The Devil Next Door

6

At Greenlawn High, things began to happen.

Macy Merchant, a junior and honor roll student, sat down in her fifth hour Mass Media class and tried to shut out the teenage soap opera that played around her as it did on a daily basis. Macy was not a popular girl. She was smart and ambitious and serious, qualities which certainly did not endear her to the more socially elite of Greenlawn High.

Not that any of this really bothered Macy.

At least, not that she was willing to admit openly. Some kids were funny and some kids were jocks, some were drop-dead gorgeous and some were burgeoning criminals, and some, like her, were just smart. A thin, flaxen-haired, girl, she knew her one true attribute was her brain. And she was adult enough to know that in the real world, this is ultimately what counted. Sometimes she wished she had looks like Shannon Kittery or Chelsea Paris or some of the other senior vixens, had guys worshipping at her feet. But not too often. For she knew that looks faded, as they said, and that both Shannon and Chelsea would probably end up living in trailers with three screaming brats each and the obligatory alcoholic, abusive husband who once upon a time had rushed for a hundred yards in the big game, but now only rushed to the refrigerator or to the TV set to watch the WCW or Girls Gone Wild on DVD.

Unlike so many of the others that ran the maze of high school looking for their slice of cheese, Macy had ambitions. School and study came easy to her, so early in her freshman year she decided to go to law school upon graduation and commenced to arrange her classes accordingly. Yes, a good law school. Then maybe criminal law followed by district attorney and even judge. After that, a leap into politics and who could say where it would all end?

Yes, Macy had high ambitions, lofty aspirations, but no one save the school counselor knew this. None of her classmates would have suspected that brainy, quiet little Macy was aiming at positions of great power.

And the reason for that was Macy herself.

She was, sadly, shy and introverted and much-ignored. Much as she fantasized about being a great wolf of the courtroom, the fact was that she found it nearly impossible to give even a three-minute oral report before the class or to even speak up unless directly called on. These things, she well knew, were something she would need to work on.

On her way into Mass Media, she steered her way through the mulling bodies in the hallway and slipped into her seat. No one noticed her outside and nobody noticed her inside. She was simply a fixture in the minds of the other students, much like a chair or a desk. She sat up in front, arranging her materials, trying to shut out all the gossip and bitching that was going on around her. Sometimes it all seemed so terribly juvenile she could barely stomach it.

“—and if he doesn’t call tonight, that’s it—”

“—thinks she’s got me wrapped, dude, but she’s in for a surprise—”

“—so they blamed me, can you believe it? It’s just a little dent—”

“—that top cost me fifty bucks, so the dumb bitch puts it in the dryer—”

“—he told us to hand it in tomorrow, like I have the time—”

“—if that’s what he thinks of me, he can kiss my ass—”

And on and on and on.

Macy could hear Shannon Kittery and her pop squad discussing something almost breathlessly and she figured it probably had something to do with hair color or shoes or something else equally as revelatory.

“All right, all right, pipe down!” Mr. Benz said as he waltzed into class, chewing a big wad of bubble gum as usual. “Everybody in their seats or I’ll get my whip out.”

He opened his briefcase and snapped his gum. Everyone took their seats and the commotion died to a low murmur.

“You’re not supposed to chew gum unless you have enough to share,” Shannon Kittery giggled. A few stifled laughs broke out, mainly from her group.

Benz strode over to her, grinning. “All I’ve got is this piece,” he said, pulling the blob of wet gum from his mouth and sticking it about an inch from the end of her nose. “But you’re welcome to it. Go ahead.”

Shannon made a disgusted sound and shut up.

“Anybody else want it? No? Heck with ya.” He shoved it back in his mouth and went up to the board. He ran his fingers across the bald pate atop his head and said, “My hair look okay?”

Everyone laughed.

“Good. My hair is my life.” He sorted through some papers on his desk. “Today, I want all of you to break up into twos with your assigned study buddy and get to work on your reports. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s only the third day of school, but those reports are still due next Friday. Any questions?”

A few hands shot up.

“Good. Get to work.”

Benz sat down at his desk and read a newspaper, ignoring everyone.

Macy felt a slow painful groan well up inside her for this was the moment she dreaded most of all. For some ungodly reason, Benz had teamed her up with Chelsea Paris, one of Shannon’s ratpack. Chelsea was a varsity cheerleader and after Shannon herself, the reigning queen of the hive. Chelsea had no use for Macy and that undying love went both ways. Chelsea came over, looking like she was approaching a septic tank, and sat down at the desk nearest Macy. She crossed her arms over her impressive bosom, rolled her eyes and proceeded to look very bored.

“I don’t like this any more than you do,” Macy told her, surprised that she had even said it.

“Oh, spare me, you little nit,” Chelsea said, examining her lustrous auburn hair for split ends. “Spacey Macy. I’m so sure.”

“I was just saying—”

Chelsea held a hand up, palm towards her study buddy. “Yeah, yeah. Whatev.”

“Knock it off,” Macy said, something hot bubbling inside her. “Bitch.”

Chelsea looked like she’d been slapped. “What did you say?”

Macy just licked her lips.

She couldn’t believe she’d just said that.

Not that it was uncalled for, really, but she wasn’t like that, she never spoke up… but suddenly it just felt right. For years now she’d wanted to tell Chelsea and Shannon and the rest of the bimbo bunch exactly what she thought of them. And now, she had. It was amazing and more than a little shocking for both girls.

Macy sat there, staring at Chelsea, and it was crazy, but it was almost like there was a voice in her head, telling her what to do, egging her on. But not a thought voice, but an actual voice, one that was deep and confident. Haven’t you taken enough shit? it seemed to be saying to her. Haven’t you given these insufferable, vacuous, superficial little bitches every chance? You’ve been pushed and pushed and pushed and each time you’ve been kind, each time you turned the other cheek, they rewarded you with treachery. It’s high time you gave a little back, don’t you think?

Macy smiled. “Bitch,” she said. “Rotten slutty fucking cheerleader bitch.”

Chelsea looked like she was going to cry. “You, you can’t talk to me like that, you little—”

“I’ll talk to a little cunt like you any way I want.”

Both girls stood up now, facing each other.

Everyone was waiting, anticipating bloodshed.

Chelsea was taller, athletic, but inside she was weak and frightened like the rest of her ratpack. Terrified of rejection, of the curse of unpopularity. Afraid to be told the truth and particularly by a socially inferior nit like Macy Merchant. And Macy? For the first time in her life, there was no fear, no indecision. She stood there, smiling, her eyes the flat gray of tombstone marble. She wanted to hurt Chelsea, she wanted to draw blood and make the little cheerleading whore beg for mercy.

The animal in her was hungry.

“Cunt,” she said.

“Ah, girls…” Benz said.

Chelsea’s eyes narrowed to slits and she slapped Macy across the face.

There were muted cheers from the ratpack.

Macy grabbed Chelsea by the throat, yanking her right over the desk and bouncing her face over its top not once, but twice. Chelsea made a strangled sound, eyes bulging, blood running from her nose. And before anyone could intervene or hope to, Macy yanked Chelsea’s head up by a handful of hair, grabbed a sharpened No. 2 pencil off the desk, and buried it in her left cheek. A few gasps rose up as Chelsea stumbled back, a look of horror on her face, the freshly sharpened No. 2 Ticonderoga jutting from her cheek, a wet trail of blood running down her jaw. Whatever sort of shock had gripped her, it now faded, and she opened her mouth to scream. Opened it wide enough that Macy could see that the tip of the pencil had impaled her tongue, gone right through it in fact.

“Yahhhggg,” Chelsea gagged, blood gushing from her mouth now and right down the front of her pink Old Navy tee. “Gaaahhhlllggg…”

It was not a pleasant sound.

Macy could smell the blood.

It made her mouth water…