‘First period, maths together!’ Emily pumps her fist.
I beam. I’ve been praying I won’t have to do the uncomfortable ‘I’m ba-ack’ walk into class on my own.
‘Mid-morning, science …’ Emily trails her finger across the pages. ‘I’ve got Ms Samson, you’ve got … ugh, Mr Blacklock.’ She lets out a yelp. ‘What? We’re not in the same art class? Ms Collins pretty much non-verbally promised we would be. So you’re in her class and I’m in …’
I check she hasn’t misread it. Nope. Different classes, same third period. Now I feel bummed. Art is our favourite class to share. Emily and I have loved painting together since we were in primary school.
‘… Mr Morrison,’ she says. ‘Who is Mr Morrison? I can’t believe she’s shuffled me out of her class.’
Emily looks hurt. Ms Collins has always adored Emily, both for her enthusiasm and her obvious talent. You can tell even from Emily’s roughest sketches that Isobel’s artistic abilities have been passed down.
‘Cheer up, girls, you’re in the same PE class.’ Ms Roze points to the schedules. ‘You’ve got dancing this term.’
Emily doesn’t look any happier. ‘Great, any classmate who didn’t witness the notorious hokey-pokey incident in primary can see my non-coordination at full force.’
The hokey-pokey incident happened in the Year Three concert, when Emily took the ‘put your whole self in’ instruction too far and leapt off the stage, taking a mike stand with her.
‘Dancing is lovely,’ Ms Roze says. ‘Everyone’s awkward at the beginning, but once you get the hang of it it’s so much fun. They always include a dance unit for the Year Tens in the last term, so you learn some skills for dancing at the formal.’
Emily and I look at each other. The only dancing we’ve visualised for our formal is slow-dancing. And to do that, we presumably have to have dates. Which means the formal that exists in our imaginations and the actual reality are poles apart. The formal in our imaginations always features guys who are way too awesome to exist in high school. Besides, Em and I have always said we’ll go together, instead of with dates, which does away with the whole awkward not-being-asked thing, or the pressure to go with a guy you don’t like just so you don’t have to go alone. After all, I couldn’t think of any guy at Jefferson who would be more fun to hang out with than Em.
‘There’s no way I’m going to be capable of some She’s All That synchronised dance in ten weeks.’ Emily shakes her head.
The bell rings.
‘We didn’t find out Dylan’s schedule,’ Emily whispers. She turns to Ms Roze. ‘Dylan Byrne asked me to pick up his schedule for him this morning as he’s running late.’
Ms Roze gives Emily a knowing look. ‘That’s funny, Dylan was here about a half-hour ago. He’s already got a copy.’
I feel myself blushing.
Emily makes an exasperated sound. ‘Geez, you’d think he’d have let me know it wasn’t necessary any more.’
If I could take on any part of Emily’s personality, it would be her ability to think fast. She always has a response on the tip of her tongue. Whereas for me, comebacks are on a permanent delay function. It’s always later on, after I’ve obsessed over the conversation three hundred times, that the perfect response comes to mind.
‘Same first period as you two.’ Ms Roze gives us an amused look. ‘You’d better get to class, girls.’
I have to face thirty or so of my classmates, plus Dylan, straight up? I feel like one of the pigs in The Three Little Pigs — throwing Dylan into the mix makes it easy for the big bad wolf to blow apart my house of courage with a single puff.
‘The sooner you do this the better,’ Emily says. ‘Like the dentist. Once you’re in the chair, it’s not as bad as your mind made it out to be. Especially your mind — it’s a doomsday special in there.’
She’s right, but I stay in my spot anyway. It’s stupid, but stalling is an appealing option.
‘Adriana?’ The school’s guidance councillor, aka ‘Call Me Sam’, has come out of his office. ‘Could we have a chat before class?’
I contemplate the question. On the one hand, a legitimate reason to delay class is an answer to my prayers. On the other, a discussion with Call Me Sam is hugely unappealing.
‘Emily, can you let Mr Kay know Adriana will be late to class?’
It seems ‘Can we have a chat’ wasn’t a question, it was an order. And now, once we’ve finished the ‘chat’, I’ll be forced to walk into class late, and by myself — a lone target. It’s ironic that someone whose job is apparently to make my life easier has just made it more difficult.
Emily gives me an ‘I’m sorry’ look and waves sadly as she heads to class. I sigh and go into Call Me Sam’s office. These conversations (and there have been a lot of them) have never amounted to anything helpful all these years that Tatiana made me her personal target.
Call Me Sam always acts like a teenager himself. As in: I’m not like the other adults — you can call me Sam. Emily came up with the name after she and I were referred to him in our first term of Year Seven after putting rotten eggs in Tatiana’s locker — retaliation for Tatiana putting an unscrewed bottle of Gatorade upside down in my schoolbag, destroying the design project I’d spent weeks on. Emily and I figured we’d get in trouble, but hoped Tatiana would too.
Call Me Sam was wearing Converses that day, and when we told him the story, he put his feet up on the desk and laughed like it was a stupid prank. Which it was, but obviously there was a back story. He waved off our attempts to go into what was going on, claiming we’d mixed ‘bullying’ up with ‘teasing’ and shouldn’t take things so seriously. His idea of bullying was the old-school type you saw amongst the boys — i.e. physical blows. He didn’t get how girls operated. In a way, it wasn’t his fault. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, girl bullying is covert.
At the time, he didn’t look older than twenty-six. Emily reckoned he’d peaked in high school and, when faced with the real world, decided to become a guidance counsellor so he could return to the environment he’d flourished in.
What really got to me about him was that any time I did work up the courage to talk to him, he always made out like I was the one who needed to change. I needed to make eye contact, stand taller, speak out. Stop making myself a victim.
And that was the problem. I was terrible at standing up for myself. Any time I tried, my voice became stammers, my face bloomed red, and whatever I tried to say was undermined by my being the human equivalent of a mouse. My own patheticness made me ashamed, and sure didn’t deter Tatiana or anyone else who jumped on her bandwagon of tormenting me.
Sitting across from Call Me Sam now, I hope he’s not about to launch into another ‘You need to project confidence!’ pep talk.
‘Adriana, I want to chat about a few things.’
Cue pep talk. My feet are twitching to stand up. I don’t care if I look rude.
‘In fact, I want to apologise.’
I feel wary. Is this a new opener for his usual spiel?
‘Apologise on behalf of myself and Jefferson for failing you.’ Call Me Sam’s brows are bunched together instead of in their usual half-raised hyper-enthusiastic mode. ‘Those months when you were coming to me and telling me Tatiana was getting worse, I didn’t take enough notice.’
Duh. For a second, I feel like Emily’s sarcasm has seeped into my blood. Still, talk about a delayed ‘aha’ moment.
‘I was a bit dismissive, thinking it was just some girls saying a few mean things to you. I am so sorry it got to the point where you felt you had no option but to leave our school.’
I don’t know what to say. The apology feels good, but it doesn’t change anything that happened.
‘Your departure was a wake-up call for our principal and other staff, and not long after we implemented our Bully Ban program. All students now know they can come to us and we will take action.’
Part of me wonders if this is all talk, a semblance of making a stan
d.
‘I also want you to know that you won’t have to worry about Tatiana any more.’
I find my voice. ‘I know. She’s chosen to leave Jefferson.’
‘She was expelled.’
I stare at Call Me Sam. They expelled her? For Jefferson, that’s unheard of.
‘She and Lana were involved in an incident at the end of term,’ he continues. ‘I won’t go into the details, but because of Tatiana’s prior record of intimidating other students, the board made the decision to expel her.’
I never have to worry about Tatiana again. I never have to sit in a classroom, counting the minutes down, hoping she won’t choose to pick on me that day.
I feel capable of dancing at that moment.
‘I know that returning to Jefferson must take a huge amount of courage. We want you to know we are backing you. So my door is always open.’
I look at my watch as I leave his office. Surprisingly, that talk has taken up nearly all of first period. There’s only ten minutes until the bell goes to switch classes. There’s no way I’m going to walk into maths this late.
Obviously I’ll have to go to my next class solo, but I could try and slip in quietly. Will Dylan be in that class? Will he try and approach me? Should I ask Ms Roze what class Dylan has next? My face goes hot at the idea. As I head back into the foyer, I peep at Ms Roze. She’ll probably tease me, but she might give me a heads-up if I ask.
Stupid Dylan. Stupid me for still caring whether we cross paths. I’m such a loser. Such a coward, so pathet—
My right leg shoots out from under me. In the microsecond of falling, my head snaps from Ms Roze’s desk down to my feet and I see something orange ricochet into the distance. Emily’s orange. The orange we didn’t locate.
Ironically, Emily’s comment about being a walking hazard pops into my head as my arms flail to steady myself. It’s no use. I can feel the air in my lungs drawing in, ready to expel in a cry as I hit the hardwood floor.
Instead, I fall onto something soft. Someone soft, to be exact. What I assume is an arm is under my upper back, the other one under the back of my knees. My eyes are shut in fear. Please don’t let me have fallen into the principal’s or vice-principal’s arms. I’ll die if anyone’s witnessed this.
I open my eyes and look up. Oh. My. God.
These aren’t the principal’s or vice-principal’s arms, but I still feel like I’m about to die because clasping me in his arms, like a firefighter carrying a victim from a burning building, is The Cutest Guy I Have Ever Seen In My Life.
I stare at him like he’s a mirage. His eyes are as blue as any pool a desert wanderer could dream up, and his hair is a million different shades of golden sand.
‘That was close!’ The Cutest Guy says, smiling down at me. ‘I thought I’d never reach you in time.’
It’s like he’s talking to me from far away, the thump of my heart drowning out his voice.
‘I’m going to put you back on your feet …’ I feel the muscles in his arms tensing as he carefully rights me. ‘You okay?’ He’s looking intently at me. He puts his hand back on my shoulder.
Even though I’m standing again, I felt like my knees could buckle at any second. I nod slowly.
I realise Ms Roze is clapping. ‘That was the most perfect timing.’
The Cutest Guy turns and smiles at her. As he does, I notice that his profile is ridiculously perfect.
He turns back to me. ‘I’ve been cursing my lack of direction for the last hour — can you believe I ended up in the wrong classroom? I was in a Year Nine class, not a Year Ten one.’
He’s in our year? I can’t believe Emily told me there are no decent guys at school. Maybe she wrote this guy off as a pretty boy. She always assumes that good-looking equals boring.
‘After I excused myself, I still couldn’t find the right room! I was sheepishly coming back to the office to ask for directions, but if I’ve proved myself useful by keeping you from hitting your head, I’m happy to have a shameful sense of direction.’ The Cutest Guy looks embarrassed but a little proud at the same time.
I realise that though I’m on my feet, I’m looking up at him while he speaks. Even with my gargantuan height, he’s taller than me. A half-giggle, half-gurgle comes out of my throat.
‘Now she’s laughing at me.’ The Cutest Guy shakes his head at Ms Roze.
‘No! I mean, I was laughing, but not at you …’
Any moment now he’s going to shake his head again and walk away, writing me off as a rambling idiot. My boy skills are abysmal. The only interactions I’ve ever had with the opposite sex (besides Dylan when we were actually friends) are when they’re making fun of me.
‘I’m going to plead with you to be a little kinder to me,’ The Cutest Guy says, giving me a look. ‘I’m in that awkward first-day mode. It’s pretty shocking.’
So this is why Emily hasn’t mentioned him. He’s new.
‘It’s my first day too.’ Amazingly, the words come out before I’ve had to think them through forty million times.
‘Really?’ His smile is all relief. ‘Do you have any idea where room 12G is? That’s my next class. I don’t think I have any hope of making the one I’m supposed to be in now.’
The bell rings and The Cutest Guy laughs. ‘No hope at all.’
‘Room 12G is the science lab,’ I manage. He’s in my next class! The thought both excites and terrifies me. ‘It’s about three minutes’ walk.’
‘Whoa.’ The Cutest Guy stares at me like I’m some direction guru. ‘Did you stake out the school during the holidays?’
Every time it’s my turn to speak, I feel like I’m turning the keys in the ignition of an old car. I have no idea whether the thing is going to start or stall.
‘It’s my first day — but not my first day. I mean, it’s my first day back. I’ve been away for eighteen months. In Borneo.’
The Cutest Guy’s eyebrows go up. ‘Wow! You’re probably in culture shock right now.’
He doesn’t know how right he is.
He gives me a pleading look. ‘Can I follow you to the next class?’
We head to the science lab and he starts asking me all about Borneo. I’m in this numb haze, like when you walk out of the dentist’s room. I’m not registering anyone passing by, I’m not scanning for Tens. Instead, I’m staring at The Cutest Guy and somehow words are coming out of my mouth, even though they seem to be stupid complaints about the subtropical climate in Borneo. He’s trying to get to know me. Me, Adriana Andersson. Here is the one person in this school who has no preconceptions about me. Getting a tiny fresh start in a place where no-one is ever going to let me forget who I am is electrifying.
Seconds later, when we reach the door of the science lab, the elation I’m feeling comes crashing down. As soon as I walk in, my classmates will start with the ‘Adriana Puke-a-rama’ calls, sticking their fingers down their throats as I pass, and this out-of-the-blue amazing guy will realise how much of an outcast I am. These moments we’ve spent chatting and laughing will become another painful memory.
I summon every bit of my courage and step into the room. The Cutest Guy follows me. The room falls silent. Everyone is staring at us. Obviously some of the staring is because I’m back, but most of it has to be The Cutest Guy’s stop-you-in-your-tracks attractiveness. I feel a wave of gratitude that he’s taking the focus off me.
He gives me an amused look as we walk down the aisle to the remaining free seats in the third row. I manage to get into my seat without shaking. The Cutest Guy takes the seat to my right.
‘Got to love the newbie feeling, huh?’
His whisper sets the room alive. Groups of girls and guys keep glancing at us and murmuring to each other. I steel myself for the insults — a comment about the vanished glasses or braces, or for someone to play the Facebook video.
Instead, all I can make out are variations of ‘so hot’, ‘wow’, ‘I can’t believe it’. Even the guys are talking about him, their eyebrows rai
sed. I look at The Cutest Guy, wondering what it must feel like to get so much positive attention. He doesn’t seem to notice.
Mr Blacklock walks in with a sour face and begins the lesson. I let out a long, held breath. I’m safe for the rest of the class.
The Cutest Guy must have heard me, because he gives me a smile and a wink. He’s saved me twice this morning — first with the orange, and then by accompanying me to class. As he turns his head back to the board, I realise I’m smiling. I’m actually smiling in class. That never happens, except in the classes Emily and I share.
Even though, miraculously, I’m coping on my own, I wish she was here. I’ve never wanted to tell her anything as much as I want to tell her about this morning.
Emily’s Diary
I spend most of the maths class attempting to look like I’m focusing on equations, but really wondering how Ade is doing. She and Call Me Sam are obviously having more than a brief chat.
Ade’s first day back is giving me flashbacks of her last day before Daniel took her away from Jefferson. Up until now I’ve tried not to relive the details — it makes me feel like someone’s turned my switch to ‘boil’ and I sit there sweating and clenching my fists under the desk, feeling like I’m in the yard again, wanting to hit Tatiana.
I’ve never hit anyone before. Sure, I’m never short of a comeback and I’m used to racing in to defend Adriana, but actually hurting someone is a radically different thing. But seeing that video on Facebook, watching Adriana’s private pain turned into a public joke, made me spin out of control, like an astronaut detached from a space station. I didn’t know which way was up or down, what was sense and what was stupidity. Everything Tatiana had put Ade through since we were eight seemed to whirl in my mind like a hideous reel of torture. I opened my mouth open to scream at her — only scream — but then I saw her throw that look at Adriana. Saw the exultant pride shining from her face at all-out annihilating someone. Someone who’d lost her mum six months before. Someone who was already bleeding inside. Tatiana knew all that and she didn’t give a crap. She’d never give a crap, no matter what you said to her. Looking at her smirking face, utterly devoid of any sense of guilt, it felt like words weren’t enough. I wanted to hurt her, to force some kind of pain on her seeing as she’d never be able to feel Adriana’s. And so I threw the phone. It was out of my hand before I knew it, spinning towards Tatiana and smashing into her shoulder.
My Best Friend Is a Goddess Page 7
