One

This is not my first day of school, I do not own a pair of skinny jeans, my hair isn’t thick and long, and my mother is probably still asleep. What I wash myself with or whether I use makeup or not is both irrelevant and nobody’s business. And who gives a crap if I take a shower before school every morning, or if I use perfume?

I also don’t have any powers – what a hoot that would be! – and the best-looking guy in the school doesn’t seem to notice me, much less care or have some kind of crush. I’m not abused at home, just ignored. And the bullies in my grade don’t bother me because I avoid being within twenty yards of them at all times. I do have a car, but it’s an older POS that seems to have its own ideas about how and when to run.

I don’t cut, but a couple of my friends do, and I’m constantly worried about them. Doing drugs and drinking alcohol are at the top of my list titled, “Imbecilic Crap I Wouldn’t Do If Life Itself Depended On It.”

There. That’s me. My name is Shasta (my mom is a daisy freak) and neither of us has the slightest idea who my father is. Was. Whatever. My last name is the same as my mom’s, obviously – Darby. That so doesn’t work with my first name, but hey. And just so you know, there is a boyfriend in the picture who says he’s crazy about my mother. His name is Wade Marshal, he’s a geek, and why mom doesn’t marry him and get it over with is beyond me. Maybe because her first name is Marsha. At least she isn’t dating a guy whose last name is Law. Shut up.

Yeah, so it isn’t my first day of school. It’s my twenty-third (yes, I’m counting). Why mention this? Because the first three weeks were like the first three weeks of school every year of my life and therefore not worth talking about. But today I have to give a speech for one of my classes. I never had to do that before, and I’m not happy about it.

My high school is a bit on the weird side. It’s semi-private, but not like a hospital room. I mean, there are more than two students in it. The semi-private bit means the State pays some of the bills while a moderate tuition from the parents pays the rest. So I’m not attending some totally private snob school. More than half of the kids were home-schooled for most of their lives, which is about as exclusive as any of them ever got. Not me. Nope. Regular public school from kindergarten through eleventh.

So now I’m a twelfth-grader (a senior, yay me), and I have to give a speech on social injustice. Really? Why? What does that even mean? I suppose that’s what I’m supposed to explain, but despite having wracked my brain over this topic since getting the assignment yesterday…okay, I wracked my brain for about fifteen minutes this morning…I can’t come up with a thing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Zip. I was told to make notes and do an extemporaneous speech based on these mythical jottings. Ha! The letters “lol” are bouncing around in my head with wild abandon over that one.

Breakfast was the same as always: coffee and a toaster pastry. I should weigh about eight hundred pounds by now, but because I run a lot, I manage to burn off the junk food pretty well. Anyway, since my car had been refusing to start since the week before, I ran to the bus stop, jogged in place while I waited for it to come farting and screeching around the corner onto my street, then zoomed up the steps and into a seat three-quarters of the way toward the back.

“You ready to give that speech thing?”

I turned to my classmate and friend, realizing she’d asked the question without actually looking at me. Her attention, as usual, was riveted on her Galaxy tablet and some game that looked like a lot of fruit had been barfed up all over the screen. “Nope.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Thanks for caring, Gina. Please, don’t let me interrupt your fruit game. “Okay?”

Finger-slide…tap-tap…slide…tap. “Crap! Stupid thing refuses to let me win this level!”

“Gina. Dude. What do you mean, ‘okay’?”

“What do you mean?”

I rolled my eyes, resisting the desire to take her tablet and toss it out the window. “I answered your question and said I didn’t have my speech ready and all you said was ‘oh, okay.’ So what did you mean?”

She frowned and started re-doing her ponytail. “I said that?”

“You did. Game-brain.”

“Very funny, Shasta. I clearly wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s why I love you – you’re so honest about yourself.” I laughed and sat back.

“Do you love me, too?”

I got up, turned, and knelt on the seat, facing the individual in the seat behind me who had uttered that idiotic question. “Yes, Dion. I love you more than life itself. I would throw myself under a mosquito for you.”

Dion Philips, a member of the football team, opened his mouth, shut it, frowned, squinted one eye, and said, “What?”

“You asked, I answered.” Smiling, I turned around and sat back again. The guy was probably nice on some level, but not all that bright. He kept trying to freak me out, kept failing, and then would ignore me for hours at a time. Ours was a genuine what-the-hell-was-that relationship. Like me, he’d gone to public school, so I had the dubious joy of being aware of him for most of my life. I don’t think he knew I even existed until about six months ago. Or something.

Gina, I now noticed, had turned purple. Were this anyone else, I’d have been alarmed. But it was Gina, the girl who never wanted anyone to know she was laughing hysterically, so would contain the sound by not breathing until her face was the color of an anemic eggplant. I smacked her on the arm. “Inhale, please.”

She did, amazing me that her loud, deep intake of air didn’t suck the seat in front of us off its floor bolts. That would have been awkward. Then she made a tiny noise that sounded like “skeeto!” and doubled over, laughing again.

I gave up. “If you pass out, I refuse to carry you off this bus.”

The rest of the ride was boring. Gina eventually got herself under control, but didn’t have anything to say. Neither did I. What was I going to do about that stupid speech? Social injustice? Wait – what would be the opposite? Social justice? What does that mean? How did any of this work? I began to contemplate the word “justice” without the “social” and by the time the bus dropped us off, I knew what I was going to say.

Two

 

My grandfather used to indulge in what I like to call dangling quotes. I think they’re meant to convey warnings of some kind. Not sure. One of them came with rolled eyes and a sigh, and I was thinking about it just then. I’d given my speech, you see. Thought I’d done a great job, too, considering I had no idea what I was talking about. Still, it seemed logical based on the conclusions I’d reached somewhere between getting off the bus and making it to class without tripping over anything.

Anyway, the quote was “….the best laid plans of mice and men…” Call me crazy, but I can’t imagine mice go around planning things with well-thought-out details. I have a feeling the ‘mice’ part was meant as sarcasm, or irony, or some such device, but it’s still a weird quote.

So, okay. The speech. I ranted on for a good ten minutes about the difference between “social” and “societal,” explaining that there was a vast difference between the two, and because of their meanings when coupled with the word “justice,” it seemed to me that when people stomped around waving signs and screaming against “social injustice,” what they really wanted to see fixed was “societal injustice.” We humans don’t treat each other nicely all the time, I said, because we’re often too busy being selfish and needy. So we step on other people’s dreams and lawns, all because we feel we’re entitled to more than we actually are (notice how I managed to get a whole lot of different subjects into that one statement?), and the steppees want justice against the steppers. Wait. Yeah. But because we’re also lousy with lawyers and politicians, that concept got twisted and “social” was substituted for “societal” – ignoring the fact that the kind of society we live in determines how free we are or aren’t to strive for what we want. Once the substitution was made, individual responsibility and accountability were eliminated, encouraging people to become sheeple (another of my grandfather’s terms I’m not so sure about).

By the end of my speech, everyone was staring at me with that glazed look you often seen in the eyes of one member of a blind-date couple. The teacher, on the other hand, was tapping her foot, her lower jaw thrust outward, and was glaring at me. No glaze present in those eyes. Nope. Great. What had I said to deserve that kind of look? Could it have been because I hadn’t quoted some lame source or other, like a famous newspaper or magazine? I had no idea. Still don’t. Thus the sinking feeling that I was royally screwed and the dangling quote zipping across my inner movie screen. Crap. Looked like I had no choice, and the only thing left for me was to clear my throat, tell her I was done, and ask if I could go to the ladies’ room.

She crossed her arms, pointed at the door and nodded, saying nothing. Try crossing your arms and pointing – it’s not easy, but she managed. Or maybe she was pointing with her face. I didn’t stick around to try and figure it out.

And now I’m standing at the sink, smirking at my reflection as I try to come up with some kind of self-insult that describes how I feel.

“Loser,” I told me. “That’s what you get for not doing your homework! Now the teacher is going to fail you, you big dummy!” I’m not big, but the dummy part of me apparently is.

“OMG! Are you talking to yourself?”

Yes, she used the initials and didn’t say the words they represented. Wow. Her name, Lacy Moore, sounded to me like the name of someone with nothing on who spent a lot of time spinning around poles.

“I am,” I admitted. I had no desire to talk to this person. She was one of the people I’d spent so much time and effort avoiding.

“You’re nuts.” She came to stand at the sink next to me, and had addressed my reflection.

“Probably,” my reflection told hers.

She made a snorty noise and flipped golden hair over one shoulder as she leaned forward to turn on the faucet. Was she going to splash me or something? I mean, she hadn’t used the toilet, so why was she using the sink?

I stared at my own hair – short and spiky, dark brown (my mom calls it chestnut), my plain but not grotesque features and copper-brown eyes. Quite the contrast to Lacy, she of the golden hair, huge blue eyes, perky nose, ruby lips…in fact, every cliché that belonged to those who worked hard at being attractive. Without her makeup and bleach, though, she’d probably be as unremarkable as I am.

On the bright side, I’m slimmer than she is. On the dark side, that slim thing includes a noticeable lack of boobery, which she seemed to have in unfair measure. Talk about social injustice! Or is it societal?

“Why are you staring at me, freak?”

“Why are you calling me a freak, air-head?” Uh, right. I probably shouldn’t have said that.

“You’re dead. I always knew you were…you’re dead!”

I looked down at myself, put a finger next to my carotid artery, shook my head. “Not exactly. I have a pulse. Do you?” Grrr! I’d done it again! See, this is another reason I stayed away from the bullies and popular people – I have no filters (according to Wade, curse him) and refused to let them intimidate me. That means I instinctively gave as good as I got, maybe more since I’m almost positive I’m smarter than they are.

Annndddd….this was not going to end well.

Lacy snarled at me and left, no doubt to announce to the class that the “freak” was in the bathroom talking to her reflection. Which was true. But hey. I contemplated not going back to class, but I’m also not a coward. Most of the time, anyway. After a final glance to make sure the zipper on my loose-fitting, comfy jeans wasn’t down, I took a deep breath, nodded once at myself for encouragement (a useless gesture), and went out.

Barry Janovich was giving his speech when I re-entered the classroom. Barry is a jerk. He’s pudgy in all the wrong places but acts like he’s a male model, has a pathetic, everybody’s-best-friend fake attitude, freckles that I’m pretty sure started life as zits (or the other way around), and an inability to stop telling everyone else his philosophies about how they should all handle their lives. His name should have been Richard (ask someone what the nickname for Richard is, if you don’t know what I mean).

I sat at my desk, avoiding the looks everyone – including the teacher – was probably giving me, and hit my mental “off switch,” tuning out Barry’s irritating drone. As a result I didn’t know what his speech had been on, and hoped there wouldn’t be a test.

When class ended some time later, I got up to leave, but took my time, figuring if I waited long enough, Lacy and her friends would be long gone.

“Do you need something?” asked the teacher. She was tapping her foot again.

“Er, no. Just…no. I’m leaving.”

“Before you do, I need to tell you something.”

Uh-oh. “Sure.”

“Your speech was logical and well-spoken, but I would appreciate it if you would keep your ugly, conservative rhetoric to yourself from now on.” The glare was back.

I was shocked. “Conservative? What are you talking about? My mother would disown me if that was true.”

“So all that crap about individual responsibility and accountability, about lawyers and politicians – what was that? Sounded like Rush Limbaugh!”

“Who?”

She shook her head, making that annoying clicking sound with her tongue. “You really have no clue, do you. All right. But next time, think before you speak, okay?”

“Okay.” So much for “free speech,” I guess. I hadn’t been trying to be anything other than observant, and couldn’t fathom why my words had actually made her angry. It was clear she didn’t agree with my off-the-cuff babble, but it was also clear that she didn’t accept anyone’s opinion but her own. Great.

If the rest of the class felt that way, I’d probably get stoned to death on my way to the bus stop later. But for the time being, I had to get to Chemistry, and my little chat with the teacher was going to put me at the door several minutes after the bell.

What a day. At least I wouldn’t have to give any speeches there.

Three

Chemistry. Angst. So what, exactly, is the chemistry of angst? Whatever it is, I doubt it has anything to do with baking soda and vinegar. On the other hand, if one is making soda crackers for an enemy, it might have everything to do with it.

Volcanoes – ah, volcanoes. We did the whole volcano-erupting experiment in elementary school using bs&v, but at the time I knew little about angst. Today’s experiment also involved the ubiquitous (I love that word, I do) baking soda and vinegar cocktail. Only this time it had to do with the density difference between air and carbon dioxide. Right. Because I need to know that in order to have a fulfilling life. Jeez.

No one said a word to me about my speech, thank God, but no one was talking to me either, except Gina.

“Why are we doing this?” Her words had come out of the side of her mouth because the teacher was looking in our direction. Guess Gina believes the guy never saw either a campy movie or a bad ventriloquist.

I shrugged. Why, indeed.

“Okay, class.” Teacher-guy cleared his throat. His name is Armand Klees, but because I refuse to say words that embarrass or offend my self-esteem, I call him Teacher-guy. Anyway, yeah. He continued. “You will notice this box by the side of my desk. In it are bottles of something all of you must have played with at some point or other in your younger days.”

Dead cats in formaldehyde? Nah. How would anyone get a dead cat into a bottle? Maybe like those model ships – flatten them, roll them up, attach little strings, and when it’s in the bottle, pull it back upright…

“…mature about this.”

Uh-oh. I tuned back in.

“I’ll pass them out, but keep in mind that I know how many are in here, and I expect to have the same number back in the box at the end of class.”

Gina and I exchanged a glance; she looked as puzzled as I was. What was in those bottles? Gold doubloons?

“Here you go.” Teacher-guy stopped at our lab table first, pulled two bottles from the box, and thumped them down.

Really? Was he serious? Bubbles? What? A dark blue plastic bottle with a goofy-looking giraffe on the label. Gina’s was pink with a hedgehog, or…I think it was a hedgehog. Whatever. Teacher-guy was talking again.

“…a beaker and add the vinegar, then carefully measure in the baking soda. The amounts are on the board, as you can see. When you’re done, blow some bubbles onto the surface of the foam that results.”

Sure. And then skip off to see the wizard while flying a kite with our toes. What was wrong with this guy today? Holy cow!

As we did our little experiment, he told us that the point was to prove that air is lighter than carbon dioxide, and that the whole thing is about density. So…what – he couldn’t just tell us that? And then my bad-joke gene took over.

“I get it,” I whispered to Gina. “Being bubble-headed makes you dense, while being an air-head makes you a surface-skimmer and you have no depth.” I slid a knowing glance at Lacy, who was still trying to get her bubbles to land on top of the foam. What an idiot.

“You need help,” Gina replied (and I know she wasn’t referring to class work), but her words were followed by a giggle so I didn’t worry about it.

And then, about a thousand years later, class was over. That meant my next class, gym, might be my last. Lacy and her pole-dancing buddies (okay, they’re really cheerleaders, but at times I fail to see the difference) would be there. Normally, they did their thing in gym without noticing me lurking in the shadows as I did my best to avoid all physical activity. I had a feeling this day was going to be different.

When I’m right, I’m right. Not that it would make any sense to say, “when I’m right, I’m wrong,” unless I was referring to every dumb argument I’d ever had with my Aunt Riza. She’s never wrong about anything. Given the chance, I believe she’d try to put God in His place if He disagreed with her. Anyhow, yeah. Gym. Lacy. Bleh.

The first incident occurred when we were told to line up in preparation to do push-ups. On my way to the far end of the line, Lacy shoved me. For real. I didn’t fall because she hadn’t shoved me very hard, but I did turn around and frown at her.

“You have a problem, Sonic?” She raised her eyebrows.

I had to assume she was referring to Sonic the Hedgehog (maybe that was the animal on Gina’s bottle of bubbles – huh). Made sense, since my hair was, in fact, rather pokey, which was how I liked it. I grinned at her, ruffled said hair with one hand, and said, “Sonic is so cool – thanks!” Again, most likely the wrong move. But I was, as I’d heard several people say, even if I couldn’t tell you where or why, batting a thousand. Might as well maintain my average, if that’s what I was doing.

The next snit-fit manifestation was during basketball. I suck at basketball. I suck at every sport, but basketball more than the rest. At one point, someone threw me the stupid ball, and before I could find someone else to toss it to, three of Lacy’s buddies triple-teamed me and I ended up on the floor with basketball-court burn on my left knee, a bruise on my right elbow, and visions of Lacy and her friends being dropped into a leaf-shredder. Cheerleader mulch. Ha.

“Oh, my God! Are you okay?” Gina had run over, and was going to try and help me up, but another of Queen Lacy’s lackeys elbowed her out of the way.

“Oops! Sorry, Gina – didn’t see you there.”

You know, it’s one thing for these fluff-heads to attack me, but it’s another for them to go after my friend. I got up and started walking toward the bimbo who had shoved Gina – Tessa McFarland – with no intention of stopping. She crossed her arms, smirking, no doubt wondering what I thought I was going to do. When I didn’t slow down and my hands clenched into fists, the smirk faded.

Stomp, stomp, stomp. A few more inches. Running her undersized ass over was going to be a pleasure. Stomp –

“You’re insane!” Her voice had taken on the volume and pitch of a train whistle as she dodged out of the way.

I turned toward her and started stomping again.

“Coach!”

To my utter amazement, the coach did nothing. He was standing several feet behind Tessa, hands in his pockets, grinning. Weird.

Stomp, stomp…

“Get away from me, crazy bitch!”

Stomp…

Tess turned and ran.

I stopped stomping, noticing for the first time that Gina was off to the side, doubled over in what I immediately recognized as silent laughter – her face was that lovely shade of purple again. I also noticed the wide eyes and open mouths of the entire cheerleading squad. They looked like a school of fish that had been the victims of simultaneous electrocution. Awesome!

Turning away, I went to Gina, told her to breathe, and picked up the basketball which was a few feet beyond her near the bleachers. Dribbling it (I would have spun it on one finger but my inability to do such a thing would only have resulted in deep mortification), I made my way to Lacy.

She took a step back as I got closer. “You are dead, bitch!”

“You keep saying that, but I have yet to find any evidence of it.” I tilted my head to one side and smiled. “I’m sure you aren’t such a baby that you asked your not-so-bright posse to attack me and Gina, right? But in case I’m wrong, and you do something like that again, I might have to get physical with you. See, you don’t know squat about me, Lacy, or what kind of self-defense training I’ve had. Do yourself a favor and leave me alone, okay? Let’s go back to the way it was before my speech this morning, which, yeah, was unbelievably stupid.”

The Queen of Airheads (Lacy) gaped at the Queen of I-Just-Made-All-That-Up (me) and nodded.

“Good. Thanks.” I didn’t believe for a moment that she was going to leave me alone, but at least she now knew I wasn’t intimidated. For all the good that would do me when I was being squished under her boyfriend’s pickup or being beaten to a pulp by the entire cheerleading squad and their families. Ah, well.

When the day ended – something I was beginning to think would never happen – I grabbed Gina by the backpack and hustled her off to the bus. We got on and slid into our seats long before anything that bore any resemblance to a cheerleader caught up with us. You know: she who quickly runs away will live to be beaten up another day. Sorry.

My mom was doing something in the kitchen when I got home, but it involved Wade and didn’t sound like cooking. Grossed out, I ran up to my room, stripped, took a shower to wash off gym sweat, and got comfy in a t-shirt and pajama pants. Now all I needed was a good book to read. I have no use for the internet or social media, since I also have almost no friends. Besides, why give dopes like Lacy a tool for continued torture?

After digging around under my bed, holding a brief discussion with the dust bunnies and removing an apple core I didn’t remember tossing under there, I found several paperbacks I’d been meaning to read. Picked one. Threw self on bed, started to read.

Smiley face.

Four

 

I believe I started this with something about how the best-looking guy in the school wasn’t crushing on me, or whatever. I was wrong. Either that, or someone is playing the world’s meanest trick on me…entirely possible, considering the way everything else in my life goes.

Football is a game I associate with boredom and freezing my butt off. Why can’t they play it indoors? And why does it take thirty minutes to play two minutes’ worth of the actual game? Their idea of “one minute left to play” is like my grandmother’s idea of, “I’m going to hang up now, okay?” Sure, Grandma. Whenever we’re on the phone and she says that, I can pretty much count on at least another twenty minutes of random sermonizing and story-telling, often accompanied by “to make a long story short” (which I have come to realize is code for “you better not have to go to the bathroom, and I hope you have your sleeping bag and pillow out and ready, ’cause this is the longest story I could think of”).

Wait. What was I talking about? Oh! Right. Football. When they – why am I talking about football? Hold on. Ah, that’s it – the quarterback. Sorry. That came out like the demented rantings of a shipwrecked sports commentator. Let me start over.

Jacob (what is it with every cute guy being named Jacob? Ever since that movie about sparkling bloodsuckers came out, mothers have been racing to scribble “Jacob” on their newborns’ birth certificates). Wow. I need to slow down. Let me start again. Oy.

Jacob Wainwright is the quarterback on our school’s football team. He’s cute. He’s got a drool-worthy physique. Every senior girl who isn’t blind wants him, except me. I also consider him top-quality eye-candy, but he’s a quarterback, for heavens’ sake! You know, as in football? That game I can’t stand? The one where you have to sit on icy metal bleachers to watch a bunch of hefty guys grunting at each other, knocking each other over, and slapping each other’s backsides, and for what? Some ball that isn’t even round? So no. I’m not interested. And then this happens.

“He likes you, you know.”

I was putting books in my locker when Gina gave me this highly doubtful bit of news. “Sure he does. As what? A potential bet with his friends?”

“What?”

“You know – they take bets to see if he can convince me to go out with him, and then when I show up at whatever…thing…he’s supposed to be meeting me at for our ‘big date,’ all his friends and the whole flock of cheerleaders pop out and start laughing at me. Jacob gets paid off for winning the bet, and I slink off in utter humiliation. That’s what.”

It was Tuesday, the day after my basketball debacle with Lacy & Co., and so far, no one had stabbed me with a pencil, knocked me into the toilet, or pulled my pants down. Well, that last one might be because I was wearing overalls. Still. But now this garbagio about Jacob. For real? Sheesh.

“Why don’t you think he could like you, Shasta? I mean, okay, you dress a little weird, but you’re really pretty – prettier than any of the cheerleaders for sure.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes. Yes you are. Do you even own a mirror?”

“Several, but I rarely use them.” I finished putting my books away and closed my locker.

“Maybe you should. You have gorgeous green-blue eyes, your hair…okay, your hair is odd, but that’s only because you don’t wear it the same way as most humans, which means you’re not among the clones.”

We started walking toward class, and as I let Gina carry on, I kept a careful look around us for a possible ambush.

“You’re super slim,” she was saying, “and you could wear any awesome fashion you wanted and look better than Lacy and her friends put together!”

“If Lacy and her friends were put together, they’d never fit into any outfit.” I bit my lip, getting a sudden mental image of the cheer squad stuck together in a kind of ball, arms and legs and heads sticking out at strange angles, and a department store clerk trying to squeeze them into a dress. Awesome. I love mental images sometimes.

“You know what I mean, Sh- are you laughing? What’s so funny?”

I gagged. “Nothing.” It came out like a choked squeak.

“All right – focus, please!”

I swallowed, getting myself under control (hey, at least I don’t turn purple when I laugh). “I’m focused. Wait. What am I focused on?”

“Jacob Wainwright.”

“Why?”

“Because he likes you.”

I stopped, grabbed Gina’s arm and made her stop too, and face me. “Gina. Friend. Why on Earth do you think he likes me? Did the football fairy come to you in a dream and tell you this?”

“Funny, Shasta. There’s no such thing as a football fairy.”

“Sure there is. She’s the sister-in-law of the Cheerleader Genie, who’s the cousin of the Tooth Fairy.”

“You’re sick. That’s why I love you. But I’m telling you, Jacob is totally into you!”

“Ew, no he is not!”

Gina rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

I sighed. “Okay, then why doesn’t he ever talk to me? Come to think of it, I don’t believe he’s ever even made eye contact with me. And don’t give me any crap about him being too shy or afraid, or…or…whatever. He’s too egotistical to be like that.” I started walking again.

“He doesn’t talk to you because he’s afraid of Lacy.”

“How could anyone be afraid of Lacy?”

“Guys are strange that way, I think.” Gina shrugged.

I didn’t know what to say at that point. Nothing in me was in the mood to hope she was right about ol’ Jake. Fact is, I don’t like him. He fell off my radar with a dull thud the day I overheard him say to one of the cheerleaders that it was her “lucky day” because he was going to take her to the movies that Friday. Movies. Sure, Jacob. Yeck! Did he honestly believe he was that much of a prize? Heck, he didn’t even qualify as a parting gift as far as I was concerned.

We got to class a few minutes early, which meant only the geeks were already seated. Everyone else was congregating in the hall, a few standing around near the back of the room, and no teacher in sight.

“There he is,” Gina told me in her ridiculous side-of-the-mouth hiss. How embarrassing. “Don’t look.”

“I wasn’t going to – and why tell me he’s here if you don’t want me to look?”

“He’s staring at you.”

“I doubt that. If anything, he’s looking at you hissing at me like we’re in a bad movie.”

“Don’t be mean.” She gave a sudden, brilliant smile, and did one of those close-to-the-chest waves.

“He’s looking at you, isn’t he.” I wasn’t asking.

“No…” Grin. “He’s looking at you, girlfriend.”

“Don’t call me that. Why did you call me that? Are you trying to sound cool?”

“Remind me to smack you later.”

“Sure.” I went to my desk and sat, opened my notebook, and took a pen from my backpack. I needed to doodle. I do that when I don’t feel like dealing with something. Defensive Doodling?

“Shasta, right?”

I didn’t need to look up to know that the voice hadn’t come from Gina’s throat. Biting back something that would have made page one of Epic Sarcastic Comebacks, I put my pen down and raised my eyes. One eyebrow shot upward in what I hoped was a quelling query…sorry. I didn’t speak. Well, no, I did. I said “yes.” But that doesn’t really count, does it? Freaking guys named Jacob…

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, crouching down next to my desk, one hand on its surface. “I just had to say something. I – I think you’re the first person I’ve ever seen stand up to Lacy, and I wanted to tell you I think you’re pretty awesome.”

Wait – when had he seen me do that? He wasn’t in the same gym class, and the other times I’d spoken with her was in the hall and… “Dude! You weren’t hiding in a stall in the girl’s bathroom the other day, were you?”

“Not hiding, no. I was, um, with someone.” He gave me the strangest smile I’d ever seen. I do believe the handsome hemorrhoid was blushing! Ha!

I shook my head. “Um, yeah. I have no words right now…”

“You won’t mention that to anyone, will you? I mean, um, crap. I walked right into that, didn’t I.”

Or stepped in it, whatever – I hate potty humor. “I’m not two years old. Don’t worry about it.”

Jacob stood, and now his smile was natural and rather nice. I’m going to punch myself in the face later for thinking that, by the way. “I was right about you, Shasta – you’re cool. Thanks. And, yeah, it was refreshing to see someone refuse to back down when Lacy’s being a – ”

“Being a what, Jacob?”

Lacy. Great. The crowd around my desk was growing – joy!

“A biatch, Lacy. But I love you anyway.” Jacob patted her on the fanny, making me wonder if maybe she played football on the side. He gave me a salute, kissed Lacy on the top of her bleached little head, and sauntered away. Seriously. The guy sauntered.

Lacy watched his theatrical exit, too, but then turned those hate-lasers she uses for eyes back on me. “You’re – ”

“Dead. I know. Or at least that’s what you claim. Not that I had a damn thing to do with Jacob saying…you know what? I don’t care what you think. I don’t like him, I like you even less, and I wish you’d go away. Your perfume is making me gag, and my I.Q. feels like it’s withering in your presence. So please – don’t pester me and I won’t return the favor.” There. If that wasn’t the first step toward a grisly death, I didn’t know what was.

A huge gasp next to me told me that Gina was allowing herself to breathe again.

Lacy crossed her arms, thrust out her jaw, and nodded. I was amazed at her sudden ability to multi-task. “You’d better not like him.”

“The threat is totally unnecessary. I don’t hang out with guys who think they were created for the sole purpose of making girls feel alive. In fact, if he ever tried hitting on me, I’d gladly throw up on his shoes. I hate barfing as much as the next person, but for him, I’d make an exception.”

Her mean gene faltered; I could see it in her expression. “O…okay. But just – fine. Whatever.” She waved a hand, flashing nails that had been treated like miniature Sistine Chapel ceilings, and sashayed away. Yep. Sashayed. No wonder she and Jacob were having problems – sauntering and sashaying were a toxic combination in my book.

About my “book.” It has all kinds of interesting things in it. Opinions, mostly, with an objective observation or two. One of the entries is the memory of a guy who claimed to be my father. Well, for about five minutes, anyway.

I was only around four years old, but I clearly recall my mom opening the front door one afternoon and saying something pithy like, “You!” A guy had pushed into the apartment, looked around, and asked where his daughter was. I started looking around as well, because I couldn’t remember mom letting anyone else inside – did some girl sneak in and hide in a closet or something?

Next thing I knew, Mom had grabbed me, and holding me by the shoulders, turned me to face this daughter-seeking person. At the time I thought he was a Ken doll that had come to life - not because he was good-looking or anything, but his clothes were so crisp and perfect, I figured he had to be a doll of some kind. Normal people didn’t dress like that (one of the earliest entries in my book). I remember him crouching down in front of me, rather like Jacob had, and staring into my face for a stupid long time. Then he stood up, made a grumpy-sounding snort, and said, “My mistake.”

“It certainly wasn’t, but you’re right. She’s not yours.” That was my mother, and for some reason, her words stayed with me. Maybe because they were so odd to my ears. So yeah. The guy didn’t just leave, he sauntered out. So in my book, guys who saunter are, um, Richards. Girls who sashay, on the other hand (according to that same book), are desperate. Toxic combo there. In my book.

“…alive?”

I realized that someone had been talking to me, probably at length. I looked up from a page full of doodles and into the eyes of my history teacher. Fantastic. “Sorry?”

“I asked if you knew the answer to the question on the board. Then I asked if you had even seen the board. After that, I asked if you wouldn’t mind paying attention. Finally, I asked if you were even alive. It would seem you are, but clearly not present. What are doing, Miss Darby?”

I swallowed a gulp – or is it the other way around – and looked down at my notebook. “Doodling. Sorry.”

“Well, if I ever give you a pop quiz on doodling, you can feel confident about getting a passing grade. Now please pay attention.” She turned and trudged back to the front of the classroom.

Sauntering, sashaying, trudging – what was next? I felt a Monty Python sketch coming on. Since this was history class, I banished thoughts about people who walked weird on purpose and focused. My grades in this subject had so far been, as some old geezer on television said in some nutty show, “fair to middlin’.” Which meant I wasn’t failing, but the trip to Flunk Town was a short walk.

Somewhere between pondering the possibility that Winston Churchill was a boring relative of W.C. Fields (my mom may well be responsible for my brain being old-school-movie oatmeal), and realizing I’d left my lunch money sitting on the counter at home, someone put a note on my desk. How did I miss that happening?

Not wanting to attract the teacher’s back-of-the-head radar, I forced myself not to stare around to see who might have…you know, that never works. Staring around like that, I mean. Why not? Because if someone slips you a note, they probably don’t want to be associated with it in case you get caught reading it. Huh. A lot of “it” pronouns in that sentence…Ack! I have so got to stop interrupting myself!

The note. Right. I opened it and placed it flat on the other page of my notebook so I could read it without being obvious.

“Meet me in the hall after class – Jacob”

At least he didn’t ask me to meet him in the janitor’s closet or something. But…wait. What?! Was he trying to get me murdered by Lunatic Lacy? And then there was the fact that I’d meant everything I’d told her about how much I didn’t like Jacob. Why would I want to meet with him in the hall or anywhere else?

Maybe I could go to the bathroom and just hang out there for the rest of the day. Yeah…no. Hmm. I felt like writing a note to Lacy to tell her what her beloved had planned. Of course, I’d probably get seen passing it to her and end up in detention – ha! I couldn’t very well meet the guy if I was in detention, right? But instead of tipping Lacy off and possibly starting a slap-fest somewhere on the school grounds, I decided to send a note back to Jacob.

It said, “No.”

I folded it back up, nudged the girl sitting at the desk between mine and his, and did one of those meaningful nods toward Jacob as I tried to hand her the note.

“Miss Darby!”

Yessss!!! “Ma’am?”

“Are you passing a note in my class?”

I almost told her that no, I was passing a note in my next class, but felt being expelled was more than I needed right then. “Er, yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

She walked up the aisle toward me. This wasn’t going to end well…

“Give me the note.”

Crap. “Here.”

“To whom were you trying to pass it?”

“Jacob.”

Several gasps shot around the room, the loudest coming, I believe, from Lacy. Heh. Good.

“I see.” Without opening the note, the teacher put out her arm toward Jacob. “Kindly take this, Mr. Wainwright.”

He did, but I have no idea what kind of expression was on his face since I was too busy trying to look like I was in a coma.

“That is the last time I want to see something like that in my class, and I’m speaking to all of you, not just Miss Darby. Are we clear? And you – did you go to sleep?”

The outrage in her voice compelled me to open my eyes despite every effort not to. “No, ma’am.”

Prefacing her words with one of those deep through-the-nose intakes of breath, she said, “I want you to stay after the bell rings. It won’t take long, so you won’t be late for your next class – not that I believe you’re overly concerned about that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes you’re not concerned, or yes you’ll stay after class?”

I almost never get headaches. For real. But at that moment, I could feel what I was sure was the beginning of a big one. What was she talking about? How was I supposed to answer what might well be a trick question? Fine. I answered both. “I am concerned, but I’ll stay after class.” There. Take that, trudging teacher. Grrr.

Someone snickered. Had to be Lacy. Sheesh. So…why did I get out of bed?

The bell finally did its thing, and as everyone got up to leave, I avoided looking in Jacob’s direction. Not Gina, though. Nope.

“Lacy grabbed the note from him!”

“Is she holding anything sharp?”

Giggling, Gina shook her head. “What did he say?”

“He wanted me to meet him after class.”

“Oh. My. God! What did you say?”

“No.”

“Huh?”

“I said ‘no.’”

“Oh. Well, I gue…ha! Lacy just punched his arm, and not in a nice way.”

I put my books into my backpack and headed for the front of the room. “Is there a nice way to do that?”

“Well, a friendly way, I suppose.”

Shrug. “You better go. See you at lunch.” We didn’t have the next class together, which is probably a good thing. Sex education could get awfully silly, and Gina excelled at silly.

“Laters.”

I hate that expression. Like there’s more than one “later.” I mean, the definition of “later” is “at a future time,” so unless we’re talking about being extras on a show about sliding into parallel universes, there’s only one “later,” right? Note to self: shut up.

“All right, Miss Darby.”

Ah, I was being addressed by Mrs. Everly. Yeah, her name is okay to say. Just forgot to mention it before. Anyhoo… “Sorry, ma’am. About the note-passing thing, I mean. I like never do that.”

“So you decided to start your career in my class?”

My what? “It – I was just ans…never mind.”

She smiled, which took me by surprise. Why did she smile? “I understand – you don’t want to get Jacob in trouble, right?”

Huh. That’s why. Smart cookie, another phrase I detest – cookies have no brains…oh, yuck! Nasty mental image alert! “Right. And he’s probably ticked off at me now anyway because I busted him.”

“It’s okay.” She took a deep breath. “You know, you aren’t doing all that bad in this class, but you could easily fall behind if you don’t start paying attention. Your class participation is a big part of the overall grade. So while you handle tests and homework well, I rarely get any kind of reaction during class time. You should try a little harder on that front, okay? And leave the boyfriend stuff for after school.”

I came within a hairsbreadth of shouting, “He’s not my freaking boyfriend!” but didn’t think that would be smart. She sounded like she was letting me off the detention hook, so I’d be a total idiot to disrupt her generous mood. I opted for another “yes, ma’am,” and when she told me I could leave, I walked out with as much dignity as I could manage. Which lasted until I was out in the hall.

Freaked, I looked wildly up and down the corridor. Where was Jacob? Was he waiting around a corner to strangle me with his jock strap? And what of Lacy? I knew my response to his request would have pleased her, but the fact that he was passing me notes in the first place may still have bothered her enough that she’d feel the need to put one of her five-inch heels through my eye.

The hall was empty. That meant that if I didn’t run, I’d be late for European Literature. The class whose teacher was the spawn of the radioactive spider that bit Peter Parker. Sound of crickets. Okay. Did I mention that I’m a huge fan of the Marvel Comics universe? Point being, arriving late for this class was kind of like falling face-first into a puddle of melted dog poo. Not a pleasant experience. Ever.

The final bell went off two seconds after I got in the door. Relief. Went to my desk. Sat. Found a note. Seriously? I opened it…

“Miss Darby, is that a note?”

Someone in the cosmos flat-out hates me.

Five

 

Shoot me. Now. Please. I stared at the note, then up at the teacher. “Yes, sir.”

This guy’s name was Trevor Altman. Wow. Said Trevor did the out-thrust jaw thing at me, crossing his arms. “It’s awful early in class to be passing notes, don’t you think?”

That did it. “I did not ‘pass’ this note, Mr. Altman. I just got here, and found it sitting on my desk. All I did was open it to see if it might be from you.” I was going to die. This was it. The Grim Reaper was going to come through the door and approach my desk – probably sauntering.

“Why would I leave a note on your desk?”

“To tell me I was failing the class or something?”

“Are you?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then why would I leave you a note telling you that you’re failing?”

“It could have been something else.” I shrugged, warming to the subject. “I mean, you could have been letting me know that you’d found one of my books, or that the office had called to tell me my mom was in the hospital, or maybe that you enjoyed reading my last essay but that I needed help with my prepositions.”

“Stop talking.” He turned away and went his desk, shaking his head.

If this day ever ended, I figured I should go find a shrine to some god somewhere and offer a sacrifice of gratitude to it. Rolling my eyes at life itself, I tuned in and almost paid attention.

Oh, the note, right? Sorry. It was from Lacy, believe it or not. She was thanking me for being honest about what’s-his-face…er, Jacob. Impressive – that she had spelled all the words right, not that she was expressing gratitude. Really? Okay, so maybe this would take me off the Dweebs To Attack watch-list.

You know, people, named Trevor should not be allowed to talk about female body parts. This thought occurred when I stopped thinking about the whole Lacy and Jacob debacle and switched back into class-ears mode. And why? Because this creature named Trevor was talking about female body parts.

Ovaries. He was pointing to a drawing of ovaries projected on a large screen by his PowerPoint program. Who uses that any more? Well, yeah, Trevor Altman. Still. Anyway, he was saying things that made me feel like a hen. I suppose I would have been more upset if he hadn’t talked so much about male body parts the week before, during which I started to think about manure. Don’t ask me why.

Since I was the proud owner of the equipment he was describing, I failed to see why I needed to continue listening. I mean, I know how it all works, how sex…shut up and mind your own business. Ack!

Behind me, I could hear a sudden burst of loud whispering; who would do that in this class? Mr. Altman was notorious for his acid word-venom. Did the whisperer have an emotional death-wish? I couldn’t think of anyone I knew in this class who was suicidal in that way, but didn’t dare turn around. Not that I needed to. Altman’s supersonic hearing was obviously functioning.

“Mr. Shaunessy! Unless you believe you know more than I do about this subject, I think you’d be wise to keep quiet! Or maybe your lack of knowledge and experience is what’s making you behave like a twelve-year-old who’s just been introduced to ‘National Geographic’!”

What writers might call a “profound silence” followed this snide remark. What a cruel man, this T. Altman was. Probably good to have around if you were slow-witted and needed help telling someone off, but otherwise, a cruel man.

Kevin Shaunessy was okay, I suppose. He was another one I rarely paid any attention to, mostly because he didn’t seem capable of holding a conversation without using the f-bomb every three syllables. And when most of your words are only one syllable each, well, do the math. No doubt that august ruler of the obscenity underworld was on the tip of Kevin’s tongue right then, but to his credit, he didn’t let it out. Not that it wouldn’t have been appropriate in a sex class – Hahaha!...sorry.

Still, I had no doubt that ol’ Kev was pretty upset by the put-down, not to mention his inability to respond in the manner he was best at. I could almost hear him glaring when, a moment later, he managed to mumble an apology.

“Good. Now. We were discussing the menstrual cycle.”

I shook my head, disgusted – shouldn’t have.

“Miss Darby?”

Aw, crap again. “Yes?”

“What’s bothering you?”

May as well go for broke, right? “Nothing, except that…dude, we’re seniors. Those of us with ovaries got our periods like three years ago – or earlier, depending on how many preservatives were in the food we ate. So you telling us about something we’ve been experiencing every month for the past several years is almost like, I don’t know, explaining to an executive chef how to boil water. I mean, he’d probably toss it at you for treating him like a complete idiot.” Not that I was about to toss my ovaries at Trevor, so the analogy was a bit off. But still…

“Miss Darby – ”

Uh-oh. Here it comes. He’s – ha! That “ha” was me having a sudden stroke of genius (as opposed to just having a stroke, which at that point was entirely possible). “And that,” I said, interrupting this rotten spot on life’s apple, “is an example of what you’re trying to tell us – that during the height of our cycle, our hormones wreak havoc with our psyches, resulting in behavior we would otherwise never consider, right?” I gave him a wide-eyed, hopeful look. Or what I hoped was a wide-eyed hopeful look. Probably more like a crazy-eyed, manic look. I babbled on. “Under normal circumstances, I would never talk back to you like that, but under the influence of a severe estrogen attack, I’m capable of all sorts of bizarre behavior!”

Trevor stared. The students seated in front of me turned around and stared. The students I could see in my peripheral vision stared. I think I wouldn’t be too out of line to say the rest of the students were staring as well. I, on the other hand, developed a grin that I suspected looked like the expression on one of those Day of the Dead skeletons. At that moment, I may well have come as close to death myself as I ever had. Or detention.

Clearing his throat, Trevor narrowed his gaze – was he trying to decide if I was for real? But then he took a deep breath (why do all my teachers do that when they’re about to respond to something I said?) and nodded. “Good. I’m amazed you were paying such close attention. All right. Ms. Darby mentioned estrogen. Can anyone tell me the other…” drone, drone, buzz, bleh.

Overwhelmed with relief, I nearly let myself fall asleep. Altman had other ideas, though. He kept calling on me, which made me believe he was either thrilled with my sudden-onset class participation, or just wanted to make sure I was still paying attention. By the time the bell rang, I was ready to throw myself under the cheerleading squad.

“I wasn’t joking,” said He Who I Never Wanted To Talk To Again.

Freaking Jacob. “About what?”

I was halfway to the cafeteria, hoping to eat my lunch in peace, preferably at my usual table in the corner, with a little chatter from Gina to lighten the mood and distract me from how awful the food was. I’d had a rough morning, made rougher by the existence of the hemorrhoid walking beside me, and my dealings with his cotton-brained girlfriend. The last thing I wanted at that moment was a conversation with him

“That I wanted to talk to you, that’s what. Do you hate me or something?”

Ooh, what an opening…but no, my empathy gene woke up and gave me a dirty look, so all I said was, “Why would I hate you?”

“Because I’m going out with Lacy?”

I stopped walking. I had to. Ever try to kick someone in the crotch when he’s strolling along right next to you? If you’re double-jointed, don’t answer that. Anyway, his question was too much like that remark I’d overheard in some other life (look, it had been a stupid long day already and time was being surreal) about it being that girl’s lucky day because he was going to take her to the movies. Which I mentioned before, yes? Although to be honest, with all my ranting and self-interruptions, anyone who still remembers that deserves a medal.

“Well? Is it?” Persistent brat-booger that he was, Jacob wasn’t giving me a chance to think. He wanted an answer, by golly…or so it seemed. Whatever.

So I gave him one. “Hardly. I don’t see why you think every girl on the planet is panting after you. I mean, I’m not, and if you don’t quit acting like us spending any time together alone is a foregone conclusion, I’m going to damage a sensitive part of your anatomy. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m starving and lunch, such as it is, happens to be on my immediate event horizon.” That seemed to do it, because he wasn’t moving, and when I walked away, I didn’t hear him following.

Heh-heh. Leave ’em gaping, I always say. Well, okay, maybe not always, but a lot.

Gina was parked at our table already when I got to the cafeteria, her tray laden with items I couldn’t identify at a distance. She waved as I rushed past, hoping to get through the line before the next appearance of Halley’s Comet. Grabbing a tray and placing it on the gleaming stainless steel ledge in front of the small army of cafeteria workers with their weird hairnets who dished out the food from behind steamy glass partitions (bullet-proof, no doubt…the glass, I mean, not the cafeteria workers, although that would have been interesting), I eyed the choices.

A pan of something brown swimming in a darker brown sauce that made me think of the primordial slime; macaroni and cheese that I’m convinced was imported from Chernobyl; deadly green beans floating in yellow grease that couldn’t possibly be butter in real life; mashed potatoes (from a mix, for sure); hamburgers in a metal pan (oh, God…); and something that smelled like it might be Italian, or…wait, no. Oriental? Well, yuck to both. And…ah. Fries. I could eat those without experiencing too much gastric trauma.

“Just fries,” I told the cafeteria lady after sliding my tray past the array of poisonous offerings.

“That’s not much of a lunch,” she mumbled, snagging a sizable mound of the golden crunchy stuff with huge tongs and dumping them on a platter. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a burger or hot dog with that?”

“Nope. I’ll get a salad.” Those were pre-made and covered in plastic at the far end of the line.

“Here you go, then.” She handed the platter to me over the top of the glass counter and I zoomed off.

Hardly anyone got the salad, so there were plenty still there. I snagged a couple of dressing packets, a bottle of water, an apple, and went to the register.

“You always get fries,” said Gina when I joined her a few minutes later.

“That’s because I don’t want to die on school grounds.”

The forkful of whatever that Italian/Oriental stuff was, paused on its way to her mouth. “Gee, thanks, Shasta.”

I shrugged, picked up a fry, and took a bite. “I’m sure that won’t kill you as fast as some of the other crap they have today.” I pointed at her plate. Smile.

“No, but…whatevs.” The food finished its journey.

You know, Gina might be my best friend, but the word “whatevs” is one that belongs in the same category as the name Armand Klees, and I was this close to hurling a fry at her.

“Hey, guys.”

We looked up at the girl who was standing behind the empty chair next to mine. “Hey, Emma.” That was me addressing her. Gina’s mouth was full.

“Mind if I sit with you?”

I frowned. “Why would I mind? And where’s your food?”

“Finished it. I hope it doesn’t give me food poisoning.” She pulled out the chair and sat, making a face.

“For real. That’s why Shasta always gets fries.” Gina giggled. I have no idea why.

“Don’t forget the salad and fruit.” For some reason I felt the need to defend my food choices, even though it was clear that Emma felt the same way about the stuff.

“Hey, I hear Jacob really likes you.”

Why was Emma sitting with us? Who was this Emma person? Besides Gina, I did have about one other sorta-friend, and her name happened to be Emma. That Emma would never have said something as insane as this Emma had.

“Shasta?”

“Emma? Or whoever you really are…”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” I unwrapped my salad, feeling a wave of depression heading in my general direction.

“For real – Lacy even said so, but I think she was pissed.”

“Do you?” That’s what I was trying to say, but with a bunch of lettuce shoving my words around it came out as “Mmm-mrrr?”

“Of course.”

That’s when I realize this had to be Emma; she’s the only person I’ve ever met who could understand people when they talked with their mouths full. Bet her mom loved that one!

I swallowed and grinned. “Hey, it is you! But how did this insane conversation about Jacob even happen? I doubt he was talking about liking me right in front of Lacy.”

“He was, in fact.”

I was about to question this, when Gina suddenly gagged on her soda, spraying some of it on Emma, and pointed at something behind me. I heard approaching footsteps that couldn’t possibly be someone in stiletto heels, and then felt someone standing behind my chair.

“He’s standing behind my chair, isn’t he,” I murmured to Emma. Didn’t even say it out of the side of my mouth. Learning moment here, Gina…

“Shasta.”

“Jacob.” Craptastic.

“Would you please look at me?”

That did it. I was going to do more than look at this muscle-bound pest. Pushing my chair back, I got up and turned, wishing the forks were metal, and stared up at his frown. This had to stop. I began to let him know exactly how I felt about all the attention he’d been paying me, but never got the chance.

Before I could speak or react, he’d grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me closer, bent down, and kissed me. Hard. Then not so hard. Then soft and…shut up.

 

*******

 

Epic? More like apocalyptic. Far from feeling like a femme fatale (look it up), I felt more like a femme fatality. Lacy’s words about me being dead had probably been prophetic. And why? Because I flat-out hated Jacob, he was freaking kissing me in front of the whole cafeteria, and I was enjoying it. Or more than I would enjoy kissing my own fist. Not good. Not even comprehensible.

After a few seconds of this weirdness, I had almost convinced myself that I was still asleep and having a horrifying nightmare. But why, one of my less-lame brain cells argued, if I was dreaming that Jacob was kissing me, would I find myself feeling like certain parts of my anatomy were melting and catching fire at the same time? In a nice way. Good God, what was wrong with me?!

I pushed him away, gasping, my eyes doing what I felt sure was an amazing lemur imitation, and took a step back. Just one, though, because another step would have caused me to fall backwards over my chair, and things were already bad enough at the moment.

Jacob, meanwhile, was staring back, but he didn’t look, oh, I don’t know, smug or pleased with himself. I only say this because that’s what I was expecting. But no. Instead, he resembled Puss In Boots in that “Shrek” scene when he was holding his hat under his chin, pleading with the ogre for something…I forget what. Despite all the strangeness and mortification, I couldn’t help but realize that the cafeteria, normally a noisy place even when it was empty, was dead quiet. I decided that whatever was said next would have to be perfect. Memorable. Something quotable, a phrase that would grace the walls of the girl’s room for generations to come.

“I’m dead.” Okay, not what I was hoping for, but I figured Lacy was going to say it anyway, so I beat her to it. But wait – a post-script was needed, so I added it. “So are you, Jacob. I can’t believe you just did that!”

“But – ”

“I should strangle you with my overalls shoulder-strap!”

“I only – ”

I put up a hand, palm outward. “No. Not another word.”

“B…”

“Sshh!”

“Shas…”

“Ip!”

Silence. I took a long, deep breath and turned my back on him, planning to sit down and finish my lunch as if nothing odd had happened.

“I thought you enjoyed that.” The words had been whispered, his tone reminding me of a mortally wounded soldier speaking his final words to a war buddy.

Closing my eyes, I whispered back, “I did, you creep.” I wanted to use a stronger word, but suspected there might be a teacher somewhere in the vicinity, and the school had a strict policy about using profanity, assuming you got caught.

What a day. Would anyone mind if I sat down and face-planted in my salad bowl?

Jacob walked away. Something told me it wasn’t because he’d given up or was disappointed. Quite the opposite, I think. In fact, if I had a million bucks, I’d bet the whole thing that he was looking smug as he sauntered off. Now I had only to wait for Lacey to enter from stage left and whang me over the head with her purse.

“Shasta! Holy sh…cow! I can’t believe what just happened!”

I nodded and sat. I stabbed several pieces of lettuce and a slice of tomato. I shoved the mess into my face. Chewed. Swallowed. Took a sip of water and picked up my apple. “So, how have you been, Emma?”

Across the table, Gina’s mouth dropped open so wide, I expected her jaw to unhinge.

Emma cleared her throat. “Er, good. Yeah. Been good. You?”

“Fine.” I waved a hand. “Aside from some surreal moments here and there.”

Around us, I could hear that things were sliding back into place – the conversations weren’t as loud as one might expect, but there you go.

“He kissed you, and all you do is eat your lunch and make small-talk?”

I gave Gina a smile. “Yes, bestie. That’s all I do.” I hate the word “bestie,” too, but the situation seemed to call for it.

“Incredible.”

“I agree. And if you mention it again, I’ll throw you out the bus window on the way home.” Big swig of water.

“Er, yeah, I gotta go, you guys.” Emma got up, pushed her chair in, and left without another word. Don’t blame her.

A second later, the chair was pulled out again, but not by a returning Emma.

“You mind telling me why you let him do that?”

I turned. “Mind telling me why you let him do that, Lacy?”

“What?”

“I didn’t ask for that. In fact, like I told you, I can’t stand him, so I certainly didn’t expect him to assault me!”

“Assault? Ha! Only for the first two seconds! After that, it looked to me like you were, like, totally enjoying it!”

I had been, but wasn’t going to admit it. Or maybe I was. Huh. Honesty is a cool thing if you use it right. “Of course I was – I’m human, female, and have hormones. That doesn’t mean I suddenly like him, Lacy. Gimme a break, okay? You can’t tell me that if some guy who was big and…attractive…and…suddenly grabbed you and gave you a huge kiss on the mouth you wouldn’t start enjoying it after a few seconds, too. I know you would, and so do you. But then you’d probably report him for sexual harassment, even if he was the best-looking, hottest guy you’d ever seen.”

Lacy shook her head. “I can’t believe this. Is that what you think of Jacob? That he’s the best-looking, hottest guy you’ve ever seen?”

Eye-roll. “Dude. For real? No. I’ve never thought that, and I doubt I ever will.” The song, “Liar, liar, pants on fire” jumped out at me and went, “Boo!”

“Huh. Well…you know, the only reason I don’t have you beaten up is because he started it, and because you got mad at him for it.”

“Which reminds me of my initial question: why did you let him? I mean, how the heck did this even happen? He was sitting with you and your group of, of, whatever they are, one minute, and the next, he’s over here pretending to be Don Juan.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Some guy in a book who went around making out with everything in a dress.” Now that would make a sure-to-fail book report!

“You know what?”

“What?” I stifled a yawn. Boring chick.

“If you weren’t such a freak, I’d probably like you.” And with that salvo, Lacy removed her perky butt from the chair and flounced off. Yes, we’re up to flouncing now.

“Are you finished eating?” Gina had gotten up, too, and picked up her tray.

“Yeah, I guess. I’ll have my apple later.” Or maybe I’ll save it to throw at Jacob.

Six

 

“How was school?”

“Fine, mom. We learned about our ovaries, blew bubbles at baking soda and vinegar, and the quarterback kissed me in front of the whole cafeteria.”

“That’s lovely.”

She was staring into her boyfriend’s eyes at the moment, oblivious to everything I had said (which I suspected she would be), and told me to go change, that I had to rake the leaves in the back yard.

When I was little, dead leaves were great. Someone else would rake them into big piles and I’d go jump in them. Whee! But now that I was big enough to use the rake without whacking myself in the face with the handle, not so much.

Autumn had started putting the trees to sleep early this year, murdering all the foliage far too soon for my taste. I mean, sure, the colors were nice, but because the weather had turned October-cold in September, they weren’t as vibrant. The colors, that is.

Changing from my school overalls to my sloppy, paint-spattered weekend overalls, and putting a blue plaid flannel shirt on under it instead of the tight pink one I’d been kissed in…ack! Why did I think about that? Blech! Freaking Jacob!

I shuddered, changed into lace-up ankle boots so leaf crumbs wouldn’t infest my socks, went downstairs, grabbed my denim jacket, and went out into the yard. The only good thing about all this was…never mind. Nothing was good about all this.

Did Jacob W. really like me? How was this possible? I couldn’t stand the oversexed toad, and wished with great fervor (another awesome word I absolutely love) that this week had never happened. And it wasn’t even over! Tomorrow I’d have to face him and the rest of my class, deal with the knowing glances, the self-important whispered gossip, the…I was sounding like a bad romance novel and told myself to be quiet and rake.

I raked. First, I made a winding pathway around the trees, exposing grass that hadn’t yet gone brown, and then crisscrossed the paths to make leaf islands. Then I made fluffy piles out of each one.

“What am I – Martha Stewart? Fluffy piles, Shasta?” Yes, I was talking to myself out loud.

Scrape, scrape, rake, rake. Snort. Cough. Never snort when you’re raking leaves. There’s some kind of leaf-dander floating around and it gets right up your nose and down your throat. ’Course, if you live in say, Florida or Hawaii, you honestly don’t give a crap about that because you have palm trees that don’t shed, right? What am I talking about? I have no idea. Dang. Getting kissed like that must have rattled something loose in my poor wee brain.

“Need some help?”

I shrieked and jumped at the same time. Jacob. What was he doing here? “What are you doing here?”

“Watching you. You’re cute when you rake leaves.”

“Oh, like you see me doing this all the time, do you?”

“Wel…well, no. I guess I meant that you look cute raking leaves. There. Is that better?”

“Yes, but I’m not. Now go away, please.”

Standing on the sidewalk that ran alongside one edge of our property, hands in his pockets, weight on one hip, he looked like he was posing for a magazine. How annoying.

“Fine. Just answer one question.”

“If it involves anything to do with kissing, I’d rather eat a rat’s eyeball.”

He gaped at me for a second, but then gave his head a quick shake. “Er, no. My question is…okay. All I want to know…”

“Spit it out, Jacob. I have work to do. Leaves to abuse. Speak up.”

“Okay. Why don’t you like me?”

That was it? Was this a trick question? “Because you like yourself enough for both of us. You may go now.”

“I do? I’m not sure what you mean.”

I nodded and went back to the pile I’d been working on. “Think about it for a while. You’ll figure it out.”

And that was it. He left, and eventually I finished my chore and went inside to clean up.

Not until we were eating dinner did my mom hear what I’d said when I’d gotten home from school. She was been slopping green beans onto her plate from the serving bowl when she stopped, put the bowl down and gave me what cliché fiends call a piercing look.

“Did you say a boy kissed you in the cafeteria?”

“Very good, mom. It only took you, what, three hours to get that?”

“Don’t be rude,” said the boyfriend whose fault it was that she hadn’t registered what I’d said earlier.

“Rude. Right. Not going there, Wade. But yes, mom. The freaking football quarterback, Jacob Wainwright, grabbed me and kissed me on the mouth. In the cafeteria. In front of God and everyone. Although if God was watching, too, He probably did some guffawing. Okay?”

“Do you like him?”

“God?”

“Wise-ass. Jacob.”

“Nope. Can’t stand him.”

“Then why did he kiss you?” Wade grinned like a deviant and waggled his eyebrows at me. To this day, he doesn’t know how close he came to learning what it was like to try getting mashed potatoes out of your hair.

“Because for some reason, he likes me, or so he claims. I still don’t believe that.”

Surprised mother stare. “Why not?”

Et tu, mom? “I just don’t. He didn’t seem to know I was even a student at the school before this week, and now he suddenly likes me enough to risk being put on the sexual predator list? I think he’s doing it on a dare or something.”

“Is there someone else you like instead?” Wade’s eyebrows got busy again. What a doofus.

“No. Not at the moment. I did kinda liked that guy Steven last year, but he was more interested in cave painting than me, so I gave up.”

Wade’s brows, no doubt mortified at their behavior, made a regular kind of frown. “Cave painting? What are you talking about?”

“He wants to be an archaeologist or something, or study ancient cultures. Maybe both. Whatever.” I shrugged and took a bite out of my chicken wing. Mom fried them, then slathered them in sweet and sour sauce and baked them. Yummy stuff.

“She was heartbroken,” said the chicken-wing wizard to Mr. Crazybrows.

Chew, chew, swallow. “Was not.”

“Then why did you stay in your room after school every day for a week after breaking up with him?”

“I have no idea. Is there any more corn?”

“Here.” Wade passed the bowl.

Okay. Fess-up time. This guy Steven was, in that book of mine, gorgeous. He was also brilliant, funny, and an incredible kisser, among other…be quiet. Anyway, halfway through our junior year, he saw some movie with Antonio Banderas about the guy who discovered the cave paintings in…Italy? Portugal? One of those Latiny countries. It got Steve thinking he hadn’t been serious enough about his goals.

Next thing I knew, he was unavailable. Always running off to lectures, exhibitions about cavemen or something, stuff like that. Didn’t take a genius to figure out his interests had shifted and that I was no longer the center of his geeky, sixteen-year-old universe. Grrr. And yes, it hurt. A lot.

He wasn’t in any of my classes this year, so we never spoke. Freakin’ Steven. Freakin’ Jacob. Freakin’ guys…

By the time the day finally decided to be over and I was snuggling into bed, Gina had called to talk about Jacob, but I shut that one down in a hurry. So she’d texted. Five times. I wanted to inject her fingers with that stuff the dentist puts in your gums so he can drill without you screaming in agony and punching him in the face. Wow. Sorry. The whole Jacob thing has me way more upset than I realized!

I fell asleep dreading the morning and hoping I’d wake up with malaria or something. I didn’t (no kidding), and the dark grey skies leering at me through the window beside my bed were like a warning for a dire day to come.

Wait. Can a day be considered “dire?” I suppose, especially if there are Jacobs in it somewhere. And Lacys. And Wades. And yuck. Speaking of yuck, I wonder if people ever eat steamed crabs for breakfast.

On my way to the bus, I took a brief detour into the garage to glare at my useless car. “Still not working, I suppose, eh?”

No answer. Thank goodness – I mean, who wants to start the day with an evil, talking car? Not me. Nosiree. I’m babbling. Chalk up another one to fear and loathing. Crap.

Gina was doing pretty much the same thing she’d been doing on every bus ride: playing some idiotic game on her tablet. As I’d staggered toward my seat (the bus driver hadn’t bothered to wait for me to get there before taking off), I’d gotten a few stares from the others, something that almost never happened, and I nearly had to wrestle myself to the ground to keep myself from saying something ridiculous to make them stop. Why did my car have to break down?

Brutal. Now that’s a word dramatic novel-writers love to use, and for that reason I avoid using it pretty much all the time. But exceptions do exist, and today was going to be one of them. The bus was about three blocks or so from the school – I had been as distracted as Gina so neither of us had been talking – when the driver shouted something I never expected to hear from him, you know, being a professional and all. A second later, those of us who weren’t grabbing the top of the seat in front of us, or like, everybody, went flying – literally – accompanied by the horrifying sound of shattering glass and crunching metal, and a whole lot of screaming.

Since the bus driver was the only one who had a seat belt, he didn’t go anywhere. Ours was one of those buses that had a hood, which is probably what saved him from getting smushed, and since almost no one ever sat in the front seats, nobody went through the windshield. However, lots of us ended up scrunched between seats far away from the ones we’d been in, and the screams became groans and crying.

Brutal.

I found out later that some idiot on a cell phone in an SUV that should have been classified as an assault vehicle had cut in front of the bus and stopped suddenly about ten feet in front of the red light ahead of us. Brilliant move.

Me and my backpack (what?) were in a weird position on top of someone in the narrow space between seats, but I wasn’t sure how close to the front I’d landed. My shoulder hurt, but nothing else did.

“Get off me!”

“Trying…” I pried myself off the other student, not at all offended by the way my removal of self was demanded. If this guy was anywhere near as freaked out as I was, he had every right to sound like that.

After a small struggle, I managed to get up onto the seat, swing my legs over into the aisle, and stand up. Other kids were getting up, too, some of them with blood on their faces, a few clutching arms or cradling shoulders in one hand. One guy was on the floor in the aisle a few feet past me, curled up and holding his ankle, moaning.

Then I remembered Gina. Where was she? Stepping over legs and around a few more recumbent (breathing) bodies, I searched for my friend. When I found her, she was hunched over on the floor between seats, her back against the wall under the window.

“Gina? You okay?”

She raised her head, and I saw tears making wavy streaks through the blood pouring from her nose. “M-my tablet…”

Her tablet. She had a bloody nose, possibly even broken, a bunch of bruises on her hands, and she was crying about the smashed tablet between them. Incredible.

“Never mind your stupid tablet – you’re hurt!” I put out a hand. “See if you can stand up.”

Sirens. Lots and lots of sirens getting closer and louder. I was unable at that point to tell how long it had been between when the accident happened and the sirens becoming audible, but I suspected it had been only a few minutes.

The crying and cursing also got louder, followed by the bus driver shouting for everyone to stay calm.

Right, dude. You get a seatbelt and you’re okay, the rest of us are messed up because we don’t get seatbelts, and you have the nerve to tell us to stay calm? Besides, we aren’t calm to start with, so how can we “stay” that way? What a jerk…yeah, that’s probably not fair, but I wasn’t feeling generous at the moment. Shock must have been setting in, my best friend was bleeding, my shoulder started to hurt way more than it had, and around us, who knew how many broken bones had happened, and how much internal bleeding was going on?

More crunching glass and metal being savaged distracted me. I turned from Gina to see what had caused the sound, and realized someone had managed to get the door open. A second later, a couple of guys in white shirts with insignias on them climbed into the bus. They were holding metal boxes with handles and began crouching down next to the students still lying on the floor. My scrambled brain, after a moment of blankness, identified them as EMTs. The cavalry had arrived. Or so my grandfather would have declared had he been there. He’d been into movie westerns big-time.

By the time the EMTs got to me and Gina, everyone who had been on the floor was gone, all of them helped to their feet and brought outside. I’d gotten Gina onto the seat and had my arm around her – the one that was still working, of course – and was holding the bottom of my jacket against her nose to contain the bleeding.

“How are you two doing?”

Sarcasm tried to assert itself, but gratitude for the EMT’s presence told it to take a hike. “I’m okay, I think. Just my shoulder. But her nose is bleeding a lot and I can’t seem to stop it.”

“All right, let’s see. Can you stand up?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

He stepped back, and after whispering, “You’re gonna be fine” into Gina’s ear, I stood and went past him into the aisle.

“Her name is Gina,” I told him, hoping she hadn’t lost too much blood already.

“Thanks. Hi, Gina – I’m Todd, and I just want to take a look at your nose, okay?”

Another EMT approached me and suggested I go get examined. “You appear to be all right, but there could be damage you can’t see.”

“Okay.” I didn’t want to leave Gina, at least not until I knew she’d be okay, but I also realized I’d be in the way if I hung around. “My shoulder really hurts, so sure.”

“This way.”

I almost stopped. Really? This way? Was there any other way off the bus? Maybe a vortex in one of the seats that I’d missed? Or a previously invisible door? Or…it occurred to me that in addition to shock, I could have a concussion, which would explain the silent ranting about vortices and unseen bus doors.

Outside, things were far messier than they’d been in the bus. Ambulances, police cars, and a couple of fire trucks had made a kind of circle around the accident. People had gathered, of course – I was constantly amazed at the power of morbid curiosity – and were being kept back behind barriers that had been erected, making me think that I’d been on the bus helping Gina way longer than I’d realized. A large silver SUV that appeared to be almost undamaged despite being on its side was being hosed down with foam. Standing a few feet from the undercarriage…ever notice how vehicles look so much bigger when they’re tipped over? No? Right.

As I was saying. Standing a few feet from the undercarriage (another cool word) were three policemen and a girl who looked like she was not much older than I am, but I wasn’t sure because she was crying hysterically, while somehow getting out the words, “Oh my God, my parents will kill me! Oh my God, no, no, I can’t believe this!” and other stuff that made it clear she didn’t give a flying crap about the kids on the bus. When I later learned that her evil texting ways had caused the accident, my disgust with her went off the charts and I hoped she’d go to jail for a hundred years. With no cell phone.

“Over here, hon.” The EMT had taken my uninjured arm and was waving toward one of the ambulances.

Hon. Better than Sonic, I suppose, or freak. Or girl who got kissed in front of everyone in the cafeteria. Which suddenly didn’t seem to matter even a little bit. “Thanks.”

I had a dislocated right shoulder, a hairline fracture of my collar bone, severe bruising from said shoulder all the way down the right side of my body, but no breaks, no internal bleeding, and only a mild concussion. Ha. See? I knew it! About the concussion, I mean.

Gina had indeed suffered a broken nose, which we later deduced came from her face smacking into her tablet as it made contact with the back of the seat in front of her, but the doctors had been able to fix it so she wouldn’t be disfigured or anything.

Aside from that, no one on the bus had any life-threatening injuries – just a broken ankle here, a fractured wrist there, bumps, bruises, things like that. And the bus driver was fine. Of course he was. He had a seatbelt.

By the afternoon, in fact, most of us were back at school. Another great reason to use the word “brutal.” I couldn’t believe my mom didn’t tell me to take the rest of the day off. I mean, I had a freaking concussion! Great parenting, mother dear.

Gina spent the rest of the day in the hospital, as did a few of the others, but the rest of us showed up with casts on various limbs, bandages and slings like mine, and were treated like heroes for the most part. Some students stared but said nothing, while a few avoided looking at us altogether, which I didn’t understand.

Lacy had a car. An expensive car that worked. She was one of the few who did the silent staring thing, which didn’t surprise me. Jacob, however, ran up to me the second he spotted me, and put up his hands like he wanted to either grab me by the shoulders, hug me, or measure my width for a coffin.

“Hurting. Don’t touch.”

He lowered his hands. “Oh, wow. Yeah, I guess the sling – sorry. But I was so worried when I heard about the accident, because I figured you took the bus. At first, I wasn’t sure if it was the same one you took, but when you didn’t show up, I knew you’d been in the accident, and – ”

“Jacob! Chill! I’m fine, and you sound like a caffeinated toucan.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. I’m fine. I got a dislocated shoulder and stuff, is all.”

He smiled and leaned closer.

I took a step backward, putting up my left hand. “If you kiss me, I’ll do something with my totally uninjured foot that will qualify you for the Vienna Boys’ Choir.”

His jaw dropped.

I can only surmise he had no clue who the VBC was. To be honest, I only knew who they were because my grandmother used to play their albums every Saturday morning while me and my mom were living with her before we got the house we’re in now. Okay, Shasta, who is burbling?

Someone else standing behind me, however, knew exactly who they were, because he burst out laughing. I turned around. Eyebrows shot up. Jaw dropped (mine this time).

“I’d forgotten how clever you are,” said Steven. “Hey, you okay?”

“If I can manage idiotic snarkiness about the Vienna Boys’ Choir, I must be.” What the heck? I hadn’t seen the guy, except at a distance passing through the halls, for nearly a year. “What do you want?”

One of his brows rose. “For real? I just wanted to see if you were all right. They announced the accident over the speaker this morning, and I realized it had to be your bus.”

“How did you know I was taking the bus and not driving?”

Shrug. “Haven’t seen your car in the parking lot for a while.”

“So you were looking for it?”

“No, but it’s kind of hard to miss, unless it’s missing.”

Steven is smart. So am I. Jacob, not so much. He shifted behind me, clearing his throat, and it occurred to me that my rapid-fire discussion with Steven the Cruel was confusing the daylights out of Jacob the Assaulter.

“Shasta?”

I turned back toward Jacob. “Yes?”

“Who is this?” He pointed at Steven.

“Steven Eristov.” His father is Russian or something. Cool name that I used to tell myself in fevered daydreams worked well with “Shasta.”

“How do you know him?”

“Well, dad, he and I used to go out.”

Jacob scowled, shoving his hands in his pockets, and nodded. “Funny. So… used to go out?”

“Have you seen him anywhere near me before today?”

“No.”

“Come to think of it, if you don’t remember him, and don’t know I was dating him last year, you mustn’t have known of my existence until what – a couple of days ago?”

He blushed. Ha! This day was full of surprises. Steven was still hanging around behind me, so I turned to him again. “Well?”

“Well…what? How bad are you hurt?” He nodded at my sling.

I rattled off my short list of injuries. “Are you done?”

“Done with what?”

“Pestering me. We’re between classes, in case you hadn’t noticed, and the bell is about to go off.”

The bell went off.

“See? Go explore a cave now and leave me alone.”

“Shasta! That’s not fair!”

Something inside of me began to simmer, and would soon become a hard boil. “You so do not want to go down that road, Steven. Especially not today.” I turned away, swooshed past Jacob, and headed to class.

Freakin’ Steven…freakin’ Jacob…freakin bus drivers…the morning’s dark clouds must have been a dire-day warning after all. And not because of the bus accident – after all, the day was far from over.

Seven

 

Zombies would have been nice. In all seriousness, I would have preferred zombies to this, this being me stuffed in a supply closet with more kids than should have been able to fit.

Clown cars came to mind, but only for a second. A girl named Tracy whimpered from somewhere behind one of the cheerleaders, and Tessa of the stomping incident hissed at her to shut the hell up.

I had turned sideways to avoid having my shoulder leaned up against too much but it hadn’t helped, and was wondering how long we could survive before all the oxygen was gone. I so should have insisted that I stay in the hospital instead of giving in to mom’s murmurs about not being able to pay the bill if I didn’t leave. Or I could have told her I was dizzy and wanted to go home so I could lie down, but no. I went along with her you’re-tough-as-nails speech and went to school instead.

And now I was stuffed in a supply closet with more kid than should have been able to fit. Which I already said. Sorry. This is awful. This is also where I explain the situation. I mean, being jammed into a supply closet wasn’t something on my class schedule, after all.

After the whole nonsense with Steven, who I was even angrier with because he had filled out a lot since the year before and was now even more buff and taller and stuff, and yeah. Enough. So after that, I went to my economics class where, despite the rattling of the windows in a sudden, intense gust of wind, I was planning to catch a nap. This nap was not to be, alas. A moment before I could get comfortable enough to doze off, part of the ceiling fell in.

For real, folks. Remember all that dark cloudiness I’d been grumpy about when I got up that morning? The clouds, it seems, were doing more than getting ready to release a bunch of rain. I hadn’t been paying much attention to the weather, to be honest, so had missed the swirling going on overhead. However, a second before the ceiling collapsed, a distant claxon went off. Claxon is a totally awesome word, by the way (look it up, please).

Where I live, we have tornadoes. Not tons of them or anything, but they do occur enough for the town to have installed an early warning system, which consisted of several tornado sirens. We’d been having a lot of cold fronts that year that had everything to do with the leaves falling so early, but when I’d gone out to the bus that morning, I’d had to remove my jacket because the day was crazy warm.

Should have known. The rain had started a few minutes after mom had dropped me off in front of the school, but it rained a lot in the autumn anyway. No big deal, right?

So the tornado. It wasn’t there, and then it was, touching down right on top of the school – which explained the roaring noise outside a second before. So back to the ceiling thing. The kids seated in the row near under the falling ceiling were knocked out of their desks – a good thing, too, since the windows shattered at the same time and the glass would have caused horrible damage to their bodies.

See, at first, I thought someone had blown up the science lab, but then realized I was on the same floor as said lab. And then one of the teachers rushed into the classroom shouting something about a tornado warning. Great. Now she tells ups? Another sarcastic moment came and went as we were told to leave the classroom, an order accompanied by the fire alarm.

The kids who had been knocked down by the ceiling had already gotten up, and none of them appeared to be bleeding. Good. I’d already seen enough of that sort of thing for one day. The teachers were shouting for us to stay calm – I almost laughed. For real. Guess they went to the same training seminar as the bus driver. Whatever.

When we were out in the hall, we heard another crash. I have no idea what part of the building got destroyed, and could only hope no one had gotten killed.

“Everyone – head for the closets! They’re the most well-protected areas of the school! Go!” I didn’t know which teacher said that, and didn’t care. In fact, I wasn’t even being given a choice (not that I would have chosen to go outside or anything). As I was rushed along, I heard other teacher-like voices saying something about the basement. Once I found myself squashed into the closet, I told myself I should have broken away and gone with the basement group.

Did I mention there were no lights? We had lost electricity, and I suppose with the threat of the entire building being reduced to rubble, no one had bothered to fire up the back-up generators. If we even had them, that is.

Someone to my left started texting, which provided unexpected illumination, but the looks on everyone’s faces, some of which were smushed against parts of the anatomy of those beside them, was so ridiculous, I burst out laughing.

“Oh my god, does someone think this is funny?”

Aw, jeez. Lacy? How did she get in here?

“I think it’s Shasta. You’re a moron, Darby!”

I wanted to tell…Rachel, was it?...to lighten up, but another girl said something about how I had a concussion from the bus accident, and to give me a break.

That made me laugh harder – I’d already been given a break: my collar bone! Hahahaha! Yep, I was off the rails.

When I sobered, I began to hear sounds outside our sardine can (yes, I know it was a closet, but I wanted to use a different description, okay?), but couldn’t tell if they represented the rest of the building falling down or things being okay again.

Things were okay again, because the door was pulled open and the girls pressed against it tumbled out into the corridor like in a scene in a campy movie.

“You girls all right?” The Vice Principal was helping the embarrassed girls to their feet while nodding at the rest of us. “It’s safe now; you can come out.”

I have no idea why she’d said that. We were already getting out of that cramped hole as fast as we could without trampling each other.

One of the students gasped, then a bunch of others did, and I turned to my left to see why. I gasped. The entire wall and all the classrooms behind it were gone. Wires and demolished light fixtures dangled here and there, huge chunks of plaster making jagged edges where the devastation ended. The rain had stopped, but the sky still looked like it might spit out more destruction if provoked.

My cell phone went off. The towers were working? Huh. Stunned by what I was seeing, it took a second for me to respond. My mom’s Facebook logo was on the small screen. “Hello?”

“Oh, thank goodness! I was so worried!”

Not worried enough to let me stay home, you horrible woman. “I’m fine, mom. Are you and Wade okay? Is the house still standing?”

“Yes to all of that. I heard the hospital got damaged though – you might want to call Gina and make sure she’s got through this in one piece.”

Gina! Crap! Now that would be so wrong if she’d been hurt while trying to get better. I called, but it went right to voice-mail. Great. Before I could start freaking out, though, she called me back.

“Shasta! You’re okay!”

“Gina! I’m fine – how about you?”

“I’m good, but the roof of the cancer pavilion got torn off, and the power was off for about ten minutes. But everything is cool now, they’re saying, and no one got hurt or killed.”

“You sound weird.”

“I have a broken nose, bone-head.”

“Ha. Forgot in all the excitement. That explains why all your ‘n’s sound like ‘d’s.”

“Lovely, right? And I now have two black eyes.”

“Really? They’re not blue anymore?”

“Heh. Cute. How hard did you hit your head?”

I grinned, relieved beyond reason that my best friend was okay. “Look, I’d better go. I think they’re trying to round us all up and get us outside so we can go home.”

“Mkay. Talk later?”

“Later.”

Now that the scariest part was over, everyone was behaving in a more organized way, and soon we were shuffled out of the building to await our respective rides.

“Aside from the bus that was in the accident this morning, they’re all functioning,” the Guidance Counselor announced as we stood there shivering in the damp air – the cold front had clearly won. “But some of the cars didn’t do so well.” He shrugged. “Those of you who drove to school today should probably go check.”

Lacy and the rest of the seniors with functioning cars took off like a herd of panicking gazelles, and a moment later I heard faint shrieks and shouting coming from the other side of the building. At that moment, I was grateful my car had decided to take a vacation. I mean, sure, the engine was shot, but at least that was fixable. I think. Something told me that tornado damage would have been beyond my family’s financial ability to repair.

Most of the cheer squad returned from the student parking lot, none of them sobbing, but all of them looking disgusted. They probably had great insurance and would be getting shiny new cars out of this disaster. The guys, oddly enough, looked far more upset.

One of them was Steven. Under no other circumstance would I allow myself to feel sorry for him, but I knew how long and hard he’d worked to get his pickup, and that without it, he wouldn’t be able to get to his job after school. I also knew his parents were even poorer than my mom and me. No way did he have the kind of coverage that would enable him to replace his beloved truck. So yes. I felt sorry for him, and when he was passing me – to leave the grounds and walk home, I assumed – I decided to be nice. Only for a second or two, but still.

“Steven!”

He stopped. I winced. His lips were compressed, face pale. Poor guy.

“Hey, um…” I went closer. “I take it your truck got messed up.”

“It’s not even there.”

“What?”

“Must have gotten blown into the next street or something. Probably not worth looking for.”

He had a point. If his truck had been tossed that far, it wouldn’t have survived crashing back to the ground. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“Hey, why don’t you take the bus? You don’t live all that far from me.”

“Yes I do, Shasta. We live out near the river, and that’s at least four miles from your house.”

“Yes, but it’s closer from my bus stop than it is from here.”

He shook his head. “I need to do some thinking and don’t want to deal with the bus right now, but thanks.”

“Sure. See ya.”

He tilted his head and stared at me for a second or two before sliding off, but I had no idea what he was thinking. And then he was gone.

“I hear no one was hurt.”

Jacob. The gift that keeps on giving. “That would explain the lack of emergency vehicles so far.” I gave him a quick, sour smile, and stopped looking at him.

“Seems like you’ve had a pretty messed-up day.”

Bite me. “Yup. Thanks for pointing that out.”

“Look, I – I’m really sorry for what happened yesterday.”

“Are you? Was kissing me that gross?”

“No! I like you, Shasta, and I liked kissing you, too.”

People nearby who had been holding quiet conversations stopped conversating. If that’s even a word. “Don’t start, Jacob. And don’t even think about trying that again.”

Sad eyes. “Fine. Sorry.”

Headlights splashed over the wet pavement. “Looks like the buses are here. With any luck, I won’t be in another accident.” I didn’t even ask how he was getting home, even though his presence on this side of the school was making it clear that his car, too, had been destroyed. Boo-freaking-hoo, Jacob.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Uh, sure, assuming school is open.” I joined the lines forming for the buses, putting Jacob on speed-ignore.

Taking the bus without Gina was bizarre. I sat near the window and stared out, not bothering to check to see who the person sitting beside me was. At some point I nodded off and dreamed about seatbelts…

 

*******

 

…and woke up with my mom hovering over me. Huh?

Wait. Why was my mother on the bus? And my bed – why was my bed on the bus, too? “Mom? What’s going on?”

“Sshh. It’s okay, sweetie. You were right – you should have stayed in the hospital, and I feel just awful about making you go to school with a concussion. Please forgive me.” Tears gleamed in her eyes.

At some point during her bad mom speech, I realized I wasn’t on the bus after all (thank goodness), but in my room. You know, it’s reasonable to tell me to be quiet and that things are okay when I’m having a huge crying fit, but since I wasn’t, and since asking a simple question hadn’t caused the dislocation of all my internal organs – or any external ones, as far as I could tell – I had to conclude that she was afraid to have an actual discussion about whatever had happened between me falling asleep on the bus and waking up in my bedroom.

Too bad. “I forgive you, mom. Please tell me how I got here?”

“Well, when the bus got to your stop, the person sitting next to you tried to wake you up, but couldn’t. The bus driver called an ambulance, and after the EMTs checked you out, they decided you didn’t need hospitalization, so they just brought you home and gave us instructions about how to handle the kind of concussion you have.”

There are different kinds? “Er, what kind do I have, exactly?”

“A grade one, or simple concussion. That wouldn’t have been a problem if you hadn’t also had to deal with the stress of having a school building fall on top of you.”

What was I – the Wicked Weirdo of the East? “Mom, it didn’t fall on top of me. I mean, parts of it got torn off and stuff and one of the ceilings fell in on the other side of the classroom, but all that happened to me was that I got jammed into a small closet with way too many other students. Come to think of it, a few laws of physics may well have been broken in the process.”

“Shasta, please. The point is that you experienced two huge traumas in one day, and according to the medic, your mind and body temporarily shut down.”

Three traumas…no, four. Thinking Gina might have been killed in the tornado, and the repeated if brief appearance of Steven in my life. “Oh.” My brilliant-comeback ability was on a roll, eh?

“You have to rest for the next few days, so no school tomorrow, although to be honest, I’m about certain they won’t be holding classes until they’re sure the parts of the building that survived are stable.”

“Good. I don’t want to go to school in a stable.” I was joking. I was.

“Oh, you poor thing – your mind must be so scrambled by all this!”

Have I mentioned that my mother has an irritating if kinda cute way of taking things I say literally? “Nah, I’m fine. My shoulder hurts, though.”

“Ah, right. Hold on.” She went into the bathroom – I have my own bathroom, which is totally convenient when your mom has a boyfriend – and came back with a glass of water and a pill bottle. “Take one of these. It will help the pain.”

I took the bottle and read the label. “Hydrocodone-acetaminophen. What’s that?”

“Another name for Vicodin, but it’s a very low dosage, so you shouldn’t have any side-effects.”

That didn’t sound good. The word “shouldn’t” never boded well in iffy situations, I’d noticed. “Shouldn’t, but might?”

“That’s one of the reasons you have to stay home, preferably in bed, for the next few days.”

“And what are these possible side-effects, mom?”

“Nothing major – respiratory depression, nausea maybe. I looked it up because I couldn’t remember exactly what the EMT said.”

“So my respiration might become suicidal?”

“At least she still has her sense of humor.” Wade, having magically appeared in the doorway, was doing embarrassing things with his eyebrows again.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Shasta!”

“What?”

“I didn’t see ‘rudeness’ as one of the symptoms or side-effects, so I can only surmise you’re being unpleasant on purpose, young lady.” Her brows had nearly bumped into each other.

Wade came into the room. “It was an honest question.” Smiling, he perched on the edge of the bed near my right foot. “How are you feeling?”

Sitting near either of my feet when I’m not in a good mood could be dangerous, especially if you’re someone I don’t like. Lucky for Wade, the only thing I didn’t like about him were his stupid eyebrows, and since kicking them would have been incredibly stupid, I settled for a weak smile. “Fine.”

“Take your pain medicine.”

“Yes, mom.”

She helped me sit up and I took one of the tablets, which, because I was thinking of the pill as a tablet, got me thinking about Gina. She was a pill, and she had broken her tablet – ha!

Wade gave me a strange look. “What are you grinning about?”

“Nothing. Just thought of something.”

 

[To Be Continued As Soon As I Stop Getting Distracted and Interrupted By My Family and Life In General - Judy Colella]

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 22.06.2015

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