Normally, I look forward to the start of school. Friends return from summer vacations to the tropics and it’s the start of football season and house parties on weekends. But this year, the thought of those things only leaves me feeling disgusted with a rotten taste in my mouth.
I still haven’t heard from a single one of my friends in the weeks since I arrived here. I’m not surprised, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It’s a reminder of how superficial everything about my life was before.
At least I’ve gotten used to not having friends. It’ll make starting a new school, knowing absolutely no one, a lot easier. I’m not interested in making friends anyway. I just want to graduate and get it over with.
Finished with my sandwich and drink, I toss the trash in the bin by the bench and get up, straddling my bike.
I pause, spotting a boy with his dog in the distance.
Finn.
I’m strangely drawn to the boy next door and I think it’s because his endearing awkwardness reminds me of my sister. She was always shy and had trouble keeping eye contact just like he does. There’s more in common between them than that, but it’s not the only reason I feel pulled into his orbit.
In those brief glances we exchange most nights, I can’t quite see his expression or any details of any sort, but there’s this mutual understanding of loneliness.
I suppose I could be projecting it, searching desperately for any sort of connection, something to keep me tethered to reality.
I know I should get on my bike and ride home, leave him and his dog alone, but my legs have a mind of their own and I guide my bike over to him and his pooch.
“Hi.” My voice is soft, hesitant.
He’s sitting, some kind of book propped in his lap. His head is bent over it, his messy dark hair obscuring his face. His body stiffens at the sound of my voice and he doesn’t look up. From his posture I know he recognizes my voice.
“It’s Violet.”
No reply.
“I like your dog. He seems nice.” His service dog, a yellow lab, pants beside him wearing his blue vest. There’s a portable water bowl in front of the dog and a half empty bottle of water lying beside Finn’s leg. “What’s his name?”
Finn taps his foot restlessly, and his finger is paused on the last word he read. It almost looks like he’s holding his breath.
The last thing I want to do is make him feel uncomfortable and he’s showing all the classic signs that say go away. Exhaling a breath I say, “I’m heading home. Just wanted to say hi.”
I start to wheel my bike away, in the direction of the sidewalk, when he finally speaks.
“Jack.”
The dog’s name.
I don’t turn around. I don’t say anything at all. Just continue on my way, but there’s no denying the smile on my face.
Chapter Seven
My alarm goes off at six o’ clock and I immediately silence it with a groan. I don’t know anyone, at least any sane person, who enjoys the sound of an alarm jarring them from sleep.
I roll over, clutching one of my gray pillows to my chest.
The last thing I want to do is get up and ready for school, but I have no choice.
Shoving the blankets off of me I force my body out of bed and into the bathroom, pouting the whole way.
I don’t really care much what I look like, I’m not going to make friends or socialize, but I do apply some mascara to my lashes and a clear gloss to my lips. For clothes, I pick out a pair of ripped jean shorts and a blousy top with flowers on it.
Slipping my feet into a pair of flip-flops my mom yells up the stairs, “Breakfast is ready, Vi!”
Looking in the floor length mirror in the corner of my room I tilt my head at my reflection. “Well, here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself.
I grab my backpack from the floor and sling it over my shoulder, switching off the lights as I leave my room.
Dropping my bag by the garage door I meet my parents in the kitchen. Both already sit at the kitchen table, eating freshly made waffles and drinking coffee.
My heart pangs. Every year since I started school my mom has always made waffles for the first day. For some reason I thought this year would be different.
I pull out a chair, sitting across from my mom and beside my dad.
“This looks delicious, Mom.” I drench my waffles in syrup and my stomach growls.
She beams as I cut into them.
“I want to get a picture of you before you leave,” she warns, pointing a finger at me. “Don’t even think about dining and dashing.”
“Mom,” I grind. “I’m seventeen, a senior. I hardly think this is necessary.”
My dad lowers the newspaper he was reading. “We have a picture of you girls—” He jolts, shaking his head. “We have pictures of you on every first day of school you’ve had. Don’t buck tradition now, kiddo.”
I nod as we all try to ignore his slip.
Luna would’ve been starting her freshman year today.
She’ll never go to homecoming, or prom, graduate, go to college, or fall in love.
Her life is forever trapped in fourteen too short years.
Nothing else is said for the rest of the meal and when I finish I clean my plate before grabbing my lunch and stuffing it in my backpack. I swing the bag around my shoulders and turn toward my mom. “Where do you want to take the picture, Mom?”
Her eyes are distant as she bends over the sink, scrubbing her already clean plate. “Huh?”
“The picture. Where do you want to take it?”
Shaking her head she lets go of the plate and it clangs against the stainless steel bottom of the sink.
“Uh…” She wipes her hands down the front of her jeans. “The front porch is fine.”
“Remember to smile,” my dad jokes with a wink. I know he’s trying to lighten the mood, but it’s not working, especially since I can see the sadness clouding his eyes.
I follow my mom outside and pose for photos on the front porch.
At the house next door I hear a commotion and look over to see Finn and his dog, Jack, heading to a car parked in the driveway. A woman I assume is his mother, small framed with the same dark hair, rushes after him and seems to be asking him a list of things to which he keeps nodding. Our houses are close enough together that I can see his expression clearly and he’s frustrated. When she keeps going he finally throws his hands in the air, anger contorting his face. He grabs the driver’s door and gets inside, backing out so fast she has to jerk away from the car or get run over. She turns, watching his car drive away with worry in her eyes.
“Okay, I think that’s enough.” Mom bends her head, going through the, I’m sure hundreds, of photos she’s taken.
“Good luck today, kiddo.” Dad kisses the top of my head. “I can drop you off on my way if you need me to?”
I shake my head. “I’m going to bike over.”
“You sure?” He raises a brow in question. “I’m happy to take you.”
“I can pick you up if that’s what you’re worried about,” my mom pipes in, putting her phone in her pocket.
“No, really, I’m fine. I like riding my bike. It clears my head.”
They let it go and I grab my bike from the garage, waving goodbye as they watch me leave.
The school is only about five miles away and I’ve already been a few times, checking out where all my classes are and getting a feel for it.
The school is beautiful, two levels and spanning a wide expanse. A large, multi-level set of concrete stairs leads to the front. It has columns and ivy growing up the brick exterior. Windows cover the front, more windows than I’ve ever seen any school have. The grounds are beautiful too. The front of the school boasts a large yard, and from my exploring I know the cafeteria is near the back with an attached, senior only, garden with tables for eating.
When I reach the grounds I’m blown away by how packed the parking lot is already and all the teens dotting the stairs and expans
ive yard before the final bell rings.
I park my bike in the designated area, pulling the lock from my backpack and securing it in place.
My hands shake slightly at my sides as I head for the massive front doors and I fold them into fists hoping no one will notice my nerves.
Inside, my flip-flops smack against the black and white marble flooring. This is definitely a rich people’s school, and while my family isn’t poor we’re definitely not wealthy on this scale either. A few years ago the school used to require uniforms, but finally did away with that rule.
I have my schedule memorized and I head to my first class, Advanced English, and sit outside the door. The bell will be ringing any minute, signaling the masses to herd into classrooms, but even if it wasn’t I’d still come here to wait. The idea of watching people greet their friends, laughing and squealing, isn’t appealing when I have no one. I don’t need friends, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want them. Does anyone like feeling alone? But I also refuse to fall into the crowd I was in before.
Not that they were bad, but they—we—weren’t exactly nice to everyone.
And it was girls like that, like me, who bullied my sister to the point she saw no choice but to take her own life.
I won’t be that girl anymore. Not just for Luna, but for me. I don’t want people to remember me because I was popular, cliquish, and spiteful. There’s more to life than being the center of attention.
A teacher walks down the hall and he stops, appraising me with a tilt of his head. “I don’t know of any sane student who hangs outside my classroom. Haven’t you heard? I’m the mean one.”
I look up at him. He’s older, probably in his fifties, with graying hair cut short. His eyes are wrinkled and his lips downturned, but despite his words about being mean there’s mischief in his eyes. He pulls a pair of keys from his pockets and twirls them around.
“I just moved here. Must’ve missed the memo.” I shrug and stand up as he unlocks the door. It swings open and he reaches inside, flicking the light on before motioning me ahead.
“I don’t think hiding in the English hallway is the way to make friends,” he remarks with a raised brow, standing over his cluttered desk. I quirk a brow, wondering how it’s possibly so messy and school hasn’t even started.
“I’m not looking to make friends.”
He fights a smile and taps his forehead. “Smart girl. Sit wherever.” He motions to the desks. They’re designed for two people to sit at them at a time and all laid out in a haphazard pattern.
I pick a seat in the corner where I’ll have the least amount of contact with anyone except for whoever sits beside me. He chuckles when he sees the seat I’ve chosen.
He sits down behind his desk and shuffles some papers.
I sit there, with nothing to do, because even though I could pull my phone out I don’t have anyone to talk to and I’m not one to play games.
After a moment he clears his throat. “Can you place a copy of those in front of each seat?” He points to piles and piles of Les Miserables stacked beneath the chalkboard.
“Yeah.”
I push away from the table, the metal legs of the chair scraping across the tile floors. Two windows on the left of the room look out toward a basketball court and tennis courts beyond it. I pick up as many books as I can carry at a time and start setting them down.
“What’s your name?” He picks up a pen, uncapping it. “I’ll mark you on my roster.”
“Violet Page.”
He checks me off on his list and I’ve placed the last book down when I hurry to my chair to sit down before my classmates start pouring in.
I finger the worn book in front of me. It says on the cover it’s the abridged version, but even still it looks massive.
The seats fill up and when the final bell rings the teacher, Mr. Rochester according to my schedule—which is ironic, because Jane Eyre—stands and slams the door closed causing us to jump. We all jump again when a body slams into the closed door.
Mr. Rochester smiles at the guy through the window and wags his finger. “The bell rang. No admittance. Be here on time or get locked out.”
The guy groans on the other side of the glass window and opens his mouth to argue but Mr. Rochester lowers the blinds and flips them closed.
Walking away from the door he paces between the tables. A girl took the seat beside me, her bag resting precariously on the edge.
Mr. Rochester stops beside it and gives it a slight nudge, knocking it to the ground. Her jaw drops and she scoffs as she grabs it, this time draping the straps over the back of her chair.
“By now, you’ve probably heard about me from previous upperclassmen. That I’m loud. I cuss. I expect too much and I’ll fail your paper on the spot if you use the Goddamn word you in an essay. All of that is true. I’m here to teach you. Make you better. Prepare you for college and the beast called life that will fucking devour you if you’re not ready. I will not coddle you. This class is worth a college credit and I expect you to act like it. If you don’t finish a paper on time, you fail. You give me excuses, you fail. Own your mistakes.” He passes behind my table and around. “If you don’t think you can handle it, get out now.” He pauses in the middle of the floor, spreading his arms. When no one moves, he smirks. “I’m not kidding. If you don’t think you can cut it, now’s your chance to leave. Head to the office and request a transfer. I don’t care today, but don’t decide to stick around today and then waste my fucking time.”
My jaw drops when three students grab their stuff and actually walk out the door.
He raises a brow, making eye contact with each and every one of us. “Anyone else?”
One more person leaves.
He clasps his hands and smirks. “Last chance.”
No one moves. I don’t think anyone even dares to breathe. I look beside me and see that the girl who was beside me has fled.
Mr. Rochester tilts his head to the side. “I like to get rid of the weak. Your classmates who left? If this was the Middle Ages they’re the ones who would starve to death because they’re not willing to put in any effort. I commend you all for choosing to stay. You’ll do far better in life than those weaklings. You see, I’m really not all that mean of a teacher.” He walks around again. “I just expect you to perform at your utmost best. My classroom isn’t for half-assers. You’re here to learn. There’s a book in front of each of you. Les Miserables is our first read this year. We’ll be studying it for the next several weeks. You’ll be required to write an essay and as you read there will be pop quizzes. If you think you can SparkNotes this shit,” he picks up the book from in front of a guy, slamming it back down on the tabletop and causing him to jump, “then you’re sorely mistaken. I eat kids like you for breakfast. Do the work. Reap the rewards. And maybe, if I feel so inclined, I’ll write a college recommendation letter for you. And trust me, you want that. I have clout and pull with a lot of schools. If any of you think you’re getting into Harvard or wherever your Ivy League dreams take you, without me, you’re wrong. Just as easily as I can give you a recommendation I can also put in a word about what a sniveling bitch you are.”
I swear the girl across from me looks ready to faint.
Mr. Rochester swirls his finger through the air. “Start reading, and I assure you if any of you idiots have a question I will personally escort you from my classroom. Reading a book shouldn’t require questions. You just fucking do it.”
Everyone sits stunned as he finally pulls out his desk chair.
I flip open the book and a moment later jump when he claps his hands loudly. “Are you all deaf? Stop staring at me and open the fucking book.”
“Oh my God,” someone whispers, “I think I should’ve left with the others.”
“Then leave,” Mr. Rochester responds, not looking up from the paper he’s reading. “I’m not here to wipe your nose or clean your ass.”
The girl huffs but opens the book and begins to read. I slide my eyes to Mr
. Rochester and find him smirking at whatever he’s reading, but I have a feeling that’s not his source of amusement.
Class ends after ninety minutes and everyone races to escape.
I linger behind, clutching the worn copy of Les Miserables to my chest. “You like making kids shit their pants, don’t you?”
Laughter bursts out of Mr. Rochester. “Best part about this job is scaring teenagers into not being dicks—at least in my classroom.”
“Well, see you Wednesday.”
He nods after me and I head to my next class, Calculus. Math is my least favorite subject, so my feet drag down the hall. I reach the classroom and take a seat near the back of one of the neatly lined rows.
When everyone’s arrived, and the bell has rung, the teacher passes out textbooks.
Mrs. Kennedy is probably in her forties with round tired eyes hidden behind a pair of even rounder glasses. She dresses way too frumpy for her age and is so short I wonder how she can possibly drive a car. Maybe she doesn’t for all I know.
The class is spent going over her syllabus and what she expects from us.
I’m wondering if I shouldn’t raise my hand and just tell her to fail me now, because passing doesn’t seem like a likely possibility and it’s only the first day.
Before class ends she passes out a worksheet with five equations and asks us to solve them before we return to day one classes on Wednesday. She wants to evaluate where we’re at and I know she isn’t going to like where I stand.
The bell rings, signaling the start of lunch for seniors.
Everyone floods the halls, excitement in the air for a short break. Students rush by me, eager to meet up with friends, while I mosey slowly along.
My whole, I don’t need friends things, hasn’t bothered me until this moment.
I’ve never not had anyone to sit with at lunch. The idea of facing a crowd of seniors and not having anywhere I belong kind of sucks.
But I square my shoulders and plow on. I pass through the crowded cafeteria and breeze outside to one of the tables out there. It’s empty and I slap my backpack down on the table, claiming it as mine. I sit down on the hard metal bench and dig my lunch out of my backpack.
Whatever Happens Page 3