I was watching the patterned gray and white floor when two feet—toes painted a neon yellow—came into view.
“What are you doing?” Emily asked, a smile in her voice.
I froze, my hands mid-sweep.
Think. Think-think-think! “Oh, I . . .” Other than demon possession, what could I be doing? “I sneezed,” I told her and snapped up, smoothing my khaki skirt.
“Did you? Strange . . . I didn’t hear you.”
“It was a silent sneeze,” I mumbled, averting her gaze. A whole two minutes, I thought, amazed—between the eraser and now this.
“Mm-hm.” The corners of Emily’s mouth pulled up. “Then, bless you.”
“Thank you,” I replied, hurrying toward my opportunity to change subjects. “Did you find your flip-flops?” Surely I could have done better than this, I realized too late, and struggled to hold the cringe of absurdity on the inside. But still I could not pull my eyes away from Emily’s leather sandals, dangling from her fingers no more than a foot away, a dark brown bird emblem embossed on the heel.
“No.” Emily supplied me a look of false astonishment mixed with feigned frustration. “I can’t seem to find them anywhere,” she said. “Do you see them?” I blushed at the same second a grin broke on her face. Emily dropped the sandals, slipping her feet into each one. “Did you bring your lunch today or are you buying?”
“I brought one.”
“Okay, well I think P.F. Changs is catering today. You up for splitting a plate of chow mein with me?”
“Sure.”
We walked side by side in silence until Emily stopped suddenly, grabbing my wrist and yanking me to a halt. She stared at my hair with the same intent expression from a moment before.
Not possible. I felt my eyes pull wide in disbelief. “What? What is it?” I asked her, but I really didn’t wish to know.
Emily appeared as though in a trance. She whispered, “Oh, my gosh. Is that a—” and started toward my hair with purpose. I closed one eye and tried to prepare for the worst. “It is!” she exclaimed, pulling her hands away, one cupped over the other to conceal what she’d found. Then she flung them apart. “Look! It’s a silent sneeze.”
~
The cafeteria was abuzz with a myriad of voices. Almost every single person sat with some sort of culinary treat in front of him or her. There would be no half-frozen chicken nuggets or greasy corn dogs for the students of Shorecliffs. Not for the tuition rates their parents paid.
Near the entrance, Emily and I passed the buffet area—stocked with chilled deli meats, sliced fruit in bowls over ice, and a thirty topping salad bar. Along the Eastern wall, a red heat lamp glowed brightly over fresh baked bread, brick oven pizzas, and four different kinds of pasta. In the middle of the room, just as Emily had thought, was the feature of the day, P.F. Chang’s. Again, I watched as the majority devoured their gourmet meals. I pressed my padded lunchbox against my stomach, following slightly behind Emily.
After Emily had her chow mein, a side of cream cheese rangoons, and a Dr. Pepper, we wound our way through the middle of the gargantuan dome structure to find Jake.
Sunlight filtered in from the overhead skylights, illuminating the tops of everyone’s heads and splashing everything else with a soft, canary haze. Everything about the large, open room was inviting—which was why, I supposed, many of the upperclassmen chose to remain here, in the cafeteria, rather than take advantage of their earned liberties by wandering off campus to eat.
Surrounding the stone fireplace was a den of sorts, decorated with rugs, tables, an L-shaped purple couch, and plenty of comfortable chairs with teens sprawled over them, reading, playing instruments, or just catching up on the last four periods. Many of the students, however, had opted to dine outside on the patio, the norm when the weather was nice. Outside, all along the terrace of the cafeteria, clusters of teenagers convened at large tables beneath umbrellas, or lounged on chaises. Something red and very fast came whizzing high over my head, landing with a tinny sound on the floor behind me. A Frisbee, I saw, and not at all surprised. It was fairly common that a piece of the back wall went completely missing, the floor to ceiling glass doors having been opened and concealed, to better display the panoramic ocean view that lie beyond. Even after nearly a full year and a half of accommodations and views such as this one, I didn't think I would ever be inured to the extravagance; it was like living in a dream sometimes.
Emily glanced over her shoulder when I fell behind, fixated on the turquoise sky and the tall cliffs lending its name to our school. I still found it difficult to imagine that this room, in its entire grandiose splendor, actually paled in comparison to a few other areas of campus; some I had yet to see for myself: the theater or track and field areas coming to mind first.
It seemed no matter where the paths led or ended, there existed not one tiny pocket of Shorecliffs incapable of marveling all my senses. I felt considerably lucky, of course, to spend my weeks and months at a school this beautiful; but often the feeling was overshadowed with pangs of disheartenment and something I could only describe as incomplete. It didn’t seem entirely fair that, while I enjoyed the best and the finest, so many were left to make do with the bare minimum.
My heart grew a little heavy as I thought about the kids at The House of Hope—only one more day before I saw them again.
Yards ahead of me now, Emily stopped and turned around to look for me. I waited for her to chastise me for my dalliance, or tell me to hurry up, but she had other things on her mind. Back in step with her, she glared straight ahead, muttering under her breath.
“Ooh, one day . . . one day I’m going to find an excuse to smack that kook upside his empty head.”
I searched aimlessly for the source of Emily’s imprecations, tracking her line of sight honed like a laser on Samson Lyle—lead thespian in every one of Shorecliffs’ school plays. He faced out from a lunch table, long, slim legs spread wide in fitted black dress pants and lanky arms draped carelessly around two doting blondes. In one of their hands was what looked like a portfolio of headshots: pensive Samson, mischievous Samson, bold Samson, and indignant Samson.
Closer now, I could hear his slightly adenoidal voice, droning. “Yeah, it will be a full spread with GQ Magazine,” he said, and let his head drop backward, then rolled it to lay on his shoulder in what I gathered was meant to be flirtatious posture; shiny brown hair falling perfectly over one eyebrow, hazel eyes slightly closed, lips parted in a well rehearsed pucker. “I might even be able to bring one or two of you to the studio.” He yawned, reaching his arms into the air and feigning a strategic stretch. The lavender shirt, cut low in a V, crept up just enough to give his attentive audience a peek of his hairless stomach. Equally lascivious expressions filled the faces of his harem. They giggled femininely, encouraging him to give them more details, to which Samson gladly obliged them.
Not that my opinion mattered in the slightest, but if only to me, Samson’s good looks were what I would describe as incomplete or empty. It could be argued he was in fact attractive and nice to look at. But so was a Christmas ornament, or a sparkly diamond ring; both of which could be meaningful and represent something special. However, without that something else, they were just lifeless, inanimate objects. That was how looking at Samson made me feel—like something important was missing, preventing him from being whole. This thought took me back to a childhood memory I had of a bunny; the chocolate kind I used to find in the grass of my white wicker Easter basket. It was lovely, made of sweet and creamy chocolate, whittled into a smiling, ornate bunny. It was also hollow, something that always bothered me when I was younger. How could something so perfectly pleasing on the outside, be so altogether disappointing on the inside?
“Isn’t there a school policy that forbids infectious animals from mingling with the humans?” Emily continued rhetorically, utterly disgusted.
It was this adverse and visceral reaction to him that served to stoke Samson’s desire. The flowers sent to her c
lasses, the personal invitations to his theater company’s exclusive premieres; none of it interested her in the slightest. His request to take her out to a five star restaurant and lavish her with pretty things was denied every single time. And something about her definitive and blunt, “Not if all of creation was relying on our offspring to carry on humanity,” kept him coming back for more rejection.
Samson’s eyes glided in our direction as we were about to pass. I was closest, but he looked straight through me, as if I was no more than an obscurity. Sitting up a little straighter, he leered at Emily appreciatively. One corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk, just before he blew a kiss to her.
“Ew.” She shuddered. “I think some of his rabies landed on me,” she announced loud enough for Samson to hear. We arrived at the long Plexiglas table, filled mostly with Jake and Emily’s teammates. Permeating the lunchtime smells was the strong scent of chlorine. Laughing derisively, Emily set down her purse and tray of food beside her brother. “Rabies or not, dogs are way too faithful for that walking STD to be lumped into their species. I think a chimpanzee fits better,” nodding to herself, “Yeah . . . seeing as they mate with anything generating estrogen.” She continued watching him speculatively.
Jake acknowledged us briefly, raising a distracted hand to wave, while simultaneously scooping a heaping spoonful of potato salad into his mouth. There was such an extensive amount of food around him, that if I didn’t know him better, I would have thought it was being shared between him and four other people. I sat down opposite of him unseen, hardly eliciting a response from the blonde pony-tailed water polo player sitting a couple feet to my right. Her forehead lay upon crossed arms, her eyelids rising and falling like automatic blinds. Emily hadn’t been kidding when she said practice was brutal. The girl looked absolutely exhausted. She remained trancelike, unmoving as I removed the fruit salad from my lunch.
“Someone should check his thumbs and make sure they’re opposable. It’s very likely that he never fully evolved.” Emily continued to berate Samson, eyeing something on the table in front of the dozing girl. After less than a second’s worth of thought, Emily grabbed a squishy banana and pitched it toward Samson. The girls beside him gasped as the banana clocked him square in his chiseled jaw and landed in his lap. So stunned, he hardly reacted, the apathetic posture only jolting slightly. I shrunk into the bench and focused on my food, burrowing my plastic spoon into the fruit. The rest of the table jumped to their feet, erupting in loud hoots, clapping, and offering their best primal noises.
Immensely pleased with herself, Emily set her hands on her hips, staring straight at Samson and speaking through a tight smirk. “Remind me to thank Dad when I get home, Jake. All those morning pitching sessions finally paid off.”
It was only a few seconds until Samson’s stunned reaction turned to humiliation, then flared into anger. He looked around furiously, teeth grinding together as he fished out his attacker. Without much effort, his eyes settled on Emily. His immediate discovery was aided by the din surrounding her. Adding insult to injury, she taunted him with a deliberately blown kiss.
“Thought you might want a snack!” she hollered. The flagrant hostility burned in his eyes, but he seemed at a loss for how to respond. “Your favorite, right?” Emily continued, thoroughly amused with herself. A friend of Samson’s punched him in the arm, deriding him by repeating Emily’s words.
“That’s so wrong, Emily.” Amy Webb chastised from a few seats over. “You think maybe you should give the guy a break?”
“Nope,” Emily replied flatly, climbing into the bench next to her brother. “Not unless you’re talking about one of his bones.” Not a hint of remorse showed on her face as she unwrapped her silverware. Jake peeled back the waxy casing of an enormous red velvet cupcake, looking almost giddy as he prepared to eat it.
“Sometimes you’re just mean,” Amy accused, tucking her chin-length brown hair behind an ear.
I removed the lid from my Tupperware, stiffening at the indignant look erupting on Emily’s no longer smiling face. I silently pleaded on this stranger’s behalf, beseeching Emily with my eyes. But she wasn’t looking anywhere near me. She turned her head to the right, locking eyes with Amy. “Mean?”
The table went completely quiet.
One by one, conversations died and heads angled to achieve optimum view of what was surely about to happen. Friends and teammates, everyone here knew Emily well enough to be proficient at spotting the first signs of her temper; which was why it surprised me Amy had spoken up.
Though it was much too late for a retraction, Amy looked to be reconsidering her slipshod remark. She tilted her head submissively. “I’m just sayin’, Em, sometimes you—”
“I can be mean,” Emily finished. Her eyes reminded me of chocolate melting in a saucepan. They didn’t boil their ingredients; they liquefied them. “You want to know what I think is mean, Amy?” Emily leaned forward, resting her cheek in her palm. “Last week when that tool dumped Anna in front of half the school, and then the next week told everyone that a sock would be more fun in bed—which, of course,” she raised her voice, “Samson would know from plenty of experience.”
My mild efforts to divert Emily were wasted efforts; she was beyond reasoning with. Not that I would have been brave enough to say something in front of this many people—or in private, for that matter. Still, I wished I could clap my hands and freeze time, just long enough to give Emily a chance to cool down before deciding to obliterate this girl or not.
“Or,” she continued in a voice deceptively innocuous, “how about a few months ago, when he basically molested Brigit at the bonfire? And then refused to give her a ride home because she didn’t want to ‘talk’ in the lifeguard tower with him. What do you think about those things, Amy? Any of them sound mean to you? I don’t know. Maybe you could use some help understanding that word before you use it again.”
Jake lifted his head and blinked, looking up and down the table as though he’d woken to discover his friends standing at the foot of his bed. He brushed burgundy crumbs from his lips, missing the globs of frosting at the corners of his mouth. “Huh?” he said.
Emily stabbed a fork into her chow mein. “I’m just sayin’, Amy.” Then she put a bite into her mouth.
I was amazed to realize that was the conclusion. Although Amy was doing her best not to burst into tears, sniffing inconspicuously into her cob salad, I wondered if she understood it could have been much worse. She must have felt me watching her, because she looked up and immediately bugged her eyes, giving me an easily comprehended look; one that said, And what are you looking at?
“So, how about them Red Sox?” Jake, always one to lighten the mood, broke through the awkward silence looming like dark clouds over the table.
“I’m jonesin’ for a Snapple,” Emily announced, no trace of anything but spontaneous craving in her voice. She spun around and glanced at me. “You want to come with?”
“Sure,” I replied. As I followed behind Emily, the feeling of something unpleasant tugged on my conscious, whispered at me to talk to my friend. To tell her that, although she was correct in her assessment of Samson, the way she went about proving her point—ridiculing Amy—was actually quite mean.
“Do you want something?” Emily asked.
“What? No!”
Emily stared at me like I had suddenly spoke Italian. “Okay, Feisty. I’m just offering,” she said, grabbing a drink from a well-stocked refrigerator.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Em. I was just thinking about something.”
“No worries. So do you want something or not?” She held the door open, letting the cool air rush out.
I felt guilty now and didn’t want to seem ungrateful. “Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having. Thank you.”
Emily reached in and grabbed another Snapple. “Yup.” She went to pay the lunch lady and began chatting with her.
With a moment to think, I began to entertain the idea of confronting her. The inte
rnal explanations commenced.
Emily . . . that wasn’t very nice. You should say you’re sorry and—No. Too much like a second grade teacher.
Em . . . Amy is such a lame-o. But really, I don’t think embarrassing her was the best way to—Ugh. Really, Foster? Lame-o? Come on, you can do better than that.
Emily, bullying is a serious offense . . . Great. Now I sound like a high school guidance counselor.
“Emily.”
“Yeah?”
“Huh?” I looked up, watching as Emily handed her credit card to the cashier. So consumed with my deliberations, I hadn’t realized I had actually said her name aloud.
“Thanks,” she said before turning around. She met my disoriented gaze, eliciting a help me face as she juggled two drinks and a brownie in her hands. I freed her of the drinks. “You said my name, right?”
“Oh . . . Right,” I mumbled.
Okay. Here’s my chance. I can be honest and real with Emily—just tell her the truth and trust that she won’t hate me.
“Emily.” I had that part down. I clutched the cold bottles to my chest, trying to slow my rapidly beating heart by freezing it. She waited expectantly. A burst of adrenaline shot through my veins, making me a bit woozy and sending blasts of heat up my neck. My throat felt dry, like I had been sucking on a lozenge made out of sand.
“I . . . I . . .” I’m such a coward. “I think that’s Maddie over there right?” I pointed and squinted my eyes for added effect. My shoulders sagged in defeat as Emily turned around to find Jake’s girlfriend.
Emily turned back around, a strange, quizzical expression on her face. “Yeah . . . she sits with us every day, Fost.”
I read the “What’s your point?” look on her face, quickly trying to think of a point. “Do you-do you think we should get her a drink too?”
She nodded. “Peach or Cranberry?” Emily asked, walking back toward the fridge.
“Oh.” I smiled plastically. “Either one is delicious.”
Walking back to the table, I was sure I had made the right decision. Our friendship was perfect the way it was. Changing that now would ruin everything. I didn’t need a change; I just needed to make it through the rest of the year unnoticed.
Awakening Foster Kelly Page 12
