“Oh.” Why couldn’t I be like Nikki? Endlessly forgiving, endlessly sweet, Nikki would reach out, would ask, Do you want to talk about it? or, Is there anything I can do?
“Hey,” I said again. “Do you —”
“I have to go,” she said abruptly. She turned away and limped toward the front doors of the school. I watched her shuffle through the crowd, nodding to some, greeting others, until the top of her head disappeared behind a group of band geeks carrying their shiny plastic cases. The band moved slowly, laughing, and I turned before they dissipated, but through the forest of WGHS MARCHING BAND sweatshirts and utilitarian ponytails, I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of my boyfriend in the space of Lacey’s wake.
I drove out to the springs to read the stories. The drive was full of questions, of voices and doubts, and my own words echoed in my head as I walked down the path. You move through the world, see yourself being seen . . . I wasn’t hoping to be seen. I wasn’t imagining how I’d look walking down the path from the perspective of someone sitting on the tree roots, his back leaning against the trunk, his feet planted firmly against the water-splashed stones. . . .
The springs were empty; no one else was in the secret clearing, and I told myself I was relieved. I settled myself against my usual rock with the stories, and soon the rest of the world fell away.
Ethan’s was good. It was very good. His story was long, but I hardly noticed. Once I started reading I was pulled into his world, a world where a computer had a sense of humor, and maybe even a soul, and gangs of Christians roamed the streets, committing acts of terrorism in the name of the Lord. Normally, I didn’t like sci-fi, but Ethan’s story was different. It wasn’t just about a computer; it examined the question of what it means to be human in the face of the technology we create. The story was dark and funny and sad. I was hooked from the very first sentence. Hooked, and intimidated.
Shanti’s story was just as good. Maybe even better. It was more like a poem than a story, just a few ephemeral moments in time, woven together in the language of magic and stardust. An accountant falls in love with a girl from another world, and when she goes away, the sun and the moon switch places. Not understanding what he has, he misses the wet little footprints in her room after a dream of water. He tries to hold on to her but he cannot, and she disappears in the echo of a speeding train.
. . . The door appeared for a moment and she slipped through, as quickly and silently as moonrise. She’d spoken of doors, of stars and the voices she could hear on the other side, but I’d taken her talk for poetry, not fact, until I saw her slip through the door and lost her forever.
The words hung in my head, slowly revolving like wind chimes. Just like that day in Mr. Tremont’s class, I had a flash of what my life could be. I wanted my life to be more than what my mother had planned for me — more than I had planned for me. I wanted to walk through that door. As quickly and silently as moonrise. . . . Alone in the woods, I sat watching little bugs skate across the creek’s surface until shadows stretched across the water.
Quiet piano on the radio accompanied me on the drive back to town. The music matched the afternoon. I drove with windows down, savoring the cool breeze against my skin. It was tinged with sharpness and smelled like distant fires, autumn smoke. Someone somewhere was burning leaves in their backyard. The long gray pavement stretched before me, curving around farmhouses. Deep-red barns stood out against the tawny sunset cornfields, and dove-colored clouds gathered behind the long bank of orange-and-gold leaves.
Something more. The something I had been looking for without exactly knowing it, the sense of the universe unfolded before me. Shanti and Ethan had found it, they’d captured it in their writing, and I couldn’t tell how I felt about it. In awe of their talent and a bit intimidated? Absolutely. Inspired? Excited? Maybe.
But most of all, I felt found.
In creative writing on Thursday, Mr. Tremont handed out pages photocopied from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and he instructed us to write something new using only the words from Ovid. “It’s good to push yourself beyond your usual vocabulary,” he said.
Jenna raised her hand. “What if you don’t know some of the words? Like, what’s Phaethon?”
“I’m actually not that interested in meaning; I just want you guys to start experimenting with language outside your comfort zone.” He smiled. “But since you asked, Phaethon is just your average teenager — borrows his dad’s car, which in this case happens to be the chariot of the sun, and then crashes it, killing himself and setting half the world on fire.”
“Typical,” Jeremy muttered.
Mr. Tremont laughed. “Anyway, I chose Phaethon because I love the scene where his sisters are so paralyzed by grief that they start turning into trees, and their mother is trying to rip the bark off to save them, and they’re weeping because the bark is their skin: ‘The tree you tear is me!’ Amazing.”
I skimmed the poem on my desk to see if it was the one he was talking about, but mine was about Narcissus and Echo, not Phaethon.
“You really should read Metamorphoses,” Mr. Tremont said. “It’s like a soap opera: everyone’s always having secret babies and affairs, and then the gods get angry and turn them all into trees and birds. It’s the best.” My classmates must have looked as confused as I felt, because he laughed. “Anyway, for now, just pretend it’s a puzzle. Circle the words that jump out at you. Rearrange them, repeat them, see what you can come up with. And . . . go.”
We spent the rest of the hour working while Mr. Tremont walked around the room, looking over our shoulders and encouraging us. At first I was hesitant, worrying that I wasn’t doing it right, but by the end of class I was grabbing words and phrases from Ovid without worrying if they made sense, and by the time the bell rang I felt like I’d created something beautiful.
After class, I headed outside. I’d walked to school that morning, so I thought I’d run home, grab my car, and head to the springs. I would use the momentum from class to redeem myself in workshop. Mr. Tremont said he’d schedule me for later in the quarter, and this time I wouldn’t disappoint him. I walked slowly, maybe half hoping that someone would catch up to me and ask if I was headed out to the springs and maybe offer to drive us both.
But it was Nikki who caught up to me. She grabbed my arm. “Where are you going? We have a meeting with Dr. Coulter during eighth period, remember?”
I looked longingly at the parking lot. Other seniors were getting in their cars and driving away to eat Pop-Tarts and watch TV. I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to be walking away from school, not dragged backward by a girl who was shockingly strong given that she only ate things that were orange. Her fingers were bulldog teeth pinched around my arm. “Nikki. Hey. Arm . . . losing circulation.”
She strode forward without relaxing her grip. “Hey, Cindy!” she called. “Nice jacket!”
“Nikki! I’m coming! You don’t have to drag me.”
She didn’t look at me. “Oh really?” Her voice was low, pressed against her teeth. She sounded like Lacey. “Well, forgive me for worrying that you might run away again! After that night at your house!”
“Um,” I said.
“Hi, Nate!” She waved with her free hand, blowing a kiss that may or may not have been ironic, before switching back into iron-jaw mode. “I don’t know how to say this,” she hissed. “But you are like a different person lately! It’s like you’re . . . you’re not nice! You are not nice, Paige!”
“Whoa.” I wrenched my arm out of her scrawny claw. “I’m not nice?”
“That’s right, I said it! Lacey’s life is like, falling apart! And all you can do is give her mean looks! And you won’t talk to her! And she just really needs a friend right now!” Her voice got louder and louder, until she was practically shrieking. “And maybe I DO, TOO! IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU, PAIGE!”
“Whoa,” I said. People were staring. “Calm down, Nik —”
She patted her hair nervously, suddenly aware of so many
faces watching. She took a breath and gave me a giant Stepford smile. “It’s just,” she said. “I don’t like being in the middle. And I don’t like it when you fight. And Lacey really needs us both right now, Paige. But especially you. I don’t know how to talk to her. I mean, you were always her best friend. I know that.”
I started to interrupt, but she held up a hand.
“No, it’s true. I’m just, like, the sidekick. I know.”
“Nikki,” I said.
“Paige. Just, please. Come to this meeting. Be yourself again. Be nice. Okay?”
“Sure, Nik. Of course.” I tried not to think about Pop-Tarts or soap operas or the quick sweep of my pen across a blank page or anything but the light that came back into Nikki’s eyes the moment I nodded at her. She hugged me hard and led the way back into the dark school.
Lacey presided over the gathering of members of the homecoming committee and student council. Her face was perfectly smooth as she guided everyone through a neatly typed agenda, speaking to Dr. Coulter as an equal. Next to her, student council president Jeremy kept his finger on the bullet points as we moved through them.
“Next point,” Lacey said. “Bonfire tomorrow night.”
Randy and Chris threw their fists in the air and whooped. Jake caught my eye across the room and grinned.
Lacey smiled. “I know we’re all excited about it, because it has the potential to be one of the biggest nights of our lives. I want to go down the checklist, real quick, to make sure everything’s taken care of.” She glanced up at us, steely eyes above her wide smile. “One: JV team is in charge of gathering wood and building fire. Check?”
“Check,” Geneva said.
“Great. Two: Chaperones?”
“Coach Ahrens, Coach Wickstrom, Mr. Berna, Ms. Hoeschen, and Ms. Bailey,” Jeremy recited.
“That’s not enough,” Dr. Coulter said. “You need to have at least six.”
“Mrs. McConnell was supposed to chaperone, but I guess something came up in her family and she has to go to Wisconsin this weekend.” Jeremy checked his notes.
Dr. Coulter looked slightly startled, as if he hadn’t realized that his teachers had lives outside the walls of the building.
“So we need one more,” Lacey said. “Any suggestions?”
“I think we should ask Mr. Tremont,” Jeremy said.
Nikki leaned against me and giggled. Tyler and Chris looked at each other and smirked. God.
Lacey frowned. “Why don’t we ask Mrs. Moore? I bet she’d —”
Jeremy shook his head. “I already asked her. Her kid’s birthday party is that night.” Jenna French spoke from the back of the room. “Mr. Tremont will do it. He’s really cool.”
“Fine,” Lacey snapped. “Who wants to take care of that?”
“I will,” I said, surprising myself. Tyler snorted, but the look on Lacey’s face was worth the weight of everyone else’s stares. Jake gave me a questioning look, and I shrugged. “I just want to help,” I said sweetly.
“Fabulous!” Jeremy said. “That’s taken care of.”
Lacey’s voice was razor sharp. “Get that done today please, Paige.”
“Great.” Dr. Coulter sighed and settled back in his chair. “What’s next on the agenda, Lacey?”
Nikki raised her hand. “We need to talk about DIEDD.”
Across the room, Geneva leaned over to whisper something to Randy, who looked at me and laughed. I dug my fingernails into my palms and didn’t look up again for the rest of the meeting.
We wrapped up a minute before the period ended, and people moved around the room, chatting. Nikki turned to me, slinging her heavy backpack across her frail shoulders. “Thanks for coming.”
“No problem,” I lied.
“Can you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Can you write a eulogy for the DIEDD thing?”
I frowned. “What? A eulogy? Like, for a funeral?”
“Yeah,” she said, “it’s going to be really intense, and, like, we’re going to have this thing where people are —” The bell rang, cutting her off, and we moved toward the door.
“You know, I’m really busy,” I said. “And I have to go talk to Mr. Tremont about the dance or whatever, so . . .” I swung my arm to include the whole room, as if the entire world were encroaching on my free time and ability to do favors.
Nikki looked away. “Yeah, no problem, that’s fine,” she said, and released at last, I left.
Out in the hallways, the entire school population pushed toward the parking lot like water sucked to sea before a tsunami. I fought my way upstream, trying to lose my thoughts in the noise of the crowd. As I moved, head down, my ears began to pick up a familiar note buried beneath the swell. My cell phone. I leaned against a pillar for a second, out of the current. The number was one I didn’t recognize, but I answered anyway. “Hello?”
“Hi! It’s Shanti!”
“Oh,” I said. “Hi.”
“I’m across the commons. Look up! I’m by the pop machines!” She stood between the water-and-juice machine (available all day) and the soda machine (available after school only) and waved. Her voice came through my phone as she walked toward me. “Hi! So, what are you doing?”
“I’m talking to you,” I said into the phone.
She stood in front of me, grinning. “So, when do we hang up?”
“Now.” I put the phone back in my bag. “What area code is that?”
“Madison. I’m on my dad’s plan, from when I stayed with him last summer,” Shanti said. “The 608 forever, man.” She shook her head to flip her hair behind her shoulder. “So seriously, what are you doing right now? Because you should come hang out with me.”
She interrupted herself, pointing at a poster on yellow butcher paper. “Why can’t anyone in this school use an apostrophe correctly?”
I looked to where she was pointing. HOMECOMING TICKET’S $20, the poster announced. Next to it, a glittery poster encouraged us to SUPPORT YOUR CLASS! BUY SPIRIT LINKZ, LEI’S, T-SHIRTS!
“It’s not that hard!” Shanti said. “Are any of these words possessive? No!”
Jeremy walked up to us. “Okay, okay. Settle down, girl.” He looked at me. “Wanna take bets on how soon she’ll be locked up in a padded room, rocking back and forth and muttering about grammar?”
“Isn’t it weird how big of a deal homecoming is here?” Shanti asked, ignoring him. “It’s like we’re still in the Eisenhower administration or something.”
“It’s a tradition,” Jeremy said, “and people love traditions. It makes them feel like they have roots, which is really hard to do these days, when the economy is in shambles, the family farm is dead, and the cornfields are all turning into condos and McMansions.”
Shanti squinched up her mouth. “I guess. It’s just, sometimes I feel like I’m in a John Hughes movie or something. But not in a good way. In a weird way.”
Jeremy put his hands on his hips. “Girl, if you’re going to be a writer, you’re going to have to learn how to empathize with all kinds of people, which includes the good people of Willow Grove.”
“Praise the Hornets, America, and Jesus, in that order!” She saluted, and he whacked her.
“I guess it gives people a chance to feel like they’re a part of a legacy,” I said. “Like, my mom was homecoming queen a million years ago, and now she wants me to be, too.”
Jeremy nodded. “Like mother, like daughter. Except . . . not exactly.” He smiled at me.
Shanti shifted her weight impatiently. “I guess. Anyway, I think it’s sexist and dumb. But that’s not the point. The point is, what are you doing right now, Paige? Because I really think that you should hang out with me this afternoon.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Shanti wiggled her eyebrows. “I’ll buy you a latte. . . .”
Jeremy laughed. “Is that a bribe?”
“Maybe.” She looked at me. “Is it working?”
“I have to talk to Mr.
Tremont,” I said.
“I’ll wait for you here,” Shanti said. “But really? You have no choice. I’m kidnapping you.”
“It’s a talent of hers,” Jeremy told me.
I nodded. “I’m noticing.”
“Go work your magic for me, girl,” he said. “Show a little leg if you have to.”
I laughed and started walking backward across the commons.
“Okay,” Shanti said. “I’ll hang out here — and inveigle you when you get back.”
“Inveigle?” Jeremy asked.
“Shut up, it’s an SAT word.” She punched him and called after me. “See you in a few, Paige! I’m not above using duct tape if I have to!”
“Oooh,” Jeremy said. “Kinky!”
It was the first time I’d talked to Mr. Tremont outside class since yesterday morning, when I hadn’t turned a story in, and I had a moment of fear that he would turn on me and demand to know why I was thinking about homecoming when I should be writing. But of course I needn’t have worried — another teacher might guilt-trip me, but not Mr. Tremont.
He seemed interested in the bonfire. “Walk me out to my car.” He neatly zipped a stack of papers into a black briefcase, slipped in a yellow legal pad, and surveyed his desk for anything else. “Keys? Wallet?” he asked himself.
I hung back, watching his hands through the arms of his plants. There was an ink stain on his right index finger, and what looked like words at the base of his hand near his watch. He wore a plain silver band on his right ring finger. His thumbnails were square and broad.
“So, a bonfire? How does that work exactly? As I recall from my long-ago high school days, teenagers and fire don’t exactly mix.”
“Hence the chaperones,” I said.
“Ahh. So my job would be to prevent self-immolation?” He ushered me through the door, flipping off the lights and locking the door behind us.
“Self-immolation’s fine, as long as no school property is damaged,” I said.
Mr. Tremont laughed. “Oh, of course. Priorities!” He headed toward a back door, and I matched his pace along the waxed tile. “It’s weird. I pretty much stayed away from school-spirit-type events when I was in high school, and now someone wants me to be a chaperone?”
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