Another pretty girl—this one with black hair—walks by cooing, “Missed you, Colt,” and he thankfully seems oblivious to how genuinely attractive she is.
I do remember a few wide-eyed females stalking him at the movie theater over the summer, but none of them stuck around and helped him out behind the counter the way I did. In fact, I was the only one who visited him during his shifts on a consistent-slash-obsessive basis.
Moving through the school, I stay glued to his side while he introduces me as “the new girl” to various athletic-looking guys who eye my dress with confusion. None of them are nearly as good-looking as Colton.
When we reach the cafeteria, he grabs my shoulders dramatically. “The only food you can trust in this place is the pizza.”
He asks me what time I have lunch, and I dig in my bag for my class schedule. It turns out the two of us have the same lunch, and my hope surges as he points to a table in the corner. “I’ll meet you right over there. Don’t worry if I’m a little late—I need to talk to my coach before lunch.”
“I take it that’s the cool kids’ table?” I bump him playfully with my hip.
He grins at me. “You know it.”
“My old school was too small to have cliques. We mostly all got along.”
“Yeah, it’s kind of the same here. Although, I guess we do each have our own crowd.”
Looking around, I can’t help but think this is a drastic understatement. People appear to be segregated into clumps, based on mode of dress as well as facial expressions. Surly frowns? Over here with this group. Shyly looking at the ground? Step right this way.
Aside from the modern clothes and diverse races, the way the groups are gathered feels a little like we’re in an eighties teen movie. I wonder, will the athletes end up acting like bullies and are the shy, awkward outcasts hiding their soft hearts behind snarky comments? And just how bad have everybody’s parents messed them up already?
Of course, back in the eighties, there weren’t selfie-takers to trip over every few feet, not to mention people bouncing off each other as they all stare at their smart phones. But at least I’m not surrounded by a totally whitewashed group of movie-posterattractive people.
Still, it feels like this scene could totally be the fade-in for a living, updated version of a John Hughes movie. I’m busy imagining the rocking music that should be playing as the soundtrack right now when I get the sensation I’m being watched.
A girl with an eyebrow ring and wearing all black widens her heavily lined eyes at me, and I nearly recoil in fear. By the time I notice her small smile and realize she’s not menacing, just acting friendly, it’s too late for me to smile back.
I should probably stop trying to view everything through the lens of archaic teen movies.
Leaving the cafeteria, the hallways have grown suddenly more crowded, and I can’t help but notice that Colton is apparently super popular. This must be what it’s like to date a celebrity, I think as he returns hellos with nods, punctuated by a few manly fist bumps and an occasional, “Hey-oh.” One girl gives me an up and down look that’s so deliberate, I can feel it in my knees.
I seriously wish I wasn’t dressed like such a freak.
When we reach the gymnasium, three manic blonde girls wearing matching cheerleading outfits flock around him. “Wow, Colton, have you been working out this summer?” the least-blonde one with dark skin purrs.
He grins at her and flexes a muscle. She swoons and my jealousy pops out, solid as his bicep.
“You’re new,” the blondest-blonde informs me.
The lesser-blonde asks, “Are you coming to squad tryouts after school?”
“The cheerleading squad?” I laugh.
At her “Duh,” I violently shake my head no. I picture myself breaking my neck while attempting a cartwheel. Or trying to clap with any sort of rhythm. My mom once took me to a Zumba exercise dance class, and the frustrated instructor actually grabbed my hands to force me to clap on the beat.
The least-blonde is adjusting her cheer skirt in a way that is clearly designed to draw Colton’s eye. Just as he notices her skirt’s hem edging up her left thigh, I say, “We’d better finish up our tour.” Taking him by the arm, I lead him away from the magnetic pull of the girls. “I want to be on time for homeroom.”
I give least-blonde a fake smile over my shoulder and she calls, “See you later, Colt,” with a familiarity that makes me wince.
He leads me into the stairwell, and I spot a group of students dressed in head-to-toe black, (or rather neck-tattoo-to-combatboot black) tucked underneath the stairs. The back wall of their cave is covered in cartoons, some of which deserve an NC-17 rating.
The eyebrow ring girl who I recently flinched away from gives me a cold look as she pushes past us to join the group. I can’t exactly blame her, but now she’s pointing a finger in my direction while saying something to the others, and I imagine them all judging me. Look at you, Andie—already making friends.
Colton smoothly guides me up the steps and whispers, “Goth Central. Stay for too long and risk losing your soul.” He winks and says, “Kidding,” and I force myself to wink back.
Once upstairs, we approach double doors that open to a high-ceilinged classroom. “And here we have . . . these people.”
I peer inside the room. It’s huge, with choir bleachers lining the back wall. A group of students that can best be described as “eclectic” is gathered around a piano in front. They’re wearing everything from hats with feathers to stilettos and suspenders, with so many colors and patterns that my mind can’t sort it all. Clearly, my mom isn’t the only one who knows how to score vintage threads. I feel myself smile.
A kid with straight posture and a slicked-back hairdo from the 1920s moves into view and says, “Nice dress, Andie. Now that’s what I’m talking about.” It actually takes me a minute to realize the guy is Tom.
I cringe as Colton seems to notice my dress all over again. Great. This is not at all the way he looked at the cheerleader’s skirts. I’m mortified to realize my pink, crinoline-lined, polka-dotted dress and black fishnets go perfectly with the crazy getups gathered around the piano.
I call, “Thanks, um, Tom,” and guide Colton away from the doorway before he decides to dump me here. My tongue is paralyzed by dress regret, and an awkward silence catches stride between Colton and me as we walk down the hallway.
I’ve never been the type to care about what outfit I’m wearing, but today, I get why some people do.
I spot two girls taking a selfie as they stand side by side in front of a locker with their heads tipped toward each other. On impulse, I hold out my phone and pull Colton’s head next to mine.
“Say selfie!” I snap a picture of the two of us together.
He asks, “Is it technically a selfie when there’s more than one person in it?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. He looks surprised in the shot, and I must have snapped it just as I got to the f-sound in selfie, because I bear a striking resemblance to the local celebrity groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil. I reach up and take a few more multi-person selfies of us together.
Colton’s smile is less genuine in these, and I stop before I get as annoying as my mother. Picking the most natural-looking shot, I pause to post it on online, adding the caption, “Rocking my first day at Punxsutawney High!” For some reason, reporting this to my handful of followers from my old school makes me feel like less of a loser.
Of the 172 kids in my old school, there were only fifty-four in what would have been my graduating class. We all grew up together, so everyone was pretty much friends with everyone else. Even though I didn’t check in much over the summer, I suddenly miss all fifty-three of my old classmates.
I’m walking with my head down, looking at my phone, when I run smack-dab into someone’s chest. The impact is so jarring, I actually reel backward a bit.
Of course, he’s another goth, and I immediately want to cry. By now, I’ve probably turned their whole
group against me thanks to my unique social impairment. He bends down to pick up the Sharpie pen that I’ve knocked out of his hand. By the time he straightens back up, I’ve mustered a friendly smile, but he only looks even more annoyed by me.
I stare into his green eyes lined with black, willing him to return my smile, until he glances down at my dress and squints as if it’s made of direct sunlight. I bow under his look of disgust, and rush to catch up to Colton.
A cluster of kids with backpack-stooped posture moves unevenly toward us, and as we pass, a girl wearing a tight hairband catches my eye. She looks up at me, and I can read her strong IQ in the way she hugs a thick textbook to her chest. Nobody else is carrying books yet. I avoid her gaze before Colton can see that hers is probably the group I belong with, even more than the choir room misfits. My old school may have been a small bubble without cliques, but I was known for being a bit of a brain. I think it helped that zero percent of my fifty-four classmates were hot guys, so there was nothing to distract me from my studies.
I hear a high-pitched, nasally “Hello, Colton” from my right, and look over to see a girl with glossy black hair giving a limpwristed wave in our direction. She starts striding purposefully toward us, her shoes clicking on the tile floor like a countdown before impact. I grasp for a way to distract Colton.
“So, I guess we should be looking for my homeroom now.” I put a hand on his non-flexed bicep, which is still pretty solid.
Colton smiles at my hand, then looks up just in time to catch a dramatic Hollywood “finally reunited” hug from the girl. She’s tall, and even up close with no filter, her olive skin looks airbrushed. Over Colton’s broad shoulder, her perfectly defined eyes seem mesmerized by my pink polka-dotted torso. I cross my arms in defense. Her rose-red lips stretch into a phony-looking smile, and she asks through her nose, “Who’s this?”
Shooting a thumb in my direction, Colton says, “This is the new girl, Andie. She’s cool.”
His words make me glow from the inside out like a jack-o’lantern, but Miss Hair Gloss quickly blows out my candle. “I was friends with a redhead once.”
I don’t know how to respond to this, so I laugh. She gives my dress another puzzled look before turning back to Colton.
And now I notice that he practically has stars in his eyes. It’s obvious he and this girl have some serious chemistry and/or romantic history. As the two of them flirt with each other shamelessly, I note that she’s wearing the ideal first day of school outfit: perfect-fitting jeans, black kitten heels, and a thin scoop neck top. I want to shred my polka dots to pieces and run away screaming. But I’m not giving up on my first kiss with my one true love without a fight. Also, wearing the worst dress ever is still better than being at school naked.
“We should get moving.” I give Hair Gloss a smug grin. “Colton has been so sweet, taking me on a tour of the school before homeroom.”
Hair Gloss tilts her head at me. “The bell’s going to ring soon. What’s your name?”
“Um, Andie?”
She gives an exaggerated sigh. “I mean your last name.”
“Oh. Knedman?” I wonder if she’s planning to put out a hit on me for interrupting her little flirting session. Or it’s possible I’ve watched too many spy movies this summer.
“Fabby, you’re with me.” She hooks my arm in hers and tells Colton, “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her.” Before I can even decide to resist, we’re moving down the hallway together. Away from Colton.
“How do you know the Colt?” she asks, her heels clicking confidently as she drops my arm and steers me none-too-gently through the now-crowded hallway.
“Oh, just … from the movie theater,” I say.
“That lame job of his?” She shakes her shiny mane. “Such an inconvenience.”
“Are you two together?” I ask as my heart dives into my ballet flats.
“No. But we’re about to be.”
I already do not like her. But I don’t doubt that she speaks the truth. Colton seemed fully under her spell in a way I’ve never seen him act before.
Hair Gloss tells me her name is Kaia as she points a shiny maroon fingernail toward a classroom doorway. “Your homeroom’s there. If you need any help finding your way around, there’s no need to bother Colton anymore. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of people happy to talk to you.” She points down the hallway. “Oh, look. Here’s someone checking out your fashion statement now.”
“Hey there, Andie.” Tom glances at my dress as he slides past us on his way into the room.
“Go for it,” Kaia whispers in my ear. With a slight smile, she turns on one of her kitten heels and heads across the hallway. I’m furious that I let her pull me away from Colton, especially since she isn’t even in my stupid homeroom.
I slump into an open desk by the doorway, and Tom leans across the aisle toward me. “That is a volcanic ensemble.” He raises one eyebrow. “Very Molly Ringwald circa 1986.”
I muster up a smile before scrunching lower into my seat. I can’t believe I’ve already completely blown it. If I could have a morning do-over, I’d be getting a can-we-be-more-than-friends hug from Colton right now instead of sitting here having my bizarre wardrobe admired by Tom.
A glance at the big white clock on the wall tells me there is more time left before the first bell than I could possibly know what to do with. I try plastering a smile back on my face, but I’m quite sure I look like a freak on the verge of a panic attack.
“Hey, what did you think of the movie last night?” Tom asks. When I give him a confused look, he adds, “Pretty in Pink?”
With a sigh, I let my phony smile drop and lean forward. “I have to be honest. I couldn’t help rooting for Duckie half the time.”
Tom gives me a full grin. “Yes. The Duckman!” He starts drumming on his desk and humming the song Duckie performs for Andie in the record store. It starts off being kind of funny, but then Tom’s hums get progressively louder and he increases his flailing until he’s acting completely over the top and the whole class is watching us. He doesn’t seem to mind, but I feel like I’ve gotten more than enough attention for one day.
I slide down in my chair and glare at the looming clock, willing the minute hand to hurry up and move. School hasn’t even officially started yet and it already feels like the first day has lasted forever.
The morning stretches and blurs like it’s out of focus as I try to find my way around the school’s impossible floor plan. It seems to have a hexagonal layout, which is three sides and two angles beyond my spatial grasp. I am late to every class, and grow increasingly stressed as I strive for a chance reunion with Colton that never happens.
Nobody can see past my polka dots, and the only people who speak to me also look like they’re dressed in fifties costumes from the seventies movie Grease. Or maybe that should be seventies costumes for the fifties movie Grease. Either way, by lunchtime I’m ready to be done with this place.
It takes me three wrong turns to find the cafeteria, and when I get there, Kaia is already sitting at the table where I’m supposed to meet Colton, surrounded by a few other girls who look equally airbrushed and intimidating. All of them definitely use the same hair products. I can’t handle another showdown with Kaia, especially when I’m pretty sure I’ll lose.
I turn and flee, grateful when I spot a blue sign indicating the girls’ room. One of the stall doors opens and a tall, athletic-looking girl wearing a sports jersey steps out. Just so I can look like I have something to do, I turn toward the mirror and pull the elastic tie out of my hair. I get busy reworking it into an even higher ponytail as she steps up to the sink beside me.
Once my hair is gathered so high it practically looks like a unicorn horn, I try to reapply the elastic band, and the stupid thing snaps, pinging across the room and nearly hitting the girl. I give a sheepish grin and mumble, “Sorry,” but she just dries her hands without breaking eye contact.
“Would’ve sucked if that hit me,” she s
ays, and I don’t know how to react because I can’t tell if she’s joking or threatening me.
I nod. “Yeah, whew.” I pretend to wipe sweat from my brow and realize I’m sweating for real.
She turns and goes, and I start clawing at my hair with the least effective form of hairbrush; namely, hooked-talon finger-combs. I work both hands at once, and before I know it, my hair looks like a giant auburn cloud of cotton candy on top of my head. It is depressing how perfectly it goes with my dress.
At least I’ve hopefully given Colton enough time to meet with his coach. I stride back into the lunchroom with my confidence hovering somewhere around my cinched waist.
It drops to my knees when I see Colton and Kaia sitting together. The way he tips his face toward hers says he’ll probably never notice me again. My stomach groans, and I slink into the lunch line. After rejecting the scoop of dripping brown goo the woman in a hairnet tries to put on my tray, I select the least greasy-looking slice of pizza and make my way over to the registers.
Which is when I realize that in my rush this morning, I of course forgot to grab any lunch money. Glancing over, I see Colton and Kaia still glued together, and I feel my stomach cry as I head back to return my pizza to the warmer. Placing my empty tray on top of the stack, I’m startled when Tom sidles up to me. He grabs the slice I’ve just returned, adding it to his tray that’s already carrying a plate of brown goo and tater tots.
“First lunch. My treat,” he says simply, and walks over to the register.
“That’s okay, I’m not . . .” I try to resist. This is the guy who basically blocked me from Colton all summer long, constantly coming up with busywork anytime the two of us started to connect.
Tom squints at me, comically sliding his lips to one side. “I was watching you. Obviously, you forgot your money today. This is no biggie.”
He’s wearing what must be his lunchtime fedora, tilted rakishly over one eye. Meanwhile, the other eye is taking in my hair, and after a moment he says, “Nice do.”
Pretty in Punxsutawney Page 4
