by Alexa Martin
We finally found Dad wandering up and down a dock behind the restaurant, still deep in conversation. He got off the phone when he saw us approaching. Mom didn’t even try to hide her anger.
“That was very rude of you to disappear like that.”
“It’s my career. I have to be available.”
“Oh, you seem plenty available!” Mom said.
Dad rubbed his brow. “Margot—I can’t do this right now.”
“You’re drunk!” Mom snapped.
“You’re drunk!”
James Henry glanced at me. “Maybe Charlotte should drive us home,” he said.
“Um,” I stammered.
“I don’t think—” my father began.
“Excellent idea,” Mom said, tossing me the keys. “You’ll be fine.”
James Henry crossed himself. “May the Force be with us.”
For about five minutes I handled myself like a Jedi, the Audi my X-wing starfighter, the lanes of downtown Seattle the canyons of the Death Star. Not even the Emperor himself could stop me.
Then we came to a hill.
“I’m not ready for this. It’s too steep.”
“Nonsense!” Dad said. “A lot of people climb mountains to get over their fear of heights.”
Halfway up the nearly vertical incline, the inevitable happened. We came to a light.
As far as I was concerned, Darth Vader would have been a preferable nemesis. Sweat pooled under my arms. The seconds ticked by like blips on a life-support monitor. Suddenly a woman staggered out into the intersection. She was either drugged or crazy or both. She stopped briefly right in front of our car and shook her fist at us—as if in warning. When the light changed, I pressed down hard on the accelerator. The Audi—no longer an X-wing—shot forward. And died.
“Oh, dear,” Mom said, as the cars behind us began to honk.
“I’m sorry,” I said, tears of frustration pooling in my eyes. “I’m not much of a mountain climber, I guess.”
“It would seem not,” my father heartily agreed. “This is why you need to practice more often.”
Monday morning in Chemistry, Mimi sat at a different table. I gave her a little nod, but she looked right through me. She’d been assigned a new student to lead around, a boy with glasses and a giant mole on his neck. You could tell by the way she was batting her eyelashes and twirling her limp mousy hair that she had a crush on her new charge.
Her face looked sunburned. I wondered if she’d gone hiking over the weekend. It had been nice on Saturday, but I’d spent most of the day inside helping Mom finish unpacking the house. My hands were dry and calloused from all the cardboard boxes I’d broken down.
Sadly, there would be no hiking this week—at least not in western Washington. The rain had set in on Sunday and showed no sign of letting up. Everything was glossy with water.
The loudspeaker crackled with the morning announcements. In a hokey disc jockey voice, our student body president said, “Fall is here with a vengeance. Due to the mud, the Maze will be closed indefinitely. Please do your best to keep our beloved building clean.”
The class groaned.
When lunch period rolled around, I grabbed the cheese and tomato sandwich I’d made at home and headed up to the rest-room in the GATE wing. With the Maze closed, this was my only good option. To my dismay, however, I found a security guard stationed by the door.
“New rule,” he said. “Five minutes max. Any more and I give you detention.”
I turned around and left.
Though I’d heard that the library was off-limits for lunch, I figured it couldn’t hurt to try. Maybe if I sat at an out-of-the-way carrel, no one would notice I was there. Just as I was settling in to work, the librarian scurried over. “Which class are you here for?” she demanded.
“I’m not here for class. But I’m studying.”
“General library hours are before and after school. If you forget the times, they’re posted on the door. You can’t be here right now.” She was swatting me out like a mouse. Like it or not, I was going to have to brave the cafeteria.
When I got there, I stood at the periphery, scanning the tables for a friendly face. I tried to project calm and confidence. Spotting Mimi, I waved. Maybe she’d give me another chance. Once again, she blatantly ignored me. She and the new guy were certainly sitting very close together. Hope he likes braces, I thought unfairly, forgetting that it was I who’d rejected her and not the other way around.
Miraculously, I found an empty table. Even better, it was in the back corner of the cafeteria. This was a little strange, but I didn’t think too much about it as I sat down. For something to do, I stared at my cell phone and contemplated sending Kara a text. But what was I going to say? Hello—I’m a loser, how are you?
Before I’d even swallowed the first bite of my sandwich, someone tapped my shoulder—someone with fake black nails as long as talons.
Turning around slowly, I discovered that I was surrounded by the girl gang.
“Excuse me,” the leader said in a fake-nice voice. She sat down beside me and slung an arm around my shoulder. Her muscles were as large and meaty as a linebacker’s. “Is there some reason you’re here?”
I wriggled away from her and got to my feet. “Um—I was just leaving?”
“Right. Looks to me like you were settling in.”
“You’ve got some nerve,” another girl said. “Don’t you know this table is reserved?”
“I’m new,” I said. “I don’t know anything.”
“Not so fast,” the leader said, blocking me as I tried to walk away. “Forgetting something?” Lifting my backpack from the floor, she gave me an evil smile.
Then, without warning, she rammed my backpack hard into my chest, and I stumbled backward in surprise. Thankfully, everyone in the vicinity was studiously ignoring me.
Devoid of dignity, I somehow managed not to cry as I left the cafeteria. When I made it to the main restroom I found that it too was guarded. “Five minutes.”
In desperation, I returned to the library.
From behind her desk, the librarian glared at me with exasperation. “I told you—”
“Please,” I interrupted. “Put me to work. I could shelve books. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“You girls are such drama queens. I’m sorry, but we don’t need extra help.”
“Fine. I’m going.”
“Uh, hello!” a voice said from behind me. “Who says I don’t need help?”
I spun around. And found myself face-to-face with Amanda Munger.
The librarian sighed at Amanda and turned to me. “You can stay. But no talking, texting, or eating, got it?” A phone rang from in the back. She stood up. “Excuse me.”
Amanda blew a bubble at me with her neon orange gum. I pointed to the room where the librarian had disappeared, tapped a finger to my temple, and made a loopy motion with my fingers.
The bubble popped. The gum was sucked in. Amanda grinned. “Rough day?”
“Something like that,” I muttered, too upset from everything that had just happened to appreciate the miracle that Amanda Munger had just saved my ass.
“Boy problems?”
“It’s…complicated,” I said vaguely, hoping she wouldn’t press. How could I possibly explain my recent humiliation without humiliating myself? “Why are the bathrooms guarded right now?”
“It’s all over YouTube,” Amanda said. “Apparently on Friday, some guy filmed the principal’s daughter making out with another girl in one of the school bathrooms.”
“Guess that’s one way to come out of the closet,” I said.
“I know, right? It sucks for us, but I give her credit for being so ballsy. Wait—is it PC to call a lesbian ballsy?” Changing the subject, she gestured at the book cart. “It’s pretty simple. All you have to know is how to read numbers.”
“Got it,” I said.
Amanda put on her iPod, and we worked together in silence, she pushing the cart,
me putting the books back in place. Amanda shimmied her hips and bobbed her head to the beat of whatever band she was listening to. Today she was wearing a flouncy white skirt, combat boots, a black corset, and this cool lacy scarf. It was a brave outfit—very Madonna à la eighties—but she had the panache to pull it off.
Toward the end of the period, she removed her earplugs and studied me with a thoughtful expression. I could tell she was trying to decide something about me. Then, abruptly she asked, “Have you heard of Abney Park?”
Her question caught me off guard. It was just so…random. “Are you talking about that steampunk band?”
“My boyfriend’s in an industrial band,” she said. “They’re opening for Abney Park later this month down in Portland.”
“That’s not a bad gig,” I said. “Abney Park is huge in Europe.”
“Do you like steampunk?”
Taking a gamble, I answered honestly. “Sometimes it’s cool if I’m in a weird head space. But mostly I think it’s a little over the top.”
She nodded approvingly. “That’s what I think too. Here,” she said, handing me her earbuds. “Listen to Reptile—my boyfriend’s band.”
Reptile played the kind of songs the music industry would market to “disaffected youth.” You could replace them with about a million other bands. I listened for about thirty seconds. “Love ’em,” I said.
Amanda shrugged. “Boone—that’s my boyfriend—he’s the lead singer. He looks exactly like Adrian Grenier—you know, that guy from Entourage?”
“Sounds hot,” I said, returning a book to its shelf. “Do you have pictures?”
“No. I slashed them up during our last fight.” She smiled sheepishly, but you could tell she was proud of herself.
I laughed. “Must have been a bad fight.”
“Not really. It’s just that we’re both such passionate people.”
The librarian was back at her desk. She beckoned to Amanda with her finger. Amanda sighed. “Dragon lady calls. Be back in a flash. Hold down the fort.”
I shook my head as she walked away. Surreal.
Amanda returned a minute later, rolling her eyes.
“Everything okay?” I asked, trying not to sound overly curious.
“Hold on,” she whispered, pushing the book cart over to a more discreet location. Then she leaned against a wall and slid down into a sitting position. “God. I’m so sick of this shit. The bitch just took away my iPod to remind me that I’m here on her terms, that I’m ‘serving time for a crime.’” She made quotation marks with her fingers when she said this last part.
“The graffiti incident? I heard about that.”
“It was art!” she said tongue-in-cheek, holding her hand to her heart. “My art.”
“I think what you did was awesome,” I said. “Totally subversive.”
“It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” she scoffed. “Now I’m supposed to do community service every weekend, I have detention every afternoon, and I’m grounded until like Christmas.”
“Most artists don’t get respect until after they’re dead,” I joked.
She seemed to like this. “What did you say your name was?” When I told her, she nodded but didn’t introduce herself. I guessed she knew she didn’t have to. When the bell rang she said, “See you tomorrow?”
“Probably,” I said, trying to hide my excitement.
There was an assembly at the end of the day. Attendance was mandatory. I sat with my Political Science class smack dab in the middle of the auditorium. It was mostly a bunch of bullshit. The principal welcomed us to the new school year. The vice-principal went over disciplinary guidelines. The guidance counselor reminded us that her door was always open.
Ha.
I pulled out Great Expectations. I was at the part where Pip, the main character, first encounters Estella, the object of his obsession. Miss Mason, it turned out, didn’t much like the book. She kept apologizing for Charles Dickens’s “wordiness.” She didn’t see the comic brilliance of his sentences, the way he made everything seem so animated, be it a person or an animal or even a mere speck of dust.
I was just turning the page when a new voice, a student voice, started speaking from the stage. Something about the voice—some rare ineffable quality compelled me to look up. Neal Fitzpatrick was standing before the podium like he owned the auditorium. “I’m here to talk about the scintillating topic of the recycling bins,” he said, his expression amused. It was as if he were silently acknowledging the pointlessness of our being here. “I know that saving the planet isn’t always easy or fun.…”
I sat up straighter.
“I know that trash can be a little gross.…”
I LOVE trash!
“All I ask is that each of you do your part.…”
ANYTHING!
Neal wasn’t an impassioned speaker. That wouldn’t have worked at Shady Grove. But he was funny in a self-mocking way, and somehow, without taking himself too seriously, he managed to make the subject of trash feel relevant. I glanced around the room just to see who all was listening. It was amazing. Even the total deadbeats were paying attention.
He took a quick sip of water. (How I envied the glass for getting to touch his beautiful, refined mouth!) “On a different note,” he continued, “as some of you may know—I’m captain of the debate team.” Some of the kids hooted. Neal bowed. “Yeah. I know—I can hardly believe it myself sometimes. My point is that we still have a few spots left to fill for the year. Debate is open to anyone who has a GPA of at least 3.0. If you’re interested, we have some applications available in the office.”
With impeccable timing, he finished speaking just as the bell rang.
Almost without knowing what I was doing, I stopped by the office on my way out of school. I was just reading over the questions on the debate application when this voice said, “Hey, Neal—looks like we have ourselves a live one.”
I looked up and saw a Hispanic kid with a long ponytail giving me an amused smile. Neal Fitzpatrick was standing right behind him. My stomach dropped. My heart went into arrhythmia.
“You’re interested in debate?” Neal asked. My face grew hot. I forgot how to speak. Neal shot his friend a dirty look. “You’re scaring off the applicants, Diego.” Then he gave me this soft smile like I was a timid animal he didn’t want to frighten.
I gulped. “I liked your speech. About the recycling, I mean. Let me know if I can help.”
Diego laughed. “There is something you can do. You can recycle.”
Neal rolled his eyes. “Diego has a condition. It’s called diarrhea of the mouth. It comes in handy with debate. The rest of the time…” He shook his head.
Diego clutched his chest and pretended to stagger.
I laughed nervously.
“Debate is the art of persuasion,” Neal said. “Are you persuasive?”
“You should hear me at home,” I said. Hadn’t I, after all, talked my parents into letting me attend Shady Grove? Whatever that was worth…
“Good. That’s very good.” Neal rubbed his hands together like he couldn’t wait to mold me into a speaker extraordinaire.
“I should probably get going,” I said, terrified of the moronic things I might do or say if I stuck around any longer.
“Get that application in soon,” Neal said. “Like tomorrow, if possible. Our first tournament is less than six weeks away. Oh, and you should give me your application directly. I’ll put in a good word with the coach.”
“Thanks,” I said, stuffing the application into my backpack.
“What’s your name?” he asked as I turned to leave.
“Charlotte. Charlotte Locke.”
Like Amanda, he didn’t introduce himself.
For dinner, Mom made steak and mashed potatoes. What was she thinking? This was not blood-pressure-friendly fare.
“These potatoes are great,” Dad proclaimed after he’d taken his first bite. Then, “How was everyone’s day?”
“There’s a science fair next month,” James Henry said. “I’m going to do my project on mushrooms. Milton said he’d help me.”
Mom perked up. “Milton Zacharias?”
“Do we know any other Miltons?” I asked.
My brother took a big gulp of his protein drink and said, “Milton told me this is the perfect time of year for mushrooms—especially with all the rain we’ve had.”
“I think mushrooms are cool,” Mom said.
Dad looked thoughtful. “Maybe I’ll add a mushroom scene to my next book.”
Annoyed, I asked, “Isn’t anyone worried that Milton’s going to teach James Henry about psychedelic mushrooms?”
My brother shook his head emphatically. “Milton had a friend who almost died doing ’shrooms. Besides, he’s not like that.”
I’d heard enough about Milton.
“How were your classes today?” I asked Mom.
“Great,” she said. “A couple of my Victorian Literature students came up to tell me how much they’re enjoying the class.” She cleared her throat. “Actually—I’ve been thinking that I might want to turn this course into a book.”
“That’s a good thought,” Dad said. “Seems like a perennial topic in academic circles.”
“In academic circles?”
Dad laughed. “C’mon, Margot. A book on the Victorians is University Press material.”
“I’d read it,” I said.
Mom gave my arm a little squeeze.
“Any headway on your college applications?” Dad asked me.
Was he gearing up to give me a lecture on all the ways I wasn’t cutting the mustard? Well, he was in for a surprise tonight. “They’re not due for a while yet,” I said. “But I have been thinking of some ways to make myself stand out.”
“Oh, yeah?”
It was all I could do not to smirk. “I’m going out for the debate team. I talked to the captain today.”
Dad nearly dropped his fork. “That’s nice to hear, Charlotte.”
Mom gave me a funny look. “Do you have an interest in public speaking?”
I shrugged. I had an interest in being eloquent. Wasn’t that the same thing?
“Debate is an excellent foundation for a legal career,” Dad said, shaking some A1 sauce onto his plate. “We’ll need a lawyer in the family if James Henry is going to be a stockbroker.”
