by Barrie Summy
“She’d do it for free,” Torie says. “Different skin types process the henna dye differently.”
“That’s okay,” I say, feeling bad that I tried to erase my tattoo and they didn’t.
Garrett gets busted by a teacher when he pulls out a small football and starts tossing it back and forth with another guy.
Hugh’s standing with a knot of friends, Avalon draped over his shoulder like a rash. Suddenly he steps back and bursts out laughing. He’s laughing so hard, Avalon unwinds herself from him and stands forlornly on her own. Someone else in the group adds a comment, and Hugh laughs again, shaking his head. When he stops laughing and steps back into the group, Avalon rearranges herself on his arm.
The buzzer sounds to signal the return to class. Mr. Gates walks beside me. “Why would anyone burn down our equipment shed?”
“Do you think it’s the same person who’s been lighting fires in the woods around town?” I ask. I pluck a sparkle off the grade book he’s carrying.
“I have no idea.” He shakes his head sadly, then makes a beeline for Garrett, who’s hanging at the end of the line, bouncing the plastic football off the backs of unsuspecting students.
The sparkle shows Mr. Gates grading tests. Danielle got a D.
The rest of the morning goes okay. The fire pretty much dominates all of today’s conversations, although I definitely notice a few people staring at me. In the hall, a guy I don’t know walks next to me, his movements all jerky, like a strobe light’s shining on him. His friends laugh. I have no idea what that’s about and just ignore him. Luckily, I don’t have any more run-ins with Jennifer and her friends. There’s an announcement canceling cross-country practice because the fire department’s investigating near the track and the locker room, trying to get a handle on how it all went down.
Near the end of lunch, Torie passes by me while I’m throwing out my trash. “Don’t stress about the YouTube video of you, Raine. It’s barely getting any views.”
A YouTube video of me?
This can’t be good.
There’s about ten minutes left in lunch. I text Shirlee.
Where are you?
Library.
She’s in a corner at the back, flipping quickly through a Spanish dictionary. “I forgot this assignment was due today,” she grumbles.
“Can I see your phone?” I ask, wishing for the millionth time that I had a smartphone and could be online anytime, anywhere.
She inclines her head toward her backpack. “In the front pocket.”
I push open the door to the courtyard and quickly find the video Torie was talking about. Even though I’m alone, my face goes warm at the title. “KleptoRainia.” Posted this morning by “Police Watch.”
It’s a ninety-second clip that starts with a shot of Jennifer’s necklace hanging from a hook in a locker. Then it’s my head, not attached to my body, turning right, right, right, then left, left, left. Over and over and over. All jerky and animated, checking to see if I’m being watched. Then an arm, not mine, although the viewer is supposed to think it is, reaches out. Over and over and over. At a fast speed, then in slow motion. Then it’s the head-turning thing again. Then a hand grabs the necklace, three, four, five, six times. And drops it multiple times into a backpack. The video ends with a shot of my face in a wanted poster.
I wish the crack in the asphalt would widen and suck me down to the molten lava in the middle of the earth.
I check the screen again. Torie’s right. There aren’t a ton of views, about twenty. So far. Was Hugh one of those twenty views? Obviously the guy in the hall earlier saw it and was mimicking me.
When I slip the phone back in its pocket, Shirlee’s scribbling like the Energizer Bunny on caffeine. She’s on the last row of words and not even bothering to dot the i’s: la pijama, el bolso, el impermeable. Her eyes flitting from the dictionary to the paper, she asks if everything’s okay.
“Yeah.” My voice squeaks. “Thanks.”
“Los jeans,” she mutters under her breath.
The bell buzzes. “Later,” I say.
“Sí,” she answers, still writing.
In the afternoon, whether I’m walking down the hall or sitting in class, I feel like I’m getting all sorts of knowing looks. I go around every corner, my throat tight, anxious Jennifer’s lying in wait.
With leaden feet, I make my way extra slowly up the stairs to last period, where I know I’ll see Jennifer and the others. And Hugh.
A guy from English bumps into me. “Sorry.” He goes around me. “Hilarious YouTube, by the way.” He gallops off, two stairs at a time.
When I get to film, Mr. Magee’s got everyone divided into groups, where they’re huddled and working.
“Raine.” He points to the far corner.
As I pass Jennifer’s group, she and Alyssa imitate the head movement in the video. Of course Mr. Magee is oblivious.
I join Shirlee, Willow, and a girl with a braid.
“We’re writing movie reviews,” Shirlee explains.
It takes our group forever to get through the list. Partly because Braid Girl’s only seen five movies in her whole life. Partly because Shirlee and Willow can’t agree on anything. They bicker like chipmunks, chattering high and fast and gesturing with quick, nervous movements. On a different day, they would actually be funny to watch.
No one mentions YouTube. Maybe they don’t know about it. In my brain, it’s playing on a repeating loop.
A couple of times, Shirlee taps my shoulder. “Raine?”
“Having a little trouble concentrating,” I say.
By the time our group finishes, hands in the work, and gets the okay to leave, the rest of the class is long gone.
“Remember,” Mr. Magee says, “tomorrow’s the first check-in for your projects. Worth a lot of points. You and your partner should have a very detailed outline.”
Are Hugh and I still on for tonight? I swallow. I wonder what he thinks of me and the whole stealing thing. Does he know about the video?
As I’m sliding my binder into my backpack, Mr. Magee walks over. “Everything okay?” he asks in a low voice.
“Yeah,” I say, pushing back my chair. Has he seen the video?
When I get home, I text Hugh. No response.
The only person I get a text from is my mom.
Won’t be home for dinner. Going out with people from office. Microwave frozen meal?
And so begins the death of the fresh start. Mom’s had lots of late nights. How many for work? How many for fun? My loser boyfriend antennae are waving madly. But instead of the usual dread, I’m filled with a grim satisfaction.
“The Queen of Rebound is going out tonight,” I say to Levi, who also knows exactly how this will play out.
“First comes love. Then comes letdown. Then comes packing up the truck and waving goodbye to Yielding,” I chant.
Close to six-thirty, I walk over to the Jitter Bean.
I tell my stomach to smarten up and untangle itself. Hugh’s either there or he’s not. He thinks I’m a thief or he doesn’t. He’s seen the video or he hasn’t. But stressing won’t change things. Too bad stomachs are bad listeners.
The bell tinkles as I push open the door. The coffee shop isn’t empty, but it isn’t overly crowded. I easily scan the place. Hugh isn’t here.
But Avalon is. She’s camped out in the corner, surrounded by books. Her head’s down; she’s totally focused on whatever she’s reading. Her face is so close to the page, it looks like she’s underlining words with the tip of her nose. It’s weird seeing her without Hugh. It’s like half her body got amputated. Either she doesn’t notice me or she’s ignoring me.
A few seventh graders are working at the big table in the quiet room. They barely glance at me, and I don’t think I register on their radar. Is my story only eighth-grade news?
It’s still a few minutes before six-thirty. I must’ve walked faster than usual.
I go back to the front and order a mug of hot chocola
te from the guy behind the counter.
At a table on the opposite side of the room from Avalon, I turn on my computer. While it’s booting up, I check my phone. No text from Hugh. No missed call.
I log on to the coffee shop’s Internet and go straight to YouTube. Up to fifty views. Two are mine. I do not need this thing to go viral.
Scraping off little spoonfuls of whipped cream, I eat slowly and read over my project notes. I stretch out the hot chocolate, drinking it in baby sips.
Still no Hugh.
After fifteen or so minutes, I text him. Why not? If he’s not coming, he should at least have the decency to let me know. Still, I have a sinking feeling.
A half hour ticks by. The seventh graders file past. My mug is bone-dry. I’ve memorized my notes, along with every crack and scratch on the table. The sinking feeling has morphed into a drowning feeling.
The bell on the door rings. Both Avalon and I look up.
It’s not Hugh.
A girl from my Spanish and film classes marches in.
“Celine,” Avalon says. “Over here.”
Celine smiles. She pulls out a chair at Avalon’s table and hangs a computer bag over the back. “You get much done?” she asks.
“Kinda.” Avalon waves a hand over the papers on the table. “I don’t know if you’ll like it, though.”
“I’ll show you what I got.” Celine pulls a laptop from the bag and turns it on. “Magee’s gonna love it.”
Apparently, they’re meeting for their film project, too.
The bell on the door tinkles again.
It’s Hugh. “Hey, Avalon, Celine.” He turns to me. “Sorry, Raine. I got here as fast as I could.”
An hour late’s the best he could do? That’s disturbing.
Then, hands in his pockets, he saunters over to Avalon and pretends to read her papers. “We might be able to use some of these ideas in our project,” he calls across the room to me.
Avalon giggles.
“Get lost, Hugh,” Celine says.
“We’ll just be over there”—he jerks a head in my direction—“if you two need any help.”
“No thanks.” Celine rolls her eyes. “We want a good grade.”
Avalon giggles again. She has an irritating giggle, like her nose is partially plugged.
Celine stands. “Come on, Avalon. We’re moving to the back room. Where we can work in peace.”
Avalon hops right up. Apparently, she’s used to being bossed around by Celine.
Hugh walks over to me. He shrugs off his backpack and sits. “You want a doughnut or anything? Remember, it’s on the house.”
“I kind of just want to get started.” I sound annoyed.
Hugh frowns. “Avalon told you what happened, right? And that I’d be late.”
“No,” I say flatly.
Hugh shakes his head. “She’s not always reliable.”
Yes, she is, I think. Reliably mean.
“Buttons ate my cell phone.”
“You’re kidding.” Is there even room inside Buttons for a phone?
“I bet Levi’s never given you a scare like that.”
“Nope,” I say. “So how’s Buttons doing?”
“The vet said he’ll be okay.”
“How’d you figure it out?”
“I didn’t. Buttons started vomiting all over the place about an hour after I got home from school. The vet did an X-ray. My phone was in his stomach, next to a golf tee and a quarter.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“The vet said if we didn’t do surgery, Buttons would die. That’s where I was till now. The surgery just ended.”
“Did he learn a lesson? Or will he just keep on eating stuff?”
“He starts ‘consumption therapy’ next week.” Hugh pulls a notebook and a pen from his backpack.
“I’ve never even heard of consumption therapy.”
“Be glad.”
We get going on our project. Both of us did some work ahead of time, and we just trade ideas and take some of mine and some of his. For the first time all day, I relax. I’m in a bubble where all the ugliness of the previous hours can’t get in. I stretch out my legs and cross them, at ease.
About an hour in, Hugh’s trying to convince me that videotaping at the dump is a stellar idea.
“But we’re showing a day in the life of a Yielding Middle School student,” I say. “Who goes to the dump? No one.”
“True.” Hugh tips back his chair and laces his hands behind his head. “But the dump is part of Yielding, and I bet no one else will film there. So we’ll get extra points for originality. And I could use the extra points.”
“No one else will film there because it doesn’t make sense,” I argue.
“You gotta think outside the box.” Hugh draws a square in the air and points at it. “Box.” He points away from it. “Extra points.”
Avalon beckons from the back of the room. “Time for a break, Hugh. Celine and I are watching some cool stuff on YouTube.” Her smile is sly, and her eyes slide past me.
Pop. So much for the safe bubble.
Hugh stands. “Coming?” he asks me.
I shake my head. I’d rather eat glass. The second Hugh turns the corner to the back room, I start packing up. I can’t see any way this scenario is going to end okay.
When I swing my backpack over my shoulder, it knocks my empty hot chocolate mug to the ground. Where it shatters into a million pieces. Deafeningly.
Everyone in the room looks up.
I freeze. Little shards of ceramic glitter on the floor. Some right by my feet. Some have skidded under a nearby table. What am I supposed to do?
“Just give me a sec,” says the guy at the front counter.
Of course he’s in the middle of serving someone, so I’m basically stuck, standing in a puddle of broken mug, not sure if I should stay to clean up my mess. Really, I just want to run out the door.
The guy holds up his index finger, signaling that he’ll be there in one minute. He disappears down the hall.
Suddenly Hugh’s walking toward me. He glances at the table, at the backpack over my shoulder, and at the broken mug on the floor.
“Quick,” he says. “Let’s split before I get stuck sweeping up.”
“I’ve been thinking it over,” he says once we’re in the parking lot.
I go cold. What? What’s he been thinking over? He doesn’t want to be my partner?
“You’re right about the dump. It doesn’t fit. So I’m willing to deal on that, but you gotta deal on which restaurant we shoot a scene at.”
“I can do that,” I say.
He walks me home without mentioning the YouTube video.
And for the first time ever, I understand why my mother falls hard for guys. Because I can feel myself starting to fall for Hugh and his messy hair and crazy jokes and knack for knowing what not to talk about.
The next week and a half stretches out and feels like a horrible forever. “Hey, KleptoRainia,” Jennifer always starts with. Her voice is friendly, her smile big. It’s an act. Her eyes are cruel and icy cold. But teachers and hall monitors don’t notice.
So when Jennifer, Alyssa, and Danielle surround me and hem me in daily, often more, everyone walks by. No one stops them.
Jennifer uploads a few more videos on YouTube about me, then stops. It’s not really her thing. She prefers to bully in real life, up close and personal. She wants to see her victim’s reaction.
The first couple of days I talked back in the circle, tried to push my way out. Until I saw how that made Jennifer’s eyes light up, made her smile with triumph. So I stopped reacting. I want her to get bored with tormenting me.
When my mom asks me about school, I tell her it’s all fine. There’s nothing she can do. And talking about it would only make it worse. Anyway, she’s staying out late more and more. I don’t ask questions, don’t nag, don’t try to nudge her back onto the fresh-start track. At this rate, we’ll be out of Yielding way before
the end of eighth grade. That idea keeps me sane.
That and running. All my frustration pours out at practice. I’m getting faster and stronger. The coach moved me up to varsity. I’ll beat Jennifer.
This morning, Jennifer, Alyssa, and Danielle crowd in tight, poking me.
“How’re you today?” Jennifer elbows me in the side. “Find anything to steal?”
Inside the circle, it’s close and warm. There’s a nauseating smell of deodorants and perfumes. Danielle has bacon breath. When Jennifer shakes her head, swinging her necklace, it’s almost like Emily is stuck in here with me.
“Why isn’t she doing our homework?” Danielle asks.
“Duh,” Jennifer laughs. “We don’t want our grades to go down.”
One of the girls pinches the back of my arm. Hard. And then, suddenly, they stop and take off down the hall. Until the next time.
If someone were taking photos, I’d show up as a shadow. Gray and flimsy. Muted. It’s how I deal with Jennifer. If there were a gifted class for cruelty, she’d be in it.
—
After lunch, I get my afternoon books from my locker. Walking down the hall, I keep an eye out for Jennifer. If I can avoid her by taking a different route, I do. I could be a tour guide for Yielding Middle. I know every nook and cranny of the place.
Instead, I see Shirlee. She’s standing outside a restroom door. She’s hunched over and as pale as if she crawled out from inside a coffin. Her hair is limp, and her bottom lip trembles. The word to describe Shirlee is traumatized. She is traumatized at the thought of pushing open the restroom door. Jennifer has traumatized her.
“Hey, Shirlee,” I say softly.
She jumps, her hand clutching her chest.
“Hi.” Her voice is low, barely above a whisper. She shuffles a little closer to the door, then stops and stares, gnawing on her lip. “Could you help me?” she finally asks.
“What do you need me to do?” I’m already dreading the answer because I’m realizing that a shadow doesn’t have a lot of courage. That turning myself into a shadow isn’t outwitting Jennifer. It’s making me less of a person.
“Could you make sure Jennifer’s not in the bathroom?” She looks at me beseechingly, like one of those poor, dressed-in-rags kids on TV who are begging with a tin cup.