Lucky for me, I usually don’t care what other people think.
“Hey, Lily.”
See? I’m so used to being left alone that, for a second, I don’t even realize someone is talking to me.
“Lily?” the voice tries again, a little louder this time.
I look up, shielding my eyes from the bright morning sun. Emma Swartz is standing in front of me, hands awkwardly gripping the straps of her backpack. Her red hair bounces over her freckled shoulders in a series in perfect spirals.
“Hey,” I say. It sounds more like a question than a reply. Except for that one time at Aunt Su’s cabin, Emma and I haven’t spoken two words to each other since I snuck away from her birthday party and pulled the arms off her Barbie doll collection in senior kindergarten. Why is she talking to me now?
She shuffles her flip-flopped feet against the cement. Her toenails are painted almost the exact same shade as her hair. Just a couple of gradients on the colour wheel away from Beet It.
“I just wanted to say … you know … sorry about your aunt dying. That really sucks. She seemed really nice …you know … I used to see her in my dad’s store sometimes.”
Emma’s father owns our village’s only bookstore, Beachside Books. He used to invite Aunt Su in for author visits every once in a while. Remembering this now, my defences lower slightly.
“Thanks,” I mumble, blinking hard to kill the stinging in my eyes. Okay, you’ve said sorry. You can leave now. But, apparently, Emma has more she needs to get off her chest.
“Yeah, every time she came to the store, she used to draw crazy cartoons of herself inside her novels. Always a different one in each book.”
She smiles as she speaks about Aunt Su, making her braces glitter in the sunlight. Against all my better judgement, I feel myself softening a bit.
“Yeah, she liked doing stuff like that,” I say, thinking about the funny little sketches she’d drawn inside my birthday cards every year. The one from my last birthday is the best — it’s a picture of me and Aunt Su lying awake under a field of purple and green stars, making faces at the man on the moon. Since the day she died I’ve been passing the nights with it right next to my bed, hoping it’ll somehow help me get to sleep. And then I think about the angel drawing from her suicide note and my insides turn back to cement.
“So anyways,” Emma continues, “I just wanted to tell you that … well, I always thought your aunt was pretty cool.”
Yeah, I thought so too, until she killed herself and abandoned me. I can feel an angry scream start to rise in my throat, but I push it back down. Don’t need to expose my freak around this school any more than I already have.
“Thanks,” I say instead.
“By the way, I like the purple.”
“Huh?”
Emma lets out a funny, snorty kind of laugh. It sounds so much like a backward sneeze that I almost say gesundheit. “You know, in your hair? It’s awesome.”
My hands fly up to my jaggedy head. I almost forgot about the colour treatment I put in.
“Thanks. I did it myself.”
“Really?” She sounds genuinely impressed. “Maybe you’ll show me how sometime?”
I don’t know what to say to that. Next thing, she’ll be inviting me over to do our nails and watch High School Musical. I can feel my defences creeping back up again. That’s when the first bell rings, mercifully saving me from any more attempts at small talk.
“See ya ’round,” I say, happy to pull myself up off the pavement and make my escape into the school. Pushing my way through the crowd, I head straight to class so I can snag one of the choice seats in the back of the room. The seat you get on the first day is almost always the one you end up with for the rest of the semester, so it’s vital to choose wisely. But when I walk through the door of my homeroom, my heart sinks to the floor. I’m too late — the entire back three rows are already claimed. Half blind with irritation, I slump into an empty third-row seat, silently cursing myself for getting caught up with chit-chatty Emma and not getting here on time.
The second bell rings out, cutting through the buzz of excited voices and warning us to shut our traps. Our homeroom teacher rises to his feet, holding a crumpled piece of paper in his left hand. Mr. Becker. All the kids call him Pecker behind his back. He’s our pervy phys. ed. instructor from last year who used to leer at all the pretty girls in their skimpy school-issued gym shorty-shorts. Even though it went against the official dress code, I always wore black leotards under my pair. As a result, after a full ten months of daily dodge ball and badminton sessions, I don’t think he even knows my name. Not that he’d leer at me anyway. I don’t think I’m the kind of girl pervy gym teachers look at that way.
As soon as the anthem is over, Pecker ambles to the front of the room, a painful smile glued to his face. He’s one of those old men who always look like they’re holding back a fart. You know the type.
“Welcome back to the start of another year. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Mr. Becker.” I groan inwardly. For those of you who don’t know me? What is he talking about? The exact same group of kids has been going to this school since junior kindergarten. Who doesn’t know Pecker?
“We’ll start with attendance, and then I’ll pass around the seating plan, locker assignments, and class schedules,” he continues. “But before we begin, I’d like to introduce a brand new student.” He pauses here, as if to let the effect of this announcement sink in.
“That’s right, a new student. Mr. Benjamin Matthews will be joining us this year, all the way from Upper Canada College in Toronto.”
The classroom chatter drops a little in volume while everyone looks around to locate the private school newbie. Everyone except me, that is. New kids in our midst are a rare occurrence. But inevitably they turn out to be as dull as the rest of the nitwits around this place.
“Says here that last year, Benjamin was … let’s see …” Pecker pauses for a second to consult the crumpled mess in his hand. “… the editor of his high school’s newspaper, the treasurer of his student council, and the vice-president of his Junior Achievement executive team. I’m hoping that means we can expect great things from him at Big Bend High. Benjamin, would you stand up so we can all see who you are? People, please help me welcome him to our school.”
My ears twitch with intrigue at the word editor. Is this new kid a writer like me? It’s almost enough to get me excited. I’ve never met anyone else my age who wanted to be a writer. But when a familiar voice speaks from behind me, rising just slightly above the drone of conversation, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end. It’s a voice so bored, I know right away it can only belong to one person.
“It’s Ben. Just Ben,” the voice says.
An invasion of shivers lands on my skin. I think I actually stop breathing.
So.
Rude Dude has a name.
I blink slowly and whisper the name so quietly, it sounds like a breath.
Ben.
Only three letters, but it explodes in my mouth like a handful of Pop Rocks chased with cola.
EIGHT
I catch up to him on the way out of homeroom. His legs are so long, I have to jog to match his pace. “Hey!” I say, reaching out to poke him in the arm. “Remember me?”
He glances at me for a nanosecond and keeps walking.
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I didn’t know you were going to this school, Ben,” I try again. I know it’s dumb, but I’m excited for the chance to say his name out loud.
The Pop Rocks don’t disappoint.
Unlike his reply.
“Yeah, well now you do,” he says, his voice just as bored as ever.
“Looks like we’re in the same homeroom,” I blab on, starting to pant from the exertion of running, “so I don’t mind showing you around if you want.”
I trot after him, waiting for his answer. For the life of me, I can’t remember a time I’ve ever actually initiated a conve
rsation in this school, let alone ran after one. What’s my problem? Why am I trying so hard with this guy? Was it the “editor” thing? Or because he seems different from the others around here? Or is it just because he’s good looking? What kind of shallow salope am I turning into?
As it turns out, it doesn’t really matter what variety of shallow salope I am, because instead of replying, Ben just ignores me and keeps walking, hands stuffed deep into his pockets like he’s digging for gold. He doesn’t even look at me once. As soon as I begin to decelerate from a jog to a walk, he speeds ahead down the hall until he’s lost in the crowd.
I slow to a full stop and watch him disappear.
Quel snob!
“Hey, do you know that guy?” asks a voice beside me. I turn around to see Emma Swartz staring at me, an expression of wide-eyed shock slashed across her freckled face.
Her again? What’s going on with me? First day back at school and already I’ve smashed my yearly conversation record by a kilometre.
“Not really. I’ve just seen him working at the drive-thru.”
“McCool Fries?” her brown eyes light up at the mention of greasy fast food. “You work there?”
I shake my head. “Not me, him.” I can’t quite bring myself to say his name in front of her. Just in case she notices the Pop Rocks go off. “He works the night shift.”
“Wait a minute: Ben Matthews works at the drive-thru?” Her eyes are bugging out of her head, like it’s the most far-fetched concept she’s ever heard. “That’s a joke, right?”
“No. Why? What’s so funny about it?”
She shrugs. “Nothing, I guess. I just never got the impression that a guy like him needed the money.”
Now it’s my turn to look shocked. “What does that mean? Do you know him?”
“Well, not really. His family has a summer cottage here and I’ve just seen him a few times down at the Docks with all his fancy city friends. He’s the kind of guy a girl notices, right?” She raises her eyebrows suggestively.
My face burns at this.
So. Completely. Mortifying.
Anxious for an escape, I pick up my feet and start walking to my next class. Emma follows along behind me. Man, why is she suddenly so interested in talking to me? My introverted self is beginning to freak out more than just a little.
As it turns out, Emma follows me all the way to the door of my first class — advanced trig with Ms. Pinski. Okay, I admit I’m a bit of a browner myself when it comes to numbers. Math and science have always come pretty easily for me. And I’m a natural at trigonometry — a subject most kids in my grade find next to impossible. Maybe I’m so good at it because … well, because I’m all about angles myself. Seriously, to look at me, you’d see a square face sitting on top of a rectangular body. Even my hair falls in perfect straight lines, like each strand has been carefully drawn by a ruler. If people were fonts, I would be Arial. Scratch that: I would be Arial Narrow. Guess you could say I’m the opposite of curve.
Which, as you probably know, isn’t exactly a great look for high school.
“Whoa, killer math, dude,” Emma groans, veering away from me. “I’m heading over to French.”
“Good. Say hi to that connard Monsieur Zeitoune for me.”
You’ve probably noticed by now that I love swearing in French. A few years ago, my second cousin from Rouyn-Noranda came to stay with Aunt Su for a summer. Robert taught me all the really choice French curses, which turned out to be really useful. If you know someone who speaks French, I highly recommend it. Learning those words was the only nice thing about having to share Aunt Su’s company with Robert for an entire six weeks. French curses give such a satisfying air of mystery to the simplest and dirtiest of English words … kind of like turning puke into pearls. N’est-ce pas?
For some reason, though, Emma doesn’t look too impressed with my linguistic prowess. “Okay. Later.”
Her round derriere swings from side to side as she sashays off down the hall. Apparently angles and ratios are not for Emma. If people were fonts, she would be Curlz. Without a doubt. Maybe it’s rude, but I can’t help letting out a loud sigh of relief as I watch her go. So far, this morning has been way too social for comfort. Can’t say I’m sorry to see it end.
Hitching my backpack up on my shoulders, I open the door to my trig class and scan the room for a good seat. That’s when, for the second time in one morning, my heart does a kamikaze into my stomach.
Not again!
Only three spots left open: two smack dab in the front row and one in the dead centre of the room … right behind Ben Matthews. Darn that Emma! Somehow she’s managed to mess up my back-row plans twice in under an hour! Since I’m not about to get stuck in front-row hell, I opt for the lesser of two evils and slide into the chair behind His Grumpiness. If Ms. Pinski is as anal about seating plans as the rest of the teachers in this school, I’ll be staring at the back of his swelled head every day for the rest of the semester.
Completely made of suck!
Still angry, I slink down low in my seat, crushing my lips together to keep them from spouting out any more embarrassments. If Ben notices me sitting behind him, he doesn’t let on. As soon as the bell rings, Ms. Pinski closes the door and passes around a class seating plan for us to fill out. I cringe as I add my name to the empty box underneath Ben’s. How can someone who looks so nice on the outside be so ugly on the inside? Because as much as it pains me to admit it, he does look nice.
I sigh softly, breathing in the fresh smell of Ben’s shampoo. Watermelon. Yum. While Ms. Pinski drones on about functions and ratios, I notice how his shoulders rise up with each of his breaths. How the bottom of his hair curls every so slightly around the collar of his T-shirt. How his head is tilted ever so slightly to the left. And how every few seconds it tilts a little bit further and further …
Suddenly, a soft rumbling sound fills my ears and a little light switch flips on inside my head. Oh my God, Ben’s taking a nap! Just like that night at the drive-thru! I’m about to kick his chair and wake him up, when the sound of Ms. Pinski’s voice rings out over our heads. And it definitely doesn’t sound amused.
“Benjamin Matthews?”
His neck snaps straight up like a rubber band.
“Yeah, uh, here.”
A chorus of snickers bounces around the room. Ms. Pinski smirks in a self-satisfied “spider about to catch the fly” kind of way.
“Are you really, Mr. Matthews? I’m not so sure about that. Maybe you could prove it by repeating my last question for the rest of the class?”
“Yeah, I … uh …”
There’s only the slightest hint of boredom left in his voice as he scrambles for the answer. Maybe it’s because he looks just as tired as I should look. Or maybe it’s because I know how crappy it is to have to stay up all night. I really don’t know why, but part of me suddenly feels sorry for him. Even if he is a rude, arrogant son of a Mafioso drug dealer. I guess I take after Dad — both of us are suckers for people in need of help.
So, against all my better judgment, I find myself leaning forward and whispering the answer in his ear.
“She’s looking for the mathematical definitions of sine and cosine.”
I can see Ben’s shoulders bristle at the sound of my voice. And then he gives his head a vigorous little shake, almost like he’s trying to evict me from his thoughts. His chair scrapes back with a screech as he rises to his feet.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your question, Ms. Pinski. I must have fallen asleep. It won’t happen again.”
I feel like I’ve just been slapped across the face. Why didn’t he take the answer I gave him? Does he think he’s too good to accept help from someone like me? My cheeks flash with shame as the rest of the class erupts into nervous giggles around me.
“Sleeping in my class? Not the best way to make a first impression, Mr. Matthews. Take your seat and let’s continue. Because it’s the first day, I’ll let it slide. Just don’t let me catch you
doing it again!”
Well, I’m not planning on being quite so forgiving. I spend the rest of the hour cursing Ben Matthews in my head and plunging imaginary arrows into his back. What an ungrateful, pigheaded snob! Who does he think he is?
I work myself up into such a tizzy over the whole thing that I can’t even concentrate on the rest of the math lesson. By the time the bell rings, my heart is fluttering like a leaf in a windstorm. And when I stand up, my knees wobble and a cluster of stars explodes in front of my eyes. I clutch the back of my chair for support and take a couple of slow, deep breaths. But it doesn’t help. My heart still feels like it’s trying to fly out of my chest. I’ve never let myself get so upset over a guy before. What’s going on?
That’s when it hits me.
It’s been fourteen days (nights) since I’ve had any sleep.
This is it.
My heart is giving out.
Je suis fini.
And without even making it into the Guinness book.
Merde.
I have to get help.
Now.
Muscling past the crowd of kids, I rush down the hall to the nurse’s office. “Call an ambulance, Ms. Green!” I gasp, staggering through the door. “I need help!”
The nurse glances up from her book and eyes me suspiciously.
“Lily MacArthur! What are you up to?”
“Please,” I cry, my voice rising in panic. “I’m pretty sure it’s cardiac arrest.”
With a sharp cluck of her tongue, she points me to a creaky little cot and reaches for her stethoscope. I collapse into a quivering ball of Jell-o while she takes my pulse and feels my glands. After a minute, she pops the stethoscope tips into her ears. I squeeze my eyes shut and prepare for the worst. At this point, I’m so far gone I can’t even feel the fluttering anymore. Instead, a tight, burning pain has taken its place and is rapidly spreading down my arms and up into my throat.
Under the Moon Page 6
