Westcott High

by Sarah Mello

  My mind raced with thoughts of Jacob as I weaved through the herd of students. I wanted to write his fib off as a miscommunication or mistake, but my heart told me something was up. After all, with a guy so outwardly perfect, there almost always is.

  “Happy Friday,” Norah said, stopping me in my tracks. Alongside her stood Piper and Ari.

  The three were a confusing trio, but we all learned to stop questioning it when they were still friends as junior year began. Not vocally anyway.

  “Happy Friday,” I replied, my voice at an all-time sarcastic low.

  “Tell me, Sonny. What were you and Buckets just chatting about?” Norah asked.

  I began to wonder how much longer I could put up with Norah’s relentless snarky remarks and condescending tones. But I decided, for that moment, I’d play along.

  “Why is it any of your concern, Norah?”

  I looked at Ari as she avoided making eye contact with me. She and I met sophomore year when Kyle introduced me to his new girlfriend. Her dark wardrobe, pounds of cheap jewelry, and emotionally unstable personality were the last things that confused me about her. Because Ari Ziegler was confusing for numerous additional reasons, including why she’d date a Violet in the first place. And why a Violet would date her.

  “I certainly hope it wouldn’t involve any information from your little lunch date with JC at the club on Monday,” Norah said.

  “Are you spying on me now?”

  “Look, Sonny. Aligning yourself with a guy like JC will tarnish what’s left of your pathetic reputation,” she said. “I’m just trying to have your back.”

  “And tell me, Norah, is that before or after you swivel the knife in?”

  “Let’s just go,” Piper softly suggested.

  It was almost satisfying to hear her voice. I looked over into her nervous eyes, hoping to feel some sort of connection. It never came.

  Norah leaned in close to my ear, her blonde hair brushing my face. “I’d be careful who you speak to.”

  She turned around; her paint-stained fingers pushed through the air as she walked to the other side of the room.

  “What was that all about?” Kyle asked, quietly sneaking up behind me.

  His comforting scent swept underneath my nose as I took a deep breath in.

  “Just Norah being Norah,” I replied. “Hey, I overheard some girls talking about the cookout this morning. The rumor is spreading. Do you think it’s true?”

  “No,” Kyle said, “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe you should ask Cliff. Just for good measure.”

  He hesitated. “Yeah, I’ll talk to him.”

  “Kyle . . .”

  “I’ll talk to him,” he said. “I promise.”

  His doubt was unsettling.

  “I need you to meet us somewhere tomorrow night,” I told him. “Are you free?”

  “I can be.”

  Just then, I saw Casey darting toward us out of the corner of my eye.

  “I can’t accept this,” she said as she approached Kyle and me, interrupting our conversation. She stretched out her hand, which held money.

  Kyle’s brown eyes looked down on her unsteady hand. He took a step forward. “Yes, you can. It’s no sweat.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “Really. Take it.” She stretched her hand further.

  “I’m not taking it back. It’s a gift.” Kyle gently pushed away Casey’s hand.

  “A very large gift,” she replied.

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “It’s too much,” she said.

  “It’s not.”

  Casey struggled for words. “You really don’t have to do this.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I know.”

  “I—I can’t pay you back.” She looked down at her dirty pink sneakers; the right toe had a small hole, and the edges were frayed.

  Curiosity crossed Kyle’s face. “That would sort of be antithetical to the whole gift thing.”

  I silently applauded Kyle’s intellectual reply.

  “Why are you doing this?” Casey asked, staring down at the one-hundred-dollar bill.

  “Because I want to,” he replied.

  “Well, what can I do for you?”

  “What makes you think you have to do something for me?”

  Casey stared into Kyle’s eyes.

  “Again . . . antithetical,” he said.

  She folded the money and tucked it into her pocket. “I want to do something.”

  “How about this? Why don’t you get your phone fixed so I can text you sometime?” Kyle looked at me. “If my wife won’t mind?”

  I gave him a playful glare. “I’ll allow it.”

  Casey’s face lit up. Whether it was Kyle’s sweet nature or the joke that caused the grin to appear, I wasn’t sure. But she smiled on.

  Kyle stared at her lips, seemingly in awe. “And you said you couldn’t pay me back.” He tapped her upper arm and walked toward his seat.

  I watched Casey as she watched him walk away—the first of many times to come.

  “Everyone find a chair!” Principal Winchester shouted into the microphone.

  “Come on, ladies. You heard the man.” Winston shoveled us along.

  Casey and I scooted toward the middle of our normal row. “I tried calling you last night,” I said.

  “My mom was over,” she replied through her hoarse voice. “I was up all night trying to process the eventful evening.” She paused. “Did I tell you she came back around?”

  “Winston mentioned it,” I replied. “So I’m assuming it went poorly?”

  “Poorer than poor.”

  I climbed over the legs of a few of my peers. “Is she clean yet?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Do you think she wants you and your brothers to come home?” I asked.

  Casey took her seat in a chair, bringing her knees to her chest. “I never want to see her again,” she replied. “Westcott is my home now.”

  I wondered how truly tragic one’s life must be to consider Westcott High a home. Then again, when your home isn’t your home, I suppose you learn to lower your standards.

  “What does a guy like Kyle see in me?” Casey asked.

  “A guy like Kyle?”

  “A rich guy,” she said.

  I shifted in my seat. “Money isn’t everything, Casey.”

  “That’s what people who have it say.”

  “Kyle is different.”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Isn’t every guy?”

  Principal Winchester continued with his desperate plea to get hundreds of students into order. It was a job I didn’t envy. “Everyone quiet down,” he said into the mic, his lackadaisical tone falling just short of encouraging us.

  “Not to mention he’s that man’s kid.” Casey nodded in Principal Winchester’s direction. “He’d never go for someone like me.”

  “He went for Ari,” I replied.

  “Ari’s cool. And interesting.”

  “And you’re what?” I asked.

  “I study tornadoes,” she said. “Ari writes and sings music. The two are wildly different.”

  “Look, lighten up on yourself. Just because Kyle’s last name is Winchester doesn’t mean he’s anything like his dad. In fact, I know he’s not.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “They don’t have a relationship,” I said. “Not one like you’d expect. His parents got divorced when he was younger; he hardly knows his dad.”

  “Are he and his mom close?” Casey asked.

  “Very.” I nodded as Mrs. Winchester danced across my mind. “She's like a second mother to me.”

  “I don’t know,” Casey continued. “I still don’t think I’m going to text him.”

  “Hey,” Winston said as he reached for a bag of candy from his backpack. “Three o’clock.”

  I quickly turned my head to see Dean sitting by himself. A Westcott hoodie covered his hair, but his puffy red face peeked out over
the side of the blue fabric. He stared straight ahead as his tears fell straight down.

  “Today’s the anniversary,” Winston said. “That must be why he’s crying.”

  I stared at Dean. “That’s not why.”

  “All right, everyone listen up.” Principal Winchester spoke into the mic. “Now I know it’s been quite the first two weeks so far. For those of you who may not be aware, our dear friend Mr. Russell suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. I know that many of you were very close to him, and there are resources available to any of you who may be struggling with accepting this loss. Everyone will receive a flyer, on your way out, that will provide all of the information to connect you to those resources—”

  “A pamphlet.” Winston smacked on his gum. “That’s what we were missing.”

  I slapped his knee. “Quiet!”

  “Oh, please. He can’t hear us over his tie.”

  “Seriously, what color is that?” said Casey. “It’s the brightest yellow I’ve ever seen.”

  “Maybe he’s wearing it in remembrance of his dear friend,” Winston said.

  Principal Winchester gave the mic a few taps to ensure everyone could hear him. “Please do not take one if you intend on throwing it straight into the trash can or onto the floor,” he said. “Mr. Randolph, that means you.”

  Laughs broke out all across the room.

  “At least he takes a firm stance against littering,” Casey said.

  Winston slowly clapped. “He’s so brave.”

  I grinned as I looked forward.

  “Moving on . . . Since we didn’t get to have our weekly rally last Friday, I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce everyone to our newest English teacher, Mrs. Penn.” He motioned for her to come forward. “Mrs. Penn, if you would, please come say a few words.”

  I grabbed both of my armrests as she approached the microphone. She wore a tight purple dress that looked almost painted on. Her stilettos clanked against the stage as her thin frame swayed side to side. Someone from the back of the auditorium whistled, and the room broke out into more scattered laughs.

  “All right, please keep your opinions to yourself,” Principal Winchester shouted as he held his hand in the air.

  Winston dropped his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. “I’m beginning to wonder if we will ever get through this rally.”

  I smiled at him and then focused my attention on the stage.

  There Mrs. Penn stood, in all her beauty and rigidness, and introduced herself as if she weren’t everything that I knew she was. And for a few minutes, she spoke as if she were truly a nice, demure person. Even I was almost convinced—almost.

  Casey leaned toward me. “She is so pretty.”

  Mrs. Penn’s eyes suddenly met mine. I took a swift breath as she stared back at me. “I do hope we have a fantastic year together,” she said into the mic. “All of us.”

  Winston leaned his head to the left. “I think she’s talking to you,” he said, his eyes barely open.

  “And perhaps only you,” Casey said.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Penn. Okay, let’s see here.” Principal Winchester continued looking through his notes. “I’d like everyone’s undivided attention on this matter. Randolph, are you with us?”

  “I’m with you, sir,” he shouted back from the edge of the room. More laughs followed.

  “Fantastic. Now, I know that last year the school went through quite the video scandal—”

  “Uh-oh.” Winston sat up in his seat while my heart sunk into mine.

  “Thankfully, there was no truth to it, but it did shed some light on an even bigger matter here at Westcott. As you all know, every student who walks through these doors is required to sign a student conduct contract. Here at Westcott, we have high standards for our student body. If you attend Westcott High, not only do we expect you to excel academically, but you must also conduct yourselves in a positive, productive manner. However, not every student who has walked these halls has done so.”

  “Lana!” A voice shouted from behind me.

  I closed my eyes tightly and tried to ignore all the laughter.

  “Shut the hell up, Gavin!” Kyle yelled from a few rows back.

  “What are you gonna do, Winchester? Beat me with your silver spoon?” Gavin retorted.

  Principal Winchester glared at his son. “All right, that’s enough!”

  I stared down at my shoes, tapping them against the chair in front of me and wishing someone would knock me out with said spoon.

  “So,” Principal Winchester continued, “to prevent any similar scenarios from happening again, we’ve made a few adjustments to the SCC. As you will all see, if you check the contract that was sent to the email we have on file for each of you, we’ve implemented a new rule.”

  Everyone reached for their cell phones faster than you could say conduct, because if there was one thing every student took incredibly seriously, it was the SCC.

  “You will all see—on page two, section three—that anyone who is directly and/or indirectly involved in any sort of pictures and/or video footage being leaked around the school will immediately be written up.” Principal Winchester shifted his tie.

  Nervous conversations started roaring around the room like thunder.

  “Now, I can’t understand why any of you would be involved in spreading vicious rumors about your fellow classmates. But I’ve come to understand that’s becoming far too accepted here. Whether it’s blackmail or kids being kids, I don’t really know, nor do I care. I do know that if you’re caught leaking footage or if you’re in the footage doing anything outside of how a Westcott student should behave, you will be written up without being given the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps like many before you.”

  “But, sir! How can we control this? If someone records us doing something they deem inappropriate, how can we help if it’s leaked around the school? And how is that our fault?” a student blurted out from the corner of the room.

  “If you think about it, sir, you’re giving everyone more incentive to leak videos,” another student shouted.

  “Well, since no one wants to come forward to tell me who recorded and leaked the infamous video from last year, I have no choice but to assume it could be any one of you and put the hammer down. Unless, of course, someone wants to come forward and give me names.” Principal Winchester’s eyes circled the room. They were met with silence. “Very well, then. The rule stands.”

  The room burst out into scattered complaints.

  Principal Winchester put his hand toward the crowd. “I suggest you all walk the straight and narrow and stay away from cameras. Everyone be on your best behavior this year, yes?”

  More bellowing sighs filled the air.

  “That’s all for today. Please print and sign the updated SCC and turn it into the office first thing Monday morning. No lingering in the hallways; everyone head straight to class. Thank you for your time.” Principal Winchester walked off the stage, and everyone started walking toward the back doors.

  “Well, there goes my idea to plant a voice recorder in Cliff’s . . .”

  We came to the end of our row and I turned my head toward Winston.

  “Football . . . bag . . . which I was not going to do.”

  I nodded, my blank eyes fixed on his. “You were, weren't you?”

  Winston tossed a piece of candy into his mouth. “Don't judge me.”

  “Wow. There are some scared people in this room right now,” Casey said.

  Suddenly, I bumped shoulders with Ari, who was darting toward the exit. Her face was pale, her eyes were angry, and her hands were shaking. “Yeah,” I said. “I can see that.”

  “We’ll see you after first.” Winston walked with Casey toward the side doors. “And try not to break the SCC between now and then!”

  I watched them walk away. “Yeah,” I said under my breath. “I’ll try.”

  The auditorium lights dimmed as I made my way toward the back of the room, wh
ere I saw the stranger from the hallway standing against the wall. He was staring into my eyes—and his didn’t blink—not even once. In one hand was a yellow pamphlet, and in the other a paper bagged lunch.

  “Nice gesture,” he said as I casually strolled by.

  My heart began beating fast. This stranger had a funny way of doing that to a person.

  I stopped in my tracks as students passed by me. “I’m sorry?”

  “The pamphlet.” He held it up in the air. “It’s a nice gesture.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “I’m Sonny, by the way. What’s your name?”

  “Guy,” he replied.

  I nodded. “Thought so.”

  “Sonny,” he said. “Did you know that most plane crashes occur during the first three or the last eight minutes of a flight?” He began folding the pamphlet into many different directions. “I always assumed it would happen in the middle—when the scared passengers finally decide it’s safe to let their guard down.”

  His well-modulated voice sucked you in like a vacuum.

  “Because that’s what life does to us, after all. It waits until we’ve decided we’ve finally reached flat ground and then”—he held the paper airplane in front of his eyes, inspecting it as he twisted it around—“boom.” He dropped the airplane to the floor. “Everything comes crashing down.”

  The hair on my neck stood up as his tortured soul showed itself. I looked down at the ground and then back up at him.

  “Do you ever feel like that?” he asked.

  Just then, Jacob leaned down next to us and picked up the paper airplane.

  “I think this belongs to you,” he said, holding it in front of Guy’s face.

  Guy blinked, breaking his serious character. “Ah! A noble, no-littering crusader. My favorite kind of jock.” He took the airplane back.

  “I’m Jacob,” he said as he stood close to me, towering over Guy.

  Guy stared into his eyes. “Guy Penn.”

  “Everything okay here?” Jacob asked.

  Guy studied him. “More than okay,” he replied. “Gotta run. Ms. Pamela from the front desk has a lot of mail for me to deliver today.”

  The Westcott High mailman was typically a student who needed extra credit, or perhaps just extra attention.