As if sensing her scrutiny, he slowed and turned back to her, jogging on the spot. “You… ’kay… hon?” he puffed.
“I am fine. Thank you.” She stood, and considered her options given the available data. His expression revealed only concern for her wellbeing. His breathing had been labored and his running technique far too inefficient for him to be a regular runner. He had neither the appearance nor the demeanor of a physically fit, trained operative. Conclusion? Harmless.
He gave up jogging and stood, feet apart, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck from side to side. “Yanno, a young girl like you shouldn’t be out alone at this hour.”
Jay cocked her head and considered his statement carefully. “Why? Are you planning on attacking me?”
He blew out a laugh that turned into a wheezing cough. When he’d caught his breath again he said, “Funny girl. This is Snapperton, fergodsakes—safe as houses. ’Sides, I get the feeling you could outrun me with both hands tied behind your back.”
“You are correct in that last assumption.”
“You oughta head back home before your folks figure out you’re AWOL,” he said. “If I found my daughter missing at this hour, I’d be frantic. And when I found her, she’d be grounded for the term of her natural life.”
“May I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Why are you out alone at this hour?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Thought going for a run might tire me out.”
She nodded. “Me, too.” And to alleviate any further concerns he might have, she added, “I’m heading home now.”
“Good-o.” He waved at her as he headed off again. And, after reviewing the conversation, Jay concluded it would be prudent to do as he had suggested and return home before she attracted any more attention. In future, she would limit her “exercise” to more acceptable daylight hours.
~~~
At what she deemed to be an appropriate hour of the morning, Jay exited her apartment again, this time heading in the direction of the school she’d chosen. Not that she’d truly had a choice of high schools because Snapperton boasted only the one: Greenfield High.
She adjusted the straps of her backpack and began pumping her arms as she walked, copying the movements of a group of elderly females on the opposite side of the road. As she powered past two girls who were slightly younger than Jay appeared to be, she heard them giggling. They were talking about her—what a “dork” she was, and how “uncool” it was to be seen power-walking, “’Cause, like, my grandma does that!”
Jay replayed the girls’ conversation, analyzing intonation, sentence construction and slang usage, along with facial expressions and body language. The speed she was walking, and the manner in which she was swinging her arms, was apparently not acceptable. She slowed her pace, let her arms hang loosely at her sides, and instructed her body to move in a way that would not attract further comment.
Humans were such complex creatures. And the only human she’d extensively interacted with had been Alexander Durham, the man she’d called Father. Instant access to a myriad of databases and information was no substitute when it came to blending in with modern-day teens. He should have provided her with suitable subjects to observe and mimic. It was unconscionably careless of him to have put her at risk by neglecting such a crucial part of her education.
An insistent, high-pitched noise intruded on her thought processes, yanking her into the present… and the realization she was standing in the middle of the pavement, jaws clamped together, fists tightly clenched at her sides, her entire body tensed, and her skin flushed with heat.
She performed an internal diagnostic and concluded everything was in order. But there had been no imminent danger, not even the vaguest hint of a potential threat. There was no valid reason for her to have reacted in such a way. Odd.
The duration of the anomaly had been one minute thirty-eight seconds—long enough for her behavior to be deemed strange, and perhaps even noteworthy, if she had been observed. She scanned the street and surrounds. The two girls were nowhere to be seen. The probability they’d passed her by and turned the corner up ahead was high enough that Jay dismissed them from her mind. Her immediate concern was the elderly man approaching her at a shuffle.
Attached to a lead the man clutched in his hand was a small, scruffy, extremely voluble creature that Jay identified as canine, primarily terrier, intermixed with at least five other breeds.
Humans seemed to find these creatures useful. Jay could understand the value of the larger breeds. She could even appreciate those canines bred primarily for their unique physical characteristics. But this one possessed no pleasing physical characteristics that she could discern. Its primary function seemed to be housing fleas and making an awful lot of noise.
“Are you all right, young lady?” the old man said, in a voice that quavered. “Seeing you standing there like some fierce statue gave me a bit of a turn.”
“Yes. Thank you for asking, though. I was deep in thought and standing very still helps me to think.” She smiled at the man until the frown lines creasing his face eased.
“Penny for them,” he cackled.
Jay searched her databases for quotations and sayings. Ah. He referred to her thoughts. She snorted—a response she’d discovered to be useful in some awkward social situations. “I do not believe my thoughts are worth that much.”
Now the normal thing to do would be to pat the canine. This action might also serve to deflect the man’s curiosity about her thoughts—and her apparently unusual manner in thinking them. “May I pat your dog?”
“Sure. Fifi don’t much like strangers, though. She might nip you.”
Jay squatted on her haunches and held out her left hand. As she’d observed humans do, she clicked her fingers to invite the dog to approach and sniff her scent. “Here, girl,” she said, keeping her tone gentle and encouraging. “Here, Fifi.”
The little canine inched forward, its entire body wriggling with indecision. Then it whined and leaned back, sticking its rear in the air and waggling its stubby tail. Its antics were so comical Jay found it ridiculously easy to remember to smile.
The dog’s acute sense of smell had detected Jay’s otherness. Little wonder it was reluctant to approach. Jay tweaked the chemical mix of her pheromones until her pores secreted an odor more appealing to canine creatures. The dog gave a series of high-pitched yaps. It bounded forward with an enthusiastic bark and buried its nose in her hand. Then it sat on its haunches and scratched behind one ear.
Poor little creature. The fleas must be driving it to distraction. Jay concocted a specific mix from her body’s available chemical compounds. She ruffled the fur on the dog’s back and the flea repellent oozed from the pores of her fingertips, transferring onto its skin. “Who’s a brave girl?” she crooned.
“Well, I never!” the old man said. “You must be something quite special, young lady.”
Jay made her left eyelid droop in a wink. “Oh,” she said, “I am.”
He cackled again, appreciative of her attempt at wit.
She was gaining more proficiency at this nebulous skill humans called humor. She gave the dog one last rub, ensuring its freedom from fleas for the next four to six weeks. “I have to go or I’ll be late for school. See you, Fifi. You be a good girl, now.”
The old man grinned back at her, his nut-brown eyes all but disappearing in a sea of wrinkles. “Goodbye, young lady.” He and the dog meandered off down the path.
Jay reviewed the interaction and concluded she’d acquitted herself adequately, and done nothing further to raise the old man’s suspicions. From what she understood about social interactions at high school, though, any hint of out of the ordinary behavior would not be so easily forgiven. It was imperative she closely mimic the behavior of her peers so she didn’t stand out in any way. Still, it should not be beyond her capabilities to seamlessly integrate into high school life. She did not believe attending high
school could be anything close to “hell on earth”, as was so frequently claimed in the numerous accounts she’d read.
A tight lump settled in her stomach. For a moment she was confused by the sensation, and then she dismissed it as hunger pangs—merely her body’s way of reminding her to re-fuel if she wished to maintain her optimum physical condition.
Humans were lamentably prone to exaggeration. How bad could high school possibly be?
~~~
Tyler’s gel-slimed fingers paused mid-sweep through his shaggy hair. His gaze zeroed in on a reddened blotch. He thrust his chin closer to the mirror to examine the emerging zit. Great. Just freaking great. As if today wasn’t gonna suck enough already.
A rattle of the bathroom door was followed by a muffled curse and loud thumping. “Hurry up, Tyler!” His sister’s voice was a banshee-worthy screech.
He rinsed his hands, wrapped his towel more securely around his hips, and unlocked the door. His twin, Caro, squeezed her eyes shut, counted to five, and then opened them again to gaze at him like she hoped she’d been imagining things. Her gasp reeked of unmitigated horror. “Omigod!”
The lump on Tyler’s chin gave an answering throb. His hand crept to his face.
“What have you done to your hair?” She advanced toward him with hands outstretched, a determined expression in her eyes. He grit his teeth and resigned himself to the coming torture, smothering yelps and blinking furiously watering eyes as she combed her fingers through his hair and roughly tugged it into submission.
Caro had gotten one hundred percent of their allocated personal style gene. She shopped at thrift stores and camped out at the mall when the sales were on, but the truth was no matter what she wore, the popular girls forgave her. And the jocks wanted into her panties. Tyler knew this because many of his former so-called friends had made a point of telling him so, hoping to provoke him into losing his cool. But Tyler had given up getting pissed about what they said, and how they said it. Apart from the major downside of risking getting pummeled for mouthing off, he’d finally realized his sister loved the attention—thrived on it, even.
Mind you, if any girl could keep a bunch of guys with sewers for brains in line it was his sister. When Caro got seriously riled, she put every evil twin ever portrayed in a horror flick to shame. Tyler wished she’d turn some of that evil twin mojo on her current boyfriend and quit giving him second chances. Shawn was a douche—among other things.
“There.” Caro backed off and eyed him, head tilted to one side, lips pursed. “Yep. You’ll do. You know, as much as it kills me to say this, the whole tortured emo look suits you. Those dark smudges under your eyes really give it authenticity.”
She said it in an admiring way, like he’d deliberately chosen to emulate the living dead.
As if. Tyler’s “look” was a long overdue trip to the barber and plain old insomnia. He’d spent most of the night either pacing the floor and humming to himself, or hunched over his desk scribbling down lyrics. When the muse got vocal, he had no choice but to surrender.
“Go find some clothes before my eyes start bleeding,” Caro said. “Unless of course you’re planning on going to school wearing that towel?” She threw him a wicked grin. “If nothing else, it would make one heckuva fashion statement.”
He glanced at his watch. His stomach somersaulted. “Jeez! Would it have killed you to mention how late it was?”
“You can catch a ride with me and Nessa if you want,” she said.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Last thing he needed was to be cooped up in a confined space with his sister’s BFF, Vanessa. Who also happened to be his ex. And treated him like something she’d scraped off her shoe despite everything he’d done for her.
His sister heaved a long-suffering sigh and shrugged. “Whatever.”
Tyler raced into his bedroom. He yanked clothes from drawers, discovered his jeans in the pile on the floor, and threw himself into them. He located one sneaker in the corner by the wardrobe. The other had mysteriously ended up so far beneath his bed he had to crawl under it to fish it out. He raked his hair out of his eyes. So much for his styling-by-Caro look.
He grabbed his backpack and clomped downstairs. No time for breakfast—not that he could stomach cereal. Not today.
His mother glanced up from her mag. She sucked down a huge gulp of black coffee before giving him a smile that oozed sympathy. “Morning, kiddo. First period, right?” She paused for his nod. “At least the torture will be over and done with first up.”
“Yeah.” Provided he didn’t disgrace himself and end up being the butt of the entire school. At least when he’d been a jock-god, the fallout from the last embarrassing incident had died down pretty quickly. If he succumbed again, this time the fallout would be real bad.
“Gotta go or I’ll miss the bus.”
“Don’t forget your lunch.” His mom jerked her chin at the brown paper bags sitting on the kitchen counter. “And you really should eat something, sweetie. Breakfast is—”
“I know, I know. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” He kissed his mom’s cheek, grabbed the bag with the T scrawled on it, and snagged an apple from the fruit bowl. “Happy, now?” he managed around a mouthful of apple.
“Ecstatic.” His mother rolled her eyes ceiling-ward in eerie imitation of her daughter. Tyler shuddered. Definitely genetic.
“I know better than to say, ‘Have a good day’,” she said. “Just try to get through it without a trip to the nurse, okay?”
“Thanks for reminding me,” he muttered, reaching for the door handle.
“Oh, almost forgot,” his mom said, raising her voice as he slid through the doorway. “I’ve got to finish up a proposal for the boss so I’ll be late. Probably around half-six. Does your team have practice tonight?”
“No, Mom. Caro’s squad practices Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, because Bettina’s a total slave-driver. My team practices on Tuesdays. Remember?”
“Oh. Right. I knew that. And don’t forget it’s your turn to cook dinner.”
“I know!” he yelled as the door slammed shut behind him. Outstanding. He’d have the house to himself for a bit. Might even have a chance to get the song fermenting inside his head down on paper.
He sauntered down the driveway, pretending to be oblivious to the annoying yarping of their elderly neighbor’s fleabag dog. Ah, to hell with it. He halted and turned on his heel to confront Fifi, or Fufu, or whatever the mangy little beast was called, and hit it with his fiercest scowl. “Grrrr!”
Fufu yawned, and then squatted to pee on the grass.
Tyler groaned. Pathetic. If he couldn’t even face down an upholstered rat of a dog, what chance did he have?
The coughing of an ancient engine caught his attention. The bus? Crap! He ditched his apple core and sprinted down the street, skidding to a halt just as the bus doors jerked to a close behind the lone student who’d been waiting at the stop.
“Hey!” He whacked a door with the flat of his hand.
The driver favored him with a sneer that spread all over his fat face.
Crap. Looked like he’d be walking to school. Again. And he’d be late. Again.
“Hold the bus,” someone yelled.
Tyler recognized one of his former teammates. “Yeah. Would if I could, dude.” He spread his arms palms outward to indicate helplessness in the face of bus drivers who had it in for him.
The guy rushed up to the bus, and as he pushed past to smack both hands on the doors, his pack swung and clouted Tyler in the face. Nice.
“Hey! Open up!” the guy yelled at the driver.
The doors hissed reluctantly open.
“Thanks, dude,” Tyler said, rubbing his cheek.
The guy ignored him and boarded the bus.
Huh. Why was he even surprised to be so thoroughly ignored? It was just more of the same old, same old.
Tyler clambered aboard. “Thanks for stopping to let me on, sir,” he said to the driver, his voice thro
bbing with over-the-top politeness, just to really rub it in.
The driver muttered something uncomplimentary and his piggy little eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Tyler knew the man was watching his progress, waiting ’til he was just about to take his seat.
Tyler was wise to his nasty-ass tricks. Hell, he was an old hand at this now. It’d taken a humiliating face-plant in a girl’s lap, and a butt-sprawl on the bus floor that had scattered the contents of his bag all over the place, but he’d learned. So when the driver shoved the bus in gear and floored the accelerator, he swung into the nearest empty seat and plunked his butt safely down.
Tyler: one. Assholes: nil.
He leaned his cheek against the window and closed his eyes. The song lurking inside him broke free and his fingers tapped out the notes on his denim-clad thigh.
Freaks of Greenfield High Page 2