Chapter 2
Taylor
Three months later.
“Did you hear about the new girl?”
I tucked my knees harder into my chest as I perched on the toilet in the women’s bathroom. Three girls laughed and joked at the mirror on the other side of the stall. I didn’t know them, of course, but that wouldn’t stop the cruel words I knew were coming.
“Yeah, she’s totes weird.”
“And has she ever, like, seen a hairbrush?”
The girls tittered to each other briefly, but the sound was like someone grating fingernails across a chalkboard. Did those girls even know what a chalkboard was? We had them back home, with Mom and Dad, but all we had here were smart boards. I hated them. I heard the rustling of someone in their backpack.
“And who names their kid Taylor? Who does she think she is, Taylor Swift?”
More laughter. A few of them complained about whoever that was, and I guessed they were talking about a singer of some kind, but I had never heard of her.
“I heard she was raised in a cult or something.”
“I heard her dad was a pastor,” a new voice spoke up, this one timid, quieter than the rest.
“Maybe she’s one of those Jesus freaks,” the first girl laughed, and the others followed suit.
“Yeah, she’s probably a little virgin girl! Look at those handmade clothes she wears. Seriously? Maxi skirts are so last year.”
“I didn’t see a rosary or anything,” the shy girl added.
“Well, I heard,” spoke the first girl with an extra sassy edge of nastiness in her voice, “that her parents just dropped her off with her like eighty-year-old grandfather while they went out of the country to party in Greece or something. No way are they religious or anything.”
A couple girls laughed lightly. “Must be nice,” mused the quiet girl.
I squeezed my legs tighter and held my breath. My vision swam. I felt tears prick my eyes, but I blinked them away. My eyeliner, brown, the only color my mother ever approved of, was perfect today. I didn’t want to risk smudging it.
“She’s probably super rich and we don’t know it,” the second girl chimed in.
The girls silenced for a moment. I wanted to exhale, but I was too scared to.
“Doubt it,” the first girl chimed in snottily. “If she was rich, she wouldn’t be taking the bus to school and wearing those awful hand me downs, duh.”
The girls agreed softly.
The shrill clang of the second period bell blared through the bathroom, rescuing me. The girls groaned at each other, rustled in their bags again, and then after the brief sound of running water, I heard the bathroom door bang behind shut them.
I exhaled heavily and unfolded myself from the toilet. Hands on my knees, I leaned over, sucking in a clean breath of air. I blinked rapidly, forcing myself not to cry. I wasn’t a crier, at least, I tried not to be. If Papa could make it through getting shot in two wars, I could definitely make it through Monday. A little bit of anger surged through me, despite the prayers I muttered under my breath. I pushed the bathroom door open harder than I should have.
I left the bathroom with my head held high, or at least, I tried to, but I wasn’t paying attention, and the door flung open hard, right into an unsuspecting victim.
“Ow!”
The boy standing before me was about my age but a few inches shorter than me. That happened often, though, so I was used to it. He was a little chubby, but in an adorable kind of way. He was dressed in a white t-shirt and slacks, complete with a worn leather jacket, which was so odd for a high school in the middle of nowhere. Most of the guys wore jerseys, flannels, or pants that were so tight I knew God did not approve. Besides, his short blond hair brushed to one side, I couldn’t see any of his other features. I also didn’t miss the little trickle of blood running from his nose as he scurried to cover his face.
Before I could think of what to say, I blurted, “Sucks to be you.” And let the door fall shut behind me as I pushed passed him and headed to class. I almost wanted to say another prayer. I wasn’t a mean person, but those girls had made me very perturbed. Maybe enough to say a swear.
I didn’t bother hurrying. What would the kids do if I was late to English class? Make fun of me? Been there, done that, for the last two weeks.
It didn’t hurt any less.
English was all right, I guess. We were reading Cyrano de Bergerac. I’d already read it, so I slipped in a seat near the front and tried to ignore the giggles spreading around the room. I held my head up, hoping they weren’t about me, but knowing they probably were. Too late, I realized my skirt caught on the edge of the desk part of the chair and revealed my leg and half my butt to the left side of the class. Mortified, I yanked my skirt down and tucked it under me. I felt my cheeks heat bright red and I wrapped my arms around my head and pressed my forehead to the desk.
Why can’t I just wear pants like everyone else? I screamed in my head.
I knew Papa wouldn’t hear of it. I could see his stern look of disapproval even now. I’d rather wear a skirt than what passed for ‘pants,’ what another girl at school had called ‘culottes’ just before she tipped over my milk and stalked away. Wearing the calf-length ultra-wide pants, closer to a skirt, really made me feel like a balloon and I hated every pair I owned. After last week, I’d never wear them again.
As I set my book and notepad in front of me, I could hear the snickers come from decidedly male students.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was some emo kid with braces, and I didn’t even know his name. He hissed in my ear, “Hey, new girl ass is showing.”
I spun in my seat just in time for him to make a rude gesture at me involving a peace sign and his disgusting tongue directly in the center of it.
So, I hit him over the head with my textbook. It wasn’t even a big book; luckily for him, and unluckily for me, the play was relatively short. But I was angry at the girls in the bathroom, at the class for just being overly cruel, and as the teacher, Mrs. Henrys, who did nothing to stop it. So when my book made contact with his head and he screeched at me, I couldn’t help but smile. I felt the relief flood through me, and my smile turned into a delighted smirk.
“Taylor!”
Mrs. Henrys shrieked my name as if I’d just shot him or planted a bomb or whatever high school students did to make their teachers angry. How was I supposed to know?
“Yes, Mrs. Henrys?” I spun around in my seat and flashed what I hoped was an innocent smile. Mama always said if you smiled at people they thought you were on God’s side and thus, not a liar. Even if you were a liar, which God didn’t like, but that was another conundrum entirely.
“Did you just assault Mr. Matthews?”
“I...” I chewed my lip. It suddenly struck me that I was probably in trouble. “He was making fun of my...”
Full on laughter rolled through the class, and my blush deepened. The beginning of a migraine crept around my temple.
“I heard what he said, but I don’t care,” Mrs. Henrys interrupted. “You are both being rude to each other and I won’t have it in my class.” She threw her dry erase marker in the tray on the whiteboard and stalked over to her desk. Scribbling on a notepad, she ripped it off and pushed a purple piece of paper at me.
I took it and saw her signature, and a line that read, ‘student hit another student.’ There was a check in the box above it marked ‘lunch detention.’
I looked up at her. “What’s this?”
A kid next to me whispered to his neighbor, “New girl is so retarded she doesn’t know what detention is.”
The other kid snickered and muttered “Noob,” as he tried to stifle another laugh and failed miserably.
“For lunch you will go to the library for detention and work on your homework and not sit with your friends,” Mrs. Henrys announced, her foot tapping impatiently. “You’re lucky I didn’t give you in-school suspension for assault.” She eyed the kid behind me. “Next time, keep your thoug
hts to yourself, Mr. Matthews.” She turned back to the board. “Now, like I said, in Act Two of this play, we finally see the purpose here as demonstrated by...”
I slunk down in my seat and hid behind my book. Between my skirt, the jerk behind me, and now detention? Papa was going to be mad.
My first two weeks of high school weren’t working out well so far.
After thirty painful minutes, the bell rang finally, and I escaped into the hallway. I squeezed my slim frame into the space between the doorway and the locker and let the other students rush by me. Finally, I glanced both ways, waiting like a twisted teenage version of frogger, and darted across the hall to my locked and quickly yanked my gym shorts out of the top shelf. Papa would scold me later for wearing shorts, but it was better than letting my rear end hang out in my ruined skirt. I rushed into the bathroom for a quick change, and then to science class.
Luckily the second period science class was emptying quickly, and I scanned the room to find a seat in the back this time. My days of sitting up front were over – never again.
I brushed passed the kid I had hit with the bathroom door, but he didn’t even seem to recognize me. He was wearing a leather jacket over a white t-shirt and cuffed jeans and old-fashioned shoes I’m not even sure my Papa had in his closet. He looked like a chubby James Dean bad boy, some throwback from decades ago, but his face was sweet and his eyes kind. His eyes were a dull green, I noticed this time, as he looked at me and quickly shifted his gaze to the floor while shuffling past me. I was sure he recognized me that time, and my heart skipped a beat. Had he reported me? Or maybe he’d gotten detention, too?
I shrugged mostly to myself and took my seat.
Callie, a fellow sophomore, my science partner, and dance classmate, and probably only friend I had at this school, slid in her seat next to me a few minutes later. “We’re in the back now, huh? What happened to your lecture on how people who sit up front get better grades?”
I hmphed at her and dragged our microscope even closer. We’d been examining tape worms this week and had to finish up our lab report. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” I told her. “Let’s get started?”
She frowned with worry but pulled the lab sheet from her backpack and sat it on the floor between us. The chatter in the room calmed slightly when Mr. Mayhew entered and tried to shut everyone up before giving up on a lost cause. He threw his hands up in the air and wandered to the first table in the room to check reports.
I yanked the microscope away from Callie and peered into it, then scribbled something on the pad next to me.
“That’s a mood,” Callie whispered. Pushing her purple-framed glasses up her nose, she gently pulled the device back toward her and pressed her face as close as she could without scratching her glasses.
I stared out the window. The science lab was at the end of the hall, with a full view of the track field outside. A P.E. class was running around the track, and far behind most of the athletic kids, a couple of girls and one boy walked slowly, the boy trailing behind them. It was the same boy from the bathroom, I saw. His head was still down, but he carried a notepad he was scribbling something on. He did not look like he was having any kind of fun.
“What’s up with you today?” Callie pestered me. “You’re so distracted.”
“I had a bad morning is all,” I whispered. I silently prayed she wouldn’t pester me. She usually didn’t. That’s why we’re such good friends.
“Sorry.”
I was glad she didn’t ask me to elaborate. Our new friendship was founded specifically on this concept. I threw her a sympathetic look. “Not your fault.”
Callie shifted in her seat as she started to fill out our report. “So, heard from your parents over the weekend?”
I tried to perk up at that, though it was still a little sad. “Yeah, we got to Skype on Saturday.” I pulled my phone from my skirt pocket and held it covertly between us. “Check it out, they sent me pictures of the market there.” Under the table, I swiped my phone open and pulled up a selfie of my mom holding up dates while my dad pecked her on the cheek. Behind them, I could barely make out a brightly colored canvas tarp and a stack of multihued rugs in all different exotic patterns.
“It’s so cool your parents are real life missionaries,” Callie whispered. “Where are they again?”
“Syria,” I hissed. Mr. Mayhew was two tables away and glanced at us. “Shh,” I whispered to Callie.
She pushed the microscope toward me. “Wanna finish filling this out?”
“Sure.”
Half an hour later, two boys in class started playing with their tapeworm and pretending it was flying. Morons. Callie and I couldn’t help but laugh, though. I was sad when science ended. It was the class I could hide in the best for sure. That and choir, that is. I liked my place in the back with the other sopranos where no one knew my name.
“See you at lunch?” Callie nudged my shoulder as she threw her backpack over her arm.
“Can’t ... I got detention.”
Callie gasped. “You ... what?” She smiled. “It’s a joke, right? You? Straight-A Taylor?”
I shook my head and frowned. “Sadly, not a joke.” I gotta go, I’ll be late to German.”
“Oh...okay,” Callie said, frowning.
I left her standing outside science, looking confused. Part of me wished I had stopped to tell her, but I promised myself I’d text her later and spill the whole thing. For now, I didn’t want any prying ears to hear about my plight. So, I headed to third period German. My easiest class of the day, considering I’d been born there to my American parents.
I found myself looking for the boy I’d seen on the track field. I was sure I had another class with him, but which one? And why hadn’t I noticed him before? He always looked so melancholy, but then I saw him joking with several different friends in the hallway between class. If he was new like me, he was certainly popular. Maybe he’d moved away and come back or something, and that’s why everyone seemed to know him already.
Shuddering, I tried not to think about why anyone would want to be popular.
But then again, what was it about him? Maybe his parents dropped him off with an absent grandparent so they could move to a war-torn country, too? All to do the work of God? I chuckled to myself as the last dozen kids in this small class finally trickled in. I really should apologize for hitting him with the bathroom door, I thought as the guilt tugged at me when I slid into my back-row seat in my language class.
If I run into him again, I will. It’s only right.
Chapter 3
Ethan
The school insisted I take a month off after the accident, but in the end, I didn’t return for four months. Somehow my negotiator powerhouse of a mother convinced them to let me come back to class in April for the last eight weeks of school, provided I would take summer classes. My mother also hired a ‘nanny’, a.k.a. our neighbor, Rose, to check on me several times a day.
I didn’t even protest. I knew after the funeral there was no way I was sitting home, alone, and moping around. My parents had tried to cheer me up, even though they didn’t even take a single day off work after the accident. I’d walked away with just a few bruises and scrapes, but at the highest cost. My parents had books to edit, publish, market, my father had solemnly chipped, and my mother agreed with him. Normally they made a pretty good team, but just this once, I wish they hadn’t focused so much on their company and left me to grieve in horrible, crushing silence.
They made it abundantly clear the world did not stop turning because my best friend died.
So in the end, I bravely stood next to them both during the ceremony wearing the suit from prom last year – I couldn’t even button the jacket anymore – with my head held high. Not a lot of people attended – most of them were my friends from school, not Maeve’s. It shouldn’t have surprised me, I was popular, I was the president of the student body, and possibly the best damn baritone Warder High ever had. Maeve was my sidekick mo
st, scratch that, all, of the time. I thought everyone knew our dynamic duo, but then I realized maybe I just hadn’t been paying attention. It t’eed me off to no end at first that hardly a few dozen people showed up to mourn her, but then I realized something was better than nothing.
Even if they did just spew mostly empty promises to Maeve’s mom about how it was such a tragedy, horrible, untimely thing to someone so young, blah, blah, blah.
That you killed her, a little voice in my head growled away.
When we trudged through the cemetery and I had to listen to the priest read the Bible about death not having a sting, I realized I had to disagree. Sting wasn’t necessarily the word I’d use to describe how I felt, but it hurt. A lot. Like a thousand bees stinging me, inside and out. Like I was a wretch in the desert and there was this unquenchable thirst burning my throat, and no matter how much I drank, it would never go away.
Would it ever go away? This hole in my heart without her here?
I had to get back to school, to my play, to things that would distract me. Ms. Forrest, our drama teacher, had graciously postponed tryouts for The Hat until I was “done” with my bereavement.
I need something to distract me from the awfulness of losing Maeve, my best friend, and in my mind, my soulmate.
Being hit in the face with a bathroom door was a pretty decent distraction this morning. It really wasn’t the wakeup call I needed, however.
The heavy bathroom door hurt, and I didn’t even get to witness my perpetrator. She – I think it was a she – was a blur as she squeezed past me in the empty hall. The only thing I remember was her blond ponytail as she walked away from me.
The bell stopped ringing by now, so I hurried into the men’s and then rushed to Science class.
Science, my least favorite topic, but apparently coming back to school halfway through the semester meant I’d been kicked out of my English class that I had really enjoyed. Not that I was complaining. Maeve had taken that class with me out of pity, and without her, well, I didn’t have the heart to step foot in that classroom anymore.
Taming of the Shoe Page 2
