The Brave

by James Bird

  Halfway up the steps that lead to the main building, the bell rings. I realize that here the bell actually means something. Imagine that. Everyone disperses on cue. In California, the bell usually means it is time to start thinking about getting to class … soon. It would take two or three bells to actually get people in their seats.

  Before I know it, I’m the only person out here. These students sure do take school seriously. I need to find the office and get my schedule. It’s bad enough I am the new kid in school, but now it looks like I’m also going to be late, which doubles the attention. And I hate attention. All those eyes staring at me. Judging me. No thanks.

  So I run. Right before the two large corridor doors close, I rush inside and enter the hall. This school is much fancier than my previous one, and cleaner. It’s so pristine that I hear the squeaking of my sneakers as I walk over the marbled floors, which makes me almost tiptoe across the hall to avoid being noticed.

  I swing open the office door and step inside. I am the only late student in sight. How is that possible? The only other person in here is an older woman at the desk. I approach her, but she’s too busy jabbing at her keyboard to notice me. So I wait.

  She resembles a frog. Not in a mean way, but in the way owners somehow resemble their dogs. Or cats. I’m pretty sure Seven and I look alike by now. Maybe this lady has a pet frog at home? She has large chubby cheeks, a pair of thick oversized reading glasses, which magnify her eyes, and a green scarf bound many times around her neck. All I’d need to do is paint her face green, and I’d be waiting to speak to a frog.

  She looks up at me. I am pretty experienced at this point at keeping conversations with strangers short, so I remove my earmuffs and pull out my most effective tactic: operation info-dump.

  “Hi. My name is Collin Couch. I just moved here from California. Today is my first day. I’m just here for my schedule. Thank you.”

  I half expect a “ribbit” from her. But instead she repeats my last name.

  “Kooch with a K?” she asks.

  “Eleven. No. With a C, spelled like couch.”

  “Collin Couch,” she repeats, and quickly types my name into her computer.

  “Here you are. Under recent transfer … I’m printing your schedule now.”

  This lady is talking way too much. Just print the thing. I’m going to be so late. “Sixty-five. I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I say.

  “Sixty-five what, dear?” she asks, and hands me my schedule.

  “Seventeen. Never mind. Thanks,” I say, and dart out of the office before she tries to give me directions, even though I have no idea how to get where I need to go.

  I speed walk down the hall and try to read my schedule just as quickly as my feet are moving. It says my first class is US history in room 113. Now all I’ve got to do is find it. I look at the closest door to me. It is room 7C. Hmm? I guess I have quite a run ahead of me. I go farther down the hall and pass rooms 8 through 25. I’m getting warmer, both figuratively and physically. I continue down the hall and hit a dead end. Now what? I’m lost. And the thing I want to avoid most is the thing I have to do … Ask someone for directions.

  I see a random straggler rushing toward her class. Good. Glad to know someone else here is human. She has dyed red hair, the color of a fire engine. She’s taller than I am and just as pale as I am. She wears black-framed glasses and ripped-up jeans. Not the kind of ripped up like she was attacked by a mountain lion, but the kind that is a fashion statement. And her pink bomber jacket is covered in safety pins and patches. I guess she is trying to make everyone that sees her stare at her rebellious punk rock appearance, rather than notice the birthmark on her face, but I pay attention to silent details more than most, so I immediately spot it. It’s under her cheek but above her chin. It looks like all the freckles on her body united and congregated there. Like a dark island on a sea of white skin. She probably hates it, the way I hate my counting, but I think it looks cool. Maybe I should offer her a trade. Her birthmark for my numbers.

  “Excuse me?” I say before she reaches the classroom door.

  She turns to me, but before she can talk, I beat her to it.

  “Can you tell me where room one hundred thirteen is?”

  “It’s in the next building. That way,” she says, and points toward the left double doors, back down the hall I just came from. Her accent reminds me of a teacher I had back in California. Mr. Orlov. I think he was Russian.

  “Twenty-seven. Thanks.”

  “Room twenty-seven is right there.” She points to a classroom behind her.

  “Twenty-seven again, and thanks again,” I blurt out, and begin my run.

  I don’t wait to see her confused expression, but I know it’s there. It’s always there. I tighten my backpack straps and run down the hall toward the next building. When I reach the double doors, I don’t slow down. I barge into them like I am a battering ram invading a castle, and continue my run. The cold wind punches me, but I take it head-on and run across the neatly trimmed grass.

  I pass a man holding a travel mug in one hand and a briefcase in the other.

  “No running,” he says as I race past him.

  “Nine,” I shout back.

  I realize if he was German, I just told him “no.” The thought always makes me laugh. You’d be surprised how many people say something that totals nine. And usually, “no” is the perfect answer. Like now. No, I will not stop running because I am super late to my first class on my first day of school in my new life.

  I reach the next building and pull open the door. Room 113 is directly in front of me. I stop in front of it and run my fingers through my hair, attempting to look presentable. I take a deep breath, put my earmuffs over my ears, because sometimes people think twice before talking to me when I have them on. This helpful trick sometimes buys me enough time to find an empty seat before I need to speak. I grab the door handle. Here goes nothing.

  I open the door, which is the loudest door to ever open, and walk into the classroom. The teacher, Mrs. Hagadorn, stands near her desk and addresses her students. She has long silver hair, not gray like most older teachers, but as silver as a superhero’s hair, like it was dyed to look cool. I don’t keep my eyes on her long enough to see if she’s wearing a costume or not; instead, I focus on my own feet.

  The entire class shifts their heads from her to me as I take another step inside. I don’t need to see this happen, I feel it. This always happens. I look up, just a bit, to see where I’m walking. I hate this part. I do a quick scan to find the only empty seat and head toward it. Luckily, it’s near the back, by the window. I keep my head down and try to get to the seat before—

  “And you are?” Mrs. Hagadorn asks.

  Shoot. See? Another example of a nine-lettered sitch.

  Now, I have two options. I can either face the music and speak, or I can risk being rude and completely ignore her. I choose to ignore her. I don’t want to be the topic of the class yet. I just want to sit down and sink deep into my chair. So deep that no one can see me. Nine. Nine. Nine. It keeps bouncing from one temple to the other, nearly giving me vertigo. But I must hold it in. Stay strong.

  “Excuse me?” she asks with a tone that suggests I am being rude.

  And she’s right. So I lock eyes with her, look surprised, and remove my earmuffs, making it look like I simply didn’t hear her. Another trick I picked up over the years.

  “Nine. Eight. Oh, sorry. I didn’t hear you. I’m Collin Couch,” I say, hoping to talk enough to make everyone forget about the two random numbers I started my sentence with.

  It works. She checks her roster and circles my name. She’s not wearing a superhero costume at all. She’s wearing a plaid skirt and a blue blazer over a white shirt. I focus on her silver hair instead of her eyes; eye contact invites conversation.

  “Welcome, Collin. It says you’re a transfer. Where are you transferring from?” she asks.

  This is exactly what I feared would happen. I’ve got to be
clever here. I can’t just plop my earmuffs back onto my head and smile. I’ve got to make these numbers make sense.

  “Sixty … Ummm … Public School Sixty. It’s a small middle school in California.”

  Her eyebrows rise. This is not a good sign.

  “PS Sixty? I never heard of it. Whereabouts in California is it located?”

  Shut up, silver-haired lady. Please! I know she’s only being nice, but I don’t need nice right now. I need silence. I need her to not care about where I’m from at all.

  “Fifty-six. I mean, Fifty-Sixth Avenue. In Huntington Beach.”

  She smiles. I smile back. Please let this conversation be over.

  “How exciting. Is this your first time to Minnesota?”

  She won’t give up. I guess people really can be too nice.

  “Forty-one … times. I’ve been here forty-one times.”

  On cue, a dozen heads turn to me. Why are they all looking at me like I’m crazy? I think I’m covering up pretty well so far.

  “Well, welcome back, then,” she says.

  “Nineteen … I plan on moving back there when I’m nineteen, but for now, I’m here. To learn … so … please, teach me US history,” I say.

  A few students laugh. I’m not sure why, because this is in no way funny.

  Mrs. Hagadorn snaps her fingers, which turns everyone’s attention back to her. She begins to jot down some words on the board. Whew. That was close. I look down at my desk to avoid any lingering eyes of students trying to already figure out what’s wrong with me. Attention spans are low, and after a few seconds, they’ll go right back to being bored and secretly texting their friends.

  Perhaps Minnesota won’t be so bad after all. Mrs. Hagadorn opens her history book and has the student closest to her begin reading aloud. I look out the window and see a fuzzy little squirrel dart across the grass and leap onto a tree. I can’t help but think of my brother again. I try to picture him running across the grass and jumping onto the tree. I wonder if he attended this school—and if he did, did he climb this exact tree? Were people super impressed by him? Or was he also strange like me and my mom? Maybe he beat up whoever dared make fun of him. He was a buff squirrel, my brother.

  As soon as the bell rings, Mrs. Hagadorn shuts her book. I snap out of my daze and realize I have no idea what today’s lesson was about. If we were taking a quiz on whatever we learned, I’d have nothing but a squirrel dangling from a tree drawn on my sheet of paper. I need to focus. I want my mom to think I’m smart.

  I keep my head down and file in line with the rest of the students escaping class.

  “Collin?” Mrs. Hagadorn says as I reach the door.

  I hope she doesn’t ask anything about what was read aloud today. And if she does, I hope she loves squirrels.

  “Six. Yeah?” I say as I approach her desk.

  She holds up a note, but sets it down before I can examine it.

  “I’ve been informed of your situation. I want you to know that you will get no special attention from me. You will be treated as fairly as everyone else.”

  “One hundred and twenty. Thanks, that’s all I want.”

  Her head perks up from the total. She’s impressed. They always are at first. Especially teachers.

  “That’s remarkable,” she says.

  “Fifteen. That’s one way to put it. Another would be infuriatingly annoying,” I say, and walk toward the door.

  Good. I left her speechless. I pull out my schedule and search for my next class.

  * * *

  Science wasn’t so bad either. The teacher was my favorite kind, the type who loves to hear himself speak. He went on and on about what he did before winding up as a science teacher. What those details were, I couldn’t say, because again, I sat near the window and searched for furry versions of my brother hopping from one tree to the next.

  I have no clue what to do about lunch. I’m hungry, but I want to avoid the sea of people lining up for food in the cafeteria. It’s usually the nice students with excellent grades who try to talk to the new kid. Ideally, that would be awesome. I’d love to make new friends here, especially smart ones, but as good as making friends sounds, I quickly remind myself that losing friends is too painful. And I always lose friends. At first, the separations are subtle. They stop inviting me to their house. Or I’m not invited to the beach on weekends, or whenever there’s a birthday party, I am “accidentally” left off the invitation list. And then it’s just me again, in my room drawing. It’s easier to avoid everybody.

  My stomach barks. Maybe I will just keep my head down and play it safe for today. I’ll eat when I get home. I walk across the grass and head toward the closest tree. I know the perfect way to kill time. I find a good shaded area, pull my sketchpad from my backpack, and begin drawing. Today, I’ll draw a squirrel. That seems to be today’s theme.

  A few strokes in, I realize I’m not drawing a squirrel. I am drawing a girl. And not just any girl; it’s Orenda. I must have snapped a mental photograph of her the moment we met. She is looking down at me, the same way as I looked up at her from the ground. She is peeking out of her tree house, smiling. This is after she launched the baseball at my head, of course.

  I rub the bump on my head. It’s still there. I push down on it to remind myself that she’s real. Ouch. Yep, she’s real. I think this drawing will go up on the wall, but not in the living room. It will be in my room, placed right next to Seven. Pretty things need to be put together.

  The bell rings, and the students shuffle to their next class at a pace I never saw in California. There, everyone lollygagged and took their time to get from point A to point B. It was as if the later you were, the cooler you were. But here, people go where they need to go. It’s simple and straightforward.

  When I get to my next class, I head toward the back before all the seats fill up. The window seat is taken, so I grab the seat farthest from the front of the class, which is somewhere near the middle. Hopefully I’ll blend in and go unnoticed. The teacher, Mr. Renaldi, is a bald, heavyset man wearing a denim shirt tucked into his jeans and a bolo tie.

  In California, anyone who wears a denim top with denim jeans was referred to as wearing a Canadian tuxedo. I never really understood what that meant, but I’m not too far from Canada now, so maybe this teacher is just a really fancy guy.

  He spots me easily and right away, like I’m an elephant in a room full of hyenas. And I know those hyenas will soon be laughing. He gestures for me to remove my earmuffs, so I do. I hope, hope, hope that’s all the attention he’ll pay to me, but something tells me the “all eyes on the weirdo kid” has just begun.

  “Hello, class. Before we get started, I’d like to introduce a new student added to our mathematic family,” Mr. Renaldi says.

  Oh no. He’s a Mather. I’m in math class. I should have ditched this class and asked my mom to teach me algebra. I hope he won’t parade me in front of everybody as his new math problem to solve.

  Clearly, he didn’t get the same note Mrs. Hagadorn got. Or maybe he did, and maybe he just wants to see what the fuss is all about. He holds up his roll sheet and looks out toward his class like it’s the guest list for his fancy denim party.

  “Collin Couch?” he says, pronouncing my last name like a long comfortable sofa.

  The room chuckles at my last name. Everyone assumes I’m a piece of furniture. I keep my head down and repeat “eleven” through my teeth at the lowest possible volume.

  “Collin? Are you here?” he repeats, knowing very well I am.

  Now heads are beginning to search for me. I may as well get this over with. Sixteen slams into the eleven that is waiting to be fired out of my mouth at any moment, nearly shoving it through my lips. But still, I keep my head down, trying to buy a few more seconds of freedom before my cannon fires.

  “There you are,” Mr. Renaldi says, and I look up.

  He’s staring directly at me. In fact, so is everyone else in the room.

  “Eleven, sixt
een, eleven,” I blurt out.

  Quick! Think! I need to salvage this. “That’s my locker combination. Yes, I’m Collin.”

  A few students laugh. Mr. Renaldi’s face twists.

  “We don’t need to know your locker combination, buddy, but thank you,” he says, causing the class to laugh again.

  “Fifty-three,” I say. Dang it. I give up trying to mask it. There’s no way I’m going to start telling the class I had fifty-three donuts this morning or it took fifty-three steps from my last class to this one. It’s hopeless. I’ve lost this battle. I’m already weird, and class has been in session for only fifty-three seconds, maybe?

  He looks at me like I’m one of his math problems.

  “Excuse me?” he asks.

  “Eight. Sorry. I’m Collin Couch, it’s pronounced like pooch, but spelled like couch,” I say.

  The room laughs yet again. But not with me … at me.

  “Quiet!” Mr. Renaldi hushes his class. “Welcome to math class, Collin Couch. What we like to do here is get to know each other before we get down to work, so if you wouldn’t mind, can you stand and tell us a little bit about yourself?”

  It’s a violent pileup of letters smashing into each other inside my head. They burst from the impact, splintering off into shards of numbers. It’s so loud I want to scream. Every single student is looking at me. My heart beats out of my chest. I feel the blood in my body begin to heat up and boil. I forget to breathe, which makes me gasp for air. I can feel my face turning redder by the second.

  I push back my chair, sending a loud screech echoing through the room. Ugh. I didn’t just lose this battle, I was slaughtered. It was a massacre. Or in this case, a mathacre.

  I slowly put my backpack on and stand up. My hands are shaking. My legs feel wobbly, but they still work, so I use them before they have a chance to quit on me. I try to breathe as calmly as I can, but anxiety grabs my throat and squeezes. There are too many eyes watching. I hope I don’t faint. It’s too early to add “the kid who faints” to the list of why no one likes me. I need to survive this. I need to live to fight another day. I face Mr. Renaldi, who looks quite smug in his victory—although I’m sure he has no idea we just went to battle.