by Cecily Wolfe
“You know I don’t want anyone to know I write them, so why would I ask to have them published?”
My voice sounds small and whiny, and I wish I had kept my mouth shut.
She already knows I would die of embarrassment if anyone knew the creative writing we feature once in a while in the newspaper is mine.
When I dared to show her a poem I wrote this past summer, during the first week of school when I applied to be a part of the staff, she snapped it up and insisted we put it in the first issue.
I still can’t believe I agreed to it, even though she promised she would never tell anyone who actually penned it.
There’s no attribution for any of my work, either the poems and short stories, or the daily facts I collect to put into the appropriate parts of the publication for students and staff to see.
My name, Mia Hunter, is listed as contributor, and that’s exactly how I like it.
As little attention as possible keeps me out of the spotlight.
“Alex thought the four of us could go sledding on Sunday, if you’re interested.”
Other students wander in, talking to each other and settling into desks, powering up laptops already there for us to use as they rustle through notebooks.
The kids who work on the layouts like to do some of it by hand before entering it into the software programs, so they’re up at the front of the room, spreading out different shapes of paper on a larger table and arguing over placement.
It’s the one place I feel a little comfortable with myself, as if what I’m doing here speaks to something inside me like nothing else I do does.
I wish I could tell Kayla about it, because she’s the only one who would understand how I feel.
“Hey, Mia. Did you hear me?”
I’ve taken a laptop and pulled it over to a cabinet, so I can stand while I work with it placed on the top.
Lost in my thoughts about a new poem that’s been flickering in and out of my mind, the words like a billow of air I can’t quite catch in my hand, I haven’t responded to Megan's statement.
“Oh, sure. Sorry.”
Sledding sounds fun, but the longer I wait to tell Josh I only want to be friends, the harder it’s going to be.
It’s mean to drag it out, when he’s been nothing but a perfect boyfriend to me.
Am I wrong to want to break up?
Will I feel differently about him in time, if I wait a little longer?
My cold hand soothes my forehead as I press against it, closing my eyes against my confusion.
“Do you have a headache? I have some Tylenol if you need it.”
We aren’t supposed to have any medicine at school, except prescription ones that are held in the nurse's office with a doctor’s instructions, but Megan doesn’t seem concerned about getting caught with her OTC supply.
I shake my head, opening my eyes and smiling at her.
The four of us went to the Homecoming dance together a couple of months ago, when the autumn leaves crunched beneath our feet and the brisk wind was invigorating, the night when Josh and I shared our first kiss and I was so excited as I wrote in my journal about it, wishing I could tell my sister in person about my hopes for the future.
“This weather is dragging me down, I think.”
It’s partially true, but my moods are all over the place anymore, and as much as my mother would like to blame that time of the month, it’s not like I have my period every few days, and she knows it.
“I get it. I’m going to go to college somewhere that has no change in the seasons, where it’s hot, hot, and hot. Oh, yeah, and in the fourth season it’s hot, too.”
I smile at Megan’s words, the thought of not having to slog through days-old dirty snow like a distant dream.
But I have no idea where I’ll go to college, and I don’t think I’ll have much choice if my parents have anything to say about it.
“Okay, I’ve got the lunch menus and the sports schedules for the next week loaded into the template, and there’s a few announcements about snow days and a reminder from the vice principal about skateboarding in the hallways.”
Megan snorts at my declaration, and I smile as I check through the emails we’ve received to be sure I haven’t missed anything else that needs to be included.
It’s my job to filter our correspondence and route it to the right staff member, and I also handle these general items that need added to each issue.
I’m sure the skateboarding statement is a direct response to Eli and his companions’ interaction with Mr. Duncan today, and I wonder if they’re all sitting in detention on the other side of the school building right now.
What does Eli do in detention?
Does he read?
Doodle?
Stare out the window, watching the snow fall?
“Do you need a ride home? My mom should be here in about an hour, and she won’t mind taking you if you want.”
Even in this weather, I like to walk to and from school, just to clear my head.
Accepting a ride to school wouldn’t be a problem, but I need that time to myself on the way back, before I have to deal with my parents for the rest of the day.
Or rather, my mom.
Chapter Three
I have notebooks full of writing stashed in the bottom of a box in my closet, and the journal I currently use is hidden between my mattress and box spring, pushed to the middle so my mom won’t find it.
Once, right after we moved, I kept a notebook under my pillow for nearly a week before she discovered it when she washed my sheets.
Poems about Kayla.
How I missed her, how I felt guilty that I couldn’t save her.
Before I could defend my ownership of the notebook, for my crime of putting my feelings down on paper, and worse, for making my mother think of Kayla, she threw it away and made sure I was unable to retrieve it.
I looked for days, and finally, under so much scrutiny as she told me over and over I needed to move on, forget Kayla and our old life, gave up.
Those poems might be lost to me forever, but I started a new notebook the next week, and haven’t stopped writing since.
As I work on arranging the layout for tomorrow’s issue of the school newspaper, drifting into a lull that always happens when I focus on this task, my mind veers towards Krystal’s disgusting interest in Mr. Carl.
It’s not unusual for students to have crushes on teachers, I know, but I wish I could get her to cut it out already.
Maybe I’ll write about it once I get home, just to get it out of my head.
What would my mother think of that if she happened to find my nest of writing now?
More students have filled the room, the staff of both the newspaper and the yearbook mingling and sharing information now like it’s a social gathering instead of school journalism.
I smile to myself.
At our school, it’s definitely both.
“Joey’s in detention with Kyle and Eli. I swear, Eli gets them in trouble every time they hang out with him.”
A girl I’ve never spoken to whines a few feet away from me, and those who are listening nod, leaning closer for more details as they frown.
Eli is always the center of attention.
There has to be a reason for it, and I wonder at my own interest in what that might be.
“Do you need any help?”
Megan hovers behind me, and I turn my attention to her, unsure how long she’s been standing there as I was thinking of Eli.
Could I talk to her about my feelings, or rather, a lack thereof, about Josh?
Or would she tell his best friend, who would definitely let him know what I need to tell him myself?
“No, I’m fine, but thanks for asking.”
A shout from the back of the room, where we have a divided shelf of little mailboxes, one for each of us, makes us both shift our gazes towards Lacey, who takes pictures for the yearbook.
“‘I saw a female student in a male tea
cher’s car in the parking lot this morning. They were arguing and the girl was crying. I don’t want to get her in trouble. Can someone help?’”
The room grows quiet as Lacey holds up a piece of notebook paper, which had been folded into quarters before she opened it.
While she waves it in the air, it flaps as a gush of hot air from the heating vent above her rushes out.
We have an advice column in the newspaper, but we usually get goofy questions, both through our school email account and the physical mailbox dedicated to it here.
Whoever wants to check the mailbox does, and since I handle rerouting the incoming email, I see what shows up there.
Romantic relationship concerns, worries about grades, and sort of thing is the norm.
This is something else entirely.
“We should take it to the principal or the guidance counselor.”
Someone pipes up immediately, and while there are a few nods in response to the shaky voice, the rising talk is excited, as if this is a mystery to be solved.
Granted, the only excitement we get in this school comes from Eli and his ongoing adventures, but I can’t help thinking this reaction is a little inhuman.
After all, we’re talking about one of our classmates.
An actual person, not a focus of entertainment.
I hold back a sigh as Megan glances at me, her eyebrows raised.
Lacey is staring at the paper now, blinking as she holds it closer to her face.
“I don’t recognize the handwriting. Does anyone else?”
Would identifying the person do more harm than good in this case?
If they wanted to be found, they would have signed their name.
“Make sure it gets back to me! I mean it!”
Lacey calls out as someone grabs the paper from her fingers, and it disappears into the crowd of twenty or so students who huddle together.
“Just goes to show how a whole lot of nothing happens around here.”
When Megan says what I'm thinking, I can’t help but smile and she shakes her head.
“So what do you think? You’ve always been one of those people who is super quiet but has a lot going on in your head.”
I’m in the middle of dragging a block of text into an advertising spot as I consider her words.
I hadn’t thought of this before, but maybe she’s right.
Actually, I have too much going on in my head most of the time.
When Kayla caught me frowning, she would always press the palm of her hand over my scrunched up forehead as if smoothing out the skin before she’d kiss me there.
The memory makes me stop my small movement, and I crane my neck to see if I can find who has the note now.
Maybe I can identify the handwriting and figure out a way to talk to them without anyone finding out.
I have a good idea who the teacher in question is, and if I can find any way to connect him to this, I’d be more than happy to draw his behavior to the attention of our administration.
Or would it be the school board?
Krystal would never go so far as to act on her crush on Mr. Carl; at least, I hope not.
But that doesn’t mean another girl wouldn’t be lured by his misplaced charm.
Megan backs up, her eyes on mine, and reaches behind her as the note makes its way into her hand.
How did she do that, I wonder, as I lean in while she brings it to me, holding it in front of the computer screen.
We both squint at it, and as she shakes her head slowly, I’m disappointed to find it doesn’t look like Krystal or Bethany’s writing, which are the only two besides Megan’s I know.
It’s neatly printed, without any fancy touches to it that would help identify the writer.
Probably done on purpose to keep anyone from doing just that.
But what did he or she have to lose, unless . . .
Unless she was the girl in the car, and not an observer.
“Do you think we could put something in the newspaper to draw them out, encourage them to tell us more?”
The sky has grown dark and when I look beyond the crowd settling back down to work at their separate desks, I notice one of the parking lot lights flickering as it struggles to turn on.
“That’s a good idea, Mia.”
Megan turns around again as she taps the note on her desk, and with a small gesture, waves our assistant editor over.
He’s talking to the editor, who has her phone stuck to her ear and is arguing with someone as she flaps her hand at him.
When he shakes his head and rolls his eyes at her, he notices Megan and heads in our direction.
Before he reaches us, though, laughter rolls in from the hallway, the open door making it easy for us to hear anything that goes on in the usually silent hall.
A skateboard rolls by, and a boy runs after it, his bark of laughter making several kids around me laugh.
We’re all paying attention now, which is the point, and as Dante, the assistant editor, asks Megan what she needs, Eli peers into the room and offers us a tiny salute.
I start to look away, but when his lips quirk up as he catches my eye, I smile, knowing I shouldn’t be encouraging him.
He laughs as he backs out of the doorway, and then he’s gone.
“Mia? What did you have in mind?”
I blink a few times as I realize Dante and Megan are watching me expectantly, and I’ve missed their conversation.
“Oh, sorry.”
Clearly he’s talking about what I would put in the paper to get the note writer’s attention, but I’m thinking of Eli and his friends, leaving detention only to act up again in the nearly empty school.
He seems to get around a lot, and interact with everyone he comes across.
Has he noticed anything, like inappropriate interactions between a teacher and a student?
And what would he do if he did?
“We could say something about receiving the message, you know, acknowledging it, and asking if they want to tell us more. But we’d have to be discreet about it, not saying anything about what they’ve already said.”
“Yeah,” Megan agrees, her messy angled bob falling into her face with the movement.
She pushes the longer lengths of her hair, which is tipped with dark blue on the ends, behind her ears.
I’ll need to think this out more before putting anything in the paper, but I don’t want to wait.
I slide my tongue over my front teeth and suck on them for a few moments as I think, a habit my mother hates.
But she isn’t here to admonish me.
“How about ‘Message received, tell us more. Mailbox always open.’”
I wait as they glance at each other, then Dante nods.
“Vague, but since they reached out to us first, they might be checking the paper for any indication we’re taking them seriously, so . . . good idea, Mia. Go ahead and add it wherever you think it would be easy to see.”
I’ve never made any design choices on my own, since it’s my first year and I only copy and paste into templates and clean up arrangements.
Megan handles the creative work I submit, so I don’t make any choices on the editorial side either.
I smile, hoping I don’t mess this up.
If the teacher in question is Mr. Carl, and I’m almost positive it is, this could be my chance to get rid of him.
To prevent Krystal from being lured into acting on her crush on him.
Chapter Four
Everyone looks at the cafeteria menu in the school newspaper, so in the space above it that is sometimes used for announcements about price changes or sold out items, I add the short message.
It’s the last thing I do for the day, and while I jot down a few things to remember to do tomorrow on a sticky note I attach to the top of the computer after I shut it down, Megan asks me again if I want a ride home as she pulls her coat on.
I shake my head, smiling at her as she and Dante walk out together.
&
nbsp; The room is nearly empty, and as always, I’m one of the last to leave, mostly because I’m not looking forward to a night with my parents.
Kayla would remind me this isn’t forever, that whatever is going wrong today can’t last.
But I have a whole life ahead without her, and that will last.
I left my coat and homework in my locker, so I close and lock the door behind me after the rest of the students leave the room and listen to my footsteps echo in the empty hall as we all head in different directions.
My coat is new, one I couldn’t help begging my mother to buy when I noticed it was similar to one my sister had a long time ago, with a furry gray collar edging the puffy red bulk.
Her favorite color was red, and she would probably laugh at me now, pleased I still admire her so much I want to imitate her taste, just as she would tell me to think for myself and enjoy my own preferences.
But I don’t know what those are sometimes, and it’s easier to look back to hers for guidance.
With my feet now tucked into heavy boots and a scarf wrapped around my head, tied tight under my chin amidst the gray collar, I head out the front door and into a swirl of snow, happy my backpack isn’t as heavy as it’s been lately, with less books today than usual.
“Don’t you have a ride?”
A male voice interrupts the frozen silence, and since I recognize it, I’m not too surprised as I turn my head slowly to find Eli in a thin black jacket only a few feet away from me.
“Don’t you have a warmer coat?”
It’s not like me to answer back like this, especially not with someone I don’t know well, and I’m taken aback by my teasing sarcasm.
His half smile tells me he’s pleased by my response, but I can’t imagine why.
We don’t know each other, and he has plenty of female admirers along with those who think he’s only trouble.
I don’t fall into either camp.
“Point taken.”
We look at each other for a few moments, and I offer him a small smile before walking away from the school and into the curve of the front driveway where the busses drop off kids who live farther away.
“You look like my grandma.”
