The cat.
He was doing to her what he’d done to the cat this morning.
A double negative.
Make a choice between two things she hated, or let everyone know how terrified she was.
Let them know, and put up with them teasing her.
Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat, Amy is a scaredy-cat!
Though no one had uttered the words, she could already hear them ringing in her ears.
She tore her eyes away from the rope and the diving board and looked at the faces of her classmates, who were gathered around the computer, some of them watching the screen, some of them watching her.
Jeff Aldrich was grinning, already figuring out how scared she was.
What would he do? Would he just tease her?
Or would it be worse? Maybe he’d hold her out the window, dangling her above the sidewalk, threatening to let her fall.
Her thoughts began to race. What was worse? To have everyone laugh at her and tease her, or to make a choice
and try to get through the terror that always seized her when she was more than a few feet off the ground?
But Dr. Engersol had told her she just had to choose! She didn’t actually have to do anything!
Except it wouldn’t be enough, If she said she’d chosen one or the other, and then didn’t go through with it, they’d all know!
Trapped.
Even after all his promises, he’d trapped her.
Which?
The rope?
She remembered freezing up there, terrified that she was going to fall, clinging to the rope until the coach climbed up and got her.
And she hadn’t even been able to make herself climb the ladder to the high board.
A ladder and a rope! How could she be afraid of a stupid ladder and a dumb rope!
But what if she fell?
If she fell off the rope, she’d break a leg at least.
But she might not fall off the ladder, not with bars to hang onto and steps for her feet. And when she got to the top, all she had to do was walk out to the end and jump off.
Just the thought of standing on the narrow board three meters above the pool made her stomach feel hollow and her groin tighten with fear.
But it was only ten feet! What could happen to her?
Surely being terrified for a few seconds was better than having everyone laugh at her because she was chicken.
“I–I made up my mind,” she whispered. “I’m going to jump off the diving board.”
Immediately, Dr. Engersol left his chair and came to remove the helmet from her head while two graduate students detached the electrodes from her body. But the cameras, which had been recording her every facial expression, every movement of her body, were still running.
And everyone was still watching.
She approached the ladder that led to the diving board and gripped the handrails tightly. She put her foot on the bottom step and started climbing.
She was halfway up when she looked down, and froze.
Do it! she told herself. Just climb up, walk out on the board, and jump.
Then, as she stared down at the concrete beneath her, her terror of heights welled up in her and she knew she couldn’t do it.
Don’t look, she commanded herself.
She forced herself to look up, and there, looming above her, was the board itself.
No!
She couldn’t do it, couldn’t possibly walk out on it! It was too narrow. She’d fall before she took even a single step.
As she felt the last of her nerve slipping away from her, she began to sob. Tears streaming down her face, she scrambled back down off the ladder and fled toward the locker room, covering her face with her hands, already imagining she could hear the laughter following her. Then she was inside the locker room, scurrying across the empty shower room. By the time she came to her locker, the bathing suit was already half off, and she jerked it the rest of the way, hurling it into a corner and pulling on her clothes as fast as she could. Leaving her locker standing open, sobs of humiliation racking her body, Amy Carlson fled from the gym.
By the time Hildie Kramer came looking for her, the locker room was empty, but Hildie was almost certain she knew where Amy had gone.
As she, too, left the gym, every trace of the warm and kindly expression she habitually wore when she spoke to either the children or their parents was gone from her face, replaced by a look of harsh determination. Before anyone else saw Amy Carlson again, Hildie Kramer intended to find her.
Jeanette Aldrich gave up trying to concentrate on her work. Though it was only a little after four o’clock, she knew that no one would object if she left early today. Not that she’d gotten all that much done, for while the morning had been lost to all the people who had come in to offer her
sympathy and support, most of the afternoon had been lost to thinking about the thesis that still lay hidden in the depths of her purse. During lunch she had managed to find a quiet corner and begin reading it, but she hadn’t gotten very far. Simply reading about all the other children who had fallen victim to the same pressures to which Adam had finally succumbed had almost torn her heart out. More than once she’d had to stop reading altogether, for even through the dry prose with which the graduate student had constructed his paper, the human suffering kept breaking to the surface.
It was as if each of the children discussed in the thesis was reaching out to her, calling for help, pleading with her to do something for him.
But there was nothing she could do, for, like Adam, they were already dead.
The youngest had been only five years old when, in front of his mother and older sister, he’d walked in front of a bus.
There had been no question that he knew the bus was coming. He’d even pointed it out to his mother.
Together, they’d stood watching it roll along the road, moving at a steady thirty-five miles an hour.
At the last second the little boy had jerked his hand out of his mother’s and darted into the street, throwing himself under the tires.
Jeanette could barely bring herself to finish reading the paragraphs, feeling the pain the mother of that child must have felt, her tears blurring the words until she finally had to put the thesis back in her purse.
But tonight she would finish it, no matter how difficult it was for her. Until she did, she knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else, for no matter what she tried to do, the thesis seemed to beckon to her, demanding her attention.
At last she gave up even trying to work, and began the process of closing her office for the day. Giving her computer a command to print out the document she had been working on — the final edited copy of an article the head of the department was submitting to one of the psychological journals — she set to work putting the files on her desk back into the cabinet, replacing each of them in its proper folder. In the background the quiet buzz of the printer provided an oddly soothing noise, interrupted every thirty seconds or so by a brief silence as it rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the platen.
Almost unconsciously, she found herself counting the pages as they printed.
Halfway through the seventh one, the printer suddenly stopped.
Jeanette paused, glancing at the machine.
The page was resting motionlessly, a line partway down waiting to be completed.
None of the warning lights on the printer was glowing, so she shifted her attention to the computer screen.
The program had crashed.
Swearing softly under her breath, Jeanette rebooted the program, brought up the file she was looking for, and set it to begin printing again with the top of the seventh page. When she was ready, she turned back to the printer, pressed the form feed button to kick a new sheet of paper into the platen, and returned to the computer.