by Jenny Goebel
I sucked in a deep breath and picked up speed. My locker was only a few steps ahead. As I fiddled with the combination, it was like someone opened the floodgates. Students came pouring in. It dawned on me that I’d arrived before most everyone else. And everyone else was arriving at almost the same time. Walking down the near empty hallway to get to my locker had been easy peasy, but now … the number of bodies, the noise, the commotion … my head was spinning. I couldn’t concentrate on my locker combination.
“Excuse me,” someone said. I looked all around only to jolt a little when I discovered the voice was coming from below me.
A boy was kneeling by my feet. I could only see the top of his head. “Um, I can’t get to my locker,” he said. “Would you move?”
“Uh, um, I …” I couldn’t force any meaningful words out of my mouth.
He popped to his feet, snatched the paper out of my hand, spun the combo, and my locker door swung open.
I stood back, dumbstruck, while he then proceeded to open his own locker. He finished doing what he needed to in like two seconds, then he slammed it shut and bolted.
“Thanks,” I called after him. “My name’s Amelia!” I shouted, but he never looked back.
Heading to my first class didn’t go any better. I was starting to fear that my brothers had been right. Jumping back into school after five years away wasn’t giving me a sense of belonging. Not even close. So far it was more like diving into a pool of sharks. Which was something I’d experienced firsthand at Mandalay Bay Shark Reef Aquarium in Las Vegas (fear rating seven). On a side note, it must’ve been a particularly dark day for one of my parents to think “swimming with (actual) sharks” was preferable to their day jobs.
At least when we’d been snorkeling at the aquarium, I hadn’t brushed up against any of the leering creatures. That wasn’t the case at my new school. I was swimming right among them—knocking shoulders and being pushed aside.
Still, I didn’t give up right away. I smiled and waved at everyone I encountered. It was a tactic that had worked well in first grade. But in seventh, it just made me feel increasingly stupid when no one treated me friendly in return.
When the other middle schoolers did make eye contact with me, their expressions said I’d already been dismissed before they’d even given me a chance. Halfway to my first-period class, I let my head droop and I shoved my hands into my pockets.
And then there was the fact that my last days at Ralston Elementary had been spent with kids who occasionally still wet their pants. I couldn’t help but notice that I was sharing crowded hallway space with students in desperate need of deodorant, and a few who even shaved. School was nothing at all like my memories.
Because I’d dropped my gaze to the shadows on the floor, I accidentally bumped into a boy. He was taller than most everyone else in middle school. Maybe he was one of the eighth graders? Of course, I was about the same height, and I was in seventh, so who knew? His hair was clipped close to his head except for the top, which was long and swept forward like a cresting wave.
“I … I’m sorry,” I stammered.
“Watch it,” he snarled, and then moved on like I wasn’t worth his time. In fact, that seemed to be everyone’s response to me—I wasn’t worth their time. I staggered on, up the stairs, down another hallway, and at last found my way to room 203. Along the way, no one said hello. No one offered to point me in the right direction. I felt like a fool for ever thinking I’d fit in.
Then things got even worse. Because I was new to Winterland, my first-period social studies teacher, Mr. Roybal, made me stand to introduce myself. “Amelia,” he said, “you weren’t by chance named after the famous aviator Amelia Earhart, were you?”
“That’s right,” I croaked out, with as much poise as a giraffe. “I was.” I didn’t mention that my older brother Neil was named after Neil Armstrong, the first person to walk on the moon. Or that David was named after David Livingstone, a famous nineteenth-century explorer. Everyone seemed to think I was odd enough already.
“You must be very brave,” Mr. Roybal said with a wink. I knew he meant well, but that’s not the sort of thing you want someone to announce to a room of strangers. Especially when you’re worried you can’t live up to it.
“So, tell us, where are you from?” he said.
“Um …” It was a standard question. I’m sure most people would have no trouble answering it. But I wasn’t most people. “Uh …” I wrung my hands in front of me. I had no good, concise answer. And then, thanks again to my family’s obsession with J. R. R. Tolkien, I blurted out the only thing that came to mind—a quote my family had framed and hanging over the kitchen sink in our home on wheels. “Um, ‘not all those who wander are lost.’ ”
Mr. Roybal chuckled appreciatively, but the students stared back at me stone-faced. A few of them shot knowing glances at one another, like I’d just confirmed their most unflattering thoughts about me.
“A traveler, then. So, you’re brave and adventurous,” Mr. Roybal continued. “You know, you and Catherine Winter might have a lot in common—beyond having a famous namesake. What do you say, Catherine; are you willing to be an ambassador for our new student?”
Catherine? Could it be? It felt like I’d been tossed a lifeline, at last. But I had no idea what my cousin looked like. And what was that part about a famous namesake? I must’ve furrowed my brow because my teacher pointed to a girl with white-blonde hair seated a row in front of me. He explained, “Winterland was named after Catherine’s great-great-grandfather, the founder of our town—so you both were named after industrious individuals.”
I’d known my cousin’s last name was Winter, but not that her ancestor had given the town its name. Somehow, that made me even more nervous to meet her. She had deep, solid roots here. For almost as far back as I could remember, I’d been a tumbleweed blowing in the wind.
As Catherine slowly swiveled toward me, I could hardly contain myself. I was so anxious to finally make a connection. But why hadn’t she said anything when I introduced myself to the class? Was she embarrassed by me? Or maybe my family’s note had blown away in the wind, and she had no idea who I was, and that the two of us had far more in common than Mr. Roybal had implied? Yes, that must be it.
I could almost feel the hope and anxiety pooling in my eyes as I stared expectantly at my cousin. Would she know who I was? Would she like me? She resembled pictures I’d seen of my aunt Catherine when she and Dad were young. She looked nothing like any of the rest of us. She was fair to our dark and had been bestowed with enviably normal eyebrows. To my bewilderment, however, they were drawn together, almost in a scowl. “Catherine was my mother’s name,” she said.
I recoiled. Why did she seem … hostile?
The look on her face said she knew exactly who I was, but that my presence in her school—her town, apparently—was unwelcome. There was no doubt in my mind that she had seen our note and had decided not to call.
My heart plummeted. I thought it might be awkward meeting her, but not like this. Was it because I wore the wrong clothes and my hair wasn’t styled like all the other girls in the class? Did she not want anyone to know we were related, or was there something more to it?
Despite this, my cousin apparently wasn’t the type of student to ignore a teacher’s request. Finally, she answered Mr. Roybal’s question by saying, “Sure, I’ll be her ambassador.” Then, speaking to me, she said, “Call me Cat,” before whirling back around to face the front of the room.
Mr. Roybal blinked a few times as if trying to discern where the sudden tension in the air had come from. But he quickly glossed over it by clearing his throat. He moved on to handing out a syllabus for the school year.
During the remainder of the period, a few eyes drifted in my direction, but most of the other students didn’t seem all that interested. Not the sporty girls with their messy buns and laser-cut leggings, or the preppy girls wearing plaid skirts and makeup, or the cute-casual group in oversized T-shirt
s and skinny jeans.
I snuck a glance at Catherine—er, Cat—whenever I could. I replayed her reaction in my head. Was it possible she hadn’t been as irritated as I thought? Or maybe she was just an angry person in general.
I couldn’t quite peg her. Her athletic build, sweat shorts, and T-shirt said sporty, but her hair was slicked neat, and she was wearing lip gloss. Now that she wasn’t glaring at me, the muscles in her face had relaxed. I noticed that she smiled easily—at other people. No, something had definitely been off about the way she’d responded to me.
As far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything to offend her. But if my own cousin didn’t want me here, who would? There weren’t any other girls wearing thrift store outfits that were wrinkly because they came out of a duffel bag stored beneath their bed/kitchen table. Or any girls who were like mountains compared to the rest. And even though I’d lived with two brothers all my life, the boys seemed even more unrelatable than the girls.
For the last five years, I’d spent every day primarily with only four other people—Mom, Dad, Neil, and David. Now I was surrounded by an entire class of kids my age. But I felt more isolated than I had in some of the most remote places on the planet. So much for my high hopes that school would be a place I felt like I belonged.
I slumped in my seat. Maybe that was for the best. This school, these classmates, they were just another fleeting experience in a long list of Amundsen adventures. Fitting in, making friends—that would only mean there’d be people to miss when we packed up and left. At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself. Deep down, I knew I was scared. I was going to be as big a flop in middle school as I was at doing anything daring.
The hallway after first period was just as daunting as before. I wanted to stop, take out my schedule and my map to see where I was headed next, but the flow of students carried me down the corridor. And Cat was busy talking to a group of friends. I didn’t want to ask her and give her any more reason to be annoyed with me.
I just needed a few minutes to myself. A few minutes to breathe and recover from the disappointing blows the morning kept dealing me. Then I saw the library. I waded through the laughing, chattering, scuffling bodies, ducked inside, and was immediately enveloped by quiet.
It was such a relief to be out of the crowded, noisy halls. A part of me knew I didn’t have time to hang around. My next class would be starting soon. But a larger part couldn’t bear to leave behind the sanctuary I’d discovered, not yet.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a couch and cozy reading corner. No colorful mural on the wall. Mostly rows of shelves and long tables. I wandered down a narrow row, thankful for the seclusion the stacks of books provided. The row of shelves led to a chair and a window with a view of trees and mountain peaks. It was the first inviting thing I’d seen since arriving at Winterland Middle. So, I sat down, and I got lost in that view.
I don’t know how long I sat there. I sat there until a woman with a soft voice and a dimply smile touched me on the shoulder and said, “Do you have a pass, dear?”
Of course, I didn’t. I remembered back to first grade and the passes students had to wear around their necks to use the bathroom. “Like a necklace?” I asked.
Her dimples faded. “Not exactly. Wandering around the school without permission isn’t permitted. I’m afraid you’ll have to go to the office. Explain what happened to Ms. Horton. She can give you a slip to show your second-period teacher.”
“Ms. Horton?” I groaned inwardly.
“That’s right.”
At least the halls were less overwhelming now that the passing period was over and class was in session. When I arrived at the front office, Ms. Horton was on the phone, taking notes with one of her gel pens. She locked eyes with me, and her lips pursed, then tipped downward at the corners. “Guess who just showed up?” she said into the receiver. “Uh-uh, I think Principal Stinger should see her before I send her to class.”
The attendance secretary didn’t speak right away after hanging up the phone. If she wanted to make me sweat, she succeeded. I shuffled my feet on the carpet and bit my lip nervously as I waited.
Finally, Ms. Horton said, “That was your second-period teacher. I called her as soon as I received her attendance and saw that you’d been marked absent. So, did you get lost, or do you think you’re so important that it isn’t necessary to show up for class?”
“I, um, I guess, I lost track of time,” I said. “I didn’t know I needed a pass. I was in the library?”
“Is that a question?” Ms. Horton said curtly.
“What?”
“Were you in the library, or weren’t you?”
“I was.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Uh-huh.” Ms. Horton slapped a hand on her desk as she rose to her feet. “I don’t get paid enough to do this job,” she mumbled, and then, “C’mon. Let’s go see Principal Stinger.”
Ms. Horton herded me toward an open door at the back of the room. I’d only been in a principal’s office once in my life—when I turned seven and I was called down for my birthday pencil. I’d been excited then, but as I neared the threshold now, my feet were like lead. I could hardly move forward.
Ms. Horton pointed to a chair beside the door. “Sit!” she commanded.
I was happy to oblige. Anything to delay seeing the principal.
Ms. Horton knocked on the door and then entered. “I have that new girl I was telling you about,” I could hear her say through the open door. “Apparently, she’s having trouble adjusting already. She went to the library instead of her second-period class.”
I strained my ears but could only hear one side of the conversation. Whatever the principal said, Ms. Horton didn’t seem pleased by it. “Yes, I suppose she’s missed enough class already … Yes, it can be dealt with later. I just thought … Okay.”
Ms. Horton pulled the door shut behind her on the way out. She marched to her desk and scribbled a note. Straight backed and stiff armed, she held it out to me. “Take this to your teacher.”
I moved to take the slip, but she held it tightly wedged between her fingers. “However, just because Principal Stinger can’t see you at the moment, doesn’t mean this is over.”
I gulped and she let the pass slide into my hand.
On the plus side, the halls were still empty as I hurried to class. I slunk into second period and handed Ms. Horton’s note to the only balding, middle-aged man in the room. He nodded and directed me to an open seat. A seat right next to my cousin.
Cat glared at me. “Where were you?” she hissed as I plopped my bag on the floor and lowered myself into the desk chair.
“Staring out a window,” I said.
She shook her head dismissively, then returned to her classwork.
Since Cat was my ambassador, I guess she felt obligated to keep track of me after my little disappearing act. She showed me to the rest of my classes, even the ones she wasn’t in. At lunch, she pointed out the trays (I almost passed right by them), and where to pay for my cold chicken tenderloins and hard roll. Naturally, I followed her to her table as well. But she hardly acknowledged my presence the entire time I sat next to her in the cafeteria. And she never once mentioned the note or acknowledged the fact that we were related. In fact, she hardly said anything to me at all. I guess she didn’t include friendly conversation as part of her ambassadorial duties.
As the end of the day inched near, I started thinking my unapproved visit to the library might’ve been overlooked. That maybe Principal Stinger didn’t think it was nearly as big a deal as Ms. Horton had. With each passing hour, my chest felt lighter. Then, five minutes before the final bell rang, the teacher handed me a note addressed to my parents. I opened it, of course.
Mr. & Mrs. Amundsen,
After an incident at school today, Principal Stinger has some concerns that Winterland Middle may not be the best environment for Amelia to transition back into the public school system. He would like t
o interview Amelia and then discuss with you the possibility of transferring her to Winterland Elementary. Please contact me at your earliest convenience to schedule an appointment.
Sincerely,
Ms. Cordelia Horton
Attendance Secretary
Winterland Middle School
My face burned and I couldn’t even hold the note steady as I read because I was mad, and I was embarrassed, and it was all I could do not to rip the note in half and toss it in the wastebasket. Ms. Horton had had it out for me from the get-go and I knew this meeting was her idea. She didn’t want me at Winterland Middle in the first place, and now she was going to convince the principal to give me the boot.
When the teacher dismissed the class, I shoved the note to the bottom of my backpack. I bolted from the school building and out into the blinding sunlight. The bus was idling by the curb. I was so worried about the interview—obviously I didn’t belong in middle school, but I’d fit in even less in elementary—that it didn’t cross my mind to be uneasy about the ride back to the Stargazer RV Park. Why would it? It wasn’t like riding down a road in a large vehicle was new to me. I ambled past rows of noisy middle school kids and slid into an open seat near the back. I sidled up to the window and cracked it open. The guys in front of me were complaining about the heat. It was hot, but nothing compared to Utah, or Arizona, or Texas in August.
When the bus started moving, a gentle breeze wafted in. It was pine-scented and calming. As we passed Winterland Ski Resort, I pushed away thoughts of the upcoming interview and my bumpy first day of school and focused on the view outside my window. I spotted patches of wild grasses growing beneath the chairlifts. Wildflowers dotted the mountainside with splashes of white, yellow, and purple. I tried to picture what the ski resort would look like in the dead of winter—grasses and flowers buried by snow, everything stripped of life and color. Thankfully, skiing a black diamond felt a long, safe distance away.