by Donna Cooner
“Thanks,” I say.
“Abercrombie?”
“Yes.”
“You look” — her eyes narrow at me — “familiar.”
My head is humming. I wait.
“Blair, class has started,” the teacher calls out. “I need your attention.”
Blair grants it graciously, sliding her body around in the chair to face the front of the room, but not before a final comment to me. “You’re going to burn up in that wool.”
“Sorry,” she says loudly to the teacher, and her two friends giggle like it’s a huge joke.
Mrs. Vardeman finishes calling roll and steps to the center of the room. “Today we are discussing our third English Romantic poet, John Keats. Mr. Rivera, can you tell us the names of the other two poets we discussed?”
Luis, the dark-haired boy who stared at me, answers quickly. “Byron and Shelley.”
“Correct.”
“Freak,” Blair whispers under her breath. She’s staring intently across the room.
I look back at the boy. Tall. Wide shoulders. He doesn’t look like an outcast from society, but Blair’s message is clear. Stay away from him. He’s not one of us.
“Frankenstein has all the answers today,” Mia the cheerleader mumbles; and Emily the redhead snickers.
Blair looks at me and arches her eyebrows like she’s asking me to agree. I nod back at her like I completely understand, but I don’t.
The teacher is talking on and on. Something about romance and rhyme and themes. I can’t really focus on anything she says. Instead, I spend the rest of class wondering how to make this whole new-school thing work. My father and I have always been alike in this way. We both need to fix things.
Just as the bell rings, memory invades again.
Miranda’s obsession with superheroes went viral when she was about ten. She watched them on TV, read about them, drew them, and even dressed like them. I was fourteen, and found it totally baffling.
“Guess who this is,” she said. She was talking while she was drawing in her sketchbook. We were sitting at FroYo’s waiting for Mom to finish grocery shopping and I was annoyed I forgot my earbuds.
“Batman,” I said, not looking.
“Not even close. Guess again.”
I was flipping through a new copy of Seventeen magazine, getting impatient with her little game.
“It kind of looks like Superman,” I said, glancing over at her sketch pad, “but it’s a girl, right?”
“Yes …” she said eagerly.
“So … SuperGIRL?” I asked. I went back to my magazine. I was just starting to become fascinated with fashion and beauty.
“Nope,” Miranda said, sucking in her lips like she was holding on to the biggest secret ever.
“I give up.” I wasn’t really trying that hard at guessing and we both knew it.
“Ta-da!” She made jazz hands beside her face. “It’s YOU.”
“Me?”
She stretched the words out into each individual syllable. “Sen … sa … tion … al Sis … ter.”
I looked a little closer at the picture, seeing for the first time the long brown hair and the blue eyes. I laughed. “What’s my superpower?”
“You fix things. Like hair and makeup and clothes.”
I was flattered. “A lot of people do that,” I said, even though among my friends I was becoming the known expert on where to find the right lip gloss. “It isn’t exactly a special power.”
“Well …” She colored in the cape with her red drawing pencil while she thought. “You also fix other things.”
“Like?”
“Remember when I was afraid of the dark and you gave me that bracelet?”
“The moonstone?” I hadn’t thought of it in years. “That was a long time ago.”
“It worked.” She colored in a blue circle around the wrist of the smaller figure on the page while I watched. “You fixed it.”
There was a tightness in my throat.
“And this is me.” Miranda pointed at the smaller girl in the picture. The prickles in my throat grew stronger, the magazine in front of me forgotten, while she busily added in the yellow curls all around the smiling face.
“Can I have it?” I asked.
“What for?” She looked up from her drawing, her blond hair in her face.
“Because I like being Sensational Sister.” I reached over and pushed one wild curl away from her forehead.
She looked at me like she didn’t believe me, but wanted to.
“Sure,” she said, and handed it over.
“Keep up to date on trends and events. It’s all about fostering a stronger connection with your future viewers.” —Torrey Grey, Beautystarz15
Two hours and one incomprehensible biology class later, it’s lunchtime.
Blair and Raylene were right: I got hot in my woolen blazer, so I stowed it in my new locker on my way to the cafeteria. Now I stand in my jeans and T-shirt, feeling queasy and scanning the crowded cafeteria. I’m determined to find the most inconspicuous place possible to sit. The peanut-butter-and-grape-jelly sandwich I slapped together this morning will buy me a quick ticket to a table in a far, ordinary corner and give me the perfect viewing spot to assess the haves and the have-nots.
I start walking as though I know where I’m going. I don’t, but hesitation will just draw attention from the chatting, laughing tables. People will glance up, then they’ll start tapping friends on shoulders and whispering.
Did you see that article in Teen Vogue?
I saw her on the Ten YouTube Beauty Gurus to Watch.
Did you hear about her sister?
There are a few completely empty tables way back on the right, but I don’t want to sit all by myself. That’s bound to draw the attention of some perky do-gooder with a mission to welcome newcomers to the high school. Not happening. So, I keep walking, scanning for a not-too-empty bench.
I spot Blair, Mia, and Emily over at a table by the windows, obviously a prime location. I hear Blair, the princess, shriek with laughter, but I don’t look in her direction long.
It’s clear Huntsville High School is like any other high school. There are three main groups. The popular group, the semipopular group, and the want-to-be popular group. Some people might claim there is a fourth group of Goths and all the self-styled freaks who don’t care about high school high society, but I lump them in with the want-to-bes. I mean, black lipstick and all that eyeliner? It’s about attention, and that’s really what being popular is anyway, right?
At my old school, I was lucky enough to be in the popular group even before the vlog hit it big. What most people don’t know is that popularity isn’t just about location in the cafeteria. Back in Colorado, my friends and I did an experiment one week where we changed tables every single day. It didn’t matter. We still sat by the same exact people because everyone followed us wherever we moved. One day by the windows. The next by the trash cans. Day after day, for the whole week. The semipopulars and the want-to-bes were completely confused and wandered around aimlessly looking for new seats.
It was hysterical.
“It’s a lot of work being in such demand,” Zoe said after the third time we found somewhere new to sit. “But I guess if it was super easy to be popular, then it wouldn’t be so special.”
Am I too much work now, Zoe?
I come to a table that’s occupied just by a blond guy wearing a black T-shirt with a pi symbol on the front. He’s cute, in a geeky-cool kind of way. I figure I won’t find another table at this point, so I set down my lunch bag.
He glances up from the iPad in front of him and I give him a quick nod. His eyes are a bit unfocused and his attention immediately goes back to the screen. I pull out my apple, plastic bottle of orange juice, and the sandwich, arranging them to look like I am eating lunch normally. But nothing about this feels normal. I belong at the table with Blair and her friends.
A curvy brown-haired girl slides onto the bench next to the b
lond boy. She has earbuds in and her head bobs in time to the music. I don’t recognize either the girl or the guy from my morning classes, so I think they might be older.
The girl meets my gaze and pulls out her earbuds.
“Hi, I’m Ever,” she says, and smiles. She has the most gorgeous green eyes.
“Ever?” I repeat the unusual name.
“Yeah. Like the fairy tale. Happily Ever After.” She smiles again, as if she’s laughing at herself. There’s something about her that I like. But she is sitting at a half-empty table. Not a good sign for her social status. “What’s your name?” she asks me.
“Torrey Grey,” I answer reluctantly.
“Like the color?”
I nod. I don’t see any recognition in her eyes. Not surprising, since she seems to be into a natural, low-key kind of look. Beauty vlogs are probably not her thing. She’s still pretty though.
Before she can say anything else, the boy beside her looks up again and starts talking. “It says right here the ancient Aztecs believed that monarch butterflies were the souls of their fallen warriors and should be honored.”
“Fascinating,” Ever says to him, “but I’m not convinced.”
I uncap my juice bottle, and the boy looks over at me. “I want to track the migration of monarch butterflies to Mexico,” he explains earnestly, as if I’ve asked. “It’s really all about tagging. I’d have to associate the location of capture with the point of recovery for each butterfly.”
Ever rolls her eyes, then gives me an apologetic grin. “Will you stop?” she tells the boy. “All I’m saying is it won’t hurt you to take an elective other than science.”
“I like science.” He scowls.
“You should try something new. Maybe an art class? Expand your horizons.”
“Tagging monarchs is new,” he says, but with less certainty this time.
Ever gives him a green-eyed glare. A sudden grin transforms his face and he reaches out to take her hand. Slowly his fingers intertwine with hers and her mouth twitches up in a half smile.
“Maybe I can learn how to draw a monarch butterfly,” he says.
“I’d like that,” she says softly.
I glance away quickly, feeling a sudden pang. The intimacy makes me uncomfortable. Cody was cute and fit in great with my friends — but I know I never looked at him that way. And he never looked that way at me, either.
How does he look at Zoe?
I pull my phone out of my bag. Still no text from my supposed best friend.
“Hey,” I hear the boy across the table say. I glance up from my phone. “I’m Rat,” he says, as if he’s just realized there’s another person at the table and he needs to introduce himself.
Rat? I hope it’s a nickname and Texans don’t name their children after rodents.
Suddenly, Rat looks down at his watch. “Don’t you have a rehearsal?” he asks Ever.
“Right.” She shakes her head and reaches for his arm, sliding her hand down to his wrist to check out the watch for herself.
“I should go. I’m late.” Her hand lingers.
“I’ll walk you,” Rat says. When he grins, he doesn’t look geeky at all. He just looks adorable.
Ever stands to leave, gathering up her things quickly. “Nice meeting you,” she says to me, and Rat waves a quick good-bye. I watch as they walk off together, hand in hand.
I sit alone, sort of missing the presence of Ever and Rat, even though they’re not the kind of people I’d want to really befriend.
I stare at the uneaten sandwich in front of me. I was lucky to find something that resembles a lunch. Grocery shopping hasn’t exactly been a high priority in our house these days. Dad’s new job keeps him late, and Mom spends all her time in our new vegetable garden.
The noise of the crowded cafeteria blurs into a dull roar. My eyelids are so heavy. A body can only go so long without sleep before it shuts down. If I could put my head down on the table and close my eyes without drawing attention to myself, I would.
“You’re Torrey, right?”
My eyes startle open. I knock the apple off the table and it rolls across the floor toward the boy standing in front of me.
It’s Luis. The dark-eyed boy from my English class. I don’t answer, but he squeezes into the bench across from me, slipping his backpack off his shoulders.
He picks up the apple off the floor and hands it back to me without a word. I carefully place it back on the table. My palms are damp with sweat and I wipe them off on my jeans.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to act as if I wasn’t just half asleep.
“I’m Luis. I’m in your English class?” He waits like I’m supposed to say something back.
I shrug my shoulders.
So? And you’re evidently a freak. You just don’t look like one.
I glance around quickly and my stomach sinks when I spot Mia staring at us. She taps Blair on the shoulder and motions in our direction. Then they both stare. The message is clear from the daggers being flung our way: If I ever want the slightest chance to move up to their table, I need to get rid of this guy.
“What do you want?” I ask him curtly.
His forehead creases into a frown.
“I was just going to tell you that I’m sorry about your sister.” Luis’s voice is low and steady.
Suddenly everything freezes.
“How do you know about that?” I catch the sharpness in my voice.
“My dad owns the funeral home in town. It’s a family business.”
Is that why he’s unpopular? Because he works in the funeral home? That could explain why kids would make fun of him.
“I met your mom and dad at your sister’s graveside ceremony,” Luis goes on as I sit, unmoving. “They said you’d be coming to school here.” He looks right at me when he says it, not like all my friends in Boulder, who never quite met my eyes after they heard about Miranda. I look back at his dark eyes. I feel the heat creeping up my neck, the realization of what he’s saying sinking in slowly. He was there watching my sister being put in the ground.
This isn’t about a boy hitting on the new girl in school. This isn’t about my vlog. It’s about pity — and I don’t need that from anyone.
I feel tears welling up behind my eyelids. The weakness just makes me angry, and I blink the emotion quickly away. He’s not going to get a reaction from me.
“I like eating lunch alone,” I tell him pointedly, picking up my sandwich.
He blinks. “I just wanted to say hello.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I take a bite of my sandwich and stare back down at the cafeteria table.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him gather up his lunch and backpack and start to walk away. I wait, my heart ticking away in my chest.
Did he tell anyone else?
When I look up again, there’s no sign of Luis, and I catch Blair watching me with a half smile of approval. I know there’s no way she heard our exchange, but at least she saw me get rid of him. That’s what counts. Right?
Boulder, Colorado — The man accused in a deadly DUI case was back in court this morning. Steve Waters, 53, has been charged with felony drunken driving and vehicular manslaughter in the death of a 12-year-old Boulder girl. Waters was driving on 10th Street near the Pearl Street Mall when he hit and killed Miranda Grey. Grey was in the crosswalk at the time. Court records show Waters’s blood alcohol level was more than twice the legal limit.
Judge Patricia Jules accepted Steve Waters’s withdrawal of a not guilty plea to manslaughter. Waters then pleaded guilty. Judge Jules scheduled Waters’s sentencing hearing for December 15. The sentencing is expected to last two days while attorneys present evidence. Prosecuting attorney Margaret Richardson says she expects a representative from the Grey family to present a victim impact statement.
“Keep on shopping.” —Torrey Grey, Beautystarz15
I hate coming home. Not that I can call this flat, unremarkable house a home. The walls are all beige and the cheap f
urniture looks like it was paid off in monthly payments over a very long period of time. There’s one picture of a field of blue flowers over the brown faux leather couch in the living room, and that’s all.
None of the familiar stuff from our old house in Boulder is here. None of her familiar stuff. There are no dirty tennis shoes to trip over and no art supplies to move off the table every time we eat. Everything of Miranda’s, including the paints and the shoes, are packed away in unlabeled boxes and stacked in the corner of the dirty two-car garage. But even in a new house in a new town, there is no boxing up Miranda. She is everywhere. And nowhere.
I find my mom in the kitchen.
“How was your first day at school?” She is carefully lining up her newly washed tomatoes on a dish towel. She doesn’t look up, but she actually asked me a question, so I guess that’s progress.
She also doesn’t wait for an answer.
“Look at these. The growing season lasts so long here.” She’s actually smiling. Not at me, but at the tomatoes. “It’s too bad you don’t like tomatoes. You wouldn’t believe the difference between store-bought and these from that tangle of a garden somebody left behind.”
Miranda is the one who didn’t like tomatoes. She doesn’t remember.
I grab some cereal out of the pantry. As I pull open the fridge for the milk, Mom finally glances up from the tomatoes.
“I can’t believe how many mosquitoes are out there. Colorado had mosquitoes, if it wasn’t too cold. But here, they gather in doorways in big black clouds and just wait for you.”
“I noticed,” I say, and then ask, “Is Dad still at work?”
She blinks, the question registering slowly, and I realize she has no idea. She mumbles, “I think he said he was going to be late tonight.”
Moving as if in slow motion, she washes off two more tomatoes in the sink and then asks, “Did you take the bus home?”
One time, when she was in the fourth grade, Miranda missed the school bus home. She was sitting at the stop with the bus in front of her, but she was so totally involved in her library book, she didn’t even get on it. The bus took off without her and she had to call Dad to come pick her up. My dad was furious he had to leave work, but later it became this big joke in the family.
