by Jake Burt
I smile and nod, then elbow Jackson, who sits up abruptly and bobs his head up and down crazily. If Jessup notices, I can’t tell—it seems he’s already moved on.
“Let me tell you a little about Loblolly, and then we’ll go on a campus tour. I’ll try to have you to your homerooms in about fifteen minutes. That’ll give you a few minutes to say hello before you head off to your first classes. Here are your schedules, by the way.”
I look over the color-coded chart carefully, and Jackson does the same. Homeroom, math, language arts, gym, lunch, Latin, science/history, and something called flex for the last forty-five minutes of the day. It all seems pretty standard to me, and with my B-minus target average, I’m worried less about what I’m taking and more about who’s in there with me. Hopefully, Brit will be in at least one of my classes.
“I’ll show you where to go, and we’re assigning each of you a buddy from your classes to help you out this first week. Any questions so far?”
“Um, how do we sign up for clubs or sports?”
“So you’re an athlete, Charlotte? What’s your game?”
Other than legerdemain and sneak-thiefing?
There’s a case of trophies behind him, and though I’m too far away to read the plaques, I can at least see the little bronzy figures frozen atop each one. They might be school trophies, or his own personal ones. It doesn’t matter, though, because I only want what isn’t there. I see a football guy, a swimmer, a soccer player, and either a tennis or racquetball person.
“Basketball,” I say. Jackson coughs.
Mr. Jessup rubs his hairless head. “Well, that’s good, Charlotte. You might just be the piece our team needs. We’re not exactly known for our basketball prowess here at Loblolly, and as you can imagine down here in the Triangle, the schools we play take their hoops seriously. We haven’t won a game in three years, but who knows? Maybe you’ll be part of turning that corner. And there are three practices next week, so your timing couldn’t be better.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fun,” I lie, throwing enough syrup into it to suggest sincerity. “I’m just looking forward to being part of something.”
Okay, so that second part’s not a lie.
“Well, you’re already part of something here, Charlotte. Loblolly Middle School prides itself on academic achievement, and you’re a member of that team now. Our students study hard, love to learn, and take their work seriously. We fully expect you to do the same.”
I nod. “We saw the sign outside. A school of excellence for ten years—that’s great!”
He smiles broadly. “It means our test scores consistently exceed the state standards. We’ve fostered a culture of success here, and I think you’ll find that at Loblolly, it’s cool to like school.”
I offer a courtesy giggle, then lead Jackson out to the reception area. Jonathan is waiting for us. He says good-bye, kissing each of us on the cheek before wishing us luck. I dutifully wipe it away, even though I’ve never had a dad’s good-luck kiss before. Since Charlotte Trevor would have had plenty in her time, Nicki Demere will just have to enjoy the memory of it.
We head outside, navigating the paths between buildings. Jackson is the first to get dropped off, and as we stand at the doorway, I give him a quick hug.
“Good luck, Jackson. I’ll see you this afternoon,” I say, smiling. He’s so nervous he forgets he hates me for just a second.
“Yeah, you too,” he mumbles, and he slips in behind Mr. Jessup. I lean against a locker while I wait for them to finish, and then it’s just the vice principal and me.
After a few more twists and turns on the breezeways, Mr. Jessup comes to a halt in front of a green-painted door. On the door is a laminated poster, markered up to look like the Declaration of Independence. It’s a set of classroom expectations—We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all students should come prepared to learn, to respect one another’s ideas, and to do their best. Hmmm. Nothing about cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages. That’s good, I guess.
At the bottom of the poster, inked in a flowery hand right where John Hancock’s name should be, is Ms. Zelda Millar. Surrounding it are kids’ names—some printed, some signed. In the bottom-right corner, there’s a yellow sticky note haphazardly flapping in the wind. Upon it, in the same cursive as Ms. Millar’s name, is Charlotte Trevor.
I wrinkle my nose. This means they know I’m coming.
Mr. Jessup knocks at the hollow aluminum door, and a mousy, jittery sort of woman opens it. She squints momentarily as she sizes me up.
“Ms. Millar, meet Charlotte Trevor. Charlotte, this is Ms. Millar. She’s your teacher for homeroom and history. Be prepared to learn about colonial America this semester. Or, as the kids call it, the Pirate Year. Arrrrr!”
There are a few giggles from inside the room, and I lean in to look. Sure enough, there are two dozen kids, all craning to see me. Once they get a glimpse, they quickly sink back into their seats, whispering furiously to one another.
“Hi, Ms. Millar,” I say.
She looks down at her pink attendance pad and drawls, “Oh, he—”
“Hello, Charlotte! It’s so nice to meet you!”
The interruption is so abrupt that I jump. Ms. Millar rolls her eyes but makes room for the bubbly girl, who practically throws herself into the doorway.
“My name is Holly Fiellera! I’m the head of the Student Welcome Committee, the Community Outreach Committee, the Environmental Club, the Hispanic Heritage Club, the Choir Student Board, the Service Club, and, in the spring, the Student Graduation Ceremony Honorary Advisor. I run the Academic Progress Club as well. Also, I volunteered to be your buddy this week!”
Of course you did, Holly.
“Wow,” I remark, which sets Holly to bouncing like a puppy. “Harvard called. You’re accepted.”
She grins, exposing the most perfect set of teeth I’ve ever seen. They match her thick but impeccably sculpted eyebrows, olive skin, and her immaculate hair. I can imagine reaching up there and breaking off a piece like a jet-black icicle. I’m impressed—pulling off this look and volunteering for everything ever has to be exhausting.
“You’re so sweet!” she replies, taking my arm and tugging me into the room. I hear Mr. Jessup say, “Whelp, looks like she’s all set,” and Ms. Millar closes the door behind us. Now I’m center stage, and I slip my hands behind me so nobody can see them. I know this is a necessary moment, but all-eyes-on-me is exactly where I’m not supposed to be.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Charlotte Trevor,” Holly announces. “She’s new. Make her feel welcome!”
The class just stares. I stare back, keeping a smile shellacked onto my face. Eventually, a familiar voice murmurs from the back, “It’s … it’s nice to meet you, Charlotte. Um, again.”
There’s a tidal shift of focus from me to the back, where Brit’s face peeks out from behind the bookbag on her desk. I replace my fake smile with a real one and wave. The rest of the class keeps staring at Brit until she sinks so low that her bottom slides off the seat.
A few more seconds of awkwardness ensue, like those moments after you pour pop into a glass filled with ice, and you’re wondering if it’s going to fizz over. That ends when Holly tips over the whole darn glass, both figuratively and literally.
“Charlotte, do tell us a little about yourself! We’ve been gossiping, of course, but we want to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth!” she exclaims as she tries to squeeze between me and Ms. Millar’s desk. There’s a mug of pencils there, though, and she smacks it with her elbow as she passes. Before I can think, or stop myself, or anything, my right hand darts down to grab the mug, and I invert it beneath the pencils, catching most of them before they hit the floor. My left hand is moving, too, and I nimbly snatch three more out of the air. Then I cram them into the mug and slam it back onto the desk. When I straighten myself, my backpack hasn’t even shifted on my shoulders.
If kids were staring before, well, t
hey’re fixated now.
“Whoa,” one boy says, and the rest of the class echoes, “Whoaaa!”
Slowly, Holly asks, “How … how did you…?”
“Do people still say that?” I reply innocently, trying to change the subject. “‘From the horse’s mouth,’ I mean. I, like, haven’t heard that in forever!” Some kids snicker, and one boy near the back hee-haws like a donkey before turning Coke-can red and joining Brit in the seat-slide. Most are still locked on me, though.
Holly is as impervious as her hair. “Well, I do.… But seriously, how?”
“Oh, nerves, adrenaline, something like that, I guess?” I lie. “Anyway, I’m Charlotte. Everyone knows that already, I suppose. I’m from Ohio. Just moved. My brother also goes here. He’s in sixth grade. I think your campus is beautiful, and I’m looking forward to—”
Some boy shouts, “Do it again! The thing with the pencils!”
I zero in on the speaker, a guy in the first row with big hands and a sweaty forehead. Holly levels a formidable frown at him. He makes a face back. Ms. Millar senses a situation brewing, and she heads it off at the pass.
“Charlotte, your seat is next to Holly, over there. Ladies and gentlemen, continue discussing your projects. The bell will ring in about five minutes.”
The class breaks out into a dozen conversations, and I slip into my seat, placing my backpack down beside me and spreading my schedule on the desk. I try to crane around to see Brit, but Holly scoots her desk next to mine and smiles at me until I look at her instead.
“So how long have you been here?” she asks.
“Since Friday.”
“Are you in any clubs yet?”
I fold my hands over my desk, glancing at the rest of the class. Some seem to be talking about their projects, but more are murmuring and sneaking peeks at me.
“No, not yet, but I’d like to be. Got any openings?”
Holly looks like I’ve just told her she won the lottery.
“Oh, Charlotte, you’re speaking to the right girl! There are openings all over the place, and even in the clubs that don’t have them, I can probably get you in. What are your interests?”
My interests? This is a topic Charlotte’s file wasn’t particularly clear about. I try to think of something else besides books and burglary.
Before I can, though, the boy to our left leans in and brushes a lock of blond hair from his eyes. “Hey,” he says, his voice as smooth as honey on dark bread. “Slow down, Holly. Charlotte, you said? That was unreal, how fast your hands moved there. Tell me your secret. You have a superpower?”
“Yes,” I reply, smirking. “It’s not interrupting other people’s conversations. If you want, I can teach it to you sometime.”
He laughs and holds out his hand. “My name is—”
“Archer. Archer Brantley,” Holly finishes, and she smacks away his hand. Her tone is still upbeat, but there’s a hint of a hiss there. “And we’ll take it slowly if you will. She just got here, for heaven’s sakes.” Leaning in to me, she whispers, “Tenga cuidado de él.…”
Though I don’t know Spanish well, I’ve heard enough to recognize when I’m being warned. I nod almost imperceptibly.
“You know I love it when you speak Spanish, Holly,” Archer says with a Cheshire grin. “Someday, I’m going to learn it, just for you.” He turns to me. “And what language are you in, Charlotte?”
I look down at my schedule. Holly peers over my shoulder. “Room 402. That’s the Latin room. You’re taking Latin. So am I!”
“Too bad,” muses Archer. “I’m in French. When’s your lunch period?”
“I’ll look later,” I say. Archer shrugs, but I can still feel his eyes on me as Holly clasps my shoulder and turns me away.
“Now, about clubs. You should think about—”
I hold up my hand. “I will, I will. But Ms. Millar mentioned a project? Am I stepping into the middle of something major?”
“Kind of. Group report on North Carolina in the Revolutionary War. I already volunteered you to be in our group. We’re doing the Edenton Tea Party. You totally don’t need to worry; we’re basically done. You’ll just stand up there with us while we present!”
“Thanks,” I say, hiding my irritation. Granted, tea parties aren’t my thing, but I like doing my own work, and if Holly is as overachieving as she sounds, being lassoed into this isn’t likely to help me keep my grade in the B-minus range. Before I can say any more, though, a loud buzz fills the air, and all the kids explode from their desks at once.
“That’s the bell!” Holly exclaims.
“Thanks for everything this morning. I’ll see you in Latin?”
“Oh, before that, girlfriend. I’ll find you, don’t worry!”
As she skips off, Holly actually kisses her fingers and wiggles a wave at me. I sigh and wave back. Then I join Brit near the door, where she’s skulking.
“Well, she’s exhausting,” I whisper.
“Holly?” Brit asks, blinking, like she didn’t expect me to talk to her.
“Yes, my welcome wagon.”
“Oh, she’s … she’s not so bad.”
“She seems fake,” I observe.
“Yeah, but that’s the weird thing,” Brit notes. “She’s kind of not. Deidre hates her, of course, but even she doesn’t bother making fun of Holly—it just kind of rolls off her back, and she keeps going, and going, and going. She’s like the Energizer Bunny of Loblolly Middle School.”
“I bet the teachers love her.”
“I guess. Mr. Alcontera tells her to stop raising her hand for every question in math.”
I take out my schedule.
“I have math now.”
“Me too!” Brit says, her smile the first truly sincere one I think I’ve seen all day. “Oh, and I made something for you!”
I watch as she rummages through her bag and produces a piece of graph paper.
“I … I know it can be tough getting around this place sometimes. I get lost, and I’ve been here since sixth grade. So here. I drew this for you.”
It’s a map of campus, painstakingly drawn and color coded. So Brit can add cartography to her list of talents.
“Wow!” I say softly. “When did you find time to do this? It’s amazing.”
“Right after my game last night. I … I stay up late most of the time.”
I gasp. “That’s right! Your game! How did you do?”
She bites her lower lip and glances around. Satisfied that we’re out of other kids’ earshot, she whispers, “We won! They said they wanted to see me play a few more, but I’m at the top of their list for the team!”
I clap as quietly as I can. “Can I come over again sometime to watch? That beanbag chair totally had my name on it.”
“Sure!” Brit says, and she beams. It’s hard to believe that BR1TN3YSP34RGUN is somewhere in there, but it’s reassuring to have a friend who knows a thing or two about hiding in plain sight. If Brit can pull it off, maybe Charlotte Trevor has a shot, too.
As we leave homeroom, I ask Brit to tell me about the teachers—who’s nice, who’s uptight, who the favorite is, who will bore me to tears. She says the same thing about all of them—they’re intense.
“They all really want you to do your best, especially on the EOG.”
“EOG?” I ask, pronouncing it like the name of a particularly loathsome under-the-bridge troll.
“End of Grade test,” she clarifies. “It’s big around here.”
“So I’ve heard. Why?”
“You’ll see when you get to the cafeteria, or the computer lab. They’re awesome, and it’s because we get money for our great test scores … at least, I think. I know the teachers get bonuses and stuff. But it’s cool, because they still want us to learn.”
“EOGs are a big deal. Got it.”
“What’s a big deal, Charlotte?”
Brit and I are suddenly separated, with Archer and two of his friends sliding between us.
“Um, we were
… we were just saying…” Brit begins, but Archer waves his hand by his ear like he’s shooing a fly, and she stops talking. He stares expectantly at me, keeping up with us step for step.
“Really, Archer? It’s my first day,” I scold. “Aren’t you supposed to wait a few weeks before pouncing?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “And aren’t you supposed to be all quiet and shy?”
Dang. I thought I was being quiet and shy.
I speed up, but he matches us stride for stride again. “It’s weird. You don’t have that new-girl vibe.”
“Whereas you definitely have that old-dog vibe.”
He laughs again and playfully makes a grab for my map. “C’mon, let me see where you’re going!”
It’s a decent attempt, but against my hands, he’s painfully slow, and in the time it takes for him to try to paw at the paper, I’ve creased it twice, palmed it, and thrust it behind me into an open side pocket of my backpack.
“Still not sharing, Charlotte? You’re a girl of mystery,” he says, nodding appreciatively. “I like mysteries. And you know what? You’re a mystery I’m going to solve. Don’t worry, I don’t mean in a creepy way. I just think we’ll end up being friends. Watch and see!”
His friends snicker, and all three peel away, headed in the opposite direction.
“He’s the most popular boy in the seventh grade, you know,” Brit remarks. “You’re way lucky.”
“Way lucky? I’d settle for fitting in.”
Brit nods. “But you’ve got to admit, there is something about you. I mean, you’re nice to me.”
I sigh. “Don’t start that again. You’re my friend, I like you, and that’s that.”
“Okay,” Brit says, and I swear she skips, just once, as she walks. She’s quiet for the rest of the way, except for the occasional mumbled “Excuse me” or “Sorry” as we bump and shuffle our way through the crowds of kids cramming into classrooms. When we finally reach the door to math class, I shake my head. I’ve been here less than a half hour, and I’ve already got Holly signing me up for anything with a bake sale and a cause, Mr. Jessup wanting to reminisce about the old neighborhood, the entire homeroom thinking I’m Houdini, and Archer’s bull’s-eye on my back. I can see why Brit prefers her virtual war zones; Loblolly is more than enough minefield for me. I’m just glad I’ve got a map.
