Briefly, that baleful gaze fell on me, and underneath the threat implicit in his expression, there was an unfathomable pain.
He wore a black hoodie, and given the sweltering temperatures we were enjoying, it had to be for concealment rather than comfort. The only thing I could really tell about him in that fleeting glance was that he had long, elegant fingers.
I did not see him in my next class, which was to be expected, since I had been consigned to Freshman Spanish. On the long list of casualties resulting from my forced relocation was my class schedule. French was not offered at any level at HHH. Nor was Drama, for that matter. In order to get my foreign language credits, I had been forced to start over with Spanish. Instead of Drama, I was taking Word Processing. It was that or another year of P.E. (I had endured enough of that for one lifetime) or something even worse like Future Farmers of America.
After Spanish, I got turned around. By the time I found my locker, I was very short on time, enough so that I was practically running to make it to my Trig class. I fail at paying attention when I am in a hurry, and it inevitably results in catastrophe. In this case, the catastrophe was a six-foot tall Greek god whose scowl of outrage when I crashed into him somehow managed to be adorable. Messy blond hair hung down from under his baseball cap and his brown eyes were hard and unfriendly.
“Watch it, freak.”
He meant me, of course.
I tried to form an apology, but the ill-advised and instant crush I had on him seemed to have swollen my throat shut. He shoved me hard, which was like a train hitting a pogo stick. I stumbled back, losing my book bag in the process. I managed to stammer an apology and knelt to pick up my books as well as his.
Fleeting and deeply irrational thoughts flitted through my befuddled brain. Maybe he was just startled and we could laugh about it, then he'd invite me to hang out with him at lunch. I'd be shy and coy, of course, and yet totally mature. I'd tell him I was from L.A. and he would be fascinated. All his friends would be impressed by what a cool friend he had found. He'd walk me home from school and then shyly ask for my number. We'd hang out on the weekend, maybe take a drive somewhere. That's when he would confess his secret crush on me, and I for him, and harps and violins would play and—
“Step off, punk,” he snapped, flexing his considerable shoulders as I tried to pick up one of his folders to hand to him.
He snatched it away so suddenly that it threw me off balance. So much for fantasy; it was time for the much less fun thing called reality. I got my books together, stood and turned to go, and that's when it went from bad to worse.
His friends were laughing at me.
“Check out the dork, guys,” one of them exclaimed. He was a gangly, greasy guy with a coarse voice. “Did the fag try to cop a feel, Billy?”
I winced and shook my head. They didn't know, of course. There was no way they could know, not for sure ... not unless L.A. had sent that along with my transcripts and it had been posted on the school bulletin board. Like any simpleminded bully, the boy had just reached for the lowest, nastiest thing he could call me. There was no comfort, however, in knowing that I was the worst thing he could think of.
Billy, the one I had collided with, made a face at his friend’s joke. “If he had, Derek, he’d be bleeding right now.”
Casual mentions of blood made me panic. I attempted flight, but the greasy one called Derek grabbed me and spun me around. The lupine pack of cronies was already surrounding me, grinning in a feral, anxious way. It was all too familiar.
“Where you going, Poindexter? Late for chess club?” Derek, whom I guessed to be the pack leader, asked me.
My brief moment of being at a loss for words had passed and my rapier wit came out of its sheath. “Is there any way we can reschedule this little soirée? I'm late for a class, and you know what a drag teachers can be about that sort of thing.”
“Jesus, he even talks like a fag,” Derek snickered.
“Seriously, are you like, from one of those queer boybands or what?” Billy asked me.
“Yep, that's it, and they need me on stage, so, pardon me....”
Showing fear or anger or hurt to them would only make it worse and I had the mental scars to prove that. Being glib and trying to slip past them was the best way I knew to avoid the beating. Every time I tried to dart between them, however, they just herded me back into the circle. I was sure I had seen the same tactic used by hyenas on a gazelle on the Discovery channel. It hadn't ended well for the gazelle, as I recalled.
They continued to laugh at me and shove me until my patience, already worn thin by the events of late, snapped. In spite of my promise to Shawn, in spite of all my instincts for self-preservation, I let my anger off the leash.
“Look, you guys can flirt with me later, okay? I don't have time right now.”
* * *
The nurse in the infirmary was a nice woman named Janice. I had broken the force of Billy’s punch with my chin, which had caused a lot of very dramatic bleeding but no serious damage. Fortunately for me, that was when some helpful teacher had finally showed up and the pack had scattered. As I had been flat on my back, trying to figure out how to stand up, rescue had definitely been required.
The icepack was helping with the swelling, but my ears were still ringing and my neck hurt badly. People don't realize that getting punched can snap your head back so hard it almost gives you whiplash. It was making an unpleasant counterpoint to the pulsing pain in my jaw.
I had tried. That's what really got to me. I had tried so hard to not make waves, to not stand out, to not attract trouble. I had given up my favorite clothes; I had toned down my demeanor ... all just to get by. And still I had gotten beaten on.
My foul temper grew even darker as I lay on the cot in the infirmary. I just wanted to go home, but the problem was, I wasn't even sure where that was anymore. L.A. used to be home, but now my “friends” there had apparently written me off. I didn't have them to retreat to, complain to, or go to for spirit-lifting. Buford, Iowa offered me no shelter either.
For the first time in a long time, I came close to crying. I was in pain, I was alone and I was miserable. However, I was still me. I'd been beaten before; I'd been humiliated; I'd been spit on and ostracized ... all the things you should not have to know about when you are on the cusp of sixteen but do because you're different; all the things kids do to other kids to establish the pecking order of high school.
I had survived them and I would survive this. It was only two more years of hell. I could even think about it as practice, since according to about half the world I would be spending an Eternity on slow roast anyway, just for being who I was. This would just be a sampling— like an appetizer of misery.
The nurse brought me a note. I was to report to the principal as soon as I was able— which I took to mean as soon as the hemorrhaging had stopped. I popped some aspirin the nurse provided me and worked on standing. I discovered very soon that I had to move slowly, or the pain would ramp up so high I would feel faint and nauseous. I’m a huge fan of avoiding pain and nausea. I picked up my book bag and settled it across my shoulders and went to face the music.
As I made my way to the office of one Mr. Kretchmer, I distracted myself from my discomfort with what I would say to the principal about the incident. The last thing I wanted was to get my attackers in trouble. The worst they would get was a suspension, and that would end up making me their favorite target. No, that way led only to madness—and bruising.
I would have to pretend I didn’t get the Neanderthal’s name. That would be the best escape route. If I could not name him and failed to point to his picture in a yearbook, that could be the end of it; unless the teacher who had belatedly rescued me had spotted him.
If that were the case, I would have to be more creative. I could explain that I had run into the Incredible Jerk and fallen down—on my face—when the teacher had shown up. It would not fool anyone, of course, except for the people who wanted to be fooled. Princip
als, in my experience, liked having innocent explanations for altercations. I think it made less paperwork for them.
Resolved to escape the administration offices without creating further problems for myself, I came in, told the receptionist who I was and took a seat to wait. I was not left hanging for long, and was soon ushered into the small, functional office of Principal Kretchmer.
Filing cabinets were crammed into the limited space along each wall. I was pretty sure you couldn't even access the drawers on some of them without moving the desk. The window was covered by some antiquated mini-blinds that might once have been almond but were now a sort of grungy gray in color.
The esteemed principal was an older African-American man with a bit of gray in his short-cropped hair. His face had that sort of impassive, stony quality that one sees in school administrators, executioners and veterans of foreign wars. His thick mustache reflected a rakish disregard for current styles. His glasses were equally utilitarian, plastic and brown, lacking any sort of individuality. I excused his suit—a dreadful tweed travesty that should never have been combined with the butter yellow shirt he was wearing—because I granted that he was on a budget and so had not been able to afford a new suit ... since the Reagan Era.
“Sit down, Mr. Murray,” he told me perfunctorily.
I did; still slow enough to not induce vomiting. I didn't think that would be a good way to start off the interview.
He folded his hands on his desk and looked at me with serene, implacable judgment. “I am sure you know that fighting is not acceptable, Mr. Murray. According to your file, you have been in some altercations before this. I want to impress upon you how very deeply you will regret repeating that behavior here.”
I gaped stupidly at him. Was he really saying it was all my fault? Surely the file reflected.... Principal Siega back in L.A. would not have.... A dreadful picture started to form in my mind, like pieces of a puzzle coming together. Clearly, my name had been smeared before I ever left L.A. and now I, the bad seed that the wind had deposited here, was surely to blame for this latest incident.
My gaze slowly hardened. I had to stop myself from telling him what the truth really was, about what had happened and why. “It wasn't a fight,” I said firmly. “I accidentally ran into that guy and fell.”
“Mr. Wallington says you shoved him.”
Did he really?
“Sir, with all due respect, he's a foot taller than me. Do I look suicidal? Why would I want to pick a fight with someone who could punt me across the state line?”
“Maybe to get attention, maybe to get out of class. I've seen a lot in my time, Mr. Murray, and very little surprises me anymore. You've been uprooted from what you know and dropped into a foreign environment. You're angry. I can see that. In your shoes, I might be as well. So, I will forgive this little incident and we'll chalk it off to a bad start. How does that sound?”
It sounds like a drunk truck driver at a karaoke bar trying to sing something by the Cure, frankly, so why don't you take your little pardon and shove it where the sun don't shine?
I swallowed my pride and nodded, so angry that my stomach tied itself into knots. “Thank you, sir.”
“We were scheduled for a chat anyway, later in the week, but it seems like now might be a better time,” he told me, opening what was presumably my file. “I see you had to make some compromises regarding your schedule. But Spanish will serve you better than French, so that's a good change for you. And you've had to take Word Processing, another excellent choice.”
“I preferred my Drama class,” I told him, pushed beyond reason by his patronizing tone.
His eyes rose to meet mine, and I could tell that he was unimpressed by my thinly-veiled anger. “Budget cuts across the state. The School Board felt that Drama and Music classes were a luxury that could no longer be afforded.”
“And yet I see the football team has a nice shiny new scoreboard.”
“Paid for by funds from alumni as well as some aggressive fundraising by our booster club,” Kretchmer told me in a tone that warned me how close to the line I was treading.
I sank into my chair sullenly. “Well, we might never have another Great American Novel or amazing musicals written by Americans, but at least we will always be able to toss a ball between some metal posts. Our priorities are right on track.”
“The sport you are denigrating, Mr. Murray, is one of the best ways for students of this high school to gain college scholarships. I understand you are unhappy, but your outrage isn't helpful.”
“I just figure someone should be outraged by the death of American culture.”
He leaned back in his chair and gave me a long, steady look. I wasn't approaching the line anymore, I had crossed it. I was heading for suspension in even the most optimistic of outcomes ... and I found I didn't care. I was too angry to be worried about consequences or what my parents would say or anything.
“We need to find a more positive outlet for this passion of yours, Mr. Murray,” he said at last. “Something less likely to get you expelled.”
The threat lay there between us like a coiled snake. If I made the wrong move, that snake would strike and I would be dead on many, many metaphorical levels.
“I suppose so, sir.”
Kretchmer leaned forward again, tidying up the files on his desk. “As it turns out, you are not the only one disappointed by the loss of our Drama department. Many students have complained.”
After a moment’s thought, he reached into a file drawer to retrieve a piece of paper that I suspected was a “Send Collin home to think about what a bad boy he is” form. My parents would be thrilled.
“Just because we don't have a drama department, however, does not mean we cannot have a drama club. If you can find an advisor, have him sign this form and return it to me.” He slid the paper across the desk to me.
I gaped at him. I wasn't being given detention, suspended or even made to write “I will not be a stupid jerk” a hundred times. He was, instead, handing me one tiny fragment of hope. I stared at the paper and then looked up at him, trying to understand what was happening.
Kretchmer's face was inscrutable, however. Whatever reasons he had for his act of unrivaled generosity would not be revealed to me. His expression didn't even change to show he approved of my loss of hostility.
“Thank you, sir,” I told him, carefully taking the precious form and tucking it safely into a folder.
“That will be all, Mr. Murray,” he told me and went back to his papers.
I left in a hurry, dazed and baffled. I stopped by the secretary to get a note for missing my Trig class and wandered back to my locker. My head was spinning from the strange conversation with Kretchmer and hurting from the much less enjoyable encounter with the thugs. Things had gone from bad to weird and I felt like I would never catch up.
I made my way to the cafeteria and the chow line, wryly amused by the fact that the smell of the place—the peculiar blend of cleansers and mystery meat—was the exact same as the one at my old school. There was something comforting in that universal constant.
The food was more or less the same sort of stuff I was used to, but I barely noticed. My mind was spinning, trying to process all of the things that had happened. I had, it seemed, brand new enemies whom I had to learn to avoid as fast as possible. I had a chance to start a club that might replace some of what I had lost. And, somehow, I seemed to be on the verge of expulsion. All that, and it was only lunchtime on the first day.
I took my tray and started looking around for the big banner with “Hoover High Bruins” emblazoned upon it. Becca had told me that she and her friends sat at a table under it or near it or something. She had invited me to join her and introduce me to the people she hung out with. Keith had offered too, but she had called dibs.
Sitting alone at lunchtime was far too depressing and more or less cemented your place as a social outcast. It didn't matter if Becca's friends were all shallow airheads or stuck-up jerks, at least
I would be seen with people. Besides which, I liked Becca. I could put up with a lot if it meant getting to hang out with her and Keith.
I finally saw her, and she was wearing one of the outfits I had helped pick out for her. I could see several boys were giving her very approving glances, but if she noticed, she was not letting on. She beckoned me over with a friendly wave.
She and her group were sitting around a long table. I approached, smiling my best winning smile and taking in the array of people she was surrounded by. Most of them were pretty girls like her, but there were boys as well—presumably boyfriends of the girls. She was chatting with someone quite animatedly, though, but I didn’t see who until I got a lot closer.
Impossibly, it was Billy—Mr. Personality himself, one of the guys that I had to avoid at all costs.
Some days, I just can't catch a break.
Chapter 4
I STARED IN DISBELIEF, TRYING to figure out why Becca, who had very discriminating tastes, would be friends with such a big jerk. I had to assume he could be charming, if you weren’t a boy and new to the school. My expression flattened as I looked at him, feeling deeply resentful that he would intrude himself upon my day yet again. He caught my glower and gave me a look that suggested he was happy to beat the crap out of me again, if I wanted.
Becca was clearly surprised when I froze in my tracks, and I saw her gaze slowly shift to the guy I was glaring at. She was confused and even concerned. There was no way to explain, however, not without getting too close to the Jerkasaurus Rex.
I sadly turned to find another place to sit. My shirt was already spotted with blood, no need to add my lunch to it; which was the only likely outcome of getting into Billy’s orbit again. I didn’t pay Becca any further attention. I would have to explain it later, when I could catch her alone—or as alone as a girl ever got, since they travel in packs.
Exiled to Iowa. Send Help. And Couture Page 4