by Margo Kelly
“Thanks for checking on me,” I said.
“Don’t let Chelsea’s antics mess with your mind.” Eugene tapped his forehead, and then he strolled out of the library.
If only it were that easy. I rested my head on the table and waited for the bell.
• • •
When first period ended, I tromped back down the stairs to my literature class. Chelsea sat in the back row. I chewed on the inside of my cheek and debated what to do. I could apologize and work it out with her, or I could continue as an outcast all day.
I took a seat next to her.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m really embarrassed I took a swing at you. This weekend’s been bad, and I’m not—”
Chelsea took in a slow breath, stood, and then moved to the front row.
I flashed back to a time in the park when Mom walked away from Dad in the middle of an apology. My throat tightened as I considered Dad’s perspective. He had sat alone on that park bench. At the time, instead of following Mom, I chose to sit and wait with Dad. After an hour we walked home together in continued silence.
And now no one sat on either side of me or in front of me.
Chelsea leaned across the aisle and whispered something to the girl next to her. She cocked an eyebrow at me. I bit down on my tongue and steeled myself against more tears. Not here. When the teacher started class, I faced straight ahead and used every ounce of energy to keep my composure. I needed the clock to move faster. Finally, the bell rang and everyone herded out.
Last week, at our end-of-summer party, the student council had agreed to meet in the Commons for our open period and carpool to lunch. I needed to patch things up with my friends.
“Chelsea, wait!” I hollered down the hall to her, but she kept going. I jogged to catch up to her. When I touched her back, she whipped around.
“Go home, Hannah!” Her spittle hit me in the face. “At least you still can. Jordan can never go home again. His mom will never see him again. You drove like an idiot, and you killed him—”
“I told him to wear his seat belt!”
Chelsea shook her head. The disgust in her eyes made me cringe.
“You hated Jordan all along. I don’t know what’s possessed you, but we want you off the student council. Drop off. And back off. Go rot in your own miserable little nightmare.”
Stunned, I let her leave.
After a minute of standing alone in the hallway, I made my way to the Commons, hoping the rest of the student council felt differently. But when I arrived, they were already heading out to the parking lot. No one even glanced back for me.
My phone vibrated with an incoming text. I pulled it from my pocket and clicked on a message from Chelsea: Jordan’s dead because of you. I hope you rot a slow and painful death while evil minions pick your flesh to the bone. That’s what you deserve. Stop bothering me.
Tears fell onto my phone. I wiped them away and slipped my phone back into my pocket. I would give anything to go back to Friday and make different choices, but that was impossible.
The tardy bell rang, and the principal came up to me. “Hannah? Are you okay?”
I nodded.
“All right, then you need to get to class.”
I had an open period but no car and no friends. So I went to the school counselor’s office to change my schedule. Five other students waited in line before me. Apparently, they had problems today, too.
When my name was finally called, I sat next to Mr. Turney’s desk and passed him my class schedule.
“What can I do for you, Hannah?” he asked, and his thick brown mustache twitched.
“I’m resigning as senior class secretary,” I said, “so, I need to replace my leadership class that’s after lunch.” Because only student council members took that class.
“Hannah,” Mr. Turney said, “why would you want to quit?”
I’d worked so hard to win the student council office with the posters, the promises, and the parties. A part of me wanted to keep the position, but the idea of continuing on when Lily lay in a hospital bed, and Jordan lay dead, wrenched my heart right out of my chest. We were supposed to all be in student council leadership together, and I couldn’t do it without them, especially when Chelsea blamed me for the accident. I might not be able to control everything, but I could control my resignation. I didn’t trust myself around Chelsea. Maybe she and the others would criticize me less if I stepped down from my position. Plus, that would be one less class period I’d have to endure with her, and I needed some semblance of peace.
“Hannah?” Mr. Turney smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger.
“Thanks, Mr. Turney, but I’ve already decided.”
“If you’re sure,” he said.
“I am.”
He tapped his keyboard. “To replace leadership, how about art?”
I knew nothing about art. I’d always been too busy with student council and broadcasting to even consider an art class.
“What are my other choices?”
“Well, most of the classes after lunch are already full. You could do first-year French, Physics, Choir, or Advanced Art.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands.
“Can I have another open period?”
He squinted at the computer monitor. “Not if you still want to graduate this year. You need to meet the required number of class credits.”
“How can I take Advanced Art when I haven’t taken the prerequisites?”
“Under the circumstances . . . what with the accident and all . . .”
My heart beat faster, and my hands began to sweat. I imagined lunging at Mr. Turney the way I had at Chelsea in broadcasting, but even more, I saw my fingers wrap around his throat. His face reddening. A voice behind me whispered, “Do it.”
I spun around to see who had said it, but no one was there. I held my breath, afraid to look at Mr. Turney. I needed to regain my composure, but I felt completely unnerved. I gasped for air and tried to picture Manny. His lips moved as he told me he loved me. I drew in a deep breath and swiveled back around in my chair.
Mr. Turney’s jaw hung slack as he stared at me.
“Art sounds fine, thank you,” I said. I plucked a tissue from the box on Mr. Turney’s desk and wiped the perspiration from my face.
He made the corrections on my class schedule and returned it to me. I rose, hesitated, and with reluctance I plopped back down and passed my schedule back to him. “What’s available during this class period?”
“Auto Mechanics, Latin, Law Enforcement I, or Introduction to Psychology.”
“Psychology.”
He made the changes and suggested I go to lunch and attend psychology tomorrow since the bell would ring soon. I agreed. I moved through the lunch line, and with my tray in hand I debated where to sit. Since the cafeteria was the land of underclassmen, I walked out to the barren soccer field and for the first time in years, I ate lunch by myself. I considered the art class instead of leadership with my friends. Former friends. Advanced Art was for the students who’d taken an art class every year in high school. I would be a finger painter among the Rembrandts and Monets.
I strolled back to the Commons and threw my trash into a bin. Right then, the student council members clambered in from another door, laughing and joking with one another. I shuddered and turned in the other direction. We all had such great plans for this year. And now I’d be alone in Advanced Art. I headed down the hall, but had to stop and pull out my schedule to find the room number . . . M193. I’d never even set foot in that part of the building before.
I arrived at M193 and hovered outside the room. Could I do this? Leave my old life behind and move forward on my own? I set my hand on my chest and tried to calm myself, but my heart rate escalated anyhow. I lifted my foot and stepped across the threshold.
Colorful artwork blanketed the walls of the bright room, and the fragrance of flowers filled the air. I took another step inside, and the students in the room hushed. Table
s filled the space instead of desks. About twelve students huddled around three separate tables in the center of the room. I searched their faces and recognized one.
A short, plump teacher approached me. “Are you lost?”
I gave her my class schedule. She lifted her reading glasses to her nose, and the long string of beads attached to the frames sparkled in the light. She noted the counselor’s signature on my schedule. “Oh. You’re Hannah?” She peered over the rims of her glasses at me.
I gritted my teeth and silently begged her not to reference the accident.
She didn’t. Instead, she wrapped her arm around me and led me to a group of students at one of the tables. “Kyla, this is Hannah. Please introduce her around.” The teacher smiled at me. “I’m Rose, and I’m glad to have you in our class.”
I sat next to Kyla, who was slender with clear skin and vivid blue eyes. She sported a brilliant red hairdo. Not auburn but stop-sign, fire-engine, clown-nose red. And it was made even more dramatic by her sheer turquoise blouse and matching camisole.
She introduced me to the other two people at her table: Nick and Plug. I must have heard her incorrectly, because across from me was the one face I recognized: Eugene. He lifted his ring-laden fingers and waved. Next to him a bald-headed guy wore a navy T-shirt with large white words: LAST CLEAN T-SHIRT.
The rest of the art students appeared normal compared to these three. But if I took anyone from this class and propped them next to a student council member, there’d be a distinct difference. I scrutinized my manicured nails and mall-bought clothes and realized with clarity, I was the outcast here. But none of them moved away from me; none of them referenced the accident; and none of them ignored me. Unlike the student council members.
Eugene opened his mouth, as if he was about to say something to me, but then Rose began class, and he said nothing.
Rose had everyone pull out their summer portfolios and hand them to their neighbors. Kyla reached past me and gave her portfolio to the bald guy in his last clean T-shirt, and then she shared Eugene’s portfolio with me. Rose gave out assessment forms for us to critique each other’s artwork. Kyla flipped open the portfolio, and my eyes widened.
An incredible painting of a sky full of thunderclouds over a golden field seemed to lift off the page.
“That’s amazing.” I reached out to feel the texture of the paint, but Kyla pulled my hand back.
“No touching,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s someone’s original art. We only observe it.”
“Oh,” I said, still confused. “It’s amazing.” I repeated myself like a dork, because I had no other words to describe it.
“It captures van Gogh’s vast fields under the savage sky,” Kyla said.
I stared at her, dumbfounded.
“Have you ever taken an art class?” she asked in a curious, nonchalant way.
“Never,” I said. Everyone at the table lifted their heads.
“How did you register for this class?” Bald-Boy asked.
“The counselor said I could take this class or physics.”
“What were you in before?” Kyla asked.
“Leadership.”
“Oh,” they chimed in unison, as if I’d just committed blasphemy in the middle of a Bible study class.
“You.” Bald-Boy pointed his pencil at me. I sat on my hands so I wouldn’t be tempted to lunge across the table if he announced to everyone I’d killed Jordan. “You took a massive swing at Chelsea this morning in broadcasting. I thought you were going to pummel her for weaseling into your anchor position.”
“Were you there?” I asked, unable to place his face.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a knit cap, tugged it onto his head, and slipped on a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses.
He made air quotes with his fingers and said, “My cameraman disguise.” He thumped his pencil against the table before pointing at Eugene. “And Plug works in the equipment booth.”
As Eugene beamed at me his silver lip ring caught the light. His cropped black hair framed his face.
“Plug?” I asked.
He pointed at his ears. “Gauge piercings. Nick envies my fine body candy.” He toyed with the ring in his lower lip. Then he pushed up the long sleeves of his gray V-neck T-shirt and rested his elbows against the table.
I focused back on Nick and pointed at the knit cap. “Your cameraman disguise?” I laughed. “It works, because I didn’t even recognize you.”
“Our secret identities,” Nick said. “We only tell you because you tried to chop down Tall-Tree-Chelsea.”
I grinned at the moniker and imagined long birch tree trunks in place of her legs. “She is freakishly tall, even for a volleyball player,” I said.
Nick pursed his lips and nodded. He removed his cap and glasses, and then he smiled, revealing straight white teeth.
I asked Kyla, “What’s your secret identity?”
Nick spoke up before Kyla. “She’s a chameleon. Today she’s Crimson. Tomorrow she might be Cerulean. It’s always a surprise.” Nick reached across the table and touched Kyla’s red hair. She held his gaze for a few seconds until Rose came over and asked how the critiques were coming along.
“Back to work,” Eugene, also known as Plug, said. And everyone’s heads bowed back down to the portfolios.
Kyla flipped to the next painting, and my heart stopped.
I covered my mouth.
Kyla remained calm. “The use of white chalk on the black paper to create the illusion of screaming skulls takes my breath away, too,” she said.
I leaned in. At first glance, the swirling black mist along the edges of the drawing had caught my attention, but when I re-examined it, I distinguished shapes of hollowed-out skulls. And they silently screamed out in horror.
“Who drew this?” I whispered.
“Plug,” Kyla said and jerked her thumb toward him.
“Why?” I asked him.
He fidgeted with his ear and said, “To capture emotions.”
“Did something inspire you to draw these misty skulls?” I needed to know if he’d actually seen the black mist, too, or if it lived only in my delusions.
“Plug’s passionate about the occult,” Kyla said.
“The what?” I leaned closer, invading Kyla’s space, and she started to explain.
“The occult—”
“The practice of evil.” Nick waved his hands next to his ears and raised his eyebrows. “Scary stuff, man.” He snorted, and Plug—the name was growing on me—shoved him.
“It’s difficult to give a factual definition for the occult,” Kyla said. “It’s something technically undetectable, but some people argue it’s the foundation of all world governments.”
“Some people say it’s esoteric and arcane,” Plug said. “Some people will try to convince you the sign language symbol for ‘I love you’ is an occult symbol. Some people are trying to scare you into being a follower and not a finder. The occult simply explores the paranormal and the unknown. There’s nothing evil about it.”
“Not according to right-wing extremists,” Nick said.
“Stop seeing a conspiracy everywhere,” Plug said.
The bell rang.
I was surprised the period had ended already. We had only discussed two pictures. Everyone closed their portfolios and moved out, but Rose stopped me and asked me to stay.
“I understand the counselor gave you special permission to be here because of what happened over the weekend, but I need to know you will work extra hard and take this class seriously. The students in here are exceptional artists and have studied a great deal about the craft and the history. Respect their work—”
“Their work is amazing!”
“You will have to meet the same standards as everyone else in this class, or your grade will reflect it. You will have to work to earn an A in here. Do you understand my terms?”
“Yes. Is there something I should study to try to catc
h up a little?” Rose handed me a fifty-pound book on art history.
“Start here. And take care of this book. I expect it returned when you’re done with it.”
I used both arms to carry the massive load to my next class. Two seats remained open in AP Statistics: one next to Mark and one next to Plug. I realized the name fit him perfectly, but I wasn’t sure what to call him outside the inner realm of art class. I plunked the massive art book onto the desk next to him, and he raised an eyebrow.
“Steal that?” he asked.
“No!”
“Rose doesn’t loan that book.”
“How would I possibly steal it anyhow? Sneak it under my shirt?”
He grinned, and my cheeks heated up.
The teacher called out the attendance roll.
“Eugene Polaski?” she said.
“Here,” Plug answered.
I coughed twice and smirked. “Eugene or Plug?” I whispered.
“Stop,” he whispered back. “Eugene is a hard name to live with.”
“It’s never bothered me,” I whispered and bit back my laughter. “But what am I supposed to call you outside of art? Eugene or Plug?”
He shrugged. “Friends call me Plug.”
After class, he carried the huge book for me to my locker, but the sucker was an inch too wide. The door wouldn’t close.
“Great,” I said. “I guess I have to lug this brick around for two more periods.”
“Let’s put it in your—” he stopped midsentence. A few seconds passed before I followed his train of thought.
“Right. My car is totaled.” I hoisted the book back out of my locker.
“Put it in mine,” he said.
“Your locker?”
“My car.”
“We only have five minutes,” I said. “We’ll be late for our next class.”
“So?” Plug hauled the book from my arms and headed toward the student parking lot.
When he stopped to unlock the door of an unusual old vehicle, I asked, “What is this thing?”
“Have you never seen a vintage El Camino before?” he asked.
“Apparently not. Its father must have been a truck and its mother a sedan.” I grinned at my quick-witted humor.
Plug scowled. He tossed the art book onto the seat and slammed the door. Clearly I’d offended him. Stupid. Cars to boys were like clothes to girls. We all wanted to look nice in the outfit we were riding in, and I couldn’t afford to lose my one remaining friend.