Chapter Text

Chapter Two: Three Old Ladies Knit the Socks of Death

I was used to the occasional odd occurrence, but usually they were over quickly. This twenty-four/seven hallucination was more than I could handle. It was like everyone on campus was playing some sort of trick on me, and they were all in on the joke. The students acted as if Mrs. Kerr - a perky blond woman whom I had never seen before she got on our bus at the end of the field trip - had been our pre-algebra teacher since Christmas.

Every so often I would make a reference to Mrs. Dodds. Just randomly, to see if I could trip anybody up. Usually, they looked at me like I was crazy.

It got so bad, that I almost didn’t believe Mrs. Dodds had ever existed.

Almost.

But Clint couldn’t fool me. Whenever I would mention the name Dodds to him, he would hesitate, then claim she didn’t exist. But I knew he was lying. Something was going on. Something had happened at that museum.

I didn’t have much time to think about it in the day. But at night, visions of Mrs. Dodd’s leathery wings and glowing eyes woke me up in a cold sweat.

The freak weather continued, which didn’t help my mood. One night, a thunderstorm blew out the windows in my dorm. A few days later, the biggest tornado ever spotted in the Hudson Valley touched down only fifty miles from Yancy Academy. One of the current events that we studied in social studies was the unusual amount of small planes that had been blown down in sudden squalls in the Atlantic that year.

I started feeling cranky and irritable almost all the time. My grades slipped from Ds to Fs. I got into more fights with Nancy Bobofit and her friends. I got sent out into the hall almost every class.

Finally, when our English teacher Mr. Nicoll asked me why I was too lazy to study for spelling tests, I snapped. I called him an old sot. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I liked the sound of it.

The headmaster sent my mother a letter the following week: It was official, I would not be invited back to Yancy Academy next year.

Fine, I said to myself, that’s fine.

I was homesick.

I wanted to be with mom in our little apartment on the upper east side, even if I had to go to public school and deal with my stepfather and his stupid poker parties.

And yet. . . there were things I would miss about Yancy. The view of the woods outside my dorm window, the Hudson River in the distance, the smell of pine trees. I’d miss Clint, he was a good friend even if he was a bit strange. I wondered how he’d survive next year without me.

I’d miss Mr. Brunner’s Latin class, too. With his crazy tournament days and his faith that I could do well.

As exam week got closer, Latin was the only test I studied for. I hadn’t forgotten what Mr. Brunner said about the subject being important for me. I wasn’t sure why, but I believed him.

The evening before my exam, I got so frustrated that I threw the Cambridge Guide to Greek Mythology across my dorm room. The words were swimming off the page, circling my head, the letters doing one-eighties as if they were on skateboards. There was no way I was going to remember the difference between Chiron and Charon, or Polydictes and Polydeuces. And conjugating Latin verbs? I had no idea what conjugating even meant!

I paced the room, feeling like ants were crawling through my skin.

I remembered Mr. Brunner’s grave faith, his thousand year old eyes. ‘I will accept only the best from you, Bruce Banner.’

I sighed and picked up the mythology book. I’d never asked a teacher for help before. Maybe if I talked to Mr. Brunner, he could help me out. At the very least, I could apologize for the giant F I was going to get on the final tomorrow. I didn’t want to leave Yancy with him thinking I hadn’t at least tried.

I walked downstairs to the faculty offices. Most of them were dark and empty, but the light in Mr. Brunner’s was still on, his door ajar and spilling light across the hall.

I was steps away from the door when I heard the voices inside Mr. Brunner’s office ask a question. The one that was definitely Clint’s said, “. . . worried about Bruce, sir.”

I froze.

I’m not usually an eavesdropper, but when you’re best friend is talking about you to a teacher, it’s like your required to listen in on the conversation.

I inched closer.

“. . . alone this summer,” Clint said, “I mean, a Kindly One in the school! Now that we know for sure, and they know too-”

“We would only make matters worse by rushing him,” Mr. Brunner said. “We need the boy to mature more.”

“But he may not have time! The summer solstice deadline-”

“Will have to be resolved without him, Clint. Let him enjoy his ignorance while he can.”

“Sir, he saw her. . .”

“His imagination,” Mr. Brunner insisted, “The Mist over the students and staff will keep him from questioning it.”

“Sir, I. . . I can’t fail in my duties again,” Clint’s voice was choked with emotion, “You know what that would mean.”

“You haven’t failed, Clint,” Mr. Brunner said. “I should have seen her for what she was. Now, let’s just worry about keeping Bruce alive until next fall.”

The mythology book fell out of my hand and dropped to the ground with a thud.

Mr. Brunner went silent.

My heart hammering, I picked up the book and backed down the hallway.

A shadow slid across the glass window of Mr. Brunner’s door, a shadow of something much taller than my wheelchair-bound teacher, holding something that looked suspiciously like an archer’s bow.

I opened the nearest door and slipped inside.

A few seconds later, I heard a slow clip-clop. Like muffle wood blocks, then the sound of an animal snuffling right outside my door. A large, dark shape paused in front of the glass, then moved on.

My heart hammered in my chest.

“Nothing,” I heard Mr. Brunner say, “My nerves haven’t been right since the winter solstice.”

“Mine neither,” Clint said, “But I could’ve sworn. . .”

“Go back to the dorm,” Mr. Brunner told him, “You’ve got a long day of exams ahead of you tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me.”

The light in Mr. Brunner’s went out.

I waited in the dark for what seemed like hours.

Finally, I slipped out of the dark room and headed back to my dorm room.

Clint was lying on his bed when I got there, facing away from the door and, subsequently, me.

“Hey,” he said, “You gonna be ready for this test tomorrow?”

I didn’t answer.

“You look awful,” he frowned. “Is everything okay?”

“Just. . . tired.”

I turned so he couldn’t read my expression, and started getting ready for bed.

I didn’t understand what I’d heard downstairs, and I wanted to chock it all up to my imagination.

But one thing was clear: Clint and Mr. Brunner were hiding something from me. Something about Mrs. Dodds - who did, indeed, exist. Something important. Something that could get me killed.

The next afternoon, as I was leaving the three-hour long Latin exam, Mr. Brunner stopped me. For a moment, I worried that he knew about my bout of eavesdropping last night.

“Bruce,” he said. “don’t be discouraged about leaving Yancy. It’s. . . it’s for the best.”

“Okay, sir.”

His tone was kind, but his words embarrassed me. Even though he was speaking quietly, the other kids finishing the exam could still hear. Nancy Bobofit smirked at me.

“I mean,” Mr. Brunner wheeled his chair back and forth nervously, “This school isn’t right for you. It’s for the best.”

My eyes stung. Here was my favorite teacher telling me that I couldn’t do it. He was just another in a long line of teachers disappointed in me, but this time it hurt. After saying he believed in me all year, he was telling me I was destined to get kicked out.

“Right,” I said, trembling.

“No, no,” Mr. Brunner said. “Oh, confound it all. What I’m trying to say is. . . you’re not normal, Bruce, that’s nothing to be-”

“Thanks,” I blurted, “Thanks a lot for reminding me, sir.”

“Bruce-”

But I was already gone.

On the last day of school, I shoved my clothes into my suitcase.

The other guys were joking around. Talking about where they were going to go over the summer. One was going skiing in Switzerland, another Cancun. Someone was going to India. They were juvenile delinquents, like me, but they were rick juvenile delinquents. Their daddies were executives, or ambassadors, or celebrities. I was a nobody from a family of nobodies.

They asked me what I was doing this summer. I told them I was going back to the city.

“Oh, cool.” One of them said, and that was the last time they tried to include me. They went back to their conversation and forgot I existed.

The only person I dreaded saying goodbye to was Clint. And, as it turned out, I didn’t need to. He’d booked a ticket to Manhattan on the same Greyhound that I had. So there we were, together again, heading into the city.

The whole bus ride, Clint kept nervously glancing down the aisle, watching the other passengers. It occured to me that he always acted nervous when we left Yancy, as if something bad was going to happen. I always thought it was because he didn’t want anyone to tease him, but there was nobody to tease him on the Greyhound.

“Looking for Kindly Ones?” I asked, not being able to stand it anymore.

Clint jumped nearly out of his seat, “What do you mean!? No I’m not. Shut up. Who told you?”

I confessed about eavesdropping on him and Mr. Brunner the night before the exam.

Clint’s eye twitched, “How much did you hear?”

“Oh, not much,” I said casually. “What’s the summer solstice deadline?”

He winced, “Look, Bruce. . . I was just worried for you, see? Hallucinating about demon math teachers. . .”

“Clint-”

“And I was telling Mr. Brunner that maybe you were overstressed or something, because there was no person named Mrs. Dodds.”

“Clint.” I said, stopping him. “You’re a really bad liar.”

His ears turned pink.

From his shirt pocket, he fished out a grubby business card. “Just take this, okay? In case you need me this summer.”

The card was in fancy script, which was murder on my dyslexic eyes, but I finally made out something like this:

Clint Barton

Keeper

Half-Blood Hill

Long Island, New York

(800) 009-0009

“What’s Half-”

“Don’t say it out loud!” he yelped, clapping his hand over my mouth, “That’s my, uhm, summer address.” I licked his hand and he snatched it away.

My heart kind of sank. Clint had a summer address. I guess I never really thought of it, but I guess his family was as rich as the others at Yancy.

“Okay,” I said glumly, “In case I want to, like, visit your mansion or something.

He nodded, “Or. . . or if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?”

I came out a lot harsher than I intended.

Clint blushed right down to his adams apple, “Look, Bruce. The truth is I. I kind of have to protect you.”

I stared at him.

All year long, I’d gotten into fights to keep bullies away from him. I’d lost sleep wondering what he was going to do without me there next year. And here he was acting like he was the one who had defended me .

“Clint,” I said, “What exactly are you protecting me from?”

There was a huge grinding noise underneath us, and black smoke spilled out of the hood of the bus and the whole thing smelt like rotten eggs. The driver cursed and limped the Greyhound to the side of the road.

The driver came through and announced that we all had to get off. Clint and I filed off the bus with the rest of the passengers.

We were on a stretch of country road no place you’d notice if you didn’t break down there. There didn’t seem to be anyone around for miles. On our side of the road there was nothing but maple trees and litter from passing cars. On the other side, past four lanes of shimmering asphalt, was an old fashioned fruit stand.

An honest to god fruit stand with three little old ladies behind it, knitting what must’ve been the biggest socks ever. There were no customers, which was weird because the stuff on sale looked really good: heaps of blood-red cherries, walnuts, and apricots, jugs of cider in a claw-foot tub filled with ice.

The socks were like the size of sweaters, but they were definitely socks. They might’ve been for bigfoot, or like some guy’s giant alter-ego. That’d be kinda cool, but I’d hate to be that guy.

All three women looked ancient, with pale faces wrinkled like fruit leather, silver hair tied back with white bandanas, and bony arms sticking out of bleached cotton dresses.

The weirdest thing was, they seemed to be looking right at me.

I looked over at Clint to say something. His nose was twitching, and the blood had all drained from his face.

“Clint?” I said, “Hey, Clint-”

“Tell me they’re not look at you. They are, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. Weird, huh? You think those socks would fit me?”

“Not funny, Bruce. Not funny at all.”

The old lady in the middle took out a huge pair of scissors- gold and silver and long-bladed, like shears. I heard Clint catch his breath.

“We’re getting on the bus,” he said, “Come on.”

“What?” I said, “It’s a thousand degrees in there!”

“Come on!” He pried open the door and climbed inside, but I stayed back.

Across the road the old ladies were still watching me. The middle one cut the yarn, and I swear I could hear the snip of her shears across four lanes of traffic. Her two friends balled up the electric blue socks, leaving me wondering what they could possibly be for.

At the rear of the bus, the driver wrenched a chunk of warped metal out of the engine compartment. The bus shuddered and the engine roared back to life.

The passengers cheered.

“Darn right!” yelled the driver. He slapped the side of the bus with his hat. “Everyone back on the bus!”

Once we got going, I started feeling feverish, as if I’d caught the flu.

Clint didn’t look much better. He was shivering and his teeth were chattering.

“Clint?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you not telling me? Who were those old women?”

He dabbed his forehead with his sleeve, “Bruce, what did you see? Back at the stand?”

“You mean the old ladies? Are they. . . are they like Mrs. Dodds?”

“Just tell me what you saw, Bruce!” I flinched at Clint’s shout, and his eyes softened, “I’m sorry, Bruce. Just. Please, tell me what you saw?”

“The. . . the middle one took out her scissors and cut the yarn. That’s all.”

Clint closed his eyes and made a gesture that could’ve been crossing himself. But it wasn’t, it was something older.

“You saw her snip the cord.”

“Yeah?” Even as I said it, I knew it was a big deal.

“This is not happening,” Clint said, “I don’t want it to be like last time.”

“What last time?”

“Always sixth grade. They never make it past sixth grade.”

“Clint. Clint, what happened? What are you talking about?” He was really starting to scare me.

“Bruce,” Clint said, looking at me seriously, “Let me walk you home from the bus station. Promise me.” I didn’t want to promise him that. He was scaring me. I promised him he could.

“Is this like a superstition or something?” I asked.

No answer.

“Clint, does that snipping of the yarn mean something? Clint, does it mean someone’s gonna die?”

Clint looked at me, his eyes mournful. He looked like he was already picking out the flowers to cover my coffin.