Unearthly u-1

by Cynthia Hand

  This doesn’t get a laugh, either, just a pity chuckle from Wendy. I’m apparently not cut out to be a stand-up comedian.

  “Thank you, Clara,” says Mr. Phibbs.

  The last student to name her three things is the black-haired girl who looked at me so attentively when I mentioned the weird thing with the birds. Her name, she says, is Angela Zerbino. She tucks her side-swept bangs behind her ear and lists her three unique things quickly.

  “My mother owns the Pink Garter. I’ve never met my father. And I’m a poet.”

  Another awkward silence. She looks around the circle like she’s daring someone to challenge her. Nobody meets her eyes.

  “Good,” says Mr. Phibbs, clearing his throat. He peruses his notes. “Now we know each other better. But how do people really get to know each other? Is it with facts, the specifics about ourselves that distinguish us from the other six and a half billion people on this planet? Is it our brains that make us different, the way each person is like a computer programmed with a different mix of software, memories, habits, and genetic makeup? Is it what we do, the actions we take? What would your three things have been, I wonder, if I’d told you to name the most defining actions you have taken in your life?”

  I see a flash of the fire in my mind’s eye.

  “This spring we’ll be spending a lot of time discussing what it is to be unique,”

  continues Mr. Phibbs. He stands and hobbles over to the small table at the back of the room, where he picks up a stack of books and begins to pass them out.

  “Our first book of the semester,” he says.

  Frankenstein.

  “It’s alive!” yells the guy with the pink lady on his snowboard, holding up his book as if he expects it to be struck by lightning. Kay Patterson rolls her eyes

  “Ah, you’re channeling Dr. Frankenstein already.” Mr. Phibbs turns to the whiteboard and writes the name Mary Shelley in black marker, along with the year 1817. “This book was written by a woman not much older than you are now, who was reflecting on the battle between science and the natural world.”

  He launches into a lecture about Jean-Jacques Rousseau and the impact his ideas had on art and literature at the time that Mary Shelley was writing. I try not to stare at Kay Patterson. I wonder what kind of girl she is, to snag a guy like Christian. And then, since I don’t know anything about him other than what the back of his head looks like, and that he likes to rescue girls who pass out in the hall, I wonder what kind of guy Christian is.

  I realize that I’m chewing on my pencil eraser. I put my pencil down.

  “Mary Shelley wanted to explore what it is that makes us human,” Mr. Phibbs concludes. He glances over at me, meets my eyes like he knows I haven’t been listening to a thing he’s said for the past ten minutes, then looks away.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” he says as he holds up the book, and then the bell rings.

  * * *

  “You can sit at my table for lunch, if you want,” Wendy offers as we’re leaving the classroom. “Did you pack your lunch? Or were you planning to go off campus?”

  “No, I thought I’d get something here.”

  “Well, I think today it’s chicken-fried steak.” I make a face. “But you can always get pizza, or a peanut butter sandwich. Those are the JHHS staples.”

  “Healthy.”

  I shuffle through the line to get my food and follow Wendy over to her table, where a bunch of nearly identical-looking girls peer up at me expectantly. Wendy rattles off their names: Lindsey, Emma, and Audrey. They seem friendly enough. Definitely not pretty people, all wearing T-shirts and jeans, braids and ponytails, not a lot of makeup. But nice. Normal.

  “So, you’re like a group?” I ask as I sit down.

  Wendy laughs.

  “We call ourselves the Invisibles.”

  “Oh.,” I said, unsure of whether she’s joking or how to respond.

  “We’re not freaks or geeks,” says Lindsey, Emma, or Audrey, I can’t tell which.

  “We’re just, well, you know, invisible.”

  “Invisible to—”

  “The popular people,” says Wendy. “They don’t see us.”

  Great. I fit right in with the Invisibles.

  Across the cafeteria I catch a glimpse of Jeffrey sitting with a bunch of guys in letterman jackets. A little blond girl is gazing up at him adoringly. He says something.

  Everybody at his table laughs.

  Unbelievable. In less than one day, he’s Mr. Popular.

  Someone pulls a chair up next to me. I turn. There is Christian, straddling the chair.

  For a moment all I can focus on is his green eyes. Maybe I’m not so invisible after all.

  “So I hear you’re from California,” he says.

  “Yes,” I murmur, hurrying to chew and swallow a bite of peanut butter sandwich. The room is quieter now. The girls at the Invisibles table are gazing at him with wide eyes, as if he’s never crossed into their territory before. As a matter of fact, pretty much everyone in the cafeteria is looking at us, a curious and almost predatory stare.

  I take a quick sip of milk and give him what I hope is a food-free smile.

  “We moved here from Mountain View. That’s south of San Francisco,” I manage.

  “I was born in L.A. We lived there until I was five, although I don’t really remember much.”

  “Nice.” My mind races for the right response to this information, some way to acknowledge this amazing thing we have in common. But I’ve got nothing. Nothing.

  The most I can come up with is a nervous giggle. A giggle, for crying out loud.

  “I’m Christian,” he says suavely. “I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself before.”

  “I’m Clara.” I put my hand out to shake, a gesture he seems to find charming. He takes my hand, and it’s like my vision and the real world clap together at this moment. He smiles this stunning, lopsided smile. He’s real. His hand around mine is warm and confident, just the right amount of pressure. I’m instantly dizzy.

  “Nice to meet you, Clara,” he says, shaking my hand.

  “Totally.”

  He smiles again. Hot is really not an adequate enough word for this guy. He is crazy beautiful. And it’s more than his looks — the intentionally messy waves of his dark hair; the strong eyebrows that make his expression a bit serious, even when he smiles; his eyes, which I notice can look emerald in one light and hazel in another; the sweetly sculpted angles of his face; the curve of his full lips. I’ve been seeing him from the front for all of ten minutes total and already I’m obsessing about his lips.

  “Thank you for before,” I say.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  “Hey, ready to go?” Kay walks up and puts her hand on the back of his neck in a decidedly possessive gesture, spearing her fingers through his hair. Her expression is so carefully neutral it could have been sprayed on, like she couldn’t care less who her boyfriend’s talking to. Christian turns to look up at her, his face practically even with her breasts. Around her neck dangles a shiny silver half-heart with the initials C.P. stamped into it. He smiles.

  Spell effectively broken.

  “Yeah, just a sec,” he says. “Kay, this is—”

  “Clara Gardner,” she says, nodding. “She’s in my English class. Moved here from California. Doesn’t like birds. No good at math.”

  “Yeah, that’s me in a nutshell,” I say.

  “What? Did I miss something?” asks Christian, confused.

  “Nothing. Just a stupid exercise we did in Phibbs’s class. We better go if we want to get back before next period,” she says, then turns to me and smiles, a flash of perfect white teeth. I’d bet money that she wore braces at some point. “There’s this great Chinese place we like to hit for lunch about a mile from here. You’ll have to try it sometime with your friends.” Translation: You and I will never be friends.

  “I like Chinese,” I say.

  Christian hops up from the cha
ir. Kay tucks her arm in his and smiles at him from under her lashes and starts to lead him out of the cafeteria.

  “Nice to meet you,” he calls back to me. “Again.”

  And then he’s gone.

  “Wow,” remarks Wendy, who’s been sitting right next to me the entire time without making a sound. “Impressive attempt at flirtation.”

  “I guess I was inspired,” I say a bit dazedly.

  “Well, I don’t think there are many girls here who aren’t inspired by Christian Prescott,” she says, which makes the other girls titter.

  “Freshman year I had this fantasy that he asked me to the prom and I’d be crowned queen,” sighs the one I think is Emma, who then flushes bright red. “I’m over it now.”

  “I’d put money on Christian being prom king this year.” Wendy scrunches up her nose. “But Kay’s the queen. You’d better watch your back.”

  “Is she that bad?”

  Wendy laughs, then shrugs.

  “She and I were good friends in grade school, had sleep-overs and tea parties with our dolls and all of that, but when we hit junior high, it was like. ” Wendy shakes her head sadly. “She’s spoiled. But she’s nice enough when you get to know her, I guess. She can be really sweet. But don’t get on her bad side.”

  I’m pretty sure I’m already on Kay Patterson’s bad side. I could tell by the way she’d kept her voice light, friendly, but beneath it was an undercurrent of contempt.

  I glance around the cafeteria. I notice the black-haired girl from English, Angela Zerbino. She’s sitting by herself, her lunch untouched in front of her, reading a thick black book. She looks up. She nods, just the tiniest bob of her head, like she wants to acknowledge me. I hold her gaze for a moment, then look away. She goes back to reading her book.

  “What about her?” I ask Wendy, tilting my head to indicate Angela.

  “Angela? She’s not a social reject or anything. It’s like she prefers to be alone. She’s sort of intense. Focused. She’s always been that way.”

  “What’s the Pink Garter? It sounds like a. you know, a place where. you know.. ”

  Wendy laughs. “A whorehouse?”

  “Yeah,” I say, embarrassed.

  “It’s a dinner theater in town,” said Wendy, still laughing. “Cowboy melodramas, a few musicals.”

  “Oh,” I say, finally getting it. “I thought it was strange when she said in class that her mother owned a whorehouse and she didn’t know her father. A little TMI, if you know what I mean.”

  Now everyone at the table is laughing. I look again at Angela, who has turned a bit so I can’t see her face.

  “She seems nice,” I backpedal.

  Wendy nods.

  “She is. My brother had a crush on her for a while.”

  “You have a brother?”

  She snorts like she wishes she could give a different answer.

  “Yes. He’s my twin, actually. He’s also a pain.”

  “I know the feeling.” I gaze over at Jeffrey in his circle of new friends.

  “And speak of the devil,” says Wendy, grabbing the sleeve of a boy who’s passing by our table.

  “Hey,” he protests. “What?”

  “Nothing. I was just telling the new girl about my awesome brother and now here you are.” She flashes a huge smile at him, the kind that says she might not be telling the whole truth.

  “Behold, Tucker Avery,” she says to me, gesturing up at him.

  Her brother resembles her in nearly every way: same hazy blue eyes, same tan, same golden brown hair, except his hair is short and spiky and he’s about a foot taller. He is definitely part of the cowboy group, although toned down from some of the others, wearing a simple gray tee, jeans, and cowboy boots. Also hot, but in a completely different way than Christian, less refined, more tan and muscle and the hint of stubble along his jaw. He looks like he’s been working under the sun his whole life.

  “This is Clara,” says Wendy.

  “You’re the girl with the Prius who almost rear-ended my truck this morning,” he says.

  “Oh, sorry about that.”

  He looks me up and down. I feel myself blush for probably the hundredth time that day.

  “From California, right?” The word California seems like an insult coming from him.

  “Tucker,” Wendy warns, pulling at his arm.

  “Well, I doubt that I would have done any damage to your truck if I’d hit you,” I retort.

  “It looks like the back end is about to rust off.”

  Wendy’s eyes widen. She seems genuinely alarmed.

  Tucker scoffs. “That rusty truck will probably be towing you out of a snowbank next time there’s a storm.”

  “Tucker!” exclaims Wendy. “Don’t you have a rodeo team meeting or something?”

  I’m busy trying to think of a comeback involving the incredible amount of money I will save this year driving my Prius as opposed to his gasguzzling truck, but the right words aren’t forming.

  “You’re the one who wanted to chat,” he says to Wendy.

  “I didn’t know you were going to act like a pig.”

  “Fine.” He smirks at me. “Nice to meet you, Carrots,” he says, looking directly at my hair. “Oh, I mean Clara.”

  My face flames.

  “Same to you, Rusty,” I shoot back, but he’s already striding away.

  Great. I’ve been at this school for less than five hours and I’ve already made two enemies simply by existing.

  “Told you he was a pain,” says Wendy.

  “I think that might have been an understatement,” I say, and we both laugh.

  * * *

  The first person I see when I come into my next class is Angela Zerbino. She’s sitting in the front row, already bent over her notebook. I take a seat a few rows back, looking around the classroom at all the portraits of the British monarchy that are stapled to the top of the walls. A large table at the front of the room displays a Popsicle-stick model of the Tower of London and a papier mâché replica of Stonehenge. In one corner is a mannequin wearing a suit of chain mail, in another, a large wooden board with three holes in it: real stockades.

  This looks like it could be interesting.

  The other students trickle in. When the bell rings, the teacher ambles out from a back room. He’s a scrawny guy with long hair pulled back in a ponytail and thick glasses, but he somehow comes off as cool, wearing his dress shirt and tie over black jeans and cowboy boots.

  “Hi, I’m Mr. Erikson. Welcome to spring semester of British History,” he says. He grabs a jar off the table and shakes the papers inside. “First I thought we’d start by dividing up. In this canister are ten pieces of paper with the word serf on it. If you draw one of those, you’re basically a slave. Deal with it. There are three pieces of paper with the word cleric; if you draw those, you’re part of the church, a nun or a priest, whichever is appropriate.”

  He glances toward the back of the room where a stu-dent has just slipped in the door. “Christian, nice of you to join us.”

  It takes all of my willpower not to turn around.

  “Sorry,” I hear Christian say. “Won’t happen again.”

  “If it does you’ll spend five minutes in the stocks.”

  “It definitely won’t happen again.”

  “Excellent,” says Mr. Erikson. “Now where was I? Oh yes. Five pieces of paper have the words lord/lady. If you draw one of these, congratulations, you own land, maybe even a serf or two. Three say knight—you get the idea. And there is one, and only one, paper with the word king, and if you draw that one, you rule us all.”

  He holds the jar out to Angela.

  “I’m going to be queen,” she says.

  “We shall see,” says Mr. Erikson.

  Angela draws a paper from the jar and reads it. Her smile fades. “Lady.”

  “I wouldn’t whine about it,” Mr. Erikson tells her. “It’s a good life, relatively speaking.”

  “Of course, if I want
to be sold off to the richest man who offers to marry me.”

  “Touché,” said Mr. Erikson. “Lady Angela, everybody.”

  He makes his way around the room. He already knows the students and calls them by name.

  “Hmmm, red hair,” he says when he gets to me. “Could be a witch.”

  Someone snickers behind me. I steal a quick look over my shoulder to see Wendy’s obnoxious brother, Tucker, sitting in the seat behind mine. He flashes me a devilish grin.