by Lamar Giles
Neither his skin nor the shadow is as dark as the look he gives me. I almost hit him with my car and he’s angry. If he were anyone else, I’d say rightfully so.
Taylor slaps my hood with both hands. “Jesus, Lauren!” He points at himself: “Pedestrian,” then points at the white lines bordering the crosswalk, “right of way.”
I glare back. If he’s waiting for an apology before he moves, then we’re both going to be late for homeroom.
Someone behind me sounds a horn, a short belch. Taylor and I continue our stare down. The belch becomes an extended groan. I ease off my brake so my car lurches at him, like I mean to finish the job of turning him into roadkill.
Taylor sneers, continues across the asphalt shaking his head.
With the road clear, I drive into the student lot, all too aware of Ocie eyeballing me with a Was that really called for? expression she must have borrowed from my mom.
“Don’t say a word,” I warn.
“Wasn’t even considering it.”
I grab a parking space and say, “Thank you for not letting me hit him, though.”
“You’re welcome. Nice to know you’re not completely merciless when it comes to Taylor Durham. It was a long time ago. I’m sure—”
“No, no, no,” I cut her off, “I only mean my car’s beat up enough. I don’t need an extra dent.”
But as I kill the engine, I’m thinking, for Taylor Durham, another dent would’ve been worth it.
Taylor was my first. But not like that.
I mean, it could’ve been that way between us. We almost went there.
I thought I loved him.
It was stupidity. When I say he was my first, I mean my first exposé. The one time it was personal. He’s the reason I started Gray Scales.
What I caught him doing wasn’t earth-shattering. More opportune than anything. We were still freshmen. I was on the indoor track team because I’d joined before he made school horrible for me, and I didn’t want to quit after because I don’t do quit. Taylor was a junior varsity basketball player suffering from a knee injury that kept him sidelined. As a member of the team, he still tried to contribute (which makes him sound more honorable than he is). He got consigned to a manager role, racking the balls at the end of practice, washing the uniforms.
Track practice wrapped up shortly after basketball practice, and I passed by the gym doors as Taylor, alone in his managerial duties, wheeled a big rolling laundry basket of sweaty team gear to the washroom. When I saw him, I said a silent prayer for something horrible to happen—athlete’s foot on his face, maybe.
Taylor tripped.
Maybe it was his injured knee giving way. Maybe there was sweat on the floor. Maybe it was an angel answering my prayer. He went down, taking the basket with him, spilling soiled gear everywhere.
He did what everyone does when they fall: his head jerked around, scanning for witnesses. Reflex made me duck away from the porthole windows in the gym doors. A different reflex made me reach for the cell phone in my pocket. I peeked through the windows and saw him grabbing handfuls of clothing, stuffing it all back into the basket. With my phone, I snapped photo after photo.
To this day, I still don’t know what made me do it. I just know that when I got home and uploaded the pics to my MacBook, the seed of revenge was already growing, sprouting fruit.
Most of the shots were mundane—a guy grabbing clothes off the floor. But there were a couple of shots where the clothing was very specific (jockstraps) and the expression on his face could be left up to interpretation. Most likely, he was disgusted, right? I mean, dirty jockstraps.
But a bit of added commentary, say a caption, could suggest something different. Something deviant.
Something special.
I waited until his knee healed and he was back in the starting lineup before I launched the site with that deceptive picture that looked like Taylor grabbing bunches of his teammates’ nasty undergarments and sniffing them the way a perfume maker sniffs beakers in a lab.
The caption I settled on: Most people prefer roses.
Life at Portside got bad for Taylor after that. Almost as bad as he made things for me.
The difference was, he deserved it.
Him and everyone after.
CHAPTER 6
RUMORS ABOUT COACH BOTTIN’S JOB SPREAD. Everything from him being suspended (which is the most prevalent and likely rumor) to him hiring some underworld cleaner to change his identity so Keachin’s father can’t find him. Either way, the Keachin-Coach thing is all anyone talks about. Even the teachers seem distracted.
Of the parties involved in the scandal, I’m the only one who shows my face on school grounds. I’m okay during homeroom and Spanish 2, but by ten o’clock, I’m regretting it, barely able to keep my eyes open. All my teachers sound like the adults from Charlie Brown cartoons, Whanh-whanh-wawwing me into a near coma.
The good news: I’m so tired I stop feeling anxious about the elevated level of attention this story is getting or the person who stalked me while I exposed Keachin. In the midst of my sleep deprivation I think of how it’s just my luck to get a “Secret Adm1r3r” who woos me with incriminating evidence. It makes me chuckle.
“Lauren,” says Mr. Thompson, “is there something amusing about Reconstruction?”
I blink myself back into the moment, and see the kids in my history class stare-giggling. It’s the first time they’ve noticed me this year. You’re slipping, Panda.
“No, sir,” I say. “There is nothing amusing about this lecture. At all.”
The class cracks up. Inwardly, I groan, knowing they’re taking it the wrong way. Them and Mr. Thompson.
He narrows his eyes. “Watch the sass, Miss Daniels.”
I trudge through biology and lunch—where Ocie regales me with new rumors of Coach Bottin’s whereabouts (he’s seeking asylum in Cuba)—before I catch a second wind in my afternoon elective, Digital Photography.
I know, I know. Me being in this class when I do the things I do may seem counterintuitive, but it’s another level of Hall Ghostiness. Obviously, Gray would be a student at Portside, likely enrolled in DP at some point. That’s why it’s perfect.
Everyone who’s ever taken DP has been suspected as Gray, me included. The accusations are quickly debunked when comparing our DP classwork to Gray’s portfolio.
Gray is a skilled photographer with superior equipment. The DP class takes pictures with cheap point-and-shoot loaner cameras. Quality photos are the exception, not the rule, in here. My technical know-how is enough to squeeze some decent snaps from the raggedy class equipment, but I make sure to turn in mediocre assignments, so as never to raise any eyebrows.
There’s a sucky element to this charade, though. I don’t like seeming less talented than I really am. I could be the class star, but my night work is more important than personal glory in a class where we’re all getting As for effort. I’ve learned to live with the tiny bit of honesty DP allows me.
My parents and Ocie know I want to shoot wildlife for Nat Geo one day, and they’re used to seeing some DSLR magazines or used Craigslist lenses lying around my room. Any questions that arise, I blame on the class. Hiding in plain sight, remember.
Digital Photography is a good mix of sophomores, juniors, and one senior. Some are here because it’s a better deal than losing a finger in wood shop, others show passing interest and may someday use the skills they pick up to make the best family vacation albums ever.
Then there’s Marcos Dahmer, who often smells of deep-fried hush puppies thanks to his part-time gig at the über-gross fast-food chain Count of Monte FISHto. There’s a joke around the school: Man’s gotta eat. But not there.
He brings his own equipment to class, an old Olympus, and pulls some great shots from it, mostly for the yearbook, which he’s editing this year. If I took this class serious enough to be competitive, he’d be the kid to beat.
When I arrive, the room is buzzing over today’s fresh scandal. A small hud
dle forms around one of the three communal computers. There are nine of us in DP, but I notice two extra faces in the room and know the kids hoping to access Gray Scales are going to be sorely disappointed.
I’m disappointed, too. Through my extracurricular activities it seems I’ve inadvertently engineered another run-in with Taylor.
He’s hunched over a computer in the far corner of the room, typing and talking to a girl I’ve seen around. Rozlynn Petrie, beanpole tall and freshman awkward. Together they are part of the student tech support team, here to ruin everyone’s fun.
I join my classmates around computer station #1. As I expect, frustrated sighs fill the air when they discover access to Gray Scales has been blocked.
Marcos Dahmer makes it into the room as the bell rings. The crowd moves to the second computer station, fighting the inevitable. But Marcos rolls his pink-tinted eyes, drops his bags, book, and camera on the floor next to his chair before laying his head on the desktop. He curls an arm around his face to block the light.
Alyssa Burrell, one of Marcos’s fellow yearbook staffers (but not nearly as talented a photographer), calls to him, “Hey, Marcos, you wanna check Gray Scales with us?”
“Screw Gray,” he says in a foghorn groan, sounding as worn as I feel. Apparently, I’m not the only one who had a late night.
His disgust/dismissal of Gray is nothing new. Everyone who’s taken DP has been suspected of being Gray. That type of scrutiny has gone better for some than others. Marcos falls into the “other” category.
Alyssa shrugs off Marcos’s dismissal and joins us at the #2 station. “Can you believe it?” she says to me. “I just shot Coach Pedophile and the football team for the yearbook. Thank God I wasn’t alone with him. Who knows what might’ve happened.”
A yawn scales my throat. Fatigue makes me cranky, and I think, I know. He’d ignore you, like most boys do.
Fact: Alyssa’s frizzy blond curls, mud-brown eyes, and freckles don’t exactly have the same draw as Keachin’s almost-a-model looks. Sorry.
Ms. Marcella, our teacher, reclines in her chair, amused by sighs and teeth-sucking when it’s discovered Gray Scales is blocked on this station, too.
I glance toward Taylor, who offers his seat to Rozlynn. She takes his place at the station, her spindly elbows protruding from the rolled-up sleeves of multiple baggy shirts like curtain rods from a mound of discarded drapes. She types commands on computer #3, completing the lockout, ensuring my classmates’ thirst for sordid visuals goes unsated.
“It’s done,” she says, pushing away from the desk and unfolding herself from her chair. She stops just shy of her full height, as if the self-conscious slouch somehow makes her less noticeable than the additional inch a straightened spine provides. What if it does? Perhaps I’ll work it into my Hall Ghost act.
Taylor checks her work, nods, and says, “Good job.”
She half grins, a glint of a retainer visible between her parted lips. For a moment our gazes meet, her eyes as blue as tropical water when she’s not casting them down, and I smile at her. She looks away, embarrassed. The term “painfully shy” doesn’t seem strong enough for this girl. “Agonizingly shy” maybe? “Torturously shy”?
Ms. Marcella approaches Taylor and bashful Rozlynn with signed hall passes. “That will be all,” Ms. Marcella says. “You can get back to your computer science class now, and thank Mr. Bradford for me.”
Rozlynn flits from the room, but not before giving me a warm smile and a wave. Being a Hall Ghost doesn’t mean I’m a complete unknown. I play shy, and the real shy kids tend to acknowledge each other, if only in passing. I wave back and she’s gone.
Around me, my classmates remain in a mild uproar over being denied a dose of scandal. A white, cornea-staining explosion toward the front of the room quiets them.
Ms. Marcella fired a large flash unit—-a device that houses a 250-watt lamp bulb and looks something like a laser gun from a science-fiction movie—toward the underside of a white light reflector shaped like an umbrella. Combined with a tripod and light meter, the entire apparatus makes up the standard flash kit, used the world over by everyone from high-fashion photographers to the cheesy family portrait shooter at Sears.
It’s wondrous to the noobs, who’ve never seen this kind of setup before. My eyes droop and I stifle another yawn. I’ve got this gear in the trunk of my car.
“Now,” Ms. Marcella says, “if you all can manage to focus, let’s talk studio lighting and using a flash to your advantage.”
Taylor is still in the doorway, momentarily stunned by Ms. Marcella’s flash trick like everybody else. He blinks my way, catching the remnants of the smile meant for Rozlynn, and he returns it. By the time my tired mind remembers I should be frowning/scowling/hissing at all things related to him, he turns the corner.
You really are slipping, Panda.
After DP the hallway crowds part and I see a face I’ve been looking for all day. Nina Appleton.
She navigates the rush with a gazelle-like bounce that’s partially due to her crutches and partially due to her usual manic energy. The girl vibrates.
Today there’s an extra bit of buzz to her, something that wasn’t there the last few times I’ve seen her. Also present after a long hiatus, a smile on her face.
“Hey, Nina,” I say as she passes.
She glances back over her shoulder, skids to a stop. “Hey, Panda!”
“How are you?”
“Stupendous!” she says, stretching the word. STUUU-pendous!
To pry further is risky. I already know why her day’s so good. Justice has been served. Her wrong righted. I’m one of the Avengers.
“Uh, Panda?” Nina’s staring at me. When did she start staring?
I shake off my exhaustion daze. “Sorry. I spaced.”
“Don’t be. I may need some of whatever you’re smoking one day. It’s nice to know you’ve got the hookup.”
I snort a laugh. Good one, Nina.
She says, “Well, I gotta”—dramatic pause as she looks down, her face suddenly serious—“I was going to say ‘run,’ but we both know that ain’t happening. How about ‘crutch’? ‘Gotta, crutch’ sounds about right.”
“Um. I don’t—”
Her grin resurfaces, and she speaks with an exaggerated cowgirl accent. “Caught’cha off guard with the Old-Time Appleton Humor. Common affliction ’round these parts. Later, Panda!”
She’s gone, but that Old-Time Appleton Humor gives me a surge that I coast on for the rest of the day.
By the time the final bell rings, I’m halfway to thinking the fifteen minutes of fame Keachin got from screwing a teacher is winding down, as all Gray Scales scandals eventually do. Ocie’s got band practice, so I drive home alone.
In my room I open my MacBook and the messages from my Admirer are still on my screen. How do you get the color Gray? Throw a Panda in the blender and turn it on.
That corkscrew twists, but I will it still. I’m too tired to be stressed over someone playing stupid, childish games. I helped Keachin get what she deserves, and the glow on Nina’s face proves that it was worth it. The pictures my Admirer sent don’t show me screwing a teacher, or using drugs, or breaking into my neighbors’ houses, or sniffing jockstraps, or any number of twisted things I’ve caught on camera. He caught me being exactly what I am: karma personified.
There’s nothing I can do to change that, at least not while I can barely keep my eyes open. I collapse into what should be a peaceful slumber but isn’t. I have a single protracted dream.
About a blender.
CHAPTER 7
THERE’S A PRESENCE IN MY ROOM.
A weight that can only be Dad’s bulk presses on my mattress. “Lauren, wake up.”
I grumble something about it not being morning yet, but he gets stern.
“I got some troubling news. We need to talk about you and Coach Bottin. Now.”
Me and Coach Bottin?
I sit up, fully awake, knowing my Admirer’s expo
sed me. Along with the horror comes a sense of relief. It’s over. No more surprises.
Turning on my bedside lamp, I see something different from the parental fury I’m expecting. Dad’s jaw is set, and he’s having a hard time looking me in the eye. Mom’s in the doorway, hugging herself like she’s scared to come closer.
“Dad?”
He says, “We got a call about a thing involving your old gym teacher.”
“A call from who?”
“Don Zeller gave me a buzz.”
Okay. He and Dad work out at the same gym. His son, Zach, is in trig with me. So far, so blah. Please stay blah.
Dad asks, “The rumor is he’s had some sort of inappropriate relationship with a senior girl. Do you know anything about it?”
Carefully I say, “Everyone knows. It’s all over the school.”
Dad’s nodding before I finish. “Don said the teacher’s been suspended. The cops are looking into it.”
Zach Zeller’s dad is a cop. This is not as blah as I’d like.
An unexpected twinge of guilt shoots through me. “Is Coach Bottin going to get locked up?”
“Er sollte,” Mom says. He should.
Dad says, “I don’t know. Don couldn’t tell me much, but it seems the girl’s been eighteen for a while now. I guess what happens to that sicko depends on when it all started. Or if there are others.”
He lets the last part hang and finds sudden interest in my closet door, fixing his eyes there.
Mildly grossed out, I say, “You don’t think me and him . . .”
“No, baby,” says Mom, “we do not. But, we know he was your gym teacher last year, and we only want to know if you were ever approached, or if you saw him with any other girls?”
“No way. This is as much of a surprise to me as everyone else.” Well, not as much.
My parents exchange looks that suggest a shared relief, an indication they won’t press this awkward conversation further. My computer chimes. A new email.