by Celeste, B.
I’m halfway done with my breakfast before I glance at the clock and then at Cam. She knows my worries and gives me a small smile before passing me a granola bar, money for lunch, and a signed piece of paper with Dad’s name on the bottom.
For school records, she tells me.
Slipping everything into my bag, I ask Kaiden if he’s ready. His response is nothing more than a grunt before he pushes away from the table, grabs his bag and car keys, and then gestures toward the front door.
He doesn’t tell Cam goodbye.
She doesn’t wish us a good day.
She just smiles sadly as we leave.
I want to ask Kaiden why he’s so angry and won’t talk. Cam seems like a nice woman, so I don’t get why he acts so dismissive around her. I know better than to pry in other people’s business. Then they’d have a right to pry into mine.
When we get to the school, I follow Kaiden inside from the student parking lot already packed with cars. He simply points in the direction of the office and shoots me a sarcastic good luck over his shoulder before disappearing into a crowd of people who slap his back and greet him with big smiles while completely ignoring my existence.
Happy birthday to me.
There’s a decorative brick wall behind the principal’s desk that matches the exterior of the building. It doesn’t necessarily match the white walls or rest of the classy decor, though I haven’t had time to explore yet.
The dark-haired man sitting in front of me is young and burly, probably late thirties, and doesn’t seem to be particularly organized based on the way he searches through papers for my file. He seems flustered. I’m sure if I looked hard enough I’d see sweat dot his brow.
He gives me an apologetic smile before rifling through a different stack. “The guidance counselor usually handles this.”
I’m not sure why he tells me that, so I just nod. I could ask him on the counselor’s whereabouts, but I’m not sure I care. If Mama were here she’d keep conversation going easily by asking about the school’s history or why Exeter High is home of the Wildcats and not something more fitting of the purple and gold colors.
She’s not here though.
Neither is the counselor.
Neither is Logan.
Principal Richman, according to the nasally secretary who guided me to his chaotic workspace, finally lifts a manila folder off his desk and looks at me triumphantly.
“Emery Matterson.”
At this rate I won’t make it to class until third period. Participation in Government, or PIG as my last school referred to the civics course, isn’t exactly what I want to start my day with, but it’s better than math. I’ll miss first period Geometry and second period Phys Ed. Nothing to cry over, that’s for sure.
His dark eyes scan the contents of my file before tugging on the collar of his white button-down. Clearing his throat, he reads over the paper I gave him with my father’s signature.
“Right.” He nods, setting down the papers and giving me a quick onceover. “Well, Ms. Matterson, it looks like you were mailed the schedule and school policies already, and you’ll receive textbooks in your classes today. Your schedule should list your locker number, which you’ll get the lock and combination to from the Phys Ed teacher. Your father mentioned setting you up with weekly check-ins with our guidance counselor and nurse. Our counselor won’t be back until next week, but I can take you to Ms. Gilly in the nurse’s office before I have someone show you to your locker.”
Wait a minute. “Why would I do weekly check-ins with the counselor and nurse?”
He hesitates, brows furrowing for a moment before locking his hands together on his desk. “Typically, we have transfers meet the counselor about the transition to ensure they’re comfortable during the first few weeks. Most students have been in the district their entire lives, so they know the whereabouts. We understand new schools, especially for later admitted students, can be difficult to adjust to.”
My jaw ticks. “And the nurse?”
He shifts uncomfortably in his chair until it creaks under his weight. “I assumed your father would have spoken to you about it. Students with extensive medical problems tend to build relationships with nursing staff early on. It’s our understanding that you’ve had some issues in the past…”
Issues. What exactly has my father told the school? I’m sure the file transferred from my old one says plenty about me without his influence. My twin died, I missed too many days because of the same disease that killed her, and now I’m here. But did Dad emphasize that I’m better than I was in their apparent conversation about me?
My spine straightens. “My father must have forgotten to mention it to me. But it’s not something I need to do, so—”
“All due respect, Ms. Matterson—”
“It’s Emery or Em.”
He nods once. “Emery,” he corrects, “I agree with your father that it’s of the utmost importance you get comfortable with the nurse here. Things happen despite medication and self care. If there’s an emergency, it’s best Ms. Gilly knows what to do.”
Like call 911?
Biting back the retort, I force myself to nod because arguing with the principal doesn’t seem like a smart thing to do. I’ve never gotten in trouble before and don’t plan to start now.
“If you don’t mind me saying, the guidance counselor also does sessions for those who grieve the loss of loved ones. Perhaps you’ll find a friend in her as well.”
I’m sure he means well by the suggestion, but it doesn’t sit well with me. “Principal Richman, my sister died nine years ago. I may never move on from that, but I have learned to cope all on my own by now.”
He flattens his already pristine shirt. “I won’t force you into anything, then. Come on, I’ll show you to the nurse’s office.”
Before we make it to his door, the nasally secretary with box dyed blonde hair and thick glasses calls out his name. “The new high school English teacher is here for your meeting.” The way she eyes me has me narrowing mine before glancing at the half empty hallway.
Principal Richman sighs and gives me an indecisive stare. Shifting from one foot to the other, I grip the strap hanging on my shoulder. “I can find my way. I brought the map that came with the schedule.”
There’s still time to make it before second period, so I’m thankful when his expression turns from reluctance to relief over my suggestion. I’m sure he doesn’t want to give the new student a tour anyway.
“The high school classrooms are all on the eastern wing of the second floor, separated from the new middle school wing, just up the spiral staircase down the hall. I’m sure if need be, we can get your stepbrother to show you around.” He clears his throat for what seems to be the thirtieth time. “Kaiden Monroe, if memory serves, correct?”
I nod.
He purses his lips. “Well then, you best be off. Welcome to Exeter High, Ms. Matterson. We’re happy to have you.”
I don’t bother correcting him on my name.
Logan would have.
Chapter Two
There’s a freckle on my wrist that keeps my full attention during last period. It’s been a quiet, uneventful day and I’m glad. Minimal staring, no trouble getting a table at lunch, and nobody to ask me to recite fun facts about myself.
I’ve made mental notes to myself throughout the day. There’s no time to stop by your locker in between the morning periods, so just carry your bag. The lunchroom is like a mosh pit scattered with rectangular and circular tables, with no particular cliques like the high schools in movies. UGG boots are making a comeback.
Personally, I’m not sure how I feel about any of those things. My shoulder aches from carrying my backpack on it all morning, the lunchroom was too loud from the chatter, and UGG boots have always been hideous. Then again, my pineapple Toms get just as much judgmental glances.
What strikes the most interest to me is watching Kaiden interact with his peers—boys in letterman jackets and girls who twirl
their hair and bat their lashes at them. He’s popular here, an entirely new person. He talks and jokes and argues. People seem to love him despite equally seeming to envy him.
I wonder why he isn’t that way at home. Does his mother know how he acts at school? I heard a pink-haired girl tell her friend at lunch that he’s going to take the lacrosse team to the national championship this year. She said it’ll be his farewell, his sendoff before graduation. Does Cam go to his games? Dad mentioned he played, but never said if they attended any events.
Brushing the thoughts off, I focus back on my surroundings. Ninth period. Two twenty-five. There’s twenty-three minutes left until my first day at Exeter is complete. Only two hundred and sixty-nine more to go until junior year is over.
Advanced English drags. Between exhaustion seeping into my bones from first day jitters, to the noise level of the packed classroom, it puts me on edge and keeps me glancing up at the black clock on the wall off to the side. I swear barely five seconds pass each time. I can feel a flare forming, which hopefully a nap before dinner will ease before it gets worse.
Instead of focusing on the mindless conversations Mr. Nichols, a young twenty-something fresh out of grad school, lets us have after he explains class expectations at the beginning of the period, I look at the artwork littering the colorful walls. They’re scenes from books, I realize. By the looks of it, each wall is a different novel ranging from To Kill a Mockingbird to The Hunger Games.
Someone drops into the seat beside me, scraping the metals legs against the tile floor. I peel my gaze off the walls to see Kaiden staring at me with indifference. The redheaded boy that occupied the chair before is now across the room, staring wide-eyed in our direction.
“What are you doing here?” A few onlookers are invested in the exchange between us, peering back and forth between me and him.
“I’m in this class.”
Advanced English for juniors must mean regular English for seniors. I was stuck in an Advanced Biology class full of freshman last year and felt like the dumbest kid in class.
I don’t answer him. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice him when I came in. When I saw how swamped it was, my main focus was on finding an empty seat, not examining who was occupying the others. When Mr. Nichols did roll call, I obviously didn’t pay attention to names until I heard mine.
My eyes go back to the wall and focus on the mixture of greens and blues. I wish I could paint. Mama used to spend a lot of time in the spare room painting pretty pictures of still lives and landscapes. Sometimes, she would paint Lo and I. After Lo…she stopped painting altogether.
“They did a vote on what books to put on the walls a few years back,” he explains, catching me off guard. “People were miffed that the majority choice didn’t make it because of some bullshit that happened in the book.”
My nose scrunches. “What book?”
“Hell if I remember.”
The brunette girl sitting in front of me turns around after dutifully ignoring me the entire period. “It was the Jodi Picoult book about the sick girl who needed a transplant to survive.”
Wetting my bottom lip, I nod. My Sister’s Keeper was one of Lo’s favorite movies to watch because the ending didn’t match the book. It was sad because the sick girl didn’t survive, but happy because her pain no longer made her suffer.
“Anyway, the student counsel nixed it because there was a girl who was going through the same thing and they wanted to be considerate of her feelings,” the girl explains, flipping her brown hair over her shoulder.
I blink in disbelief. “That’s why they didn’t go through with it?”
She shrugs. “Plus, it’s sad.”
One of my brows twitches. “The Hunger Games is literally about kids killing other kids for sport. How is that not sad?”
Kaiden snorts as the girl rolls her eyes at me like I’m the one being ridiculous. “That isn’t real. Duh.”
Not sure what to say, I shake my head and stare back at the wall. People hate realistic stories like Picoult’s because they could happen to anyone. People die—of cancer, accidents, there’s no discrimination in death. I guess wearing rose-colored glasses is easier than dark shades.
The girl goes to speak, but Kaiden cuts her off. “You might want to stop talking, Rach. You’re not coming off very intelligent. Plus, you know what I told everyone.”
I gape at his blunt statement.
Rach, presumably Rachel, glares. Giving me a quick once over, she rolls her eyes before glancing back at him. “You don’t have to be a dick, Kaid. I’m just telling her what happened.”
He leans forward. “Funny, you didn’t seem to mind me being a dick earlier when you begged me to screw you in the locker room.”
Her cheeks turn pink.
…and so do mine.
Clearing my throat, I sink into my seat and pull out a notebook to doodle in until the bell rings. Kaiden and Rachel leave me alone, though their staring contest doesn’t go unnoticed by me because Rachel looks like she wants to stab him with the pen she’s holding.
When the bell chimes, I stuff my belongings back in my backpack and stand up. Everyone files out of the room in fifteen seconds flat, ready to leave for the day until they’re forced back tomorrow. Kaiden hangs behind, which seems suspicious to me. Reluctantly, I walk over to where he stands by the door with crossed arms.
“Your shoes are hideous,” he states.
Glancing down at my Toms, I click my heels together. After a few seconds, I lock eyes with him again. “So is your attitude.”
He grins. “Ready?”
His lack of denial is semi-endearing. At least he knows it, accepts it, and doesn’t pretend he has manners. Although, it may be nice not to be on the receiving end of his insults.
He nudges my shoulder as we walk down the hall. “Don’t look so sad. I’m like this with everyone. Can’t play favorites just because your dad is boning my mom.”
I stop and stare at him.
“What?”
“You’re…blunt.”
“What’s the point of bullshitting?”
I’m not sure.
“Way I see it, we’re stuck together. I’m not going to hold back what I think to save you from getting your feelings hurt.” He starts walking, causing me to follow close behind. “If it makes you feel better, I told your dad the same thing. He’s not my biggest fan.”
“Seems mutual,” I murmur.
He grins again. “Doesn’t seem like you’re his biggest fan either from what I’ve seen.”
I don’t answer.
“Daddy issues can be hot.”
My eyes narrow. “Stop talking.”
He chuckles and shoves the front doors open, not bothering to hold them for me as I quicken my pace to catch up to his long strides.
The students that hang around talking and joking in the lot don’t spare us a glance. It’s like outside the high school doors, Kaiden is a different person and everyone knows it. And me? I’m no one.
Our ride home is in blissful silence.
When we get there, he ignores everyone.
The week goes by in welcome monotony. Most people wouldn’t like living the same routine, but I find it peaceful. There were too many days in my past that I couldn’t predict.
Would I be able to get out of bed?
Could I go to school?
Would I be able to make it throughout an entire day without tearing up because my body aches so brutally?
Chronic illness gives little wiggle room for peace of mind. Having “good” days doesn’t mean the pain isn’t there, it just means that it’s not as noticeable—like a limb that’s sort of falling asleep but still functioning. Days where I have energy can end abruptly for no reason other than fate playing games with me.
Like oncoming hip pain that feels like you continuously slammed your hipbone into a wall. Or finger pain that feels like you’ve shut your fingers into a door until they’re so swollen you can’t straighten them. I’ve nodd
ed off in the middle of a class more times than I can count, not because the material is dry, but because my body is tired of fighting its own cells. Inside the sad shell of my agonizing existence is a battlefield, and I’m on both sides holding trigger-ready guns waiting for the bullets to leave the barrels.
Yet, I feel lucky. I’m still breathing.
There are a few girls who sit by me at lunch that also share classes with me throughout the day. Sometimes they’ll ask me questions, but usually they leave me alone and talk about the teachers and classmates, like Mr. Nichols and Kaiden. Thankfully, I don’t think they know who I am to Kaiden. I’m sure they’ve seen me get out of his car, even sure I’ve seen a few guys stare and make jokes when Kaiden leaves me behind as soon as the ignition is off.
Nobody says a thing about it.
Knowing that people view him as Exeter High royalty, thanks to one of the lunch table inhabitants, makes it better that they don’t associate us. Then again, it’s a smaller school. Dad told me it only has a little over eight hundred students total, which means that it’s not much bigger than my old district in Bakersfield. We may live in an urban area, but it’s not big enough to keep secrets for long. Not when Kaiden is involved.
Like when one of the girls gives me the briefest looks before leaning into her friends and mentioning some person named Riley. I don’t know who he is, but apparently he no longer attends Exeter. Why they look at me in relation to him, I have no interest in asking. If they wanted me to know, they would have included me in their conversation.
On Friday afternoon, Mr. Nichols asks me to stay behind while everyone else leaves the room. Mentally, I go through a list of possible reasons. I turned in homework, did the readings, and even participated twice in class. I’ve done nothing warranting trouble.
Unlike Monday, Kaiden doesn’t wait up for me at the door. He’s been hanging out in the parking lot with his buddies, who I learn are on the lacrosse team with him. They’ll joke around and shove each other and hit on the girls that linger until I make it out of the front doors. Kaiden always shoos them away, and like loyal followers, they obey without complaint.