Road to Eugenica (Eugenica Chronicles)

by A. M. Rose

  He runs his fingers through his hair. “Good to know.”

  Our conversation comes to an end as we enter Señora Romero’s class—she insists on assigned desks, and his turns out to be on the other side of the room from mine.

  I sit down and pull my book out just as my friend Sophie Castillo dumps her entire backpack on the floor. Her head falls back like she’s asking “Why me? Why now?” before she starts collecting her loose papers. Ever since seventh grade she’s always been a little overdramatic. But she’s super nice. Last year in science we were lab partners, and she never complained when she had to explain everything twice. I crouch on the floor next to her and collect all her different colored Sharpies.

  She flings her blue bangs out of her face. “I really need to get a new one.” She gestures toward the bag she’s shoving papers into. “The zipper broke, but I already spent so much time on it, you know?” At the beginning of the year, the bag was completely white. Now it’s colorful and covered with all these intricate Mandala designs. It’s super impressive.

  “Maybe you can replace the zipper.”

  She holds the bag open, and I dump the handful of markers inside. “Maybe I will. Thanks.” She tucks her bag under her chair and sits down.

  I push myself off the floor and my eyes lock with Maddox. He leans forward in his chair, a smile playing on his lips, and those brows of his are arched up again. Was he watching? Why? I make sure he wasn’t getting a boob shot and adjust my shirt before I slide back into my desk. Not that I have much in the chest department, but if he saw my push-up bra, I’ll die of embarrassment.

  The bell rings and Señora Romero jumps into discussing reflexive verbs and their use. Her signature long, flowing skirt floats behind her as she paces in front of the whiteboard. Her cardigan is a button off, like usual, but her bun is the picture of perfection without a single flyaway.

  I’m thankful Señora Romero is such a patient teacher. This is my worst subject, no matter how much I try. My sentences always come out a jumbled mess of Spanglish. But she smiles, which eases the pressure a little.

  She asks questions as she writes sentences in Spanish on the board. What is your favorite thing to do on vacation? I like to lay on the beach and dance under the stars.

  I pause. And blink. Then look again. Wait. No friggin way. The words are in Spanish, but I know exactly what they all are.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them again, I focus on the board, still understanding everything. How is this possible? Flipping my book open, I tear through each page, but it’s all clear, each word, I know it all. My chest tightens. My knee bounces. Its tap, tap, tap under my desk is the only sound in the room.

  “Alejandría ¿tienes una respuesta?” Oh no, she’s asking me for a response.

  “¿Puede usted repetir la pregunta?” I ask her to repeat the question without even thinking. My hands start to shake. I throw them under my legs and sit on them to keep them still.

  She stares at me for a moment before she points to a sentence written on the board. “¿Es el verbo y sujeto coinciden en esta frase?”

  I check the board to see if the subject and verb agree. They do. So, I reply, “Sí.”

  “Muy bien.” Her smile brightens and she winks.

  She continues with the lesson, but I can’t seem to focus. I hold onto the sides of my desk as inconspicuously as possible. I’m woozy. Lightheaded. The room sways back and forth. How’s this even possible? Am I…am I losing my mind? Am I imagining this?

  I want to ask Sophie if what’s coming out of my mouth makes as much sense as I think it does. I mean, it isn’t like I haven’t been trying to learn the language over the past three years, but still. For me this is a stretch. I twist the ring on my finger, trying not to freak out.

  Dad did say one day it would all click, but this?

  I swallow the lump in my throat. Right. This day had to come eventually. I should be happy all my hard work is finally paying off. If Dad were here, he’d tell me, “I told you so,” and squeeze my shoulders.

  I nod at Señora Romero when our eyes connect again. I nod in Sophie’s direction even though she’s not paying attention to me. I nod to myself. This does make sense. At least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself. Trying—and failing miserably at it. I sit back in my seat and avoid looking down at the pages.

  For the rest of class I draw in my notebook. I can’t seem to wrap my head around this, and the more I listen to Señora Romero the more confused I get. I notice that her tense is wrong but I don’t…can’t bring myself to correct her. When the bell finally rings, I gather up all my things, shove them in my backpack, and quickly head out the door.

  “Alexandrea, wait,” Maddox calls out from behind me. He walks past several girls who grit their teeth at me. “Where’re you headed?”

  “I have History. Do you need me to show you where to go?” My words come out rushed and sharper than I meant. I need to get some air.

  He pulls out the crumpled paper again. “I have AP Stats, I guess.” He hands it to me.

  “So does Dylan.” I hand it back and we start walking a little faster than our pace before. “No problem, I can show you where it is.”

  “The same Dylan that isn’t your boyfriend, right?”

  I tug on a piece of hair that hangs near my ear, as we push outside. “One and the same.” As soon as I get a deep breath of cool, fresh air I start to relax again, and my pace slows a little.

  “So Shakespeare isn’t your thing, but Spanish is?”

  The temperature rises in my cheeks, so I cough a few times before he notices. No. “Uh, yeah I guess.”

  Even though at this moment I could speak Spanish fluently, I’m not sure why or how. Who knows, today could be a fluke and tomorrow I’ll go back to struggling through it like usual.

  I walk with Maddox all the way over to the math building, weaving along the paths that connect all the different ones, even though it isn’t exactly on my way to History. Okay, it’s on the exact opposite side of the campus. But the sun and the cool breeze are just what I need. Before I leave him, I let him know where he can find my locker after class, in case he needs anything. I peek inside the classroom to wave at Dylan, but there’s no sign of him, so I rush off to class, hoping whatever happened in Spanish doesn’t happen again.

  …

  “…And then I dyed my eyebrows purple.” I lean a little closer to Dylan, whose head is shoved into his locker, typing away on his phone. I stomp my foot but it’s pretty half-assed and only slaps against the floor. “Are you even listening to me?”

  “Totally.” His jaw clenches tight, and he keeps typing without looking up. His head dips in a little deeper. What the hell does he have in there? A cake in the oven he needs to keep an eye on?

  “You are not.”

  “Sure I am.” His voice echoes from inside.

  I let out a huff. A loud one.

  Finally, he straightens and turns my way. He gives me a puzzled look. “You dyed your eyebrows…I’m not seeing it. And you know some stuff now you didn’t know before. It’s called learning, Drea. That’s what schools were invented for.”

  I’m being serious here, and he obviously thinks I’m joking. “That’s not what I’m saying.” I let out another huff. Sure, I’ve studied Spanish before. And then the same thing happened in History. My head knew all the answers somehow, and now I need some of my own. I need my best friend to pay attention. “Never mind.”

  “Never mind what?”

  I grit my teeth and stare at him.

  He slides his phone in his pocket. “I’m sorry. You were saying something about the concert and Maddox.”

  Really, that’s the part that stands out to him? “I told him we’d meet up. But that’s not important.”

  His jaw drops. “You were serious about that? You really invited that douchebag to come with us?”

  I’m trying to tell him my whole world has turned on its head, and he’s focused on the concert. I press my nails i
nto my palms. “Actually, he’s pretty nice. And anyway—”

  He laughs. Not the carefree kind—it’s loud and fake. A few kids turn their heads as they walk by. “Nice? Is that what you call it? Because I’d call it arrogant, smug, full of—”

  “You finished? There’s more import—”

  “Anyway, you should’ve talked to me first. I’m the one who bought the tickets.”

  My body temperature is sharply rising. What is going on with him? “So what?” It’s like a month away, Maddox could very easily forget all about this by then.

  “I went through a lot of trouble to get those tickets, Drea, it would’ve been polite for you to check with me first.” His tone sounds exactly like Mom when she says, “You could’ve tried harder,” or “I expected more from you.”

  “Do you want me to clean my room first before I go, too?”

  “What?” A line etches its way across his forehead.

  “So what? I’ll pay for my ticket. How much was it?”

  For a moment, Dylan stands there blinking at me. Mouth slightly open, brows reaching for his hairline. It’s the same thing he did when we were nine, and I accidentally dropped his Lego Star Wars Millennium Falcon, shattering it into a million pieces. It’s not like I didn’t try to help him put it back together. This time, though, it feels good. I didn’t break anything. I made a decision.

  It’s not that Dylan pushes me around. It’s more like he’s the driver. I’m in the back seat, because I willingly got in, and because I’m content to look out the window and watch the scenery.

  Not this time.

  I put my hand on my hip. If he wants to talk about Maddox, let’s talk about Maddox. “I wasn’t going to say no. He doesn’t know anyone here,” I say through clenched teeth. “Why are you being so difficult about this?”

  Those brows stay glued high on his forehead. “I’m the one being difficult? That’s funny.” Except he doesn’t laugh; he rubs the back of his neck. “What’s going on with you today? I know you’re dealing with a lot, but you’ve been acting weird. Now this.”

  “Now what?”

  “You’re acting kinda crazy.”

  Oh, no he didn’t. “Don’t.” I throw my hand up. “Don’t even go there.” I can’t believe he’s trying to turn this around. Like I’m the one with the problem. Like I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Like I’m the one playing on my phone not listening when her best friend is having a crisis. “Why are you being so snassy to me?”

  He points to himself. “I’m the one being snassy?” He goes to turn, stops himself, and takes a deep breath. He is being super snotty and sassy. “Come on, Drea. Do not be the girl who goes down the being-played-by-the-new-guy path.” His voice is reasonable, his expression sympathetic.

  I lift my chin.

  “We’ve seen how that turns out in the movies, and it’s never good for the girl. You’re smarter than that.” He goes to flip my hair over my shoulder, but I swat his hand away. His jaw tightens.

  I press my nails deeper into my palms. That’s not what’s going on here. I’m not falling for the new guy. I think he’s okay. Maybe better than okay, and getting to know him isn’t wrong. Or bad. What I need are answers, and not about Maddox. “It’s not like we have seats together or anything. And afterward, we’ll ditch him and go out like we planned.”

  He stares at me a moment, looks left then right, basically his way of rolling his eyes. “Fine.”

  I take a step back. Fine? Just…fine? He makes a big deal about it and then all he’s going to say is fine? He doesn’t care at all. “What is your major malfunction?”

  He reaches for my hand, but I jerk away. “Calm down,” he says.

  My face is on fire. Calm down? No one in the history of the world has ever calmed down because someone told them to. Except for me. How many times have I let Dylan tell me what to do or how to feel? “Are you kidding me?”

  “I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up.”

  Am I taking crazy pills?

  Dylan rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I don’t have time for this. Maybe we shouldn’t have lunch together today.” He doesn’t let me respond, he just turns and walks away.

  My mouth falls open, drags on the ground. What the actual fuck? It’s not like I tell him who he can and can’t be friends with, so I don’t understand his issue. Last year when he was talking to that new girl, Maddison, I didn’t say a word. I even pretended to be upset when she had to move at the end of the year.

  AGHHHH! I clench my teeth and hold in the scream.

  All I want to do is run over to Dylan and punch him in the throat. But instead, I pick up my backpack.

  Someone bumps into me, and I lurch forward. My lunch bag slips from my hands, falls to the ground, and a giant-ass foot steps right on it. The meathead mumbles a “sorry” as he pushes his other buddy back, who rams into the lockers with a loud bang. People shuffle around me and laugh at the two doofuses. There’s nothing funny about it.

  That’s it. This day sucks. I’m out of here.

  Chapter Eight

  I pace back and forth in front of the school. Stupid jerk. Why does he do that shit?

  Out here with the sun warming the skin on my arms, and the smell of meatloaf-surprise wafting through the air, I’m not even sure what I’m so angry about. I stare at the school. Maybe I should go back in, find Dylan, and work things out.

  I swing my bag over my shoulder and pass the bike racks as two girls dart past me. They’re carrying fast food to-go bags, which don’t smell much better than the mystery meat from the cafeteria. There is one lonely tire with no bike attached still chained to the rack with an old rusty lock. Dad laughed at that the last time he was here.

  I should go.

  An engine roars behind me, and I spin around. Maddox is sitting in the front seat of a cherry-red Mustang convertible with the top down. “Looks like you need to get outta here. I’m done myself. Come on. Let’s go.” While the outside of the car shines, the back seat is littered with random things, a pizza box, some clothes, books, and notebooks scattered about. I think there’s even a skateboard peeking out from under a half-open umbrella.

  My gaze shifts from him in the car—the freedom and fresh air I so desperately need—back to the school and all the craziness that’s already happened, and what waits for me inside.

  Maddox’s arm is draped over the passenger’s seat like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I wish I didn’t. “We could talk Shakespeare if you want.”

  I take a deep breath. I’ve never skipped school before. Suddenly, that seems the height of lameness. No, more than that. None of this matters, not really. It’s not like being in school is going to change what happened with Dad. I might as well take a time out and do what I damn well please. We only live once. And that could end any second. Even though talking Shakespeare isn’t the most enticing offer, I blurt, “Where we going?”

  He grabs my bag as I climb in and fasten my seat belt.

  “I heard about a place by the beach with roller coasters. It sounds like it might be worth checking out.”

  My stomach drops. Belmont. The last place Dad and I went together. “Um, I…”

  Maddox shrugs. “Or we could just lie around on the sand all day.”

  I have to swallow hard. It’s too soon. “The beach sounds great. I just need to stop by my house first.” Thank God Mom is at work; otherwise, I’d be screwed.

  “Point out the way.” He revs the engine, I grip the door handle with my heart in my throat, and we’re off. Just like that. The wind whips through my hair; I wrap it around my hand and hold it close so it doesn’t go flying. Maddox weaves through traffic so fast that I barely have time to breathe let alone think. Which right now is a very good thing.

  …

  After we circle a dozen times, we score a spot on a side street—meter free. A sign reads Towing Zone from 6 a.m. to 12 p.m. Mon–Fri so we are totally in the clear. Maybe this trip isn’t such a bad idea after all. Maddox g
rabs some towels from the trunk. I grab my backpack, and we head toward the beach. My flip-flops crunch through the constant layer of sand on the sidewalk, and the ocean breeze cools the back of my neck. Even though we’re a block away, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore fills the air. And someone nearby is grilling, so it smells delicious, too.

  Two guys step out from one of the beach bungalows that line our way, carrying surfboards under their arms. One of them has super long dreads that drip down his back. The other’s head is completely shaved. They both have on tattered board shorts, the tops of their underwear peeking out. One’s a Hanes man, the other is all about Under Armor.

  “We should do that.” Maddox points.

  “Do what? Walk around barefoot?” I laugh, because I sure as hell am not shaving my head or about to go topless.

  “Surf. Have you ever been?”

  Even though I’ve lived by the beach my entire life, I’ve never surfed before. Dad was more of a pool guy than a beach guy. And Mom…well, she never has time for anything. “Nope.”

  “Let’s see if they’ll teach us.” Maddox picks up his pace.

  We haven’t even hit the sand and already things are going downhill. Sure, I can swim, but surf? No way. That takes coordination I don’t have. I catch up to Maddox, to tell him maybe we shouldn’t, but before I can, he yells to the guys ahead of us, “How the waves looking today?”

  The surfers stop and spin around. “Pretty cranking.” The bald one shifts his board to carry it on his shoulder.

  Is that good or bad? Crap. The surfers are smiling so maybe it’s good. Or they’re messing with us. I reach for Maddox’s arm to stop him, but my hand is full of sweat so I shove it in my back pocket instead.

  “That’s a pretty sweet board. How long have you been surfing?” Maddox asks.

  I’m not exactly sure how it happens, but within a matter of minutes the guys are asking if they can teach us how to surf. Meeting new people is never that easy for me. Hell, even walking and texting is a challenge. I wish I knew how Maddox did it. I also wish I had a little bit of his confidence. He’s all gung-ho. I’m thinking how I might lose my bikini top.