Relic

by Gretchen McNeil

  FOUR

  LUNCH AT FULLERTON HILLS WAS A BIG DEAL. I SUPPOSE that’s true for every high school, but the imposing magnitude of Fullerton Hills’s cafeteria made the location of your table monumentally important. And the first day of school, when you staked your cafeteria claim, could literally make or break your school year.

  There were three interconnected eating areas, each with its own predetermined label of social importance. The main room—a long, rectangular space with a high arched ceiling and massive windows at each end that resembled a small airplane hangar—offered maximum exposure to a select mix of upper- and lowerclassmen, a plus if you wanted to show off your social supremacy but a minus if you wanted to remain in the shadows. On either side, the cafeteria opened up into smaller eating areas, like the north and south transepts of a medieval cathedral, with diner-like booths tucked against the walls.

  Spencer, Gabe, and I preferred the north room, the dominion of the unseen. It was safer to be out of sight, a strategy which had served us well through six semesters’ worth of lunch periods, and I wanted to make sure we were discreetly ensconced in a quiet, secluded booth—with room for four, of course—before the tables filled up. As soon as the bell rang at the end of third period, I headed to the cafeteria, where a quick scan of the north room showed it to be 95 percent unoccupied.

  Excellent.

  I maneuvered my wheelie bag through the smattering of round tables, eyes fixed on my first choice in seating location (in the corner, near the exit in case we ever needed to make a quick getaway), when a figure stepped in front of me, blocking my view.

  “Beatrice Giovannini.” Michael Torres stood with his hands on his hips, legs spread shoulder width apart like a drill sergeant addressing the new recruits.

  “Michael Torres.” I wasn’t entirely sure my upper lip didn’t curl as I said his name. On paper, my archenemy, Michael Torres, and I should have been friends. We had been the only two freshmen in Trigonometry and AP Physics I, but instead of us forming a bond, it had been hate at first sight.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  I strained on my tiptoes to see over him. Tables were beginning to fill up, but no one had claimed any of the booths in the north room. Yet. “It’s lunchtime. So I’m going to eat lunch.”

  He squinted at me. “And your ‘friends,’” he said, using air quotes as if Spencer and Gabe weren’t real people but figments of my imagination, “will be joining you?”

  Michael Torres and I rarely interacted unless forced to, so I had no idea what his game of Twenty Questions was about. There was a shiftiness in his brown eyes, as if he was hiding something, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d seen the MIT scholarship announcement. Did he want to ask me about it? Would he be going for it too?

  “So you and Spencer and Gabriel Muñoz will be sitting back there for the entire lunch period . . . ,” he said slowly, as if trying to grapple with the information.

  I had no idea what was going on in that devious mind of his, but I was officially done with the conversation. “If you’re fishing for an invitation, the answer is no. We have a strict no-douchebag rule at our table.” I strong-armed him out of my way. “Later.”

  The booth near the emergency exit was still empty and I immediately nabbed it, breathing a sigh of relief as I parked my wheelie bag next to the cushioned bench. Safety had been attained for one more year.

  “Hey,” Spencer said, sliding in next to me. “You want to go to LACMA this weekend? There’s a Fauvism exhibit I want to see.”

  I nudged him. “Sit on the other side.”

  “Why?”

  “Hey, Bea.” Jesse shuffled up, bag lunch in hand. “Is there room?”

  Without another word, Spencer slid out of the booth and took a seat across from me. “Of course.”

  “Sweet.” I felt my heart rate accelerate as Jesse sat beside me. I was in the cafeteria with my boyfriend. For a split second, I almost wished we were sitting in the main room so the entire school could see us.

  “This is great,” I babbled, feeling the need to speak but not quite sure what I should say. “You’re here and I’m here and we’re all eating lunch together.”

  “Which is what you do in a cafeteria,” Spencer said, staring at his lunch.

  His snark only intensified my nervousness, as if I needed to make up for it somehow. “How were morning classes, Jesse?” I asked, talking so fast the words practically blended into one another. “Did you make it to first period okay? And did you like Advanced Econ? I know I made you take it, but if you really hate it—”

  Jesse laid his hand on my arm, and instantly the nerves in my stomach vanished. “It was great. So was English twelve. Toile’s in my class.”

  I snorted. “That space cadet from homeroom?” I was suddenly grateful I was on the AP track.

  “Yeah,” Jesse said. “She’s pretty cool. She lived in Hawaii before she came here. Honolulu, I think. She’s really into singing and she knows how to surf.”

  “Wow,” Spencer said, “did you read her autobiography?”

  Jesse laughed. “No, we just talked a lot.”

  He meant that she had talked a lot. I pictured Jesse smiling and nodding and hardly following along with her mindless chatter.

  “Oh,” he continued, as if he’d just remembered another factoid, “and she collects hats. It’s kind of her signature thing.”

  “Signature crazy is more like it,” I said.

  Jesse shrugged.

  “Guess what?” Gabe dropped his lunch tray on the table. “Mr. Poston wants me to be the editor of the Herald.”

  “That’s amazing!” I squealed. “You’ll make a kick-ass editor.”

  “Thanks. He told me there’s another applicant and he’s thinking about making us coeditors, which blows, but it’s someone who hasn’t been in journalism before and he wants my experienced eye on the editorial side. So basically I’ll still be in charge.”

  I laughed. “Can’t share the spotlight, can you?”

  “Shouldn’t have to.” Gabe flipped imaginary hair out of his face. “But it gets better. Poston wants me to submit an article to the Orange County Register for their high school internship program. He’s going to personally recommend me! That could totally be my ticket to—”

  The giant black-and-white brim of a sun hat appeared out of nowhere. “Hi, Jesse!”

  “Hey!” Jesse shot to his feet.

  Toile placed a dainty hand on his arm, and I felt my body tense up. “Thank you so much for showing me around this morning. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” he said.

  Was that a blush creeping up Jesse’s neck?

  “It’s so amazing here,” Toile continued. “How can you guys stand to go to school in such a beautiful place? There’s this secret patch of wildflowers on the hillside next to the track. Have you seen it? It’s like a little oasis! And we’re doing a whole two weeks on Tennyson in English twelve. I just adore Tennyson.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I muttered.

  “And did you know,” she barreled on, “that Fullerton Hills has one of the best show choirs in Orange County? I don’t even mind that it’s first period. Kinda warms me up for the day. I don’t have much of a voice, but I love to sing, and we do all these cool dance moves. Sometimes, I just need to get up and move, you know?”

  Yeah, it’s called walking.

  She stretched her arms out to either side of her body and started waving them back and forth like an octopus, then she broke into some outlandish choreography, culminating in an off-balance pirouette. She stumbled, bracing herself against Jesse’s chest. Everyone was staring at her, including Michael Torres, who I noticed lingering near the entrance to the north room, but instead of being self-conscious or embarrassed by the attention, Toile threw her head back and laughed. Not a cute, twittering kind of laugh, but a hearty guffaw that seemed more appropriate coming from your great-uncle after he made an off-color joke.

  Our daily lunchtime
goal was to attract as little attention as was humanly possible, but Toile had 40 percent of the cafeteria focused on us. To make matters worse, Cassilyn Cairns was making a beeline for our table.

  Blond and blue-eyed, Cassilyn could have been the poster child for Orange County. Her skin was perfectly tanned at all times, her makeup perfectly applied. Her hair was perfectly curled in loose ringlets that framed her face, and her outfits were perfectly stylish without being gaudy, flirtatious without being lewd. I was pretty sure she’d never voluntarily said a word to either me or my friends in our three years at school together, but Toile had attracted her attention, and she was coming over. This wasn’t going to end well.

  “Sit down,” I hissed. Maybe Cassilyn would get distracted and go back to her own table.

  “You’re sweet,” Toile said with a delicate smile, misinterpreting my comment for an invitation. “But I promised some new friends I’d eat with them.”

  “Toile!” Cassilyn grabbed Toile’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks as if she was greeting an old friend. “Our table’s over here.” She tugged her toward the main room.

  “You know each other?” I blurted out. Cassilyn wouldn’t have invited a complete stranger to eat at her table. Maybe they went way back? Childhood friends?

  Toile laughed again, loud and carefree. “We have Algebra together. Totally bonded over our mutual dislike of numbers.”

  “Dislike of numbers,” I repeated slowly. Who the hell were these people?

  Cassilyn scanned our table; her eyes lingered on Spencer.

  “Have you guys met?” Toile asked.

  I wanted to scream. Fifty percent of me was irritated by her disparagement of algebra, and 50 percent of me was insulted that the new girl was trying to introduce us to the most popular person in school. “Yes,” I said through clenched teeth.

  Which wasn’t a lie. I’d introduced myself to Cassilyn freshman year, back before I learned that talking to my fellow students was a bad idea. But clearly, Cassilyn had no memory of this meeting. She cocked her head to the side and stared at me with vacant blue eyes.

  “Math Girl,” she said at last.

  Fibonacci’s balls.

  “I’m Jesse,” my boyfriend volunteered.

  “Hey,” Cassilyn said, smiling weakly. “Nice meeting you guys.” The she quickly dragged Toile away.

  Jesse’s eyes trailed after them as he sank back into the booth.

  “That went well.” Spencer smirked at me. “She even knew your name.”

  “No,” Jesse said, still glancing over his shoulder. “She didn’t.”

  “Which one of you is Gabriel Muñoz?”

  I’d been so pissed off about Toile and Cassilyn, I hadn’t seen Milo Morris, Thad Everett, or a half dozen other members of the Fullerton Hills football team approach our secluded table until it was too late. They surrounded us, cutting off our escape, and judging by their combative stances, they were out for blood. Gabe’s blood.

  “Who?” I said, trying to display a mix of nonthreatening confidence and upbeat naïveté. Maybe I could stall them until a teacher walked by?

  Milo nodded behind him. “Some geek over there said that Gabriel Muñoz was sitting at this table. That bitch got Coach fired.”

  I saw Michael Torres waving at me from the main room of the cafeteria. He’d led Milo and Thad right to Gabe. I knew he hated me, but what did he have against my friends?

  No time to puzzle it out. I had to soothe the angry beast.

  “May I inquire as to the nature of your question?” I began.

  Thad pointed his forefinger at me. “Is it you?”

  “You think Gabriel’s a girl?” Gabe snorted. “Dumber than I thought,” he said to Spencer out of the side of his mouth. Only too loud. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Shit.

  Milo’s dark skin flushed red as he grabbed the collar of Gabe’s flannel shirt. “What did you say?”

  “Leave him alone!” I cried.

  Thad glared at me. “Shut the fuck up, Math Girl.”

  “She has a name, you know.” Spencer stared hard at Thad, refusing to look away. I saw the lines of his jaw ripple as he clenched.

  “Yeah?” Milo said, loosening his grip on Gabe’s shirt. “And do you have a name? Wouldn’t happen to be Pussy, would it?”

  Here we go again. Same church, different pew. We were starting senior year as victims, the one role we were trying to avoid. But I’d promised my friends that things could be different this year. Just like in the hallway this morning, I had to do something.

  “Look, gentlemen,” I said, kneeling on the bench to make myself look taller. “I understand that feelings were hurt by Gabe’s article last year, but those are the risks we take to live in a society where we enjoy freedom of speech and freedom of the press. Gabe is entitled to his opinion—”

  “Based on facts,” Gabe added.

  “Bea,” Jesse whispered. “Don’t.”

  Seriously? He’d gushed when I’d stood up for Spencer this morning. Wasn’t he supposed to do the same for me? “And you are entitled to yours.”

  Gabe spread his hands wide. “Based on bullshit.”

  There was a split second where Gabe’s quip seemed to hang suspended in space and time, an elongated moment where I almost thought he might not have said it and I’d just imagined that my friend had waved a red flag in front of an angry bull. Then the world shifted back to regular speed, and as Thad, Milo, and their goons lunged at Gabe, I was sure the next red thing I saw would be blood.

  Instead, I heard a high-pitched voice piercing the angry shouts.

  “Here he is, Mr. Poston,” someone said. Then I saw Kurt Heinzmueller’s round baby face pushing through the crowd with the journalism teacher in tow. “Gabe’s right over here.”

  The instant a faculty member arrived, it was as if a bomb had been defused. Football players scattered, the pitch of tension lessened, and all around us, the student body turned back to their lunches as if no one wanted to get caught rubbernecking.

  “Thanks, Kurt,” Gabe said with a huge sigh the second Milo and Thad backed away.

  Kurt’s face relaxed. “No problem.”

  “Is everything okay here?” Mr. Poston asked.

  Gabe nodded. “Don’t worry. I can handle them.”

  But not to be completely emasculated in front of the student body, just before Milo disappeared into the hallway, he turned and shouted one final threat across the cafeteria. “Watch your backs, losers. I’m coming for you.”

  FIVE

  “SO DO YOU THINK MILO MEANT IT?” JESSE ASKED AS HE drove us to Spencer’s after school.

  I cringed at the name. All my hopes that somehow my friends and I would fly under the radar this year and emerge at graduation physically and emotionally unscathed from the bullying of the jocktocracy had gone up in flames the moment Thad and Milo appeared at our lunch table. They were never going to leave us alone, and if Milo was true to his word, senior year would be our worst yet.

  “I’m sure he’ll forget about us in a day or two,” I lied. Jesse didn’t respond right away and I felt the need to fill the uncomfortable silence. “By Monday, I bet. Totally back to normal.” Normal isn’t actually a good thing, Bea. “I mean, not normal like we’ll get picked on in the halls all the time kind of normal. More like we’ll go back to being invisible. Which sounds really awful, but actually isn’t so bad at all.”

  I was talking fast, the words tumbling one upon another. Was I afraid Jesse wouldn’t like me anymore if he thought I was going to be even less popular this year than I had been before? And if so, what did that say about our relationship?

  “Normal,” he mused. Then he cleared his throat. “I was thinking, maybe at lunch you and me could find our own table. You know, in the main cafeteria maybe?”

  My eyes grew wide. “With all the popular kids?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, why not?”

  I could think of twenty-seven reasons right off the top of my head, including but
not limited to the almost 100 percent chance of daily humiliation at the hands of Milo and Thad.

  But instead of admitting that, I made a more practical argument against Jesse’s plan. “There wouldn’t be room for all four of us,” I said. “And I can’t abandon my friends.”

  “Oh.” He paused. “And why are we hanging out with them after school?”

  “Because I always do,” I blurted out. That was the norm. Homework for me, while Spencer painted and Gabe worked on his newest article.

  Jesse eased the car to a stop at the next light and turned to me for the first time since we left school. “I was thinking maybe we could go to D’Caffeinated,” he said, naming the coffee shop where Cassilyn and her friends sometimes hung out.

  I’d never set foot in D’Caffeinated: not on the way to school, when businessmen and-women were lined up out the door for their daily fix; not on the weekends, when it was mostly college students working on research papers or screenplays that were going to take Hollywood by storm; and certainly not after school, when Fullerton Hills wannabes camped out around the lacquered wood tables hoping to be seen in the same vicinity as the most popular girls in school. “I guess we could go sometime.”

  “Today?” he asked eagerly.

  Why was he suddenly so interested in artisanal coffee beverages? “Spencer and Gabe are waiting for us.”

  “Oh.” Jesse sat up, eyes back on the road. “Right.”

  Gabe was slumped in the corner of the sofa, head resting against the torn fabric of the arm with his knees drawn up to his chest when Jesse and I arrived at Spencer’s studio.

  He heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry I ever wrote that stupid article.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said quickly.

  “You shouldn’t be seen with me in public,” he continued, wallowing in the drama. “You should cut ties with me to save yourselves.”

  Spencer leaned back against the sink, preparing for one of Gabe’s monologues. “Here we go again.”

  “I mean it,” Gabe continued. “I’m an albatross around your necks. Without me, you have a chance. I’ll just start eating lunch in the journalism classroom. Or . . .” He placed his hand on his chest. “Under the football bleachers like a true outcast.”