by Sarah Mello
The rooms at Westcott were all a bit somber, but none of them held a candle to Mrs. Penn’s English class. There was a splash of unfamiliarity in the air as I approached the classroom. The closed wood door felt foreign; Mr. Russell had always kept it open so students could stop in before the bell rang.
“I’d be careful if I were you.” An unknown male voice rolled into my eardrum from behind.
I turned around to find a stranger close to my age standing in front of me. A spine-chilling kind of stranger. The kind you aren’t sure you should get to know, but you do it anyway. The kind with brown vortex-like eyes that pull you in and then toss you back out.
The stranger ran his hand over the top of his messenger bag, and I couldn’t help but notice the tanned muscles emerging from his black shirt and the scars lining his forearms.
I gazed into his eyes, completely lost in the intensity of his stare. “Excuse me?”
He pulled his black beanie down over his curly brown hair. “I hear she’s in a horrific mood,” he said. “As in the first-week-of-school kind of horrific.”
I examined the classroom door and then looked back at him. The stranger’s clothes were casual and possibly a bit dirty. And although his demeanor was intimidating, his dimples and perfect white smile offset his daunting stare. He was alluring. Then again, I suppose bad boys always are.
“That’s understandable,” I replied.
“If you’re the understanding type.” He looked at me, and I at him, in a kind of staring contest. Who would blink first?
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I took a few small steps back, my body hitting the door behind me. “What’s yours?”
He smiled through his eyes, as if his lips were too lazy to make a move. “Good luck in there,” he said. “Something tells me you’re going to need it.”
I slowly broke away from our irrefutable connection, knocking on the door and eventually walking inside. I was happy for the barrier between this stranger and me, even if on the other side of the barrier was yet another stranger.
I stood inside the classroom and stared at Mrs. Penn. She was sitting at her desk, looking at me over a pair of emerald-green glasses. The blinds behind her were closed, and she sat in an oversized leather chair in the shadowy corner of the room. I wanted to turn on the lights, but I didn’t get the impression they were wanted.
She suddenly leaned forward in a black dress so fitting you’d think it would be deemed inappropriate. “Can I help you?” she asked. Mrs. Penn’s voice was hurried and sharp.
I stepped back a little. Her tone was intimidating to a girl like me, who spoke slowly with deep meaning behind each word.
“Sorry for the interruption. I was hoping to speak with you about the Westcott Awards,” I said.
“I presume you’re Sonny?” Mrs. Penn smoothed down the hair on the top of her head with bony fingers. “I figured you’d come knocking.” She gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat.”
I slid into the chair, clutching my book bag to my chest like a shield. “I’m guessing you know Mr. Russell?”
“Not exactly,” she replied. “He left in a hurry, but it certainly wasn’t difficult to figure out who his favorite student was.” The sunlight crept in from between the blinds, reflecting off Mrs. Penn’s papers and making her eyes look like the recesses of caves.
“Why did he leave?” I asked.
Mrs. Penn leaned back in her chair and handed me a cavernous glare. “You mentioned something about the award ceremony?”
I swallowed my question. “I was wondering why there are six unnamed students on the Chosen Ten list. Mr. Russell started this program and was very strategic about allowing everyone to gain insight into their competition. It only seems fair.”
Mrs. Penn popped the lid up and down on her ink pen. “Nice pitch.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re Lana Carter’s sister, no?”
I sat back in my seat, heavily aware of what was coming next.
“Ms. Carter, do you acknowledge that your sister almost single-handedly destroyed this school’s reputation by playing house with a temp last year? Do you know what that could have meant for Westcott? If your father wasn’t who he is, I doubt highly that you would still be a student here, much less one of the Chosen Ten.”
“Wow. You seem to know a lot for a new teacher,” I said.
“I’ve been filled in.” She smirked. “If I were you, Ms. Carter, I would think very carefully about questioning me and my decisions. This is my program now.” She paused. “Be thankful I picked you.”
I tensed up. “Just seems pretty secretive, that’s all.”
Mrs. Penn clasped her hands and placed them in her lap. “I’ve come to realize that secrets are somewhat of a thing around here.” She leaned forward. “Looks like I’m in good company.”
I stared into her black eyes, trying hard to remember to breathe. It’s no easy task when your mind is running wild.
Just then, the door creaked open. Mrs. Penn broke eye contact with me and glanced toward the side of the room. “I presume you’re lost again, Mr. Harrison?” She spoke over my head, which was sinking deeper into my chest.
I twisted in my chair and looked at the doorway. Standing behind me was one of the most handsome guys I’d ever seen. And that was saying something for Westcott. He was unquestionably the new kid—at least one of them anyway. His eyes were hopeful. His hair was messy. His demeanor was ready.
“Yes, ma’am, I am,” he said.
“Ms. Carter will walk you to class.” Mrs. Penn looked pointedly at me through her glasses, and I knew she wanted me to leave.
There was a long pause as I scrolled through the rolodex of excuses in my mind, searching for a valid reason as to why I shouldn’t oblige. Nothing stuck.
“Sure,” I said.
If only I had listened to the stranger in the hallway, I could have avoided that unsettling interaction with Mrs. Penn—although something told me it would have found me eventually.
I stood, threw my book bag over my shoulder, and walked to the doorway where he stood waiting.
“Ms. Carter!” Mrs. Penn’s cutting voice sliced me from behind like a sharp blade.
I slowly turned my head back toward her.
“Just in case it wasn’t obvious—I don’t play favorites.”
I nodded in her direction before I walked into the hallway.
“Yeah,” I mumbled under my breath. “It was pretty obvious.”
“I’m Jacob,” said the new kid.
His voice carried the laidback ease of someone much older—as if he knew without a doubt he belonged anywhere he went. Even the relaxed curve of his shoulders and arms suggested a comfortable readiness for anything life threw at him—something I’d never felt.
The gray cotton T-shirt he wore fit him like a glove. You couldn’t ignore it if you wanted to, and I wasn’t sure anyone would.
“Sonny,” I replied, giving him a quick stare down. “What’s your first class?”
We glided into the hallway. The white floors were blinding, or perhaps my eyes had adapted too well to Mrs. Penn’s cave.
He looked down at his schedule. “Looks like precalculus for me.”
“You must be new here?” I asked.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Well, you’re carrying around a schedule, and you mentioned you’re lost.”
“I guess that gives it away, huh?”
I put my hands into my jean pockets. “Trying to hide it?”
“Nobody likes being the new kid, right?”
I shrugged. “Set the scene.”
“Okay,” he said. “The scene is a slightly menacing school with a boatload of incredibly standoffish teenagers, most with permanent panicked looks on their faces.”
“You mean Westcott?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “That rings a bell.”
“Oh, no, nobody likes being the new kid there.”
“Well, I guess moving he
re was a slight oversight, then.”
“Guess so,” I replied. “Where are you from?”
“Long Beach.” He shook his tanned hand through his brown hair. “We just moved to Westcott over the summer.”
“How did you get into WH if you just moved here?” I asked. “The waiting list is a mile long.”
“My dad’s job relocated him and they made room for me.”
“Your dad must have some serious pull to get you in here before the left wing opens.”
“The left wing,” Jacob repeated. “I’m assuming that’s for expansion.”
“Wow. Lost and smart. I didn’t think you could be both.”
“I guess I'm the exception.” He smiled. “Do you like it here?”
I glanced into his optimistic eyes. I didn’t want to be the girl to crush his positivity, because I knew someone else would soon enough, so I withheld the truth. Talking to the new kid was always a good time to be unforthcoming.
“It’s cool.”
“Great,” he said. “Thank God I’m going to a cool school.”
“You wouldn’t want to be one of those loser kids going to a loser school, would you?” I asked.
“Oh, no. That’d be social suicide.”
“Perhaps even more so than carrying around a schedule.”
Jacob looked me up and down, and although I couldn’t be sure, it wasn’t to judge my wardrobe choices like Winston.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s this whole purple-and-blue thing I hear about? Someone told me before school started that I’m officially a Violet.”
“A Violet, huh? You must have a nice house.”
“It’s not a shack,” he said. “But what does my house have to do with it?”
“It’s a stupid color game that started last year. The rich kids are Violets, and the less fortunate kids are Cobalts. Some people will try to tell you it’s more complex than that, but that’s truly all there is to it.”
“Isn’t every kid here somewhat fortunate?” he asked. “Just to be here?”
“The Cobalts are very fortunate,” I said. “They get in through the lottery, and they get a free ride.”
“I’m sure they don't appreciate being lumped together as the broke kids.” He shook his head. “Do we have a choice not to play?”
We drew nearer to the classroom door. “Not exactly.”
“Well, that seems unfair,” Jacob said, rolling his schedule into a cylinder.
I placed my hands on his shoulders. “Welcome to your new cool school.”
He looked down at my hands and exhaled slightly.
His shoulders were broad, and although my hands could possibly find their home on such a surface, I knew I had to get to class.
I removed them slowly and turned around to walk toward the other end of the hall.
“Hey,” he said, stopping me before I could get too far. “What color are you?”
I stopped in my tracks and begrudgingly made a U-turn. “I don’t play.” My voice was filled with conviction.
“I thought you said—”
I shook my head. “I don’t play.”
Jacob smiled, giving his schedule a few taps before walking into the classroom.
A simple smile. Such a standard concept with unlimited meanings. Maybe it’s the socially acceptable way of politely ending a conversation. Or maybe, if you’re really lucky, it’s the first step toward the start of something new.
3
Decisions
Decisions. We make them all day, every day, subconsciously and consciously. Maybe a world without them would be robotic and meaningless, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder what it would look like. Perhaps it would strip away the very things that make this universe colorful and unique. And maybe it would change everything. Because every decision impacts everything that follows. Especially the wrong ones.
“I saw you and the new guy walking down the hallway this morning. Tell me everything,” Winston said as we sat down in the crowded lunchroom.
I looked down upon the long, rectangular table in front of me, brushing my fingers across the cold surface. “It’s strange sitting here,” I said.
“Yeah,” Winston replied. “I know what you mean.”
The cafeteria at Westcott was famous for far more than its fancy mobile-stool units and vegan menu. To understand why was to understand one of my old friends.
Jeremy Coleman. JC for short. A Violet, although most would say a fallen Violet. The orange Mustang. Westcott High’s star wrestler—my father’s favorite. I’d never been thrilled that my dad was amongst the crowd at WH, but since he was one of the most respected wrestling coaches in the state, it was only fitting his home was at Westcott. My father, Dirk Carter, was said to produce more star athletes than anyone in his direct line of competition.
And JC was one of them. He was talented, even as a freshman. His goal was to earn a scholarship to Princeton University, and with the amount of drive he possessed, it was inevitable he would receive one. But unlike many young hopefuls at Westcott, he let his vision fall secondary to an alluring Violet: Piper Clemmons. The assistant principal’s daughter. The musical talent at WH. A Chosen Ten. A chosen everything. Piper’s dream was to become a violinist, specifically at Princeton. Her talent—unmatched. She was one of the hardest working students among us and wasn’t afraid to be that, regardless of what she had to sacrifice—even if that meant dating.
JC took notice, and like most guys who can’t get what they want, he only wanted Piper more. He began relentlessly pursuing her in all the wrong ways, even asking her out twice in one day. He spared no expense at trying to get her to notice him—and was happy to risk embarrassing himself in front of everyone to make her feel desired. Luckily for him, Piper thought public humiliation in attempt to win a girl over was cute. And although she tried not to, halfway through the ninth grade, she fell in love.
“I wonder what they could have been.” I looked over at JC, who was sitting alone in the corner of the lunchroom.
He tossed his hood over his head and placed his bright orange headphones over his ears. I was jealous of JC’s ability to shut out the world, although upon second glance, it didn’t appear as if it were something he wanted to do.
I continued to stare. “Have you talked to him yet?”
Winston stared with me. “Has anyone—?”
Just like Kyle and me, JC and I pretty much grew up together. In middle school, he’d spend his time trying to convince everyone he would one day wrestle for my dad. Being the tall, lanky kid he was, nobody took him seriously. And knowing how cutthroat my father was, I certainly didn’t. But JC had passion. Possibly too much. His slightly irascible, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer attitude landed him on the team—freshman year. He and my dad would hold private practices in our home gym every weekend, and JC would stay afterward to hang out. We became close. As close as you could get to a guy like JC. He was untouchable, and just hitting the surface of what life had to offer a talented Violet like himself. But little did JC know, home-gym practices were about to take on a whole new meaning.
“I heard he got to come back this year after agreeing to finish sophomore year at home,” Winston said.
“I’m just shocked they let him come back to Westcott after finding what they did.” I stared down at our table. “What’s even more shocking is Piper turning her back on him.”
“And how is that shocking?” Winston asked.
“They’ve been dating since freshman year,” I replied. “Plus, both of their parents got divorced that year, and they helped each other through it. Things like that bond you.”
“Bond you?” Winston’s eyes widened. “The only thing Piper cares to bond with is her perfect reputation.”
Despite agreeing to date JC, Piper was uninterested in doing much more than holding hands until she graduated from Westcott. JC respected her wishes, regardless of how big of an adjustment it was for him. Physicality seemed to fail in comparison to his raw feelings for her. E
veryone noticed the change in him, and eventually everyone fell in love with their love—even the skeptics.
But that’s the funny thing about love. Sometimes love can be deceiving. And sometimes, in the worst cases, love isn’t love at all.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Piper wouldn’t risk her reputation for JC. She’s way too good of a girl.”
Winston unpacked his lunch. “Well, she’s not that good.”
“She doesn’t even swear,” I argued.
“Not true. I heard her yell ‘shit’ once when she poked herself in the eye with her bow.” Winston mindlessly chewed his food.
“Well? Did you take her out back?”
He shrugged. “Just saying.”
“And JC? Do you really think he—”
“Oh yeah,” Winston interrupted. “He definitely did.”
I sighed. “I don’t know . . . ”
“You know what your problem is?” Winston asked.
I took a bite of my salad. “I’m almost positive you’ll tell me.”
“You see the good in people before you see the color in them. JC is a Violet to his core. And we all know Violets think they can get away with anything.”
“Why are you so convinced he’s guilty?” I asked.
Winston unpacked more of his lunch. “Why are you so convinced that he’s not?”
I shook my head, dismissing his question. “Did you seriously pack Sour Patch Kids for a meal again?”
Winston was an avid junk-food eater. I was surprised his organs were still thriving. At least I hoped they were.
“And yogurt-covered raisins.”
“I’m overwhelmed by your progress,” I said.
“It’s not my fault. You know I blame my sweet tooth on my grandma—God rest her soul.” He signed himself with the cross.
“You aren’t Catholic, Wins.”
“She baked for me as a kid, and I spent my days in the kitchen eating cinnamon buns while watching reruns of The Sally Jessy Raphael Show.”
“Yet you’re incredibly slender,” I replied.
“I blame that on my dad. He made me run laps around the neighborhood with my siblings when we didn’t make our beds.” Winston paused, staring off into space. “Also, can your mom get me the number to her therapist? I just realized I didn’t have a normal childhood.”
