From You to Me

by K. A. Holt

  “Are we running tonight?” she calls after me.

  “Sure!” I yell over my shoulder. Though I’m not really sure I want to.

  When I get to class, I see everyone through the skinny window in the door. They’re chatting and goofing around, waiting for the late bell to ring. Some kids sit on the desks and laugh at things on their phones. Others stand in a cluster at the back of the room. Everyone is either paired off, like Lacy and Katherine (how do they get so many classes together?!), or in a group, and I know that in about two minutes they’ll all have to be in their seats when the bell rings, but still. Two minutes of standing in there, not in a group or paired off, is basically two lifetimes. I don’t think I can open the door and go in. Geography isn’t calling to me today. I turn quickly and walk down the hall. There are still a bunch of kids milling around, so no one notices as I walk past. I don’t turn around, I don’t look to the side. I just keep walking, holding my breath, until I walk out the hallway door into the bright afternoon sun.

  When I get past the open expanse of the soccer field, I see a cluster of trees and I take a deep breath. I move past the tree line, and then, dropping my backpack against the trunk of a tree, I slide down next to it, sitting in a pile of leaves.

  I’ve never skipped class before. I have no idea what will happen if I get caught. Mom and Dad are already mad because I wouldn’t go to the lake last night. I’m not sure they’ll even know how to punish me if they find out about this. I’m the good girl. Clara was the handful.

  I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them. Am I really going to sit out here and stare at trees for forty-five minutes? Great plan, Amelia. This is definitely more constructive than actually learning something about geography. I sigh. It’s not like I can just march back into class, though, can I? Why didn’t I hide in the bathroom and go in after the late bell? I would have missed the two lifetimes of not talking to anyone, but I wouldn’t be sitting out here like a dope. Maybe I can go back in and tell Mr. Holbrook I was in the bathroom. Or maybe I’ll just stay out here and listen to the tree whispers instead of listening to the class whisper about me.

  I’m rummaging around in my backpack, trying to find a granola bar and a book when I hear a crunch. My heart stair-steps into my throat. Wonderful. Now I’m going to be killed by an ax murderer. My palms start to sweat as I hold my breath and try not to make any noise. The crunching sounds are getting louder. And now I hear voices. One voice in particular sounds familiar.

  Through the brush, I see three or four figures pushing their way into the woods. They aren’t super close, so I don’t think they’ve seen me. I hear laughing and a sound like someone is shaking a spray-paint can. I catch a flash of red and white from the edges of a skating helmet, and yep. That’s Twitch. I can’t really see who’s with him because they’re walking fast. Soon they’re deep in the woods and I can’t hear them or see them anymore. Wonder what they’re up to. A small part of me wants to follow them, but a bigger part of me is feeling a wash of exhaustion after the rush of terror. I should get back to class.

  I sigh and zip up my backpack. At the edge of the trees, I look around to see if anyone’s outside, but the coast is clear. I run up to the door I came out of and bounce off it when I push on the handle. Of course, it’s locked. Uh-oh. I didn’t think about that. I run to another door and it’s locked, too. How in the world am I supposed to get back inside?!

  Like some kind of inept spy, I run along the side of the school trying every door, but they’re all locked. The only choice is to go in through the front door, and I know from coming to school late after various dentist appointments and things, that door is locked, too. The front office people have to buzz you in. I look at my watch. Twenty minutes until gym.

  I go hide under the bleachers and watch everyone run track for the next ten minutes. Coach blows her whistle and the girls line up to go through the double doors that lead directly into the locker room. Luckily, Coach goes in ahead of everyone. I jump in at the back of the line and sneak in.

  “Amelia? What in the world are you doing?” Georgia, who has been holding the door for everyone, seems to have a voice louder than anyone else in humankind.

  I hold my finger to my lips. “I’m working in the office this period, and I have a message for Coach.” I pull Clara’s letter from my pocket and wave it. “Very important. Top secret.”

  “Uh,” Georgia says, but I just walk briskly past her. I find an empty toilet stall and hide in there until the bell rings.

  Once everyone is mostly out and the next class starts trickling in, I flush the toilet and emerge, somewhat victorious.

  “Amelia?” Taylor’s voice is behind me, and it sounds aghast. “What in the world?”

  “What?” I whip around, startled.

  “Girl.” Taylor shakes her head. “I just … what is going on with you?”

  That’s when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is full of leaves. Leaves and twigs are snagged all over the back of my sweater. I look like I’ve just crawled in from the woods. Which I have.

  Taylor picks leaves out of my hair as I walk to my gym locker and pull out my sweats. She opens her mouth to say something, but I hold up a hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay,” she says with a small laugh, though her expression is concerned. “I’ll see you outside.”

  Amelia Peabody: the only person in the history of time who can calculate gravitational potential energy but who can’t calculate how to correctly skip one class.

  “Is it even swimming season?” I ask. “Is anyone even going to the lake these days?” I can hear the whine in my voice.

  “That’s where they’re filming the contest, Amelia. What can I do?” Dad throws his arms out in a helpless gesture.

  “You could not be part of the contest,” I mutter under my breath. Then I say it louder, because why not? “Why do you even have to do the contest?” I ask. “It’s just some silly TV show.”

  Dad pulls his face back like I slapped him. His voice is quiet. “Because it’s my dream to have a successful barbecue business? Because I want to provide for you and Mom? Because it will make me happy?”

  “Doesn’t anyone in this house care about what would make ME happy?” I shout. It’s like I’m floating above myself and watching the scene. I can’t even believe these words are coming out of my mouth. It’s so stereotypical. So teenager-y. And yet … it’s how I feel. Don’t they care about me? Don’t they see how unhappy it makes me to even talk about the lake, God forbid go there. I make a loud harrumph noise. “Even my thoughts are italicized. That’s how upset I feel.”

  Mom stares at me. She seems to be wavering between anger and sadness. Dad is clearly settling in for full-on anger.

  “I have to go practice for softball tryouts.” I storm out of the kitchen and onto the front porch.

  “Who ARE you?!” Dad shouts after me. “Be home by seven!”

  Be home by seven? He’s not going to march out here after me and drag me kicking and screaming to the lake? Of course not. I know Dad would never do that. But still. Did I just win that argument? I feel very uneasy as I run down to the alley behind the General Store where Taylor’s “front door” is.

  I knock on the door but no one answers. Weird. I know we had plans to run this evening. I jog in place for a minute and try to figure out what to do. I’m definitely not going home. And by myself, I don’t know if I have the oomph to force myself to keep running when I want to give up. Hmm.

  An idea lights up my brain. Perfect.

  “Amelia? What are you doing here?” Twitch is standing in the doorway holding a bowl of ice cream. He looks different and I can’t quite figure out why. Aha. It’s his jaggedly crazy hair. He looks like a completely different person without that shark-bite helmet.

  “Are you eating ice cream for dinner?” I ask, jogging in place.

  “Are you jogging on my front porch?”

  A voice from inside the house yells, “Who is it, Willia
m?”

  “Amelia, Mom!” Twitch shouts back.

  “Amelia Peabody?” Twitch’s mom comes up behind him, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She sees me and smiles. It’s that sad smile I know soooooooo well. “How are you? How are your parents?”

  “She’s fine, everyone’s fine,” Twitch says. He hands her his bowl and shuts the door behind him before she can say anything else.

  “Twitch!” I laugh. “I mean William! That was so rude! Also, how many names do you have?”

  “Well, she was asking personal questions,” he says, shaking his head. “And Billy is a nickname for William. Twitch is a nickname for, uh, everything.” A tiny smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

  “She was just asking how I am,” I start, but he holds up his hand and I laugh. “Okay, yes, I saw the look in her eyes. The ‘here’s the girl with a dead sister’ look. I am very familiar with it.”

  “Well, you’re welcome for saving you from it,” he says. I give him a little bow and say thanks.

  “Do you want to play catch?” I ask. “I have been stood up for my jogging date with Taylor.”

  “Sure,” Twitch says. “Don’t move.” He runs into the house and in a minute he’s back out with the gloves and a ball. “You know you’re going to have to get your own glove if you make the team.”

  “Details,” I say, with a dismissive wave. We both laugh.

  We go out into the street to throw the ball. I want to ask him what he was doing in the woods during school hours, but if I ask him then he’ll know I was in the woods during school. Conundrum.

  Mostly, we just play catch in silence. It’s really, really nice. He seems to be kind of lost in his own thoughts, but I don’t mind. No one is pestering me with questions, no one is giving me looks of pity or confusion. It’s just catch. Plain and simple. My mind thinks: THROW and then it thinks CATCH and that’s it. I wish I could do this forever.

  “THERE YOU ARE, YOU DWEEB!”

  My head swivels around. Taylor is jogging up the street. “Where have you been?” She’s out of breath and sweaty.

  “I went to your apartment and you weren’t there,” I say, confused.

  “I was waiting at Deadman’s Hill. Where we said we would meet.” Her hands are on her hips. Twitch wanders over to us.

  “What’s up, Taylor?”

  “My blood pressure, Twitch,” Taylor says with an edge to her voice. “Amelia asked me to help her train for softball tryouts, but when we do train together, all she does is complain. And now today, she left me high and dry.” She taps her foot angrily. “Looks like she found a more appealing trainer.”

  “What?” I say. “No! Taylor, come on.” Why is she acting so mad?

  “No, it’s cool. Play catch with your boyfriend, Amelia. I get it.” She runs off before I can say anything else.

  I whip around just as Twitch is about to say something. “I’ve told her a million times you’re not my boyfriend.”

  Twitch looks relieved, then says, “Do you need to go? Talk to her?”

  I shake my head. “I do not. Now get back to where you were.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, and jogs back to his spot. I throw the ball way off to the side and he has to chase after it. Ugh. Stupid Taylor, ruining my Zen. But I do feel bad. Did I say I was going to meet her at the hill? I can’t remember.

  For the next few minutes, Twitch and I make a feeble attempt at throw and catch, catch and throw, but both of our minds are somewhere else now. Finally, I toss the ball back to Twitch, then I toss the glove.

  “I gotta go,” I say. “Thanks for practicing with me.”

  “No problem,” Twitch says. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Bye.” I watch him lope up the porch stairs and through the front door. It’s dusk out now and the lights inside the house seem extra bright. I see Twitch go into the kitchen and say something to his dad. His two older sisters are sitting on the couch still in their soccer gear. His mom walks by the front window, sees me staring, and waves. Her wave startles me. She makes a gesture for me to come in, but I shake my head and run off like some kind of feral cat.

  Sometimes, during class, I find myself mesmerized by Mr. Robertson’s mustache. It is very, very shiny and very, very black. I wonder if it ever tickles him. I wonder if he has some kind of special mustache oil or shampoo to make it that shiny. I wonder if he goes out with friends and tries to pick up ladies and the ladies are all, “Oh, Mr. Robertson, you seemed like a regular man until you turned around and, wham, your mustache rays pierced my heart.”

  “Amelia?”

  I blink. Everyone is staring at me. “Uh …”

  Mr. Robertson taps at a formula on the whiteboard. “Can you …”

  “The frequency of sound is …” I look over the numbers and do some calculations in my head, “292.66 hertz,” I say quickly, solving the formula.

  “I just wanted to know if you could name the formula, Amelia.” Mr. Robertson crosses his arms. “But good work solving it.” He’s eyeing me like he can’t tell whether he should be mad at me for not paying attention, or impressed I could do the math in my head.

  “Oh,” I say. “Sorry. That’s the Doppler shift formula.” The class is all staring at me like my hair is on fire. I want to say, “What? I’m good at physics.” But I don’t. Mr. Robertson’s mustache quivers just a little bit as it does a bad job of hiding a smile.

  I wonder where Twitch is today. It’s weird sitting here at our table without him. I feel exposed or something, which is an irritating feeling. It’s not like he’s my protector, except that sometimes he is. I like it that he steers conversations away from uncomfortable things, and that he includes me in other things. I’m not some freakazoid middle-school physics genius to him, I’m just another kid in class. The way he treats me like a normal human seems to make other people treat me like a normal human, too. Without him here, I feel like my normal human mask is hanging off just enough to show the weirdo underneath.

  As if my brain conjured him out of thin air, he bursts through the door, out of breath and sweating, drops his bag on the ground next to our table, and straddles his stool. He stares directly at my textbook, and my notebook, then grabs his own notebook and starts working on the problems on the page without saying a word.

  “Ahem.” Mr. Robertson looms over our table. I can smell Twitch’s spicy boy smell mixed with something else … what is it? Nail polish? I look at his hands. His fingertips are red and blue. It’s not nail polish, though. It’s spray paint. Twitch stands up and follows Mr. Robertson to his desk, where they have a very quiet, but very heated, conversation. Twitch comes back to the table, grabs up his stuff, and storms out of the classroom.

  Later, when the bell rings and I’m zipping up my backpack, Mr. Robertson strolls over, hands in his pockets. “How are you?” he asks. He jangles change in his pocket. That is maybe the only thing I don’t like about Mr. Robertson. He’s a change jangler.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Class treating you well?” Jangle, jangle. “You seem to be thriving.” Jangle, jangle. His shiny mustache bends light toward his mouth, making his bottom lip shine, too.

  “I love it,” I say. “Really.”

  “Good,” he says. “I’m glad to hear it.” Jangle, jangle. I want to reach over and grab his hand out of his pocket to make him stop.

  I throw my backpack over my shoulder and head to the door.

  “Amelia,” he calls after me. Jangle, jangle. “You make such good calculations in class, be sure to think carefully about the calculations you make outside of class, too. Think of the butterfly effect and how decisions you make now might affect your whole future.” Jangle.

  “Uh, okay,” I say as I walk into the hallway. “Bye, Mr. Robertson. See you tomorrow.” What in the world is he talking about? What calculations am I making outside of physics? Other than the fact that I’m calculating right now how to steal all of his change to keep it quiet.

  The halls are full of kids flooding out of schoo
l, and I join the flood. My mind is wandering to what grilled cheese special is on the board at the General Store today, when I see Twitch duck out a side door with a couple of other kids. Hmm. I calculate that I want to follow him.

  I wait a few seconds and then peek my head out the door. Twitch and the kids are walking toward the woods. I slip out of the door and try to quietly run close enough to them to see where they’re going, but not be seen by them. Not an easy task when you’re crossing a soccer field. They walk fast and I have to kind of run/skip to not lose them. I’m not even sure why I’m following them.

  Out of nowhere I realize that, even though I am constantly reminding Taylor that Twitch and I are just friends, I’ve always thought of him as Clara’s friend. And while I want to know why Clara treated him the way she did, but still seemed to crush on him, I also just … well … I just want to know more about him. He’s becoming more of my friend and less of Clara’s former friend. And even though we aren’t best friends or anything, it feels weird to realize he does things that I don’t know about. That sounds very stalker-ish, but it’s true. I just … I want to know what Twitch is up to.

  We’re in the woods now, and I’m trying to keep up without making a huge racket. It’s pretty useless, though. Twigs break under my feet, and I trip at least nineteen times and go “OOF” each of those nineteen times. So it isn’t a surprise when I hear a girl’s voice, “Come on over, whoever you are. You are a terrible spy.” Some people laugh.

  I feel my face burn as I catch up to them. Twitch is standing in a small clearing with two girls, a guy, and someone whose back is to me. That person is bent over something and is shaking a spray-paint can.

  “Amelia?” Twitch’s face crinkles up in confusion as he sees me emerge from the trees. He’s flanked by the girls, who both have their arms crossed. One has fiery dyed-red hair in a Mohawk. The other has a completely shaved head and huge silver hoop earrings.

  “I …” I start. But I only now see everything surrounding us. There are tiny rocks creating a mosaic on the ground. It isn’t finished, but it’s huge and it takes my breath away. It’s painted a deep, dark blue; the kind of blue that looks like it goes on forever and ever. Scattered everywhere in the blue are tiny golden stars. I can’t tell if they’re painted or if they’re actual little stars glued onto the rocks. I squat down. They’re painted. Whoa. So many of them. And around the edge of the whole thing is a red rim and white jagged triangles. I stand up so I can get a better view. Is it … teeth? It’s like the shark teeth around Twitch’s helmet. Am I standing in a giant deep-blue mouth filled with stars?