Need np-1

by Carrie Jones

  "You're from Charleston." He nods. "No wonder."

  "Mo wonder what?"

  He stops outside a door. "Nothing."

  "No, really." I hope he doesn't think I'm a hick or a bigot, which is what some people think about anyone who lives south of New York City.

  "You just seem different."

  "Hollow?"

  "What?"

  I drag my feet for a second, horrified that I said that out loud. "Nothing. Sorry."

  He doesn't seem phased. "So if you need any info about anything, just ask me. I'm on cross-country and basketball, and I'm in key club and I'm the junior class president, and some oilier clubs too, so if you want to join anything, just let me know. I'll get you in like that." He snaps his fingers. "Sorry. Corny."

  "No. It's… good. You're a little bit of an overachiever, huh?"

  "There's no point in blending in, you know? Got to grab the power where you can." He shakes his head at himself. "That sounds awful. I just mean… you've got to do what you can to get ahead, to get into college, that stuff. Well, we're here."

  He gives a little lopsided grin as we face a classroom doorway. Beyond it people are shuffling their stuff around, cramming themselves into seats, gossiping about all sorts of tilings I don't understand. They all have Gap clothes and that sort of almost-designer, mall-casual look, except all the guys wear work boots. There are a few guys wearing flannel and black sweatshirts. And here I am in my holey jeans with peace signs. I take a deep breath. I have no chance of fitting in, transferring in the middle of junior year.

  It's hopeless.

  The ache inside me grows and grows.

  Auroraphobia, Northern Lights creep you out.

  Autodysomophobia, you are afraid of someone who smells vile.

  Automatonophobia, ventriloquist's dummies terrify you.

  Automysophobia, being dirty is the end of the world. Autophobia, you are afraid of yourself.

  The evil Megan girl is not in my homeroom, but she is in my Spanish class. Ian drops me off at the door there too and she eyes us suspiciously. I swear, if she were a cat she'd be hissing.

  "It really wouldn't be a big deal for me to come and walk you to your advanced chemistry class," Ian says for the fourth time. "I mean, I don't want you to get lost or anything."

  "Okay. Yeah. Thanks, Whois that girl?" I nod at Megan.

  "Oh, Megan Crowley."

  I stand up on my tiptoes and whisper, "I think she hates me."

  He laughs and nods while I go back to my flat feet. "Probably."

  I wait for more. He just kneads at the top of his shoulder and yells hi to some guy in a soccer shirt who yells hi back to him.

  My hands find their way to my hips. "Are you going to tell me why she hates me?"

  His attention turns to me. His eyes flash. "Probably doesn't like the way you smell."

  "What?" I step back. I thought he was nice, not slap worthy. Not like I go around slapping people, but whatever.

  He raises his hands. "Just kidding. Just kidding. You're the competition. Megan hates competition. She has a tiling for Nick Colt. She saw you come into school with him. End of story, beginning of competition."

  "Right, likeI'm competition. Mini me." I walk into Spanish class, where Megan whispers snide tilings as Mrs. Provost, the teacher, introduces me to everyone and finds me a place to sit. The girl next to Megan giggles behind her hand and looks at me. Great.

  The last tiling I'm paying attention to is Mrs. Provost, who is saying, "Zara, what an unusual name."

  She glances at my ripped-up jeans with the peace signs and her eyes shift into another thought. "Mice to have you here. Class, let's begin. All in Spanish."

  I stare out the window, zone out, and wish more than anything that I'm back home with my dad and he's alive and my mom's all happy and we're eating eggplant smothered with mozzarella cheese and everything is normal again. But it can't ever be normal again.

  Outside, a birch tree bends from the weight of the snow. It'll spring back up once the snow melts, back to its normal, upright self.

  Could that happen to me?

  The answer is a big fat no.

  Megan Crowley turns all the way around in her seat to stare at me. Something evil flashes in her eyes and for a second I think she's not real, not human. She lifts a perfectly manicured fingernail at me and mouths, "I am onto you."

  Que?No entiendo.

  "What?" I mouth back.

  She does it again. "I am onto you."

  Mrs. Provost sweeps between us. "Girls, I am so happy that Zara is making friends, but now is not social time. Now is Spanish time. Zara? Why don't you tell us about Charleston?"

  "Um…" I look around for help. It's just a bunch of pale people staring at me. God, how can Maine be so white? "Um, Charleston is really beautiful and warm. There are these antebellum houses and-" "In Spanish,por favor," Mrs. Provost interrupts. She pulls at her bra strap and lifts it farther up her shoulder.

  She wants me to talk about antebellum houses in Spanish? I hate this place. Megan laughs behind her hand and turns back around. I shiver. It is so cold here.

  "Charlestoness caliente y hermosa," I start again. "Ami me gusta alli."

  A thin girl with wild brownish hair waves at me as we leave class. An orange Hello Kitty T-shirt bags off her shoulders. Her nose twitches like a bunny's and she hops up and down to get me to look at her.

  "Hey." She waves again, this massive kind of wave, like when you're trying to hail a taxi on a busy street.

  But this is a hallway, not a street, and it's nowhere near busy.

  "Hi."

  I put my oh-so-exciting, brand-new Spanish textbook into my pack. Then I snap it shut. In passing I notice that one of the snaps is missing.

  "I like your pack. Did you get it at an army-navy store?" She bounces on her toes when she talks like she has way too much energy for her body and just has to do something with it.

  "Yep."

  "In Bangor?"

  "No, Charleston."

  She smiles super wide. "Are you Zara White?"

  I step back, swinging my pack over one shoulder. "How does everybody know that?"

  "Small town." She smiles an apology. "News travels fast. We get all excited when someone new conies.

  I'm Issie."

  "Oh, so you knew I didn't get my bag in Bangor." "Sort of." She pushes her teeth together and smiles big. She makes big eyes to go with it and then blurts, "I love Bangor, though, so I was hoping. 'Cause I love your bag too. Oh, I am babbling. I hate when I babble. Devyn says it's cute, but I know it's not, it's super annoying. So, is your name really Zara?"

  I try to calm my nerves and be friendly. I smile back. "It's really Zara."

  "Like Sara but with a Z. That is much cooler," She bee-bops her head up and down. "Cool. Cool. Cool.

  Good to meet you. Where you going next?"

  "PE." I smile again, I like PE in Charleston. It's always outside. There are no books involved. You don't have to talk to anyone except to try to annoy them. You can blend in.

  She bounces up and down on the back of her feet. Her skirt flits around her legs. It's super long and flowy, like her hair. "Cool. That's in the gym. Of course PE is in the gym. Dull?"

  She bonks her forehead with her hand so hard I want to get her an ice pack, but she seems fine and she bounces out, "I'm going there too. I'll show you."

  "Oh." I stop in the hall and look around for Ian. I don't see him I'm not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Suddenly, I feel sort of abandoned.

  "Are you looking for Ian?" I shrug. "Um… yeah. I guess so. He's showing me around."

  She has been beaming at me but now she frowns. "What?" I ask.

  "He must like you. I'll tell him I've got you from here. He's very overachieving. He'll be your escort all year if you let him." She grabs her phone and sends him a text telling him that she'll take me to PE.

  "There. All set."

  She is efficient, this girl, and I like that. She links her a
rm in mine and says conspiratorially, "It's hard being new. I was new once too."

  "Really? When did you move here?"

  "First grade."

  I smirk at her and she laughs. "It was still hard. I still remember it. Totally uncool. Everybody looking at me, sniffing me out, because I was the new girl, trying to decide if I was worthy to be in their pack or not.

  It was awful. Nobody played with me at recess for an entire month. Swinging by yourself is not cool, not every day. Not when everyone else is playing tetherball or tag."

  She sounds so sad; I pull her closer to my side. I want to take care of her. "It was a long time ago."

  She shrugs and smiles at me, "Yeah. And it didn't last forever, right? But I remember how hard it was."

  She lowers her voice to a whisper as we walk by Megan Crowley and her little posse of girls trying to look hip in the high school hallway, which is a ridiculous tiling to even try to do, because itis a high school hallway. "Megan Crowley hated me too."

  "Is it that obvious?" I ask.

  Issie nods. "She hates everyone she thinks is a threat."

  "Why am I a threat?"

  She pulls her arm away from mine and uses it to bash me with her notebook. "Don't even play that game with me."

  She giggles again, and pulls open the door to the locker room. I smell baby powder and stinky running shoes and I smile. It smells so familiar. If I close my eyes, I think I could almost pretend I'm home.

  But I'm not.

  "That Megan girl," I whisper because Megan's flounced into the locker room with her posse, "do you think she's kind of weird?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I don't know…" I remember the way she didn't seem real for a second. "It's silly. It's nothing."

  "Nothing is ever nothing," Issie says, and then she staggers backward. "Oh my God!"

  "What? Issie, what is it?" I look around for a spider on the floor or something. Maybe Issie has a spider phobia. Those are pretty common.

  Issie turns panicked eyes on me, swallows, and then gushes out her words like they have a life of their own. "We're running today. They're testing our mile. Oh God, this is so uncool. This is yabba-dabba bad." I almost jump in midair and hug her. "The mile!

  Great." "Great? Running a mile? Youare crazy." She opens a locker and pulls out gym clothes. "Maybe you'll fit in here after all."

  I yank my old, gray U2 War concert shirt on. It is excellent to run the mile in, all soft and faded. My dad got it at a concert back in the eighties. "You don't want me to fit in?"

  "It's nice to have someone different," she says, gesturing toward Megan's gaggling crew putting on their spaghetti-strap camis. "Someone not like them, you know?"

  Megan hoists her hair up into a new ponytail for PE. She adjusts her perfect breasts beneath her perfect cami and gives me a perfect glare.

  "I'm not like them, Issie," I say, sticking my finger through a hole at the bottom hem of my T-shirt.

  "Cool."

  "I just like running."

  She hauls on a Snoopy shirt, baby blue and cute. "Why? Why would you like running?"

  "It makes me feel safe," I tell her as we tie our shoes, I do not tell her that it makes me feel closer to my dad.

  As I stretch, Coach Walsh, the gym teacher, nods and takes my name, then blows the whistle and we all take off around the track for a warm-up lap.

  "Bedford's the only high school in northern Maine with an indoor track," he boasts to me once I'm back.

  "The whole community rallied behind this. Fund-raising and everything."

  "Right. That's cool." I stretch out. Again. No one else is even stretching out, except Issie and she's almost falling over every time she bends down and reaches for her toes. It's funny to see someone so cute be so uncoordinated. She has the same color hair as my dad.

  Megan scowls at me and I get that feeling, the squiggly feeling, I push my fingers into my eyes.

  The gym teacher grabs me by the elbow and barks at me, "You okay? You have low blood pressure or something?"

  I run a hand through my hair. Issie stops stretching and stares at me. Everyone seems to be staring at me.

  I feel a little ophthalmophobic, which is a very normal phobia, where people are afraid of being stared at.

  "Yeah, I'm good," I lie.

  Coach Walsh trains steely eyes on me and lets go of my elbow. "Okay, line up then."

  We all line up except for this guy in a wheelchair, Devyn. He smiles at me when I line up, introduces himself. He has a movie star smile, just white teeth and charisma, big eyes, dark skin. He'd be perfect looking if he didn't have such a large nose, but the truth is it looks good on him, natural and powerful. He winks at Issie, who blushes.

  "You can do it, Is," he says.

  She rolls her eyes, twists her lip, and says, "As long as I don't pass out."

  "If you pass out, I'll put you in my lap and wheel you across the finish line," he says, and it somehow isn't sleazy because you can tell by his eyes how much he cares about Issie, I instantly like him.

  She blushes worse. Her face looks like she's already sprinted a mile.

  I bounce on my feet, crazy happy for a chance to run, even if itis inside, even if the perfect, plastic, Megan Crowley is there, glaring at me. Ian stands next to her with a half smile on his face.

  "Think you're a runner or something?" She flips her hair down and then back into a ponytail, which again accentuates her perfect cheekbones. "Nice shirt."

  I shrug.

  Ian wiggles his eyebrows. "She looks like a runner to me." His words don't seem real. They seem flat, like he's playing at flirting with me. This is probably a continuing side effect of my dad's death: the feeling that nothing is real. I touch the thread on my finger.

  Megan arches a perfect eyebrow. "Maybe she ran in whatever little southern hole she crawled out of, but not up here. We're a different breed of runner up here. Plus, how can anyone possibly run on such short little legs?"

  "Don't be mean, Megan," Issie says. "It's so much cooler to be nice."

  Megan lashes at her. "Like you know what it is to be cool."

  My hands close into fists and I try to think of something to say but all my words seem to be stuck somewhere near my heart. Then another voice comes from behind us, a low growl type of voice, full of deepness. I recognize it right away and the little hairs on my arm arch up into the air.

  "Issie's beyond cool," Nick Colt says. He puts a hand on Issie's shoulder. She smiles at him. She's friends with the MINI Cooper guy? Are they dating? Please, God. Do not let them be dating.

  He turns to perfect Megan. "You worried, Megan? Think she could be faster than you?"

  Nick Colt smiles at her, but there's no warmth in it and it makes me shudder. It's the smile of a predator.

  Okay, it's the smile of a really incredible-looking predator with a really nice jaw line, I shake my head to gel that image out of it. No, he has the smile of a bad driver, someone who makes my body scream, "Danger! Stay away!"

  Wow. I am such a liar.

  He has the smile of gorgeous. He taunts her a little bit. "She might be faster…"

  "Yeah, right." Megan arches down to touch her toes. She moves like a cat, graceful, like she's thought about how each muscle will look as she moves. "Like she'd worry me."

  Something like anger rises up from the pit inside me, dark and haughty. I am so not used to feeling that way. I'm not used to feeling anything except numb, but this Megan girl, she just does something to me.

  The air in the gym cools down, getting fierce, like it's waiting for something to happen, like a fight. I am really not about to let something happen. I am not about to make the world more full of hate.

  My dad used to quote Booker T. Washington to me, along with some other cool people. But it is the Booker T. quote that sticks in my mind right now. Booker T. once said, "I will permit no man to narrow and degrade my soul by making me hate him."

  I fake smile, pretend I am a white-girl Booker T., and say in as ni
ce a voice as I can manage, "I'm not trying to worry you, Megan."

  She turns her face toward me, her eyes fierce and focused. "Good. You don't."

  Issie grabs my elbow and gives me worried eyes. Megan pretends we suddenly don't exist and moves closer to a group of blond girls, the class cutie brigade, I figure. Nick and Ian eye each other, like dogs squaring off, measuring each other up. Ian looks away first, bending to tighten his laces.

  Nick smiles at me, a much nicer smile. A real smile? "You've already made friends."

  "Good one," I say, shifting my weight between my feet. "Ha-ha. Funny."

  Issie perks up and locks her arm in mine. "That's right, Nick. Zara's doing fine. I'm her friend."

  He nods. This time his smile seems even warmer, even more real. "Good, Issie. I should have known."

  "Known what?" I ask, but nobody answers me. So I try a new tactic and whisper to Is, "Are you dating him?"

  Her head jerks up. "Devyn?"

  "No. Nick."

  She starts laughing. "Nope. No interest there at all."

  Devyn lifts his head to stare into Nick's face. He drums his fingers against the armrests of the wheelchair.

  "You find out anything?"

  Nick shakes his head.

  The coach comes to the starting line and gives Devyn a stopwatch and clipboard. "You guys ready? This is serious stuff here. Run all-out. Do your best."

  Nick leans toward me and whispers. His breath is warm against the side of my face. "He has a bet with all the other PE teachers in the county. If we don't have the best average time, he has to buy everyone strudel."

  "Strudel?"

  Nick raises his hands in the air. "I have no idea."

  "The PE teachers are into strudel," Issie says. "I'm not sure why. It's so gooey."

  "Gooey is good," Nick says, "Seriously?" I ask him. "You like strudel."

  "I like a lot of things that aren't good for me." He smiles slowly at me. My mouth must be hanging open because he starts laughing.

  "You made her blush!" Issie says. "Don't blush, Zara. He's just teasing."

  Coach Walsh blows the whistle and we take off. A lot of the girls just jog, but Megan Crowley bolts, and I dash after her, hating how cute and long her legs look as she runs with a perfect stride, her feet swinging low and quick. Does Nick notice how perfect she is? Why do I even care? Megan turns her head and flashes a smile at me. It is not a friendly smile. What is wrong with that girl? What is wrong with me?