“Anyway,” Tucker said, “weeknights aren’t nearly as bad as weekends.”
I could tell. It was ten-thirty, and the place was dead. And by dead, I mean it was like the entire possum population of suburban Indiana. Tucker was supposed to be training me to work nights. I’d only worked the day shift during summer, a plan concocted by my therapist that my mother had quickly blessed. But now that school was starting, we’d agreed I could work at night.
I grabbed Finnegan’s Magic 8 Ball from behind the cash register. My thumb went for the red scuff mark on the back of the ball, trying to rub it out like I always did whenever I got bored. Tucker was now preoccupied with lining up a pepper shaker cavalry across from a hostile regiment of saltshaker footmen.
“We’ll still get a few stragglers,” he said. “Creepy late nighters. We got this really drunk guy one time—you remember him, Gus?”
A thin line of cigarette smoke trailed through the short-order window and up to the ceiling. In response to Tucker’s question, several large puffs clouded the air. I was pretty sure Gus’s cigarette wasn’t real. If it was, we were breaking about a hundred health codes.
Tucker’s expression went dark. His eyebrows drew together, his voice flattening out. “Oh. And there’s Miles.”
“Miles who?”
“He should be here soon.” Tucker squinted at his condiment skirmish. “He comes on his way home from work. He’s all yours.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And why, exactly, is he all mine?”
“You’ll see.” He glanced up when a pair of headlights illuminated the parking lot. “He’s here. Rule one: don’t make eye contact.”
“What, is he a gorilla? Is this Jurassic Park? Am I going to get attacked?”
Tucker shot me a serious look. “It’s a definite possibility.”
A kid our age walked through the door. He was wearing a white T-shirt and black jeans. A Meijer polo dangled from one hand. If this was Miles, he didn’t give me much of a chance to make eye contact; he went straight to the corner table in my section and sat with his back to the wall. From experience, I knew that seat was the best vantage point in the room. But not everyone was as paranoid as I was.
Tucker leaned through the short-order window. “Hey, Gus. You have Miles’s usual?”
Gus’s cigarette smoke curled in the air as he handed over a cheeseburger and fries. Tucker took the plate, filled a glass with water, and plunked everything on the counter beside me.
I jumped when I realized Miles was staring at us over the rims of his glasses. A wad of cash had already been placed on the edge of the table.
“Is there something wrong with him?” I whispered. “You know . . . mentally?”
“He’s definitely not like the rest of us.” Tucker huffed and went back to building his armies.
He’s not a Communist. He’s not wired. Don’t check under the table, idiot. He’s just a kid who wants some food.
Miles lowered his eyes as I walked up.
“Hi!” I said, cringing even as the word left my mouth. Too perky. I coughed, scanned the windows on either side of the table. “Um, I’m Alex.” I lowered my voice. “I’ll be your waitress.” I set the food and water down. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you.” He finally looked up.
Several synapses imploded inside my brain. His eyes.
Those eyes.
His glare peeled away the layers of my skin and pinned me to the spot. Blood rushed to my face, my neck, my ears. He had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. And they were completely impossible.
My palms itched for my camera. I needed to take a picture of him. I needed to document this. Because the Freeing of the Lobsters hadn’t been real, and neither was Blue Eyes. My mother had never mentioned him. Not to the therapists, or to Dad, or to anyone. He couldn’t be real.
I screamed curses at Finnegan in my head. He’d forbidden me from bringing my camera to work after I’d photographed an irate man with an eye patch and a peg leg.
Miles nudged the wad of cash toward me with an index finger. “Keep the change,” he muttered.
I grabbed it and raced back to the counter.
“Hi!” Tucker mimicked in a high falsetto.
“Shut up. I didn’t sound like that.”
“I can’t believe he didn’t bite your head off.”
I shoved the wad of cash into the register and brushed my hair back with shaking hands. “Yeah,” I said. “Me either.”
While Tucker stepped out back for his break, I commandeered his condiment armies. Gus’s cigarette smoke wafted toward the ceiling, pulled into the vent. The oscillating fan on the wall made the papers on the employee bulletin board flutter.
Halfway through my recreation of the Battle of the Bulge, I shook Finnegan’s Magic 8 Ball to find out if the German saltshaker would be successful in his offensive.
Ask again later.
Useless thing. If the Allies had taken that advice, the Axis would have won the war. I kept myself from looking at Miles for as long as I could. But eventually my eyes wandered back to him, and I couldn’t look away. He ate with stiff movements, like he was barely keeping himself from stuffing everything into his mouth. And every few seconds, his glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them back up.
He didn’t look up when I refilled his water. I stared at the top of his sandy-haired head as I poured, mentally urging him to look up.
I was so busy focusing that I didn’t notice the cup was full until the water ran over the top. I dropped it in shock. The water splashed all over him—across his arm, down his shirt, into his lap. He stood up so fast his head smashed into the overhead light and the entire table tipped.
“I—oh, crap, I’m sorry—” I ran back to the counter where Tucker stood, a hand clamped over his mouth, his face turning red, and grabbed a towel.
Miles used his Meijer polo to absorb some of the water, but he was soaked.
“I am so sorry.” I reached out to dry his arm, very aware that my hands were still shaking.
He recoiled before I could touch him, glaring at me, the towel, back at me. Then he grabbed his polo, shoved his glasses up his nose, and escaped.
“It’s fine,” he muttered as he passed me. He was out the door before I could say another word.
I finished cleaning up the table, then trudged back to the counter.
Tucker, composed, took the dishes from me. “Bravo. Brilliant job.”
“Tucker.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
He laughed and disappeared into the kitchen.
Was that Blue Eyes?
I grabbed the Magic 8 Ball and rubbed the scuff mark as I looked down into its round window.
Better not tell you now.
Evasive little bitch.
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Chapter Three
The first thing I noticed about East Shoal High School was that it didn’t have a bike rack. You know a school is run by stuck-up sons of bitches when it doesn’t even have a bike rack.
I shoved Erwin behind the blocky green shrubs lining the school’s front walk and stepped back to make sure the tires and handlebars were hidden. I didn’t expect anyone to steal, touch, or notice him, since his rusty diarrhea color made people subconsciously avert their eyes, but I felt better knowing he was out of harm’s way.
I checked my bag. Books, folders, notebooks, pens, and pencils. My cheap digital camera—one of the first things I’d bought when I’d gotten the job at Finnegan’s—dangled from its strap around my wrist. I’d already taken a picture of four suspicious-looking squirrels lined up on the red brick wall outside my neighbor’s house this morning, but other than that, the memory card was empty.
Then I did my perimeter check. Perimeter checks entailed three things: getting a 360-degree view of my surroundings, noting anything that seeme
d out of place—like the huge scorched spiral design covering the surface of the parking lot—and filing those things away in case they tried to sneak up on me later.
Kids funneled from their cars to the school, ignoring the men in black suits and red ties who stood at even intervals along the school’s roof. I should’ve known public school would have some weird security. We just had normal security officers at The Hillpark School, my (former) private school.
I joined the procession of students—keeping an arm’s-length distance between myself and the rest of them, because God knows who was bringing weapons to school these days—all the way to the guidance office, where I stood in line for four minutes to get my schedule. While I was there, I took a bunch of college brochures out of the stand in the corner and stuffed them in my backpack, ignoring the weird stares I got from the kid in front of me. I didn’t take crap when it came to college—I had to get in, no matter how early I had to start or how many applications I had to send. If I was lucky, I could guilt-trip some scholarships out of a school or two, the way my parents had done with Hillpark. It didn’t matter how I did it; either I got in or I worked at Finnegan’s for the rest of my life.
I realized everyone around me was wearing a uniform. Black pants, white button-down shirts, green ties. Gotta love the smell of institutional equality in the morning.
My locker was near the cafeteria. Only one other person was there, his locker right next to mine.
Miles.
Memories of Blue Eyes hit me rapid fire, and I had to turn in a full circle to make sure my surroundings were normal. As I inched closer, I peered into his locker. Nothing unusual. I took a deep breath.
Be polite, Alex. Be polite. He won’t kill you because of some water. He’s not a hallucination. Be polite.
“Um, hi.” I said, stepping up to my locker.
Miles turned, saw me, and jumped so badly his locker door banged against the one next to it and he almost tripped over his backpack on the floor. His glare burned a hole through my head.
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
When he didn’t reply, I focused on my locker combination. I glanced at him as I tossed books into my locker. His expression hadn’t changed.
“I, uh, I’m really sorry about the water.” I held out my hand against my better judgment. My mother always said to be polite, no matter what. Even if the other person might have a knife concealed up his sleeve. “I’m Alex.”
He quirked an eyebrow. The expression was so sudden, so perfect, and so obviously right that I almost laughed.
Slowly, so it looked like he thought he might burn himself by touching me, Miles reached out to shake my hand. His fingers were long and thin. Spidery, but strong.
“Miles,” he replied.
“Okay, cool.” We released our grips at the same time, hands shooting down to our sides. “Glad we got that out of the way. I’ll see you later, then.”
Go go go get away get away.
I walked away as quickly as I could. Had I just come into contact with Blue Eyes again after ten years? Oh God. Okay.
It wouldn’t be that bad if he was real, would it? Just because my mother never mentioned him didn’t mean he wasn’t real. But what if he was an asshole?
Screw you, brain.
It wasn’t until I got to the stairs that I realized I was being followed. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I grabbed for my camera as I spun around.
Miles stood behind me.
“Are you doing that on purpose?” I asked.
“Doing what on purpose?” he replied.
“Walking a few steps behind me, close enough so I realize you’re there but not so close you look creepy doing it. And staring.”
He blinked. “No.”
“It sure feels like you are.”
“Maybe you’re paranoid.”
I stiffened.
He rolled his eyes. “Gunthrie?” he asked.
Mr. Gunthrie, AP English, first period. “Yes,” I said.
Miles pulled a paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out. His schedule. There, at the top of the page, was his name: Richter, Miles J. His first period was AP English 12, Gunthrie.
“Fine,” I said. “But you don’t have to be such a creeper about it.” I turned and stalked the rest of the way up the stairs.
“Sucks being new, doesn’t it?” Miles appeared beside me, a weird edge lacing his voice. Shivers worked their way up my arms.
“It’s not so bad,” I said through a clenched jaw.
“Either way,” he said, “I think you have an inalienable right to know that dyeing your hair is against the dress code.”
“It’s not dyed,” I snapped.
“Sure.” Miles quirked the eyebrow again. “Sure it’s not.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
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Chapter Four
When I walked into first period, all I could see of Mr. Gunthrie was a pair of thick-soled black boots propped on a class roster. The rest of him hid behind this morning’s paper. I did a quick scan of the room, then twisted my way through tight rows of desks and stood in front of him, hoping he’d notice me.
He didn’t.
“Excuse me.”
A pair of eyes topped by a heavy line of eyebrow appeared over the paper. He was a stout guy, probably in his fifties, with close-cut, steel-gray hair. I took a step back from the desk, my books in front of my chest like a shield.
He lowered the paper. “Yes?”
“I’m new. I need a uniform.”
“The bookstore sells them for about seventy.”
“Dollars?”
“You can get a spare for free from the janitor, but it won’t have the school crest. And don’t expect it to fit. Or have been washed.” He looked over my head at the clock on the wall. “If you could please take a seat.”
I sat down with my back to the wall. The PA system crackled to life.
“Students of East Shoal, welcome back for another year of school.” I recognized the weedy voice of Mr. McCoy, the principal. My mother and I had talked to him before. She loved him. I was unimpressed. “I hope you all had a great summer vacation, but now it’s time to get back in the swing of things. If you don’t have a school uniform, one can be purchased from the bookstore for a minimum fee.”
I snorted. No bike rack, seventy-dollar uniforms, oblivious principal—this place was just rainbows and unicorns.
“Also,” McCoy continued, “this is the yearly reminder that our beloved scoreboard’s birthday, the anniversary of its donation to the school, is coming up in just a few short weeks. So everyone get ready, prepare your offerings, and be ready to celebrate this great occasion!”
The PA system went quiet. I stared at the ceiling. Did he say “offerings”?
For a scoreboard?
“ROLL CALL!”
Mr. Gunthrie’s voice jerked me back to Earth. The talking of the other students in the room ceased. I got the sinking feeling that Gunnery Sergeant Hartman would be teaching us this year. I slipped my camera over the lip of the desk and began taking pictures.
“WHEN I CALL YOUR NAME, I WILL POINT TO A DESK. THAT IS YOUR DESK. THERE WILL BE NO SWITCHING, TRADING, OR COMPLAINING. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?”
“YES, SIR!” came the united reply.
“GOOD. CLIFFORD ACKERLEY.” Mr. Gunthrie pointed to the first desk of the first row.
“Here, sir!” A burly kid stood up and moved to his new seat.
“GOOD TO SEE YOU IN AP, ACKERLEY.” Mr. Gunthrie moved down his list. “TUCKER BEAUMONT.”
Tucker stood from somewhere on the side and went to sit behind Clifford. He saw me in the back and smiled. To my dismay, he looked even more hopelessly nerdy here—his school uniform starched straight, his arms full of textbooks and already-scribbled-on papers—the sort of nerdy that gets picked on by guys like Clifford Acker
ley.
But I couldn’t help giggling a little. It happened every time I heard Tucker’s last name. It always reminded me of Chevalier d’Eon, full name Charles-Geneviève-Louis-Auguste-André-Timothée d’éon de Beaumont, a French spy who lived the second half of his life as a woman.
Mr. Gunthrie called a few more people before getting to Claude Gunthrie, who gave no indication that his father, barking orders at him, bothered him in the least.
I took pictures of everyone. I could analyze details later—I didn’t plan on getting close enough to anyone to do it in person.
“CELIA HENDRICKS!”
Celia Hendricks had been assaulted by a cosmetics store. No hair was naturally that shade of yellow (and that was me talking, ha ha ha), and her real skin was locked inside a makeup shell. She wore a black skirt instead of pants, and it rode dangerously up her thigh.
Mr. Gunthrie didn’t miss this.
“HENDRICKS, THAT SKIRT VIOLATES THE DRESS CODE ON SEVERAL LEVELS.”
“But it’s the first day of school, and I didn’t know—”
“BULLSHIT.”
I stared, wide-eyed, at Mr. Gunthrie, praying nothing about him was a figment of my imagination. Either he was badass, or I was dreaming.
“GO CHANGE, NOW.”
With a huff, Celia stomped out of the room. Mr. Gunthrie sighed and returned to his list. A few more people shifted places.
“MILES RICHTER.”
Miles yawned as he dragged his tall self across the room. He fell into his new seat. There were only two people left—me and a girl who’d been talking to Clifford before class had started. Maybe, just maybe, her last name would be between Ric- and Rid-.
“ALEXANDRA RIDGEMONT.”
Damn.
Everyone turned to look at me as I sat down behind Miles. If they hadn’t noticed me before, they did now—and the hair. Oh, the hair . . .
Stop it, idiot! It’s fine, they’re not looking at you. Okay, they are looking at you. But they’re not coming after you. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.
“Alex is fine,” I said weakly.
“MARIA WOLF.”
Made You Up Page 2