by Amber Smith
“Maybe, but they got nothing on the Ravens, let me tell you,” he answers. “I guess you probably don’t care about football, though.”
“Not so much,” I admit. “Sorry.”
“It’s cool.” He shrugs. “To each their own, right?”
And this has officially become the longest conversation I’ve ever had with a fellow Riverside student since my lunch table of friends-by-proxy all graduated at the end of my freshman year, except for Aaron, who had dropped out by then. I open my mouth to answer, but the bell dings again, and as I turn to look, my stomach flips when I realize who it is.
Jackie whispers, holding her hand over the phone, “Owen, help Brooke with this one, will you?”
I walk up to the register, Owen so close behind me I can feel him breathing. I want to hide behind him. Because Monica B. is standing there, tapping on her phone, sunglasses still on, looking nothing like that awkward little girl who was my friend for a few hours in sixth grade.
“Hey, O!” she says, finally looking up from her phone, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head. “Wait, I’m mad at you. You didn’t come to my party last weekend,” she accuses.
“I know, I know, my bad. Between practice, work. Couldn’t make it. Sorry. Next time, I promise.”
“Fine, I guess I’ll forgive you,” she teases.
“All right, thank you,” he says, playing along. “You know Brooke?” he asks her.
She looks at me for the first time. I know she remembers. But she looks through me, squinting, turning her head as if she’s having trouble placing me. I hate her so much.
“Anyway,” Owen continues. “What can we get for you?”
That was supposed to be my line, I gather.
“Can I get a medium coffee with a shot of hazelnut? And . . .” She scans the rows of doughnuts and pastries in the display cases but then says, “That’s it,” probably just because she doesn’t want Owen to know that she actually eats food sometimes.
I stare at the register. I found the coffee button. But dammit, I don’t know what to press for the extra flavor—there’s no flavor button.
“Right here.” Owen reaches across me and presses one of the buttons on the screen.
“Thanks,” I tell him, hating every moment of this. “Uh, okay, so that will be—”
“No, you hit total first,” he interrupts.
I find the total button. “Okay, so that’s—”
“Here. Keep the change,” she says, sliding a five-dollar bill across the counter, as if that’s easier than watching me fumble through a simple order.
“I’ll finish—it’s okay,” Owen tells me. “You can start the drink.”
He flashes me a quick sympathy smile; his eyes seem to be telling me I can relax. And for a second I wonder if it’s because I’m acting like this is the first time I’ve ever been in public, interacting with other people, if it’s because of those old rumors, or if it’s because he knows about my parents. It’s been on the news, of course, and in the paper. I’ve forbidden myself from looking it up online, so I don’t know how much is out there, how much people know.
I try to focus on pouring the coffee into the cup—a simple task, something I can control. But suddenly my hand twitches involuntarily, making me spill the coffee, which burns my hand in one hot, sharp slice—making me drop the cup on the floor, the coffee splattering everywhere.
“Oh, damn!” Owen murmurs, slamming the cash drawer closed as he rushes over to me.
“Careful!” Monica B. adds, though I’m sure her concern is for her coffee and not me.
I will time to speed up, just this once, but it refuses. Then I will everyone to stop staring at me, but they won’t. I study the place on my hand where the skin feels like it was suddenly lit on fire. Jackie hangs up the phone and is standing next to me in the puddle of coffee.
Owen takes over, pours the coffee, adds her stupid flavor shot, and snaps the lid on, so effortlessly.
“Here,” Jackie says, pulling me over to the sink and holding my hand under a stream of cold water. I watch as the water circles the drain, spiraling down into that black hole. Part of me wishes I could dive in too, and then part of me thinks maybe that’s what’s already happened. I glance over to see Monica B. and Owen exchanging their good-byes. “See you in school tomorrow,” he tells her. She blows a kiss to him as she walks out the door.
I feel the beginning of a headache coming on, its familiar tightness crawling along my hairline. I try to breathe, in and out, slowly. I try to shove down all these murky old feelings that are churning up inside of me, a volcano preparing to erupt. That’s the last thing I need while I’m trying to be normal. I silently tell myself to hold on, a few more hours, then I can go home and be myself.
Owen has now appeared with a mop and slides it back and forth, sopping up the spilled coffee. “Don’t worry, that happens to me all the time,” he tells me.
“Really?”
“Well, no,” he admits.
Jackie laughs. Then Owen starts laughing too. Slowly I realize I’m smiling, and that lava in the pit of my stomach is beginning to cool.
JEFFERSON HELL
JEFFERSON STARTS AT 7:15. It’s only fifteen to twenty minutes in the car, but I have to take the bus, forty-five minimum. That doesn’t include the time it will take to actually get into the school and make my way to homeroom. That has to add at least four or five extra minutes, I imagine. I calculated it all out, so that if I catch the 6:15 bus, then that should leave me with about ten minutes to spare.
I check my phone again. The bus is thirteen minutes late now. My palms are sweating, the exact change clenched in my fist. The whole rest of my life starts today, and I’m late for it.
By fourteen minutes.
Now fifteen.
“Perfect!” I growl only to myself, since there’s no one else around at this ungodly hour. My whole day is already completely screwed, and I haven’t even spoken to another human being yet. I check my phone again. Sixteen minutes. There’s absolutely no way on earth I can be on time at this point. No way at all.
“Shit!” I hiss.
I start dialing the 1-800 number listed on the timetable posted at the bus stop, prepared to give someone at the Department of Transportation an earful, but just then I see the crosstown bus round the corner and rumble toward me at a snail’s pace.
In my dream I would have been arriving at my shiny new school and checking in at the office, not bouncing up and down over potholes in the road on a smelly bus with sticky seats and no shocks whatsoever. In my dream I would not have been crouched down in my seat at the back of the bus, discreetly peeling the wrapper off a half-smashed granola bar, taking small bites so the driver wouldn’t catch me eating on the bus.
In my dream I would’ve been the first person to arrive—my spot claimed, front and center—fresh notebook ready, the top of the first page already labeled with the date and AP Psychology. I would have introduced myself to my new teacher—Dr. Robinson—properly before class began. I’m going to be your new star student. I would have wanted her to know that up front. First impressions. They’re everything. And you get only one shot at them.
But in real life that’s not what’s happening. What happens is I get off the bus at my stop twenty-two minutes late. What happens is I have to run—literally run—from one end of campus to the other while trying to read the map I printed out on Jackie’s printer last week. I get lost trying to find the main office, even though I had the whole thing planned, even though I had everything figured out. When I finally find the office, get myself signed in, and secure a late pass, I am informed I’ve missed homeroom altogether, so I race down the unfamiliar halls, peering in through each door’s small, rectangular window as I pass classroom after classroom, none of which seems to be mine.
“Two fourteen, two fourteen,” I hear myself breathe, my eyes frantically scanning the room numbers. I feel my chest wanting to collapse, my lungs not used to me running like this, my mind not used to
having the things I’ve planned fall apart. That’s the whole point of planning.
I reach the end of the hall and I still can’t find it. I’ve passed 212, 213, 215, 216, but not 214. I go up and down the hall two more times, so sure it should be here—so sure my mind is playing tricks on me. I stand still for a moment in the center of the hall, close my eyes, and take two deep breaths. When I open my eyes, the classroom is right there; it’s been right in front of me the whole time: 214, reads the placard next to the door. So relieved to have finally found it, I jump into action and bust through the door, but in my single-minded hurry I’ve forgotten about the rules—the ones about first impressions. The ones about acting normal.
I can almost hear the echo of the teacher’s last words still hanging in the air before the door slams against the wall with this horrible screeching, clanging, metal-on-metal wail. Everyone falls utterly silent as I face an entire room full of strangers.
The door finishes slamming closed with a final hollow clang.
Dr. Robinson, according to the name listed on my schedule, spins around with this look on her face—I can’t tell whether she’s pissed or amused. Or worse, both. A sudden deep splinter chisels its way across my skull, throwing the whole room off-balance.
“Glad you could join us”—she raises her arm in the air, bending it at the elbow and squinting at the watch on her wrist—“twenty minutes late. We were just going over a bit of housekeeping. Please.” She takes the late pass I’m stupidly holding out to her and waves her arm in the direction of one of the few empty seats left in the entire room. “Brooke Winters,” she reads from the pass as I step forward.
If this were a dream, it would be the one where you show up naked to the really important thing and you realize you’ve shown up naked only when everyone starts pointing and laughing. Except this isn’t a dream. It’s a nightmare, only worse. Because it’s real.
So I do end up with that front-and-center seat anyway. And I’m definitely making a first impression as I squeeze my way through the narrow aisle with my enormous backpack and my heavy breathing and my hair a wreck and my not-new clothes sticking to my skin because I’m sweating my ass off from running all the way across campus. I slide into the vacant spot. The girl next to me has all her supplies neatly organized in front of her. Textbook, binder, notebook—I glance at the top of her page, and sure enough, it is clearly labeled with the date and AP Psychology—she is me, just twenty minutes earlier. She is me, coming to this class from another life, a better life.
“Oh-em-gee,” I hear someone whisper behind me as I take my seat, followed by snickering.
The girl next to me throws a “Shh” over her shoulder.
“As a general rule,” the teacher begins, loud enough to block out all the whispers and the pounding of hammers in my head, “I do not repeat myself. But I will say, once more”—good God, her eyes burn me—“I do not tolerate lateness of any kind for any reason. If I can manage to make it here on time, I expect the same of each of you. And if for whatever reason you can’t make it here on time, you will not be allowed to stay—after today, that is—and you will be counted as absent, and you will have detention.” She finally breaks her gaze away from me to look at her watch again. “I have seven fifty-two. I suggest synchronization.”
Then she lets out this maniacal chuckle.
“But seriously,” she continues. “Unless you enjoy public humiliation”—her eyes fix on me once again—“you need to be in your seat, ready to go, by the time that bell rings. Another serious note: There will be no phone rings, beeps, or buzzes of any sort. And finally, I highly encourage you to find a study partner. This is a college-level course, remember. We will be covering everything from how your brain stores memories to how you fall in love. I will not slow down. This class is a well-oiled machine. I’ve been teaching it longer than some of you have been alive.”
There’s something in the way she utters that last word, “alive,” that makes it sound like some kind of threat. She holds a packet of stapled-together papers high up over her head and takes a step forward. “This syllabus is your bible. Know it. Follow it. Do not lose it.”
I look around—everyone has one except for me. The girl next to me slides hers toward me in the space between us. I look up at her for the first time and suddenly realize how long it’s been since I’ve looked someone in the eye. I try to muster a smile back at her, taking note of her straight posture and perfectly smooth bronze skin, a streak of purple running through her shiny black hair. The sides of her head seem to have been recently shaved and are just growing back in, leaving a thick mane of wild hair on top, which she runs her hands through, flopping all that hair over to one side. But just as I’m trying to drag my eyes away from her, I feel this gust of wind blast by my face, like a sword cutting through the air—Dr. Robinson slaps the syllabus she was holding flat on my desk, making me jump back in my seat. And she stares me down with this expression on her face like she’s caught me cheating, and is really thrilled about it too.
I want to stand up and call a time-out and explain everything—how I, too, care deeply about punctuality, and how I did the math and all the calculations added up; I built in loads of extra time to account for all the mishaps, but somehow it still wasn’t enough. I want to tell her how hard I try. All the time, at everything, and still it’s never good enough. A one-minute time-out is all I need, but she keeps going.
“Papers are worth fifty percent of your final grade. Midterm, fifteen percent. Final exam is twenty-five percent,” Dr. Robinson continues, my mind barely even able to catch up. “And for those of you doing the math, the final ten percent of your grade comprises all the miscellaneous punishments I will dispense at will—that means attendance, quizzes, participation, and punctuality, which I believe we’ve already discussed, though I’d be happy to reiterate that one more time if anyone is still fuzzy on my policy?”
No one makes a sound.
Promptly after class I find the nearest restroom. I lock myself in the closest stall, drop my backpack to the floor, lean up against the back of the door, and squeeze my eyes shut tight, focusing on breathing and not panicking and not regretting my decision to transfer here.
I hear the bathroom door screech open. Then somebody knocks fast three times on the back of my door, sending vibrations up my spine. I take a deep breath, clear my throat. “Just a minute.”
“No, I know,” a girl’s voice says. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I answer simply, unemotionally. I turn around, unlock the door, prepared to open it casually yet triumphantly, but all that ends the second I see who’s standing there. The girl from class, the girl with the hair, the up-close-and-personal firsthand witness to my public shaming.
I give her a polite nod and walk past her to the sink. I look up into the mirror—God, my hair is all frayed and coming loose from my ponytail—I can’t believe I showed my face in class looking like this. I pull the triple-wrapped elastic band out in one swift motion. I hear strands of hair snapping as it falls past my ears and onto my shoulders, down my back. My scalp sighs. I massage my head for a moment, trying to soothe the spots that have pounded all morning. I wish I’d had the time or the energy to get a haircut before school started.
“It really wasn’t that bad,” the girl says, appearing next to me.
I meet her eyes in the mirror and really look at her. I was able to give her only a sideways glance when I sat down, only long enough to notice her haircut, the shock of purple. Her flawless skin shimmering. But here, our reflections side by side, I can’t not notice the rest of her. Her eyes, for one thing. They’re this insane color—a sea of blues, greens, and browns—a pattern of sunbursts and halos that sparkle so brightly, especially against her rich terra-cotta-toned skin. I’m positive she has to be one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen in real life. She has this glow that emanates from her like a visible aura. Or maybe she’s just exaggerated in comparison to me. I turn my attention back to myself: my bloodl
ess pale skin, my eyes dull and flat. I look completely worn out, used up, tired—the faint, shaded half-moons under my eyes have deepened since this morning.
“Well, it wasn’t that good, either,” I finally answer. I try to brush it off with a little dose of sarcasm, but damn, I don’t sound convincing at all. I start to pull my hair back into its familiar ponytail, wrapping the band once and pulling my hair through, twice, pulling my hair through again, then I stretch it, preparing for the third round—but it snaps like a flimsy rubber band, stinging my fingers and making my hair fall down. I toss the broken strand of fabric-covered elastic into the garbage, brace myself against the cold porcelain sink, and look down into the black hole of the drain.
“The woman’s a legendary hard-ass,” she continues. “She was just using you as an example. That was all for show. It didn’t mean anything, really. By next week she’ll have someone else she’s picking on.”
I look up at her again, wanting so badly to be able to believe her, to be able to respond, but how can I even put into words how much is riding on my success here? Thankfully, she fills in the space instead.
“And forget about those girls, okay? Really. Please don’t let them get in your head—I hope they’re not in your head.” She grins as she looks at me. “I like your hair down better, by the way. All crazy like that—not everyone can pull that off.” She runs her hand through her own hair again, this time flopping it to the opposite side.
Sidestepping her compliment, I clear my throat and try to smooth my hair back with my hand. “They’re not in my head,” I tell her. “I don’t even care about that. That stuff is, like, the very least of my worries, so . . .” I stop myself from saying anything more, like I didn’t come here to make friends, then add, too late, “Thanks, I mean.”
“I’m Dani, by the way.” She extends her hand. “A junior. And you’re . . . new?”
I take her hand. “Brooke. I’m a junior too. I just transferred here from Riverside.”
“Really, why?” she asks. “I mean, welcome, of course. But it must be weird to transfer halfway through like that.”