Rolling Dice

by Beth Reekles

  I feel more than see him looking at me. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpse him smiling at me, amusement glimmering in his big brown eyes.

  I actually feel kind of … kind of cool. Almost flirty. Like someone who knows how to talk to a guy like Bryce, Mr. Popular.

  I stop watching my feet carry me uncertainly up the steps and turn to smile at him; I open my mouth to say something when—

  Smack.

  I groan. “Ouch …”

  I knew I should’ve just worn flats to school. Darn heels!

  I push myself up off my face and check my nose for blood. I do not need a broken nose today!

  Bryce’s hands are on me—in the small of my back and at my elbow—supporting me as I get to my feet again. “Are you all right?”

  “Beyond humiliated,” I laugh shakily, still prodding my sore nose, “but I think so …”

  “You sure?”

  “No.”

  I say it so bluntly, we both laugh. I catch sight of his dimples again. I notice then that he’s still holding me up—except now there’s no reason for it, and I glance at his hand on my elbow. He has to get the hint, but he doesn’t move away or drop his hand.

  Bryce takes me to the office, telling me that everyone will get schedules for the year in their homeroom.

  There’s some middle-aged lady sipping coffee and sorting papers behind the desk we walk up to.

  “Hi, Mrs. Willis,” Bryce says pleasantly.

  She looks up, startled, and then smiles. “Hello, Bryce. How was your summer?”

  “Not too bad,” he says politely. “This is, um … a new student. Transfer from Maine?”

  “Madison,” I tell the lady quietly when she looks at me. “Madison Clarke.”

  “Oh, yes, I know! I’ll be back in a minute,” she says, smiling encouragingly—I guess I must look a bit shy, or nervous. “I just have to find your transcript and make sure everything’s in order.”

  “Okay,” I reply. She walks off into the office and rummages through the filing cabinets, which clank and clatter noisily.

  “So.” Bryce leans on the desk and twists around, raising his eyebrows at me. “Madison Clarke.”

  “Yup.”

  He holds my eye for a moment, and I look away and run a finger over the shiny edge of the desk.

  “I think I’ll stick to Mainstream,” Bryce tells me, and I glance back up at him. “It’s cute.”

  “Whatever floats your boat,” I say with a shrug, but my heart does a strange skittering thing in my chest, and I bite back a smile at the thought that I’ve got a nickname. Not a derogatory nickname, either. It is, like Bryce said, kind of cute.

  “You seem pretty friendly with the secretary,” I carry on, nodding in the direction of the clanking filing cabinet.

  He laughs sheepishly, and shifts his stance slightly. “Yeah …”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  He laughs again. “My stepdad’s the school principal. How’s that for family connections?”

  “Oh. Guess the teachers can’t give you too many detentions, then.”

  Bryce laughs louder at that, shaking his head. “I wish! Nah, my stepdad wouldn’t stand for any of that special treatment stuff.”

  “Oh. Right,” I reply awkwardly, not knowing what sort of response I’m supposed to give.

  “All right! Here you go, Madison.” Mrs. Willis reappears behind the desk with some papers in a neat pile for me. She staples a couple together before putting them back in the pile and pushing them across the desk to me.

  “So here you’ve got your class schedule … and a map of the school. This is a list of all the extracurricular activities, in case you’re interested, and the school rules … and your locker combination.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bryce, will you show Madison around? Or at least to her homeroom?” Mrs. Willis asks. To me, she adds, “I’m sure you’ll make friends, no trouble, and someone will be able to show you to your next class if you need help.”

  I nod, but I’m feeling pretty dubious about the whole “make friends, no trouble” part.

  I scan my schedule, just to see what subjects I’ve been given: Art and Photography, Algebra II, French, English Literature, AP World History, Gym, Biology and—

  “Oh no,” I whisper.

  “What?” Bryce asks.

  “Is something wrong?” Mrs. Willis turns back to me.

  “I have a slight problem …” I put my schedule back on the desk and turn it around so she can see. “AP Physics.”

  “Yes,” she says, nodding. “On your transcript it said—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” I interrupt. I can feel panic beginning to settle in the pit of my stomach. “I don’t do Physics. I barely scraped a B last year. I can’t do AP Physics.”

  The secretary frowns, and then says, “Hmm, it seems that you were scheduled for that, but give me two minutes … I’ll see if there’s space in any other class at that time.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Bryce tells me. “There’s bound to be something else they can fit you into, don’t worry.”

  I gnaw on my lower lip. I can’t do Physics—let alone AP Physics. I’ll fail. I’m not the smartest person, but I promised myself I’d put in the effort here. Problem is, I don’t think I can pass AP Physics, no matter how much effort I put in.

  If Bryce says anything else to comfort me, I don’t hear him over the blood rushing in my ears. I don’t hear anything until the secretary clears her throat. But it’s an ominous kind of throat-clearing, like she’s preparing to give bad news.

  “I’m sorry, Madison, it looks like there was a mix-up on your transcript. The only other classes I could fit you into at that time are AP Trigonometry and American History, but you’re already taking History, and—”

  “I got a C in Trig.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Madison, but there’s really nothing I can do for you without redoing the entire schedule, and with most classes already overenrolled … I may be able to fix something up for next semester, though by then I’m not sure it’d be wise for you to switch …”

  I want to hyperventilate and freak out and insist that she work out my class schedule somehow so I don’t have to take AP Physics (or Trigonometry), no matter how long that will take or how busy she is, but I don’t do that even though I know I’ll regret it.

  Instead, I take a deep breath, smile politely and say, “That’s okay. Thanks anyway.”

  I start walking off, and a moment later Bryce falls into step with me. “Damn,” he says. “That sucks.”

  “Whatever. There’s not much I can do about it now, so no point in making a fuss.”

  Bryce laughs. “You’re a very strange person, you know.”

  “Is that bad?”

  He stops walking, and so I stop walking too. He considers me for a moment, just looking at me with a smile playing across his lips that just hints at his dimples. I stand there staring right back into his eyes, like I’m fearless and confident and not still freaking out inside about AP Physics.

  “No,” he said. “It’s definitely not a bad thing.”

  Chapter 7

  School seems to get busy quickly, with hordes of students pouring through doors and along corridors.

  Bryce and I haven’t reached my locker yet. Other kids are filling the hallway rapidly; the sound of excited chatter and laughter bounces off the walls. Lockers clatter open, but most people just lean against them and catch up with friends.

  It’s the kind of scene I’ve witnessed every year. Everyone’s excited to see their friends again, to talk and exchange stories and laugh and joke. And every year I’d stand by my locker and scroll through songs on my iPod, trying to look occupied, and remaining pointedly oblivious to everything going on around me.

  Now, though, my earphones aren’t in, and I’m with someone who is willing to talk to me. I feel lost. And I’m getting kind of claustrophobic.

  I can’t help it: at the familiar sight of a hallway full of locke
rs and kids on the first day back at school, I freeze up. Even if I am in a whole different state, the scene is all too raw. I remember that first day back at school when Jenna wasn’t there anymore.

  I was running late to homeroom. I was so nervous about the first day back, without my older sister looking out for me, I had hidden out in the bathrooms, locked in a toilet cubicle. I didn’t care if I got a tardy slip; I just wanted to avoid people.

  It didn’t work.

  I was bumped into my locker, an elbow digging into my spine. “Watch it,” said the guy who barged into me.

  I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to say it aloud, really, but I muttered, “You could’ve gone around me. You don’t have to walk right through me.”

  Unfortunately they heard me. Some girls started giggling. I didn’t care who the guy was, because they were all the same. Bullies. I caught a glimpse of the letterman jacket, though, telling me it was a jock. Of course it was.

  “Go around you?” he said, laughing in a way that made my stomach churn. “Pretty hard to do when you’re taking up the whole freakin’ corridor, Fatty Maddie.”

  My cheeks almost flamed, but I kept my gaze fixed on my locker, taking steadying breaths. I wouldn’t let them see how much they got to me. I wouldn’t. That was what egged them on—tears wouldn’t help me now, and they’d certainly gain me no pity from anyone.

  “Oink, oink,” he snorted. I cringed and balled my hands into fists. My one earbud wasn’t enough to drown them all out, oinking and snorting at me, trying to get some kind of reaction. When they saw that I wasn’t about to burst into tears, they gave up and sauntered past. Shoulders and elbows dug into my back, and someone hooked a foot around mine so that I fell forward against my locker. I was on the verge of hyperventilating. All I wanted to do was run to the bathroom, or maybe home. But I didn’t. I collected some books I’d left over the summer, closed my locker door, and put in my other earbud, turning up the volume on my iPod.

  Now, I am overwhelmed by the urge to flee to the bathroom, or maybe even our new home.

  I don’t.

  I take a breath and fall back into step beside Bryce, who is greeting people and hasn’t even noticed I’ve lagged behind.

  “Bryce! Hey, man, how’s your summer been?”

  “Yo, Bryce!”

  “Hey, Bryce!”

  I expect him to ditch me and talk to these people, but all he does is nod and call hello back, saying he’ll catch them later. He stops at what I assume is my locker. Since I don’t have anything to put in it, I don’t bother to open it.

  The bell rings, and the throngs of kids start to disperse to homeroom.

  Bryce looks at my schedule and then says, “Up the stairs and take the corridor on the left. Room 27B.”

  “Well, okay …”

  “You don’t sound very sure,” he laughs.

  “I’m not.”

  “Do you want me to walk you there?” he offers.

  “N-no,” I stammer, and then someone bumps into me and I lose my balance, toppling over into the lockers. I gulp. “No,” I repeat. “It’s fine.”

  Bryce grabs my forearm. “Come on, I’ll walk you there.”

  I let him guide me toward a staircase off the hallway. The crowds thin out as we go up the stairs and turn down the corridor, and he stops as we reach 27B.

  “This is you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, a rush of relief spreading over me. “Seriously, I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Hey, I’ll, uh, catch you later, okay?”

  He shoots another of his grins at me, and I find myself grinning right back at him. “Sure. Yeah. Thanks again.”

  “Anytime, Mainstream.” There’s a chuckle in his voice when he says that, and then he walks back the way we just came. As I turn around to watch him go—though I’m not entirely sure why—I find that there’s a girl standing right behind me.

  The first thing I think is how intimidating she is. It’s in her stance—one perfectly manicured hand on her hip and the other hanging gracefully at her side, with one hip tipped to the side, head held high—and in the way she looks. This girl somehow manages to make a pair of cutoffs and a plain tank top look like something from a fashion magazine; I look more like I’m lounging around the house.

  My second thought is how pretty she is—the kind of pretty that girls are jealous of, while wanting her for a friend. She’s got deep brown skin, and big brown eyes, and her face is soft and round so she looks like a doll. I get the vibe that, whoever she is, she’s popular.

  “How do you know Bryce?” Even her voice rings with the haughty tone of the elite crowd.

  “Um … I, uh, I met him at the—at the party at the beach …,” I stutter, and gulp hard.

  I can’t tell if she’s mad that I was talking to Bryce, or if she’s just curious.

  “You’re new, aren’t you?” This time, her voice is softer, more amicable.

  I nod, and swallow the rising lump of anxiety in my throat.

  Then the unexpected happens: her face breaks into a wide smile and she says, “I’m Tiffany.”

  “Madison.”

  “Where’re you from?”

  “Maine. I moved here over the summer.”

  “Cool.”

  “It’s really not,” I say. “I don’t know why everyone thinks that.”

  She laughs and flicks her hair over her shoulder before hitching up her handbag. I think it’s a designer bag. I try to see the metal clasp on the front—I’m pretty sure it’s Gucci.

  Tiffany notices me looking at it, and she smiles again, twisting around so that I can see it better. “You like? I got it in Milan in July. It’s the real thing, before you ask. Late birthday present from my aunt.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I tell her honestly. I wouldn’t be surprised if everything from her earrings to her jeans is expensive and designer. She nods her head at me. “Cool piercing. It’s cute. Especially with your hair. It’s, like, so punk-rock. Totally chic.”

  “Oh.” I grin widely, flattered by her compliment—and also relieved that the nose piercing and getting my hair cut was totally worth it. “Thanks.”

  All of a sudden we hear a throat being cleared, and we both look around to see a teacher standing with his arms crossed and gray eyebrows raised at us.

  “Are you planning on coming into homeroom anytime today, ladies?”

  “This is Madison,” Tiffany says, in a bubbly, bright voice, grabbing my arm like we’re old friends. “She’s new.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, Madison,” the teacher addresses me, “let’s not make a bad impression on your first day by dawdling outside classes.”

  “Sorry,” I say quietly, ducking my head a little. I never got in trouble back at Pineford—but then again, I never really did anything at all back in Pineford. But I don’t want to make a habit of annoying any teachers this year, even if I am the new Madison.

  The classroom is full of enthusiastic chatter, which hushes slightly as I walk into the classroom with Tiffany right behind me. It’s not the hideous, pregnant pause I expected. No staring, or whispered remarks, or sneers. There’s just a lull in the conversation: people looking at me and wondering who I am. The thing I hate most is them looking at me; it makes my heart thud against my ribs sickeningly. But then the chatter picks back up and I’m not so much of a focal point anymore.

  “Tiff! Over here!” a girl calls brightly, and I look over to see her pulling out a desk chair in the middle of the classroom. There’s an empty desk in front of it too.

  “Come on …” Tiffany walks past me, beckoning. She falls gracefully into the seat pulled out for her, next to a blond girl. I follow, but slowly, hesitantly. My legs are shaky, and they feel unsteady. The heels definitely aren’t doing me any favors so far.

  “This,” Tiffany announces, her voice loud and clear enough to carry across the whole class, even though she’s only talking to the blond girl, “is Madison. Madison, this is Melissa.”

  “
Uh, hi,” I say, and give her a smile.

  Melissa has perfect curls and sun-kissed skin, and she’s dressed almost as well as Tiffany. I’m a little jealous that they make casual look so … so wow.

  She looks me up and down, and I can see her taking in every detail. I’m suddenly super-aware of the fleck of mud on the front of my shoes, and I sit down on the chair at the desk in front of Tiffany, but stay facing them.

  “Hi,” Melissa says. “Welcome to Midsommer High. Home of the Hounds.”

  “Right, everyone,” says the teacher. I turn around in my seat. “I have your class schedules here. Hand these out,” he tells the boy closest to him, setting down a pile of papers.

  The boy sighs and gets up to give everyone the schedules. People immediately start comparing, and either grumbling about their teachers or sighing in relief that their schedules are all A-OK.

  Lucky for some.

  I just sit there until the bell rings for first period, wondering exactly how I ended up sitting in homeroom with what must be two of the most popular girls in school, with AP Physics on my schedule.

  I can’t decide if the new Madison’s life is going to suck, or turn out seriously awesome.

  Chapter 8

  I make it through the entire morning without falling on my face again, at least.

  When I walk into Art and Photography third period, I see the familiar sight of scraggly, mousy brown hair and one and a half eyebrows amid the circle of easels and the tables set up with vases of flowers or bowls of fruit, ready for a still-life drawing.

  “Carter!” I all but bound across the classroom toward him. In the process, I bump into a table with a wooden bowl containing two apples and some grapes. I hop, trying to keep my balance, and manage to save the table and an apple. Everything else falls to the floor.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, and duck my head—but of course, I no longer have the long curtain of hair to hide behind. I feel so exposed: everyone who’s already in class is looking at the strange new girl who just destroyed a display.

  I hear a chair scrape and footsteps head toward me as I pick up the grapes. The person kneels down to grab the bowl and the other apple for me.