I turned around when the hall ended, thinking I might have passed the gym at some point. Unhelpfully, none of the thoughts I was overhearing were directions to the gym. Where were the magical signs when you needed them most?
“Hey!” a voice called in a pleasant song-like voice.
I turned at the sound and spotted a girl, who was leaning against the too white wall as if she’d been there forever, smiling knowingly. I looked her over curiously. She was shorter than me, but still tall, maybe 5’6” to my six feet, skinny, yet very curvy. She reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Marilyn Monroe, complete with the short, curly blonde hair which framed her round face.
“You’re lost aren’t you?” she asked, laughter in her voice.
“Yep,” I admitted.
I listened for a moment, but her thoughts were really quiet and hard to hear over the excited buzz I was being subjected to. She laughed softly and held out her hand to me. “I’m Alex Lawson.”
I shook her hand, feeling strangely at ease. Maybe, it was because her face was so open and friendly, or maybe it was because she wasn’t staring at me like I’d invented humanity.
“And you must be Clare,” she said confidently.
“Must I?” I asked.
“If you want to be.”
“I suppose…”
“I’m Sam Lawson’s daughter… you know… the lawyer your mom is working for?” She seems cool. Dad did say that Ellen was really nice. I bet they’re a lot alike.
Ah. There she was.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I didn’t realize he had a daughter,” I tacked on, wondering why Ellen hadn’t mentioned her. She had definitely mentioned Sam. A lot.
“Yeah, he keeps me in the basement most days,” she joked. I laughed, liking her humor. Smiling back she asked, “What class are you looking for?”
“Gym.”
She grabbed my arm, hooking her hand through my elbow with a natural, friendly gesture. “I’ll show you where it is.”
She steered me down the hallway, maneuvering us between gaggles of gossiping people who turned to stare again as we passed. As we walked, her body steering mine gently, she said, “Dad tells me that you’re from Savannah. I’m from Atlanta originally. We moved back a couple of years ago. My dad missed the country life too much.” She made a funny face. “At least that was his excuse. I think he just hated the Atlanta traffic.”
No wonder she was being so nice. She understood what it felt like to be the newcomer to this tiny town and quite possibly how it felt to be dragged here against her will.
“Yeah?”
“Yep. Have you ever been?”
I laughed dryly. “I don’t think there’s a major city in the United States I haven’t been to, or at the very least, driven through.”
She smiled and started talking about the school and classes giving me pointers, knowing that I would appreciate them, not prying into my history. I was grateful. I didn’t feel up to explaining my gypsy nature quite yet. It was too early. Her bubbling voice talked us all the way through one set of doors, out the back of the building, through a covered walkway, to another set of large doors. At the second set of doors, she stopped and released my arm. “Well, here it is.”
“Thanks.”
She paused thoughtfully. “Don’t take today too seriously. It’ll be better tomorrow.” Surprised by her advice, I smiled. She smiled again, her dimples flashing into life. “Good luck!”
With a wave, she turned back the way we had come, a natural bounce in her step. I watched her walk away, impressed at her generosity, a part of me skeptical of her motives; too many false friends and liars in my past had me thinking her motives were entirely genuine. Before she disappeared from sight, I heard a final thought: I hope she knows what’s in store for her today…
I did, too…
Pushing the massive metal door open, I saw the gym, which looked like every high school gym I had ever seen – bright, open, and strangely ominous. The teacher, a middle-aged man, who had the look of someone muscular gone to seed, stood in the middle of the floor tying up what appeared to be mesh for tennis courts. His moon face let me know he had spent years indulging in both food and alcohol. Round, bloodshot eyes the color of mud looked at me dully. My first impression was of a very massive pig wearing a wig. I went to him, trying to get visions of Ms. Piggy out of my head, and gave him my name and the form for him to sign.
He gaped at me and I heard: No one said she was one of those punk chicks… Damn, I need a drink. I think I’ll sneak one in at lunch. Donna would never have to know. Unless she catches me again…
He took the paper I was offering him and signed it with a sigh, longing for the bottle he had tucked in his desk. He gave it back to me and, in a tired, hopeless voice, pointed out where everything was. Mumbling to himself, he shuffled away to find me a uniform to change into. I watched him go, pity flooding my stomach as the thought that he had given up on life, on himself, a long time ago, permeated my brain.
When he came back, I took the uniform he offered me, and went to the girl’s locker room without comment. I changed slowly, not wanting to go back out where the other kids had already gathered on the bleachers talking and chattering with frightful teenage normalcy. The day of reckoning was at hand… Finally, feeling like I had stalled long enough, I stuffed my clothes and bag in a spare locker and walked out, dragging my feet every inch of the way.
As I crossed the floor, scanning the bleachers for a place to sit, I noticed particulars about the group for the first time. Most of the class of fourteen or so was gathered around four figures. It was obvious from the seating arrangement that the four teenagers in the middle were members of the ‘popular crowd.’ The four consisted of two boys and two girls. The girls were pretty in the typical, cookie-cutter way. One girl was blonde and lanky with high cheek bones and a pixy nose; the other girl was brunette and very petite, almost diminutive, and had similar bone structures in her face. The boys differed wildly. While one fit the idea of typical, the other looked far from garden variety. The cookie-cutter boy was bulky and athletic. He had brown hair and a square jaw, which was balanced on his square face. I knew that if he weren’t in his gym uniform, he would definitely have a letterman’s jacket on, flaunting the school’s colors. But it was the other boy, the non-cookie-cutter, whom I couldn’t drag my eyes away from. He was talking to everyone in a voice which echoed around the large space, and I felt a magic, a certain sense of presence the others could never have. After hearing him tell a rather simple, funny story to the crowd, I was convinced he could talk a bear into giving up its honey stash.
I stared, trying to understand how anyone could be so graceful in simply shifting their weight on metal bleachers, and he looked up. He met my stare with an intensity that was as breathtaking as it was startling. Could looks burn a person? I felt scorched.
I sat, hoping he wasn’t one of the popular kids prone to teasing for something as accidental as a stare. It was more than embarrassment for getting caught staring that had me on edge, though. His eyes, green and full of some secret fire, had me actually feeling self-conscious about the way I looked, and I never worried about the way I looked. I shook my head to get rid of the vision of him, but I couldn’t. He was there, a shimmering mirage unwillingly lodged into my brain by the girls who were staring at him in brainless entrancement. Not able to help it, I looked at him through a girl’s eyes, more willing to look than I would ever admit.
His face was angular with a strong jaw line. He had black, messy hair, which made his snowy skin appear even paler. I wondered if the hair was a deliberate choice or if that was just the way it fell. He wasn’t my normal type, too preppy, too boy band-ish, but I had to agree with the others; he was beautiful.
There was something else about him, too. I ran a hand through my hair as I tried to place the curious knot of recognition in my stomach. It was as if I knew the curve of his face, the way he tapped impatiently on the bleachers. It was as if we had spent hours
in conversation that no one but us could enjoy. I chuckled at the thought. That was as unlikely as me painting my fingernails pink.
A voice cut through my internal ogling, and I shut out the visions of him.
“Hey! You’re Clare Michaels right?”
I turned and saw the girl with long blonde hair lean forward out of the chattering crowd. Everyone stopped talking and turned to stare at the question. Over the sudden silence, I heard a rush of thoughts I couldn’t keep out, my temples pulsing in time to the assault. The loudest thought was: I bet she’s killed people! Just look at her! Mom says that she’s lived all over the world. I bet she’s seen a lot. I bet she’s done a lot. I bet everyone would be jealous if she were my friend. It would give me an edge over the rest. And, I could totally pay back Michelle for thinking she’s better because her family owns half the town, take her down a notch.
“Last time I checked, I am,” I said knowing those thoughts had been the blonde girl’s. They matched her voice.
“I’m Jennifer.”
I looked away to keep from laughing out loud. Just once I’d like to meet someone who looked like her named Virginia or Evelyn. “Hi, Jennifer,” I said.
“Why don’t you sit up here with us?” she invited, patting the bleacher next to her in a way that turned the question into a command.
The boys, who were sitting to her left, shifted over to give me room, already figuring I wouldn’t say ‘no’. I looked at them for a second, wondering if I was being set up. It would be true to form. I shrugged and moved to sit next to the bulky, brown-haired boy not caring if it were a set up. I’d lived through worse, and if I got this out of the way now they’d leave me alone later. It was better this way.
There was another surge of thought as I sat down:
She’s hot, despite her hair. I bet she’s been around. I wonder if she’s into football players?
My aunt knew her mom. I bet I could use that to get her to talk to me.
She’s so cool! I want a nose ring!
Everyone was excited about her?
I wonder if she really lived in China.
I guess it really is true that the children pay for the sin of the parents.
Startled, I tried to follow that last thought to its owner. I couldn’t be sure under the deluge, but it felt as if it was coming from a girl sitting outside the group. Everyone else’s eyes, while judgmental, were excited and curious. Hers were cold and distant; an impenetrable barrier of hardened emotions. I shivered and turned away wondering if she really knew how true that thought was.
“This is Mark Sheldon.” Jennifer pointed to the bulky boy next to me as soon as I was seated. He winked slyly. “This is Michelle King.” She pointed to the girl on her other side, who nodded at me. “And that’s Daniel Adams.”
Mark leaned back so I could follow Jennifer’s finger, which was pointing directly at Mr. Popularity. His eyes, which had been on the same girl I had been looking at, came back to mine, and I saw that they were cold as well, but it was a different kind of cold. It was a cold which was kept there to hide a raging, burning fire within. He nodded once and flicked his eyes away towards the locker rooms, apparently already bored with the introductions. No one else from the group seemed to merit an introduction as, in a voice laced with excitement, Jennifer started plying me with questions: where I was from, how I liked King’s Cross so far, where I went to school before, what kinds of things I was interested in…
The rest of my new classmates listened in with fascinated wonder; even the kids who were sitting a little farther from the group, obviously not part of the ‘popular crowd,’ were quiet as they listened to this strange exchange.
The questions did little to settle my nerves. I felt as if I was being interviewed or cross-examined on the witness stand for a murder I didn’t commit. It was hard not to. They all thought I was some sort of wild, crazy fiend, living on the outskirts of life; a rebel and a trouble maker, poised to set fire to the school on a whim. That was why they were all so interested in me and hanging on to my answers like they were scripture. How could I explain that not everyone in cities led adventurous, party going lives? How could I explain that not everyone who looks Punk is Punk? How could I explain that my life had been lived with the understanding that not being noticed was the best way to not get dead? How could I take away years of prejudice in one morning? It didn’t matter; I would let them think what they wanted. It didn’t mean they knew what, or who, I was.
Mr. Henley ambled out of his office and cut short the twenty questions with a blow from his oversized orange whistle. He called the roll and told us we would be playing tennis again – apparently they had been playing it for a while – and that we should find partners to play against. I wasn’t shocked when my new acquaintances all had partners in seconds, leaving me to myself on the bleachers. Typical. Their interest in me only stretched as far as the entertainment I could provide them. At least, it was something familiar in a day that already felt unfamiliar and foreign. Mr. Henley noticed me as I watched the bustle of humanity below and ambled over. “No partner, eh?” he asked scratching his greasy brown hair. He looked over and his moon face turned sly. “Well, you can play against Daniel then. You don’t mind do ya, Daniel?” Sorry, kid.
I looked over, wondering why Mr. Popularity hadn’t partnered with Mark, who was obviously his friend. I hadn’t noticed in the bustle of activity that Mark had partnered with what looked like another athletic type, who shared his mental capacity of none.
Daniel sighed audibly at the request and stood, but when he answered his tone was polite. “Of course not, Coach. I’d be happy to.”
I rolled my eyes at his hypocrisy and watched him descend to the floor wishing I could sit the class out. He moved past me noiselessly, as if he was walking on air rather than hard metal, his face impassive. After a startled pause, I followed him, stomping down the bleachers like a whole herd of baby elephants, rejecting his silent grace. I slowly followed as he walked to the one lone net on the very end of the gym, farthest from the entrance, smiling at people as he passed. To me, he looked like a diplomat on the floor of Congress politicking for all he was worth. When we reached our net, he bent down and grabbed a racket from the pile to hand to me. I stared at him with a frown, trying to understand…everything.
“What?” he asked as I took the racket.
I shrugged. “I just figured that you’d play with Mark. Isn’t that the law of the jungle?”
Was that too honest? Too blunt? Who cared? He was one of them.
He smirked, his smile not leaving his lips. “No one will play with me, not even Mark. One too many lost games.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, twirling the racket in my hands absently.
“Not all jungles are the same.”
It was my turn to smirk. Yeah. Right.
He walked around to the other side of the small court, winking at Jennifer and Michelle as he went. I set my stance, my temper flaring at the wink. I couldn’t tell for sure, but something about his tone and his actions had me thinking that he was being insincere. If there was one thing in this world that made me angry, it was posturing. His insincerity went beyond the normal teenage posturing I was used to. Which just irritated me worse. I suddenly wanted to teach him a lesson.
Daniel bounced the ball on the floor once, and even over the sounds of people yelling and playing their own games, I could hear it hit. It was like an avalanche, or the beginning of something else.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Are you?” I retorted.
He planted his feet and smirked again, the cold in his eyes unwavering. For once, I was glad Ellen had thrown me into too many clubs to count over the years in the hope I would find a niche; that I would fit in somewhere, anywhere. A desperate attempt at normalcy I knew would never work. But it served its own purpose. How was he to know that I had helped my school to state finals in tennis last year?
I smiled ruefully. That was before I had been as
ked to quit the team; to not return for next season. Most of them had started treating me like a second class citizen when I – the freak loner – started winning all our practice matches. I had retaliated in admittedly juvenile ways, like the spiders in the captain’s locker. My attempts to expose her to the insects of Savannah had not been appreciated by the coach, to say the least.
Daniel nodded once in acknowledgement of my ready state and hit the ball in my direction. His serve was fast, surprising me, but I managed to hit it back to him with a swift backhand. His eyes widened in shock as he hit the ball back to me in reflex. The shock quickly melted into confusion as I slammed the ball back with a clean, well-aimed, hit.
I smirked at him, satisfied I had managed to knock him off his carefully balanced platform. My competitive nature helping me feel as if I had just won something, our eyes met across the court in a challenge. The expression on my face gave away my emotions. His eyes narrowed dangerously at my smirk and his own competitive glint sprung up in the coolness of his green eyes. He delivered another blistering hit, which actually hurt my wrist to return, but it wasn’t enough to stop me.
Hit. Return. Hit. Return.
The rest of the room dropped away as I focused on our game, needing every ounce of concentration I possessed. I’d never played against someone this good, not even the girls at state. He had skill. His eyes stayed narrowed in concentration, his swings getting progressively harder and faster, as he tested my limits and searched for a weakness. I was in a similar state of concentration, though I was certain I was more determined to win.
Hit. Return. Hit. Return.
Despite my wrist hurting from his serves, and knowing that I might just be outclassed, I wasn’t about to lose to him. I would break my wrist before I lost. I felt that if I won, I would prove something to him, to me, to this whole stinking town. It would be proof I could control something in my life, that this place would be a new beginning.
Hit. Return. Hit. Return.
Twenty minutes later, drenched in sweat from our intense game, I managed to surprise him. He sent the ball my way again, the glint in his cool eyes different now, almost like his shock had been replaced by enjoyment. I hit the ball back with all the force I could muster, a small, embarrassing yell escaping me. The ball slammed into the floor just out of his long reach then rolled beyond him, only stopping when it hit the white gym wall. It was the only point of the game.
The Watchers Page 3
