I continued to shovel food into my mouth just so I could excuse myself. I didn’t want this to become another what’s-wrong-with-Arden family meeting.
Too late. Mom set the meeting in motion. “You’re sixteen, almost seventeen. You never go out. You never do anything except hang out with that boy. We’ve never even met him, and his parents act a bit strange if you ask me. We just want you to be normal. We want you to be happy.”
I supposed Mom had good reason to be worried about me. She thought I was suicidal. I’d kept a journal with the words A Million Ways to Die scribbled across the front, so her fears were understandable. I thought about death all the time. I had over a thousand ways to die in that journal and when she found it, she freaked. No, I hadn’t been stupid enough to show it to her. I’d kept the journal hidden under a loose floor board in my bedroom where neither she nor the cleaning lady would find it, but somehow she did. The next day I had an appointment to see Dr. Scarlett Barclay, and she was prescribing me Prozac. I never took the pills. I hid them in a teddy bear whose back opened up with a zipper. Once the bear was full, I would pour the pills down the garbage disposal.
I wasn’t suicidal. I didn’t want to die. I wasn’t going to throw myself off a bridge, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about death. Not even Scarlett could cure me of that.
Later that night I rummaged through the cabinets looking for trail mix. There wasn’t any, so I went for my next-favorite treat, olives—Manzanilla olives to be exact. Those seemed to be gone too. I slammed the last cabinet shut.
“Arden, please don’t do that,” Mom said as she entered the kitchen and pulled a bottled water from the fridge.
“There’s no trail mix or olives,” I complained. I didn’t ask for a lot. Paige was always begging for designer this and designer that. I, on the other hand, made my own clothes. I didn’t like purses and accessories or anything extra hanging on me. I asked for fabric to make my dresses and maybe every few months a new pair of boots. Asking Mom to keep trail mix and olives in the house shouldn’t have been a big deal.
“Then you’ll have to make do with another snack. The pantry’s full, so I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”
Mom was going on and on about starving children, but I tuned her out. The pantry was full of chips and cookies and things she knew I didn’t eat. She finally stopped talking and placed her bottle of water on the counter. “Arden, can you just try this year? Try to be more normal . . . social, I mean. I think it would really help you.”
I didn’t know how many ways I could explain to her that the reason I only had one friend was because no one else wanted to be my friend. That wasn’t by choice. Sometimes I did want to please her. It sucked to have her disappointed in me all the time, but at least she had my sisters to make her happy. Paige, her social butterfly, was invited to parties all the time, and her phone rang nonstop. Quinn, the genius, took all gifted and advanced classes at school. She’d never brought home anything less than an A+ and, if extra credit was involved, an A++. My grades were okay, but they were nothing like Quinn’s. My little sisters were hard to contend with.
“What do you want me to do, Mom?” I honestly didn’t know how to be any other way.
“Well, for starters, you can let me take you clothes shopping. You have to be the only teenage girl in America who would turn down an all-expenses-paid shopping trip.”
I was pretty sure that wasn’t true, but whatever.
“And,” she continued. “Smile. Don’t look so sad all the time. Strike up a conversation with someone. Laugh at their jokes even if they’re not funny. Go to a football game or something. Just be normal.”
It was like she was almost pleading with me at that point. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d rather stick a fork in my eye than go to a rowdy football game.
“Okay, Mom, I’ll try. I’ll try to be normal.”
She kissed me on my cheek and then disappeared upstairs. What else could I say? I couldn’t tell her I would never be what she wanted me to be. Not even if I tried.
Chapter Four
I waited at the front of the school for Fletcher. We’d promised to meet up and walk into the school together, mostly for my benefit. Fletcher wasn’t nervous about the first day at all. He was never nervous about anything.
I pulled my compact from the pocket of my pastel pink dress and made sure I looked my best. Bailey wasn’t the only person I was trying to impress.
Fletcher discovered my secret last January. We were in the park sitting on our bench, the one right next to the fountain. I was writing in my journal while he worked on his social studies homework.
“You love me,” he said out of the blue.
I stopped writing mid-sentence and glared at him. “Excuse me?”
“You love me, but you have to stop. I told you I’m different. That means I can’t love you or anybody that way. Not ever. It’s just not the way I’m wired.” Then he went right back to his homework and never said another word about it.
I didn’t know how to take that. First of all, how had he known? Had I been that obvious? Second, it hurt like hell. Was he only saying that because he would never see me as more than a friend? Some part of me hoped to change his mind.
I put my compact away as Fletcher came strolling up the sidewalk looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Butterflies went wild in my stomach, making me jealous of his calmness. Whenever he was around, I felt queasy and lightheaded, but in a good way.
As usual, Fletcher wore jeans and a flannel jacket with a sweater underneath. No matter what the temperature was like, Fletcher was always dressed for the cold.
He stopped in front of me. “Hello.”
“Hey.”
He looked me up and down, and my cheeks warmed. “I like that dress.”
“Thanks.” Penelope was the last dress I had made, and I was proud of her. I knew the compliment was real because Fletcher never said things unless he meant them—something I loved about him.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Not really, but we have to go in sometime.”
Fletcher nodded, and we headed toward the building. The mood this year was a lot different from the year before. Last year, a somberness had filled the air because of Mrs. Chin’s death. This year girls hugged and squealed while boys high-fived each other. People did have the decency to lower their voices when they passed the memorial garden dedicated to our fallen teacher.
“I have Spanish Two first period,” Fletcher announced.
I pulled my schedule from the front pocket of my backpack. Unfortunately, classes had been the last thing on my mind. I was too preoccupied with Fletcher, Bailey, and the promise I’d made to my mother to at least try to be normal. What did that even mean?
“I have Speech. Yuck.” Speech was an elective my mother insisted I take because she thought it would help me come out of my shell. I was about to tell Fletcher how I’d rather be taking Art Appreciation when Bailey passed us, walking alone. Usually she would throw me a nod or a smile, some sign of acknowledgement, but when our eyes met, she glanced away. Okay then.
“Hey, Dust! Nice dress! It looks just like my great-grandma’s tablecloth!” yelled the most obnoxious creature to ever grace the halls of Everson High. Several kids passing by laughed as they gawked at my dress. That burned, because I’d spent weeks on Penelope, and I was proud of her.
I’d thrown many pennies into the mall’s fountain wishing for Ranson Duval to transfer to anywhere but Everson, preferably another country. My wish had been denied.
I hated Ranson almost as much as I hated Lacey. He was that stereotypical douche bag guy in a horror movie that you hoped died first, but he keeps living and living. He even had the typical look, tall with broad shoulders and slicked-back blond hair.
I ignored him, and Fletcher raised his eyebrows at me before stopping at the water fountain. “You should have said thank you,” he said after taking a drink. “That’s what you tel
l me.”
“That wasn’t a compliment. He was being sarcastic. Ranson would never be giving me a compliment.” As I said, there were just some things Fletcher didn’t get. Sarcasm was one of them.
The warning bell rang, letting us know there were five minutes until first period. My heart sank a little, because it was time for Fletcher and I to separate. “Let me see your schedule.”
Fletcher dug into his pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper. I compared his schedule to mine. “Oh, we have third-period American Literature together. So I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
He nodded and then turned to leave. “Okay. Bye.”
“Wait, Fletch. Your schedule.”
He turned back to take it from me. “Oh, yeah. Later.”
The first half of the day was the typical first-day stuff—seating charts, class rules, what we would be covering during the year. Bailey was also in our American Literature class, but she completely ignored me. Maybe she had gotten to the point where she was going to pretend that I didn’t exist. As awkward as American Literature was, Speech was hands down my least favorite class. Mrs. Martin had already informed us that we would be giving at least two speeches a week, which I found a bit excessive. One a semester would have been enough.
At lunch I bought a slice of pizza and bottled water then looked around for Fletcher. He wasn’t hard to find, considering the fact he was lying on one of the cafeteria tables. Part of me wanted to go far away from him and eat my lunch alone, but that wasn’t normal. Normal would be eating lunch with my friend once I got him to act normal.
Kids passing by stared at him, and a few laughed, glancing over from their tables, but everyone was used to Fletcher and his weird shenanigans.
I dropped my tray on the table beside him. “Fletcher, what are you doing?”
With his eyes closed and his hands folded on top of his chest, Fletcher looked as if he were lounging in the sun getting a tan. “The first day of school is draining. I need a recharge.”
“Want some pizza?” I asked, because eating pizza would force him to sit up, but he shook his head. I should have known. Fletcher never ate at school.
“Fletcher, please get up. Everyone is looking at you like you’re crazy.”
He opened his eyes and frowned. “What do I care what they think?”
Ranson and two of his friends entered the cafeteria, and the last thing I wanted was for them to come over and draw even more attention to the situation. “Fletcher, I mean it. Get up right now.”
“No.”
Getting Fletcher to do something he didn’t want to was nearly impossible. “You know, it’s a beautiful day outside. I think I’m going to take my lunch out to the picnic tables.” I grabbed my tray and headed out of the cafeteria, hoping Fletcher would follow and grateful when he did.
Our school had a picnic area nestled under a group of willow trees. It was the perfect place to eat when it wasn’t too hot or too cold out.
I dropped my tray onto one of the few empty tables. Fletcher sat beside me and drew pictures on his hand. I took a bite of pizza and pulled my journal from my backpack. Scarlett would definitely want to know about my first day of school. A loud shrieking sound drew my attention. Queen Lacey and her bees were perched on top of a table not far away from us. They never ate outside since they’d staked their claim on the back left portion of the cafeteria. Hopefully the picnic area wouldn’t become their new spot for the year, because I liked eating there.
Lacey threw her head back, laughing like some maniacal villain from the comic books. She gabbed loudly about something, or probably someone, while the others giggled. I wondered if Lacey had really said something funny or if the girls were fake-laughing like Mom had suggested I do. As usual, a group of drooling boys had them surrounded.
Lacey was everybody’s dream girl and newly single since she and Ranson had broken up over the summer. I was kind of bummed to hear the news, because the two of them deserved each other.
I guessed I saw Lacey’s appeal from a physical standpoint. She had long golden tresses that fell halfway down her back, clear green eyes, a body to covet, and cheekbones to die for.
“Do you think she’s pretty?”
“Who?” Fletcher was in the middle of perfecting a spider on his thumb.
“Lacey.” I was always curious about how Fletcher felt about other girls. He never talked about anyone. If I wasn’t his type, who was? I didn’t buy his story that he couldn’t be attracted to people. He just wasn’t attracted to me.
Fletcher glanced in Lacey’s direction then went back to his drawing. “No.”
I tried not to act surprised, but that was the first time I’d seen a guy pass up a chance to sing Lacey Chapman’s praises. “Really?”
“Really. Her head’s too big for her body. Her body’s too skinny for her head. She looks like a lollipop.”
I stifled a laugh, but an uncomfortable thought hit me. If he felt that way about one of the most beautiful girls in school, what did he think about me? I wanted to ask, but I was afraid that his brutal honesty would crush my already fragile self-esteem.
I finished my pizza and downed my bottle of water while watching Fletcher design a perfect wasp, grasshopper, and preying mantis on the back of his hand. That was normal, right?
Fletcher walked me home, as he did every day after school since we had become friends, even though his house was in the opposite direction.
He stopped on the sidewalk in front of my house. The only time Fletcher had come to the door was the day he’d showed me Mrs. Chin’s body, and he would never come inside no matter how many times I asked. It had been a few days since I’d asked Fletcher my unrelenting question, so I thought maybe it was time to ask again. That might have been the day he would give me the answer.
“Okay, what makes you different? How do you heal so quickly? Tell me.”
“No.”
I stomped my foot like a spoiled child. Him telling me no all the time was infuriating. “Why not?”
“You’re not ready to handle it.” He always said that.
“At least tell me why you think I’m the one who killed Mrs. Chin.” I mean, the whole thing was as ridiculous as it sounded.
He shook his head, causing his hair to fall into his beautiful brown eyes. “You’re definitely not ready for that.”
Over his shoulder, I spotted Quinn coming up the sidewalk, swinging her backpack around. The elementary school got out thirty minutes later than the high school because we started earlier.
“If you don’t tell me, I’m going to stop hanging out with you,” I threatened.
“No you won’t. You love me.”
I blushed and looked down at the ground. I had something else I needed to ask him, and I had to do it before Quinn reached us.
“Um, is my head too big for my body?” I figured that was safer than asking him if he thought I was pretty. I held my breath as he looked me up and down.
“No. Your head is perfectly proportioned for your body. You should be proud. That’s rare.”
My pulse raced as Quinn pushed her way between the two of us when she could have easily gone around then skipped up the walkway. “Hey, losers.”
I sighed. Quinn was a brat, but she was the lesser of the two evils. At least I still had an hour until Paige got home.
Fletcher and I ignored Quinn. “Well,” I said. “How do you think today went?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad.”
But it hadn’t been that good either. I managed not to have any contact with Lacey, but being ignored by Bailey bothered me, even though it shouldn’t have.
“See you tomorrow,” Fletcher said before turning away.
“See you.” I watched him walk to the end of the block, then I took my perfectly proportioned head and body inside.
Chapter Five
The first week of school was over, so my teachers were in hardcore summer-vacation-is-over mode. Junior year was going to be no joke. I had spent a good
portion of that weekend doing homework, and it was only the beginning of the year.
Wednesday morning, I left the house to discover Fletcher standing on the sidewalk. Just standing there staring at our house. We didn’t usually walk to school together. We’d always met each other on the sidewalk in front of the building.
I took a bite of my green apple, which was nice and sour, and jogged down the walkway to meet him. “Hey. Surprised to see you here.”
He said nothing, just stared at me with one eyebrow raised. “You have something to tell me?” he asked finally.
“Um . . . no. Like what?”
He turned and started off toward school.
I followed him. “Fletch, is everything okay?”
“No. Today is going to be a bad day.”
Well, that’s a great way to start the morning. “What makes you say that?”
“I just know,” were the last words he said to me. Fletcher walked full speed ahead, not even trying to wait for me. What had been the point of him walking to school with me?
When we reached the parking lot, a mass of students was gathered there. It seemed like the entire student body. Some kids sat on the hoods of cars, some huddled in tight groups, some stood by watching silently—but everyone seemed on edge.
“What’s going on?” I asked a group of boys who looked like freshmen.
A boy with freckles and a buzz cut took a break from texting. “They found another teacher, but we don’t know who yet. Dead, like Mrs. Chin. In the same way.”
My throat tightened. “Ripped apart?”
The boy nodded. “I heard in twelve pieces.”
I turned to Fletcher, who stared straight ahead at the crowd. What was happening? Mrs. Chin had been a freak tragic death by some sort of animal, but for it to happen again and to another teacher—that was too weird.
Mary-Kate Youngblood circulated through the crowd, her perfect jet-black ponytail bobbing back and forth, sleek and shiny in the morning sun. Students surrounded her, asking questions as if she knew something the rest of us didn’t because she usually did.
A Girl Called Dust Page 3
