First time I saw her was in the mirror
on my locker door. I'd kicked my swim gear onto the bottom shelf and was
reaching to the top for my calc book when she opened her locker across the
hall. She had a streaked blond ponytail dangling out the back of her baseball
cap. Great. Now I was obligated to rag on her for
violating the new dress code. Forget it, I decided. My vote—the only
dissenting one in the whole student council—still counted. With me, anyway.
People could come to school buck naked for all I cared. It wasn't about
clothes. We slammed our lockers in unison and turned. Her
eyes met mine. "Hi," she said, smiling. My stomach fluttered. "Hi," I answered
automatically. She was new. Had to be. I would've noticed her. She sauntered away, but not before I caught a
glimpse of her T-shirt. It said: IMRU? Am I what? She glanced back over her shoulder, the way you
do when you know someone's watching. That's when it registered—the rainbow
triangle below the message. My eyes dropped. Kept her in sight, though, as
she disappeared around the corner. I shifted my attention to my schedule. Brit Lit,
calc, U.S. History, then art and econ after lunch. Was I out of my mind? Why
was I taking a full load my last semester of high school? Weren't we supposed
to revel in this time, embrace our friends, screw
around until graduation? At some pivotal point, of course, we'd decide the
direction our lives were going to take. A derisive laugh might've escaped my
lips. Like I got to decide anything about my life. I headed down the deserted hallway, clutching my
books to my chest. This is insane, I thought. I don't even need the credits.
I'd gotten to choose the early track—first class at seven, last class at
one—but then I added econ at the last minute so I'd be finishing the day with
everyone else. I drew a deep breath, and coughed. Who needed to get stoned
before school when you got a free ride from the carpet-cleaning fumes? Morning was a blur. As I stumbled to lunch, my
head reeling from the volume of homework I'd already accumulated, my anxiety
mounted. I'd be up till "Babe!" Seth called across the crowded
cafeteria. He loped to the double doorway to meet me. Kiss me. "We're
over here." He thumbed toward the vending machines, snaking an arm
around my waist and steering me along. "Hi, " Today, tomorrow, never. Popping the top on a can
of Pepsi Twist that Seth had set in front of me, I said to Kirsten across the
table, "How was Christmas in Leah kicked my shin. Uh-oh. Kirsten sighed theatrically. "You had to
ask." She launched into a psychodrama about how her mother was a raving
lunatic the whole two weeks and all they did was scream
at each other. Seth split his fries with me and I zoned. He said
in my ear, "You want ketchup?" I must've nodded because he got up
and left. Leah and Kirsten began to talk about
college—again. Could we get through one whole day without bringing up the
subject? Kirsten said, “Mom wants me to commute to Metro Urban and live at
home. Like that's going to happen.”
She rolled her eyes. “All I want to do is graduate
and get the hell out of this rat hole.” I checked out again. At some point Seth returned
with the ketchup and I swabbed a greasy fry through the watery blob. Round
and round it goes; where it stops, nobody knows. Seth nudged me. "You
okay?" I glanced up to find everyone staring at me. Was
I chanting out loud? God. Relinquishing my hold on the mutilated fry, I crossed
my eyes and said, "I got Arbuthnot for Brit Lit." They all went, "Eeooh."
Leah added, "Don't ever be late. She'll ream you out in front of
everyone." I grimaced. I hated when teachers did that.
"You know," I said, picking up my cheeseburger, "all these
anti-bullying policies should apply to teachers. I mean, corporal punishment is illegal." I chomped into my burger
and chewed. "Public humiliation,” I said with my mouth full, “is a form
of psychological abuse." By their bobbing heads, I assumed they all agreed.
What were we going to do about it? Nothing. Even though I was president of
student council, I felt powerless to effect change of any social significance
at our school. I take that back. We now had a pop machine in the
hall. ‚‚ Drawing Level I was, as Seth
referred to it, a bullshit class. But I needed to fill time between lunch and
econ. As I wandered down the arts wing, feeling totally out of my element, I
wondered what mental aberration had possessed me when I chose an art
elective. Drawing, no less, which probably required talent.
More than doodling in notebooks. The assigned studio, 212A, had four rows of
tables set end-to-end with chairs arranged haphazardly. No semblance of
order. I slid into a plasti-seat in the back. My
uneasiness grew as I studied the crowd clogging the doorway and milling
around the display cases. Not the kind of people I usually associated
with—which was okay. I didn't have a problem with diversity. It was just…I
don’t know. I felt weird. I decided to drop the class. Maybe add another
study hall. I was going to need it. A man’s voice in the hallway herded everyone
inside. As people filed across the threshold, I caught sight of her. The
baseball cap was gone; now her hair flowed around her shoulders. Her eyes
darted across the studio and stopped on me. I wanted to look away, but
couldn't. She held me somehow, spellbound. The instructor bustled in and broke the
connection. Oh, God. He looked like Einstein on ecstasy. "Just find a
seat anywhere," he said to the stragglers. As he turned to write his
name on the board, I flipped open a spiral. When I glanced over
surreptitiously, she'd slipped into a seat up front. Another girl slid in
beside her. I knew that girl—Randi or Brandi. She was on swim team last year
for about a week. Right about the time Seth and I hooked up. Brandi. "I realize you can't read this," the
instructor said as he ran a palm over his cotton candy hair, "but it
says 'Jonathan McElwain.'" He was right. His
handwriting was gorgeous, all loopy and bold, but you'd need clearer vision
than mine to decipher it. I squinted through my contacts—that was an M?
He brushed chalk off his hands and added, "You can call me Mackel." I wrote down, Mr.
McElwain. Then drew a line through it and
printed, Mackel. "If I want to get paid, I have to turn this
in." He flapped a computer printout at us. Hopping onto the desk, he
curled cross-legged and uncapped a Flair.
"Anderson, Michaela." "Present." A girl at the end of my row
raised her hand and Mackel scratched a checkmark. A few people I did actually know. It's inevitable
when you've lived in the same place your whole life. The guy with the serious
orange spikes and nostril ring was in my calc class. Winslow Demming. I remembered him from computer science sophomore
year, except back then Winslow was a geek. Brilliant, though. And sweet.
Another reminder why people shouldn't be judged on appearance. Mr. McElwain—Mackel—progressed through the list. For some reason I was
focusing on the back of the blond girl's head, only half listening for my
name. "Cecelia Goddard," Mackel read. Her
hand shot up and she said, "It's Cece." I wrote it down. Cecelia Goddard. CC? Cece? Cece, I decided and drew a box around it. " A couple of heads swiveled. "What?" I
blinked up. " "Oh, here." I raised my hand. Added in
a mutter, "Apparently not all
here." She twisted around and smiled. My stomach
lurched. I shielded my face with my hand and pretended to scribble notes. Mackel handed out a supplies list. It
was long. There were pencils, ink, charcoal, erasers, markers, pens, two sizes of drawing tablets. God, I'd have to work a
month of overtime to afford all this stuff. Mackel
said, "I know it's a short week, but I'd appreciate it if you could get
your supplies in the next couple of days. Go to Hobby Lobby or Wal-Mart for
the best prices. If anyone has real financial need, come see me after class.
That doesn't mean you'd rather spend your money on a kegger."
He eagle-eyed the room. "But I have a starving artist fund, so don't be
shy." I liked that. He was
understanding. Maybe I'd wait to drop. ‚‚ At two-fifteen the bell rang and
I gathered my books and notes from econ, feeling totally brain-dead. Lockers
banged open and closed as I trudged down the hall. "Hi, "Great, thanks." I waved, plastering on
The Smile. Get me out of here, I thought. Static crackled in my head like a
radio stuck between stations. The halls began to clear and my locker
materialized—finally. As I twisted the combination lock, I heard across the
way, "So, you just transferred? Where'd you go before here?" I opened the door and captured Brandi and Cece in my mirror. Cece said, "Washington
Central." Brandi said, "Oh, yeah? Do you know Joanie? She's one of us. Joanie
Fowler." "Doesn't sound familiar." "You have to know her." "I said I don't." The sharpness of Cece's voice made me turn around. Brandi caught my eye
and I turned back. In the mirror I watched as Cece shoved
a book into her backpack and removed a fleece vest off the hook. She let out
a long breath and said, “Sorry,” to Brandi. "It's been a rough
day." "I can imagine." Brandi smiled
knowingly. I wondered what she knew. Brandi held the backpack while Cece put on her vest. Their conversation muted as a herd
of people stampeded past. I caught the tail end of Brandi's "...go for a
Coke or something?" "I can't," Cece
said. "I have to work." She retrieved the pack from Brandi and
slung it over her shoulder. I realized I was eavesdropping shamelessly and
squatted to unzip my swimming duffel. "How come you transferred?" Brandi
asked. "Health reasons." Cece
slammed her locker. "My car wouldn't start this morning and I don't
really want to wait here for my brother to pick me up. Do you think you could
give me a ride to work?" "Sure," Brandi chirped. "No
problem." They headed out together. Brandi had said, “One of us.” Did that mean she
was gay? Huh. I didn't know we had any gays in our school.
Until now. I loaded up my backpack and grabbed my duffel,
thinking, I guess it pays to advertise.
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