by McCall Hoyle
I should keep my mouth shut, but I don’t. “Why can’t you?”
“It’s complicated.” His smile flickers. “I’m focusing on basketball. It’s a time thing.” He shakes his sandy-brown hair out of his eyes, his lips pushed together in what I think is supposed to be a smile.
A wave of chlorine fumes invades my nostrils, and I bite my lower lip. I know I’m supposed to be impressed by the high ceiling and the wall of glass spanning one end of the pool. But I can’t focus with the humid air filling my lungs. I’m suffocating.
“Nice,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck, trying to listen to what he’s saying about the locker rooms to our right. When I glance in that direction, I spy the high-dive platform and shiver. In addition to my phobia of drowning, I have a pretty serious fear of heights.
He glances at his watch, stepping away from the pool. “The first bell’s going to ring in a few minutes.” He opens the heavy door, and we step back into the hallway. “We better hurry.”
Cool, dry air brushes my cheek, and I remember to breathe as we move back toward the main hall, where he shows me the cafeteria and media center. The library is a bright spot on the tour, with floor-to-ceiling wood shelves and leather-like armchairs. It’s not Starbucks, but someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to give it that feel, and I’m thankful.
“What time does it open?” I ask, formulating a hideout plan for the time between drop-off and first bell.
“Seven thirty, I think.” He leads me back to the counseling office where we started, pointing to my first-period class on the way. “So that’s the grand tour.” He pauses, handing me my backpack. “You know where you’re headed, right?”
From what I’ve seen, the high school is easy to navigate. Four long hallways branch off at angles from the center of the building—one for English and history, one for science and math, one for elective classes, and the one I most hope to avoid that leads back to the gym, weight room, and pool.
“Yep, I think I’ve got it.” I reach for my schedule. When our hands touch, I pull back and look away. “Thanks.”
With a quick good-bye, I scurry toward the room marked on my sheet, thankful for a minute to myself. I’m pretty sure I won’t be getting many of those around here.
First period is a blur. My math teacher butchers my name. I pretend to take notes for a few minutes until the intercom on the phone interrupts his droning voice. When he points at me, my cheeks heat up.
“You. Clinic.” He hangs up, turning back to the equation on his fancy Smart Board without further direction. I decide then and there that the man’s got the personality of a cranky turnip.
I close my notebook, letting my dark side bangs fall over my face. Twenty-something sets of eyes bore into my back as I exit the room.
By the time the nurse finishes interrogating me about my meds and medical history, the bell is ringing for second period. I hurry toward Ms. Ringgold’s class on the English hall, praying for a seat in the back of the room. I need a minute to decompress; I’m on sensory overload. Everything moves so fast around here. At home, it was math, coffee, pj’s, and the occasional visit from the little girl next door who likes to play with Hitch when she’s not at school. Here, herds of students stampede from one location to another on a strict schedule.
Steadying myself, I take a deep breath and cross the threshold with my pink binder clutched to my chest. When I step into the room, my world tilts on its axis. This classroom is nothing like the military-style math class I just left. Here, clumps of people stand around everywhere. Guys in skinny jeans talk to a girl with purple hair by the whiteboard. Two girls sit in the corner, their noses in books. A group of girls with the whitest teeth and straightest hair I’ve ever seen chatter in back, and Chatham sits off to the side, surrounded by laughing friends.
My heart races as I veer toward an empty seat near the teacher’s desk.
I am clump-less. Alone.
And conflicted. I don’t know whether to be ecstatic or devastated that no one seems to notice me.
CHAPTER TWO
I hide myself within my flower . . .
EMILY DICKINSON
I somehow survived round one at North Ridge yesterday. Today, Mom shoves me back in the ring for round two. We have a horrible meeting with the guidance counselor in the morning, but thankfully first period whizzes by in a blur of formulas and numbers. My math teacher gets my name right today and is a wee bit less turnip-y.
Chatham sits beside me in second period. I appreciate he’s trying to be nice and make me feel welcome, but I hope he’s not sitting beside me out of pity.
“Do you like North Ridge?” he asks just as the bell rings.
“Better than Shermer High School and Principal Rooney.” I smile, trying to sound witty but having a hard time concentrating. My mind’s still back in the counselor’s office.
He studies my face a second, then grins. “Nice. Ferris Bueller. You know the classics.”
I relax a little. This conversation seems safe enough. I can hold my own when it comes to all things movie related. I just don’t want him—or anyone else—to start asking a lot of questions about me that might lead them to my disability.
I never really thought of myself as disabled. Sick, maybe, but not disabled. But when Mom and I met with the guidance counselor again this morning, he said something about scheduling a meeting to discuss my Individualized Education Plan. As if I don’t have enough problems to deal with, apparently I’m also special ed.
It’s just one more reason I’m furious Mom betrayed me and sent me here. She used to be on my side, until Dr. Wellesley started fussing about me being isolated and disconnected. He wasn’t worried about homeschool so much as the fact I’m an only child and not involved in any activities or anything. I should have made more of an effort to get out of the house. I should’ve known better than to spend a whole week in my pj’s. That was some sort of last straw. I crossed an invisible line that resulted in more therapy sessions and then . . . this.
“Ferris Bueller’s Day Off isn’t as intelligent as Dead Poets Society. But still . . .” Chatham interrupts my thinking.
I can’t focus on my anger any longer because he just spoke three of the most mesmerizing words in the English language: Dead Poets Society. Now that’s a modern cinematic classic.
I’m about to comment on his good taste when the girl with purple hair interrupts us. “Hey, Big Chat.”
“What’s up, Jules?” he asks.
“I need a quote for journalism about the game Friday.” She nods at me.
“I’ll come up with something after class. Okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.” She gives me another nod before she strolls back toward her skinny-jeaned friends near the whiteboard.
When Chatham turns back to me, the Dead Poets Society moment has passed. He fidgets with his mechanical pencil. “You shouldn’t have had to take the quiz yesterday.”
I shrug. It wasn’t a big deal. “Ms. Ringgold said it wouldn’t count. She’ll just use it like a pretest.”
He clicks lead in and out of his pencil, over and over, like some kind of nervous tic. What could be making him anxious? “Cool. How do you think you did?”
“Okay, I guess.” I study an old pair of initials carved into the desktop. The multiple-choice part of the test was easy, and the written section required only minimal thought, but I’m not advertising that fact. Smart kids don’t usually fare well in movies. It seems safer to blend in for a while than to draw attention to my IQ.
“Really?” He sits up when Ms. Ringgold enters the room with a stack of papers cradled in her arm. “How do you know all those authors and what they wrote?”
“I like to read,” I answer, which is true. It’s also the safest pastime in the universe, second only to watching paint dry.
But he’s not listening. He’s tracking Ms. Ringgold with his eyes.
She walks to the front of the room, turning to face us. Frizzy red hair frames her cheeks. “Guys, you know I love you
, but these grades are horrific.”
A chorus of groans erupts. I glance at Chatham, who’s wiping his hands on his cargo shorts.
“If you made lower than a seventy and if you come in for morning tutoring, I’ll replace this quiz grade with your next one.”
A couple of people sigh. Chatham was right about Ms. Ringgold. I like her. Other than my dad, I’ve never known adults who talk to kids like we’re real people.
She hands a paper to Maddie, the girl Chatham introduced me to yesterday in the hall. “Who made the highest grade?” Maddie leans forward expectantly.
Ms. Ringgold remains silent as she slides a paper facedown onto Chatham’s desk. He lifts one corner, and I see a flash of red ink that looks like the number twenty-seven. Do teachers give grades that low? From the look on his face, they must. His jaw tightens, a tendon popping on the side of his neck as he crumples his quiz. Well, that kind of tarnishes my vision of his shiny life . . . and means several of my favorite movies got the charmed-athlete stereotype all wrong.
She returns another paper before making her way toward me. She beams and pauses dramatically. “Our new student made a ninety-nine, the highest grade in the class.”
And there goes my invisibility cloak. Crap. Every head in the room turns to check me out. Out of my peripheral vision, I see Chatham’s eyes bulging. I stare down at my paper, hiding behind my hair.
“We’re so happy to have you, Emilie,” Ms. Ringgold gushes before moving on to the next person.
I don’t hear anything anyone says for the rest of the class period as I wait for the bell to ring. For forty-three minutes, I study the floor, the ceiling, my pencil, anything but faces. Instead, I read some of the quotes Ms. Ringgold has posted around the room. They match her personality and the violets blooming on her windowsill—all upbeat and inspiring.
I pause at the oversized words of Henry David Thoreau written in calligraphy above her head: Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined. This guy left all his worldly concerns behind to live alone in nature for two years, which sounds kind of appealing, if you ask me. I’d gladly trade the unknowns of public school for a tent and swarms of mosquitoes as long as I could have Hitch and my books.
Ms. Ringgold’s voice rises, interrupting my visions of s’mores and roasted hot dogs. Her hands flutter excitedly when she starts talking about poetry. I try to imagine what she was like as a teenager. Like me, she probably lived at the library with her nose stuck in a book.
When the bell interrupts her lecture, I grab my binder and sling my backpack over my shoulder, ready to bolt. But Chatham stops me before I can escape.
“Emilie, wait.” He touches my elbow with his hand. “It looks like you survived your first quiz.” He flashes me a smile, seemingly recovered from the shock of his failing grade.
“Yeah.” For one second, I lose myself in that smile. My heart floats like the hang gliders over the dunes behind my house. If anyone looks at my chest, they’ll see my heart swelling beneath my black T-shirt.
“Hey, listen. I could use a little help. I’m . . . failing Ms. Ringgold’s class.” He looks away for a second. “If I don’t bring up my grade, Coach Carnes is going to put me on probation.”
That sucks, but I don’t see where I come into the equation.
Then he raises his eyebrows, his expression hopeful. “You want to be my tutor?”
Ugh. I rack my brain for a quick excuse, but my mind is blank. As I stand there panicking, an artsy-looking girl with platinum hair walks up behind Chatham. She’s Tinker Bell without the fairy costume. Instead, she wears flip-flops and a soft button-down with paint splattered on the sleeves tied at her waist.
Thank goodness—a distraction.
“Hey, Ayla.” Chatham glances over his shoulder. “Have you met Emilie?”
“I have now.” She offers a fine-boned hand, perfect for painting or pottery or whatever creative hobby she enjoys. “So you’re some kind of literary prodigy, huh?”
“H-h-hardly,” I stutter, eyes darting, looking for an escape.
“Yeah, and she’s my tutor.” Chatham grins at me, blue eyes twinkling. I open my mouth to say no, I’m not, but nothing happens. My voice fails me. My big brain fails me too.
“That’s nice.” Ayla nods, transferring her binders from one arm to the other. “So you’re nice and smart. Be sure to count tutoring Chatham here as your community service for the year.” She winks at me encouragingly.
That’s the problem with never speaking up. A voice is like a muscle, and mine must be all flab, because I don’t have the strength to tell Chatham no, especially not in front of this girl who thinks I’m kind and intelligent.
So I just smile and say nothing at all.
CHAPTER THREE
. . . I tasted life. It was a vast morsel.
EMILY DICKINSON
After school, all I really want to do is curl up on the couch and watch a movie, to lose myself in Narnia or Middle Earth or even a galaxy far, far away. But Hitch nudges my hand with his wet nose, and I can’t ignore him. He’s my best friend, and the whole public school thing is getting to him too. His ears have been droopy all week.
“You want to go for a walk, handsome?” I tickle the golden hair under his chin. He grins at me, his bushy tail thumping the coffee table.
With a sigh, I drag myself the ten steps to the kitchen bar to leave Mom a note. She’ll freak if she comes home from her part-time job at the library and can’t find me. That done, I grab my faded “I Got Crabs at the Crab Shack” hoodie and a tennis ball for Hitch and head toward the back deck. The screen door thumps behind us as Hitch tears off ahead of me, his earlier funk forgotten.
That’s one of the things I love about Hitch: He lives in the moment. He doesn’t worry about the fact that he was home alone all day or the fact that he’ll probably be home alone again tomorrow. All he cares about is right now. And right now he’s with me. It’s low tide, and the ocean is calling his name.
By the time I scramble down the weathered steps of the boardwalk, he’s down at the water’s edge, tongue hanging out, waiting for me. I toss the ball out past the low-breaking waves, and he charges into the surf to retrieve it.
We’ve been at it for a while when Cindy, the eight-year-old who lives next door in the Malibu McMansion, joins me at the edge of the wet sand. Her shoulders relax when she turns to Hitch playing in the water, and the freckles on her nose and cheeks come alive as she twirls her ponytail around her index finger.
“Hey, Cindy. What’s up?” I smile at her.
“I’m bored,” she says without taking her eyes off Hitch. “I don’t have anyone to play with when I get off the bus.”
Ouch. Her innocent comment hits me in the gut. I should have realized she would miss me and Hitch in the afternoon. We used to take our afternoon walk at two thirty, so we could meet her getting off the bus. Now I don’t get home till almost four thirty. This is a perfect stretch of beach for someone who wants to be left alone. It’s not so great for bubbly elementary kids who need after-school playmates.
“I’m sorry, Cindy. This whole school thing . . .” The guilt in my belly expands. “I’ve missed you too. We should play Monopoly this weekend.”
She looks up at me. “If you promise not to buy Boardwalk.”
I cross my arms and frown, pretending to think. I’m kind of competitive when it comes to board games. Cindy’s the only person I would ever let break the rules. “Just this once. Okay?”
She grins mischievously and places her little hand on her hip. “And . . . I get to be the Scottie dog.”
I narrow my eyes. That’s my lucky piece. “How about we roll for it?”
“Please?” When she folds her hands beneath her chin, she’s too stinking adorable to resist.
“Oh, okay,” I say as Hitch races toward us to show Cindy his tennis ball.
“You’re the smartest dog ever.” Dropping to the ground, she wraps her arms around his wet neck. He blinks at me o
ver her shoulder, eyes rolling back in his head, and sighs like he’s in doggy heaven. Cindy nuzzles her face in the patch of dry fur near his ear. “I love you too,” she coos.
I study the two of them, lost in a second of sheer joy. But it doesn’t last. Cindy stiffens when a high-pitched voice screeches from the steel-and-glass structure that serves as her home. The perfect moment recedes like the waves.
My stomach twists. Something about that family and her home puts me on edge. Maybe I watch too many scary movies, but that big, cold mansion reminds me of the house in that movie where the main character fakes her own death to get away from her psycho husband.
I shake off the gloomy thoughts. At least they’re a family—a real family, with a mom and a dad. Granted, the dad isn’t around much. But even that must be better than knowing he’s gone forever.
Hitch watches Cindy go. After a minute, he drops the ball at my feet, plopping down on his butt, staring up at me with hopeful eyes. He wants me to join him in the water, but . . .
I don’t swim.
I know: it’s ridiculous. A twenty-first-century teenager who lives on the barrier islands of North Carolina and doesn’t swim. Dad took me to swimming lessons at the YMCA when I was seven, convinced I’d grow up and have a normal life. He said I’d be fine as long as someone was in the water with me. Not true. About the time I mastered the art of doggie paddling, I had a bad seizure and puked in the pool. Before the adolescent instructor or Dad could get me out of the water, I’d humiliated myself and almost drowned. Mom made Dad swear he’d keep me out of the water. She’s been trying to protect me from the dangers of my epilepsy ever since.
A long walk later, Hitch and I reach the rickety boardwalk that leads to our cottage on stilts. I inspect it as we cross over. Everything around this place needs work, but after Mom pays the bills there’s never anything left at the end of the month to fix loose boards, leaky pipes, or weathered shingles. Dad’s life insurance was just enough to pay off the mortgage and cover the first couple years of my college education, so that’s something, at least. But I’m pretty sure some of the kids at the Ridge have larger allowances than Mom’s part-time library income.