by Kelli Warner
“It’s probably quite a workload for any student.” I twist my watchband in a circle and glance at the wall clock above the door.
Mrs. Hopkins shoots me a close-lipped smile. “According to your transcripts, you’re a solid student.”
I lean slightly forward, trying to see what else those papers say about me.
“Jay mentioned that you dance. Have you had an opportunity to connect with the dance team here at Mystic High?” Her curious eyes probe mine.
I shake my head.
“Why not?”
Because I don’t plan on staying. Because dancing makes me happy and I can’t be happy right now. Because—
“You know, Paige, connecting with student groups can be very beneficial.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but why exactly am I here?”
She smiles, but this time I get the full grin, perfectly aligned pearly whites displayed behind glossy pink lips. “I like to get to know all our new students. Find out what your interests are and help you make your time here at Mystic a positive and successful experience.” I wonder if she memorized that from the school brochure.
“That’s what the guidance counselor said to me yesterday. When he called me into his office,” I say.
During our brief meeting, Mr. King, who seemed too young to have received much guidance himself, and who’d likely only been dispensing it to students for a year or two at the most, had plied me with a smorgasbord of questions about my interests and plans for the future. He’d wanted to know if I’d given much thought to my career path and which colleges I might be considering attending. I’d almost felt bad for him. He’d tried so desperately to stir some small spark of hope in me, but the truth is, I can’t conceive of a future without dancing, or a future without my mom there to guide and support me. So, suffice it to say, despite his best efforts, disappointment was all I’d left him with. And now it’s Mrs. Hopkins’s turn.
“Are you sure I’m not here because my father is your boss, and he wants you to find out if there’s something wrong with his kid?” Yup, there it is, a little bit of uncomfortable surprise warming her cheeks.
Mrs. Hopkins blinks several times. “Paige—”
“Oh, I get it.” I stand. “Trust me, I get it. I’m sure Jay has told you all about me and our…situation. He has, right?”
Closing the folder and lacing her fingers together on the desk, she nods.
“So, just ask me what you want to know. I don’t mean for that to sound obnoxious, honest. But please, get to the point, because I’m tired of people treating me like I might break.” My boldness feels good.
Mrs. Hopkins opens her mouth to speak, but a knock at the door interrupts her. Without waiting for an invitation, Karen pops her head in.
“So sorry to interrupt, but could I steal you for a minute?”
“Can this wait?” Mrs. Hopkins asks.
“I’m afraid not,” Karen says.
“My apologies, Paige.” Mrs. Hopkins stands and smooths out her pencil skirt. “Make yourself comfortable. I’d like to continue our conversation when I return. I won’t be long.”
Take your time. I’m in no hurry to talk.
While she’s gone, I move to the window, which overlooks the cafeteria courtyard. Kids are beginning to gather for lunch. I’m not sure which irritates me more: that I’m here in Mrs. Hopkins’s office and not with my friends, or that Jay has his staff doing his dirty work for him.
In my first three days at this school, I’ve managed to find myself in every administrator’s office. Although I will say, as the school’s assistant principal, Mrs. Hopkins has the nicest office of all. Instead of institutional gray, her walls are painted a robin’s-egg blue, and there’s a small sofa with decorative throw pillows. But she’s still the assistant principal, so—how messed up does Jay think I am? Maybe he’d have some idea if he bothered to take the time to ask me himself. But Jay’s been distant since picking me up at the airport. Nice and all, but distant, like he’s not exactly sure what to say to me, or worried I might unleash more questions on him that he doesn’t want to answer. Not like Connie; she’s gone a full 180 in the opposite direction, nearly smothering me with her time and attention. I honestly don’t know which is worse.
And I can’t seem to make the nightmares stop. I had another one this morning. This time, I was young, maybe six, and I was performing in a ballet recital. I’d practiced for weeks, and I was confident and excited, but as I took my first steps onto the stage, my legs became as heavy as mud. I glanced down and discovered that they were no longer my legs, just thick blocks of cement. I couldn’t move. Everyone was staring at me, and all I could hear above the murmurs of the audience was my instructor, some faceless presence calling out to me to begin, and then her growing agitation when I couldn’t respond to her commands. She just kept yelling at me, but no matter what I did, I still couldn’t react. The audience began to snicker and then laugh. When the laughter reached a fever pitch, it morphed into something wicked. The screeching of tires and the explosion of metal against metal assaulted me. The laughing turned to bloodcurdling screams that pierced me to my core, and all I saw was broken glass—and my mother. She needed me, and I was helpless, unable to move, unable to reach her. Unable to save her.
I’d woken, just as I had from all the other nightmares, dizzy and disoriented and covered in sweat. I suppose that’s the kind of thing I should share with Mrs. Hopkins, but there’s no way I’m going to do that.
I drum my fingernails on the windowsill and spot Quinn, Sam and Zoey at a table near the cafeteria doors. They’re laughing about something, and I wish I were there with them. How many more questions will I have to answer before Mrs. Hopkins lets me go, satisfied that she’s somehow managed to help the principal’s emotionally wounded daughter? Ugh.
Mrs. Hopkins sweeps through the door and repositions herself at her desk. “Sorry for that. Where were we?”
“You were wondering just how messed up I am,” I innocently remind her, taking a seat across from her once again.
That close-lipped smile returns. “No, I wasn’t,” she says gently. “But I do know what you’ve been through and—”
“And Jay’s wondering if I’m okay,” I finish.
“Paige, I will always be honest with you. So, yes, he’s a little concerned. And I don’t blame him. You’ve been through a lot. First, losing your mother the way you did—” My hand slides over my watch as a familiar heaviness liquifies in my chest. “And then moving to Mystic. You’ve been asked to handle some pretty heavy issues that would be hard for an adult to comprehend, let alone a seventeen-year-old girl. It’s okay if you’re struggling.” Mrs. Hopkins pauses and gazes at me with sympathetic eyes. “But it’s not okay to struggle alone.”
The pressure of unshed tears pulses behind my eyes. I wish they would just finally spill out. Maybe if I could cry, I could feel normal—and finally forgive myself. And maybe, if I unloaded my tears, Mrs. Hopkins and every other adult in this building would stop looking at me like some project that needs fixing. But I can’t cry, so I stand abruptly.
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m doing okay. Yes, this whole place is a transition, but I’ll figure it out. So, if you don’t have any more questions, could I head to lunch? My friends are waiting for me.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Hopkins concedes. I lunge for the door at lightning speed, but not quite fast enough. My hand is on the doorknob when she says, “Let’s check in with each other next week.”
“Really?” I ask.
“I’ll see you on Wednesday. Bring your lunch and meet me here.”
I sigh, then nod and walk out of her office, not even bothering to acknowledge Karen as she gives me a little wave.
After picking up my lunch bag from my locker, I locate the girls at a table in the center of the courtyard.
“How bad was it?” Quinn asks as I take a seat next to her. She’s purging the lettuce from her sandwich.
“It was fine,”
I mutter. “What did I miss?”
“We were talking about dance team practice after school and how you just have to come with us today,” Quinn says. “Seriously, Paige, do not make me beg again.”
“’Cause she totally will.” Sam winks.
“I can’t. I have to take my car to the mechanic. Jay’s orders.”
“I can’t believe your dad gave you a car!” Zoey squeals. “I’ve been saving for a car for like a billion years, and you get one handed to you.”
Zoey referring to Jay as my dad is like being forced to wear a sweater that’s two sizes too small, but I let it go. The car thing was a complete surprise. Jay explained that when they bought Connie’s Prius last spring, they intended to save her old Camry for Tanner. Instead, after what felt like an interrogation about my driving record—which is shiny and clean, thank you very much—and a lecture about the responsibility of operating a motor vehicle, he handed me the keys, then insisted I take it to his mechanic for a tune-up.
“Have you dropped off any job applications yet?” Sam asks.
“I’m working on it,” I say.
“I would sooner die than work in fast food.” Quinn makes a face. “The uniforms are awful!”
“That’s not true,” Sam corrects. “My uniform at the Burger Shack is really comfy. T-shirt and jeans. What’s wrong with that?”
“Well,” Quinn says, tearing the crust from her sandwich. “Just stay away from the Arcade. Mr. Gordon is kind of weird.”
“Oh, and the dry cleaner is run by old lady Miller. Some people think she’s a witch,” Zoey informs me. She works at the wad of gum in her mouth until a perfectly symmetrical pink bubble swells from her puckered lips.
“Let me guess, the movie theater is owned by a vampire, and the Grab & Go is run by Robin Hood and his Merry Men,” I quip, stripping the peel from my orange.
Quinn shoots me a sour face. “Ha ha. Laugh all you want, we’re just trying to help.”
I appreciate it. They can’t possibly know how much their friendship means to me. Being the new kid hasn’t been as awful as I’d expected, even though plenty of eyes still turn in my direction when I walk down the halls or stare at me during classes. I have the feeling that the stigma that comes with being the principal’s daughter is forever etched somewhere on my skin for all to see. But I can handle it now because Quinn and her friends make me feel so included. Even though I don’t plan to be here long, I am grateful to feel I belong somewhere.
“The fast-food applications are just to cover the bases. I’m actually hoping to find something that inspires me, you know?” I open my milk carton. “Maybe something that betters the world in some way.”
Quinn chokes on a laugh. “Good luck with that one.” She puts down her sandwich as a serious expression consumes her fair-skinned, lightly freckled face. “What inspires me is that Miranda Campbell’s sister is having a party next week and we’re invited!”
Zoey and Sam squeal as I ask, “Who’s Miranda Campbell?”
She’s in our lit class,” Quinn replies. “Some of the girls in her sister’s sorority rented a beach house for Halloween weekend.”
“So, we’re crashing a sorority party?” I ask.
“Nooooo,” she drawls, rolling her eyes. “Miranda invited us. And where there are sorority girls, there are always frat guys!”
“Miranda and her sister are really close. Her sister graduated three years ago, and she’s famous for her parties. If you get the chance to go to one of them, you don’t miss it unless you’re in the hospital or dead,” Zoey says as matter-of-factly as a Wikipedia page.
“I hate to be the buzzkill here, but there’s no way Jay is going to let me go to a sorority party on Halloween. Your parents are seriously okay with you doing that?” I ask.
“Of course not,” Quinn replies as Zoey and Sam shake their heads. “That’s why we’re not going to tell them. You’re going to tell your dad that you’re staying at my house on Friday night. Just say it’s a slumber party.”
“And what about your mom? She works in the school, remember? They’re bound to talk,” I point out.
Quinn’s eyes lose some of their excitement. “It’ll be fine. My mom won’t even know we’re gone.” Before I can begin to decode that, Quinn sits up tall and with renewed excitement says, “Frat guys will be a nice change from immature high school guys.”
I’m surprised Quinn doesn’t have a boyfriend. She’s pretty and flirty, and I’ve seen the way guys look at her. “So, none of you are dating anyone?” I ask.
Sam shakes her head as Zoey says, “Quinn doesn’t do relationships.” I glance at Quinn, who’s suddenly very interested in the nutritional label on the back of her Vitamin Water.
“Why is that?” My eyes ping-pong between the three of them and finally rest on Quinn.
“Because they don’t last,” Quinn says, in a tone that implies everyone should know that, and if they don’t, they’re stupid. I want to ask her more, but she’s already moving our conversation in a different direction. “Paige, you’re new here, so you should know what you’re dealing with. We don’t want you to make any mistakes.”
Sam nods resolutely. “At that table over there are kids from the Chess Club.” She wrinkles her nose.
Quinn jerks her chin toward the table across from us and lowers her voice. “Those are the band kids. They’re nice, but—you know what I mean. Now, over there you have the jocks, obviously. They’re fun, but proceed with caution.”
I scan the crowd where she indicates. Several of the guys, including Gio, wear letterman jackets and the others look like they could be wrestlers, football players or bench press their own weight—or at least the weight of a couple of the band kids.
“Isn’t that a little stereotypical?” I ask.
“I’m trying to help you.”
“But I’m not looking for a boyfriend right now,” I say.
Quinn grabs my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my seat. “Exactly! And it’s when you’re not looking for one that you are most likely to find one. And we’re here to make sure you don’t find the wrong one.”
As she continues to point out the various kids at different tables, my eyes scan the courtyard and abruptly stop when I spot Cade Matthews talking to someone through the chain-link fence. I can’t get a good look at the guy on the other side, but they appear to be in a serious conversation.
“Hey, Quinn. Look over there.”
She stops her monologue in midsentence and shifts her focus to where I’m pointing.
Cade glances around, then reaches into his pocket and passes something small through the fence to the guy on the other side. The guy shoves whatever he’s received into the front pocket of his jeans.
“Who is Cade talking to?” I ask. Just as the last word crosses my lips, Cade catches my gaze. My eyes drop to my lunch. When I glance up a few seconds later, he’s walking away from the fence toward the school. The guy on the other side is several yards away, getting into a junky old car parked at the curb.
“I don’t know who that is,” Quinn says. “Cade hangs out with an older crowd. They don’t go to school here.”
“What kind of crowd?” I ask.
“Let’s put it this way: your dad would crap bricks if you went anywhere near them.”
Again with the dad reference? I dismiss it and continue to probe her with questions. She seems to be pretty up-to-date with most people’s business at this school. “So, what’s this Cade guy’s deal?” I’d heard bits and pieces of the gossip shortly after the fight in the cafeteria, but some of it seemed a little too dramatic to be true.
Quinn rests her elbows on the table and steeples her fingers beneath her chin. “Why so interested?”
I shrug. “I’m not. Just curious. I mean, Cade and Dane did throw down in the middle of the cafeteria three days ago. Guys like that have to have a backstory.”
“Well,” Quinn pensively says, “I told you his dad’s in jail, right?” I nod casually. “I’m not exactly s
ure what happened, but his mom died when we were in middle school.”
I swallow hard as my half-eaten lunch roils in my stomach. My fingers drop my sandwich on the table and instinctively drift to my wrist, to the feel of smooth glass. “What happened to her?” I whisper.
Realization dawns on Quinn’s face, and she straightens, looking like she wants to take back the words, but can’t seem to figure out how to do it. “I’m not sure,” she says.
Oblivious to the unspoken conversation about the loss of my own mother wedged between Quinn and me, Zoey blurts out, “When we were freshmen, Cade stopped coming to school. Just disappeared. Rumor was, he got messed up with a gang or some bad crowd like that. Just fell off the radar. Then boom! Last year, he was suddenly back in school.”
“Where had he been?” I ask.
“Some say juvenile detention, others say drug rehab. I’m not sure. It’s kind of sad either way,” Sam finishes.
That is sad, and I’m not sure what to say. I have so many questions, but they aren’t ones that Quinn, Sam or Zoey can answer. Only Cade has the information to quell my curiosity. And who knows? Maybe someday, I’ll get up the nerve to ask him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cade
“Dude, you’re so late,” Jared says, glancing at the wall clock as I enter the break room.
“Where’s Mac?” I ask, shelving my motorcycle helmet on top of my locker and shaking out of my jacket. I quickly button up the work shirt I’m wearing over my T-shirt and smooth the front. “Did he ask where I was?”
Jared flips a page in the magazine he’s reading and takes a big bite of his sandwich before he answers, “He’s old, but he’s not blind.” A few crumbs fly out of his mouth as he responds, and he wipes them off the magazine with his forearm.
“Where is he?”
“He’s been under a Chevy out there for over an hour.” Jared shrugs. “Maybe, if you’re lucky, he forgot about you.”
You know that feeling of being wound too tight and things just seem to keep piling on? That’s where I’m at. I head out the door and into the hallway, quickening my steps as I reach the auto bay. I scan the ample space, and when I don’t see Mac, I exhale the breath I’m holding and snag one of the work orders off the wall.