I peek through the window of the room and see the teacher sitting at his desk, staring with a vacant expression at something on a laptop. He is younger than I expected, probably in his early thirties, and slim with tufty, non-descript brown hair. He has the furtive air of a mouse, with quick movements and eyes that never seem to stop roving. Screwing up my courage and reminding myself this is one thing I can feel confident about, I knock on the door. The teacher looks up and waves me in, closing the lid of his computer as he opens his mouth to speak.
“I look at porn while I’m in school.”
I halt and stare at my feet in to hide my blush, thankful I have had so many years of practice schooling my features not to reflect my reaction to whatever unwelcome truths I have to hear on a daily basis.
“Can I help you?” the teacher says impatiently, probably repeating his original statement. I force myself to start walking again and to smile at him normally, like I don’t know that he has naked pictures on his computer screen.
“Hi. Um, I’m Derry MacKenna. I’m new, and I’m signed up for your fourth period,” I explain, rapidly beginning to rethink the wisdom of bringing myself to this man’s attention. There is no mistaking the appreciative gleam in his eyes as he looks me over with more than professional interest. I am very aware of the dim lighting in the room and how silent the halls are as he stands and comes toward me, hand outstretched. Swallowing my unease, I shake his hand, noting with disgust that it is slightly damp.
“Derry, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Mr. Shockey. What can I do for you?” he asks, perfectly naturally. Maybe I’m imagining things.
“I just wanted to introduce myself and talk to you about joining the paper,” I say, shoving my misgivings aside, trying to focus on the task at hand.
He frowns and tilts his head. “Well, I don’t usually let students on the paper until they’ve spent a semester in journalism, learning the basic rules and how we do things here. I don’t really think I can let you skip that.”
I clear my throat and lift up my chin. This is where I can make the right impression. “I understand, but I have a lot of experience writing freelance for newspapers. I just want to get the opportunity to work with other people, get a feel for how a newsroom operates,” I reply, digging into my bag to pull out the portfolio I prepared. I hand it to him and he raises an eyebrow as he takes it, his eyes darting over me again. “These are a sample of some of the stories I’ve done.”
I wait while he flips through the folder, his eyebrows rising higher with each page. Finally he closes the folder and looks at me with a different light in his eyes, one of bewildered respect.
“It looks like you have quite a lot of experience. I see stories for at least three different papers, all of them very professional. How long have you been doing this?” he asks with real interest. My smile is genuine now as I explain.
“Since I was fourteen. One of my mother’s friends was a newspaper editor in our old town, and he let me work as an intern for a few months in the summer, and then I started writing little stories and it just kind of grew from there. One of my articles was picked up by the Associated Press this fall,” I say, opening the folder and pointing to the page in question. Mr. Shockey nods and then laughs.
“I read this article. I remember being impressed that the reporter managed to get a city councilman to confess to selling utilities contracts to the lowest bidder for kickbacks. That was you?” He grins with a boyish amusement that makes me more comfortable.
“Yeah. He couldn’t believe he was telling me either,” I inform him, smiling at the memory of the councilman’s shock when I changed the subject of our interview from his upcoming campaign to the corrupt practices he’d been covering up during his tenure. It’s hard to hide something like that from me.
“This is fantastic. Yes, I think in your case we can definitely make an exception.”
I begin to hear voices in the hallway, the first of the students going to their lockers and taking care of the business of morning. “Well, we can talk more in fourth period. Usually I divide up the class and have the students on the paper meet in the computer lab or work independently. My editor this year is Jake Wise. I’ll get you started with a beat and he can show you the ropes, okay?”
I nod vigorously, thrilled to have something go the way I’d hoped. Mr. Shockey puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes lightly. I tense and my smile dims.
“See you fourth period, Derry. I’m looking forward to it.”
I smile nervously and back away, trying to head to the exit without looking like I’m running away. I can feel Shockey’s eyes on me as I walk out the door.
The hallway is teeming when I emerge. For a moment, I am frozen in shock at the vibrant eddy of students that streams past me. Eyes glance up to meet mine and then flash away, lost in a sea of faces that have an alarming uniformity. Four hundred students may not seem like much for a high school, especially one near D.C., but the reality is overwhelming.
I shift the bag on my shoulder and enter the fray, finding it more difficult to locate my class now that the halls are filled with the clanging of lockers being slammed, bodies pushing past me uninterestedly, and the swelling din of voices that bounces off the white concrete walls and reverberates in my brain. The halls are nearly empty before I find the correct room, and I pause outside the door, drawing in a deep breath before the plunge.
“I’m terrified of everyone,” a harsh female voice declares.
I swing around to see a girl with a pinched face staring at me with irritation. “Didn’t you hear me? Go in or get out of the way,” she barks, knocking past me.
“Oh, sorry,” I mumble and step to the side to let her pass. She rolls her eyes and slips through the door. Not wanting to look stupid, I follow into the room. About half the students are there, most standing around their desks chatting, some sitting quietly in their chairs looking through textbooks. No one looks at me. The teacher is writing on the whiteboard, so I wait patiently by her desk, casting surreptitious glances at the rest of the room.
More students file in, calling out to others, unwittingly revealing their honest impressions as each voice strikes me for the first time. I have spent so many years tuning out accidental revelations from strangers that I am able to keep my concentration on appearing normal with relative ease. The students are clustering together and putting their heads close for whispered conferences. I worry that there won’t be a chair left for me and wonder exactly how I planned to make friends with people who have probably been grouped together like this since childhood.
“I’m not really making a difference anymore.”
I smile hesitantly, unsure of what the teacher actually said. “Hi, I’m Derry MacKenna. Mrs. Hayworth said to give you this to sign,” I say, handing her the sheet of paper that will prove I am responsible enough to get to all of my classes and make myself known to the teachers. She gives me a friendly smile and takes the paper, signing it with a flourish as she looks me over.
“I heard you’ve been homeschooled up until now, so if you have any questions about the way we do things here, feel free to ask. You have your textbooks?” she asks kindly. I nod and glance down at the nameplate on her desk.
“Yes, Ms. Sullivan. Um, where should I sit?”
She looks out over the room and points to an empty desk near the back. “That should be fine for now. I usually start out the semester with free seating, but depending on behavior it may change later. Would you like me to introduce you?”
I bite back the immediate yes that springs to my lips and think it over. So far nothing has gone the way I expected it to. Maybe identifying myself as the new girl in such an obvious way if I don’t have to isn’t such a great idea.
“No, that’s ok. I’ll just take my seat,” I say quietly and Ms. Sullivan nods.
“That’s fine. See me after class if you have any questions.”
I slip through the aisles to take my seat. A few curious glances are sent my way, but on the who
le, I am ignored. To my left sits the pinched-face girl who was so rude at the door. She doesn’t look at me. I might think it is because she is unapproachable or important if I hadn’t heard the truth already. That she’s as terrified as I am.
“Um, hi,” I whisper and her head jerks slightly. “I’m sorry about being in the way before. This is my first day, and I wasn’t sure where I was going.”
The girl’s shoulders relax infinitesimally. Maybe she thought I was going to tell her off or something.
“It’s ok,” she whispers back, but doesn’t turn around. My spirits sink a little. Fantasies of being the cool new girl that everyone wants to know are quickly disintegrating, and I’m left with a void that’s both unnerving and a relief at the same time.
I lean back into my seat and pull out my notebook and text. One of the reasons Mom never put me back into school was because of my difficulty reading. If I had been in school, I probably would have been put in a class with learning disabled students, my odd ability mistaken for dyslexia or slowness. The first time I read something, like with the signs over the stores in Georgetown, I see the truth behind the statement. Reading fiction doesn’t bother me, mainly because there isn’t a true reality behind the words, just a perceived one the author creates. The same thing goes for movies and TV meant for entertainment value only.
But reading a textbook presents a challenge since the information is meant to be authentic and factual. People would be shocked to know how many lies their children are being taught, how inaccurate textbooks really are.
I look at the U.S. History book in my hands and sigh. History books are full of falsehoods. I just hope Ms. Sullivan doesn’t ask her students to read out loud.
I hear the desk behind me shift as someone takes a seat and a tone sounds, like the warning on the Emergency Alert System. I glance around, but no one else seems surprised. As Ms. Sullivan rises from her chair and faces the class, I realize the tone must be the signal for classes to start. Guess they don’t use bells anymore.
“Ok, everyone, quiet,” Ms. Sullivan orders, her voice carrying to the corners of the room. After a few moments, the hubbub dies down and she welcomes us to her class and passes out a syllabus. She stops and talks to a few students as she passes, asking about their Christmas breaks, but most students eye her warily. I can’t help but be relieved that I’m not the only one new to this class.
“Everyone here will be assigned a partner. You will complete class projects together, and if your partner misses class, you will be responsible for collecting their assignments.”
Excitement stirs in me. This is more like it. I wonder who I’ll be paired with and try to resist the urge to look around the room. I don’t want to seem too eager.
Ms. Sullivan wanders around the room pairing people together. When she reaches me, she gestures to whoever is sitting behind me and smiles. “The two of you can work together,” she directs before moving on.
There are a few grumbles as everyone shifts to greet their partners. My pulse picks up and I put a pleasant smile on my face as I turn to meet a clear green gaze. I feel my smile widen as I take in the boy I’m paired with. With dusty blond hair that grazes his cheeks and falls into moss-colored eyes, high cheekbones and a strong jaw, he is the living, breathing embodiment of the high school hero I’ve read about and watched on TV. I wonder if he’s the captain of the football or basketball team.
“Hi, I’m Phillip Bennett. You’re new here, right?” the hero asks, his voice low and pleasant. But I don’t notice that.
I don’t hear the truth.
I stare at him for a moment, baffled, resisting an urge to touch my ears and make sure that they’re still attached. He watches me attentively and I struggle to find my way back to normalcy and answer.
“Um, hi. Yeah, today’s my first day,” I reply, absently clicking my jaw to try and pop my ears. “Oh, and my name is Derry.”
He smiles and I flinch slightly at the dazzling gleam of teeth. He could be in an ad for toothpaste with that grin.
“Derry, that’s an unusual name,” he says, tilting his head slightly and letting his eyes travel over me.
My heart is pounding furiously and my skin itches. What’s wrong with me? I always hear the truth when someone first speaks to me, always. I try to focus, not wanting to seem weird.
“Yeah, it was my grandmother’s maiden name.” My fingers are clenching and unclenching at my side and my stomach twists uncomfortably.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Derry. Has anyone shown you around yet?”
I force myself to concentrate. I will figure out what’s wrong with me later. “I had a tour when I registered a couple weeks ago,” I answer.
Phillip gives me a pitying look. “With Mrs. Hayworth, right?” I nod. “Well, I’d be happy to give you a tour. One from a student’s perspective,” he offers, blinding me with that smile again.
My pulse picks up for an entirely different reason. “Yeah, that’d be great.” Up front Ms. Sullivan calls the class to attention again.
“I’ll show you to your next class,” he whispers and I give him a quick smile and turn around, not really sure how I feel about that. It’s odd. Earlier I would have been thrilled about a cute boy offering to walk me to class; it fits in perfectly with my daydreams. But I am completely off-balance. For as long as I can remember, the first thing anyone says to me is a hidden truth. I always have to ask people to repeat themselves, or guess at what they might have said. I’ve never heard just a regular introduction.
I rub my arms absently and then stop. The low-level buzz under my skin, like feathery wings beating against my veins, is fading, but it is unmistakable now that I’m paying attention. It’s the buzzing that warns me when someone is lying, and it was sounding alarms the entire time I was talking to Phillip.
I look over my shoulder at him. He is reading the syllabus, tapping his fingers on the desk in a light, repetitive drumming. Sensing my scrutiny, he glances up and the corners of his mouth turn up slightly, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. I turn around hurriedly and stare down at my hands. Something is wrong. First the boy outside the school looks at me and I feel like I’m dying and now I can’t hear Phillip’s truth, but my entire body screams that he’s lying. I take a deep breath and try to slow my pulse. After a moment the hum under my skin is gone and I can focus.
With an effort I return my attention to Mrs. Sullivan’s opening spiel. She goes over the syllabus and tells us her expectations. I’m a little surprised at how spread out the material is. Our first assignment is to read ten pages of the first chapter tonight. Much less than I’m used to. Studying with Mom, I’ve always had to cram a lot of info in a very short time. At our old store, I used to work every day and then spend a few hours in the evening doing school stuff with mom. I love her, but she can be kind of flighty sometimes, and having a steady schedule of homeschooling is not always her top priority, so I have gotten used to reading whole books in a day or several chapters in a night. Plus, I usually have to read them twice in order to get past the lies.
I open my text and look down at it glumly. Tiny, cramped print glares back at me. It’s going to be an ugly semester.
“I’d like to get some perspective on what you already know. For the rest of the class, write an essay based on one of these questions.” Ms. Sullivan gestures to the board. Three questions are written, and I sigh as I learn more about Ms. Sullivan without wanting to.
1. Every year teaching gets more difficult and the students are more ungrateful.
2. I’m going to default on my mortgage if I can’t find a second job.
3. I’m so tired of looking out and seeing these apathetic, uneducated faces.
I blink and the words reform themselves into the intended questions, asking about certain periods in American history. I close the text and prepare to write without it. I’ll have to read ahead tonight so I can get through the rest of the week.
After a few moments I lose myself in the work and stop worry
ing about why I heard exactly what Phillip said and not some deep dark secret, the buzzing under my skin, or the boy who ran into me outside of school. For me, writing is cathartic, natural, and one of the rare times that I don’t have to worry about honesty. Anything I write goes down exactly as I mean it. No matter what anyone says, you can’t lie to yourself; not really. So I can read anything I’ve written with no problem. It’s one of the reasons I first developed an interest in journalism. I can wield my uncanny talent to find out what people are hiding and then write the truth for everyone else to read.
The rest of the period passes quickly. Everyone is involved in their assignment and only the occasional whisper or snap of someone breaking pencil lead disrupts the peace. For a while I feel perfectly at ease, comfortable with this new world that I’ve entered, and the knot between my shoulders unwinds a bit.
“I’m not looking forward to reading these,” Ms. Sullivan says and I jump in my seat. I’m back to hearing the truth again. What happened with Phillip must have been a fluke, a once in a lifetime mistake. As much as I sometimes hate always knowing the truth, as much as I wish I could be normal, it’s part of me and always has been.
I glance around, wondering what Ms. Sullivan said, and my eyes meet with the pinched-faced girl. “What did she say?” I whisper and she hesitates before answering.
“I’m going to be all alone this semester.”
I sigh inwardly. This is going to get really tedious.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that?”
The girl rolls her eyes and leans closer. “She said to pass the papers up front. Geez, open up your ears.”
I’m beginning to understand why this girl is worried about being alone. Charm is not her middle name. I laugh awkwardly and lean back in my chair, putting my name on my paper and hand it to the girl in front of me. I smile at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
Instinct Page 2
