by Ginger Scott
“Unbelievable,” I whisper to myself as I stand with only half of my things, relenting the fact that I’m now going to have to make two trips. My red sweater is barely clinging to my grip, one sleeve dragging along the ground as I cross the driveway to my backdoor. My new neighbor keeps his back to me the entire time, his focus on the slow dribble of his ball. I give him a good long stare as I push my ass into the door a few times, my free fingers fumbling for the handle, desperate to get it open.
“Thanks for helping,” I whisper again, following it up with the word asshole in my head.
Suddenly, his dark eyes are on mine, and I would swear he heard me with the smug smirk that creeps into one cheek. The ball never stops moving. His hand never stops moving. He’s operating completely independent of the hypnosis he’s attempting to put me under—the soft squint to his eyes somehow making them more ominous. I’m not quite sure he isn’t evil. And I’m also not quite sure that this hypnosis isn’t working.
A gift, the door behind me unhinges and I stumble backward inside, somehow catching my balance so I don’t make a complete ass out of myself in front of mister darkness.
I race upstairs quickly, tossing my pile of things on my bed without care, hurrying to the window to orient myself with exactly what my view is in relationship to the driveway. With one push of the curtain, I know.
His eyes are right back to me, almost as if he were expecting me to look—expecting me to find him. The damned smirk on his face is still there, and my heart is thumping away at my stomach, not so much from flutters…as panic. The ball is still in motion, and I can’t help but beg myself to remember the sight of him, so I can think about it later and decide if he’s really as scary as my instincts tell me he is.
His white T-shirt V-necks, and the sleeves hug his biceps. He’s wearing long black basketball shorts, and his hair is short, but long enough on top for the strands to twist in various directions. From a distance, he’s a really good-looking guy. But I have a feeling—and a fear—that it’s his eyes that hold the power. From fifteen feet up and fifty feet away, they literally smolder. If I weren’t such a social pariah, I would march back down the stairs and introduce myself. I’d ask him why he’s dribbling a ball in my driveway, using the hoop bolted to the eave of our garage. But my feet are stuck to the carpet of my new bedroom, and my hands are burning from the roughness of the curtains my hand is now squeezing.
When I think I can’t handle much more, his lip twitches, and then he blows me a kiss and turns around to shoot the ball into the hoop.
What. The. Hell. Was. That?
I let go of my grip on the curtain and fall to my knees, wishing there was some way I could erase the last five minutes of my life. Instead, I slide so my back is against the window’s wall, so I can’t see him, only hear the rhythmic thump of the basketball for the next twenty minutes.
When I feel safe enough to look again, I crawl to my knees and peel the curtain fabric back an inch. The hoop is quiet. The driveway is quiet. Now is my chance.
Racing to the driveway, I scoop up the remaining things that I left there before and close the hatch to the car. I don’t glance at his house, and I don’t dwell long enough to know anything for certain. But I am positive that the front door was open—the inside of the house barely hidden behind a thin porch screen.
And I’m pretty sure my mystery neighbor from hell was standing there…watching.
Chapter 2
Yesterday was registration. I missed it. Too busy with the move for my mom to find the time to drive the two point five miles to Woodstock South. I don’t have a car. I barely have a license, so borrowing a car without one of my parents in the passenger seat is out of the picture too. And two point five miles—while not far with wheels—is a hell of a long way by foot.
So I begin Woodstock South High School today—completely and utterly lost.
Dad dropped me off on his way to Milwaukee. It was early enough that I was able to get the printout of my schedule from the front office and find my way to the music room. My first two periods are music—the first one with the band as a whole, and the second one is independent study. This is the only part my father made sure of. The rest, me getting into honors English and math, was all my doing, all the result of my persistent emailing to my guidance counselor to ensure I was not trapped in a public school classroom with burnouts.
This is the first year I’ve gone to school without a uniform. I know most girls my age would love the rebellion of this, the freedom to choose, to find a look all their own.
I miss my uniform.
Uniforms are easy. No decisions to make. Instead, I spent the first half hour of my morning switching from jeans to leggings and back to jeans again. It’s fall in Illinois, the leaves are changing, and the winds come and go.
I’m glad I settled on the jeans now as I stand outside the band room door, my knuckles pink and tender from rapping on it repeatedly, hoping someone will let me inside.
“You in, Harper?” I hear a male’s voice behind me, rounding the corner. I’m unable to stop myself from turning to see who it is. Soon I’m looking right into the eyes of my mysterious neighbor, the one I named Demon Spawn last night as I worked myself up over how cocky and rude he was in the driveway. His lip ticks up, and his eyes squint when he notices me, but he looks away fast.
“You know it! Let me just…make an appearance,” he says, pounding his knuckles with the first guy to speak. The group of four guys passes me, and the demon never glances my way again. Once they’re a few steps away from entering the main hall doors, I hear them erupt in laughter, drawing my eyes to them again, expecting them to all be looking at me—teasing the new girl.
But they’re not. They disappear behind the doors seconds later, and finally the band room door opens and I slip inside.
“Oh my god, how long have you been waiting out here? I’m so sorry; we never hear the door in the morning. It’s too loud in here,” says a girl with reddish blond hair piled into a bun on top of her head. She’s wearing tight black jeans and a black hoodie, and her gloves are missing their fingers. She almost looks tough, except her face is dotted with freckles and her breath smells like strawberry from the giant wad of gum she’s popping through her smile.
“Not long. It’s okay,” I lie. I was out there knocking for a solid five minutes, but this girl seems nice.
“Oh, good. Here, come on in. I’ll introduce you to Mr. Brody,” she says, waving me forward. I drop my backpack next to the others that are piled by the door. The room is full of noise—saxophones, trombones, flutes—everyone tuning.
“I’m Willow, by the way,” she says, reaching out her hand. I shake it and notice how cold her fingertips feel compared to the knitted part of her hand still covered by a glove.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Kensington,” I start, but pause, struck instantly by the realization that as much as I don’t want to be here, it is a new beginning. And new beginnings do have their perks. “But people call me Kensi.”
“Kensi…cool! I like that!” she says, her enthusiasm maybe a little obnoxious. I like her anyway.
“Mr. Brody, I found Kenny,” she says, already blowing my new identity, as I trail behind her into a small office to the side of the main band room. A small man stands at my introduction. He’s maybe four or five inches shorter than I am, and his glasses are propped on top of his head, which barely has any hair. He’s eating a donut, so he finds a tissue on his desk and rests the half-eaten treat on it before dusting his hands for crumbs along his gray pants.
“Kensington Worth, yes. Glad you found the room!” he says, his glasses falling right into place on his nose.
“People call her Kenny,” Willow interjects for me. She’s assertive, oddly so. I like her a little more, and I’m starting to hope she’ll be my friend. I could use a dash of assertive.
“Actually, it’s Kensi,” I correct.
“Ohhhh, yeah. Sorry, Kensi,” Willow says, her face embarrassed at her slip.
> “Well, all-righty then. Kensi it is,” Mr. Brody says, popping the full other half of his donut in his mouth as he ushers us back into the main room. “So, Kensi…what’s your instrument?”
I’m puzzled by his question. This should have been settled. I play the piano. My dad made sure everyone in this entire school system knew I played the piano. And he made sure everyone knew they were to accommodate my need to play, whenever he demanded.
“Piano?” It comes out unsure.
“Right, right. I know that. I mean for band, for marching. You can’t really march with a piano.” I heard him, but inside I was hoping maybe there was a way I could rewind—reverse myself right back outside the door, back home, back through my boxes, and back to the city.
Marching.
What the hell was I going to do?
“I…I don’t know. I don’t really play anything else. And I don’t…march,” I say, looking around the room as the hundred or so students begin to file into chairs based on the instruments they play. Yeah…there are no piano groups here.
“No problem. We’ll make you a pit player,” he says, shrugging his head to the left for me to follow him.
“Pit…player?” I ask, but I start to understand the closer we get to the percussion instruments. “Here’s a pair of mallets. You’ll find your way around the xylophone in no time. You sight read?”
“I do, but…” I start to protest, suddenly aware that he’s walking away and mallets are now in my hands.
The xylophone is essentially a piano. The keys are all the same, only you strike them with sticks. I used to love playing on them at my father’s office when I was young. But I haven’t played one in years.
“Hey, I’m Jess,” says one of the guys standing near me. I shake his hand and repeat his name in my head over and over again. Jess, Jess, Jess. Willow, Willow, Willow. I know two people here now.
“Hi, I’m Kensi. I guess I’m playing xylophone,” I say through a nervous smile.
“Yeah, looks like it,” he says, bending over and pulling a harness for a snare drum over his head. “Welcome to the drum line.”
“You about ready, babe?” Willow says over my shoulder, causing me to turn and pinch my brow, wondering how I got moved to babe so quickly. My question is answered when she brushes by me and pulls Jess’s face toward hers and kisses him quickly.
“Sure. Let’s get this pep-rally shit over with,” Jess says, spinning one of his drumsticks over his head, his eyebrows raised, feigning enthusiasm.
“Pep…rally?” I say, just as Mr. Brody drops a flipbook of music on top of the xylophone. My xylophone now, so it would seem.
“Yep, first day of school always starts in the gym. Pep rally. It’s our thing,” Willow says, pressing a whistle between her lips and blowing hard. “Let’s go, peeps. Meet you in the gym in six minutes!”
“She’s the drum major. She likes the power trip. Normally she’s a flute player. Flutes suck! I get it. And her uniform is pretty hot, so…ya know,” Jess says, winking at me. He’s a typical drummer—shaved head, double piercings in his ears, chain dangling from his back pocket.
Everyone is packing up, lugging their instruments out the door, and I feel like my chest is caving in on me, as if my rib bones are actually cracking into pieces and stabbing my heart and other internal organs. I glance quickly at the booklet of music in front of me. Fight song, national anthem, a bunch of top-forty tunes. Yeah, it’s all pretty simple stuff. If I can sight-read Beethoven, I should be able to read this.
“Jess!” I catch him before he steps through the door. “How…how do I get this to the gym?”
He grins at me, then slides his sunglasses on. “You push it,” he laughs, then lets the door close behind him.
Fucking drummers.
Right. Push it. Okay, I can do this. I tuck the music book under the first layer of keys and then shove the mallets into my back pocket. I slide the wheels back and forth a few times to make sure they’re not locked, take a deep breath, and push what is so very much not a piano to the doorway.
I’m the last one in the room, so I fling the door open, hold it with my hip and then back the xylophone out, banging nearly every key on the door jam as I do it. Then it hits me. I don’t know where the gym is.
I don’t know where the gym is!
There’s a natural flow of students walking down a hill, so I follow them. And when I start to see instruments in a few hands, I sigh with relief.
The doors to the gym are within sight. Unfortunately, Demon Spawn and his group of friends are also nearby, almost guarding the door. My inner voice is wishing he won’t notice me, but the awkward new student is hoping one of them will help me inside and hold open the door.
Neither wish is granted, and his eyes land squarely on me, his lip doing that twitching thing again that lets me know he sees me. It also lets me know he isn’t going to be of any help at all.
I’m lifting the front wheels down a level on the sidewalk and am only a dozen or so yards from the entrance when I look at him again to catch him nod a laugh to his friends—just before he kicks his foot toward me, covering my pathway in gravel.
It doesn’t take long for one of the tiny stones to wedge itself into one of the wheels, causing a high-pitched screeching sound and leaving a long, chalk-like skid for the few feet I drag my frozen wheel along the walkway. I stop, bend down, and push the rock out with the back of my mallet, my face burning from the attention. When I stand again, he’s looking at me—laughing.
“You’re an asshole,” I say, which only makes his lip twitch again.
“Hey, sorry, this is hard to haul alone,” Willow says, opening up the door and staring down Demon Spawn. “Not every guy at this school is a douchebag. Most of them help a girl out when she needs it.”
My demon neighbor slowly raises his hand, holding up a middle finger before blowing her a kiss.
“In your dreams, Owen,” she fires back.
Willow grabs the front of my keyboard and helps me guide the xylophone inside, all the way to the far end of the gym where the band is now set up.
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. So far, this first day has sucked epic proportions.
“No sweat,” she says, leaning against the wall next to me.
I recognize the principal from my visit to the office this morning to get my schedule. He taps on a microphone a few times and then begins to say a few announcements, something about busses, student parking, lunch hours—none of this applies to me. Of course, an hour ago, a xylophone didn’t apply to me either.
When I look to my right, I notice Demon Spawn, who I guess is really named Owen, shuffle along the front of the bleachers until he and his friends are almost next to me. He chuckles lightly when he’s near me, then turns to climb to the top of the bleachers. Maybe I imagine hearing his arrogant laugh, but I sort of don’t think I do.
“What’s his story?” I whisper to Willow.
“Who, Owen?” she asks.
“I guess. That’s his name?” I respond.
“Yeah. That’s Owen Harper. He’s…well…he’s a dick. Sorry, hope you’re not offended by that word,” she says, covering her mouth, like she’s trying to be demure. I like Willow. She’s direct and funny, and she seems like she’s fine with who she is. She reminds me of Gaby and Morgan.
“I’m from the city. I’ve heard worse,” I smile, and she leans into me.
“Cool. Okay, well then…he’s a major fucking dick!” she laughs, and I join her.
“Right. I think I already had that much figured out. Rocks kicked at me sorta clinched my hunch, but thanks,” I whisper to her, trying not to interrupt the rest of the principal’s speech.
Willow shrugs, then kicks off from the wall to stand in front of the band after the principal tells everyone to rise and remove their hats. I note the key that they’re playing in, and leave my music tucked away. I know the national anthem, so I won’t have to read this one. The fight song is going to be a different story though.
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Near the end of the song, I allow myself to glance in Owen’s direction, and he and his friends are all standing still with their hats against their chest, respectful of this, at the very least. I don’t know why, but for some reason I’m relieved that he’s not that much of an asshole.
We play two or three more songs before the football team is announced, and I manage to figure out the fight song quickly, playing along. My dad would throw a fit if he knew this is how my first period of music was going. I’m kind of having fun, though, so I don’t think I’ll tell him.
Willow helped me haul the xylophone back to the band room, and Owen wasn’t around to kick any more speed bumps under my legs. In fact, he seemed to disappear entirely after the pep rally this morning.
My second period was blissful, spent alone in one of the music practice rooms. I cheated on my lessons and instead spent the hour playing jazz. My next two classes were less pleasant. Part of being placed in honors math and English meant I could expect homework right out of the gate, which I got—several chapters of reading and a lengthy problem set.
What I didn’t expect was to hear the teacher call out “Owen Harper” in both of my classes. Harper—I’m pretty sure that’s his last name. That’s what that one guy called him when they walked by me early this morning. He didn’t strike me as an honors kind of anything.
By the time the lunch hour rolls around, my stomach is growling so loudly that I’m sure people near me in the hallway can hear it.
“There you are. How were your morning classes?” Willow asks. She’s a junior, so I don’t have any classes with her.
“All right, I guess. I have homework already,” I say, and she scrunches up her face in disapproval.
“Yeah, me too,” she says.
I follow Willow to the cafeteria and mimic everything she does. I grab a tray, shuffle along the counter, and pull the same sandwich, apple, and drink from the coolers that she does. I won’t be able to copy her for long; I get a feeling she eats kind of healthy, and I’m going to have to delve into the pizza and fries line one day this week.
