“Hey, Breckin!” Morgan yells, waving excitedly to me from across the lot causing her bouncy curled, russet hair to jump against her shoulders.
“Hey, Morgan.” I smile. “Sorry, I should’ve called to see if you needed a ride.”
Morgan is the closest thing I have to a neighbor. Being in the outskirts of town, she lives a half mile down the road and I pass her house on the way to school. She is also on the swim team with me and one of my closest friends.
“That’s okay, my dad paid to have my car fixed. If school had started a week earlier then I’d probably have a different story,” she answers sheepishly, her hazel eyes looking down.
Morgan isn’t the greatest driver and her poor little sedan shows the signs. She is constantly running over curbs and backing into bushes – usually because she is busy texting while driving. Very bad. She’d just recently taken out her parents mail box – the third since she’s started driving – while talking on her cell phone. Or maybe she was checking her make-up in the mirror. I can’t remember.
“It’s not like I could’ve taken your call anyway,” she continues in a low voice, clearly pouting in an over-exaggerated fashion. When she looks down in her moment of shame, her eyelids sparkle in the early morning sunlight showing her typical choice of iridescent shadow. It really is quite pretty.
“No, but I can still call you on the house phone, can’t I?” I ask.
“I guess so,” she replies, shrugging her shoulders. “My parents didn’t technically say I couldn’t have calls to the house…” she trails off.
She’s lucky her parents didn’t take away her car all together. They’d decided better of it when they realized that carting her around to school and to swim practice and then swim meets on top of all that would be more hassle than it’s worth. They’d chosen to let her keep the car, but in turn she lost her cell phone privileges until she could prove herself a better driver. I internally think that Morgan will never be getting her little smartphone back.
“Aren’t you so excited? I mean, this is it! We’re seniors!” Morgan squeals in her usual rushed, energized yelp of a voice.
“Yeah, seniors. Can’t believe it’s finally her.” I agree.
“You could show a little more enthusiasm, you know.”
I glance over to her disappointed face. “Sorry, it just hasn’t hit me I guess.”
“Hmm,” she murmurs through narrowed eyes, “If you say so.”
I am excited. Overly excited. Just because I don’t share the same outright enthusiasm she expresses doesn’t mean I’m not just as ecstatic. Does it? I guess my tone was a little flat.
We walk up the little hill from the parking lot to the school and into the gym where the rest of the student body is shuffling in. We spot our third musketeer, Claire, and my not-so-much-a-friend, Brooks, sitting in a small group. We go to join them on the bleachers that have been pulled out from the wall and make small talk. It isn’t like we haven’t seen each other all summer, so we aren’t rushing to make up the time we’d lost over the three months of independence we now have to unwillingly give up. I stay silent; half-listening to the conversation as I vaguely watch the students file in. There are a few new faces sitting amongst us I note – some that are clearly not ninth graders, so they must have just moved to town. It’s pretty funny to see the freshman’s intimidated faces, the not-so-new underclassmen sizing up the poor little freshman, and the suddenly cocky seniors razzing everyone.
After about ten minutes the principal decides that it’s well past time to start and steps into the middle of the gym floor. His shiny new patent leather shoes squeak against the freshly waxed wooden beams of the basketball court as he impatiently waits for us to pay attention. Of course that isn’t going to happen without some type of authoritative prompting.
“Can we settle down please,” Mr. Woods says after clearing his throat into the microphone. It isn’t a question. “On behalf of the entire faculty here at QHS, I’d like to welcome you all back and wish everyone luck in the new coming school year.” Boos and low groans now flow freely down the full bleachers. Mr. Woods continues as if he hasn’t noticed. “Now, for all of those returning, you know how this works. For the freshman class and new students, listen up and pay attention. The class advisers will break everyone up into quarters by last names. We’ll start with the freshman, then on to sophomores, etcetera, etcetera. Mrs. French, you may have the floor.”
Not wasting any more time, Mr. Woods gestures with his free hand for her to step forward. Mrs. French, who ironically teaches Spanish, takes the proffered microphone, and in a voice that makes it sound like she forever has nasal blockage starts sectioning off the freshman into groups.
“Okay, those with a last name beginning in A through E,” she begins.
The rest of the assembly becomes background noise as I turn my attention back to the classmates I’m surrounded by. Morgan is busily and animatedly talking with Claire and Brooks and all those who encircle us. She can command a crowd’s attention with the ease of a veteran speaker. People are leaning in, listening excitedly. Others we haven’t seen throughout the summer are ardently explaining what they’ve been up to and comparing trips they’d taken. Just as I’m getting into a story about Claire and a very graphic retelling about the three guys she juggled this summer, someone smacks down next to me and swings a heavy arm around my neck. Without looking over, I know exactly who it is.
“Hi, Axel,” I say without meeting his gaze.
“You couldn’t pick me up for school? Jeesh! Making your little brother walk all that way. What kind of person does that?” he says, faking annoyance.
“You live two blocks away. The walk didn’t kill you. You’re legs look all right - not broken,” I tease back.
Axel is my little brother - okay, half-brother. But I don’t think about the specifics. After my mother had left Paul, he tried his hand at marriage number two after a very short whirlwind of a romance. But, being the person he is, the marriage didn’t last more than a few years.
“I’m wounded.” Axel says, clasping his chest as if he’s been shot.
“Yeah,” I laugh. “Looks like it.”
“How’s Ben?” he asks, eyes alight with enthusiasm.
I sigh, ignoring his question. Ben The Boyfriend as Elly calls him, graduated last year and is now away attending college. And to my extreme annoyance, Axel idolizes him. I’ll see him on weekends and every so often on an evening during the week if time allows. He isn’t far; about a two hour drive. But I’m not going to really mind the absence. The relationship isn’t what it was when we were in high school together - I realize that already. Over the summer we’d had some hardships and kind of drifted apart. He’d actually dumped me over the summer a handful of times. All reasons for the break ups pathetic. I very stupidly took him back each time when he’d turned on the water works – and I never knew his true intentions for the break up at the time. Intentions that were beyond uncouth. Unfortunately we’re still a couple, but not a strong couple as far as “young love” goes. I can’t help but feel utterly exasperated whenever I think of him. And the way Axel moons over him is like nails down a chalkboard.
But I think the reason behind all the mooning and idolizing is because Ben was practically a football god when he was in school, and Axel is now a part of the varsity football team. The only sophomore to make the cut. He took over Ben’s place as star receiver and is a little nervous, I think, to fill such big shoes.
“Can you take me into town after practice today? I need a new mouth guard. If coach saw the one I had, he’d probably kick me in the nut sack,” Axel says with wide ice-blue eyes. “It's not really regulation.” Axel may be the only sophomore on the varsity football team, but he has become very good at vulgar language like his older teammates. Axel isn’t overly tall, less than six feet. He’s stocky though, like our dad, and broad throughout the shoulders. He still has remnants of a baby face, though it’s hard to notice through the stubble he now proudly grows. Even t
hough he’s only a sophomore, he’s an excellent addition to the lineup. I’m very proud of him and his accomplishments.
“Sure, I should be ending practice about the same time as you. Maybe we could grab a bite to eat, too.” I reply with a smile. I know how Axel loves getting a break from his mother’s cooking. She isn’t a bad cook per se; she just usually makes the same things over and over. Mostly because she doesn’t know how to cook anything else. A breach in the repetitive dinner menu is never an option for her. Over the years, I’ve learned the menu well. Tonight will be fish. I hate fish.
“That’d be aawwwesome. I’ve been craving pizza for a week!”
I laugh. He’s so easy to please. “Okay, pizza it is.”
Mr. Varner, the sophomore class adviser is now speaking in the background, “…okay all sophomores with last names beginning with M through S, head to room one-twelve. There, you will be given your class schedules and locker assignments.”
“Guess that’s my cue. I’ll see you after practice then,” Axel says, rising from his seat.
“Sounds like a plan. Be good today.” I scold, knowing how he likes to stir up mischief.
He pokes me in the ribs while allowing a huge, disobedient smile to spread across his face. He jumps from the last three bleacher seats to the wooden gym floor, causing my seat to shake and sag beneath me after wagging his eyebrows like a villain as he catches up with some of his friends. I grin and feel genuinely sorry for his unsuspecting teachers this year. I’ll be amazed if the boy makes it through his high school career and not receive suspension.
I turn my attention back to my friends and there is a debate on what the homecoming theme should be this year. We’re to play our schools biggest rival – a really big game – and the theme has to be perfect. Nothing of dire importance to me.
“Isn’t homecoming like four or five weeks away?” I ask.
Everyone in our little group turns with the expression of pure shock splayed across their face to gawk at me. Okay, apparently that was the wrong question to ask. As usual, my low-key position on high school situations makes me a social foreigner. I bite my lip and look down at my hands.
“Breckin, apparently you don’t understand the severity of the situation,” Morgan tries explaining to me like I’m a toddler.
“Sorry.” I pull my eyebrows together trying to hide my anger. I really hate it when she talks to me this way.
“This is our last homecoming. And we are playing against The Cowboy’s. You must know how big this game will be!” she says, throwing her hands up in the air.
“Oh, right. Sure, I understand. I just don’t see why we have to rush such a big decision,” I answer, shrugging my shoulders. “We should evaluate and consider every option before choosing something.” I explain now, faking enthusiasm. That seems to help take some of the still glaring eyes away from me.
Every year when Quinton plays against the town of Glass, there is an insignificant little bauble the school fights over. I don’t know where this tradition stemmed from, but whichever school has possession of the object reigns supreme. Whatever happened to the simplicity of pride and victory from a win? Glass currently has the trinket in their custody and our football team is determined that they’ll relieve them of it – as they so do believe every year. Quinton High School hasn’t had ownership of it in nine years.
“Everyone with last names beginning in M through S, please go to room one-thirty-seven.” I hear Mr. Browne announce in his husky announcer voice. I hadn’t realized it, but the gym now only holds what’s left of the senior class student body.
“We’ll have to get the Student Counsel to make this priority one at the meeting Thursday.” Brooks says as I stand from my seat. I blink at her. This is the first time she has said more than two words to me since sophomore year.
“Absolutely.” I nod. I try to sound determined. I’m not sure if I do – I’m not even a member of the Student Counsel. I half-wave to Morgan and Claire as I leave through the heavy door that leads to the hallway from the gymnasium. I can feel eyes staring at me as I go, but decide not to give a second glance back. It could be my friends or someone I don’t know. And when I say, someone I don’t know, I mean an unwanted dead visitor. No thanks.
Walking down the familiar halls of the school I question to myself if I’ll get a better locker assignment this year. Last year I had a locker directly across from one of the doors that led outside. And lucky for me, there was just enough of a gap beneath it to allow some air to slip through. Needless to say, if there was wind in the forecast I’d better had been sure to bring a paper weight to school that day. Winter was a nightmare. I had to wear gloves just to retrieve my books in between classes.
Both years before that I had to share a locker. Not such a big perk for underclassmen. My freshman year I shared with Jillian Mars. She was a strange girl who dressed in colorful garments and often wore lots of wooden jewelry. She contemplated the meaning of things like shoe laces and had once asked me, “Why is a table called a table, and a clock a clock?” I had thought her last name suited her as she definitely seemed like she was from another planet. She went through a phase of not wearing deodorant because it wasn't “natural”, and it took all I had not to gag when we were within five feet of one another. Besides, there are organic deodorants available for purchase. That year I was thankful for cool winter days.
When I was a sophomore, I shared my locker with Mariah Sox. She often would return from P. E. class with her smelly sneakers and socks in hand and shove them in our locker because God forbid she just wear normal shoes. She always strutted around in heels and designer boots instead. But didn't boots still call for socks to be worn? I begged her to use her school issued gym locker for her smelly gear, but she refused stating it went against her ethics. I was beginning to think the girls in our class had a complex with last names and hygiene.
I enter into room one-thirty-seven as instructed and find an empty seat – always in the back – and hang my bag over the chair. Sitting down at the rectangular table, I intertwine my fingers in front of me. The remainder of the class shuffles in and sits down just as I had and we all wait for our next command.
“All right you dingbats, let’s get this over with.” Mrs. Hathaway hollers in her usual raspy voice as she stomps through the door. “When I call off your name, come up to the front and get your slips. No funny business.”
She’s not necessarily an unpleasant woman, just dreadfully sarcastic. Mrs. Hathaway teaches English, a subject I enjoy and I had the pleasure of being in her class the last three years of high school. Two years is all our little school requires unless you want to take an AP English course, which is exactly what I did the year before. She wears hot-pink lipstick on her pin-thin lips and has teased her short, ash-blonde hair around her square, now pursed face. Often times when the weather cools, Mrs. Hathaway’s wardrobe consists of long fashionable sweaters and tight leggings that match whichever bright color her blouse so boldly displays, all the while making it look like she’s just stepped off a New York City runway. Which is exactly where she’s from. I sometimes wonder if she ever resents the move to Small-town USA. Quinton just doesn’t seem like her cup of tea. I, personally, have always gotten along with her exceptionally well. “Mayer… Mitchell… Moore…” she starts.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Breckin Nicolai.” A familiar, high-pitched voice rings from my left. My body automatically tenses in response to the shrill sound as I suck in a deep breath and turn. I try to look as though I’m not seething in distaste by who is speaking to me, although I am more than uncomfortable to say the least.
“Hey, Amber. Did you have a nice summer?” I ask as pleasantly as I can manage through gritted teeth.
Amber Newman is the current ring leader to the little clique our class has acquired over the years. They buzz around like annoying little gnats at a picnic although they’re more like snakes in the grass. No matter how hard you try to escape them, they always slither their way into yo
ur business and your life, sucking away any pleasure you may have while leaving poisonous venom in their wake to infect the wounds. And for whatever reason, every year Amber has decided to zero in on me.
“Not that you’re worth the details, but yes I had a fabulous summer.” She retorts, flipping her bright blonde hair. I swear it gets blonder and blonder every year. This year it looks as though she’s just stuck her head into a bowl of bleach.
“If I’m not worth the details, then why are you speaking to me?” I reply bitingly. Normally I would have ignored her, but I’ve decided that I’m going to take her crap this year.
Amber glares at me with her gray-blue eyes, opens her mouth like she’s going to say some other obtuse comment, and then snaps it shut. That’s a first. I consider that for a moment and then decide not to waste another thought on it. I’m sure that I’ll have plenty of time in the near future to squander unwanted energy on Amber Newman. I sigh in disgust as her name is called and watch her through eyes squinted into slits as she swaggers to the front of the class to retrieve her slip. She walks like she’s sauntering for a fashion show, with clacky high heels and too short skirt.
“…Nicolai,” I hear Mrs. Hathaway call after a moment.
I get up, walk hurriedly to the front to grab this year’s class assignment and begin to examine the transparent white paper as I pace back to my seat. Thank goodness I don’t have to actually walk past Amber – otherwise she most likely would have tried to trip me. Something she has done a time or two in the past.
Hollow Sight Page 2
