness that had been in his face was gone, replaced by mischief.
"Paolo, my arm . . ."
"Thummim, Pinkes," Paolo said, bouncing the ball steadily. "So, I hear you want to beat the crap out of me."
Clayton didn’t move. "But Sister Leo Agnes—"
"Forget her, Pinhead! Let the dead rest. All the better for you the old bat’s gone. She was a real pain in your butt anyway, right?"
Clayton punched Paolo in the face. Paolo staggered backwards, then fell to the pavement. His lower lip was bleeding.
"Feel better?" Paolo asked. "Maybe you should kick me in the ribs a couple times, just to be sure. No skin off my back. I’m metaphysical."
Baltimore Catechism No. 2, Revised Edition, Benziger Brothers, Inc., Question 37: "What are angels? Angels are created spirits, without bodies, having understanding and free will."
"You’re not really hurt," Clayton said. "Get up."
Paolo touched the blood on his chin and looked at his fingers. "It doesn’t matter whether I’m really hurt or not. What matters is that you believe you hurt me. Anything for good old Pinhead."
Clayton had felt the punch; his knuckles still ached. "I never even really touched you." He couldn’t have. Not really. "And that means you never even really touched Dickie to fix his arm. Or kissed me when you were pretending to be Julie Ward."
Paolo laughed. "A neuron trick here, a synapse stunt there; what’s it matter, as long as you believe?" Then his face changed. The blood disappeared. "And for the record, I did touch Dickie. I get a special dispensation for that. Healing is no game for me."
"But I am!" Clayton balled both hands into fists. "You treat me like a game! You mess up my head! You’re supposed to be teaching me things, and all you do is treat me like a joke!" Clayton stood there, trying to think of anything else to yell. So this was how God ran things. With people like Paolo—angels like Raphael—controlling the power and the rules to the game. Clayton was just the toy.
"For an angel, Paolo, you’re a real asshole."
Clayton turned away and ran back toward the school.
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