Oh My Goth

by Gena Showalter

  Riddle me this. Who cares more about his reputation than another person’s feelings, and sucks in bed? An asshole.

  Linnie is wonderful. If I wanted to love, she would be first in line. I just wish I could protect her from idiot boys. She’s always cut to the core by the rejection—which makes her even more vulnerable to anyone who hopes to use her. It’s a vicious cycle.

  My hands are curling into fists again. Inhale, exhale. Good, that’s good. I relax.

  What’s wrong with me today, anyway?

  “Lin’s right. You’re beautiful just the way you are,” Robb says, and gives me a hug.

  I go stiff. It’s an automatic reaction, one I can’t stop. Any display of affection makes me uncomfortable—makes me want to feel. I don’t want to want to feel. According to Dr. Miller, someday I’ll have to deal with all the rage and pain I’ve buried, all the agony and anguish, before I can get even a glimmer of happiness.

  I step from Robb’s embrace as a cold sweat beads over my forehead. His shoulders roll in. He stares down at his feet. Ugh. I’ve hurt the nicest person in the world. I suck. It’s just... I don’t want to get attached to him, or to anyone. I don’t let myself get attached. People are gonna die. It’s a simple fact of life. If you don’t get attached, you don’t have to mourn.

  Apologizing to him won’t do a bit of good, though. Words don’t mean jack if you have no intention of changing.

  I’ll make it up to Robb some other way.

  “Guess what?” Linnie drops her cell phone in her bag—a bag that resembles a corset—and heads to the front doors, forcing us to follow or be left behind. “I hear we’re getting a new student today.”

  “Boy or girl?” Robb asks, intrigued.

  “Boy.” Linnie wiggles her brows. “A cute boy.”

  Interest gleams in Kimberly’s dark eyes. A confusing reaction. New kids always consider us trouble at glance one, then do their best to avoid us as if we’re carriers of the plague. I’m never bothered by it, but these three always feel rejected.

  Shouldn’t they dread meeting New Guy rather than hoping for the best? I never look forward to the future. I don’t want to set myself up for disappointment.

  See? This is one of the reasons I don’t want to embrace my emotions. How do people navigate such a complicated maze?

  Once we’re inside, I split from the group with a wave. Our lockers are on opposite sides of the building.

  Kimberly waves back, and Robb nods. He still won’t meet my gaze.

  Linnie calls, “See you at lunch, Jade.” She never stops trying to include me.

  A small ache erupts in my temples, and I cringe. The closer I get to my locker, the more intense the ache becomes. To be honest, my brain has gotten used to hurting from 7:30 to 8:30, during Mr. Parton’s class.

  Conditioning is real, no ifs, ands or buts about it.

  At my locker, I empty my bag of every book but my mom’s journal. For the next two weeks, I get to skip trig and spend the morning in Principal Hatcher’s office.

  According to Mr. Parton, who called my dad yesterday after school, detention wasn’t enough of a punishment for me. They put their heads together and came up with this added “punishment.”

  My dad forced me to write an apology note for my behavior...only to toss it in the garbage after he’d read it.

  I’m sorry you play favorites, Mr. Parton, treat some students better than others. I’m sorry you see no value in people who are different than you.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you have a major attitude problem?” Mercedes says as she sidles up to me.

  “Almost everyone I meet. Thanks for noticing.” I shut the locker and face her. The roses in her cheeks are the same shade as the roses printed on her dress. “May I suggest you take care of your business and I’ll take care of mine?”

  “I rest my case. At-ti-tude.”

  “What, you want to be a lawyer now?” When we were little, she wanted to be a princess. “Why does it matter, anyway? And why are you here, bugging me? I prefer the days we avoid each other.”

  She scowls at me. Voice whisper-soft, she says, “I saw you this morning, and I know you saw me.”

  “So?”

  “So!” Her screech echoes through the hall.

  People glance our way, and she withers, only to straighten her spine and glare at them. They quicken their pace, soon disappearing around a corner.

  “If you tell anyone you saw me crying,” she says, whispering again, “I’ll... I’ll...”

  I roll my eyes. “You’ll...you’ll...what? Call me a bad name? Have your mom call my dad?” I pretend to shudder. “No, not that. Anything but that.”

  “You are so annoying. You accused Charlee of being a fraud. Hey, pot, have you met kettle?”

  Is she serious? “I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.”

  Her lips curl up in a grin completely devoid of humor. “You want everyone to think you don’t care about anything or anyone—”

  “I don’t care,” I interject.

  “—but you forget our parents forced me to attend several family-therapy sessions with you. According to Dr. Miller, the real Jade cares too much. About everything. With enough pressure, her armor will crack. Something we should avoid. We should coax her out instead. Ringing any bells?”

  A cold sweat pops out on my forehead once again. “Don’t push me, Mercedes.”

  “Don’t antagonize me, Jade.”

  “Antagonize,” I say. “That’s a big word for such a tiny girl.”

  She offers me another grin—this one feral—before flouncing off. I trail after her; I don’t know why. Or maybe I do? My hands are curled again. I just might punch her.

  I turn the corner, only to lose sight of her and come upon Bobby Bay, her on-again/off-again boyfriend. Inhale, exhale. Focus. I bet Bobby dies of alcohol poisoning one day soon.

  All right. I’m back to the old me. Mercedes doesn’t matter. She means nothing to me.

  My armor can’t be cracked. I don’t feel pressured about, well, anything.

  Bobby is surrounded by other jocks on the football team. Some of those boys have been nice to my friends and me. Others have been as cruel as Mercedes and Charlee Ann.

  “Heya, Jade. Wanna get laid by a real man?” Bobby leers at me in typical Bobby fashion. “Or are you still a lesbian?”

  Or maybe someone stabs him.

  Ever since I declined his offer of “pleasure beyond my wildest imagination,” he’s told everyone I must be gay. Because why else would I deny a stud like him? “No,” I say, and tap my chin with a fingernail, pretending to ponder a conundrum. “Maybe I should be, since I still don’t like dicks.”

  One boy laughs and slaps Bobby on the shoulder. Another boy snickers and elbows him in the stomach.

  Bobby stops leering and starts glaring, a promise of retribution in his eyes. Try. Please.

  I trek forward, turn another corner and enter a new hallway. Littering the walls are posters that read VOTE FOR MERCEDES, STUDENT BODY PRESIDENT. Her ultraperfect face smiles down at me.

  She’ll win, of course, and even more girls will try to emulate her. Sadly, no one will be the better for it.

  Maybe I should run against her?

  Nah. I’m just as bad as Mercedes. Love and nurture aren’t in my wheelhouse.

  Ready to get the day over with, I quicken my step, the loud clump-clump of my boots echoing despite the chatter around me. Kids purposely step aside to avoid me.

  When I reach Principal Hatcher’s office, her secretary waves me over. She’s happy to see me at least.

  “Jadey Jade Jade. Over here.” Her name is Martha Stewart, I kid you not. She has curly gray hair, round cheeks, more freckles than Linnie and a plump figure. Basically, she’s the living incarnation of Mrs. Claus, and I’m pretty sure she’s immortal. “What am I
going to do with you, my girl?”

  “How about you bring me martinis while I read something inappropriate for school?” I say, easing into the chair next to her desk. I’ve never had a martini, but I like the idea of having one at school.

  “Ha! Something like 1001 Ways to Die?” She pats my hand. “I’ve always liked your sharp tongue. I’ve always liked you, period.”

  The lobby is big, separated from the hall of offices by a long yellow counter. There are three desks and a handful of chairs scattered about. Computers are up and running, other machines humming and beeping. In one of the offices in back, a phone is ringing. The walls are covered with red-and-blue banners, our school colors.

  They read HOME OF THE FIGHTING TROJANS.

  Kids from other schools often tease us about being named after condoms. They call us the Wad Squad and say we’re “stiff competition,” “all nuts,” and tell us we should be careful so we don’t blow our defensive line.

  Our motto? We’ll Go All the Way!

  I skip my gaze over Mrs. Tsurugi’s desk. The vice principal’s assistant has yet to arrive. She’s probably out in the halls tormenting—Whoa! My gaze zooms right back and snags on a boy who is sitting beside the desk. I don’t recognize him. He must be the new kid Linnie mentioned.

  She called him cute. She was wrong. Very, very wrong. He is really, really hot. Like, on-fire hot. I know this because I have eyes.

  His hair is messy and dark, and his features appear chiseled from stone. Dark bronzed skin illuminates a heavy-lidded azure gaze. His shoulders are broad. A plain gray T-shirt hugs his biceps. His bulging biceps. Is he packing rocks under there?

  He has so many muscles I bet he could survive an apocalypse. Or, you know, anything.

  Between one second and the next, I’m exhibiting all the classic symptoms of a panic attack, or maybe a crush. My cheeks flush, my heart rate speeds up and my stomach churns.

  Definitely a panic attack...even though I’m not usually—or ever—prone to bouts of worry.

  I want to ignore him. I should ignore him. My brain doesn’t get the memo. I gawk instead. He’s a magnet for my gaze.

  He’s not just hot, I decide. He’s beautiful in a raw, rough-and-tumble kind of way.

  Bet he’s a dumb jock. Does he play football? Basketball?

  What are you doing? How many times have I complained about being judged for my looks? I shouldn’t do the same thing to someone else. For all I know, this boy is sports inclined and whip smart.

  He’s definitely perceptive. As if sensing my scrutiny, he turns his head. Our gazes meet, and my heart rate accelerates once again. This time my palms begin to sweat.

  His expression is somber...until he gives me a slow once-over. Then he grins, revealing straight white teeth, and my stomach churns harder.

  I’m not sure what that ear-to-ear grin means. I have, like, zero experience with boys. Well, other than Robb, but he’s a friend, and this guy isn’t. Yet. Maybe he’d like to be?

  I try to put myself in his place. A new kid in a new school after senior year has already kicked off. His entire life has probably been turned upside down and inside out. That’s sad, right?

  Besides, I need to treat him like I’d treat anyone else and prove I’m absolutely, positively not crushing.

  “Who’s the boy?” I ask Martha. I don’t have to whisper. My screwed-up voice is low and raspy, always quiet.

  She doesn’t look up from her computer screen, her fingers pecking at her keyboard, but she grows stiff, tension radiating from her. Why? “He’s new. A senior like you.”

  I wait for her to say more. Instead, she continues type, type, typing away.

  Martha likes everyone, but she clearly has a problem with this boy. She must know something about him. Something she found in his file? “I’m going to talk with him,” I say.

  She stops at last, peering at me, her expression all I am the wise wizard, and you are the scarecrow without a brain. For my ears alone, she says, “Do yourself a favor and avoid him.”

  “Why?”

  She purses her lips as if she’s just sucked on a lemon. “Because.”

  I wait for her to say more. She doesn’t. “I’m going to talk with him,” I repeat.

  “He’s a brawler, all right?” she rushes out. “He settles arguments with his fists.”

  My brow furrows. “Is that all?”

  “All?” she squeaks. “Jade, he put a boy in the hospital.”

  “Which is where I’ll put him if he makes a move against me.” Amid her protests, I stand and close the distance. He watches me with a ruthless intensity that almost...unnerves me.

  Shove, kick and bury emotion.

  “Hello,” I say, and ease into Mrs. Tsurugi’s seat. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Brawler Boy blinks as if my boldness surprises him. “Hey.” His voice is deep and strong, but also husky. He leans back in the chair, stretching out his jean-clad legs—his very long legs. The corners of his lips twitch, as if he’s about to grin again, but a new one never blooms. “Nice to meet you, too. But why are you still whispering?”

  “I’m not. Well, not on purpose.” Out of habit, I rub the scars on my collarbone. “When I was a little girl, my vocal cords were permanently damaged.”

  All hint of amusement drains from him, and he shifts closer to me. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? You asked a question, I answered.”

  The next look he gives me...it hovers somewhere between She’s a bug under a microscope and She’s a blue-ribbon pie at the state fair. Silence envelops us. When he rubs two fingers over the dark shadow of stubble on his jaw, I notice bruises on his knuckles.

  What do boys and girls normally talk about? “So...what’s your name?” My head tilts when I spot the edge of a tattoo peeking out from his shirtsleeve. The bottom of a heart, maybe. My first tattoo was a heart. One of my mother’s drawings actually. Robb used one of the doodles in her journal as an outline.

  “I’m Clarik.”

  Interesting. “Spelled C-L-E-R-I-C? As in, a religious leader?”

  “Spelled C-L-A-R-I-K. As in, my grandmother’s name was Claire, and my mother wanted to name me after her but she could think of no other way to masculinize it.”

  “I’m Jade.”

  “Jade, as in a combination of nephrite and jadeite, sometimes referred to as a symbol of heaven?”

  He teases, but... “Yes. Jade, as in my dead mother’s birthstone.” I motion to the piece of paper folded in his hand. “Is that your class schedule?”

  “Yes.” He peers at me for a long while, the somberness back full force. Ignoring my question, he says, “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  “Why? You didn’t kill her.”

  Blink, blink. “I’m rarely at a loss for words, but I have no idea how to respond to you right now.”

  An effect I have on everyone at some point or another. “You can start by telling me your class schedule. Who’d you get?”

  First warning bell rings, and within seconds, the hallway clears of students. I don’t have to look out the glass wall to know. Footsteps and chatter end. Lockers are no longer being slammed shut. Even the air around us changes, no longer clogged with clashing perfumes and colognes.

  Clarik shrugs. “In order—Parton, Harper, Norfield, Reynolds, Frandemier and Busby.”

  “We have Parton and Norfield at the same time. Though I won’t be attending Parton’s class for the next two weeks. I’m being punished.”

  He leans back, anchoring his elbows on the top of his chair. “Any advice for me?”

  I don’t have to think long and hard about my answer. “Yes. Follow my lead and get in trouble so that you can miss as much of Parton’s class as possible.”

  He chuckles, and the throaty sound washes over me. But as quickly as his amusement began, it fades, and he frowns. Th
en he scowls as if he’s actually angry with me.

  Why fight his laughter? Why blame me for it?

  And he thinks I’m the odd one?

  “Parton is an as—jerk, is he?” he finally asks.

  “Asjerk?” I nod even as I wonder why he stopped himself from cursing. My ears are far from innocent. Maybe he’s a closet gentleman and he considers me a lady. Totally plausible. Fiona would be over the moon. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes—Parton is the biggest asjerk I’ve ever met.”

  “What’d you do to get exiled to the office?”

  Besides doing what every self-help book I’ve ever read advises and just being myself? “I offered him an unsolicited critique of his teaching skills.”

  His eyes twinkle as he says, “Feel free to give me an unsolicited critique anytime.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  He does that blinking thing and even laughs. His entire face lights up when he laughs.

  Never, ever, never, never should he fight his laughter again.

  “Clarik Iverson.” Martha’s voice reverberates through the room, and so does her disapproval. “Your guide is here.”

  A conflicting mix of disappointment and relief flashes over his rugged face, confusing me.

  Martha says, “Principal Hatcher selected Mercedes because she lives in your neighborhood, so you be nice to her, you hear?”

  Is she talking about my Mercedes? There are four at school.

  Clarik stands and faces the girl who is waiting in the open doorway. I do the same. Yep. My Mercedes. If Clarik lives in her neighborhood, that means he lives in my neighborhood, too. Which isn’t as much of a coincidence as it seems. Small school district, few neighborhoods.

  Why wasn’t I chosen as his guide? (1) I’ve been banned from Mr. Parton’s classroom, which means (2) my morning is wide-open.

  Doesn’t take me long to puzzle out the answer. I mean, this isn’t exactly a head-scratcher. Principal Hatcher doesn’t want a member of the troublemaker clique to recruit anyone else.