Earworm: Part 1

Hope

Thursday, September 8, 1994

            William Knight           

Hope Ferretti sat in her homeroom, her head propped on her hand, propped on her elbow, propped on the desk, wondering why the name,

William Knight,

kept turning in her mind. It was as though she woke with the name nagging her, as if she’d fallen asleep with the radio on and the last song playing before she drifted off to slumber had yet to evacuate her brain. She lifted her head from her hand and said, “Who’s William Knight?”

“William Knight?” Tim Ford said. Tim sat beside Hope in homeroom—one of those people who had to answer a question before anyone else had a chance to. He said, “William Knight is the Indiana Hoosier’s basketball coach. He—”

“That’s Bobby Knight, you idiot,” Joel Fitch said from behind them. When Hope turned to look at him, Joel froze for a moment, her dark eyes locking onto his ice-blue eyes, then he grinned a smile of casual rebellion, although he was far from the rebel type. Joel Fitch was the school’s superstar, the heir apparent to Mystic Island High School’s sports legacy. Joel said to Hope, “I think William Knight’s a student here.” He turned to Tim, saying, “Wasn’t he that new kid in gym yesterday?” Tim shrugged. Joel said to Hope, “Why? What about him?”

“I don’t know, name’s just stuck in my head. It’s like when you can’t get a song out of your mind. You ever had that?”

“An earworm,” Tim said.

“A what?” Hope and Joel said simultaneously.

“An earworm. That’s what that’s called, when you have a song stuck in your head.”

“You don’t know the name of one of the most famous coaches in sports, but you know what it’s called when you have a song stuck in your head?” Joel said to Tim.

“Yeah, well, I’m not really into…” Tim paused. Hope thought she noticed Tim wince. Tim, along with every other wannabe, worshipped Joel, and Tim just almost admitted to not being into sports—a major faux pa in the social hierarchy of the high school male. “…College basketball,” Tim said. “I only like pro ball.”

Joel grinned, about to retort, but he shook his head and turned his attention back to Hope. “Well, whatever it’s called, it looks like you got one of these earbugs.”

“Worms,” Tim said, “Earworms.”

“Still doesn’t help me with who William Knight is,” Hope said. “But thanks for the effort.” She rose from her desk as the bell rang, and the students scattered for first period.

***

Hope sat in her first period math class. The students waited for Ms. Bradford, who had a knack for arriving perfectly synchronized with the late bell.

William Knight.

There was that name again, clicking in her mind like a person keying a ham radio’s handset. But why did the name nag her as if resurrected from some distant memory? As if something of obscure importance?

A few straggling students arrived, and when the bell rang, Ms. Bradford lumbered into the room. She was a short, wide relic with gray-streaked hair and bulging eyes that seemed capable of rotating independent of one another like the eyes of a chameleon. Students of an ancient alumni class had dubbed her the “Bradasaurus,” and like folklore, the name passed from generation to generation by older siblings saying, Oh, I see you got the Bradasaurus this year.The woman dropped a stack of books and papers on the desk with a thud, and, after regarding the class with her rotating eyes, plopped into her seat. The springs of the chair screaming for mercy. Then, seemingly keeping one eye on the class and one eye on the stack of papers, she fished out the attendance list. “Katie Adams,” she wheezed.

“Heee-re,” Katie sang in response.

“John Doherty,” Ms. Bradford said. She paused for the answer. None came. “John Doherty,” Ms. Bradford repeated with more bass resonating in her voice. One of her eyes glaring at John, who was busy mouthing something to his neighbor.

John’s neighbor cleared his throat, gesturing with his eyebrows toward the Bradasaurus. John turned with a stunned look on his face. “Yeah?”

“Are you here, John?”

“Uh…”

“Shouldn’t be a question you need to think about.”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Ms. Bradford said, making an attempt at a smile. After a few more names, Ms. Bradford said, “Hope Ferretti.” Hope was about to answer when she noticed, scrawled on the wood surface of the desk in smudged pencil wisps, the words: Hope Feretey’s got great tits! “Hope Ferretti?” Ms. Bradford repeated.

“Um, yeah, I’m here.”

“Wonderful. I’m so proud that you all are mastering roll call. With a little more practice, I believe you will all have the knack of answering when your name is called.”

Hope shook her head as she erased the smudged sentiment regarding her tits. Gee, who could’ve written that? Only any of the testosterone overdosed males of the eleventh grade. Or she supposed it could have been Melody Belum—whose very public coming-out, when she snuck onto the school’s intercom and proclaimed, “I’m a proud lesbian,” brought raucous cheers from the student body—but Hope figured Melody would have at least spelled Ferretticorrectly. Hope had all but erased her name from the desktop when Ms. Bradford said, “William Knight.” Hope stopped erasing and looked at Ms. Bradford, as if confirming the woman had spoken.

The response came from over Hope’s shoulder. Someone saying, “Here.”

Hope’s head snapped back. In the back corner of the room, scrunched down like a crab trying to bury itself in sand, was the new kid. He was thin, but not sickly—the body of a boy yet to fill out—the thinness bringing out his high cheekbones and hooked nose. A thick nest of black hair fell over his forehead, almost covering his dark, almost black, eyes. Those dark eyes met her gaze for a moment. The kid flinched, looking as if wanting to bury himself a little more. And a strange, convulsive chill raced up Hope’s spine. It was a nondescript feeling of vague association, but association to what, she wasn’t quite sure.

***

Hope was exchanging one book for another in her locker when someone called, “Hope.” She turned and saw Joel running up to her. The late bell was approaching and a few, scattered students dug in cluttered lockers for books, lost pens, pencils, homework assignments crammed into dark corners. But Hope accepted that she would be late. She was always late third period. It was an unspoken rule, Mr. Levin’s class started five minutes later than advertised—a five-minute buffer where students leisurely wandered into the classroom. Mr. Levin liked being the nice guy too much to bag tardiness. As for Joel being late, he had Gym third period, and God help the gym teacher reprimanding the quarterback duringfootball season.

Hope handed Joel a book. “Hold this a minute,” she said as she foraged and reorganized. The late bell rang. Hope shut the locker. She took the book from Joel, pressing it to her chest, and regarded him with a smile that cut dimples into her cheeks. A few seconds of silence passed before she said, “Did you want something?”

“Me? No. Why?”

“Because you ran up to me calling my name.”

“Oh. I was just, you know, saying hi.” He switched his weight from one foot to another and ran his hand through his hair. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” She regarded him a moment longer. “Then, I guess I’ll talk to you later?” she said, turning to walk to class.

“You busy tomorrow night?”

Hope turned to face him. “Tomorrow night?” she said, feigning ignorance.

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?” she said, over-feigning ignorance.

“I was just wondering,” he said with a casual shrug. “Are you?”

“I don’t think so.” She leaned against the lockers, hugging her books to her chest.

“Oh, well, do you think, um, maybe you’d like to do something or something?” He glanced around the hall to make sure they were alone. “You know, with me?”

“Like a date?”

“No,” Joel said. Hope raised her eyebrows. Joel saying, “All right, yeah. I guess.”

“You guess? I’d like to be sure before we went.”

“Yes. I am asking you out on a date, all right?”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place? What are you, Danny Zuko?”

“Look, do you want to hang out Friday night or not? You know, maybe we could, like, do something or something—What’s so funny?”

Hope spoke between hitches of laughter, “You. You’re always so confident and sure of yourself, but you suck at asking a girl out. I’ve just never seen you so flustered.”

“It’s just weird. I mean, I’ve known you forever and always wanted to…I mean, we’ve been friends so long, but you were with Sean… Look, do you want to go out with me or not?”

“Well,” Hope rolled her eyes, letting the word hang in the air.

“Uhg.”

“Yes.”

“Really? Good. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Yeah. It kind of was.”

“Okay, fine, I gotta get going. I’ll see you later, in English” Joel said. He ran off to the end of the hall, waved back at Hope, and then cut down another hall. Hope watched him go, and when he was out of sight, she walked off to Mr. Levin’s class.

***

Hope sat at one of the cafeteria’s tables. The one in the middle. She wasn’t sure who’d originally chosen the center table—probably her friend Tara Larson, now sitting to her right—it’s as if they’d all been drawn to the spot. The center of the room. The center of the school. Hope, would have preferred to sit in one of the corners. The side tables where the outcasts sat. She glanced over at the table toward the back corner of the cafe. Her head caulked, her eyes narrowing a moment. “Who is that kid?” she said.

“What kid?” Tara said, looking up from her lunch and turning to scan the other tables. Tara was a petite girl with auburn hair that hung down her back in spiraling curls.

“The one at that table,” Hope answered, nodding toward William Knight. “See him? The one listening to George Banterman.”

Jennifer Waltson craned her neck to look as well. “Which one?” she said.

“That one, there,” Hope said. “See, he’s looking over here. His name’s William Knight or someth—”

Before Hope could finish, Tara turned toward her with the expression of one discovering something infested with maggots. “Oh, my God, that kid is so fucking creepy,” Tara said. She was capable of slipping the F-word into any conversation—her childlike expressions and tiny voice adding a shock-value to the word that would blush a rap star.

“You don’t know who that is?” Jennifer said, brandishing her knowledge with a self-satisfied flourish in her voice. Jennifer’s mother was the school’s secretary, a woman that lost all tact when speaking around her daughter, facilitating a running encyclopedia about every student in the school—and most of the staff, for that matter—a treasure-trove of gossip on anyone from the principal to the meekest of students. “That’s William Dey…” She paused a moment, just to allow the information to sink in for her tablemates. It didn’t sink in for them, so she added, “The Dey murders? Hello?”

“Really?” Hope gasped.

“You mean that guy that buried his wife’s head in the backyard?” Tara said.

“Yup,” Jennifer said with her air of self-importance.

“I thought the kid was sent away to live somewhere else with family. Why would he come back?” Tara said.

“His stepfather or adopted father or whatever tried to kill him. So they had nowhere to go but back here. They still owned the house. I mean, who would want to buy it?”

“Tried to kill him?” Tara huffed. “A family of fucking psychos, apparently.”

“That’s just what I’ve heard,” Jennifer said—she didn’t need to state her source.

“Why are you asking about him?” Tara asked Hope, peering over her shoulder again at William Knight. “He keep fucking staring at you or something?”

“No,” Hope said. “He’s in my math class. Just wondered who he was.”

***

Hope and Tara walked toward the cafeteria doors. Tara was yapping about how Mandy Bryant said that Donna Marrison called Julie Haggar a slut, just because she slept with half the basketball team, when she knew it was, like, Mandy who said it all along, and really, who is Mandy to—

A lurking form standing before them halted Tara’s story. Hope looked up, her eyes meeting the eyes of William Knight. He then said something so unexpected and random that it stuck with her, a bur in her mind for the rest of the day, into the night, and beyond. He said it so matter-of-factly that it sounded as if it were the revelation to a question she had all her life. He said, “I’mWilliam Knight.” And then he walked away.

Hope and Tara stared at the boy as he disappeared into the crowd.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Tara said.

Hope shrugged.

“Weird,” Tara said before picking up her story where she left off, as if never interrupted in the first place, “…start trouble between Donna and Julie when…”

But Tara’s words went unheard. Hopes thoughts focused only on the boy from her math class, and she couldn’t let go of the words he stopped to tell her. I’m William Knight.

Read more on Amazon Vella