Peter, a boy who'd been asking me out for a few years, sent a papier-mâché rose floating through the air to my desk. His attention had never ignited the same fire in me that my connection with Drake had. A surge of jealousy rose up from Drake, who sat in my mind like a split personality—so much a part of me now, it was hard to tell where my mind stopped and his started. I assured him that Peter held no interest for me. Our teacher, Mr. Jackson, glared at Peter and nodded to me, the only indication he'd give that I'd been out sick. Fine by me.
"We are discussing Macbeth: the symbolism, the misogyny, and the thematic elements that have made this play so popular over the years." When Mr. Jackson lectured, it was as if he did so from a stage, and I wondered idly if he had a background in theater. "Who can tell me about one of the most significant symbols in Macbeth. Sam?"
I hadn't even raised my hand! But that's what I got for missing class. I flipped through my edition of the famous Scottish play and looked at the notes I'd taken for my essay.
"Blood. Blood is everywhere in Macbeth. The opening battle between the Scots and the Norwegian invaders in Act 1 is very bloody. And once Macbeth and Lady Macbeth start killing everyone, it holds significant symbolism for them both.
"After Macbeth kills Duncan, he talks about Neptune's ocean washing away this blood from his hand, and later, when Lady Macbeth falls to her conscience, she gets obsessive about trying to clean her hands of the blood. Blood symbolizes the guilt that sits like a permanent stain on the consciences of both Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, one that hounds them to their graves."
Mr. Jackson clapped. "Very good, Sam. I take it that is the theme of your essay."
"Yes."
"Wonderful. Now, on to misogyny. Why do you think so many people have accused Shakespeare of hating women?"
My mind wandered, and I pulled out my new sketchbook and placed it over Macbeth. The leather felt smooth under my palm as I flipped through the pages I'd filled—a portrait of Tommy playing with his truck, his youthful smile so contagious; several pages of Drake, or what I imagined he would look like if standing or sitting, rather than lying on a gurney; even a portrait of Mr. K, hawk nose and all.
A renegade tear threatened to ruin my composition, but I caught it before it could fall. Will I ever see Mr. K again?
Dozens of sketches of the twins covered the pages. Over the years, I'd painted, sketched, or in some way drawn nearly every inch of this place, including the entire faculty and every student. My secret notebooks proved that I'd really been here.
Even if just to myself.
Chapter 15 – Sam
Over the next few weeks, dizziness and nausea thwarted my plans to help Drake or learn anything new. My illness forced me to leave class twice to go to the Clinic. This continued despite the fact that my face had healed well, and the flu shouldn't last that long.
With my eighteenth birthday days away, I still hadn't heard from Higgins about my next assignment. This would be my last chance to get off campus and get us some help.
In addition to losing all excitement for my future, my concern for Drake buzzed in my mind like a pestering bee. As his strength faded by the day, he became more and more ill.
'Sam!'
My history professor enlightened us about some war or another. I pretended to pay attention while listening to Drake.
'I heard the nurses talking. They're moving me, but I don't know where.'
My heart skipped a beat, but I forced myself to stay calm and keep up appearances. "I don't know what to do. I haven't figured out anything."
'They're coming in. Sam!'
"Drake! Drake!"
Nothing.
I ran out of the classroom, startling everyone next to me, and headed to the nearest bathroom. "Drake. Drake!"
He didn't answer. They'd probably drugged him unconscious.
I fought in vain to keep tears from spilling down my cheeks. The bathroom door opened and Lucy walked in. I splashed water on my face to wipe away any evidence, and dried off, hands still shaking, heart still racing.
"Sam, are you okay?"
The flood gates opened again, and I told Lucy everything.
"Oh, Chica, I'm so sorry. We'll sort it out." She held me as I cried into her shoulder.
Then my stomach rumbled, and I threw myself at the nearest stall, just barely making it to the toilet before practically puking up my intestines.
"Is she okay?"
Great, Luke was there too. Sometimes his ability to walk through walls unnerved everyone around him. The heaving stopped. I wiped my mouth with toilet paper and stood up slowly.
Lucy protested. "Luke, this is the girl's room, you're not allowed in here! Just... never mind. Help her."
"Sam, no arguments." He put a little extra thunder in his voice. "I'm taking you to the Clinic, again. You know, I should start charging you a service fee as a personal escort."