Ghost Time

of my eye, I could see Foley folding his hands again.
    I nodded, disgusted, then I caught Cheesy, nodding his head, too, standing guard at his perch in the corner of the room. I’d gotten so used to him being there, I didn’t think about it anymore. And I could tell Cheswick wanted out of that room almostas badly as I did. Because it might have seemed all sexy and Law & Order , but, in reality, it was some fucked-up shit you really didn’t want to know about, ever, and now Cheesy had to carry it around, just like I did. Then and there, our relationship as principal and student changed. Cheswick nodded at me once, in resignation, and I knew that from then on, the rule was, You stay in your corner, and I’ll stay in mine. I break a rule, skip a class, from now until Cam comes back, so long as I don’t kill anybody, let’s stay out of each other’s way. And that’s how we’ll get through this.
    Then Foley goes, Actually, Mrs. Denny—we don’t need to watch any more, no—but what’s particularly alarming is that every time this video plays, it becomes sharper, a clearer image. And seeing as it’s become an Internet phenomenon, the video has quickly gone from the likes of Super 8 quality to high-definition—it’s going viral, as we speak, he said, and I felt like I’d been kicked. For a second, I couldn’t breathe, like someone had kicked me in the gut, and I really thought I was going to hyperventilate.
    Also, he said, while Mom was still trying to form the question in her mouth, How? How is that possible? One other thing, he said, and then, at that second, someone knocked on the door, and Foley goes, Come in, and this nurse’s aide walked in, carrying a briefcase. Foley removed a piece of paper from behind the computer, and he goes, As I explained to your mother on the phone, Theadora, we need to fingerprint you, and we need a blood sample, and I nodded, not understanding. The woman started opening her leather bag, and my mom grabbed my arm, steadying me, and Foley goes, I’m sorry to do this to you, Theadora, butwe need to take a sample of your blood, court order, he said, but I didn’t care. No, I said, trying not to panic. No way—don’t even think about it, I said, and Mom squeezed my arms, like she was trying to give me strength, soothe me.
    Foley removed a digital fingerprint scanner, sliding it across the table. If you would put your right palm flat on the screen, please, Theadora? I placed my hand on the black scan, that was fine, but blood, no. No blood: I just kept shaking my head, no blood sample. Foley tilted his head in one of his stock concerned looks, then he said, Unfortunately, the local police were extremely sloppy in their handling of this investigation, and we have since found blood in the trunk of John Conlon’s car. So we need to make sure it’s not your blood, Theadora, and I said, I’m telling you, it’s not my blood, and I tried to keep from panicking, seeing the woman start removing things from her bag—that’s what it was, a doctor’s bag. That’s what she was there for, and I saw the needle, and right away, I thought I was going to puke, and my mom said, Don’t look. I didn’t look, but I almost passed out, just thinking about it, and after the woman put the Band-Aid on my arm, I stood up, almost stumbling, and then I ran for the bathroom.

THURSDAY, MARCH 3, 2011
    (FIVE WEEKS EARLIER)
    7:16 PM
    I try to talk to my mom, I really do. Sometimes. Like a couple weeks ago, I got this idea, reading about the earliest days of photography, back when people tried using photography to help treat the mentally ill. I’m not sure how they thought it would help, but that’s why there are all these collections of photographs of patients at all these mental institutions in the U.S. and England from the 1800s, right?
    Well, so my idea was that this handsome photographer is commissioned to take portraits, create this whole collection of pictures of the patients of an asylum. And while he’s there, he meets one of the patients, this young woman, and of course she’s beautiful and she comes from a good family, but she never talks, and it’s like she never sees him. She’s completely in her own world, and when he tries finding out why she’s there, no one can tell him for certain what happened to her or what the problem is.
    So the photographer gets this idea that maybe he can treat her or heal whatever’s ailing her by taking her picture; maybe he can draw her out and