Miss Taken

by Sue Seabury

  Miss Taken

  Miss Taken

  Midpoint

  Miss Taken

  By Sue Seabury

  Copyright 2013 Sue Seabury

  All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Edition

  Photo Credits Dreamstime.com

  Cover by Rita Toews

  Be sure to check out the first book of Jane’s adventures in love and mathematics entitled, Miss Calculation. http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/264460

  This book is the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied or distributed using digital, mechanical or other means for commercial or non-commercial purposes without the express written consent of the author. Thank you for your support.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Like all of my stories, this one is dedicated to you.

  Strange but true scientific fact: Goats have rectangular pupils.

  “No, really, Jane. They look natural. They really do.”

  I feel like I got goat contacts rather than beautiful blue ones.

  Notice to all friends/boyfriends/counseling professionals and any persons whose opinion holds any weight: Do not say this to someone who has just gotten a long-desired but non-refundable pair of contact lenses.

  Of course, this is exactly what my so-called boyfriend Ned said about my one and only Christmas gift from my parents.

  And my so-called friend Diana.

  And even a so-called professional high school counselor. With a name like Miss Kindley, you would think she could have come up with something a little nicer.

  However, in an attempt to be positive in the New Year, I will say that Christmas was not all bad.

  Nearly all, but not totally all.

  It was a little bit of a bummer to find zero gifts under the tree with my name on them. But when I put those lovely little blue bits of plastic into my eyes and didn’t feel anything poking me in the nose or chewing at the back of my ears, it was well worth the skimpiness under the tree.

  Instead I had these sharp-edged thingies digging into my eyeballs, but what did that matter when I looked in the mirror and saw - at a distance greater than twelve inches - myself, without an ugly metal cage on my face or light glinting off coke-bottle glass, blocking my now vibrantly blue eyes.

  So after getting, “they look natural. Really,” from my nearest and dearest, the rest of the population of Nottingham Senior High was silent on the topic.

  I still haven’t decided which is worse.

  As for the rest of the vacation, other than sixty-two glorious minutes spent in the best consignment shop in the entire world, it was anti-climactic. My mom wanted to visit some really annoying people back in Beckett where we used to live. Since I complained so loudly, she gave me the gift of a full hour at the Shabby Chic Shoppe. Even though she did not give me any cash to fulfill my dreams, since we made the trip after Christmas, the clearance rack was about as dreamy as it could be even for someone with my budget.

  I didn’t get to see Ned at all over the break. And that is because he went to - this is still hard for me to say - Paris with his family while I was stuck in boring old Connecticut with mine. When he came back, I demanded he describe the couture experience and to not skip a single detail.

  He thought for a second. “I dunno. They just dressed like regular people.”

  Even my fashion-blind boyfriend could see this assessment did not satisfy.

  He squinted with concentration. “They’re small. The guys are, like, real tiny.” He pinched his fingers together to illustrate.

  Groans of agony escaped me at the complete waste of his having visited the chic-est city on the planet.

  But that was after break.

  The day before the break began, I gave Ned his Christmas gift: a snow globe of the tree at Rockefeller Center.

  It turns out the Noggins are Jewish.

  To compound the insult, I asked skeptically, “Noggin and Quinn are Jewish names?”

  “Not quite Abromovitz, but yeah. My mom’s was actually traditional. She was Rachel Schwartz, but that didn’t fit with her hippie tendencies so she changed it.”

  Oh.

  [Awkward pause]

  “I like it. Thanks.” Ned proceeded to kiss away my embarrassment.

  So things got better.

  Momentarily.

  Ned gave me an oil painting of the two of us, drawn from a picture taken at the rez. Painted, I logically inferred, by his artist mom.

  My initial feeling of utter lameness in exchanging a three dollar plastic ornament in honor of a holiday he doesn’t even celebrate for a signed oil painting by a real artist quickly plunged into the deepest mortification after I said, “If I don’t see her, be sure to thank you mom for me.”

  [Awkward pause #2]

  “My mom? I painted it.”

  “You painted this?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Ugh. “Oh, Ned, it’s not that I don’t believe you painted it.” Even though the tone of my voice implied exactly that. I guess there are some upsides to being locked away in your parents’ attic for years on end. “It’s just, you never said anything...You’re such a great artist! I am so impressed!”

  I gushed a while longer, but the damage was done.

  So then came the Paris announcement.

  Visible waves of jealousy wafted off me for quite some time. Setting aside his total lack of fashion sense, for heaven’s sake, the boy doesn’t even take French!

  Ned held the snow globe up and jiggled it, a smile plastered on his face. It was quite possibly an attempt to divert my attention away from the idea of doing him bodily harm.

  After a minute, he said, “Let me see what I can do about getting you invited to come with us to our New York apartment for spring break.”

  That perked me up a little. Even though it was way in the future, highly conditional and not Paris, I was excited about it.

  Strange but true scientific fact: The average person blinks 11,500 times per day. That works out to over 4 million times a year.

  I think I am ahead on my blink allowance for today.

  So after offering her non-complimentary remarks about my eyeballs, the school counselor Miss Kindley went on to offend my other senses. She had brought a tuna sandwich for lunch. Then she had more to say that was not exactly music to my ears. She pronounced me “acclimated.” I didn’t have to go see her anymore.

  Although I was sort of glad to have passed her normalcy test, I couldn’t help feeling kind of dismissed too.

  Miss Kindley told me very kindly to come visit her any time I wanted.

  Truth to tell, I could have used a good session right then and there.

  But, since it is better to be considered normal, I put an acclimated face on. All of a sudden, my eyes were feeling a little prickly. I guess I’m still not used to wearing the contacts for long stretches yet. I started blinking rapidly. I bid Miss Kindley a chipper au revoir and then went to find a nice, quiet corner to fall to pieces in.

  I didn’t find one. All the girls’ rooms I checked were occupied and after the third one, I got over it a little and figured I should really go to class.

  As soon as I got home, I took Mom’s handheld mirror outside so I could get a real look at my eyes since the two-watt florescent bulbs in the school bathrooms had told me nothing.

  They were a bright blue, but I didn’t think they were totally unnatural looking. No more unnatural than Meliss’ totally fake green eyes. Unless they were real. But they couldn’t be. Everyone is just used to hers, that’s all.

  I still wanted to cry though
. After all the begging and pleading and not getting a single other Christmas present just so I could have these contacts that feel like I’m wearing sand in my eyes and no one, most importantly not even my boyfriend, thinks they look good.

  The laundry pile was calling to me.

  When I first lay down on the clothes, a plan to confront Ned and Diana and demand that they explain exactly what was wrong with my contacts was foremost in my mind. But as the relaxing scent of lavender in the fabric softener worked its magic on me, I decided that the topic wasn’t worth revisiting. Forget about it. They’ll get used to them, just like Meliss’.

  Anyway, they’re not returnable.

  Strange but true scientific fact: If you laid out a lifetime’s worth of discarded eyelashes end to end, you would have a trail 98 feet long.

  Think of all those wishes. Think of all those eyelash mites.

  Ick. Do not save. Throw them away.

  Ned refused to cooperate with my plan to forget and move on. During lunch, he kept staring at my eyeballs.

  “What?”

  He recoiled. I guess it did come out pretty harsh. His left eye was wandering ever so slightly. “Nothing.”

  “Yes, it is something. So just tell me.”

  “Oh, it’s just...I liked the way your eyes changed color.”

  Well, if that doesn’t beat all. I hated the way my eyes would be blue one day and gray the next. It made it hard to know what to wear.

  “These are pretty, don’t get me wrong. I just thought it was kind of neat the way they looked different all the time. I could sometimes even read your feelings, like a mood ring. It was cool.”

  My motto for the new year is never ask a question that you don’t want to know the answer to.

  I needed to say something nice to him. He looked so sorry, even though he was being complimentary to the natural me.

  “It’s okay. Thanks for being honest.”

  Ned was still eyeing me warily.

  “See?” I said. “You don’t need my eyes to change color. You can tell exactly what I’m thinking right now, can’t you?” I hacked out a pathetic seal bark to prove that I can laugh at myself.

  Ned took my hand, running a finger along the top of my nails, possibly checking to make sure they weren’t sharp enough to pierce his skin. “Sorry. I should never have said that. Your new eyes are beautiful. And I love it that I don’t have to worry about squishing the frames into your face anymore.”

  With that, he leaned over and gave me a lovely kiss that erased all thoughts of non-refundable gifts from my mind.

  The final grain of sandy discontent about my contacts was thrown by beautiful, naturally baby-blue-eyed Hannah. We meet up most Saturdays for math tutoring.

  I caught her staring. To get it over with as quickly as possible, I hissed, “Say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “About my eyes. Go ahead.”

  Hannah considered me with her perfect peepers. “They look way better than your glasses.”

  Finally.

  Before I could thank her, she went on, “And they look totally natural. Really.”

  Strange but true scientific facts about octopi: They spontaneously regenerate lost limbs. They do a better job of camouflage than a chameleon and if they could live longer than five years, they would dominate the earth instead of humans because they are smarter.

  I never thought I would be jealous of a slimy invertebrate, but there it is.

  The spring semester is here. Goodbye mean Mrs. Rochel and her scary-bad cooking and crazy mood swings. I am taking wood shop instead. I know: carpentry doesn’t sound like a thing to get worked up over. Hair and clothing coated with saw dust is not normally a look I go for.

  But I am kind of excited about it because, unlike home ec, it’s something I know nothing about. I might actually learn a thing or two.

  Applying this same principle, I am only moderately blithe to be exchanging typing for art. Just because I am quite the artiste doesn’t mean the teacher will recognize my innate talents. Mrs. Rochel practically hated me for mine with the needle.

  Also, the electives’ teachers in this place don’t hand out the A’s just for showing up, the way it’s supposed to be done. So I’m not holding my breath.

  What is that expression about the frying pan and the fire?

  And do they hire electives teachers directly from a mental institution as part of a rehabilitation plan?

  I am terrified I might lose a limb, so intent on demonstrating the dangers of power tools is Mr. Krakowicz.

  He has a story for every piece of equipment from the table saw to the screwdrivers of friends, acquaintances and - most importantly - former students, who, with just a moment’s inattention managed to mangle, maim or permanently remove part(s) of their body. He alternates these stories with really bad, corny and sometimes racist jokes. It’s actually worse than just straight horror stories because we are forced to listen to find out if the person really lost an eye, funnily never had one to begin with or didn’t deserve one because he was [insert unpopular ethnicity of the day here].

  I keep reminding myself that it is only for ninety days out of my entire high school career, but seeing as it’s only the first week, this semester is starting to feel interminable already.

  The art teacher, Mrs. Dipsy isn’t much better. I should have known as soon as I saw her name printed on my schedule, but I figured it was a typo. She is a true artist, in the sense that she is incredibly spaced out all the time. I think she had a little too much fun in the Sixties.

  Dippy Dipsy talked a lot about letting “creativity flow” and “seeing where your mood takes you.” She also used a lot of hand motions to demonstrate these and other artistic thoughts. That was the only part that held my interest. When she lit the incense and invited us to meditate for the remainder of the period to “open our channels,” I start to get a little bored. And a little clogged up about the nasal passages. I don’t know what’s in that stuff, but it stinks.

  I say if we’re just going to sit around having visions, my time would be more productively spent in detention where at least I occasionally picked up juicy gossip.

  Strange but true: Old-time sailors wore a gold earring because they believed it improved their eyesight. They also used it to buy themselves a proper burial.

  I don’t know if I was a sailor in a previous life but I am considering it as a future career option since foreign travel is one of my interests, and becoming a stronger interest each day.

  And although my earrings have never improved my eyesight to any noticeable extent, they still might come in handy in case I need to cover my own burial costs. This event may be coming up sooner than previously expected.

  The only tiny tidbits of interest in the new semester were two new students in my math class. Really just one and a half. The girl is so runty, she doesn’t count as a whole person.

  The boy was slightly more interesting in that 1) he swaggered in the door wearing his coat which is against school rules, 2) had on sunglasses even though it was cloudy and 3) was popping gum which is also against school rules. Mr. Hiro called him on the last one. The boy opened his mouth to show he did not in fact have any illegal substances hiding in there. His single stud earring twinkled at us along with his smile at having gotten one over on the teacher. Then he went back to chewing his invisible gum.

  Since Mr Hiro never makes a big deal about anything, I didn’t even catch their names. The girl was something like “Sofa” and the boy sounded like “Kale.” Of course neither of these could possibly be correct but Mr. Hiro thought it was more important to get on with trinomials than waste time on introductions so the names stuck.

  I dismissed Sofagirl immediately. Not only did she have the personality and presence of a mouse but she was dressed like she was in training to become a nun. All that black is much too harsh for someone as pale as she is. Also, she’s thin enough without accentuating the fact that her thighs are the same width as a chair leg.

&n
bsp; I didn’t give Kale much thought either, other than to snidely wonder what season he thought it was with those sunglasses and his shirt open halfway down his chest. He was certainly not tanned enough to carry it off. And I may be wrong, but I believe that having one single chest hair is worse than having none at all.

  I also noted that with his flame red hair, he was actually the inverse of the vegetable he was named for.

  At the end of class, Vegetableboy asked Mr. Hiro how to find Mr. Garrone’s biology class. Since I was going there anyway, I cordially offered to escort him. Diana must have been listening too because she answered almost - but not quite - as fast as I did. I couldn’t believe the look she gave me.

  I say that if she was so gungho to play tour guide, why didn’t she speak up right away? The new boy had been seated right near her. I was halfway across the room and heard the question loud and clear.

  I shrugged her off. I was just trying to be helpful.

  In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have been so quick on the draw because Ned also had a glance for me that said he wasn’t too pleased with my rapid offer of assistance.

  I shrugged at him too. I consider myself to be like Robin Hood, helper to the helpless. Except I call myself Robin Jane because hoods aren’t particularly flattering on someone with my head shape. It would have to be an extremely bad hair day for me to think about wearing one of those.

  And not only is it my duty as Robin Jane to help the wayward, but it was just a few months ago that I was the new kid at this school.

  I gave Ned a reassuring smile and pat on the arm, and went to perform my duty as Ambassadress to this new student who just happened to be a boy.