The Bright Effect

by Autumn Doughton

  -Caroline

  PS: And, don’t forget your umbrella!

  ____________

  To: Caroline

  From: Hannah

  Date: August 31

  Subject: Re: The longest year

  Remember you? You’ll be my date.

  And, I’m telling you that your day is NOT going to suck! You are going to walk into Northside High and show everyone who is boss (or at least who discovered an awesome frizz-reducing conditioner this summer). I’m sure by the time lunch rolls around and Derek Warren is shoving Pixie Stix up his nose, you won’t even miss me.

  As I type this I’m staring with dread at my new school uniform. I was going to send you a picture but I don’t want any official evidence that I ever had so much wool and polyester on my body at one time.

  TTYL

  Hannah

  ____________

  “Phew,” I wheezed as I walked into The Warriner School, twisting rain from the ends of my hair and wishing that I had paid more attention to Caroline’s email and carried an umbrella.

  The heavy door fell shut behind me and I did a quick scan of the office. To be honest, it was like any school office, with walls the color of masking tape and dark brown Berber carpet and the faintly antiseptic smell of new paper and lemon cleaner. The school crest was front and center, stenciled in white, blue, and gold paint just above a large reception desk where an older woman with short grey hair was quietly typing on a computer.

  Students were around. It seemed like the usual first day stuff—mostly kids waiting in chairs outside of what I guessed was the headmaster’s office. I noticed one kid in particular. He was slumped over with his head cradled in his hand, drawing in a sketchbook. From this angle, I couldn’t see his eyes, just his hair—a mess of tiny black curls—plus a bit of dark skin with the hint of broad cheekbones, and a wide, almost pretty mouth. But his looks weren’t what caught my attention. It was the drawing. It was abstract—a series of concentric circles, all layered on top of each other—and it was completely amazing.

  A shrill voice jolted me out of my head. “You’re late.”

  “Excuse me?” My shoes squelched as I turned left and spotted a girl about my age leaning against the wall with her arms crossed in front of her body. Her outfit mirrored my own—boxy blue blazer with red piping and an embroidered patch over the breast, white collared shirt, a shapeless skirt, and dark tights that ended in clunky leather oxfords.

  “You’re late,” she repeated.

  I wiped cold raindrops from the tip my nose and stammered, “S-sorry. With the rain and being new to the city, getting here took longer than I thought it would.”

  Motionless, the girl stared at me and clicked her tongue.

  Confidence drained from me like water pouring from an open faucet. I felt my shoulders slump and my breathing change. I wasn’t normally the type to be intimidated easily, but this girl… well, she was intimidating. Maybe it was her perfectly parted dark hair or her unfriendly expression. Everything about her came off so severe, she might have stepped right out of a pamphlet for a deeply religious school or some kind of military camp.

  Even though I wanted to curl up into a ball and roll right back out the door, I forced myself to smile and stick out my hand. “I’m Hannah.”

  “I know who you are.” The girl uncrossed her arms but she didn’t take my outstretched hand. “You’re Hannah Vaughn, sixth form transfer student from America,” she went on, assessing me with critical eyes. “I’m Ava Cameron, one of the lower sixth prefects.”

  I’d read Harry Potter and researched enough online to know that prefects were class officers that were able to hand out detentions or demerits. Sort of like hall monitors on steroids.

  “Ah, hi?” I tried. “Nice to meet you?”

  Deep creases appeared at the sides of her mouth. Maybe that was her best attempt at a smile?

  “As a prefect and a fellow member of the writing program, I’ve been given your schedule and have agreed to acclimate you to our school.”

  Lucky me.

  She produced a piece of paper and pointed to it. “On Mondays, you begin with a double period of economics. Then, a fifteen-minute break and maths.”

  “And when do I take my writing classes?” I asked, leaning in and trying to decrypt the complicated-looking schedule. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Annoyance flitted across Ava’s face. “We move into specialties after lunch. But as I was saying…after maths, you should report to the dining hall for a thirty-minute lunch period. After that, you take accelerated composition in the McCabe Building.”

  A body pressed into my space and a head covered in sunny blonde curls poked over my shoulder to get a look at the schedule. “Brilliant! You have that class with me.

  I blinked at the head. It belonged to a ruddy-cheeked girl with a wide, gap-toothed grin. “Um, hi?”

  She stepped around to my front and grabbed for my hand. Once she had a good grip, she shook it vigorously. “I’m Tillie Hoover.”

  “I’m Hannah,” I said and my relief was palpable. At least Tillie here didn’t look ready to sentence me to latrine duty or tar and feather me.

  “Oh, I know. And let me tell you, it’s been ages since we’ve had anyone new and exciting around here. I can’t wait to show you around and introduce you—” Abruptly, she stopped and lifted my hand up to eye level. “Oooh, I love your varnish! What’s the shade called?”

  I figured she meant my nail polish.

  “Oh, I think it’s called Afternoon Breeze,” I told her, curling my fingers to my palms. My nails were short and square and painted a soft robin’s egg blue. The bottle had been a going away gift from Caroline. She’d held it up to the outside of my house and said, Just in case you forget the color of home, all you have to do is look down.

  “It’s fantastic,” Tillie said, nodding. “I looked all summer for a shade of blue that wouldn’t make my skin look waxy but I never found one.

  “If you like, I could bring it in for you.”

  Warm brown eyes squinted at me. “You would do that?”

  “This is not a beauty school,” Ava injected. “And painted nails break uniform code.

  Tillie scrunched up her nose. “Oh, bollocks. That rule is never enforced.”

  “Still,” Ava said, gruffly clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Didn’t you read the student handbook, Hannah?”

  “I tried.” And I did try. “I just didn’t manage to make it past paragraph two before falling into such a deep sleep that I woke up with drool caked to the side of my face.”

  Tillie giggled but Ava was undeterred. “I know things are done differently in America, but here we do have rules.”

  Oh God. I could sense exactly where this was heading. This was the smugness Henry had warned me of repeatedly. Remember that they hate Americans, he’d said, chucking me on the chin as we’d traded goodbyes at the airport. They think we’re a bunch of ignoramuses with a cache of guns and red Solo cups. Be sure to prove them wrong.

  I needed a reset button. That’s all.

  If I could only go back three minutes and start this conversation all over.

  I blinked and looked around. To my total embarrassment, everyone in the office was staring. The kid with the sketchbook had stopped drawing. Even the receptionist was looking this way. I wondered if I should offer to pop some popcorn for them to munch on.

  “It’s just nail polish,” I whispered.

  Ava gave her head a shake. “Transfer students always think they’ll be given preferential treatment.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  Tillie rolled her eyes. “Oh, please get off it, Ava.”

  Ava pursed her lips and widened her stance. “I’m not on anything. I simply think it’s a matter of—”

  “Girls, I see you’ve met our new student!”

  A man emerged from behind the reception desk. His clothes were tailored, his skin w
as bronzed like he’d spent the summer lounging on a beach in the south of France, and his hair was long and styled with a bit too much gel to be considered casual.

  “Miss Vaughn, is that correct?”

  “Y-yes.” How did all these people already know my name? Had the administration sent out some kind of missive to the entire school?

  The man shook my hand. “Your essay was just wonderful. We’re so pleased that you won the writing contest and were able to join us all the way from America. Aren’t we, girls?”

  Ava’s nasty expression flattened to something just this side of friendly. “Of course, Mr. Hammond. Tillie and I were just about to accompany Hannah to her first course of the day.”

  Whoa. I looked back at the man, who I now realized was Ethan Hammond, the head of the writing department. This was him—the man who had chosen my essay and sealed my acceptance to Warriner.

  “Mr. Hammond?”

  He smiled. “The very one. I believe I’ll be seeing you this afternoon in my classroom.”

  “Oh… I mean...” Way to make a good impression, Hannah. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “We have a rigorous curriculum but I am always available if you have any questions or concerns. And I won’t bite. At least not on the first day.” He laughed loudly at his own joke. “I’m certain Ava and Tillie will make sure you feel comfortable as you familiarize yourself with school grounds.”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Hammond,” Tillie piped up. And, no, I didn’t miss the dreamy way she said his name.

  His green eyes crinkled at the corners as he tipped his gaze toward me. “Hannah, I know you have a lot to think about at the moment, but if you permit, I’d like to suggest squash to you. We have a mixed team—that’s boys and girls for one sport. I’m not supposed to actively recruit students—you understand,” he said, leaning toward me conspiratorially. “School rules. But just between us, we are desperately in need of players this year if we hope to make any progress with the team. Ava and Tillie can share the specifics with you if you find yourself in the least bit interested.”

  “Squash?” I looked around. Most of our audience seemed to have lost interest, but the black kid with the sketchbook was closely following the entire exchange. His lips were clamped and his cheeks were puffed out as though he might burst into laughter at any minute.

  “Quite a few of my writers participate,” Mr. Hammond said seriously.

  “Squash?” I asked again.

  Tillie nodded encouragingly. “You know… squash?”

  “No.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “With racquets? And a ball?” When I didn’t respond, she shook her head in frustration. “For your sport?”

  At that, I laughed and flapped a hand dismissively. “Oh, thanks for the offer but I don’t play sports.”

  Her eyes rounded. “But you must!”

  Mr. Hammond said, “You may want to reconsider. Nearly every student at Warriner participates in an athletic. It’s not a written requirement but it is highly encouraged. We like to think of it as way to engage your peers as well as the faculty.”

  Sure, I signed up for new experiences when I moved to London but running around and getting sweaty was not one of them. “I don’t think…”

  Ava spoke over me. “For girls, we have lacrosse, netball, and hockey.”

  Mr. Hammond lifted a finger. “And don’t forget about squash.”

  “Right,” she added, turning back to me with unhappy eyes. “And squash. I’m one of the team captains this year.”

  “I’m not captain, but I play on the team,” Tillie told me.

  Mr. Hammond cocked his head. “So what do you think?”

  I rocked back on my heels, hoping they would read my discomfort and realize I was about as sporty as a station wagon. But that didn’t happen. If anything, his stare became more expectant.

  “Hannah?” he asked.

  OH. MY. GOD.

  Squash?

  My heart was drumming and I could feel tiny beads of sweat forming up near my hairline. Blood rushed behind my ears.

  I should have said no and laughed in their faces but I felt trapped. Panicky. Desperate to make a good impression on my teacher. Desperate to make a new friend in Tillie Hoover.

  Adrenaline rushed through me and my traitorous mouth formed the word before my brain could fully process the seriousness of the situation. “Okay.”

  Tillie clapped with delight.

  “Brilliant!” Mr. Hammond flashed me a megawatt smile. “We’ll discuss our practice schedule this afternoon. The official squash season doesn’t begin until late November and until then we only meet on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays. And as for uniform—don’t worry too much as I’m sure we’ll be able come up with something in your size for today.”

  Uniforms?

  The practice schedule?

  Squash season?

  My stomach was going sour. “Great.”

  “Wonderful,” he repeated, nodding and heading for the exit. The moment the office door shut behind him, Ava rolled her eyes and the boy with the sketchbook really did start to laugh.

  For my part, I couldn’t move. I just stood there with a vacant expression on my face, staring after my new teacher.

  “Oh God,” I wheezed.

  What the hell?

  Was it possible that I agreed to play SQUASH?

  “You don’t even know how to play,” Ava’s disgusted words found my ears.

  “No,” I confirmed. “But I guess I’m going to figure it out.”

  Chapter Two

  Caroline

  To: Caroline

  From: Hannah

  Date: August 31

  Subject: SOS

  This is my official signal for distress. School is not going well. I repeat, SCHOOL IS NOT GOING WELL. I have so much to tell you about but have no time to explain right now.

  -H

  ____________

  After I finished reading Hannah’s email, I groaned and dropped my phone to the bed. I did a few calculations, trying to think if it was already tomorrow there or the middle of the night, but eventually gave up. I’d have to check that time zone app thingy I downloaded before she left me because my brain wasn’t working properly.

  It was too early.

  My caffeine levels were down to zero.

  And it was the first day of school.

  Normally I loved the first day. Maybe it was just me being an overachiever, but there was something about the smell of fresh paper and never-before-used pencils and new books that took me to my happy place. But not this year. This year I was dreading the first day of school like it was nobody's business.

  As I rolled over and burrowed further beneath the covers, an awful, queasy feeling came over me. The thought of having to endure junior year without my best friend was making me physically ill. I knew it was the age of cell phones and Facebook, but still. There was no doubt in my mind that this year was going to, in a word, suck.

  Okay, so maybe I was being a little dramatic, but there was definitely something wrong with me. I took stock of my symptoms. I was sick to my stomach and every few minutes I would feel like I couldn’t breathe, but I wasn’t running a fever—was I? I touched my forehead but my skin felt fine. Gah, this whole thing was crazy and stupid and I couldn’t explain exactly why I felt like this. I just wanted desperately for it to stop.

  Swallowing against a dry throat, I thought about staying in bed and not doing anything for the rest of the day. Maybe even the rest of the year. As it was, I certainly didn't have the energy or the desire to get up and get ready.

  After a few more minutes and a lot more wallowing, Aspen, my red and white Siberian husky, decided she’d had enough. She pounced on me and placed her paws on either side of my body and licked my face until even my eyelids were drenched in slobber. I tried to deflect but it was no use.

  “Geroffmee!” I shouted as we tumbled to the floor in an avalanche of pillows and blankets.
/>
  I glanced back at my bed. Well, I guess that was one way to force me out of bed.

  Aspen circled me until I pushed to my feet and tramped down the stairs to let her out into the backyard. I leaned against the doorframe just watching her frolic and sniff the grass. It was starting to rain but she didn’t care. In fact, she seemed even happier. She just shook her body and bounded to the other side of the yard. I found myself jealous of her ability to adapt.

  Jealous of a dog.

  Yep. I was officially pathetic.

  I left Aspen outside and wandered back upstairs, trying to convince myself that a shower would help my rotten mood. It didn’t.

  Ten minutes later, I wrapped myself in a towel and I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. I was close to tears and everything inside of me was still all dark and twisty. Was this what it felt like to be depressed? Was I hurtling down the road to becoming an emo teen who wore all black and listened to crybaby music?

  I wasn’t entirely sure, but I was positive that despite knowing my father was just down the hall, I’d never felt so alone in the world. And, all things considered, that was saying something.

  I still couldn’t believe that Hannah had left this town. Oklahoma. Me.

  My best friend was off having an amazing adventure in London and I'd totally morphed into an ugly, green-eyed monster. Maybe the knowledge that I wasn’t as happy for her as I’d previously thought was what was making me feel sick.

  I reminded myself that if the roles were reversed and I had been the one who’d won an essay competition and was offered a place at my dream school, I'd probably have abandoned Hannah without a second thought.

  It was London after all.

  Buckingham Palace.

  Big Ben.

  Platform 9 ¾.

  Okay, so probably not the last one, but she'd promised to see King's Cross Station and I figured that was close enough to count.

  She was the writer though. She was destined for greatness and adventure and a big life. But me? I wasn’t sure what I was yet.