by Ann Herrick
"Hi, Sivia." Ilana Brower's locker was next to mine. We've been friends since we were jump-rope champions together in second grade. She stared at my feet. "What happened? Did you step in a puddle?"
"Some clueless jerk with scruffy dark hair splashed me. I saw his van out front, and if I see him, I'll make a grab for his shoes. Mine are never going to dry out."
"My gym shoes are here somewhere." Ilana fished around in the bottom of the book bag that was almost half her size. Her long bangs, which framed her most recent up-to-the-minute style of her brown-with-new-blonde-streaks hair, obscured her vision. "You could wear them."
"Nice offer," I said, "except my gunboats would never squeeze into them."
"Your feet aren't big, um, considering your height." Ilana was being kind.
At five-eight, I was only an inch taller than Ilana, but my feet were two sizes larger. Besides, I liked classic clothes—boring, Ilana called them—whereas she leaned toward funky-spunky original. But then, I preferred to melt into the background, while Ilana enjoyed being more visible.
Just then I spotted Marcy Stratton and the usual swarm of guys buzzing down the hall. Todd Bowman, drop-dead handsome drone-of-the-day, had his fingers laced through Marcy's. She stopped at her locker, and most of the worker bees except Todd dispersed. But Brad Coty, with whom I'd happily share my nectar, was still there, hanging around the fringes.
"Hi, Marcy." I approached her cautiously. To make life easier, I tried to stay on her good side. I mean, if my wrist didn't get me out of playing softball, I'd be stuck on the team with her. Besides, occasionally one or two of the guys who hovered around her were not only hot enough to be on fire, but actually showed active signs of intelligence too.
Marcy turned slowly and gave me a look that said, I can handle you. "Hello, um, Sivia, is it?" She curled her lip into a twisted smile that drove fear into the heart of most girls, but seemed to make guys want to start a little war over her. "How's your hand? Will you be pitching this year?"
"Um. Well. It might be healed in time for softball."
"That's good." Marcy almost sounded relieved.
"Th-thanks," I said, surprised at both her comment and her tone.
"I mean, it's good since no one has come along to replace you—so far." Marcy selected her books and, as if she were a princess presenting her handkerchief to a knight about to go into battle, handed them to Todd. With a toss of her silky chestnut hair, she and Todd took off down the hall.
Brad, however, headed for his locker, which was right across the hall from mine. I looked for Ilana, but she had disappeared. She liked to get to French class early.
I took a deep breath and worked up the nerve to approach Brad. He was six-two, so I had to crane my neck to look up at him. "Hi." Brilliant opening remark!
"Hi, Sivia." Brad's blue eyes crinkled as he bestowed one of his devastating smiles on me. "What's up?"
What's up? So casual, so relaxed, so not like me. "Up?" I chewed my lip, trying to think. Up? Up? What was up? Basketball! Yeah, that was it. Basketball. "Um, I just wanted to wish you good luck in the game tomorrow night."
"Thanks." Brad put his hand on my shoulder. The vibrations zapped straight to my heart, among other body parts. "You going? We need all the support we can get if we're going to beat Springfield."
"Of course. Sure. I'll be there! I wouldn't miss it for anything," I babbled. Why did I have to suddenly be conversationally challenged?
"Great." Brad winked at me. "See you there."
I nodded and gulped, so uber-excited I couldn't speak. Where were my always-get-an-A-in-Language-Arts skills when I needed them? I watched Brad stroll off to class. Class! I had thirty seconds to get to the absolute other end of school.
My shoes squish-squashed as I walked as quickly as possible without breaking into an actual run. Running was a cardinal sin at Willamette City High, and there was nothing Vice Principal Whipple liked better than to lurk in the shadows just before classes started and pounce on unsuspecting violators. His speed and quickness in collaring students earned him the well-deserved nickname, The Whip.
I race-walked into the Home Arts room just as the bell rang and took a seat at a table by the window. Except for not wanting detention, I really had no reason to hurry to this class. I signed up for Holiday Cooking only because I needed a Home Arts credit. I could've waited, but I decided to take it now in my sophomore year and get it over with.
"Ah, Miss Groner. Nice of you to join us," said Ms Baker, an aptly named Home Arts teacher if ever there was one. "But please store your books over on that counter." She glanced at the clock. "I'm expecting a new student and he's going to need to sit at the end of the table right where you deposited your books."
I grabbed my books and trudged over to the counter, wondering why this new student just had to sit at the end of my table.
"Ah, Mr. Parrish. You're late," I heard Mrs. Baker say. "But since it's your first day at Willamette City High I'll excuse you this one time. You may take your place over there."
"Oh, thank you Mrs. Baker." The voice was faintly sarcastic and remotely familiar.
As soon as I sat down, I recognized the messy dark hair, the lopsided smile, and eyes that took in the whole room. "You're the jerk—"
"Hello again." He stuck out a bike-gloved hand. "I'm Keeley Parrish. Sorry about splashing you." Briefly, he flashed a grin. "It was purely unintentional, I assure you."
I didn't want to stare. But I was afraid to look away. I was so surprised to see him that it'd taken a couple seconds for it to register that he was in a wheelchair.
Then I saw his legs. Or rather, I didn't see his legs. I mean, he didn't have any legs, except for these stubs that ended a few inches above where his knees would have been. That explained parking where he did. I felt myself shrinking. "S-s-s-o you're Keeley," I finally managed to whisper as I reached over to shake his outstretched hand. With a nervous glance at Ms Baker, who was thumbing through some file cards, I added, "I-I'm Sivia Groner."
"You're friendlier than I thought from our first encounter." One corner of his mouth twisted upward. "Why is that?"
I studied his face for a moment. He completely didn't strike me as someone who was looking for pity. "Because you're not as much of a total jerk as I thought you were."
Keeley threw back his head and let out a deep laugh.
"Mr. Parrish. Ms Groner." Ms Baker tapped the file cards on her desk. "If you're quite through introducing yourselves, I'd like to get on with class."
Keeley's mouth twitched as if he was holding back another big laugh, but I felt my face turn red and hot. Five minutes into my first class of the term, and I was in trouble already! Plus, my feet were wet and cold. This Keeley Parrish guy was not getting my day off to a good start.
"We'll do something in the kitchen most days, but this is your first major, long-term assignment. On the back of these file cards are various holiday cooking situations." Ms Baker held up the cards, as if we didn't know what file cards looked like. "I'm going to pair you off, and then let each pair choose a card. Your assignment will be to write a paper on preparing something appropriate for the holiday. I want it as complete as though you were actually going to cook. I expect to see recipes, ingredients, preparation time, type of equipment you'd use, budget, number of guests you'd invite, how you'd set and decorate the table. You'll prepare one dish in class."
I moaned. I thought this class was going to be easy, baking cookies in class, stuff like that. I certainly hadn't expected a major-sounding term paper.
Keeley nudged me and whispered, "Don't worry. I like to cook, and I'm good at it. I'll see that we get a good grade."
"I'm thrilled you're not worried." As if he was going to be my cooking partner.
But after a couple minutes the odds looked overwhelming that we would be partners. No surprise—we were the only two left.
"… and Keeley and Sivia," Ms Baker concluded. My worst fears so confirmed! How was I going to work with this obnoxious stranger
?
Ms Baker then had the cooking teams select their cards. Everyone read theirs out loud.
"Fourth of July Picnic."
"Mother's Day Brunch."
"Christmas Open House."
How domestic.
"Sivia?" Mrs. Baker held out the one remaining card to me as if I had a choice.
I took the card and slowly turned it over.
"Well?" Keeley arched an eyebrow. "What's it say?"
"Thanksgiving Dinner." I groaned.
"That's great." Keeley grinned.
"What's so great about Thanksgiving Dinner?" I grumbled.
"I wanted something that was a challenge."
Gah! I hated to cook, and I liked meal-planning even less. So what did I get? A partner who wanted a "challenge." I sighed. "I suppose sliced turkey from the deli and dehydrated mashed potatoes are out of the question."
Keeley laughed. Maybe he thought I was joking, but I wasn't looking forward to all the work, even if it was mostly on paper. Besides, how would I deal with Keeley? What would I say to a guy who used a wheelchair and who had practically no legs? How was I going to pretend I didn't notice? I mean, there were disability acts and laws about discrimination. Would it be a felony if I said the wrong thing?
"Class," Ms Baker said, "now that you've all had a chance to discuss your assignments, I want you to go through these cookbooks and start getting some ideas for your menus. Of course, you're certainly welcome to use your own cookbooks and recipes at home."
I half-heartedly thumbed through a couple cookbooks. What a yawn.
Keeley madly took notes and generally behaved as if he were discovering the secrets of the universe. In my boredom I looked closely at his silver medallion. Etched on it was a picture of a more traditional Pegasus than the one on his van. Unfortunately, that was the most interesting part of class so far.
Luckily, it wasn't long before the bell rang. I left Keeley still frantically taking notes, and headed for my next class. Within seconds, I heard his voice.
"Sivia." Keeley wheeled up next to me. "I've got some ideas for our Thanksgiving dinner. What's a good time for us to get together to talk about them?"
"Get together?" I quickened my pace, hoping to ditch him. "Um, I really don't know."
Keeley drew right along side of me again. "Why the hurry? What's your next class?"
"U. S. History." I walked even faster. I didn't think a guy in a wheelchair would be so hard to shake.
"U. S. History. Hey, me too."
"Oh." I was practically running now, but Keeley soared along next to me.
Suddenly a thin figure with a skinny goatee jumped out from a doorway. Ack! The Whip!
"My, but we're in an awful hurry," he said.
"I-I-I was just showing K-Keeley here the way to U. S. History." A feeble excuse, but the best I could come up with on short notice.
"You know the rules." The Whip pulled a pad of detention slips from his coat pocket.
"But we weren't running," Keeley said. He must've been in the office before class and seen The Whip's infamous List of Rules.
Mr. Whipple eyed Keeley's wheelchair. "That's just a technicality. Racing is the same thing."
"Lawsuits are won and lost on technicalities." Keeley grinned. "Sivia was just trying to keep up with me." He assumed an innocent, almost angelic, appearance. "I didn't want to be late to class on my first day." He didn't mention, of course, that he'd already been late for Holiday Cooking.
I blinked a couple times as I tilted my head to one side, hoping to out-innocent Keeley.
The Whip seemed to undergo a deep internal struggle. On the one hand, passing out detention slips was his favorite past-time. On the other hand, the unwritten rule was to give new students a break. He eyed me up and down. He could, of course, give a detention slip just to me. But he did have a central core of fair play, and Keeley had done a good job of pleading my case.
The Whip jammed the pad of detention slips back into his coat pocket. "I'm letting you off this time." He shook a finger at us. "But make sure there is no 'next time.'"
"Oh, yes sir," Keeley said, the very model of politeness.
The Whip's eyebrows flickered a little, but then he swiveled quickly and was gone.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and pointed to the next door down. "That's our classroom."
With seconds to spare I took a seat on the far side of the room. I should've picked a desk in the middle, because on the aisle Kelley was easily able to park right next to me.
He pulled a pencil and a clipboard out of a backpack slung across the back of his wheelchair. "When and where?" he said, apparently to me.
"What?"
"You. Me. Plan our Thanksgiving dinner. When and where?"
I pretended not to hear. Fortunately, since I had not yet conjured up some devious way of avoiding the issue forever, Ms Dolan swept into the room and called "Attention!" She clapped three times, jangling the collection of silver bracelets she wore on each arm, then started in on a lecture about the Civil War.
We were halfway through the Battle of Gettysburg, when the bell rang. I gathered my books and hurried out of class before Keeley could ask me about us getting together. Maybe it was because my feet were still cold and damp, but I wasn't convinced that splashing me had been purely accidental. Some guys would do it to get attention. Just because Keeley used a wheelchair didn't mean he wasn't a jerk.
He didn't turn up in my Italian or algebra classes, so I figured maybe I was safe for the rest of the day. I hoped to catch up with Marcy's group at lunch, and I didn't need Keeley tagging along. I knew he wouldn't fit in with that crowd at all.
When I got to the lunchroom, the line was already as long as one of Ms Dolan's lectures. Way at the head of line stood Marcy, Todd, Brad, and assorted Marcy-devotee rabble. I waved, but Brad didn't see me. I hoped that somehow I could get a seat near him.
"Hi, Sivia." Keeley materialized right in back of me. "How's the food here?"
"The lasagna's not bad, the salads are fresh, and the French bread is great," I said briskly, hoping to sound helpful, but not too friendly.
Somehow Keeley managed to guide his wheelchair with one hand and push his tray along the counter with the other. As I struggled to hold and balance my food with one hand bandaged, I had to admire his coordination. I wondered how long he'd been using a wheelchair. I also wondered about his legs. Or, rather, lack of legs. Had he been in a terrible car accident?
When we got to the desserts I could see that they'd be out of Keeley's reach, since they were way in back on a pack of ice. I wondered if I should offer to help or maybe just go ahead and get one for him.
"Sivia, would you hand me a dish of chocolate pudding."
"Sure." Well, duh, that was easy.
I looked around the room and spotted Marcy and her swarm of admirers. It was a highly visible group. What wasn't visible as any sign of empty chairs near Brad.
"Sivia!" I turned to see Ilana waving at me. "Over here." She pointed to one of the empty seats at her table.
Since there was no opening near Brad, I went and sat next to Ilana. "Hi, what—"
"Room for one more?" It was Keeley. I'd totally forgotten he was right behind me.
"Sure," Ilana said. She folded up the chair at the end of the table and moved it out of the way, then introduced herself. I could see her eyeing Keeley's messy dark hair. She glanced at me and I nodded, indicating, yes, he's the one who splashed me. To Keeley, she said, "I'm Ilana. You must be new here."
"Yes. Nice name, Ilana."
"Thanks."
"We moved here just a few days ago," Keeley said. "My Dad's going to be part of the morning crew at KGLO, and Mom's the new pastry chef at The Chantilly."
Well, that explained his interest in cooking and his, er, outgoing personality. Dad always listened to KGLO. His middle-aged opinion was that the morning crew was wildly funny and totally deranged.
"Nice to meet you too." Ilana gave me this look as if it really was nice
to meet him. Of course, Keeley hadn't splashed her—or chased her down the hall.
"Hey. Ilana." Gavin Parr plopped down next to her, rattling his tray and tableware.
Gavin was a nice guy but, like Ilana, he was involved in anything and everything that might look good on a college application. He even went so far as to create Butt Out, the committee against smoking. With his brown curling hair and cleft chin he was pretty cute too. He asked me out a few months ago. But he's two inches shorter than I am, and when he asked me to the movies, I just said no without really thinking. A knee-jerk reaction, emphasis on jerk.
"Hi, Gavin." Ilana started to introduce him to Keeley.
"Wait, don't tell me." Gavin squinted and tilted his head to one side. "You're Keeley Parrish."
"The one, the only," Keeley said. "And you're ... clairvoyant?"
"Not exactly. My Mom's a sales rep at KGLO and she met your Dad there. He told her all about your family in vivid detail."
"So my reputation has preceded me." Keeley ran a hand across his hair.
For the first time, I really noticed his shoulders and arms, loaded with sculpted muscles. Did he lift weights or was it from pushing his wheelchair? In any case, he looked majorly buff. Not that I cared.
"Hey, Ilana," Gavin said as he speared a piece of lasagna. "Aren't you on the dance committee?"
"What dance?" Keeley asked.
"Just one of the dances we have at the end of each month to raise money," Ilana explained. "Totally informal. They're generally viewed as lame, but somehow they're well attended enough to be slightly profitable."
"If you could get a decent band, like Calamitous or Road Ramblers, you might haul in some real money," I said.
"As if," Ilana said. "We were lucky to get Twelve Toes. These days Calamitous and Road Ramblers are way beyond playing in school gyms for small change and minimal publicity."
"Anyway, Ilana," Gavin said, "since you're on the committee, I wanted to offer my services." He said this with a small half-bow. Did I mention that teachers love Gavin?