The cashier swipes my card and hands it back to me. Moments pass and the machine does nothing. She smiles awkwardly, but still the machine is silent as the seconds tick by.
“Could I have your card again, please?” the woman asks. “It didn’t seem to register.”
Sweat collects at the nape of my neck, and my hands shake. I hand over my card and she smiles before swiping it a second time. This time, it immediately beeps a confirmation. Relief rushes through me but I’m afraid I’ll jumble my words if I speak, so I nod and search the room for Josh.
The cafeteria is packed with students, and it seems every eye is on me. With so many people, it takes me a moment to find Josh but I soon spot him, waving both hands to get my attention. I offer a weak smile, then carry my tray through the ocean of students toward a table where Josh waits beside two girls who are already seated and watching my approach.
I’m almost there when my attention is snagged by three girls to my right. I turn toward them, and they stare at me behind their hands as they giggle and talk to each other in hushed whispers. I can’t hear their words, so my imagination takes flight. I have no reason to suspect so, but I know they’re talking about me. My skin tingles and anxiety washes over me. I ignore them and continue toward Josh, but my steps are sluggish, as though I’m wading through thick mud. My heart thumps in my chest. The voices buzz around me, indistinct like the hum of bees in a hive. Dread washes over me. I’ve been here before.
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
“So, then…are we on for Saturday?” Sarah picks at the salad on her lunch tray. “I’ll pick you guys up at seven thirty and we can catch the eight ten show.”
“I can’t,” Emma says. “I’m babysitting for the Bendicksons.”
“You’re always babysitting,” Sarah whines. “Can’t you skip it this time?”
“I can’t. I’m saving money for my prom dress. My mom is only giving me a hundred dollars, and the one I want is almost three times more. I have to make up the difference.”
“What about a later show?” I suggest. “Or even Sunday?”
At that moment, our mobile phones ping at the same time—the unmistakable sound of an incoming Snapchat. I take a bite of my pizza then pick up my phone to see what I’ve been sent. It’s a Snap from Alicia, which surprises me. I don’t even know why we’re on each other’s Snapchats. She’s hated me since I took her spot on cheerleading squad two years ago, but it’s been worse since she failed my mom’s AP math class last semester. Like somehow that’s my fault. I can’t help it if my mom’s a teacher, and Alicia is a stupid twit who can’t do the coursework. I consider ignoring the Snap, but curiosity won’t let me. I touch my finger to the icon and bring up the image.
At first, what I’m seeing doesn’t register. The photo is grainy, as though taken at night without a flash. A man and woman stand together, entangled in an intimate embrace. The woman’s peach silk blouse is unbuttoned nearly to the navel…and just like that, the image disappears. I touch the icon a second time and the image returns. The woman’s white lace bra is nearly covered by the man’s large hand as he caresses her through its fabric. Their lips are locked together and I study their faces. Just as recognition sets in, the image disappears again. Frantic now, I touch the icon a third time, hoping to bring it back up—to prove to myself I didn’t see what I know I saw. But the image is gone, forever lost in the cybersphere.
Bile rushes from my stomach and I grit my teeth to keep from throwing up. My skin prickles and my head spins. I need to get out of here. I turn to Emma and Sarah with the intent of excusing myself, but am met by two sets of wide eyes, both holding a combination of shock and sympathy.
Emma’s mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. Sarah, on the other hand, has never been at a loss for words. In a too-loud voice, she says, “Your mom and Coach Hawkins? Did you know?”
My head shakes back and forth in denial—not only at what I’ve just seen, but that I could ever have known anything about it. My mom—everyone’s favorite math teacher—with our high school’s football coach. How could they?
Voices hum around me, but I can’t make out their words. I can’t tell if it’s because the words are indistinct, or because I can’t hear past the buzzing in my ears. I glance across the cafeteria and almost every set of eyes is on me. Boys send me sly grins that say, “Well, this is an interesting development,” while girls whisper behind hands thrown in front of their faces. Only a few people are out of the loop, but they’re smart enough to understand something big is going down.
Alicia Fucking Adams. She sent the Snap to almost the entire junior class!
“DAYDREAMING AGAIN, ARIEL?” Josh stands beside me, yanking me back to the present.
“Sorry,” I laugh, but the sound is forced. “I just had a weird moment of déjà vu.”
“Oh man! I hate that! They give me the creeps.” Josh moves back to his table and I follow, the memory of another day and time still racing through my head. He stops at a round table where two other girls are waiting. Like everyone else in the room, they watch me. They don’t look unfriendly, but their curiosity is palpable. I approach the table, then remain standing for a moment as I decide what to do.
Josh rolls his eyes. “Sit down already, Ariel.”
“Abby.” I sigh and place my tray on the table.
“Oh no! He’s done it again!” says the girl closest to Josh.
“Quiet, Tink.” Josh grins.
My eyes flash between them. Tink?
I study “Tink” and comprehension sets in. With her petite stature, perky upturned nose and pixie haircut, she’s the embodiment of Tinker Bell from Peter Pan. Weird!
“Have a seat,” laughs the girl on the other side of Tink. “Josh has this habit of naming his ‘harem’ the names of Disney characters. Bet you can’t guess who I’m supposed to be.”
I study the girl, taking in her long sable hair and almond-shaped eyes the color of burnt umber. Of Middle-Eastern descent, there can be no doubt. I groan. “Jasmine?” I guess, referring to the character from Disney’s Aladdin.
“Bingo!” Josh confirms.
“Well, if I’m Ariel and they’re Tink and Jasmine, who does that make you—Flounder, Mr. Smee, or Abu the monkey?”
Tink barely has time to snort out a laugh when, beside her, blue Gatorade sprays out of Jasmine’s nose as she tries to swallow her laughter and her drink at the same time.
“Oh, my God,” the Jasmine lookalike gasps, wiping droplets of blue liquid from her nose. “I’m totally calling Iago the parrot for Josh!”
Josh smothers a grin and puffs out his chest. “All right you three, enough. If you must know, I’m the master creator, Walt Disney himself.”
“Bullshit,” the Tink lookalike coughs into her napkin, earning another round of laughter from everyone but Josh.
“Jasmine” smiles and reaches her hand across the table to shake mine. “I’m Tera. And Tink over here is Wendy.”
Just as my hand reaches Tera’s, the absurdity hits me and I slap my other hand over my mouth to hide my laughter. “Tink’s real name is Wendy? As in Wendy Darling from Peter Pan? Wasn’t that already Disney enough for you, Josh?”
Josh flushes. “Doesn’t Ariel lose her voice in the movie?”
Once again, the three of us burst into a round of laughter. And just like that, the memories and heartache of another lifetime are momentarily erased. Already in just a few hours, I’ve laughed more today than I have in the last six months.
“So—” I clear my throat. “Do people actually call you by your princess names?”
“No way!” Tera says, her eyes horrified. “Only Josh, thank God. I’d die if anyone else called me Jasmine.”
“I can’t call you Jasmine?”
The voice comes from behind my right shoulder and the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. Strangely, I’d already recognize that voice anywhere: Zach. Only a few hours into the day and I already kno
w his voice. This is not good. This is really not good.
“Hey, Abby…Josh…Tink.” Zach grins.
“Ugh!” Wendy rolls her eyes.
“Just kidding, Wen.” Zach winks at Wendy, his bright smile almost flirting, then turns to me. “Hey, Abby—I thought you were gonna find me at lunch.”
“I’m sorry. Josh was in my last class, so I came down with him,” I explain.
“No worries. Another time.”
“Sure,” I say, but I know better. There won’t be another time because I can’t let there be. If the pounding of my heart is any indication, I need to keep my distance. It’s one thing to make new friends based upon lies, but I can’t risk throwing a broken heart into the mix. And Zach Andrews has heartbreak etched all over him.
“Okay, then. I’d better get back to my table. I’ll catch you guys around,” he says.
He returns to a round table in the middle of the room and sits next to none other than Trish. Beside her is the same girl she was with earlier, along with a posse of preppy rich kids. Trish’s eyes meet mine and the malice extends across the distance.
“So…” Josh says. “Zach Andrews, huh?”
“What?” I shrug, hoping he’ll let the subject drop. “He was in the office when I registered this morning, and Ms. Raven had him show me around. He seems nice.”
“Yeah? Well, be careful. He’s actually a really nice guy, but his ex-girlfriend is toxic.”
“Who’s his ex-girlfriend?”
“See the blonde next to him, shooting daggers at us?” Tera asks.
“Shooting daggers at Abby,” Wendy corrects.
“Yeah. She was in my history class. Trish something.” I shrug again.
“Landry,” Wendy supplies. “She’s a real witch. Her daddy’s a neurosurgeon at the Clinic and they’re super rich. They live out on Pill Hill and she lords it over everyone.”
“Pill Hill?” I ask.
“It’s the nickname for the housing development where a lot of doctors live. It’s a really expensive neighborhood with large, older homes,” Tera explains.
“Yup. And it looks like you’ve already made an enemy of her on your first day.” Josh throws an arm around my shoulders. “Nice work, Ariel. It takes most people at least a few days to make an enemy of Trish.”
Groaning, I steal another glance at Zach’s table. I can’t catch a break. Not even half a day at my new school, and already I’ve made an enemy of Miss Popularity.
CHAPTER FOUR
AFTER LUNCH, I HAVE AN OPEN PERIOD. I DON’T KNOW ANYONE, SO I MAKE MY WAY TOWARD DOOR SIX where I remember a large open area with vending machines and high-top tables. This place is as good as anywhere, I figure. I select a table and pull out my history homework. In no time, I shut out the world and focus on the work at hand. It seems like only minutes later when the bell rings for the next period. I check my schedule: Vocal Music, Room 1-421. I study my map, then set off in what I hope is the right direction.
My teacher, Mrs. Miner, is older than I expected. She wears a pair of gold granny glasses connected to a beaded chain around her neck, and her dark brown skin is flawless except for the smattering of freckles kissing her cheekbones. Something about those freckles brings warmth to her features, but it’s the laugh lines that pull me in. When she smiles, those tiny wrinkles wink at me from the outer edges of both eyes.
“Abby Lunde!” She greets me with a wide smile. “Welcome! Tell me about yourself, please.”
Standing at the front of the room, I glance around to see who’s watching. Students enter from doors located on each side of the large classroom, but they’re all focused on their own conversations and don’t spare me a glance. I offer her a tentative smile. “What would you like to know?”
“Tell me about your singing experience.”
“I don’t really have any.”
“Sure ya do! All of us have sung in the shower, or while driving, when nobody’s listening,” she prompts.
“Well, sure. I mean, who doesn’t sing in the shower? But I’ve never sung in front of anyone except my family.”
“Well there ya go—that counts. I knew you had a singer inside you!” Her smile is contagious, and a grin teases the corners of my own lips. “I’ll tell ya what: don’t think, just answer. Name the first children’s song that comes to your mind.”
I flounder for the title of any song then blurt out, “‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’?”
“Perfect!” Mrs. Miner beams. “Now, in your best singing voice, sing it to me.”
Heat floods my face and my pulse quickens. I scan the room, confirming again that no one is paying attention.
“Don’t be shy—just a few notes.”
I clear my throat and close my eyes. Like a toddler, I pretend if I can’t see them they can’t see me. I know it’s silly, but it’s the only way I’ll get through the next few seconds. Tentatively, and with just enough volume that only she can hear, I sing the first several measures of the nursery rhyme. I finish and open my eyes to Mrs. Miner’s beaming smile.
“Very nice, Abby. Why, your voice is as lovely as a nightingale’s! You’ll be perfect for my alto section.” She points to a middle row where four other girls are seated and deep in conversation.
My face flushes hot and I select one of three open chairs and smile at the girl seated closest. She returns my smile, but her welcome is tentative and she continues her conversation as though I don’t exist. Invisible, I can do.
Vocal music class is far better than I’d imagined. The music is fun and our voices blend together seamlessly until I can’t tell where my voice ends and the others begin. In minutes, my anxiety disappears and I’m lost in the music.
Though Mrs. Miner is strict, with a no-nonsense approach to teaching, she’s fun. Her demeanor is warm and animated, like she loves what she’s doing. She loses her smile only once, and then only after asking the same two girls in the soprano section to pay attention.
“Stop-stop-stop!” She slaps her conductor’s wand onto the podium. Her lips draw downward. “Star and Brook-Lynn, since you seem to require our complete attention, we’ll stop and give you the consideration you’ve denied the rest of us. Please put us out of our misery and tell us what y’all two find so amusing.”
“Nothing, Mrs. Miner,” one of the girls responds, her voice practically a whisper. “We’re sorry.”
“No, really—please. I’m sorry for interrupting your conversation with my class. It’s your turn. Enlighten us.”
Students giggle, and the second girl flushes crimson. A heavy silence settles over the room while we wait.
Mrs. Miner lifts an eyebrow. “Are you done now, ladies?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they reply in unison.
“Good. Then for the remainder of class, I suggest you two quit your dipsy-doodlin’ and humbuggin’ and work with me. Otherwise, you’ll need to find another class.”
At the words dipsy-doodlin’ and humbuggin’, the class roars with laughter. Star and Brook-Lynn stare at spots on the floor, their eyes not meeting each other or Mrs. Miner.
“All right, y’all!” Mrs. Miner claps her hands. “Pay attention! We have a concert comin’ up. Don’t make me have to give all y’all detention so we can make up after school what you didn’t accomplish in class!”
The class quiets and she continues without further interruption. Before long, the bell rings and students fly out of their chairs to leave.
“Okay, y’all. The Fall Concert is November eleventh,” Mrs. Miner announces above the commotion. “Attendance is required, so don’t y’all tell me later you forgot! Mark your calendars and tell your parents—participation counts toward your final grades.”
I enter the hallway and check my schedule for my last class—English with Mr. Thompson. It’s not far away and I’m one of the first to arrive. I scan the room for a seat and spot Zach in the middle row, his backpack slung into the chair in front of him. My heart flutters, but I pretend I don’t see him. It’s too late, though—h
e’s already seen me.
“Abby. I saved you a seat.” He waves to the desk in front of him and removes his backpack.
“Oh. Thanks. How’d you know I was in here?”
“I saw your schedule this morning, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. But you didn’t say anything.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t think about it.”
I slide into the desk and grab a notebook out of my bag.
“So what do you think?” he asks.
“About what?”
“The school. Your classes. Everything.”
“Oh.” I squint my eyes in thought. “The school is huge, but the layout makes everything easy to find. My classes are decent—and you were right! I love Mrs. Miner.”
“She’s great, isn’t she?”
I nod. “You couldn’t fit her class into your schedule?”
“Nah, and I was bummed. She’s the reason I learned guitar. She needed a guitarist for the Fall Concert my freshman year and she loaned me one to learn on. Did you catch her accent?”
“How could I miss it?” I laugh. “What the heck are dipsy-doodlin’ and humbuggin’?”
“Right?” He laughs. “Wait until you hear some of her other favorite phrases.”
“Where’s she from? Not Minnesota, with that accent.”
“Nope.” Zach shakes his head. “Oklahoma, I think. At least she’s a Sooners fan.”
“So how long did you take guitar lessons?” I ask, changing the subject.
“I taught myself, actually.”
“Really?” I lift a surprised eyebrow. “Do you still play?”
“Every chance I get.”
Before we can say more, the bell rings. I turn face-forward as our teacher enters the room.
At roughly thirty-five, Mr. Thompson wears chunky, black-rimmed glasses, and has wavy brown hair combed neatly to the side. Similar to Ms. Burke, he’s dressed casually in jeans and a Green Bay Packers sweatshirt.
“Mr. T!” says a blond boy in the front. “The Packers? Seriously? The Vikes are gonna take ‘em down this weekend!”
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