by Pearl Love
“Not that you wouldn’t show up,” she replied, “but that you’d be late. Ryan here thought you might miss orientation.”
The corner of Tyrell’s lips pulled into a self-effacing smile. His friend’s skepticism wasn’t entirely misplaced. The year before, he’d overslept on the first day of class thanks to his mom being out of town and hadn’t gotten to school until nearly 10:00 a.m., which was two hours after he should have been there.
“Come on, Cynthia. It’s not nice to remind a man of his faults.”
Tyrell raised an eyebrow and glared at Ryan Gage, who had finally fished out a crumpled five-dollar bill to hand to the gloating Cynthia. Tyrell had known Ryan since the fourth grade, when Ryan transferred to Chaplain Elementary. Ryan had the dubious distinction of being the only white kid in Tyrell’s class, and he’d been a bit defensive about it for the first week of classes. But after a random conversation during lunch period revealed their mutual love of all things Xbox, their friendship was quickly cemented. He, Ryan, and Cynthia had been pretty much inseparable from then on. Cynthia hadn’t gone to Chaplain, but since she lived close to Tyrell and spent nearly as much time at his house as she did her own, she and Ryan had also become good friends. Ryan played on the school’s not-half-bad football team, and Tyrell knew his friend was eager to get the Winton Yowell Tigers varsity jacket that was the privilege of the junior and senior members.
“Thanks a lot, Ryan,” Tyrell drawled. “Especially since it looks like you’re the one who bet against me.”
Ryan grinned and shrugged his broad shoulders. His gray eyes twinkled playfully, making it impossible, as always, for Tyrell to hold any grudges against him. A catcall whistle suddenly rang out from close by, and Tyrell hunched his shoulders in reaction to the sharp sound. He glared over at the perpetrator, Thomas Allen, and was gratified when Ryan smacked Thomas on the back of the head.
“What the hell, Dunce?” Ryan growled, putting his finger in his ear to emphasize his complaint.
Tyrell sighed, remembering his conversation with his little brother that morning. He’d definitely exaggerated his characterization of his relationship with Thomas. He only hung out with the big idiot because Thomas and Ryan were both on the football team. It wasn’t the first time Tyrell seriously questioned his friend’s taste in acquaintances.
Dunce, clueless to the auditory carnage he’d wrought, was watching something with a rather nasty smirk on his blunt features. His pale blue eyes were narrowed, appearing even more eerie than usual against his ruddy, sunburned complexion. “Check out that little sissy fruit,” he sneered. “My sister wouldn’t be caught dead with princess hair like that.”
Ryan snorted. “That’s because your sister looks like a dude. Still, you aren’t lyin’.” Ryan shook his head, his expression radiating disbelief. “Maybe that guy would like to try out for the dance squad. Ow!” He rubbed his arm and glared at Cynthia, who had just smacked him hard.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Cynthia’s tone was as sharp as the stare she leveled at Ryan. Her full lips were pressed together in annoyance. “What are you, a Neanderthal? Homophobia is so last decade.” She ignored Dunce, clearly realizing chastising him would be an exercise in futility.
Tyrell didn’t have to look around to know who they were talking about, but he did so anyway. As though against his will, his gaze was drawn to the sight of bright blond hair set in those damn impossible curls. The weirdo from the bus had just reached the front door of the main building, and he disappeared inside without once glancing in their direction. Either he didn’t realize Dunce’s taunt had been aimed at him or he didn’t particularly care. Tyrell wasn’t sure which he hoped was the case.
Grasping for any means to distract himself from his unaccountable interest in the new student, Tyrell looked over at the guy seated nearby on the steps whom he had yet to greet. Tyrell had met Marco Gonzales freshman year thanks to his membership on the track team with Cynthia. Marco was a quiet guy, and his kind, dark brown eyes belied the tough image he projected due to his slicked-back black hair and his physically imposing sprinter’s build. His demeanor seemed uncharacteristically downcast, but Tyrell didn’t have time to dwell on the mystery of Marco’s mood before his attention was captured by a far more pleasing subject.
He saw the girl walking toward them out of the corner of his eye, and his entire body quickly took note of her approach. Five foot five, light brown skin, with a curvy build and African braids reaching to her waist—Shaunteé was the total package. How often had Tyrell whispered her name in the semiprivacy of his bedroom? He never more regretted having to share a room with Kevin than those ever more frequent occasions when Shaunteé invaded his dreams. She was also a junior, but had earned herself a position as cocaptain of Winton Yowell’s dance squad. The troupe specialized in combining gymnastic cheerleading with modern dance, and they were always a huge hit at home games.
She stopped close to Marco and placed her hand on his shoulder before leaning down to speak with him in low tones no one else could hear. Tyrell forced down the vicious spike of jealousy that speared through him at the sight, and as though she realized she had an admirer, she glanced up at him and smiled. In an instant, Tyrell’s envy of Marco vanished, as did the lingering doubt that had plagued him ever since his mind dared contemplate the attractiveness of that strange blond kid from the bus. Shaunteé was just as hot as ever. Yeah, he didn’t have anything to worry about.
For the first time, Tyrell seriously considered participating in some sort of after-school activity. He wasn’t too bad at basketball, and as he’d already reached six foot one by the time he was a sophomore, the team’s coach, who’d been Tyrell’s gym teacher the previous year, had been hounding him to try out. Making the team would allow him to spend time with Shaunteé, and give him a reason to extend his time away from home. He loved his grandmother dearly, but her growing dementia broke his heart. Being around her was really hard sometimes, especially when she was having one of her episodes and couldn’t remember who he was. Not to mention he’d grab any excuse to avoid the endless church functions to which his mother insisted on dragging him. Thus far, Joanne hadn’t bought “hanging out with friends” as a valid reason to miss whatever event Spirit of Zion Baptist Church was hosting in a given week.
Tyrell was well aware Shaunteé had recently ended her clichéd relationship with the former captain of the football team, who’d had the good grace to graduate last spring and get out of Tyrell’s way. Indulging his runaway fantasies, Tyrell had to blink when he realized Shaunteé was actually talking to him.
“Um, sorry?” he said, feeling like an idiot.
Her laugh tinkled like one of those wind chimes that hung in the doorway of that hippie herbalist shop on 53rd Street in Hyde Park. Her hazel eyes were smiling as she met his embarrassed gaze. “I said I hope we’re in homeroom together this year. I have fun hanging out with you guys, and it would be nice to see you every day.”
Bless you, Ryan. Tyrell smiled goofily at Shaunteé while sending his friend a mental word of thanks. He was well aware that the only reason she even knew he existed was because Ryan was on the football team. Since Tyrell was always with Ryan, and Shaunteé had often been included in activities with the team because of her status as the former captain’s main squeeze, they’d been thrown into proximity on several occasions. Tyrell was grateful he seemed to have made such a pleasant impression on her.
He was even more grateful to Winton Yowell’s principal, who insisted that, unlike a lot of other high schools, his students switch homerooms every year. Mr. Turnbull wanted his charges to become acquainted with as many of their cohorts as possible during their four years of high school so as to become “well-rounded members of the greater Winton Yowell society,” or some touchy-feely crap.
“Uh, yeah. That’d be cool.” Idiot. Tyrell kept smiling even though he felt like a complete tool for being unable to think of anything smoother to say in reply.
“Hey, Marco!” Ryan said sudd
enly, obviously unaware of his best friend’s inner romantic turmoil. “I heard you nearly beat Sam’s time in the four-hundred meter at last week’s meet. That’s pretty sweet, man!”
Ryan had glanced at Cynthia for confirmation, and Tyrell did the same just in time to catch the deadly glare Cynthia had leveled at Shaunteé. He groaned inwardly. Not this again. Tyrell was completely bemused by his friend’s ill-hidden distaste for the dance squad cocaptain. Shaunteé had never done anything to Cynthia as far as he knew. It wasn’t like they spent any time together away from their circle. Tyrell shrugged, accepting that he’d probably never get it. Girls were just odd that way.
Cynthia’s sour expression morphed abruptly into a wide-eyed, horrified stare, which she threw at Ryan. She shook her head and mouthed a very clear no. Ryan frowned at her in confusion before shrugging. The bell chose that moment to ring, signaling the imminent start of the school year. Ryan swung his backpack onto his right shoulder and shot Cynthia one final bemused glance.
“Whatever. Anyway congrats, Marco.”
As though Ryan’s actions had robbed them of any further excuse to put off the inevitable, they grabbed their belongings and began the sojourn toward the main building—along with the rest of the Winton Yowell student population that had been loitering on the front lawn in one last homage to the freedom of summer break.
Tyrell was observing Shaunteé’s continued proximity to Marco with silent disapproval when he found his progress slowed by a hand on his arm. He looked down at Cynthia, who was also gazing after the couple, but with a far different expression.
“What’s up, Cyn?” Tyrell blinked at her in shock when he noticed her pretty brown eyes were rapidly filling with tears. “Hey! What’s the matter?”
“Sam was Marco’s best friend,” she said with a delicate sniff. She reached up to wipe away the tear that finally succumbed to gravity and slipped down her cheek.
Tyrell frowned at her use of the past tense. “Yeah, they’re always hanging out, even when they’re not trying to beat each other on the track.” The thought instantly brought on another. “Speaking of which, where is Sam? You guys had early practice this morning, didn’t you? Is he still in the locker room?” he asked, voicing his guess as to the missing track team captain’s possible whereabouts.
Cynthia shook her head as she drew in a shaky breath, apparently trying to steady herself. Instead, she hiccupped in abject failure. They had already mounted the outside stairs, but Tyrell pulled her to the side before they could enter through the doors. “Cyn, what happened?”
“S-Sam,” she stuttered. “Sam’s dead!”
Tyrell blinked at her in shock. “What do you mean Sam’s dead?” He thought back frantically, trying to remember if he’d heard something about the death of a Winton Yowell student on the news. Surely it would have been everywhere, especially since Sam was the star of their school, but his mind came up blank. “Was he in an accident?” Tyrell didn’t even consider that Sam might have been ill. The track team captain had been the picture of disgustingly impeccable health.
Cynthia shook her head. “No. Coach told us about it at practice yesterday morning. She s-said i-it….”
“Said what?” Tyrell prompted gently. He could barely understand her she was crying so hard.
“She said it was drugs!”
Tyrell wondered absently how she’d somehow managed to sob, whisper, and shout at the same time. Mainly he was trying to imagine how she could possibly be telling the truth. He hadn’t been close to Sam Baker, knowing the senior mainly through Cynthia, but what he did know didn’t jibe even a little with what she’d revealed. Sam was perfect. The perfect student, the perfect athlete. Hell, he even volunteered at the underserved elementary school close to Winton Yowell, having founded a track team for the young kids there. Everyone knew Sam was going to graduate at the top of his class. None of that added up to a guy who could possibly have a problem with drugs.
“No way,” he said. “That doesn’t make any sense. It had to be something else.”
Cynthia’s face radiated abject misery, and Tyrell briefly wondered whether she’d felt something for the track captain beyond mere admiration. “Coach spoke with Sam’s folks. They’re convinced Sam died of a massive coronary or something, swearing that’s what the medical examiner told them. But the police apparently think it had to have been drugs since Sam didn’t have any known health issues.” She sniffed louder, visibly trying to pull herself together. “Coach says the tox screen hasn’t come back yet, but she lectured us anyway.”
Coach Simms was notorious for keeping her athletes on the straight and narrow. The rumor was she’d lost a student at her previous school to heroin and was determined history would never repeat itself as long as she was a teacher. She had to have been devastated. Tyrell hoped for her sake as well Sam’s parents that Sam had just had some heart defect that had remained unfortunately hidden until it was too late.
“I’m sorry, Cyn,” he said quietly. He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her tightly with a quick squeeze. He felt her pain like he would Kevin’s. Cynthia had always been like a sister to him more than merely a friend. When he glanced back down at her, he put the color that had bloomed in her tanned cheeks down to her heightened emotions.
He walked her into the school, contemplation of the senseless loss of the school’s prince briefly outweighing his thoughts of Shaunteé or of the weirdo from the bus.
Chapter THREE
“ARE YOU sure about this, kiddo? Homeschooling is still firmly on the table.”
Jeremy’s mother had asked him that question what seemed a hundred times since he’d decided last term that he’d had enough of River Vista High. That morning hadn’t been any different, and he’d given her the same answer as always.
“No, Monica. You’re too busy for all that.” Jeremy had to repeat himself before she’d heard him while trying to get herself ready for the day, which merely proved his point for him.
Monica Michalak had gotten her massage therapy and reflexology license at the beginning of the year and had quit her job as a receptionist to begin her own business out of the community center near their apartment. It had long been her dream to be self-employed—“With your dad, we have enough corporate slaves in this house, thank you very much”—and a few months ago, she’d finally made good on her dream.
She turned toward him with one of her patented “concerned mom” expressions and swore as her hand accidentally hit the edge of the baking sheet she’d just pulled from the oven. She’d gotten into the habit of making gluten-free cookies to give as free samples to her customers, hoping to direct some of her clientele toward her vegan baking business. Jeremy winced, feeling bad for distracting her. He handed her the sea buckthorn and aloe oil she kept on a shelf over the kitchen counter, and she gazed at him meaningfully as she applied her homemade burn remedy to her hand.
“You know it’s no trouble. I’ll find a way to make it all work. In fact,” she added with a smile, warming to her topic, “I picked up a great primer at the book store last weekend on how parents can tailor lessons for older high school students.” Monica didn’t believe in newfangled technology like the Internet.
Jeremy was shaking his head before she could finish, his hair bouncing softly against his shoulders as he did. He knew Monica loved the crazy style and that he felt comfortable enough with himself to wear it. She’d never suspected his odd hairdo was an affectation he used to keep people at a distance.
“No,” he replied, declining her offer yet again. He’d been hearing the same speech practically all summer, but he had to admire her stubbornness. It just proved how much he’d worried her. Something else for him to regret. “I’d rather deal with the social stigma of being a transfer student than make you interrupt your life and put your business on hold for me. Besides,” he added with a quirky smile, “being at home isn’t particularly relaxing.”
She chuckled in response. “Can’t argue with you there,” she said, turn
ing back to her cookies and bringing the conversation to an end for hopefully the final time.
For once, Jeremy was glad of his large family. Having so many other people in their three-bedroom apartment was hardly conducive to productive studying. In addition to his mother and father, Feliks, he lived with an older brother and two sisters. Back before his oldest two siblings, Irina and Gabriel, had moved out, the crush had been nearly unbearable. And then there was Christopher….
Jeremy shook away the memory of his departing exchange with his mother. He sighed and toyed absently with the large stone attached to the silver chain around his neck as he mounted the steps of his new school. He experienced a moment of doubt about whether he should have listened to her after all and just spent the school year under her loving guidance. He’d been admitted to Winton Yowell two years ago as a freshman, but at the time, his mother had preferred to keep him closer to home. Not that he blamed her for her reluctance to send him to a more distant location for high school. He and formal educational institutions had never meshed particularly well.
“Might as well get on with it,” he said, pushing his worries down deep and mustering his courage. He’d made the decision and now he had to accept the consequences, whatever they might be.
The school had two buildings, but he’d assumed the larger one was the one he wanted, especially since nearly every one of his new classmates seemed to be headed in that way. Once he was through the rightmost set of the three double doors leading into the building, Jeremy found himself in a wide hallway that stretched off to his left and right. The corridor was crowded with people milling around. At first glance, the scene appeared chaotic, but Jeremy soon noticed most of the other students were gathered around the five huge bulletin boards sitting on easels against the wall opposite the entrance. Signs tacked to the top of the boards indicated groups of letters, below which were rows upon rows of words and numbers arranged in neat columns.
