by Hazel James
Mom, I hope you like my macaroni necklace.
Grandma, I did it. Just like you said I would.
Sweet Peas, here’s to ten years and counting.
1. JAMES
2. RACHEL
3. JAMES
4. RACHEL
5. JAMES
6. RACHEL
7. JAMES
8. RACHEL
9. JAMES
10. RACHEL
11. JAMES
12. RACHEL
13. JAMES
14. RACHEL
15. JAMES
16. RACHEL
17. JAMES
18. RACHEL
19. JAMES
20. RACHEL
21. JAMES
22. RACHEL
EPILOGUE — FIVE YEARS LATER
Acknowledgements
About the Author
I’ll Be the One Playlist
I zip up my jacket, cross the parking lot and pass under the entryway of Edison High, officially declaring me a “Fighting Cardinal.”
How do cardinals even fight, anyway? Cougars, bears, wolves… those I get. But a cardinal? What’s it gonna do? You better watch out or I’ll shit on your car!
Despite the lame excuse for a mascot, I open the door knowing today’s gonna be a good day. I can feel it.
Overflowing teacher mailboxes and a sign-up sheet for a college visit make the front office look the same as the five other high schools I’ve attended. The secretary holds up a pair of soggy shoes and complains to the janitor about the overflowing toilet in the staff bathroom. From the looks of it, she’s gonna be a while, so I take a seat on the bench, lean back against the wall, and close my eyes.
Just as I start to doze, she clears her throat, gaining my attention. I crack my eyelids open. “Can I help you?” she huffs before taking a swig of black coffee.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. My last school started a full hour later than this one. It should be a crime to make teenagers get up this early in the morning. “I’m the new student. Today’s my first day.”
She squeals and flies out of her chair. “We haven’t gotten a transfer student here in two years. What a delight!”
That isn’t hard to believe in a town with a population of 7,117. Make that 7,119 if you add me and Mom. The secretary fumbles around her desk and grabs a stack of papers before rushing toward me. I guess she forgot she was in a bad mood.
“We have your welcome packet all ready to go. I had to go digging through our files to find one. Here’s your schedule, the school map, and the file you’ll take to the guidance counselor. Just wait here and I’ll call for a student to escort you to your first class.” She manages to say all of that in less than ten seconds. She’s gotta be bordering on a coffee overdose.
My schedule seems easy enough. Trig, Economics, Anatomy and Physiology, English, World History, P.E. and Robotics.
“You just let me know if you have any problems with your classes, River. We looked over the records your mother sent us and tried to fill in the gaps as best as we could so you can graduate on time. You’re quite the traveler.”
“The classes look fine, but please call me James. No one calls me by my first name. In fact, you can just delete it from my record.”
“I’m afraid we have to keep your legal name in our files, but I’ll make a note about using your middle name. It’s a shame. River is so… exotic!” She claps her hands twice for emphasis.
I fight against rolling my eyes. With a mother who changed her name to Sunshine at eighteen, River seems like an obvious choice for her son’s name. Except that I prefer not getting shoved into lockers, toilets or trashcans. I’ve found being the new kid is hard enough. Add in the first name of River and it’s an adolescent death sentence.
“Lucky for me, I’m more of a domestic person.” I drop my packet and schedule inside my backpack, close my eyes once again and lean my head against the wall. My escort. Hmmm.
Black… no, brown hair.
Short.
Red shirt.
Black shoes.
Bracelet on left wrist.
For as long as I can remember, this has been one of my favorite ways to pass the time. I think of it as people watching in reverse, and I’ve gotten pretty good over the years. I was spot-on with guessing my escort at my last school. Right down to guessing how many minutes it would take before she rubbed her boob against my arm. (It was one minute, by the way—or basically long enough to walk out of the front office and around the corner.)
“James, your escort is here. This is Sarah, and she’ll show you to your Trigonometry class,” Caffeinated Secretary says a few minutes later.
A brunette walks through the door wearing a Cardinals shirt, blue jeans and black Nikes. She can’t be more than 5’4”. I glance at her arm as we enter the hallway and see a #teamjenna bracelet on her right wrist. I figure that earns me a 4.5 out of 5. Not bad.
“Hey, it’s nice to meet you,” she says with a smile.
“Likewise.” I follow her out the door and down the hallway. “So what’s the teacher like?”
“Mr. Barnes? He’s pretty cool. He thinks he’s hilarious, though. I hope you’re ready for pity laughs.”
“Who’s Jenna?” I ask, as we round a corner and walk through a small courtyard.
“Huh?”
“Your bracelet.” I point to her wrist.
“Oh, she’s a kid I used to babysit. Last summer she was diagnosed with cancer. She’s still in chemo, but the doctors seem pretty hopeful.”
“Well that’s good.”
We enter a hallway and head for the second classroom on the left. The poster beside the door makes me groan.
“Like I said—a comedian or something,” she whispers as she opens the door.
“I see that.”
Right on cue, everyone stares at me.
“Ah, a new soul desperate to soak up the inner workings of mathematics. Hello, Mr. Tennyson. Please take a seat and join us in a rousing discussion of trigonometry in the real world.” Mr. Barnes points at an empty spot in the back of the class before turning to face another student. Sarah sits down near the door, and I step past her on the way to my desk. “Mr. Paulson, I know you’ve convinced yourself you will never use trigonometry after high school. I will bet you ten extra credit points that I can prove you wrong.”
Suspicion falls on the student’s face. “What do I have to do if I lose? I mean, not that I will because there’s no way I’m dealing with this sh—stuff if I don’t have to.”
“I love teenage confidence. If you lose, you will spend one hour after school this week—on a day of your choosing—helping me pack up last semester’s learning materials. I’m retiring at the end of the school year, and I’d like to get a head start.”
“You’re on.” The two shake hands.
“Okay, Mr. Paulson. Tell me what you want to be when you grow up that doesn’t require trigonometry.”
“That’s easy—a rock star.” He fields a few high fives as another student shouts, “That’s what I’m talking about, Bryan!” The class chuckles, and Mr. Barnes strokes his chin.
“A rock star, quite the noble profession, indeed. Who can resist the dream of being on stage with millions of young ladies in the audience?” He turns to face the class. “You know, I was in a rock band in my college years. I played bass for Broken Elevator. We lived on the fourth floor of our dorm; you’ll never guess how we got our name.” He chuckles to himself. “We had two paying gigs, and it was the best twenty bucks I ever made.”
Bryan laughs. “Wow, Mr. Barnes. I never knew you had such a wild side to you. Now, when will you put that extra credit on my grade?”
“Not so fast, Mr. Paulson. As a rock star, there are a few basics you’ll need to understand,
yes?”
“Uh, I guess.” He taps his pencil on his desk in thought. “Always make sure your guitar is plugged in, never say the wrong city’s name, and keep extra protection in your wallet. You know, gotta be safe and all,” he says with a grin on his face.
“I see health class did wonders for you,” Mr. Barnes mumbles. “You are correct; however, I’d like to get a little more basic than that. You mentioned plugging in your guitar. What does an amplifier do?”
“It makes your guitar louder.”
“Yes, it takes your guitar’s small amplitude and outputs a similar signal with a much larger amplitude.”
“Yeah, sure.” Bryan shrugs his shoulders.
“How do you measure amplitude?”
“By the number of girls lined up backstage?” He fist bumps the guy sitting next to him.
Mr. Barnes presses an imaginary buzzer. “Wrong, but nice try. As your parting gift in today’s game show, I offer you a one-hour date in my classroom with some cardboard boxes and packing tape.”
“No way, I didn’t lose. I don’t see any math nerds in rock bands. Present company excluded, of course.”
“Maybe not, but I do see trigonometry. We can measure amplitude on a graph to see how far away from the X axis the sine wave gets. The farther away, the louder the sound.”
Bryan throws his pencil down. “That’s messed up Mr. Barnes. That’s a trick question or something.”
“No one likes a sore loser, Mr. Paulson. I’ll see you after class. Now, who’s next?” he says, rubbing his hands together. “I have a lot of stuff that needs packing.”
I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. Never have. I wouldn’t say I’m psychic, but I’ve always known little things before they happen. Everything I predict is pretty mundane; there’s no explanation as to why I don’t know lottery numbers or answers to tests. I was, however, a hell of a left guard at my last school (it helps to know right where to be to protect the quarterback). There was also that time I knew Brittney Dixon was going to let me get to third base before we moved here. We definitely weren’t boyfriend-girlfriend (I don’t do girlfriends) but we had our share of fun.
I love third base.
Of course, it would have been helpful to know ahead of time that her little brother was going to walk in. Like I said, there’s no rhyme or reason to what I predict. I just sort of go with it.
Sometimes I wish I could see my future, but it hasn’t happened yet. When we came here, Mom promised it’d be the last time we moved. “I think it’s time we put down some roots. After all these years, I owe you that much,” she’d told me. She looked a little sad when she said it. I don’t know if it was because she felt bad for maintaining the life of a hippie nomad for so long, or if it was because she was giving it up.
We left Topeka right before Christmas and headed to my grandparents’ house—her mom and dad—in a small town outside of Durham, North Carolina. I miss football, even though I only played for three months of one season. Aside from that, there wasn’t much in Topeka.
The idea of being “home” is weird considering I’ve never called any place home. It was always more “where Mom decided to hang out for a few months.” I love Grandpa’s farm, though. Over the years, we’ve been there several times between moves or when Mom needed some farm time, which meant she was between jobs or boyfriends. Some of my favorite memories were on that farm. Gran always had a few types of pie to choose from, and I had a whole room to myself. On the first few days of each visit, I’d alternate between eating everything in sight and lying spread-eagle on my bed since I never knew how long I would get to enjoy either of those luxuries. I never want to sleep on another couch or floor again.
Despite the way it sounds, my childhood wasn’t bad. Mom made up for her lack of a steady income and parenting skills with love and lots of fun. When we lived in Oklahoma, I was friends with a guy who was being raised by his older sister. A lot of our stories were similar.
The bell rings, snapping me out of my daydream. I consult the map Caffeinated Secretary put in my welcome packet to see where my second period class is.
“What do you have next?” Sarah asks.
“Economics.”
“That’s just a few doors down in this hallway.”
I thank her then head in the direction she pointed. I’m the first one there, so I grab an empty desk by the window and watch everyone else make their way into the room. The teacher sashays toward me, her red curls bouncing with each shake of her hips. I catch two sets of eyes staring at her backside as she walks—one belonging to a guy with muscular arms, smiling like he’s the poster child for a dentist’s office, and the other to the girl next to him who bites her bottom lip as her cheeks flush.
Interesting.
Feeling guilty, the guy pushes his desk closer to the girl and leans over to kiss her cheek. She glances toward him with what looks like the world’s fakest smile and laces her fingers with his.
Oh man, I mentally tell the guy, your girlfriend is batting for the other team and you don’t even know it. I’m sort of sad for the girl, though. I know what it’s like to desperately want to blend in—hard to do when you’ve been to fourteen schools in thirteen years. With a school this small, I doubt there’s a big lesbian population. But I don’t feel bad for the guy. Isn’t that every teenage boy’s fantasy?
“Hello, you must be the new student. I’m Mrs. Mason,” the teacher says, passing me a textbook. “I’m glad you’re here today. We’ve got a big project that I’ll discuss in a bit. You bring our class count to an even number. That helps. Otherwise I might have had to assign a few students to Utah.”
Whatever that means.
She checks off the attendance sheet when the bell rings and then addresses the classroom. “Good morning, everyone, I hope you all had a great Christmas break. Please pass up your holiday homework.” She turns my direction as she scans the attendance list. “Don’t worry about this assignment…”
“James,” I interrupt her before she can call me by my given name. I make a mental note to introduce myself to the rest of my teachers before they commit the ultimate sin.
“Right. James. Like I said, this assignment won’t count toward your grade since you weren’t here.” She points at the other faces in the class. “The rest of you better cough them up. We need to get right into the Dreaded Second Semester Senior Project.” I hear a few groans, all of them from guys.
I start thinking about this dreaded project, but it becomes less of an issue when I realize it’s getting harder to breathe. A loud ringing overtakes my ears while my brain and heart disagree over how fast it should beat. I have no idea what this means. Maybe it’s a natural disaster? I’ve never predicted anything that big before. Do they even have earthquakes in North Carolina? Tsunamis? Stampedes? I look outside and see blue skies. Is there about to be an airplane crash? Train crash? A code blue? I should’ve paid better attention in geography or that CPR class.
My heart’s beating faster and faster, and I wipe my palms against my jeans. I don’t know if I should hide under my desk or try to find a bathroom. I look around; everyone else is passing in their homework as if the new kid isn’t getting ready to keel over and die.
Oh, my God. It’s the apocalypse. That’s gotta be it. The world is going to end, and I’m the only one who knows it. And here I thought it was going to be a good day. Now I wish I would have gone all the way with Brittney. To die a virgin when the opportunity had once presented itself seems like such a waste. I start counting my heartbeats and try to calm the fuck down so I can figure out how to tell everyone else that Jesus or zombies are on the way.
Then the classroom door opens, and I stop breathing.
A girl with long, blond hair walks in and hands a late slip to Mrs. Mason. “Welcome back, Rachel. How was Cozumel?”
“It was great! We got back late last night. My favorite part was the Chichen Itza tour. Who knew a bunch of old stuff could be so cool? Just don’t let Mr. Allen know I said
that. He’ll probably make me write a report on it.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, and your secret’s safe with me. Turn in your holiday homework and take your seat. It’s time to get married.”
I watch Rachel dig in her backpack and will my incapacitated diaphragm to remember its sole purpose in life. When she walks toward me, I take a moment to admire her long legs. She smiles, and then her lips are moving. Oh God. I’ve never hated my lungs so much in my life. I cough and manage to inhale. I swear I smell vanilla mixed with… sunshine? I don’t know how to explain it. It’s an odd combination, but on her it works. She sits in a desk next to me and stares like she’s waiting for me to do something. Her eyes remind me of chocolate. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
“I’m sorry, what?” Thank you, vocal cords. Thank you for working and not making me look like an even bigger jackass.
“Hi, what’s your name?” she repeats, drawing out each word.
Shit. I wipe my hands on my jeans again. What’s that word people use to get my attention? That thing inside my head needs more oxygen to work properly. I take a deep breath.
Vanilla. Sunshine.
“James.” I manage to smile, but it probably looks like the same face I made that time Gran mixed up the salt with the sugar in her apple pie. Rachel looks confused. The teacher starts speaking again and I’m grateful for the distraction.
“All right, class. Let’s get into our project. As I mentioned before the break, the senior Economics project is based on real life. You will each be assigned a partner and the two of you will become a couple. You’ll spend the next five months dealing with budgets, jobs, bills, pretend families, and so on. I will place you in different socio-economic classes and you’ll see how that affects the jobs you can find, the houses you can afford and the opportunities you have in life. I’ll throw in some twists here and there too. Now, let’s partner up and get hitched.”
She counts off pairs around the classroom and ends up on my row of desks. “Alicia and Scott. Cori and Mike. Rachel and James.”
Holy shit. I love this class. I love this desk. I love this assignment.
