The Awakening

by Marley Gibson

  Right, because every girl wants to take a flipping baby monitor with her to a slumber party! "I don't think womb sounds are going to help at my age."

  The light in Mom's eyes dims, spelling out her disappointment. I have to realize this move has been hard for her too. She had to give up her job in the neonatal ICU at Northwestern Memorial to take a staff-nurse position with the town's one (well, okay, maybe not one) doctor. I need to cut her some slack.

  I swallow my annoyance at the entire sitch and smile. "I'm sorry. Thanks for getting this. I'll give it a try." Why not? Can't hurt.

  She leans over and tucks me into the bed like she's been doing for as long as I can remember. The woman is a pro at hospital corners and literally traps me in the straight covers. She kisses me on the head. "Try to get some sleep, sweetie. Tomorrow's a big day."

  "I know, Mom."

  "You'll make lots of new friends and fit in ... you'll see."

  "I hope so." Although I have plenty of friends back in Chicago. "I just want to blend in, not be too different or anything." At least that's what I tell myself as I picture walking into a building full of strangers in a matter of hours.

  "Deep, cleansing breaths, Kendall. Say a prayer and just relax," Mom says. "I believe your sleep issues are merely stress-related, and once you start school, everything will be back to normal." She moves toward the door.

  "Thanks, Mom." Although what's normal now? No more Cubs games. Or Bears, or Blackhawks, or Bulls. (Sorry, not a White Sox fan.) No more movies at Century Landmark or hot dogs from Weiner Circle. No more St. Paddy's Day parades with the dyed-green river. No more treks to the Sears Tower to check out the views. No more ditching one day of school to go to an Oprah taping. No more Chicago Chop House with the best steaks on the planet. No more Marjorie. No more...

  Mom turns back to me. "If you don't start getting regular sleep, I'm taking you to the doctor and we're putting you on some medication." She's not saying it as a threat, more as a point of information.

  Bleck ...I don't want to be one of those messed-up kids on seven different medications for all sorts of afflictions. I want to be a normal teenager who goes to school, has friends, watches too much TV, talks on the cell incessantly, and plans for her future. Not too much to ask, right?

  Mom nods her head at me. "Try to get some sleep, sweetie. And remember to say your prayers." She flicks off the light and closes the door behind her.

  "I always do." Mom's big on religion. Not in an "in tents for Jesus" sort of way, but as an important part of the fabric of the Moorehead household. I respect—and go along with—that.

  I wrestle with the locked-down covers until the sheets are free from their mattress prison, and so am I. The white-noise machine churns away with a staticky rhythm on my right. It's a lulling kind of whoosh, whoosh, whooshhhhhh. I'll admit it is sort of calming. Maybe this will work. I turn onto my stomach and get in my preferred falling-asleep position, one hand under the pillow and the other on top, cuddling it. Eyes closed, I take one of those deep, cleansing breaths Mom talks about. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. That's what I learned in the class Marjorie and I took at the Nature Yoga Sanctuary in Chicago last summer. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

  After a good long while of deep breathing, I feel myself teetering on the edge of consciousness. Ahh, yes..."To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub." (I love Shakespeare, what can I say?) I'm settling into my fluffy pillows, spiraling down into the lovely world of desperately needed REM, when I swear on a stack of Bibles that I hear a whisper.

  "I'm heeeerrrrrre."

  I peel one eye open. "Who's there?"

  "I'm heeeerrrrrrre."

  "Kaitlin, if that's you, I'm going to beat the shit out of you," I snap, thinking my brat of a little sister is being, well, a brat. "Is that you?"

  "Nooooooo..."

  Okay, what the...? The hairs on my arms rise, as does my anxiety level. I sit up. "Who's there?" I repeat more firmly.

  Nothing. Silence. Except for the white-noise machine.

  After a minute, my heart rate returns to some semblance of normal. I lie back down, ridiculously annoyed. I'm sure it was Kaitlin totally screwing with me. She's such a PITA. (Do I need to explain what that stands for? Rhymes with Pain in the Glass.)

  Settling into the pillow again, I restart with the breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth when I hear the whisper once more.

  "I'm heeeerrrrrrre."

  Bolting up, I jerk on the lamp cord. "Look! You're pissing me off!"

  I glance around the room, and there's no one there. No Kaitlin. No Mom. Just my large brown Gund teddy bear, Sonoma, sitting on the rocking chair next to my bed, looking at me like I've lost my marbles. The white-noise machine continues to whoosh beside me. Maybe if I turn the volume up, it'll block out whatever it is—probably the television from Mom and Dad's room—that I'm hearing.

  Just when I lift the volume level, I hear it again.

  "Are you hearing meeeeeeee?"

  I fling off the covers and sit up stiff-straight. Chill bumps dance across my skin, making tiny mountains in my sweaty flesh. The hairs on the back of my neck are at complete military attention. I swallow hard but find a massive lump of unease in my esophagus that isn't budging.

  Holy Mother of Christmas Past! The whispering voice is coming from the white-noise machine! Are you effing kidding me?

  You're here? Well, I'm out of here!

  CHAPTER TWO

  "YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO DRIVE ME, Mom," I say the next morning. I squint behind my super-trendy (at least they were in Chi-Town) black Coach sunglasses that hide my sleep-deprived eyes from the blaring Georgia sunshine.

  Our Toyota Sienna is parked in front of this extremely aged, brick building with Radisson High School chiseled in the top cement in a very Times New Roman way. It's a three-story building that looks old as dirt. The American flag out front flaps crazily in the strong breeze. To the left is a student parking lot full of pickup trucks, SUVs, and the random Jeep. I wish I had my own car and didn't have to be carted in like ... well, Kaitlin. Sure, I expected Mom to drive her to school, but a junior like me just should not be seen in the family minivan. Especially when it still has Illinois plates that scream Look at me! Look at me!

  "I can walk from here," I say.

  "But Kendall—"

  Quickly, I unclick the seat belt and feel the kink in my back from sleeping on the sectional sofa in the living room. There was no way in blue-blazing hell that I was going to sleep in my room—even if I could have—after that raspy-whispering-from-the-noise-machine incident that nearly made me have a frickin' embolism. My pulse was in overdrive, as was my imagination, apparently set on determining exactly what it was I'd heard. Somewhere in the middle of it all, curled on the couch in a protective fetal position, I managed to get a couple of hours of shuteye.

  That's when I saw ... him.

  Well, not saw saw him. Dreamed of him. This goooooorgeous guy. Not any guy that I know—certainly no one from back home in Chicago. I swear, he had the most amazing Dasani-bottle-blue eyes I've ever seen in my life. It was like he knew me—dare I say?—soul deep.

  After I woke up, I rubbed images of the gorgeous guy from my sleep-neglected eyes. I took the world's hottest shower and got dressed in the Blue Cult jeans that Marjorie gave me (don't tell me they're not stylish, because they make my hindquarters look fabulous) and a simple long-sleeved navy shirt that fits snugly over my 32As (don't poke fun!). Hmmm ... blue seems to be my color of choice today. As much as I know I will stand out, I don't want to wear anything socially suicidal on my first day. I mean, jeans are universal for teens everywhere. Surely I won't muck it up too badly. Unless they say the brand is last season?

  Mom unlatches her seat belt as well. "I'll come in with you."

  I stop her with my hand. "No. I can do this myself. How hard can it be?"

  "Well, Kendall, I went in with Kaitlin and—"

 
"Kaitlin's thirteen. I'll be okay, Mom. I swear."

  "Don't swear, dear. It's not proper."

  What is proper these days? Good thing Mom can't hear the wild pounding of my heart or the ringing in my ears. And that irritating headache from last night has returned. Only this time, it's in the back of my neck. Thump, thump, thump, like there's a tiny elf with an even tinier hammer beating on my cerebellum. Geez, Louise! I need to pop an Excedrin—or four—fast. The throbbing's probably stress from fitful sleep, starting a new school, and my overactive imagination that conjured up Dasani-Blue-Eyed Boy.Yeah, that's it.

  I stretch across the console and plant a quick kiss on Mom's cheek. "Love ya! Mean it!" Before she can say another word, I hop out into the sea—okay, more like a gentle country river—of students headed into the hallowed halls of Radisson High. There are kids swooping in on bikes and skateboards. A Ford F-150 with about six guys in the back drives by and squeals into a parking space. There's a scary-looking guy in leather on a rather impressive red and yellow crotch rocket, and even one tall girl on a Segway. Who knew you could get one of those around here?

  Taking a deep breath and mentally begging the head pain to go away, I put one Reebok'd foot in front of the other and slowly walk the brick path toward the front door of RHS.

  Here goes nothing.

  "I'm Kendall Moorehead," I say to the woman behind the counter in the school's office. "I was told to check in here because I'm new."

  The frazzled lady takes a pencil from behind her ear and places it between her teeth. "Evvwyonez sorrrda nooo tahdahy."

  "Excuse me?"

  She removes the pencil. "Sorry, it's just that everyone's sort of new today, sugah, with it being the first day of school and all and everyone getting settled." She thumbs through a stack of cards and pulls one out. "Here you are. Moorehead, Kendall. Your first class is Mrs. Johnston's. Round yonder, hit the stairs, third floor, room three thirty-three."

  I stare at the card in my hand, trying not to be hypnotized by her singsongy Southern accent. Guess I'll have to get used to that, now that I'm living in the South. Hmm ... calculus, physiology, English literature, history, Spanish I, and computer lab. I see my classes have already been picked, probably by my mom. Fine. Whatever. It's all core stuff I need anyway.

  The pencil-chewing woman stares at me. "Now scoot! You don't want to be late. First impressions are everything."

  She's telling me this? At least I styled my hair this morning with something other than number-two lead and yellow paint and I managed to get my cereal inside of me instead of on the front of my shirt, like her. Frowning, I mentally scold myself for being so judgmental, particularly when I'm about to hop on the stage in three seconds and be judged by Randy, Paula, Simon ... and all of Radisson High. Sure, I've seen all those teen movies where the heroine is a fish out of water and soon takes over the school and wins the heart of the popular-quarterback-who's-really-a-sensitive-headed-for-an-Ivy guy. This is not a movie. This is my life. I've never been the new girl. In my sixteen years, I've been educated solely by the Chicago public school system. I don't know if I'm ready for how they do it here.

  Instead of heading straight up to Mrs. Johnston's homeroom class, I leave the office and weave through a maze of probing eyes—why can I feel each individual scan?—and not-so-faint whispers to find the ladies'. I push into the bathroom, and it seems that every girl in there turns to check me out. I might as well be holding up a sign that reads I'm Not from Round Here.

  Really, there's not much for them to see other than an ordinary Midwesterner with long, ever-so-slightly wavy brown hair, very little makeup—some eyeliner and mascara—and a nose full of freckles. Okay, so Marjorie thinks I'm a little on the Amanda Bynes end of the scale, which is fine with me. She's a fave of mine, so I'll take it as a compliment. I lower my eyes (hazel, BTW) and look at my feet as I walk to the sink. All around, I hear girls grab their books and bags and rush out, obviously hurrying to class. Which is what I should do, instead of dawdling.

  I think of splashing some cold water onto my face, but I'm not a hundred percent sure that my mascara is waterproof. Since there's no major mall here in Radisson, I had to settle for a pink container of some Maybelline, L'Oréal, or what have you from Mega-Mart in lieu of my regular waterproof Clinique that I can't find anywhere in my makeup bag—Kaitlin probably boosted it without my permission. Instead, I turn on the hot and cold water and wash my hands with the generic, detergenty-smelling soap.

  All of a sudden, my stomach cramps up. A burning pain that sears me right in the middle, like I've been slashed with Darth Vader's light saber. It really hurts. Like, bad. Like I want to throw up. The nausea is rising up into the back of my throat and there's a wicked acid sensation. I move toward the stalls, thinking I'm gonna get sick all over the place, when I hear the sounds of someone actually retching. Ewww ...now I'm really gonna blow chunks. I so can't deal with hearing someone else barfing. I nearly double over from the tenderness in my throat and the ache in my abdomen. It's almost as if I'm feeling her throwing up.

  That's just goofy as hell, though.

  At the sink, I jerk the faucet back on and scoop a handful of cold water into my mouth, trying to wash away the yucky sensation. A toilet flushes down on the end of the row. More retching sound amplifies inside my headache. Jesus ... what's going on with me?

  A stall door opens and out walks the tall girl I'd seen outside in the parking lot on a Segway. Is she the one who was sick? No, for some reason I know she's not. Plus, she kind of screws up her nose when the gagging sound continues. She stands next to me at the sinks and looks me over. Lowering her brows, she asks, "Are you okay?"

  I nod and then dab my mouth with the coarse, industrial paper towel. "Yeah. I'm just sensitive to hearing other people ... you know, puking like that."

  The girl waves her hand in the air dismissively and then goes to wash her hands. "Don't pay any attention to it. It's just RHS's own after-school special."

  "Excuse me?"

  She lowers her voice and points behind us. "Courtney Langdon. Cheerleader. Does it all the time when she's trying to keep her size-zero figure for football season."

  "I think that's called a disease."

  The tall girl shrugs. "Try telling her that. Splurge and purge. That's her lifestyle."

  I bend to look under the stall and see this Courtney girl still on her knees. "Shouldn't someone do, like, an intervention or something? Tell the school nurse? Advise her parents of what she's doing?"

  "Nah," the girl whispers. "She'd scratch your eyes out for doing that. She's a certified bitch. We're all used to it. You'll get used to it too."

  Well, who am I to take on the school bitch on my first day?

  I doubt I'll get used to it, though. Especially if it causes horrific suffering of my own, like I'm currently experiencing. "I, umm, suppose so." I just hope the "bitch" doesn't hear us talking about her.

  The tall girl smiles at me like she's sizing me up. I do the same to her. She's lanky and slightly geeky, wearing a graphic T-shirt that reads "More Cowbell" half tucked into a pair of dark, worn Levi's. And she's as flat-chested as I am. Thank God for small miracles! (No pun intended.) It's apparent from her relaxed look that she's not too worried about fashion. Or maybe she's just comfortable in her own skin. Her hair is messy, black, and in a bob that fits her smiling face well.

  The toilet flushes and I hear Courtney, of tossed-cookie fame, gather her things and bang out of the stall. I stare at her mane of golden blond hair and her thick, thick makeup that you could almost carve your name in with a fingernail.

  Courtney sneers at me. "What are you looking at?"

  I shift my eyes down to the floor. "Nothing. Sorry."

  "Damn right." She whips the tip of a berry-colored lipstick over her mouth and then nods at the tall girl in the mirror. "Junior year and I see you're still a fashion disaster." Then she turns and leaves.

  When the door shuts, I can't stop myself from saying, "What a beeyotch."
/>   The tall girl shrugs. "Told ya."

  The bell rings and I feel my nausea dissipate just as quickly as it started.

  Huh ... that's weird. All that pain must have been from first-day nerves. I'd like to talk to this girl more, but I don't want to be late for homeroom. "Crap! I better run to class," I say.

  "Hope to see you later," she shouts after me.

  "Yeah, me too!"

  I take the stairs two at a time to get up to Mrs. Johnston's class. Talk about a workout! When I finally reach the top, a little more winded than I'd like to be, I see that room 333 is bright and airy. Mrs. Johnston has the windows open, and I can hear birds chirping away like a Disney soundtrack gone bad. It's as if the birds are sitting here on the desk in front of me. Do I have some sort of bionic ear all of a sudden? I feel like I'm ear-jacking the birds' feathery conversation. Or maybe it's just that the stillness of a small town makes any sound more amplified.

  There's a seat in the next to the last row by the window, so I swerve through the backpacks and stretched-out legs of my fellow classmates and plop down. The students look ... normal. Girls in jeans and cute tops and guys in khakis and NFL gear. They have hairstyles that look the same as we have in Chicago, with the exception of some of the boys who sport 'Bama Bangs like the gang from MTV's Two-a-Days.

  One really pretty girl with long, flowing gold-blond hair—all glossy and perfect, resembling a Pantene commercial—smiles warmly at me. I bet she's one of the popular kids, with a face like that. She's probably best friends with that Courtney Langdon chick too. I can see it now: they're the heads of some high school sorority that you can join only if you can trace your family tree back to Scarlett O'Hara. They'll laugh at me as I walk through the lunch cafeteria, for eating the wrong food or what have you.