“Oh, don’t you? Now that pretty boy’s dumped you, you want to hook up with me – is that what you’re telling me? Must be my good looks and awesome personality.”
I’m sure my face is flaming now.
“Tell you what,” says L.J., heaving his bag onto his shoulder, “why don’t you come around my place tonight. I don’t need your help with my English, but I could sure do with some help in extra-curricular activities. I can think of many ways for you to spend your time helping entertain me. It would be fu-unn.”
He reaches out, trails a finger over my hand and then brushes past me before I can reply. A shudder of revulsion passes through me and I feel something close to fear. I take the pack of wipes out of my pocket, extract one and rub at my hand with it, trying to erase the feel of L.J. I look up to find Luke staring at me, quizzically.
“What?” I demand.
“Don’t you think you’ve got enough emotional baggage to be carrying around without trying to pick up L.J.’s, too? Jeez, Sloane! Haven’t you got enough pain and drama to deal with, without trying to help someone who doesn’t want it?”
“I guess,” is all I can find to say.
“Stay away from that guy. He’s … Just back off, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. “Luke?”
“Yeah?” He stops on his way out.
“Are you … doing okay?”
He shrugs, tilts his head in a way that could mean anything. “They told me – at the shelter – about what you did. Thanks.”
It’s my turn to shrug.
“Congrats on your new record,” I say, desperate to prolong the conversation. “A full two seconds faster – that’s impressive.”
There’s an awkward silence as we both look at each other. Heavy things hang in the air between us, blocking our way to each other.
“Luke –”
“Sloane –”
We both start to speak at the same moment. I wave a hand to indicate that he should go first. My breath is stuck in my throat. I can’t breathe it in until I hear what he says. And I can’t exhale.
“Sloane, I wanted to tell you … I mean, I want you to know that I –”
“There you are!” Juliet appears at the doorway, wraps her painted fingernails tightly around Luke’s arm and drags him out.
That you what? What do you want me to know! The words scream in my head. I actually take a few steps towards the door to go after him, to ask him to finish what he started saying but then I hear, from down the hallway, the sound of her laughter. And his.
36
Most likely to …
I’m sitting in Art class a week later squeezing thick, wet clay and trying to force it around the wire head of my horse statue armature when Mr. Como appears at the door of the classroom. The blob of clay falls off the wire frame for the umpteenth time and I curse under my breath. I’m going to wind up submitting a little wire horsey, rather than a fabulous sculpture of same, if I can’t figure out how this works. Sienna is much further along with her work. Perhaps I can pass mine off as post-modern deconstructed art – it seems to make about as much sense as some of the examples Miss Ling has shown us.
It doesn’t help my concentration that half the class is buzzing with some juicy new gossip – they’re bent over their phones, exclaiming and laughing. As usual, Miss Ling told us what she expects us to do, without showing us how to do it. She has spent the lesson ignoring the class while standing at the window chain-smoking cigarettes – in violation of school regulations and my respiratory health – and blowing the smoke outside. She starts and flicks the cigarette away when Como calls her name from the doorway.
“Excuse me for interrupting, but I need to speak to Sienna Southey at once,” he says. He frowns and runs a finger under the collar of his shirt.
Sienna and I look at each other. She shrugs.
“I hope it’s nothing bad,” I say with another glance at Como, but he looks more angry than worried.
“I need to clean my hands.” Sienna holds up hands covered in red clay.
“Well, be quick about it, young lady, and get yourself to my office straight away.”
Sienna washes the clay off her hands at the sink in the corner of the classroom, then hurries out in the direction of the admin block. I keep expecting her to come back, and I get more and more concerned when she doesn’t. I worry that something might have happened to a member of her family. I’m on my way to the cafeteria at lunch break before I see her again, rushing toward me in the crowded hall. Whatever the kids in art class were checking out on their phones, it’s gone viral throughout the school. Everywhere knots of students are buzzing with excitement and laughter as they stare down at the little screens.
“Are you okay?” I ask, handing over her bag which I brought with me from Art class. “What was it? What did he want?”
Sienna looks flustered and upset.
“He wanted to chew me out!”
“What for?”
“Someone hacked into the Underground website and posted a bunch of nasty crap on there, and he thought it was me. He kept bawling me out – telling me how much I’d hurt people – and wouldn’t give me a chance to explain.”
“What do you mean hacked the site? What happened?”
“Someone got into my site, as an administrator or something, and posted a list, a really mean one – and it wasn’t me! And Como’s fuming because they also apparently hacked into the school’s system and got information from private records. It took me ages to convince him that I didn’t do it, and then I had to shut down the whole site before he would let me go.
“That’s obviously what everyone’s been looking at all morning,” I say as we walk to the cafeteria. “What was on it?”
“It was one of those lists – ‘Most Likely To’. You know, the student most likely to succeed, or fail, or go postal or get pregnant before twenty, that sort of thing, next to photographs of the person. And some of it is really nasty.”
“Am I listed in it?” I ask, although of course I know the answer.
“… Yeah.”
“What was written about me?”
“You don’t want to know,” says Sienna.
But I do want to know and I can find out for myself. Whoever hacked the site and posted the most-likely list must have anticipated that the site would be shut down, because they’ve printed off a bunch of hard copies of the list pages and left them lying on top of the steel tables in the cafeteria. Everyone descends on them and starts reading. I grab one too. I see at once that I’ve made the front page.
Sloane Munster: most likely to be Miss World, Tatooine. Also most likely to get plastic surgery.
“What the heck is Tatooine?” I ask Sienna.
“It’s a planet in Star Wars, the one with all the mutants where Jabba the Hut lives.”
“Nice,” I say. “Kind.”
“I’m in there, too,” says Sienna pointing to an entry at the bottom of the same page.
Next to her name and picture, it says, Most likely to: become a chimney sweep, because she’s so small she can fit into chimneys and she comes with a built-in brush.
“A built-in brush?” I ask, puzzled.
“They mean my hair,” she says, pointing unconcernedly at the mop of curls which form a springy halo around her head.
She doesn’t seem bothered by her entry and, to my surprise, I’m not much upset by mine either. I read through the list.
Some of it is harmless and funny, I guess. Keith, the anime cartoon artist, has been listed as most likely to become a vampire. Miss Ling is most likely to win an appreciation award from the tobacco industry and least likely to win Teacher of the Year award. But some of it, most of it, is unkind and cruel. Magda, the large girl from my Gym class, has an entry which reads: most likely to work at MacDonald’s flipping burgers and get fired for eating too many of them, before being abducted by aliens – as a food source. Jayster Jane is: most likely to be forgotten … wait, who were we talking ab
out?
The teachers haven’t been spared either. Perkel is listed as being most likely to come out of the closet and be dismissed for dating one of his (male) students, Coach Quinn to join Alcoholics Anonymous (was there something in his records about a drinking problem, I wonder?), and Mrs. Copeman to win the world’s worst-dresser award with a special mention of her “ugly-ass shoes”.
“Do they know who did it?” I ask.
“No, not yet, but I’ve got a fair idea,” says Sienna.
“Who?”
“I think maybe it’s Tyrone.”
“Tyrone Carter? Why would he do this?”
“He’s a real techie. I’ll bet he’s up to hacking into websites and school admin systems. He may have done it to impress Juliet. You know how she always wants to know private stuff about people. And check it out – she’s the only one who got something really nice written about her.”
I run my fingers down the columns of names, looking for Juliet’s entry, while Sienna speaks. “Maybe she asked him to do it, or maybe he was trying to get her attention.”
“Juliet Capstan,” I read, “most likely to succeed, be prom queen, and marry a millionaire IT entrepreneur.”
“And look what’s written about Tyrone himself,” Sienna says.
“Most likely to become a self-made millionaire IT entrepreneur, and marry a beautiful prom queen,” I read aloud. “Bit of a give-away that.”
It turns out that Sienna’s suspicions are correct. A minute later, Tyrone comes into the cafeteria smiling from ear to ear. A table of his friends applauds and Tyrone gives a little bow of acknowledgement. It looks like every student in the cafeteria has a copy of the list and is reading it avidly, pointing and laughing at the entries.
“For a genius, he’s not too smart. He’s going to be in real trouble when they put two and two together,” I say. “You think he’d try to cover his tracks.”
“Everyone wants some credit and acknowledgement. Everyone wants to be remembered,” says the Pixie, wisely.
“What’s he written about Luke?”
I’m guessing Tyrone is no fan of his rival in the Juliet stakes, and I’m right. The entry for Luke Naughton reads: “Most likely to flub national swim trials, go prematurely bald, and have his abs turn to flab.”
It’s so ridiculous that I laugh while I look around the cafeteria for Luke. He is in his usual spot. He’s also laughing, and our gazes meet for a brief moment as he crumples the paper and tosses it aside dismissively. Juliet is glowing next to him – she obviously likes the prediction about her future.
Someone who isn’t laughing or glowing – unless it’s with rage – is L.J. Wearing his usual red plaid shirt and big black boots, he stands in the center of the cafeteria – his face as white as his ears are red – with the paper gripped in his shaking hand. I quickly scan through the entries until I find his.
“Uh-oh,” I say.
“What’s it say?” asks Sienna.
“Lotus Jebediah –”
“Lotus? Jebediah?”
I nod. “That must be his real name.”
“No wonder he would never say. I’ve never seen anyone who looks less like a Lotus. Or a Jebediah.” Sienna, along with half the cafeteria, is staring at L.J.
“His mother looked a little out-there. Maybe she named him in a haze of hope.”
“A haze of something, all right. Probably dope.”
L.J.’s full entry reads: “Lotus Jebediah: Least likely to leave a mark, except on his underpants. Also least likely to get into the Perkelator’s PANTS (Perkel Appreciation ‘n Thanks Society).”
“Hey, Lotus Jebediah?” a few people call out, laughing.
I expect L.J. to shout at the hecklers, or perhaps to deck one of them, but he stays silent – rotating on the spot staring at the laughing faces around him. They’re not all laughing at L.J., but I guess it feels that way to him. I don’t laugh. For one thing, I don’t think it’s funny. For another, I’m really concerned. L.J. regularly annoys me, but I do care about him and I don’t want him to harm himself. I’m considering going over to him and saying something about how everybody – almost – has had bad things said about them, how this will all blow over in a day or two, how he shouldn’t let it get to him, but I remember how my previous efforts to help him have backfired. I’m still undecided about whether I should approach him when L.J. lumbers out of the room and I lose the chance.
37
Luke
I’ve got to talk to her. I’ve got to just bite the bullet and tell the truth, because I’m not being fair. Not to her and not to me, either.
It’s just hard to find the right moment. And the right words.
With mom and dad, the truth just came spilling out. I was too angry to care about whether I was hurting them. And it turned out well.
But with her I need to go easy. You need to be gentle when you end someone’s hope.
I’ll do it today.
38
First instinct
For the rest of the day, the whole faculty is on the prowl in classrooms and hallways, confiscating the printed copies of the “Most Likely To” list whenever they see one. It’s too little, too late. By our last lesson of the day – English with Perkel – everyone has read the list and there’s a whole lot of teasing going on.
“Hey, Sloane, need the number of a plastic surgeon?” Juliet says to me as we enter Perkel’s room. She is still hanging on Luke’s arm.
“No thanks. Not if he’s the one who worked on your face,” I say.
Next to her, Luke’s lip twitches, but I can’t tell if it’s in amusement or disapproval.
I take my usual seat up against the hallway wall, and then take up my usual slouch, face in hand, elbow on desk, eyes on the back of Luke’s head, fixated on the spot where his thick, short hair twists into a pointed V at the top of his neck. I remember touching that spot when we kissed. Then I remember my promise to Sienna and force myself to wrench my gaze away from him. I make myself stare instead at the radiator pipe which climbs up the wall beside my desk. Someone, probably Keith, has drawn a cartoon panel on the pipe and I try to make it out, but two of the picture blocks are obscured by a wad of gum.
The science students are late arriving for class. They have either spent the last hour experimenting with sulphur or eating egg-salad sandwiches, because they’ve brought a revolting stench into the room with them. Perkel makes a production of opening the large window beside his desk to let in the fresh air, muttering something about noxious odors which “hover through the fog and filthy air.”
“And where is Mr. Hamel?” he asks the class, gesturing to L.J.’s empty seat. I realize I haven’t seen L.J. since the cafeteria at lunch-time.
“I think he’s, like, gone home,” Juliet volunteers.
She has swapped seats with Ben and now sits in the desk just to the left of Luke from where she casts him lash-fluttering looks and endless coy smiles while she twirls her pony-tail. It’s enough to make me sick and I wonder that it doesn’t grate on him. Could he really have fallen for someone so different from me?
“Oh dear. Well, we shall just have to endure our disappointment and forge on without L.J.’s sparkling wit and brilliant contribution to our classwork,” Perkel says snidely.
I don’t laugh and neither does Luke, but we are in the minority. I wonder if Perkel can guess why L.J. is skipping, and if he has read his own entry on the list. If he has, he’s not letting any reaction show.
“Please take out your copies of Atonement. I want us to analyze, in some detail, a passage on page 107.” He parks his butt on the edge of his desk and gazes out the open window as we rifle through our books.
As he says the last words, there’s a series of sounds which comes from somewhere in the school behind us. Two loud thmps, a pause, and then two more. And though I don’t think I’ve ever heard them in real life before, I know exactly what they are. Gunshots.
This classroom is at the back of the school and borders the fields. The s
hots sounded like they came from behind us, from somewhere near the front of the school.
My head whips around. I scramble on top of my desk and stand on my toes to peer through the small, high window into the hallway. It’s empty. Immediately, I look back over my shoulder at Luke. It’s an automatic reflex and I can’t deny the urge, no matter what I promised Sienna. His head is just turning back from the direction of the shots, turning towards Juliet.
“You okay?” he asks. Her.
“What was that?” she says.
“Get down. Get in there,” he says and pushes her behind the desk and in the direction of the large open cabinet in which Perkel stores his books and stationery.
As I see this, as I see that Luke’s first instinctive reaction is toward Juliet, even while mine is towards him, a pain shoots through my chest. I can actually feel my heart hurting, aching from this last blow. I close my eyes and breathe out slowly. It’s over. Finally, I get it. I need to let go of the hope that I never knew, until this moment, I was still clinging to. It’s over. If Juliet is the one he automatically checks on when there’s danger, then it must be Juliet that he cares about. I have to let go of this thing. I have to find a way to disconnect from him, and from the hope that things can ever be different.
Juliet crawls into the cabinet, and tugs the door behind her. It doesn’t close all the way, but she’s well-hidden.
Mere seconds have passed since the shots sounded, but everything is different.
I jump in my seat when the alarm rings. It’s the shrill bell used as a signal for fire or lockdown drills. But I’m guessing this isn’t a drill.
39
Code Red
The alarm echoes stridently through the hallways and a voice calls, “Code red, code red!” over the intercom. It’s the signal for a total lockdown, but it stuns Mr. Perkel into immobility; he simply stands and stares at us.
I get down on the floor, crouch under my desk, and look worriedly around. Everyone else is doing the same thing and speaking in urgent whispers to each other. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do next. There hasn’t been a drill since I started at the school. I guess we just wait until we’re given the all-clear. Surely Perkel should know what to do, but he’s still standing frozen by the window at his desk. After a minute he pats at his pants and jacket pockets as though searching for something – the key to the classroom door?
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