“Can I help you?” a young teacher in a button-up shirt and paisley tie asks. This must be Mr. Shelf.
“Yes, um, I’m new.”
“Oh!” He grabs a few things off his desk and hands them to me. “Here, take these. This is your syllabus and your book… What’s your name?” He’s talking very fast, and I’m not sure I know what he’s even talking about. What’s a syllabus?
“Anna Rodriguez.”
I sit down at the first empty seat, next to a redheaded girl with braces.
The young teacher begins talking about some group project. He tells me I can skip it and write an essay instead. He makes it sound so simple.
Group projects. Essays. Syllabuses.
Yeah, I am definitely in over my head.
But as much as an essay sounds like a trip to the dentist, I’d rather work alone than with these kids whose wide-eyed looks are starting to make me wonder if I have antennas poking out from under my curls. It’s like I’m some kind of alien. Guess I kind of am.
The redheaded girl keeps glancing over at me. Easy enough to ignore. I’m just the new girl.
But then I hear someone whisper something to her that could be meaningless or could mean everything.
A boy leans over to the redhead and whispers, “She’s that girl.”
I raise my eyebrows.
That girl from L.A.? The punished heiress? The foreign exchange student?
“What girl?” the redhead says.
“The one that disappeared. For years.”
My stomach twists. I’m pretty sure I might throw up. How in fuck’s name would he know that?
My hands start to shake; my head pounds. Thanks, Mom, this was an awesome idea. I close my eyes and listen for any more whispers. Is this all they know? Is even this just a rumor? I need to know how much they’ve figured out.
“Mr. Thomas,” Mr. Shelf says, louder than before. “Care to explain what the fuss is all about?”
The whole class turns to the now red-faced skinny boy behind us. “Anna Rodriguez is the girl they’ve been looking for since sixth grade. I remember seeing the posters.”
“Do I look like that girl?” I ask. Blood is pounding in my ears now, but I know I don’t look anything like that old Anna, and that might be my only way out of this now. “We could just have the same name,” I say with a confidence I don’t feel.
“Come now,” Mr. Shelf says. “You’ll have a chance to get to know our new student after class is over.” The class quiets, and he leans down next to me. “Are you okay?”
I nod. The last thing I want to do is run out of the classroom. Then they’ll know something is wrong.
Mr. Shelf resumes teaching, and I do my best to look normal, but I still see eyes darting toward me. I try to ignore them, but it’s hard.
I cross my arms, feel my armor rising. They’re just rumors right now.
They don’t know the real truth. With a little luck, they never will.
I jump when the bell finally rings, much louder than I remember it being.
While everyone else leaves class—the only thing more interesting than the new girl is the chance to escape the room, I guess—I sit there and watch them exit. Desperate for a second alone.
“Do you need anything, Anna?” the teacher asks me. “Are you okay?”
Scratch that. There’s really no chance to be alone, not here.
“Don’t worry about them,” he says. “They’re just interested in the new girl. It happens every time.”
I don’t answer, just grab my things and head out into the packed hallway.
Strangely enough, things seem to slow down once I’m out there. It almost feels like I’m back in the city, surrounded by strangers. Almost invisible. No one says my name, no one calls me a hooker, and no one points in my face.
But when I start forward to my next class, the boy and the redhead point at me, and the people they’re with, three other kids leaning against the lockers, they turn toward me all at the same time.
I want to wrap myself up in a sweater or something. Anything to keep myself away from their curious stares.
“Seriously?” the redhead says. “That’s that girl from middle school?”
“I heard she had like three kids.”
The redhead gasps. “What is she? Some kind of slut?”
So much for being someone new. I’ll always be dirty Anna.
I duck my head and press my way through the crowd, and then I realize that I have no clue where I’m going. I just continue to walk. I keep my eyes mostly to the floor but glance up every once in a while to see if I can find something or someone to save me.
“I heard she was in rehab!”
They think it’s funny to say those things about me. But all they have are rumors. If they knew the truth, the full truth, would they still be laughing? If they knew what I had to do to survive, would they hate me or pity me?
“I heard they found her shacked up with some rich sugar daddy…”
“No way!”
“Where’s she been for three years, then?”
I shove myself past some big girl who’s probably not used to being pushed around, but I don’t care. She makes an indignant grunting noise, but I’m not scared of her, just like I’m not scared of anyone else here. Not the students. Not the teachers.
As horrible as this feels—the eyes, the name-calling, the thoughts in my head that tell me I don’t have a future—none of it can be as bad as what I’ve already been through. I have the scars to prove it.
“Gross, I can smell the skank from here.”
No one knows. No one will ever know what I’ve been through. No one but Luis.
Unfortunately, thinking about those bad things only opens the floodgates to memories I’d rather forget.
My breathing is quick and heavy, my heart pounding. I try to convince myself I’m okay, but the bodies pressing in on me are impossible to ignore.
A massive hand crashes into my chest. My back slams against a wall behind me. It’s dark and I can barely see my attacker. But I can feel his hot breath on my face.
I shake my head. It’s just a memory. The past. I’m not there now.
I close my eyes and hear Luis’s voice telling me how strong I am. How amazing I was to live through everything and still come out fighting.
I was on the streets, ready to give up, crumple into a ball, and disappear. Anything to make it stop. Then he found me. Lifted me up—
A soft hand wraps around my wrist.
For a moment, I’m in shock, stuck between the memory and the present.
But the touch is gentle. Almost the way Sarah grabbed me the other day. Whoever it is doesn’t want to force me somewhere. Whoever it is wants to help.
I look up to see hazel eyes surrounded by glasses and freckles. I barely know him, but right now he’s the most welcome face I’ve ever seen.
Jackson.
I follow him down the hall and through a set of double doors.
It’s dark here, and my heart pounds for a second, unsure of where we might be, but then I see rows of seats, and down below, a stage with curtains. We’re on the balcony of a theater.
The wooden doors close behind us and cut off the sounds of laughter.
Now I can breathe again.
Chapter Eight
“People can be really mean,” Jackson says. “They’re so bored that they have to make someone else feel bad to make themselves feel better. They’re just rumors, but don’t worry, they’ll blow over.”
“Oh?” I try to sound lighthearted instead of desperate.
Jackson ducks his head, blushing. Actually blushing. “Let’s just say I have personal experience with the high school rumor mill. It never lasts.”
If he only knew how much I want to believe that.
The bell rings, and I wonder if we’ll be in trouble for being late.
“Want to see where I work?”
Now that catches my attention. “What do you mean?”
He grab
s my hand and pulls me down the stairs to the left. Somehow I feel safe with him, this naive suburban boy who’s nothing like the kind of guys I’d ever go for. Nothing like Luis. Guess I can’t be too picky about the kinds of friends I make.
Is that what he is? A friend?
At the bottom of the staircase, there are even more chairs, rows and rows that lead right up to the stage. It’s old and dusty and in no way glamorous, but it’s kind of beautiful.
It reminds me of my old dreams. I used to love Broadway, and I can sing well enough. I wanted to be a star. Ask me what plan A was when I ran away and you might already know. Back before I found out what New York was really like for someone with nowhere to go. Before Luis pulled me from the gutter and saved me. Before I needed to be saved from Luis.
Jackson and I run down the aisle toward the stage, and for a second I feel like the old Anna. Young, unscarred, innocent. Like dreams are still real, still attainable. We run all the way to the stage, then around it, and end up backstage.
Random things are strewn everywhere. A rack of costumes, cardboard boxes stacked in the corner, strange plywood structures. A big ladder with a curly blond wig sitting on top.
I almost laugh.
“Isn’t it awesome?” he asks me, spinning around with his arms spread wide, like this is the most beautiful place on earth.
“This is where you work?”
He nods, smile still plastered on his face. “I don’t get paid or anything, but I make the props after school and during my free period.”
“You have a free period? Like no classes?”
He nods. “It’s technically an independent study.”
“And that’s right now? You don’t have a class to be in?”
“No, I do. My free period isn’t until fifth. I’ll probably have detention for skipping astronomy, but it was worth it.” His smile slips for the first time. Maybe he’s not so innocent after all. “I couldn’t leave you alone like that. You looked like you needed a friend.”
“Oh,” I say. Unsure of what to say to that sort of kindness. He’s willing to get into trouble just to help me? What’s in it for him? “Um, thanks,” I say.
He shrugs, then proceeds to show me some of the props he’s made and acquired. He goes into crazy detail about some of them—a trunk with a false bottom, a wooden cane that detaches into three pieces that he found in a thrift store.
I sit quietly and listen to him, let his words drown out everything else. After a while he runs out of things to talk about, and we sit in silence for a couple of seconds.
“What class do you have next?” Jackson asks.
I pull out the wrinkled schedule and don’t even bother unfolding it before handing it to him. He laughs as he pulls open the half ruined paper.
“Let’s see. You missed math with Mr. Gomez. Good thing, he’s rough. Next you have science with Mr. Schueller. Not too bad. Oh! You have art with me. I won’t be there today because Mr. Charles needs my help setting up the risers for the chorus event tonight. But I’ll totally be there most of the time.”
“Cool,” I say stupidly.
What will my life be like here? It’s not what I want, not by a long shot. But I guess I just have to deal. Will the rumors fade or get worse? Will I find a way to fit in here, or be an outcast for the rest of the year? Who knows.
I lie back and look up at the stage lights. They’re not on right now, only the regular ceiling lights, but I imagine what they look like, shining down on me. Jackson lies next to me and stares at the ceiling, like we’re thinking the same thing. Maybe we are.
“Do you have any dreams, Anna?” Jackson asks me.
I blink but try to hide my surprise. “I used to.”
He sits up. “Why not now?”
I shrug, still looking at the lights above me. “Dreams don’t come true, not for people like me.”
“What?” he says, like I’m a silly kid who said some random gibberish. “Dreams do come true, just sometimes not how you expect.”
I let out one short laugh. I used to believe the same thing. As much as I want to tell him he’s wrong, at least in this moment, part of me wants to believe his dreams could come true, even if it’s too late for mine.
“What are your dreams?” I ask him in a whisper.
He lies back down beside me. “I want to go to college and be a doctor, or be a film director. Or travel the world helping all kinds of people. I dream of all sorts of things.”
“Saving the world, one dewormed orphan at a time?” I ask him, amusement leaking into my voice. I’m not making fun of him. His dreams are all different, kind of beautiful, and impossible to fully accomplish. It’s a luxury to imagine futures that contradict each other. I can’t even come up with one that seems remotely plausible.
“Exactly. Simple vaccines can save lives in Africa and Haiti and places like that.”
“Those are good dreams,” I say.
“What about yours?”
“I don’t have any.” I want to laugh, but it’s not funny.
He shifts to his side and looks at me. “Liar.”
I turn to him, fake shock written on my face. “I am not.”
“Fine. What were your old dreams?”
I take in a deep breath. “I wanted to be famous.” He blinks, and I shrug. “It’s a stupid dream.”
He shakes his head and looks back up into the dull lights. “Not stupid, just overrated. You can do better than that.”
I can? “Like what?”
“I don’t know. You have to find your own dreams. If it’s really to be famous, then don’t do what all these other celebrities do.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t be fake. If you’re going to be famous, be famous for who you really are. For something you love doing.”
I say nothing. I don’t tell him that I did go for it. And I didn’t hide who I really was. That’s what caused all my problems.
I ran away to New York thinking I’d find a glamorous life in NYC, the land of dreams, or at least my dreams. Not that I expected to get onto a Broadway show right away or anything. I just thought as soon as I was away from home, people would see who I really was. They’d know I was supposed to be famous. They’d love me.
That was my dream then, my real dream.
I didn’t find it. I didn’t find it because it doesn’t exist. Someone’s always there to show you what you’re really worth. The second I left my parents, the man who tried to snatch me right off the train in Grand Central let me know what I was worth. Then Luis saved me, and he showed me what I was worth to him. And then the johns came, and they used their money to tell me how much I was worth, right down to the dollar.
We’re silent for what feels like forever, until finally the bell sounds and I jump.
Jackson takes my hand in his. I don’t like anyone touching me, not anymore. But it’s like earlier, when he pulled me out of my memories. Just being around him makes me feel calm. Safe.
“You okay getting to class?” he says.
“Yeah.” At least this time I know where I’m going, sort of.
I stand and take a deep breath. With any luck, the rumors are already over.
Chapter Nine
I take in a few deep breaths before I step into the one class I’ve actually been looking forward to—art. Drawing used to be one of my favorite things to do. Maybe it can be again.
There’s a large gray-haired teacher sitting behind a desk at the front of the room, but he doesn’t even look up from his papers, so I head to the back, sit quietly at an empty table, and pretend to be busy with something.
The teacher doesn’t say anything, not even after the bell rings for the start of class. He’s probably just in his own world. After a few minutes, he gives one quick intro, then sits at his desk and lets everyone work on some random project.
I spy on a few of the kids closest to me. Most of their artwork resembles fourth-grade drawings, but one catches my eyes. It’s pretty spectacular. I wish I could draw
like that.
I pull out a piece of paper and begin to doodle. Seems right since that’s what everyone else is doing. Except that they’re using pastels and charcoal and other random art supplies I’ve never used. And I’m using a pencil and notebook paper.
I draw my city—New York—though I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who would know it’s New York. Westchester isn’t that far from the city, so I’m sure a few of the other students have been, but my rendition includes the people you only see if you’re there all the time, because really, they’re who make it spectacular.
Each line drawn on the stupid notebook paper gets me closer to that old dream, takes me deeper into my mind, where everything is fine. Good even.
Soon, I forget where I am. Forget the uncomfortable seat beneath me, the frumpy mom jeans and who bought them for me, the disappointment in my father’s eyes.
I jump when someone speaks. “Interesting. New York, I’m guessing?”
I lift my head but don’t turn to see who it is standing over me. Based on the age in his gravelly voice, I’d say it’s the art teacher.
“Maybe,” I say.
He doesn’t speak for a moment, but I see eyes drifting toward us.
“Well, wherever it is, it’s clear you love it,” he says simply. I don’t answer, but apparently he doesn’t need me to. “But is it the city you love, or is it the drawing?”
Now I look at him, curious.
“What do you think?” I say.
“Both,” he decides. “A beautiful city captured in beautiful art.”
I’m not sure he’s right, but I like that he believes it. It feels a little like he believes in me.
“Next time ask me for the proper supplies,” he says. “A good artist deserves the right tools.”
I actually smile as I nod at him. For the first time, I feel like a real student.
The bell rings, and I’m impressed with myself when I don’t jump. I grab my things and follow the rest of the class into the hall.
“Miss Rodriguez,” the teacher calls out. “I think you may have talent.”
I’m surprised to find he knows my name, but it doesn’t take much for me to realize oh, of course he knows my name. He has a list of the students in his class.
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