Chapter Four

Seeing his dad’s tractor had been weird. Gus was sure by now that he had seen it, but that didn’t make it any less weird.

Seeing a phantom car glide through the woods was even weirder.

It was the next morning. Gus was on the bus, lost in his thoughts, trying to figure out how he had seen his dad’s tractor—and how to see it again. The bus passed a long, uphill driveway with woods on both sides. Gus vaguely registered surprise, because they usually stopped there to pick up a blonde girl—a fellow sophomore, if he remembered correctly. He couldn’t think of her name. Apparently what’s-her-name wasn’t going to school today.

Suddenly, Gus spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, in the woods to his right. He snapped out of his thoughts and jerked his head to see what it was.

A small car was barreling through the woods, accelerating even, moving roughly parallel to the bus. It didn’t occur to Gus—yet—that the car was driving through trees. All he could think was how incredibly dangerous it was to off-road at that speed.

Gus was about to cry out in shock when an even more shocking thing happened: The car smashed into a tree—one much larger than the trees it had been gliding through. The car crumpled instantly, its hood contorting around the tree trunk.

Gus exploded out of his seat. “Stop the bus! Stop the bus!”

Reacting less to the demand and more to the tone, Mr. Jones jammed the brakes and the bus shuddered to a halt.

“What the f— heck is wrong?!” Mr. Jones yelled.

Gus hurdled down the aisle. “I don’t know—a wreck, I think!”

“A wreck? Where?”

Gus descended the steps to the door. “Let me off. I’ll show you.”

“I’m not lettin’ you off the bus.” Mr. Jones pulled Gus back up the steps and opened the doors. “Tell me where it was and I’ll go look.”

Gus pointed into the woods. “It was over there. That big tree maybe two hundred feet into the woods.”

Mr. Jones squinted as though Gus had just announced he would sprout wings and fly to Tokyo. “You saw a wreck happen, right now, into that oak over there?”

“If that’s an oak, then yes.” Even Gus was beginning to realize this could not possibly be. “I think.”

“You ain’t on meth, are ya?”

Now that the excitement was waning, several kids began to laugh at Gus. “No,” Gus sighed. “No drugs.”

“Get back there and sit down, okay?” Mr. Jones eyed Gus with suspicion, but still patted his back as Gus started down the aisle.

“Yeah.” Gus trudged back to his seat, through a gauntlet of kids. Some laughed, some stared, some slid away from him. The blonde girl who had just boarded the bus seemed concerned and a bit confused. Every reaction sucked.

Gus plopped into his seat and looked again for the car. There was nothing there.

If this were a normal Wednesday morning, he would assume he dozed off and hallucinated the car.

But it wasn’t a normal Wednesday. Because two days before, he had caught a glimpse of his dad’s tractor sitting in the field when he knew for a fact it was in the barn.

He saw that car crash. He just didn’t know how.

Or why.

“Gosh, I feel like I slept half the night out in a field, you know?”

Meghan’s glare at Gus conveyed all he needed to know, while keeping the subtext under Deb’s radar.

Fortunately, Deb’s radar wasn’t even operational. “I like sleeping outside.”

“That’s because you’re a brute,” Meghan teased. “I would never want to sleep on the ground—especially if it’s uneven because of thousands of cow footprints. But if I ever did, I bet I would feel exactly as sore as I do right now.”

Meghan’s glare retreated to a smirk, and Gus knew she wasn’t too angry.

Deb took Meghan’s hand. “I keep forgetting. Do you mind catchin’ a ride with Marcy tonight? Coach asked me an’ the other captains to stay after and it’ll be way later than your cheerleading practice.”

“I doubt she drove,” Meghan said. “Her parents don’t let her unless she has to stay after school. Wednesday’s off for rest and recovery, remember?”

Deb smacked his forehead. “Oh damn, that’s right, it’s Wednesday. How’re you gonna get home?”

Meghan grinned. “I think they’re still running the bus.”

“D’you wanna take my car?” Deb offered. “I could catch a ride with Mark.”

“Nah. I bet Gus could use the company.”

It had been so long since Meghan rode the bus that Gus forgot she lived along their route. Gus thrilled at the prospect of sitting next to Meghan, especially since the others on the bus had witnessed his outburst this morning. He had been dreading their stares and laughter again, but with Meghan there, it wouldn’t be an issue.

“All right,” Deb apologized. “I guess maybe you two could get some work done on that history thing.”

Gus was confused. “What history—”

Meghan leapt to his rescue. “The project for Mrs. Miller. Remember? We worked on it yesterday after Deb sat with Mark.”

“Oh yeah yeah, of course. That.” Gus worried briefly that he had given too much away, but it seemed to have sailed right past Deb.

“You don’t mind the bus?” Deb asked.

“We’ll manage.” Meghan pecked Deb’s cheek with a kiss.

As Gus and Meghan rounded the corner of Mrs. Miller’s classroom doorway, Gus instantly locked eyes with Mrs. Miller. She looked away, but Gus couldn’t shake the sense that she had been watching for him. She knew he was coming, even before she could see him.

Combined with how much she knew about him yesterday, Gus felt confident in his conclusion: Mrs. Miller was psychic.

Gus wondered if this explained how she avoided disciplinary issues, despite having no seating chart or any specific rules. Maybe nobody acted up because they never had a chance to. Maybe Mrs. Miller could sense the onset of a student’s urge to misbehave, and she engaged with the student before it could happen.

The bell rang as Gus and Meghan took their seats. Mrs. Miller began class at the chalkboard, her back to the class. She dove immediately into where she had left off the day before, discussing the Treaty of Paris and the end of the Seven Years’ War. Gus caught only bits and pieces—the French gave up territory to the English, Spain gave Florida to England in exchange for Cuba. Gus was too busy speculating about the extent of Mrs. Miller’s psychic capabilities to pay much attention to what she was saying.

Could she read students’ minds? Did she know Gus was thinking about her powers right now? Could she focus her powers at will, or was it more like scanning a noisy room for signal?

By the time Mrs. Miller had moved on to Chief Pontiac at Detroit—which Gus registered because of the car brand—Gus had formed his theory. He believed Mrs. Miller always maintained a psychic scan of the room, running in the background of her consciousness. When she encountered a blip on her radar, he theorized, she could focus on the student that was prepping to cause trouble.

Halfway through class, as Mrs. Miller began to discuss King George’s Royal Proclamation of 1763, Gus decided to put his theory to the test. If she knew when students were going to do something disruptive, then if he decided to disrupt class, she would stop him before he did it.

It was a risk. He was 99% certain that Mrs. Miller was psychic—at least a little bit psychic, whatever that meant. But he wasn’t sure he could commit fully enough to make her aware of him. That is, if his theory was accurate, his disruptive intentions would need to be big enough to raise a blip on her radar.

Gus realized that he would have to actually do something disruptive. If he didn’t do it, he wouldn’t send out the signals that he was going to do it, and Mrs. Miller wouldn’t be able to stop him.

To be stopped from doing it, he had to do it. Or something like that.

Mrs. Miller was talking about the borders established in King George’s proclamation between the thirteen colonies and the Native American lands. Gus vaguely registered this, because it occurred to him that Coach Logan would denounce any history lesson that undermined America’s God-given mandate to take whatever it wanted.

Gus reviewed his Mrs.-Miller-is-psychic theory. Yesterday she knew he was desperate for second-period students to arrive. She knew he had “seen” something—maybe even that he had seen the tractor. Today, she knew in advance when he was arriving for class. She could read minds and see into the future. Therefore, if he made a specific plan to disrupt class, she would know. She would stop him. He was sure of it.

Gus fished around for the most obnoxious distraction he could think of, something big enough to draw her attention. Punch Jimmy Kuhn in the back of the head? Too violent. Leap up on his desk and call out “Oh Captain, my Captain!”? Nah, nobody would get the reference. Gus probably wouldn’t have gotten it either, if Dead Poets Society hadn’t been another of Dad’s favorite flicks.

In a flash, Gus knew what his distraction would be. Now all he had to do was commit, and Mrs. Miller would call on him to ask about Native American rights or something like that.

Gus locked Mrs. Miller in his gaze. She was still at the board, talking about the Treaty of Niagara, seemingly oblivious. He pictured himself disrupting the class, watched the scene as she called him down, knowing that if he could project it hard enough, he’d never have to do it.

But that was it, wasn’t it? If he harbored even a hint of I won’t have to do it, she would never pick it up. He had to do it to not do it. God, that was confusing.

It was a game of chicken now—Gus versus Mrs. Miller. Colonists, sovereignty, self-determination, blah blah, whatever. He was throwing it all out there. He was an open book. Class would be a shambles if she didn’t stop him. But if he didn’t do it, she couldn’t—

Gus leapt out of his desk and twerked. “I LIKE BIG BUTTS AND I CANNOT believe I just did that.”

He tried to lurch back into his desk, but missed, knocking his desk, books, and bag to the floor with a crash.

Gus raced to pull the seat upright. He could feel the heat of his classmates’ stares. He chanced a glimpse at Meghan. Her eyes were big enough to tow a double-wide through.

Deliberately, Mrs. Miller ambled to Gus’s upturned desk.

“Mr. Marsh.”

“Yes, Mrs. Miller?”

“Was there something you wish to say?”

“No, Mrs. Miller.”

She addressed the class. “In case there is any confusion on the issue, generally, I prefer if students raise a hand if they wish to add to the discussion. It will not be necessary to dance about the room yelling misogynistic lyrics before physically destroying your desk.”

Gus’s classmates erupted in laughter. Even Meghan laughed, though it was clear to Gus that she was laughing so the others wouldn’t notice how concerned she was.

Cowed, Gus whispered, “May I speak with you after class, Mrs. Miller?”

Mrs. Miller smiled thinly. “My dear Gus. You may count on it.”

Mrs. Miller waited until the last student was gone before speaking. “It’s apparent you’re a scientist.”

Gus was flummoxed. “A scientist?”

“You formed a hypothesis, did you not?” Mrs. Miller asked. “And you tested it—heavens, did you test it.”

Gus shrugged. “Go big or go home.”

“Indeed, but you likely should have gone home.”

Gus laughed. Mrs. Miller continued. “You hypothesized that I could read your mind?”

Apparently she had read his mind, at least a bit, because otherwise that question was pretty far out there. Gus wasn’t sure how much he should reveal, but it seemed there wasn’t much she didn’t know already.

“Well, yes,” Gus ventured, “but also…”

“What else?”

Gus continued. “I think you can see a little bit into the future.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

Gus wasn’t sure if she was joking or not, but it relieved tension, so he laughed again.

Mrs. Miller smiled slightly and cocked her head. “Mind reading and foresight. Fascinating guesses, and not too far from the mark, all factors considered.”

Gus had to know: “How far from the mark, exactly?”

Judy Miller considered her response. Would there be any harm in revealing this relatively mundane information? Was it truly mundane, though, or was she so familiar with her “background” that it simply seemed mundane to her?

“The truth,” she began, “is that I have honed my insight into human behavior so deeply that I see things most people can’t see.”

“Such as?”

“It’s not seeing into the future in any detailed way,” Mrs. Miller explained. “I discern obsession and emotional distress more readily than most. As high school is a raging, writhing pit of emotional distress, I am well equipped to head off at the pass, shall we say, the larger disturbances that can beset a classroom.”

Gus had missed everything after obsession. “That’s what you sensed in me. Obsession.”

“Sensed indeed,” Mrs. Miller said, “and recognized. I watched you from the first moment of the year because I know the perils of obsessing about the death of someone dear. All too well.”

Gus found one aspect hard to understand. “You knew I was coming into class today before you could even see me. How is that not looking into the future?”

“When obsession is sufficiently strong,” Mrs. Miller explained, “walls are no obstacle. I didn’t see the future. I was aware of you before you came into view. But…”—she paused, which Gus found ominous—“…that’s enough about what I did or did not see.”

Mrs. Miller leaned forward and repeated her question from the day before. “How much have you seen?”

Gus wasn’t sure how to answer without revealing everything to her—his history teacher, for crying out loud. He stalled.

“What do you mean, ‘seen’?”

Mrs. Miller sighed. “It isn’t any use, Augustus Marsh. The only people whose obsession is so easily observed are those who have—as I put it—’seen’.”

Gus saw the jig was up. If she knew this much, she might as well know everything.

As he had with Meghan the day before, Gus recounted the full story starting from his dad’s death. Today, though, he added the car accident he had seen from the bus.

When he was done, Mrs. Miller looked both concerned and impressed. “The speed with which you’ve developed the aptitude to see souls is remarkable.”

Gus’s throat clenched. He croaked, “Souls?”

Mrs. Miller nodded. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, but ‘souls’ will suffice for now.”

“More complicated?” Gus was desperate for information.

Mrs. Miller sized him up, then shook her head. “We haven’t the time. Plus, I’m not certain you’re ready.”

Gus bristled. “Not ready? You said I had a remarkable aptitude!”

Mrs. Miller smiled indulgently. “Aptitude is not maturity, and it’s as much to be feared as lauded. If you insist on pursuing this about your father—and I vehemently recommend that you should not, but I also wasn’t born yesterday—you must understand what you’re getting into.”

“I would love to understand, Mrs. Miller, but you aren’t telling me.”

“Because you, dear Gus, have trigonometry with Hank, and you’re already sufficiently late that I’ll have to write him a note and purchase him a candy bar.”

Gus exploded out of his seat. “You tell me I’m seeing souls and I need to understand it better and then you make me go to trigonometry instead?!?”

“You needn’t understand it today, and for heaven’s sake, keep your voice down. There are certain of my colleagues that would simply adore having a story to tell about this old hippie.”

His heart was pumping so madly with anticipation that Gus could hardly contain himself, but he could see Mrs. Miller was serious. He took a few deep breaths as he gathered his things. Mrs. Miller handed him a note for Hank—which included the promise of a candy bar—and shooed him away.

“Gus,” she said quietly as he opened the door. “I am deeply, truly sorry about your father, and I hope that we can find peace for you.”

Gus was nearly overcome with emotion, but he held onto his tears long enough to get through the door. He sat in the recessed doorway for a few moments, sobbing to himself and peeking periodically to ensure no one was coming. When he got himself under control, he stood and headed toward trig class.

More than anything—more than the condolences, more than being caught off-guard by her reference to his father—he was most moved by one word: “We.” I hope we can find peace for you.

Two days ago he bore this burden alone. Today, he had two allies. It might be strange that those allies were his brother’s girlfriend and his history teacher, but it was a lot better than being alone.