Kristen Chandler

by Boys; Other Things That Might Kill Me (v5) Wolves

  When Mrs. Baby was my foods teacher last year, she suggested I take journalism. I think she likes me because I did an annotated recipe book for my class project entitled “Twenty-Five Uses for Leftover Elk Meat.” Her favorite was Elk Shakes—The Real Man’s Protein Drink.

  Every other week the journalism class turns out a newspaper for the school. It’s usually so boring even the seventh graders don’t read it.

  I walk as fast as I can through the Hall of Fame, our illustrious entry hall full of trophies and photographs of notable West Enders. Surprisingly my picture has not yet been selected for enshrinement.

  Everyone is saying hello and pushing around in the hallways. I say hello to a few kids. A few kids say hi back, like always. But they’re looking at me. The class pervert says, “What happened to you this summer?” when I pass him in the hallway. I am going to throw this shirt in a hole and set it on fire when I get home.

  I open the classroom door just as the final bell rings. Mrs. Baby gives me an irritated look so I sit down quickly. I can’t believe it—she’s totally pregnant again.

  “Glad you could make it, KJ.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  When I finally stop gaping at Mrs. Baby’s prolific belly I realize I’m sitting next to someone I have never seen before. Someone who is not from my corner of nowhere. Someone whose green flannel shirt is topped off with blond shaggy hair.

  At the end of roll call, Mrs. Baby says, “Virgil Whitman.” She pauses, stares at the name, and then looks at the shaggy head in front of me. “Um, Virgil . . . do you go by a nickname?”

  Nice one Baby, I think. Way to insult the new guy.

  “Virgil’s fine.” The voice from the hair cracks a little. He has some sort of faint accent but I can’t place it. Then I think maybe it’s just that he doesn’t sound like everybody else around here. All the kids in the class stare at him.

  “Well, that’s fine. You’re a junior? Where are you from?” says Mrs. Baby.

  “Saint Paul, Minnesota.” His voice stretches out the last syllable and makes it sound like Min-e-sooda.

  “My dad’s been there,” says Addison. Addison is so lame. The only place her dad ever goes is the hardware store, and she’s already got a prime hulk of a boyfriend, Kenner Martin, sitting next to her, as usual.

  “Why’d you move?” says Kenner, sounding none too happy.

  “My mom is doing some research here,” says Virgil. “We’re just here till June.”

  “What kind of research?” says Kenner. Kenner is smart but he likes to take swipes at anybody who admits they are, too. He comes from a long line of reflexively resentful ranchers. Plus he just likes to torment people.

  Mrs. Baby jumps in. “I hope she’s not here to study our strange customs.”

  Virgil says, “No, she’s a wildlife biology professor. She’s here to study the wolves.”

  “That is so sweet,” says Kenner.

  Virgil looks over at Kenner but doesn’t take the bait. “And she wanted to be close to my aunt Jean.”

  “Jean Arrant is your aunt? It just keeps getting better,” says Kenner and smirks at Addison. Addison smiles back at him. They’re like married people.

  Virgil nods. “Yeah, she’s actually my great-aunt. Do you know her?”

  Addison says, “Oh, everybody knows her.”

  Jean Arrant is like the Howard Hughes of West End. Rich but crazy. Supposedly eats cow brains and sculpts porn.

  Clint, one of the requisite stoners taking the class, says, “Party at Virgil’s.” His friends Bret and Stewie nod in righteous agreement.

  “Your mom studies wolves? Oh, that is so lucky,” says Sondra Reese. Sondra is a genuine animal freak. Today she is wearing a purple T-shirt with a giant turquoise dolphin on the front. Last year she stood outside the Fourth of July Rodeo with a sign that said RODEOS ARE INHUMANE! EVERY TICKET CAUSES PAIN! The police asked her to leave after some kids started trying to rope her feet.

  The shaggy head turns to Sondra, and I get the profile. His face is a little broken out, but his nose has a perfect Roman hook. His eyes are deep and surrounded by amazing long lashes. He looks embarrassed, which of course makes him devastatingly cute.

  “So you must travel a lot then,” says Mrs. Baby.

  “A little. My mom brings me along to take pictures.”

  “You’re a photographer?” says Dennis Welch, getting into the act. Dennis has more acne than the rest of the school put together. I’ve only heard him speak when he was using the words Star Wars or computer in the sentence. Either he has a crush on Virgil, too, or he’s trying to get some points with the only guy in school who hasn’t given him a wedgie.

  “No,” says Virgil. “I just do it for fun. But I could bring some stuff in tomorrow.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I say. I say it out loud . . . before my brain can control my mouth. I slide back into my seat but there is no place to hide.

  Virgil turns around and looks at me. He has the sunniest face I have ever seen. His skin is tan and rough except around his pale blue eyes. His whole face is curved up in a disturbingly unguarded smile. Even his bushy eyebrows smile. He’s solar. I smile back, from my crouched position. He says, “I’ll bring some pictures.”

  Mrs. Baby says, “Yes. Good. Well, as most of you probably know, this class puts out the school newspaper every two weeks. And newspapers need pictures. So, Virgil, bring your photos in. Friday we’ll assign departments. Everyone needs to bring in a sample of their writing or photography, and we’ll figure out what everyone wants to do.”

  “What about editor?” says Dennis. Last year’s editor, Logan Kittredge, moved to a real city so his dad could make some real money doing a real job, or at least that’s what Logan said.

  “I won’t assign that job for a few weeks, Dennis.”

  Kenner says, “Ease up, Star Trek.”

  Dennis pulls out his day planner and makes a note.

  I would laugh at all my provincial inmates, but I’m too busy lusting. I’m not usually interested in a guy with “take a number” on his forehead, but this guy doesn’t have a forehead—it’s buried in messy blond hair. And he’s not one of the twenty guys I’ve known my entire pubescent life. He smiles like the Fourth of July. What’s a dumb girl to do but get in line with everyone else not in his league? I guess journalism just became my most beloved class.

  I go to my Spanish and PE classes on autopilot. Then on to English. Mrs. Vandergraf, our teacher, is about four hundred years old and has been my English teacher twice already. She thinks Beowulf is edgy. But she lets us read in class, so I don’t mind.

  I sit with Joss Tanner and Mandy Wright at lunch. When I show up they just keep talking. This isn’t surprising, because Joss and Mandy are arguing about the cosmic repercussions of grams and calories, and that’s not a subject that should be interrupted mid-debate.

  “That roll is like the worst thing you can eat,” chirps Mandy.

  Joss snorts. “How about that salad dressing you just flooded your lettuce downstream with?” Joss is two inches taller than any other girl at school and she doesn’t like advice.

  “We have to be serious or it won’t work.” Mandy has strawberry blonde hair that she styles in tight curls every morning. She has a patch of freckles on each cheek that make her look like a perturbed Cabbage Patch doll.

  “Be serious?” says Joss. “You are a serious pain in the butt, Mandy.”

  “Fine. You look like this the rest of your life if you want to, but I’m on my way out of these stupid clothes.”

  “You’re on your way out of your mind while you’re at it. It’s a roll. You need to breathe more.”

  Mandy starts forking her dressing-swamped salad to death. Joss puts half the roll in her mouth at once.

  “Hi,” I say for the second time.

  “Hi,” says Mandy in full pout. Joss looks at me like I’m an old newspaper.

  I like Mandy and Joss, but it’s always been clear that they are the pair and I’m
the extra. So they call me to do stuff, but I don’t have metabolism issues so I’m not inner-circle material.

  Not a total loser, more like a free-floating oddball.

  I inhale half my cheeseburger. Ketchup gets on my face about the same time I spot Virgil Whitman wandering around the lunchroom trying to find someplace to sit down. I nearly aspirate my food. I grab Joss’s dirty napkin and clean off my chin. He sits down by himself and starts drinking his milk.

  “Excuse me,” says Joss. “Who is that?”

  “His name is Virgil,” I say. “He’s a complete jerk. I’m sure you wouldn’t like him. And he smells bad and is probably gay.”

  “Did you meet him?” says Mandy.

  “Sort of,” I say.

  Joss snorts. “Have you spilled anything on him yet?”

  I continue rubbing my chin. “Not yet. But thanks for asking.”

  “Did you say anything to him?” says Mandy.

  “Not exactly,” I say.

  “Where’s he from?” says Joss.

  “Min-e-sooda,” I say quietly, trying to look at him out of the corner of my eye. Dennis has migrated to his table and is talking his ear off. Lucky Dennis. “His mom’s a wolf scientist.”

  Mandy takes her napkin out of my hand, “Whatever. Just because you got boobs and haircut. He’s still way out of your league, sweetie.”

  Joss laughs with her mouth open. “KJ doesn’t have a league.”

  I stop chewing. I know they’re kidding. They’re always kidding. But it’s not exactly cracking me up today. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” says Joss. “Don’t be so conceited.”

  “I’m conceited? About what?”

  “Sooo defensive,” says Mandy.

  “Sooo true,” says Joss.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say. My lunch doesn’t taste good anymore.

  Mandy pats my hand like I’m lost in the grocery store. “We’re not trying to make you feel bad. . . . We totally love your new look, don’t we, Joss?”

  “What?” I say.

  Joss opens her mouth again. “At least you don’t look like a Peppermint Patty anymore, right?”

  “Well, not totally, anyway,” says Mandy.

  I say, “I’m going to the library.”

  “There’s a shocker,” says Joss. “Don’t worry, he’s probably gay. Look at that hair.”

  I pick up my tray and take it to the trash can, trying not to look at Virgil, and walk straight into Kenner and Addison. Walking into Kenner is sort of like walking into a moving van. I nearly fall on my face trying to get out of his way.

  Kenner says, “What’s new in Dorkville?”

  Same old Kenner.

  “Be quiet, Kenner,” says Addison. “You look so cute today, KJ. I love your new look.”

  I didn’t know I had a look. And if I have one I’m getting kind of tired of it.

  Kenner says, “Geez, Addie, KJ doesn’t care about that stuff. She’s a tree hugger. She wears bark for underwear, right?”

  “Oh, be quiet,” says Addison.

  “You be quiet,” says Kenner.

  “You be quiet,” says Addison.

  The happy couple walks toward their waiting minions.

  My next class is Algebra II, the second installment of last year’s nightmare. Even stoners are better at math than I am. And this is West End High—not exactly the Harvard of the West.

  I do well in most of my classes. Partly because my dad is a gale-force freak about my grades. And partly because, much to my shame, I like school. Some of it, anyway. But anything involving numbers, spelling, or a foreign language . . . is like a foreign language to me.

  The only semi-bright spot in the algebraic abyss is my teacher, Mr. Muir. He owns a knife and gems store called Sticks and Stones. He’s pretty cool for somebody that teaches math and sells weapons to bikers. Last year he figured out I have dyslexia, and I became his pet project. I studied my guts out and he gifted me a C-minus. But I still can’t do math.

  I sit in the back as usual. Mr. Muir looks up from his table and gives me a little wink. He’s trying to be nice, but it makes me feel like I need a special parking space.

  Kenner and Addie come in and are followed by three other guys from the football team. The Algebra II text must be preferred reading for the jock book club this semester. Addie waves at me like she hasn’t seen me all year and I wave back. A minute later Mandy and Joss walk in, followed by the new guy. He sits down right in front of me, again, and pulls out a book a foot deep.

  Addie says, “Hi, Virgil.” She’s practically panting.

  Virgil looks up, smiles, then goes back to his book. He reads in class more than I do, poor guy.

  “That’s a pretty big book,” says Kenner. Two of Kenner’s brick-brained friends laugh. They’re like a walking sound track, especially Road Work Reynolds, who seems to have donated his brain to science. Kenner has a look on his face that doesn’t bode well for Virgil. “Mr. Minnesota must be a bodybuilder. I bet his boyfriends like that.”

  Virgil keeps reading. He looks relaxed, at least from behind. But why not? He’s from the real world.

  I stare at Virgil’s head with impunity. I can’t help it. The blond mess, slightly lopsided and honey colored, makes me momentarily immune to my own typically incapacitating inhibitions.

  “Whatcha readin’ Vir-gil?” asks Kenner in his best Addie voice.

  “Oh, shut up,” says Addie.

  “Don’t tell me to shut up,” says Kenner.

  Mr. Muir says, “Both of you shut up. Welcome to class, Virgil. Now let’s get to work everyone, and see what you remember from last year.”

  Mr. Muir gets busy writing things on the board. I get busy remembering I’m a math idiot. I also remember I’ll have to stay in this town for the rest of my life being harassed by people like Kenner if I don’t pull a decent grade. My dad will disown me. I’ll end up working the night shift at the gas station, living on the edge of town in a camper. I’ve got things to think about other than the gorgeous freak of nature sitting in front of me.

  Right. From where I’m sitting I can smell the wool in his shirt. The blinking fluorescent tube on the ceiling above him makes little dents of light in his hair.

  Mr. Muir leans forward. I realize he has just asked me a question.

  “KJ, remind the class what the difference is between a conditional and unconditional inequality.”

  What? I’m supposed to be listening to math theory when I have Sexy Hair sitting in front of me? My face floods with traitorous red color.

  “Unconditional inequality is . . . um . . .”

  “Yes?” says Mr. Muir, pointing at something he has obviously just explained on the board. He turns to me and gives me the Special Ed. smile. I feel around in the darkness of my brain. . . .

  Kenner whistles faintly through his teeth making the sound of a crashing airplane. Road Work adds the laugh track.

  Mr. Muir turns back to the board. “Mr. Reynolds, you have a lot of energy today. . . . What is unconditional inequality?”

  Kenner twists in his seat and hands Road Work the algebra book with the page open. Road Work says, “Unconditional inequality is . . . when things can’t ever be the same?”

  I hate Kenner. I hate Road Work. I hate algebra. “Exactly,” says Mr. Muir and continues writing. “And conditional inequality?”

  Road Work looks quickly at his book and draws a blank. Kenner whispers to him. “The opposite?”

  Mr. Muir looks back at him skeptically, sees the book, and says, “Virgil? How about you?”

  Virgil’s warm Minnesota voice floats out in front of me. “When the value of variables changes, when the values can be reversed or destroyed it changes the inequality.”

  “Exactly,” says Mr. Muir “If the variables can change it makes different outcomes possible. Yes, class?”

  Yes, class. Sometimes things can change. Exactly.

  A Poem about Numbers

  If I put it in my headr />
  It just goes out my ear instead.

  A Poem about Math

  Why is this so hard?

  I hate it.

  3

  HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN, JIGGITY JIG

  THE GOOD THING about the first day of school is that eventually it ends. The bad thing is that this means I have to go to work. The other good thing is that Virgil Whitman is in almost every one of my classes. My goal tomorrow is to avoid talking to him. Guys seem to like me better that way.

  On my way walking to work, I figure I have earned fifteen minutes of hooky. I head for the tree house.

  The “house” is a pie slice of plywood wedged in between four lodgepole pines and buttressed up by other scrawny lodgepoles hammered underneath. It doesn’t exactly meet building codes.

  This castle was built by someone else’s dad, but I took it over when I was about seven. It’s on the edge of national forest property, so it’s really anybody’s tree house, and I know from the cigarette butts and beer cans that other kids occasionally come here. Luckily it’s in bad enough shape that most of the burnouts have better places to get wasted.

  From the uneven plywood perch I can see the trees that stand next to our house and a few signs from town, but I never look that direction. The other view is mostly just the tops of lodgepole pine and lots of sky. Not a calendar shot, but restful, especially when the wind is blowing. The pines really do whisper around here.

  One thing I love about the tree house is that this section of the forest is full of old men trees, piney giants that have lived through enough fires and bug infestations to tower over me and make me feel like they are watching. I don’t mind being watched by trees. It’s everyone else that makes me feel like the stupid-smart-intermittently-imploding girl.

  I think about the wolf I saw killed and my dad’s little speech afterward. “The minute that wolf backed down it was all over.”