by Leah Scheier
I loved Ms. Lowry’s history class. She knew how to make wars and dates and dead kings interesting. She’d split the students up into aristocrats and peasants and then stage an uprising. She’d encourage half the class to fast all day, and then she’d make the hungry students watch their “wealthy” classmates eat. Then when we were really pissed and cranky, she’d help us plan the storming of the Bastille and the murder of our enemies.
She got into a bit of trouble for that. Some parents complained that she was encouraging violence and anorexia; she’d almost been suspended. But for us, that only made her that much cooler. So when she’d collapsed so suddenly in front of us, we couldn’t believe it. Ms. Lowry was too awesome to get sick like that.
We visited her in the hospital, but she was in and out of the cardiac unit so many times that we’d given up hope that she’d ever stand in front of us again.
And now she was back.
“We have her next period,” Michael said, peering over my shoulder and poking at the schedule in my hand. “This should be very interesting.”
“Why?” I asked him. “She was making jokes even when she had all those tubes and wires sticking out all over her. She’ll be the same old Lowry.”
She was the same, I saw, as we filed into her classroom. A little thinner and a whole lot paler, but her hennaed hair still stuck out in red-and-purple spikes around her face, she was still draped in spotted scarves and beads, and she’d sneaked in a few more piercings than was strictly allowed. Good for her, I thought as I slid into my chair. The principal had probably been too nervous to comment on the onyx nose ring; better to let that slide than risk another heart attack.
Ms. Lowry scanned our faces and smiled at us as we squirmed uncomfortably in our seats. None of us would have admitted it, but I think we were all a little scared. She looked like a shadow of her former self. But when she spoke in that singsong, raspy voice of hers, I felt myself relax. She sounded the same as always, even if she looked a little bit like the undead.
“Most of you probably remember me,” she began with a faint smirk, “as the one who pulled the Harry-Potter-meets-Voldemort spastic fit.” She threw her head back and flailed her arms out in a mock convulsion. A couple of people moaned, and someone snickered nervously. I smiled to myself. Only Ms. Lowry would make fun of her own near-death experience. “Well, class, I’m happy to report that I’ve rejoined the land of the living. And after much thought, I’ve decided to turn my medical scare into a learning opportunity for you.”
There was a unanimous groan.
“But you’re a history teacher,” Michael protested. “Wouldn’t that be a biology lesson or something?”
She shook her head. “We’re going to start off the year with a special assignment focusing on the history of medicine. Don’t worry, the presentation won’t be due until after spring break, so you’ll all have plenty of time. I want each of you to choose an illness that’s affected you or someone in your family. You don’t have to go nuts researching neurotransmitters and muscle fibers, because, as Michael pointed out, this is not biology class. Instead, I want you to tell your fellow students the story of the disease, famous people who suffered from it, treatments throughout history—all the way to the current day. For example, did you know that during the Middle Ages, children who suffered from seizures were thought to be possessed by demons? The parents would call exorcists and sometimes beat or starve their kid to exorcise Satan from his soul? These are the kinds of details I want to hear from you. Sickness can be a story too, one that we can all learn from.”
I stared blankly at Cora, who was furiously scribbling the assignment down in her floral binder. What would she be writing about, I wondered. Her miraculous nose job? “In the olden days, people suffered terribly from gigantic schnozzes…”
I raised my hand. “But, Ms. Lowry, my family’s pretty healthy. What should I write about?”
She took out a dry-erase marker from her drawer.
“You’ve never had the flu? Did you know that over forty million people died of Spanish influenza in 1918? Or you can pick something more chronic if you want. Maybe someone in your family had diabetes, for example? Or migraines? Stomach ulcers?”
“Hemorrhoids?” Miles craned his head back and grinned at me. “Or crabs?”
God, what had I ever seen in him? “How about mono?” I hissed back. That shut him up briefly. He and Cora had been out for weeks with the “kissing” bug.
I couldn’t help feeling a little proud of myself as I watched him sit back stiffly and cross his arms. Over the last year, I’d barely said two words to him—and now I’d managed three. No notes on my hand, no preparation—and I’d even been a bit clever too.
“Too bad they haven’t found a cure for ugly,” I heard him mutter. “Easy A for you right there.”
So much for personal progress, I thought and slumped back in my chair. At least when I kept my mouth shut, I didn’t get hurt.
I scrawled out “watch TV medical drama” in my notebook and flipped the page. I didn’t want to write about the common cold or pinkeye, and my mom’s irritable bowels were not a subject for class discussion.
Ms. Lowry finished writing down suggestions on the board and started to hand out the semester’s syllabus packets when the door creaked open and a student entered, pushing a heavy bag of books in front of him. He looked at the board and then turned doubtfully to the teacher. “Is this tenth grade history?” he asked, edging back in the direction of the exit.
Ms. Lowry smiled and reached out her hand. “That’s right. And you are?”
He shook her hand awkwardly and hoisted his bag over his shoulder. “I’m Jonah.”
She glanced at the class roster on her desk. “Jonah Golden, right? You’re new at Fallstaff?”
He looked embarrassed. “Yeah, sorry I’m late—there are no signs on any of the doors here.”
“It’s fine, Jonah. Why don’t you take a seat, and one of your classmates will catch you up.”
He turned toward us, and for the first time, I got a good look at him. He was tall and thin but not clumsy or gawky like most teenage boys. His cheekbones were high, black curls framed his face, and thick dark brows arched over large, blue-gray eyes. He was cute, I decided, even though he wasn’t magazine-cover gorgeous or football-jock ripped. Still, there was something about him, something that held the entire class’s attention as he calmly scanned our faces. We were all judging him, of course, and he knew it. The girls were trying to decide if he was boyfriend material; the guys were sizing up the competition. I held my breath as Jonah’s eyes flickered over the quiet class. There were three empty chairs in the room: one in front of me (Kristin’s old seat), one behind Cora (Miles sat there until they broke up), and one in the corner in the back (the class slacker used to sit there, but he was repeating ninth grade).
Please, I prayed. Please, don’t sit behind Cora.
Jonah could have been a total jerk, and I knew that I might regret my prayer later—but I saw Cora sit up and swish her blond hair forward, as if waving him into place behind her. Every guy who sat there last year had fallen for her, and just this once, I wanted her to lose, even if I didn’t benefit from her failure. The war would be lost the moment I opened my mouth to speak to him and “ummmmm…ugggggg…uhhhhhh” came out. But I wanted to win the first battle at least. Even if I knew my victory wouldn’t last.
I think my feelings must have been written all over my face, because Jonah met my eyes and smiled suddenly, gripped his bag strap, and stepped over to the seat in front of me. As he slid into the chair, I caught a glimpse of Cora’s shocked expression, and I turned my face quickly so she wouldn’t see the triumph in my eyes.
It was like that awful moment in gym class, when the captains are picking out their teams. You’re thinking “Not last, please…” and suddenly you hear your name called—as you try to hide that pathetic exhale of relief. Well, I think I
must have exhaled pretty loudly, because no sooner had Jonah settled in his seat than he twisted around to face me. I saw the flash of a grin. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You can let the pen go now.”
I looked down at my fingers and saw that I was clutching my pen cap with both hands so tightly that my nails had gone white. I relaxed my grip, the pen clattered to the desk, and he turned back to face the front again. His shoulders quivered for a minute, and he put one palm across his lips to hide his smile. Damn it. I’d managed to look idiotic, and I hadn’t even opened my mouth.
Ms. Lowry began to talk about some topic that obviously excited her, the Irish potato famine or Chinese dictators or something, but I was finding it very difficult to concentrate. I don’t care what Jonah thinks, I told myself. I’d barely even met him. He had no right to laugh at me! He could go sit anywhere he liked. I wasn’t going to think about it anymore.
And then suddenly, without warning, he turned around again.
“I was wondering,” he asked me, in a hushed voice, “do you like this school?”
His expression was calm and serious; he was definitely not teasing anymore. But the question was so strange and unexpected. He didn’t even know my name. Why was he asking me how I felt about Fallstaff?
“It’s not my favorite place, exactly,” I replied cautiously. “I’ve thought of transferring.”
He seemed to consider that for a moment, then leaned a little closer. “Where to?”
Uh oh. I hadn’t expected a follow-up question. How was I supposed to answer that? I had no idea; I’d never really looked into it. “Uhh…well, I don’t know,” I admitted after an awkward pause. “Where else would I go? Ballet school?” The last bit was meant to be a joke, but he didn’t return my smile and quickly turned away to face the board.
I bit my lip in frustration. Damn damn damn it. Why hadn’t I just made something up? I could have said Fancy Private High, for example. How would he know that I couldn’t afford it? Or—even better—I was considering a tiny rustic school near a village in Tuscany, Jonah. It would give me a chance to brush up on my Italian and learn how to ferment grapes and churn exotic butter.
Even a silly answer would have been better than “Uhh…well, I don’t know.” Now he’d think of me as the dim, pen-squeezing girl. He’d chosen to sit in front of me, dooming himself to constant puffs of stink from Smelly Todd in the front row, when he could have been enjoying raspberry-scented lip gloss and swishes of blond hair from the prettiest sophomore in school.
The rest of history was probably very educational, but I basically studied the back of Jonah’s head. He didn’t turn around again but spent the period busily scribbling in his spiral notebook.
When the bell rang, Cora jumped from her seat and strode purposefully over to Jonah’s desk. She was wearing an emerald sleeveless dress that curved along her body in a perfect S. Her hips swayed back and forth as she came forward, her yellow hair floating over her shoulders like a shiny scarf. I watched her, fascinated. She was so comfortable in her own skin. I wished I had that power; she walked as if she expected people to stop and stare. It didn’t matter what she said. People like Cora didn’t have to be interesting.
Jonah stopped gathering his papers as she slid one green butt cheek onto the corner of his desk.
“You know,” she said, pouting sweetly, “they have to fix that chair. We can switch it with another if you want.”
He gave her a confused look. “Sorry, what?”
Cora hesitated for a minute; a shade of doubt tugged at her smile, but she soldiered bravely on.
“The chair behind me. The legs are crooked.” She sighed and threw a pitying look in my direction. “It’s okay, Jonas. You can always move tomorrow.”
Most of the students had already filed out, but I didn’t move. I saw the flicker of indecision in his eyes, a timid smile, and suddenly I couldn’t look away. Cora was trying too hard, but it was hard to blame her. He was really attractive, in a quiet, simple way, and there was something fascinating about the constant shift of color in his cheeks. They were flaming scarlet now. “It’s Jonah,” he said slowly. “And you are?”
“Cora,” she responded, ignoring his correction. “If you want, I can show you to your next class.” She glanced over her shoulder at me. “So you don’t lose your way again.”
Jonah zipped up his bag. “Thanks, Cora, you seem very nice but—”
She was practically purring, even though his tone had been clearly sarcastic. He inhaled sharply, like a swimmer about to take a dive, and turned back to her. “The truth is, Cora, I sat here because I wanted to,” he said, waving a hand in my direction. “I think she’s pretty.”
Well, okay then.
WHAT?
The same thought seemed to be screaming through Cora’s head, because her skin tone suddenly matched her dress. But Jonah hadn’t said the words maliciously, jokingly, or even thoughtfully. He’d simply said them as if pointing out the obvious.
I had no idea how to react. It was so awesome—and yet so very strange! He was the new kid in school, and he’d just blown off the princess and complimented the “before” girl. In front of witnesses too! Nobody seemed to know how to respond. Tessa kept opening her mouth and shutting it again, and Smelly Todd looked strangely gleeful.
Jonah didn’t wait for a response. He glanced briefly at his watch then at the schedule in his hand, slung his bag over his shoulder, and left the room.
Chapter 3
I was going to be late to math class because I’d forgotten what I looked like. I’d eventually have to make up a believable excuse, but it would be a while before I tore myself away from the bathroom mirror.
The face that stared back at me was familiar, yet for the first time, I had trouble recognizing it. I studied my thin, V-shaped eyebrows, small nose, and pointy chin. Not perfect, but at least symmetrical. Pale skin with freckles instead of a tan, hazel eyes, which sometimes looked green. Decent smile, if I was careful not to show too many teeth. I was slim, with slight curves, but nothing like Cora’s perfect hourglass.
It was my hair that generally ruined the picture. I groaned inwardly and ran wet fingers through the uneven coils. Most days, I’d gather up the mass of brown and twist it into a bun or braid, but that morning, I’d loaded it with gel and let it hang loose over my shoulders. Big mistake. The problem was that it didn’t hang, or flow, like good hair. Instead, it rose and tried to take flight, slowly expanding and swelling upward until it appeared to be taking over the world.
I sprinkled more water into the frizz and twisted the strands hard around my fingers. Better, a little better, but not much. I still looked like the “before” girl. I wasn’t sure what part of me Jonah thought was pretty, but I really wasn’t seeing it. Maybe he’d just felt bad for me and wanted to put Cora in her place.
I frowned into the mirror, grabbed my schoolbag, and pushed the bathroom door open. There was a little shout on the other side.
“Sorry!” I called out as I rushed to catch the handle of the swinging door.
“It’s not just the blondes in this school. Even the doors are vicious.” It was Jonah, of course. Just my luck.
“I’m sorry,” I told him, “I didn’t think there would be anyone in the hall—”
“No, it’s fine. I’m supposed to be in class now, but I’m actually lost again. I’ve been wandering the halls hoping someone would take pity on me.”
He was grinning at me, and I noticed for the first time how blue his eyes were and that his brows tilted up when he smiled, as if his grin had caught him by surprise.
“I’m also late,” I explained. “I was just in the bathroom because—” I stopped in the middle of my excuse and realized, to my horror, that there was really no way to finish that. What was I going to say? The truth is, Jonah, I was staring at myself in the mirror and wondering how you could possibly find me attractive.
/> I should have let it go and moved on. But I was suddenly and unreasonably preoccupied with finishing my sentence. Even if it meant making a complete fool of myself. What had I been doing in the bathroom? Well—
“Stomach trouble,” I blurted out. “I ate a bad burrito.”
Oh God. What the hell was wrong with me?
Jonah blinked once; his smile faded, and his eyebrows descended. A little bubble of panic began to rise up in my throat. This had to be the worst of awkward silences. Was that really the first thing that I’d told him about myself? Indigestion? I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out; my mind was racing, grasping blindly for some way to take my last words back. But what was I supposed to say? Oh, come on, Jonah, everyone at Fallstaff High introduces themselves that way!
He was staring at me quietly, the faintest hint of laughter in his eyes. Then his lips twitched. “Thank you so much for telling me about it,” he murmured with mock gravity. “I feel very close to you now.”
I felt the color rising to my cheeks. He was obviously teasing me, and I really couldn’t blame him. This was some kind of a personal record for me; I’d managed to strike out in less than one minute flat.
“I have to go—” I began. But even that harmless statement sounded weird now, considering what had just happened. “—to class,” I finished miserably. “Just to class. I have to go to class, not to the—” Oh God. Please just kill me now.
He started shuffling through his bag as I sputtered to a stop. “It looks like I have math now,” he said, pulling out his schedule and smoothing it out against the wall. “Do you have any idea where that would be?”
Did I know where math was? I took a deep breath and felt myself relax a little. An easy question. Come on, April, you can do this.
“It depends—which teacher do you have?”
“Roberts.”
I glanced down at my own schedule and groaned inwardly. Same period, same teacher. A floor away. A two-minute walk at least.