by C. J. Valles
My dad is pointing out the window. I turn and see a concrete sign that says Dana Point High School. My stomach drops into my feet, and I swallow. I’m not ready for this.
Later that night, after I get into bed, I have no trouble falling asleep. It’s staying asleep that has become my problem. I keep waking up from dreams where I’m being chased. The faces of my pursuers blur and blend, and it feels like they’re just about to catch me. Every time I open my eyes, my heart is racing. After finally falling into a dreamless sleep, it seems like only seconds pass before the alarm on my phone goes off.
I’m tired, but I resist the urge to sleep in and be late for my first day at yet another school. I shower, get dressed, and eat some cereal. The bedroom door at the end of the hall is closed, but when I get outside, my dad’s car is gone. There’s still a chill in the air as I get into the Mustang, but knowing Southern California, it will wear off. I look wistfully at the Mustang’s ancient tape deck. I actually have a stack of tapes I had stolen from my mom’s old collection, but the car’s cassette player hasn’t worked the entire time I’ve had it, which means on the way to school I have to endure silence or poor reception from the radio station I used to listen to at Pali. It’s better than nothing, mostly because I’m desperate for just about anything that will distract me, even if it’s static-laced morning DJs.
Palm trees. Driving into the student parking lot, I’m reminded of just how far from Portland I am. Actually, at first glance, this new school reminds me a lot of Pali, other than having a much angrier dolphin for its mascot. I park and get out, walking toward what looks like the main entrance. I purposely left early this morning, but the parking lot is already half-full. And suddenly I remember something on the school’s site saying that it staggers its schedule. As I walk through the main doors, I feel a wave of exhaustion come over me, but it has little to do with my terrible night of sleep.
I don’t want to start over.
I remember thinking the exact opposite when we got to Portland. Yeah, I was skeptical when my mom said we were going to get a fresh start. But then, for the first time in my life it felt like things had come together. Like I was where I was supposed to be. Now that I’m back in Southern California, it hits me how out of place I had always been.
Seeing a sign for the girls’ bathroom, I think of my first day at Springview. But when I walk in, it’s empty. Besides, even if someone like Emily Michaels and her crew walked in, I’m not in the mood to hide. I search the pockets of my backpack for some lip gloss and find a tube I must have pilfered a long time back from my mom’s supply. Not that I had to steal anything from her. She was always giving me random things. She’s one of those people who would give you the shirt she was wearing if you said you liked it, which is why finding out how she really felt was such a shock.
As I put on the lip gloss and stare into the mirror, a jolt of adrenaline rocks me. I can’t figure out what’s causing it. The prospect of walking into an unfamiliar classroom again, or just an aftershock from yesterday. I watch my anxious expression staring back at me and promise myself that I will smile at one person today even if it kills me. That’s about all I have the energy for.
Unlike the TV shows, I’m not going to become captain of the cheer squad my first day. Just the thought makes me laugh a little. Maybe if it was cross country season, I might be able to talk myself into trying out, but I still doubt it. Right now, I just want to survive the day.
Walking back into the hallway, I look for the offices and hear musical instruments. I peek in through the window at the top of the door and see a bunch of kids laughing and goofing around as they rehearse. It must be the a.m. band practice. The scene causes a pang of loneliness to hit me in the chest. Taking out my phone, I stare down at it. I want to text Ashley or Taylor and ask how spring break is going. But what would I say about disappearing right before the dance?
Hey! I’m in Southern California enjoying the good weather! Never coming back. Sorry I took off without telling anyone!
Taylor might understand why I left, but maybe not. I put the phone back and walk until I reach a sign for the administrative offices. I tell the woman behind the counter that I’m new and give her my name. A moment later, when she hands me a printout, it’s official. I am enrolling in the third high school of my junior year. I want to tell myself something plucky and brave, like third school’s the charm. But, really, I feel like a chunk of my soul has gone missing.
I would be okay if I had come down here for any other reason. I could have endured it. But just knowing that my mom didn’t want me around—never had—it was enough to destroy me. I don’t see what could ever fix that. Going to a new school, living with my dad. These are just bandages to cover up the wound.
I scan my surroundings for some sign of what direction to take and then start walking. With sudden nostalgia, I look down at my shoes, which are bone dry, and think of the squishing sound from my first day at Springview. Enough! I tell myself firmly. I’m here now, and I’m going to leave Portland behind. But instead of feeling lighter, my entire body wilts at the thought, like I’ve decided to amputate my right side.
But there’s no other way.
I stop in front of the classroom that matches my schedule. Poking my head in the door, I see a young woman with short-cropped brown hair.
“Bonjour. … Je suis une nouvelle étudiante,” I say.
“Tu es une nouvelle élève,” she corrects.
Oops. Suddenly I realize my mistake. I just said I was a university student. My cheeks flush, and I try to think of what to say next.
“Je suis desolée.”
“Pas de problème. C’est pourquoi tu es ici.”
I think she just said my poor French is the reason why I’m here, but I’m having some trouble understanding her since her accent is so thick. I think she’s probably French or French Canadian, not American. After she hands me a textbook, the same one I had at Pali, I turn and look for a seat. When first bell rings about twenty minutes later, students begin trickling in, always in twos or threes. This is the problem. Nobody else is looking to make friends; they’ve already got them. My stomach falls when I realize that the only reason Ashley came up to me my first day was because Josh had made a bet with her.
I got lucky at Springview, and I know it.
I make a half-hearted attempt to smile as people sit down around me, but mostly they’re too busy talking with their friends to notice. Besides, attempting prolonged eye contact will only accomplish one of two things. It will either, A) make me look desperate and crazy, or B) blow my attempt to avoid picking up people’s thoughts.
By the time I get through second period AP U.S. History, I realize that it’s like I’m back at Pali, as in: I’m completely invisible. When the lunch bell rings after my fourth period English class, I’m about to ask the girl sitting next to me—who I managed to smile and say hi to—if I can sit with her and her friends during lunch. But I hesitate, and she gets up and leaves before I can. Feeling like I’ve failed the new girl test—again—I pack up my stuff and walk out into the hallway.
Following in the direction that most people seem to be headed, I remember with a sinking feeling that there was a sign posted somewhere declaring that Dana Point High School is a closed campus, which means going out to my car and hiding isn’t an option. I step through a pair of double doors and see the lunch area is similar to Pali’s, not Springview’s.
Tables outside. Walk-up windows to order food. Perfectly blue sky above.
There are some other displays set up, but I’m looking for something as easy as possible. I stop when I see something that makes me rethink food altogether—a banner proclaiming that it’s not too late to get tickets for the spring formal. I had been starting to get excited about going to the dance with my friends, but now that I’m back in Southern California, my insanity has worn off. I am officially reinstating my no dance policy. Friendless and dateless has lame music video written all over it.
Getting in lin
e, I decide on the one universal food group: pizza. It can be pretty bad and still be all right. I take my tray and walk back the way I came, looking for an unobtrusive spot to settle. Before leaving the house this morning, I took one of my dad’s countless paperback spy thrillers from the shelf in the living room. Based on my calculations, I can read one a week until I graduate without even putting a dent in his dog-eared collection, one he started way before I was born and long before e-readers.
I’m in the middle of wondering whether I’ll get in trouble if I go sit on the grass at the edge of the school grounds when I see him. If I had never laid eyes on him before, there’s no way I would walk up to him like I’m doing right now. He’s reading a book, and for some reason I find this almost funny. But when I get close enough to see which book it is, I’m too shocked to make a sarcastic comment.
“I tried reading that in the fourth grade,” I blurt.
My stalker looks up at me, not seeming particularly surprised by my presence.
“You read Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe in the fourth grade? That would have made you, what? Nine?” Alex laughs.
“I tried to read it,” I correct sheepishly. “I only made it about halfway.”
He holds out his hand, inviting me to sit down. I pause, and then figure, why not?
“I take it you had some reason for choosing such a tome?” he asks.
I smile.
“Tome? Do you always talk like you’re practicing for the SATs?”
“A perfectly acceptable word choice. Would you prefer, ‘Dude, that’s like way long!’?” he asks in surfer voice.
I stifle a laugh.
“No.”
“Why Ivanhoe at such a young age, then?”
I redden at the thought of explaining why I chose that book in particular.
“If I tell you, won’t I ruin it for you?” I point out.
“I’ve already finished it,” he says, setting it on the table in front of him.
“You’re re-reading Ivanhoe?”
“Why not?”
I take a bite of my pizza and shrug.
“Well?” he prompts.
“Where’s your lunch?” I ask, looking at the empty space in front of him.
“I finished it.”
“Already? Lunch started five minutes ago.”
“Kindly stop changing the subject. Why Ivanhoe?”
“You promise you won’t laugh?”
He nods gravely, and I sigh.
“Okay. When I was a kid, my mom had a copy of the movie that she recorded from TV.”
“The 1950s version?”
I frown and shake my head.
“Um, no. The one I watched was only made a decade or two before I was born,” I laugh.
“So you wanted to read the book because you saw a film adaptation?” Alex clarifies.
I nod and take a bite of my salad. But my cheeks are already turning red. I can’t bring myself to look up at him.
“What?” Alex asks.
“Nothing! It’s stupid.”
“Well, now you have to tell me,” he laughs.
“All right. … I cannot believe I’m telling you this,” I grumble, looking up at him. “In the movie version, the romance between Rebecca and Ivanhoe was much more, um, obvious. You know, in the book, it’s all her tending to his wounds and him saying stuff like, ‘Ah! If only you weren’t of a different race!’ As a kid, I was rooting for them, because …”
“They couldn’t be together,” Alex finishes.
“Yeah,” I blush. “I guess the whole forbidden love thing really got to me. They never even had a chance because they were so different.”
He’s staring at me, not saying anything, and suddenly I’m having trouble looking away. That’s when I realize that this is the first time I’ve really looked into someone’s eyes since I made the mistake of reading Jessica’s thoughts. Only, this time I’m not picking up any thoughts. My skin prickles, and I turn and catch eyes with the first person I see—it’s a guy I recognize from my U.S. History class.
I wish Kayla would look at me like that.
Shifting my eyes to the right, I see a pretty blonde girl sitting a couple of seats away from him. She’s staring at Alex. With a spike of dread, I finally notice that she’s not the only one looking over here. Several girls at other tables are sneaking glances at him, too. My stomach plummets. God! What was I thinking? What am I doing here talking about Ivanhoe with this guy?
I turn back to Alex, who’s frowning, and as I stare into his eyes, the bigger picture hits me. I can’t see anything in his mind, which means there’s something wrong. With him or me. Jumping up, I grab my backpack and pick up my tray.
“I-I have to go,” I stammer.
“Wren! Wait!” he calls.
I dump the contents of my tray in the trash and make it almost to the double doors when a large hand locks around my wrist. From the shock of electricity, I know who it is. I turn reluctantly and look up at Alex, seeing an expression of concern in his eyes and nothing else.
“What happened? What did I do?”
He looks truly confused, and I don’t blame him. I would be perpetually confused by what people do if I couldn’t read their thoughts—like I can’t read his right now. I shake my head, desperate to get away from him. There’s nothing I can say that won’t sound nuts. You’re too hot to hang out with? I can’t read you mind so one of us must be defective? Or worse: I can’t be friends with you because it might all turn out to be an elaborate joke? I’d sound freaking crazy!
“Nothing!” I blurt. “Just leave me alone.”
“No.”
I stare up at him in shock and nearly laugh.
“No? Are you kidding me?”
His grip loosens.
“Is that what you truly want?”
I think about his question. Do I want to reject the one person who has offered friendship?
“I don’t know what I want.”
Ignoring the buzzing in my veins, I shake free and rush into the hall. I never want anything from anyone ever again. I’m afraid to want anything. Besides, as messed up as I am right now, I’m better off by myself until I can put the pieces back together.
16: Strange
By the time I get to my dad’s house after school, my irrational fear has worn off, and I feel like a jerk and a crazy person. But that’s kind of the point. Why should I subject Alex—whatever his motivations are—to the craziness that is me? He may have his own issues, but that’s not an excuse to combine them into one crazy stew, is it?
There’s no one home when I open the front door, which means Jessica is out doing whatever she does in the afternoons. Pilates? My dad won’t be home for several hours; I’m sure of it. That’s good, though. Because I don’t want to have to pretend that everything’s great right now.
Lucky for me, most of my teachers told me I could take the coming weekend to catch up on assignments, which gives me some breathing room. Dropping my bag on the bed, I change into shorts, which is something I never had reason to do in Portland. When I get to the kitchen, I open the French doors and step outside. The concrete is warm beneath my feet. I look around. The back yard is obviously professionally landscaped, full of bright flowers behind the white stucco wall surrounding the pool.
I tilt my face toward the sun. This is one thing I missed about Southern California. The warmth. Sitting down on a white deck chair, I look around at the palm trees swaying in the breeze along the periphery of the back yard and then close my eyes. I want to enjoy this. I really do. Like a tropical vacation. But the truth is I didn’t want a vacation from my life. Worse, I feel incomplete here. Deep down I know it’s about more than my mom. It’s like invisible strings are pulling at me, willing me back to something. Restless, I get up and walk to the edge of the pool. As I stare down at the surface of the water, a chill washes over me despite the warm breeze. The image of Alex’s bright blue eyes pops into my head, and I feel a jolt of pure terror. Shivering, I frown. Why would I
feel terrified of the person who saved me?
He’s a mystery, yeah. And I can’t read his thoughts. But maybe that’s a good thing, I tell myself. Maybe a friend like him is the solace I need right now. Or maybe I just don’t know what I need or want. Which only leaves me with one option: to muddle through it until I figure things out.
“Wrennie?”
I look back toward the house and see Jessica standing at the door. There goes my alone time.
“Sylvie’s got the day off. You mind watching Ben for a little bit? Mommy needs a break, huh?” she coos at Ben before setting him down in a baby-bucket contraption on the kitchen table.
I smile. My mom definitely would get a kick out of Jessica’s wardrobe choice. Silk robe, huge sunglasses from the other day, a barely there bathing suit that displays her ample top half, plus high-heeled sandals. Her hair is piled up on her head, exposing her roots. Oh, yeah. Welcome back to Southern California, I think dryly. It’s sort of shocking now that I’ve been away from it. I get up and walk over as she comes outside.
“If he gets cranky, there’s formula on the counter,” she calls as I pass her.
Inside, I see a stroller against the wall. It’s kitted out with all kinds of accessories. Taking the bottle, I lean over and pick up my little brother. He’s heavier than I expected. Carrying him over to the stroller, I strap him in and put his bottle into one of the many cup holders. After double-checking that the brake on the stroller is locked, I run back to my room and get my music.
“All right, Ben. Let’s go for a little ride while your mommy gets some desperately needed ‘me time,’” I laugh to myself.
As soon as I roll Ben out the front door, the stairs to the sidewalk make me rethink my decision, and I wheel the stroller back to the garage and down the cobblestone driveway. At the street, I decide on a quick walk along the golf course. Right now, Ben is babbling and cooing, but I’m not sure how long that will last before he erupts into a tantrum upon discovering his mommy is nowhere in sight. I put on my headphones and then turn down the volume on my iPod so I can still hear my passenger.