Death of the Mad Hatter Read online

  Since the entire high school had an enrollment of less than two hundred kids, I knew every girl in the female student body. This particular girl had to be new to the roster, but she looked familiar—déjà vu familiar.

  There was the type of girls who dressed for guys, the type who still played dress-up, the type who lived in sweatpants, and then there was an entirely different breed who wore mismatched socks with pride. This chick fell into the last category. Why would anyone possibly think bright orange and blue would go together, unless they were a Boise State fan? Her shoes were quite possibly handcrafted a hundred years ago, and her tattered skirt looked as though she found it in a dusty box tucked away in an attic. However, the zebra patterned gloves actually appeared to be from this decade.

  “Well, it’s rather fortunate that you didn’t dribble. Mr. Ruth would have a fit if he became familiar with the underside of your pee-soaked shoe,” the girl said, petting the stuffed animal’s head. Her accent was none that I’d heard before—and I’d lived in a lot of different places. She sounded like a British gal impersonating a southern bell. “It’d be quite regrettable if anything happened to him on the first day of school. He must have fallen out of his hidey-hole.”

  “You named your stuffed rabbit, Mr. Ruth?”

  She covered the bunny’s ears. “Rutherford is his proper name, but he hates it and makes all the other rumperbabbits call him by his nickname.”

  “Rumperbabbits?”

  “Bunnies, rabbits, hares—rumperbabbits. Same thing,” she said with a wink. She had the most volatile light-blue eyes that were so electrifying I couldn’t look away.

  Time out—just for reference, I didn’t believe in juvenile notions, like love at first sight. In my book, time didn’t cease to move forward when two people fell in love. As a matter-of-fact, I’d have to be drunk (not on love) for such an irrational idea to enter my mind.

  But, there was no denying the euphoric disposition of this girl; she had a mischievous charm. I wouldn’t have said that I necessarily liked it, but it was intriguing. She was intriguing… and new. For a town whose newspaper’s biggest story was the harvest report, having a new girl in school would most likely be headlined on The Gossiper’s front page.

  She crammed the animal into a mesh, side pocket of her backpack that had been intended for a bottled drink. After securing her rabbit, she dug into her pocket. Pulling out a bright blue candy wrapped in wax paper, she introduced herself as Alice Mae and then popped the candy into her mouth.

  It brought my attention to her outlandish lipstick. I didn’t know much about makeup, except that it itched like the dickens. Last spring, I participated in the One Act Plays. It was the only reason why I knew the difference between lip gloss and lipstick.

  Scout’s honor.

  Clearly, Alice Mae wasn’t a makeup connoisseur either, judging from her bright purple eye shadow that she paired with the light blue lipstick smudged halfway on her lips. The illusion looked like she was in a perpetual kissing state. She had the genetics to be naturally beautiful—high cheekbones, porcelain skin, pouty lips, and that silky, blonde hair that drove most men into an aphrodisiacal state of desire. Yet, she painted over it to create the illusion that she wasn’t as attractive as the girls who made this year’s homecoming candidate list, like Courtney. Remember her? I thought. Again, I couldn’t emphasize enough my disbelief in soul-mates or that meeting Alice Mae was in no way prolific. Courtney mattered, not this random girl. But, I couldn’t dismiss the fact that I’d literally stared at her lips for the better part of a minute, so I shot up a prayer hoping that she hadn’t noticed.

  “You’re new here,” I said.

  Good one, genius.

  “Do you always point out observations, or are you simply worried about this particularly crucial day of the educational system?” Alice Mae asked.

  “Huh?”

  She stuck her thumb out over her shoulder, pointing at the brick building that had our school mascot, a fighting raven, embroidered on a green flag that was hanging on a white chipped flag pole. “You’re going to be late for the first day of school if you don’t hurry along.”

  Almost everyone had left the school parking lot and had made their way inside the turn-of-the-century building. I glanced at the worn wrist watch that used to be my dad’s. Once upon a time it was bronze, but those days were long past for this timepiece. The spade etched at the top was almost worn away. Three minutes passed eight—two minutes until the second bell would ring. My usually levelheaded mom would flip out and transform into this berserk tyrant if Wittrock, the principal, called her because of my tardiness.

  “Save me a seat in the detention office, buddy!” Dax yelled from his Yota as he drove to a vacant parking spot a block down. The T and O had long since fallen off the clunker of a car, but it ran great considering the odometer had rolled over twice. Dax was a loyal kind of guy—even to beat down cars.

  “Dax doesn’t move very fast in the morning. He has a love affair with his snooze button,” I explained to Alice Mae. It wasn’t that I owed her an explanation, but she had given him the most perplexing look.

  “I used to be BFF’s with the snooze button too,” Alice Mae said. “But that was before I understood the importance of a ticking clock, and nonticking clocks.”

  “Is that supposed to be a metaphor about wasting time?”

  “No, to convince a ticking clock to stop is just an unattainable ambition I strive to attain to end what has already been set in motion,” she said absent-mindedly. “Of course, it’s been predicted my wrongness will overshadow my accomplishments so my impossible endeavor is just another pathetic, traitorous attempt to sway the unrelenting, apocalyptic reign of Hearts.”

  Huh?

  She turned her attention back to me, giving me a quick once over. I brushed the breakfast bar crumbs off my shirt and tried not to let Alice Mae know that her visual inspection had thrown me.

  “You look like you’ve been up for hours, dressed so impeccably in your ripped jeans and stained t-shirt,” she said.

  I hadn’t exactly gotten a clean shirt from my closet this morning; but in my defense, I had given my shirt the Sniff Test. No BO, so I figured I was good to go. “A little food never hurt anyone.”

  She flicked the bill of my cap up. “Attire aside, you have his eyes, and that’s all that really matters. See you around, Ryley.”

  I grabbed her arm when she turned to walk away. She didn’t tell me to take my hand off her, but she cocked an eyebrow and glared so viciously I was sure she’d left a number of dead in the wake of that stare.

  “I don’t like to be touched after traveling from...” she said, clearly bothered that I’d infiltrated her personal bubble. “It just stings, okay!”

  “How do you know my name?” I loosened my grip on her a little. Since I hadn’t squeezed hard, I figured the wincing pain in her eyes was an act. “Have we met before?”

  “We’ve never been formally introduced.” Her eyes glossed over, like she was seeing me, but not really. The brilliant blue of her eyes lightened, which was physically impossible and eerily chilling. Batting away my hand, she spat, “Your auburn hair is as untidy as Mr. Edgar’s. He’d be pleased you two look so alike, especially since you have a girlish name.”

  She smiled a fierce little smirk and turned away just as Dax approached me. Her step was light and bouncy, dancing to the theme song of her life.

  Dax slapped his hand on my shoulder. “Who’s the new dame?”

  “Her name is Alice Mae,” I said without taking my eyes off of her. “She knows about my dad, mentioned him by name.”

  “No one in Rockingham knows about your old man except me and your mom. That secret is locked down tight—Secret Service style.”

  “She said I have his eyes.”

  “It’s not like he is suddenly going to walk back into your life. He’d have to find you first,” Dax said, reassuringly. “Too many years have passed for him to be a part of your life again.”

&
nbsp; CHAPTER TWO

  (Alice Mae: Present Time)

  Closing my assigned locker door behind me, I stood up inside of it as much as I was able. My head skimmed the metal top. What I’d give for a sip of Drink Me juice so I could fit properly inside.

  The locker wasn’t nearly big enough to provide everything needed for proper education, much less to conduct surveillance. This was my eleventh school I’d attended in my search for a boy named Ryley Edward Edgar. He and Lauren jumped ship and moved more frequently than a band of fugitives on the run. But, I supposed they were just that; persons of interest, being hunted by a royal twat. I wondered if Robby dropped the bomb and told them about the nightmare he escaped from, or the life he left behind in Wonderland.

  After my most recent incident with the Queen of Hearts, I’d been “encouraged” to complete a search and rescue mission for the boy. Along with everyone else in Wonderland, I desperately needed to please Hearts. If I somehow screwed up this assignment, I feared that the next time I returned to Wonderland, I’d be in two separate pieces—my head and my body. Thus, my obligation to the queen was clear: Bring Ryley Edward Edgar to Wonderland using any means necessary.

  I was ninety-nine percent sure that I’d finally found the infamous boy that Hearts wanted. Even so, I had to be one hundred percent sure this dorky boy was the one she wanted. I wasn’t taking any chances, not anymore.

  “After I take his photo and am sure he is the one, you’ll need to deliver this to Hearts, Mr. Ruth.” I held up the white rabbit and looked him square in the eye. The bunny didn’t move. Yet, I knew he heard me. “But not until I’m confident he is the one she wants. I don’t need another lesson in tactical reconnaissance from the Joker.”

  I carefully set Mr. Ruth down so I could get to my camera. My fabulous, perfect, fashionable heels barricaded the bunny between my ankles. I didn’t care if he wasn’t animated when he was in the form of a stuffed animal. I knew from past experience that the moment I wasn’t paying attention, he would transform into a living mini lop and hop away faster than I could say runaway rumperbabbits romp around in ridiculous rendezvous residences.

  Peering through the locker vents, I memorized the hallway since I hadn’t much time to study the school’s layout before enrolling so had to study the blueprints in more depth tonight. Nevertheless, I knew my locker was nowhere close to his, and I needed to document his existence without too many watchful eyes. So I needed to get creative. Thus, I’d stalled to keep Ryley from making it to class on time. I hoped my efforts weren’t in vain and waited for the young man with a disheveled hairstyle to stroll by my locker from the principals.

  Not more than ten minutes later, Ryley walked by with a pink slip in his hand. I squealed then slapped my hand over my mouth, hoping to prevent more noises from fleeing. He eyed my locker, and I swore that he could see me spying on him through the metal slits. His russet colored eyes darkened in the same way his father’s had when suffering with male-PMS.

  Even if I hadn’t “befriended” Robby Edgar, I’d know Ryley was a wondrous specimen. His chameleon-like eyes darkened and lightened, depending on his emotions. It was a trait only known to people who had associations with Wonderland. Mine changed too, but it was only by happenstance from spending so much time in that realm. A big thank you to the Joker for that, I thought bitterly.

  I snatched my vintage Polaroid camera from my backpack. “Smile pretty for the camera, you nincompoop.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  (Ryley: Present Time)

  Insanity—plainly defined as a deranged state of mind or lacking the ability to rationalize. Hands shot into the air when the half-deaf literature teacher, Mr. Blanch, asked for the interpretation of Ernest Hemingway’s deteriorating mental condition. He circled the desks with his hands behind his back. Wrinkles lined his button-up shirt and there was a stain on his pants that had to have been there since spring semester. It was one of the many markers that made me believe the rumors that “wife-number-three” skipped town. Also, a tan line encircled his finger where his ring had been.

  Mr. Blanch stopped circling the room and leaned against his desk, which never had a single paper on it. As far as I was concerned, the desk was purely decorative.

  “Care to explain what mental illness the infamous author suffered from, Miss Frick?” Mr. Blanch asked.

  “Dementia,” Courtney said, flipping her red hair over her shoulder—her signature move. “The infamous author was clearly deranged, even though he was brilliant.”

  Most buddies in my class deemed gingers to be either smokin’ hot or ugly as sin. Like with most stereotypes, I didn’t take much of a stand, but I bet that a gang of starving vampires wouldn’t eat her because she was so drop-dead gorgeous. She batted her ridiculously long eye lashes that framed her bright green eyes. She was beautiful and smart—if you were into that kind of thing. And judging from all the sideways glances the guys in my class were giving her, I wasn't the only one wanting to call her mine.

  “—do you think? Ryley Edgar, am I boring you?”

  Verbal diarrhea, coming out in the form of an “umm,” was my reply. Mr. Blanch crossed his arms over his chest. He could have called me out, since it was completely obvious I had no clue what he’d asked, but he had some tact. I swear he could sense when his students were losing focus, or perhaps he just singled out the male students who had drool dripping down their chins.

  Courtney turned around in her chair and mouthed me the answer. For all I knew, she was speaking French because I was god-awful at reading lips, especially hers. I was as functional as a brain-dead sloth when I looked at her lips.

  “Speak up, Ryley,” Mr. Blanch said. “You know I can’t hear out of my right ear after the IED detonated in my Humvee.”

  Had I mentioned that this teacher was a decorated war hero? I’d never seen him in anything other than a long sleeve shirt, even though summer in Rockingham felt about as refreshing as huddling in a blast furnace.

  A knock at the door saved me, or so I thought. In walked the last girl I expected to see, Alice Mae. She strode in with a sense of confidence most girls would never have wearing her getup. She had to be color blind.

  Alice Mae handed Mr. Blanch a note. He read it quickly and said, “Ah yes, Miss Liddell, I heard through the grapevine that the Mighty Ravens were expecting a new student.”

  Mr. Blanch pointed to a seat next to me and said that he needed to continue with class if we were going to stay on track for the school year. I fought the urge to leave the second Alice Mae’s keister touched the plastic seat beside mine. I won’t admit that I was checking out her butt, but she did lower her hand and waved until I looked up.

  Great, now she probably thought I was into her. This day couldn’t get any worse. Mr. Blanch continued on with his lecture, but I wasn’t listening. Every one of my brain molecules was focused on Alice Mae. My mind was spinning trying to figure out she knew my name before I mentioned anything, and how she knew my dad was alive.

  She smiled apologetically. As if reading my mind, she said, “Your father is—”

  “Don’t bring him up, not again, not ever,” I said in a low voice and glanced up at the teacher. Mr. Blanch armed himself with a dry erase marker and was standing in front of the newly furnished white boards that had been screwed in over the old black boards. There was still chalk on the ledge. Apparently the school budget provided for new state-of-the-art paraphernalia, but wasn’t going to be bothered to clean out the old technology—like chalk and erasers. That was a small town for you. When Mr. Blanch turned around to write, I leaned over to Alice Mae so I wouldn’t have to speak loudly. “If you cherish your reputation at all, you won’t mention him in public ever again. Or I’ll make it my personal mission to ensure that your life is so miserable your nightmares give you warm-fuzzies.”

  She mumbled something that sounded like “get in line.”

  “Ryley, let’s have another go at this,” Mr. Blanch said grimly.

  There were times I thought
he was faking the whole part-deaf bit. Or the last decade of teaching had conditioned him to the signs of when his students weren’t paying attention. I sat up tall in my seat.

  “Do you suppose all his brilliance led to Hemingway’s untimely death?” Mr. Blanch asked.

  I shifted nervously. I didn’t like to discuss such matters of insanity, especially not in class. I guess it wasn’t like anyone knew about my family history of mental illness, except for Dax, and apparently Alice Mae. I was determined to keep everyone else in the dark. There wasn’t any need for them to know my dad wasn’t playing with a full deck.

  “I suppose,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Eccentric people are prone to insanity. It is believed that musicians, writers, and artists are susceptible to psychosis. That’s why they can create such great works, but it comes at the price of their sanity.”

  “I beg to differ.” Alice Mae fiddled with her pencil, not the standard number two. Oh, no—she held a purple colored pencil with several bite marks.

  Mr. Blanch said, “Enlighten us why.”

  Alice Mae opened her mouth to explain further, but then jumped in her seat like someone startled her. She kicked her backpack and cursed under her breath. From the bunny reference, I assumed that Mr. Ruth had upset her somehow. The stuffed animal was by her feet, but I hadn’t seen her take him out.

  “Your departure is premature,” she scolded so quietly, I was positive I was the only one who’d heard her. “I said to deliver it to Hearts after I was sure he is the one.”

  When our eyes locked, she smiled. It wasn’t the kind of smile that one wore for a camera. No, she smiled like she was committing a crime and was going to thoroughly enjoy it.

  She nudged the rabbit with her foot. “Fine! Deliver it to the queen when no one is looking, but if I’m mistaken, it’s your head, Mr. Ruth.”

  Inside the mesh pocket where Mr. Ruth belonged was a trademark square-picture of an instant photo. On the picture was me. Me!?!? When had she taken a picture of me? A heart was scratched around my face. I glanced at her fingernails; the photo residue was embedded in her nails. She grabbed her stuffed animal and shoved it back in the mesh pocket, hiding the Polaroid.