Mr. Hubbard claps his bony hands together to get us quiet.
I huddle over my journal, wishing it would suck me into its pages. I try to think of Harris, but my mental picture is too blurry and I can’t concentrate when I know Mr. Hubbard is going to pair us up with lab partners, and mine could be Lily.
Since the dawn of time Mr. Hubbard has assigned the lab partners in his class, because he doesn’t trust us to choose our own. I’d rather he choose. Otherwise, in a class of twenty-five, everyone else would partner up, and I’d be the odd one out. I’d have to go to Mr. Hubbard, and he’d ask one of the pairs to let me into their group, which they would, reluctantly, because a teacher told them to, and the whole class would have their suspicions confirmed: that I, Analee, am in fact a socially defective loser.
As if reading my mind, Seb Matias raises his hand. Seb is Chloe’s ex-boyfriend, and he’s high on our school’s popularity chain, even higher than Colton.
“Can we choose our own partners for this lab?” he asks.
Mr. Hubbard squints at Seb through chunky eyeglasses. His frown lines look like small mountain ridges between his eyebrows. “No.”
Sometimes I do love Mr. Hubbard, because I don’t think Seb has ever heard the word “no” in his life.
Seb mutters something under his breath, and Matt McKinley, who’s sitting next to him, barks out a laugh. Matt is considered popular, although not as popular as Seb or Colton. Our high school’s social hierarchy is a strange thing, because I’m not sure anyone even truly likes Matt. He’s not a bully with a heart of gold, just a genuinely crappy, mean person. Matt is popular only because people don’t want to be his target.
He was the first person to call me Anally, years ago. He came up with it in front of Seb, and even though Seb didn’t repeat the nickname, he looked at me and laughed, which was almost as bad.
“Settle down, please,” Mr. Hubbard says, rapping his knuckles on his desk and sending himself into a coughing fit. I lean forward, watching him cover his mouth with his chalky fingers, hoping no one wins the death bet today, because honestly, Mr. Hubbard doesn’t look like he has much time left.
He pulls himself together, and I swear, Matt looks disappointed.
“Please wait until I read the list of partners before you take your packet,” Mr. Hubbard says. In his thin, labored tone, he starts to read from a crumpled sheet of paper.
Partnering with Lily could be either horrible or wonderful. I haven’t quite decided yet. Maybe it would be the defibrillator that our friendship needs. She’d be forced to talk to me, and I’d get the chance to finally explain what happened that night.
Or . . . I could be assigned to Matt McKinley, and I’d have to transfer schools.
Mr. Hubbard’s eyes scan each of us in turn, then stop at Matt. “Mathew, you’re paired with . . .”
I hold my breath and stare down at my shoes, studying the torn rubber sole lining my toes. If I don’t look at Mr. Hubbard, maybe he’ll forget I’m here.
“Chloe.”
My head shoots back up. Matt gives Seb a shrug, while Chloe forces a smile that looks like someone clipped the corners of her mouth up.
“Analee,” Mr. Hubbard says. I immediately freak out at the sound of my name, which he says correctly, but it gives me very little comfort at the moment. “You’ll be with Seb.”
I convinced myself it would be Lily. Something like disappointment sloshes around in my stomach. I slouch down in my seat, peeking at Seb’s reaction, and he doesn’t even try to conceal his despair. He rolls his eyes and plants his head on the table with a thud.
Well, whatever. He’s not high on the list of people I want as my partner either. It’s just humiliating, you know? What does he do besides bounce a soccer ball off his thick skull and lift heavy objects every day for an hour? Like that makes him better than me? I’m a freaking night elf, Seb.
Mr. Hubbard quickly pairs up the rest of the students. Lily is part of a trio with two of the smartest girls in the class. She gives them each a giant, face-contorting grin because they’re not me.
In all, everyone seems reasonably happy about their matches. Everyone except Seb, of course. And, understandably, Chloe.
I’m relegated to picking up a lab packet for me and Seb, because he makes no move to get up from his desk. Unbelievable. The soccer jock can’t peel his ass from the chair. I have to drag myself over to him while he sits there, pretending I don’t exist.
Inside, my blood is a barely contained tsunami of rage. Outside, I am still quiet, polite Analee.
“Um,” I say to Seb, in a truly brilliant opener. His head is tipped back, his eyes focused on the ceiling. I look up too, but there’s nothing, except some water-stained tiles in need of replacing. “Should we get started?”
It’s my worst habit, to phrase things in the form of a question like I’m asking permission.
He’s still staring. I wonder if he’s having an absence seizure, the kind without the convulsions. There was a kid in my fifth-grade class with epilepsy, and his seizures weren’t dramatic. He would space out for a few seconds, and then he was fine. Seb seems to be blinking normally, though, and I’m not sure about blinking during seizures. I look around for help, but everyone else has started talking or reading.
Finally Seb gives a drawn-out sigh and looks at me. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”
My sentiments exactly. As soon as I slap the lab packets in front of him, he gets up and says, “There’s an empty table over there.”
I’m not sure why we’re switching tables, until I look at where he’s pointing, at Matt and Chloe in the back of the room. I nod and swallow my disagreement. It doesn’t seem like the most conducive working environment, sitting by Seb’s ex-girlfriend and the boy who won’t let my middle school nickname die.
I don’t want to argue with Seb, though, so I grab the packets and follow him to the back corner of the classroom.
He’s talking to Matt and Chloe already, which I knew was going to happen. I sit and open my packet, trying my best to tune out their conversation. If Seb isn’t going to work with me, I’ll work by myself. I do things better alone, anyway.
The beginning of the packet is mostly reading about the lab procedures and short-answer questions. Nothing I can’t handle. I’m about two pages in when Matt takes note of me and says loudly, “Hey, man. I think Anally started without you.”
He does that a lot, the whole talk-about-me-like-I’m-not-there thing. I should be used to it by now, but every time he does it, my body temperature rises like it usually does when I stop being invisible. I keep my eyes on the print, losing the meaning of the English language and observing the group through my peripheral vision.
Seb gives me a cursory glance, then turns back to Matt and Chloe. “Whatever. I’m over this class, you know? Who cares?”
“I care,” Chloe says. “I have to get my science grade up if I want to get into Brown.” She turns to Matt. “Do you want to work over there?” she asks, motioning to the opposite side of the room. “I can’t concentrate.”
Matt carefully avoids Seb’s eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”
They leave a broken Seb in their wake, a different version of Seb, now slightly pinker in color. Seb is a bit of an ass, but I almost feel sorry for him. I’m not sure why he and Chloe broke up, but I know that Chloe is the only girl in the history of time who’s ever dumped Seb.
“Are you okay?” I ask cautiously, and he rips his gaze away from Chloe to look at me. He blinks, like he momentarily forgot who I was.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Just . . .” I don’t know what to say now. This is why I don’t start conversations with people. I can’t talk to Seb about his breakup like we’re buddies. What was I expecting, for him to cry on my shoulder? “I don’t know. Never mind.”
He gives me a strange look, and I feel the urge to crawl under my desk. I get undone easily. Sometimes I feel like I was born missing something that everyone else has, because the ability to
be normal always seems so far out of my reach.
Seb leans back in his chair and places the open lab packet on top of his face. He feels no obligation to talk to me, or even show any sign that he’s awake. I turn to my own packet and continue reading, and we don’t talk for the remainder of the period.
Analee’s Rules for Getting through Classes with Minimal Teacher Attention
1. Sit behind someone tall so that they block the teacher’s view of you.
2. Keep your pencil moving so that you always look busy. (Note—doodling is okay if done with an expression of intense concentration.)
3. Nod occasionally so that it seems like you’re invested in the conversation.
4. Do not make eye contact.
5. Wear your hair down so that it hides your face.
CHAPTER FOUR
A LYCRA-CLAD HARLOW IS IN the middle of yoga practice when I get home. She’s downward-dogging on her mat, eyes closed, a smile on her face. This is a fairly frequent occurrence since she turned her yoga practice into a brand. She became a certified instructor years ago and two years ago launched a successful YouTube channel called Hatha with Harlow.
“That you, An?” she asks, shifting forward into a plank.
“Yep.” I drop my backpack by the front door.
“Want to join me?”
Harlow is dying to turn me on to yoga, but I’ve already told her I’m wound too tight for it. I’m also lacking in the yoga physique. It seems like every yogi I see looks like Harlow, all slender and long-limbed. I would feel way too stubby in comparison.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Where’s Avery?”
Harlow pushes herself into a terrifying backbend. I’m worried that one day she’ll snap in half. “She’s at Megan’s today.”
Avery has inherited not only Harlow’s skinny body and colorful eyes, but also her insane flexibility. Harlow has featured Avery in a few yoga videos to promote mother-daughter bonding, and Waspy moms go crazy for them. She asked me to be part of the series, and I refused without hesitation. I’d feel like a fraud, and I could predict all the comments that would be posted: Who’s that chubby Latina? She’s doing it wrong. Are you related? She doesn’t look anything like you.
My real mom died of ovarian cancer two and a half years ago. I have her untamable mane of dark hair, curvy body, and wide nose. Those features somehow looked better on her. On me the proportions look slightly off, like I was put together by an amateur in Photoshop.
Harlow is in corpse pose now, which means “Do Not Disturb.” Her legs and arms are splayed across the mat, and her chest rises in sync with her slow breathing. Harlow can stay like this for an hour, totally content to listen to herself breathe, while I can’t shut my brain off for longer than a few seconds.
I head upstairs, my body brimming with excitement. Opening my laptop, tapping the keyboard with my fingertips, knowing Harris and I will be connected in a few minutes . . . this is the happiest part of my day. Actually, since the whole thing with Lily, it’s the only happy part of my day.
Harris and I “met” when he recruited me to join his guild. They needed a warrior, and when I’m Kiri, I am a total kick-ass warrior. We fought side by side every night as Xolkar and Kiri. Then the fighting became talking, and we slowly became Harris and Analee. Now we don’t go a night without talking to each other.
Me: Gross day today.
Harris: what happened?
I tell him about the frogs, and Mr. Hubbard’s brush with death, and how Matt and Seb still find their toilet humor to be the height of comedy.
Me: I’m just sick of being called Anally. Like, how old are we that toilet humor is still a thing?
Harris: if it makes you feel better, people call me harry all the time.
Me: How would that make me feel better? You think Harry is comparable to Anally?
Harris: harry is a horrible name.
Me: Are you kidding? EVERYONE named Harry is cool. You’ve got Harry Potter, Harry Styles, Harry Truman. . . . I’m sorry, you cannot compare Harry to Anus.
Harris: um. how did harry truman make the cool list?
Me: He was a president.
Harris: . . . who dropped the atomic bomb on hiroshima.
Me: That was him?
Harris: yup.
Me: I thought it was Nixon.
Harris: nixon was watergate. wow, an. the american public school system has failed you.
Me: Fine, so Harry Truman was a dick. But my point is, we’ll never have a President Anally.
Harris: for the record, i think analee is a beautiful name. the fact that you won’t ever be president probably has more to do with you not knowing basic american history.
Me: Didn’t stop Trump.
Harris: don’t remind me.
Me: you really think analee is a beautiful name?
Harris: yes
Harris: that’s why it fits you
Me: You have no idea what I look like
Harris: i don’t care what you look like
Harris: i already know you’re beautiful
I smile in spite of myself. This is why I love Harris. It’s why I have an entire book of writing dedicated to him, because he is a real-life druid who can somehow make my crappy days not matter.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE NEXT BIO CLASS IS more of the same. Seb sleeps with the lab packet on his face while I read quietly to myself and do all the prep work. I don’t mind the quiet, but the problem is that I’m kind of depending on Seb when it comes to the whole gruesome, slicing-open-a-dead-frog part. I hate being dependent on other people. Other people tend to suck.
Harris: tell him to get his shit together.
Me: Yeah, okay, Harris.
Harris: why not?
Me: You know I can’t do that.
Harris: why don’t you talk to your teacher, then?
Me: You want me to tattle on Seb? That’ll do wonders for my social life.
Harris: what’s the big deal with this guy?
Me: He’s good at kicking a soccer ball, so everyone’s in love with him.
Harris: and you?
Me: Please.
Harris: so then. talk to him.
Me: I’m bad at that.
The next day, though, we’re supposed to actually get started with the frog, and Seb is still sleeping under the packet.
“Um. Seb?” I try.
He doesn’t answer. His body is perfectly still except for his muscled chest expanding with breath. I can make out the shape of his pecs through his shirt, and I instantly feel guilty for not working out with Harlow the other day.
“Seb,” I repeat.
He grunts without lifting the packet off his face.
“Shouldn’t we . . . um . . . do this?” I ask.
“No.” His voice is muffled against the pages.
“Okay . . .” I look around the room, and everyone else is working in harmony, as though to show me that I’m the real problem, not Seb. It pains me to continue this conversation, but the thought of slicing Kermit’s corpse alone makes me feel a little dizzy and short of breath. Or maybe that’s the smell of formaldehyde wafting from its body.
I snap on a pair of plastic gloves and look down at the frog. It’s a vivid green, a color way too bright for something so dead. Its legs are splayed out, poised, as though they’re about to propel it through water. I think about how this frog should be gliding around in a creek or flitting through some tall grass, and instead it’s lying helplessly on a dissection tray, smelly, preserved in its inaction.
It’s so effing sad that I want to burst into tears right here.
Sometimes, when I feel too Analee, I try to be Kiri in real life. I think about what she would do if she had the scalpel in her hands, if she were paired with an uncooperative lab partner. But it never works. Kiri wouldn’t, couldn’t, exist in a world with people like Matt McKinley and Chloe and Colton.
And if she did, Seb wouldn’t ignore her.
I can do this alone. I can. According to the la
b packet, the first thing we’re supposed to do is cut the frog’s mouth, stick a finger inside, and pull on its tongue. I look at Kermit’s delicate little mouth, imagining how it flopped open in confusion before he was yanked out of the wild and killed.
I shudder and turn away. “Seb.”
Seb gives no indication that he can hear me, but I’m angry now, at him and at the fact that Kermit died in vain because Seb has no appreciation for a life outside his own.
I yank the packet off Seb’s face before I can stop to think about it. I surprise myself.
“Aah.” He throws a hand in front of his eyes. “Bright.”
“I need your help with this.”
He groans.
“Please?” I add. So stupid. So unlike Kiri. I’m literally begging him to do the bare minimum of what’s expected.
Seb lowers his hand, widens his brown eyes to adjust to the classroom’s fluorescent lights. “Yeah . . . I’m not into the whole science thing.”
“And you think I am?”
“Well, yeah.”
A lot of people assume that because I’m quiet, I must be some misunderstood genius. Really, it’s just easy to not say something stupid when you barely say anything at all. My grades are painfully mediocre considering that, with my lack of a social life, I have all the time in the world to study.
“Well, you’re wrong,” I say to Seb, but I look down at Kermit. Making eye contact with people is exhausting for me. Knowing when to blink, when to glance away, leaving my face and its numerous flaws open to examination.
“Fine.” Seb pulls the plastic gloves over his long fingers and reads the lab packet out loud. “Place the frog on its dorsal side and cut the corners of the mouth.”
I make a move to gently turn the frog over, but Seb grabs it from the tray and pretends to throw it at Dalia Breneman behind us. He goes from sullen to flirty in a matter of seconds.
“Seb!” Dalia shrieks, lunging across the table to slap him with her notebook. “You asshole!”
Analee, in Real Life Page 2