What You Always Wanted

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What You Always Wanted Page 2

by Kristin Rae


  “Well, just don’t go climbing ladders or anything when nobody else is home,” I call to her before turning for the hallway.

  “How did you get so paranoid?”

  Ignoring her, I rush to my bathroom and add the finishing touches to my makeup, which include drawing a beauty mark on the top corner of my cheek near my left eye. A tiny star, just like the one Jean Hagen wore in Singin’ in the Rain for the silent film parts. I’ve been practicing all weekend to get the look just right. You only get one chance to make a first impression.

  Spraying my loose curls—I battled with the styling wand for nearly an hour—and scanning my wardrobe one more time, I approve my combo of casual and dressy. I grab my purse and a thick six-subject spiral notebook from my room and shout a good-bye to Ma, snatch my lunch box, and run out the door before she can stop me and get all sentimental. I slip into Angela’s Beetle and resist the urge to change my outfit. She’s wearing jeans the same yellow as her car, red flats, and a bright blue top with flowy sleeves, and her raven hair is half up, half down. Giant sunglasses cover half her face, so her deep red lips are the focal point. She’ll definitely turn some heads today.

  “I’m not sure if I should be going to school with you,” I say as she expertly backs out of my driveway. “Your paparazzi might run me over.”

  “Please,” she says with a laugh. “You’re the hot one with all those curls. Just so you know, I almost shut the door on you Friday night as soon as I looked at you.” She peeks at me as she shifts into drive. “Did you join a gang since the last time I saw you?”

  “What?” I ask, clicking my seat belt and smiling at the blood-red rose stuck in the bud vase near the steering wheel. Matches her lips and shoes.

  She taps her cheek. “Star-face.”

  I laugh and check in the visor mirror to make sure it hasn’t gotten smeared. “Have you seen Singin’ in the Rain?”

  “Oh, you like the really old movies.” She throws her head back and snores. “My mom’s going to want to adopt you.”

  I sink into my seat in relief. My old theatre teacher and I didn’t always see eye to eye. I pushed for musicals while he preferred the straight plays—not that I discriminate. It’s just looking like this year I might have a chance to really learn something that’s more in line with what I want to do.

  “Well,” I say, crossing my arms, “the star stays.”

  “Hey, I wasn’t telling you to take it off.” Angela’s silent for a few seconds before she asks, “Do I get one too?”

  Fernwood High School is a beautiful two-story giant of red brick and cream-colored stone. It looks quite prestigious with a grand entrance of archways, tall windows, and an inset clock overhead that reminds me of the movie Back to the Future, which depresses me because time machines aren’t real. If they were, I’d zap myself to 1930 and rewrite Hollywood history, with me in it.

  Angela’s a saint and walks me through my schedule, dropping me off at my homeroom with just enough time for her and her own star-face to make it to hers. Papers are passed out, rules are recited, lockers are assigned, much yawning occurs. Things are pretty uneventful until third period English. Just like I do in any classroom or theatre, I look for an open seat in the middle of the middle.

  And I see him.

  Tanned skin, green eyes, thick black hair perfectly spiked forward with a slight lean to the left. Angela’s brother. It has to be. And there’s an empty desk next to him. Maybe I should take it. I mean, I practically already know him.

  “Jesse, my man.” A thick guy with blond hair does a handshake finger-snap thing with Jesse before plopping down right where I was considering.

  “What’s up, Red?” Jesse’s voice is smooth, no hint of excitement.

  I wonder if maybe they aren’t friends at all, or if he’s relaxed about everything. I also wonder if the guy’s name is actually Red, or if I misunderstood. I thought that was a nickname for redheads.

  Before I make a spectacle of myself, standing in the middle of the classroom staring at the boys, I sit at the empty desk in front of Red. Soon all the seats are filled as students trickle in, followed by an older man in a worn gray suit and glasses nearly as big as his face. The name at the top of the dry-erase board tells me this is Mr. McCaffey.

  There are still a few minutes before class starts, but Mr. McCaffey scans the room and says, “Mr. Lyle and Mr. Morales, you seem to think I’ve forgotten about last year already. I won’t have you two talking baseball strategies over my lessons.”

  Baseball? Gag.

  “One of you needs to relocate before the bell.”

  Red lets out a shocked puff of air. “But Mr. Mc—”

  “I’m going to get my coffee,” Mr. McCaffey says. “When I come back, you should be sitting somewhere else.”

  He leaves and I relax in my seat as if I were the one who was just scolded. My teachers have been pretty okay so far, so I guess I was bound to get a persnickety one in the mix.

  Red makes a bunch of noise gathering his things, and I hear his requests repeatedly denied to change desks with people farther back. Before I realize what’s happening, I’m staring at the hem of his blue-and-white-striped shirt.

  “Um . . . can I help you?” My eyes travel the rest of the way up, delaying a second on each of his biceps before meeting his eyes, which are a light blue.

  “You can if you trade desks with me.”

  I turn to look at his desk. It does have a view out the window, while mine is next to a book-cover poster of To Kill a Mockingbird. And it’s next to the brother of the only friend I have in Texas, so why not? With a nod, I reach for my purse and scoop up my notebook.

  “Thanks,” he says. “I’m Curtis, by the way.”

  I open my mouth to introduce myself but remember there’s a slight chance Angela may have mentioned me to them as Maddie. I’d rather see how they act around me as someone they know nothing about.

  “I’m Madison.”

  I slide into my new seat, accidentally slapping my notebook on top of the desk with too much force, and it thuds to the floor. I hurry to retrieve it but see that it landed on a pair of boots.

  “Eeek! I’m sorry, Jesse,” I say in a hurry, bending down to grab it.

  He beats me to it and I pause, hunched over, arm extended, as he hands it to me. We both raise our heads until our eyes find each other’s. The green of his irises transitions to amber near the pupil, as though they couldn’t decide on being green or brown.

  “Steel toes. Didn’t even feel it.”

  We sit upright and I busy myself by opening my notebook to the next blank section and writing the date on the top. I want to die. My very own meet-cute. Well, the way we just met might not really be that cute, but he sure is.

  “So you’ve heard of me?” he asks, resting his elbows on his desk and leaning toward me. “Been to any of my games, or have we had a class together before?”

  Great. He’s one of those.

  Pressing my eyebrows together in an attempt to look distressed, I say, “We’ve had at least one class together every year since we were eight.”

  He sinks into his seat. “What?”

  I blink, not ready to break just yet. I want to see if he’ll pretend to recognize me or tell the truth even if it makes him look like a jerk.

  “I—I’m sorry.” He shrugs, looking genuinely confused. Maybe even a little embarrassed. “I don’t remember.”

  Good boy.

  “I’m kidding. I’m new. I heard your name when he came in.” I motion toward Curtis or Red or whatever his name is. “Jesse, my man,” I say, imitating him and offering my hand.

  I hold my breath and watch Jesse instinctively take my hand. He smiles when I finish out the handshake with a snap using both of our thumbs, just like the guys did. I may or may not have just initiated myself into some sort of guys club.

  Which is fine, I guess, but I have to admit I’m disappointed our touch failed to cue fireworks. No one burst into song. This is just another first day of sch
ool, like every other year before.

  Reality has a lot to learn from the movies.

  CHAPTER THREE

  There are four lunch periods over a two-hour span, but Angela and I have the same one. It’s typically my policy not to eat cafeteria food, so I’m halfway through my ham and cheese before Angela and a girl sporting a super-high ponytail get their food and sit across from me.

  “Maddie, this is Tiffany. One of my friends from volleyball.”

  “Hey.” Tiffany smiles and wastes no time digging into her meal.

  “Good to meet you,” I say, but honestly my mind’s swirling with all the new people I’ve met. Tiffany should be easy enough to remember, given my love of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Though this girl is far from an Audrey Hepburn type.

  Angela scoops her mashed potatoes with a chicken tender. “Tiffany’s a sophomore like me, but she already plays varsity. And she’s been looked at by a few colleges, including Duke. How crazy is that?”

  “Gee, thanks. You’re leading with that now?” Tiffany’s accent is definitely Texan.

  “Impressive,” I say, sipping on my bottled water.

  Pulling a shoulder toward her ear, she says, “I eat, sleep, and breathe volleyball. Momma’s orders.” She doesn’t completely close her mouth when she chews, and it makes me cringe inside.

  “When Tiffany was little,” Angela adds, “her mom went to the Olympics for volleyball. They got bronze, can you believe that? Her mom medaled in the freaking Olympics!”

  “Wow. Is that a goal of yours too?” I ask Tiffany. “To go to the Olympics?”

  “I dunno.” She tears out the middle of her wheat roll and shapes it into a cube with her fingers. “Momma would love it, but . . .”

  “But?” Angela prods.

  Tiffany shrugs again. “I’m not sure yet. Let me make it through high school first.” She laughs. “One thing at a time.”

  “One day at a time,” Angela adds, raising her can of pop in the air like a toast.

  Tiffany rushes to lift her Gatorade bottle, and after they tap them together, they take a swig. I don’t ask.

  “You’re from Chicago, huh?” Tiffany asks after a few minutes of silence. “I went there once. It was freezing.”

  “Yeah, it gets pretty cold back home.” Home. I stifle a whimper and shove the remains of my sandwich back in my lunch box, appetite stolen from me. “I don’t suppose it snows this far south?” I brace myself for the answer. I love my snow.

  “Maybe once every couple of years, but it doesn’t stick,” Angela says.

  “That’s so depressing.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s depressing,” Tiffany says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “That no one told me we were wearing stars on our cheeks today. Who’s got the marker?”

  A smile spreads over my face as I reach into my purse for my liquid eyeliner pen. I think I just made my second friend.

  The school’s theatre is massive. Not just the stage, which is complete with state-of-the-art lighting and sound equipment, but the seating too. It must seat over five hundred people. Back at my old school, the theatre was cramped and way past its prime. It reeked of mildew, sweaty costumes, and the teacher’s stinky old-man cologne.

  A circle of black folding chairs takes center stage and some kids are already seated, a few of them getting a head start on their homework load. There’s nothing signifying the teacher’s seat, so I sit among a group of empty chairs and take a quick survey of faces. I recognize one girl from Spanish class, but I only know her by the name she picked out for herself: Anita. Now that I see she’s into acting, I wonder if she named herself after the character in West Side Story. I chose Manuela, Judy Garland’s character from The Pirate.

  Two boys—the only ones in class?—slip in just before the bell rings, and Mrs. Morales appears from backstage, taking the seat to my left. My heart soars. I am the teacher’s pet already!

  I fight to rein in the pride. That’s exactly the type of thought that precedes a major ego-kick, and I don’t want any of that. No. It’s only a coincidence.

  “Another school year,” Mrs. Morales begins. “There’s something promising about a fresh start, isn’t there?”

  Murmurs come from the class, which seems worn down from a very long first day.

  “And most of you are upperclassmen this year, one step closer to breaking free, setting out on your own, and leaving your mark on the world.”

  “Anita” sits taller at this, the corner of her mouth hitched, eagerness in her eyes. Oh, yeah. She definitely got her name for Spanish class from West Side Story.

  “I’m Mrs. Morales, for those of you who don’t know me, and this”—she spreads her arms wide as if to encompass all her surroundings—“is the big stage. I like to begin the year here, but we’ll meet in the black box theatre starting tomorrow. While most of you are familiar with one another, we’re adding some new talent to the group this year.”

  Several of the girls across the circle exchange nervous glances.

  “But don’t worry, they’re all transferring highly recommended from their former programs, and I’m confident everyone will get along famously. This is going to be the best dramatic year Fernwood High has ever seen.”

  The boys let out a whoop and the girls nearest them giggle. Seriously, there should be more guys in here. These two don’t look to be very promising romantic counterparts, with their graphic T-shirts and bright-colored sneakers.

  Mrs. Morales reviews some of the highlights from last year, then outlines what’s to come this semester, as well as what she’s considering. She even mentions Barefoot in the Park and I squeal inside, wondering if I had anything to do with that idea until she winks at me. Now I adjust to sit a little taller too.

  “So let’s play an icebreaker game with the few minutes left of class, shall we?” she says. “Any suggestions?”

  A couple game titles are tossed around halfheartedly before Mrs. Morales thankfully skips over “Truth or Dare” in favor of “Two Truths and a Lie.”

  “Sarah,” she says to the stocky girl with light brown hair on her left. “Would you start us off?”

  “Um . . . I spent the summer in San Francisco.” She clears her throat. “I’m on the tennis team. I’m allergic to strawberries.”

  “Okay, everyone,” Mrs. Morales says, crossing her feet at the ankles. “Which is the lie?”

  A few of the girls shoot up their hands, but the one I know as Anita speaks first. “You spent the summer in your own room,” she says like a zinger. “Grounded.” No, that’s the zingy part. “Everyone knows you already play tennis, and who can forget what happened with the straw—”

  “How about you go next then, Rica?” Mrs. Morales jumps in. “Since you’re so keen on sharing.”

  I keep my outward reaction to a minimum—clearly any weakness is fair game for exploitation in here—but I inwardly wince and I’m forced to look at Rica with a different lens. Sarah may not have a good handle on how to play, but I feel terrible she got slammed on the first day. She’s gripping the seat of her chair like it might try to run away. Or maybe to keep herself from running.

  Rica combs her fingers through her clearly dyed ink-black hair, which rests just above her shoulders, the silver charm bracelet jingling on her wrist. She leans forward, making eye contact with everyone in the circle as if she’s about to divulge a state secret. “I went to New York City over the summer. I have a verbal offer from an art school there. My grandparents are buying me a brand-new BMW convertible for my birthday.”

  Crickets. The gears are turning. Nearly everyone in this room is no doubt used to what this girl dishes out, and they’re all lip-zipped like she owns them. Are they afraid to guess wrong? This one’s so easy even I know the answer.

  Come on. What would Lauren Bacall do?

  I give a little flick of my hair to show I’m in the game, and say, “They’re all truths.” My voice echoes unexpectedly through the theatre. It sounds good out there. I’m filled with t
he power to continue my conclusion. “You probably spent a week in New York touring schools, rubbing elbows, eating cheese, and pretending to drink wine. You even got significant interest from a school because you actually do have some talent, but it’s a school so far down your list you won’t tell us which. You’ll wait to see if all your other choices fall through before you claim that was the one you really wanted to attend all your life. And considering the jewelry and the legit Kate Spade purse you’re rockin’ on the first day of school, I’d say you even got to pick out the color of your shiny new beamer.”

  All eyes shift from me to Rica. Her jaw is slack and she’s doing a marvelous job testing her ability to blush. I think she got the message: this class is no longer hers.

  One of the boys stands on his chair and stretches a hand out toward me. “ ‘O Captain! my Captain!’ ”

  The guy next to him pops right up without missing a beat. “ ‘O Captain! my Captain!’ ”

  The room explodes into laughter and I steal a glance at Mrs. Morales, and even she’s struggling to keep a straight face. Rica’s the only one unamused. She stares at the floor with narrowed eyes, probably already calculating when and where she can strike, which makes me itchy. “ ‘Thank you, boys,’ ” I manage once things finally settle, and they hop down.

  Sarah catches eyes with me, smiling, and it’s not until that exact moment that I feel like my outburst was completely necessary. Not everyone knows how to defend themselves in situations like this. Sometimes you have to reroute a fire with an even bigger fire before everyone gets burned.

  “Yes, thank you, boys,” Mrs. Morales says before she turns to me. “Maddie, how about you go next?”

  I close my eyes to gather my thoughts and lift my face toward the warmth from the can lights. You got this.

 

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