by Billie Dale
“Good, good. We’ll meet you right after this young man. Take a seat there by Samantha Gentry for now,” Mr. Boyd says.
Dressed in ripped jean shorts and a Nirvana T-shirt, white blonde hair hangs in two braids down each side of her head. She uses her index finger to push up purple-framed thick-lensed glasses, which magnify her frightened blue eyes. A red tint sweeps up her neck spanning the apple of her cheeks. She nods her agreement. Sam waves to show her where to go and she crosses the room on chunky legs. When she turns, I see lines of purple hair matching her glasses mixed in with the platinum. The other girls notice too and a cacophony of whispers begin.
“Settle down,” Mr. Boyd warns. “Continue, Mr. Vortex.”
My hand grips the back of my neck as an idea shines like a light bulb. Within milliseconds I weigh my decision.
Screw it.
I turn to face the room, smiling large enough my dimples pull in. “Howdy, y’all,” I imitate the twang as best I can. “Wow, that came out terrible, huh?” The class chuckles. “Right, uh, I’m Mazric Vortex. My mom and I moved here in June. We live with my gramps at Double V Ranch, and just so there’s no confusion, Samantha Gentry is my best friend.”
Ten
SAMANTHA
HEARTS, STARS, CLOVERS, and blue moons. While the rest of the class issues a collective gasp, dancing leprechauns and cartoon Lucky Charms fill my eyes and flutter in a bubble around Mazric.
He’s fearless, without a single care for his reputation or impression as he broadcasts to thirty classmates; he is my friend. No, he is my best friend.
The rush of his words hits like an embrace and a punch. His humorous beginning lending to the others believing his final statement is a joke. Their giggles turn to opened-jawed stupefaction. He’s done. Point made. No room for argument and no need for justification. I flit covert eyes over each classmate. Most would call them my peers. But a peer is someone of similar age, status, or ability.
This snotty, hateful mob of judging idiots is not on any level close to mine. That is not my arrogance talking because until three months ago, I’d have negotiated a small piece of my soul for one of them to be my friend. One person can shine enough sunlight to chase away the shadows. Mazric looked beyond my hardened armor of intelligence, sticking around long enough to see the softer inside. He took my daily dread, and lit it up with rainbow color.
“Good, good, Mazric. Now, Miss Carmichael, let’s hear from you,” Mr. Boyd says, offering a grim knowing smile. Before Maz made his grand declaration, our teacher assured me with a hushed whisper how he had my back and would try to make my year bearable.
The new girl, who didn’t get the memo of what dress to don today stands, adjusts her glasses, and glances around the room. She sticks out more than me with her rock band shirt, shredded shorts, and colorful hair. I applaud her uniqueness, but stepping outside the box puts a target on your back. About a foot shorter than me, she still stands tall, pulling her shoulders back she faces the firing squad.
“I’m Preslee Carmichael. My twin brother and I just moved in with my aunt, Vivianne,” she announces, then plops back in her seat.
“Vivianne Carmichael? As in the Carmichaels? The ones who own the huge plantation out on Hanley Road?” Asia DeMarco, the leader of the Southern buttholes asks narrowing her pale eyes in suspicion.
“Uh, yeah,” Preslee answers.
Mr. Boyd cuts Asia off. “You mentioned a twin? Will he be joining us too?”
“Nah, Hendrix homeschools,” she clips, killing the topic but my interest grows. She said a magic word to my ears homeschool.
Introductions done, Mr. Boyd pulls out his seating chart. Before he puts his classroom puzzle together, he scribbles a few changes. When we’re reorganized, I remain next to Mazric and the new girl, plus we end up at a table for three, leaving three empty chairs Mr. Boyd claims can be for any other new students who join us.
Turns out, recess for fifth graders is one long thirty-minute jaunt, right after lunch, instead of three shorter breaks spread through the day. I show Maz to the cafeteria with instructions on how to work the line. When I turn to take refuge from the lunchroom mayhem in the library, his fingers around my wrist stop my escape.
My feet slip and slide on the floor, unable to grab purchase as he drags me forward. “No, no, no,” I protest. “Mazric, thanks to Jackson, I’ve had my close encounter with a plate of spaghetti, got personal with the mashed potatoes, and the gravy they put on the Salisbury steak is worse than engine grease. Go, sit among the beautiful people, mingle. I’ll meet you after.”
His brow knits. “What are you gonna eat?”
Crap, I forgot to grab a granola bar from home in my panic this morning. My growling stomach answers for me as the sugary scent of sloppy joe and heady aroma of fries floods my senses.
Preslee wedges between us. “What we doin’, beotches?” She scans the room nudging up her glasses. “We eatin’ or what? ‘Cause as you can see, I do not skip a meal.” She laughs, patting her round stomach, but hurt flashes in her eyes.
Mazric’s smile turns victorious. He loops an arm around us both and we trudge into the mass. “You’re my kinda chicky, Elvis.”
“Beotches is not a word,” I mumble, to which Maz snorts.
“Original, Maz-r-i-c-k, never heard that one before,” Preslee taunts, pink tinting her face. “And you.” She bumps me. “Beotches is a term of endearment saved for those worthy of excellence.”
We edge through the line, grabbing slotted trays and chocolate milk. At the end a lady punches our lunch card before rushing us away. Shoulder to shoulder we stare at the open space. Mazric takes the lead, plopping down at an empty round table toward the back.
“So, Sam, break it down for me. Who’s who at SMFE? Let’s pick it apart.” She jerks her head to the front table filled with all the girls in dresses.
“Asia DeMarco, Brooklyn Cates, and Paris Jones,” I answer, keeping my eyes on my tray.
“Riiiggght. Their parents wanted vacations instead of children. We’ll call them Townies. Now.” She points her fork to Jackson’s table of rowdy boys. “Who are the stiffs in the khaki shorts and alligator shirts who look like an Abercrombie catalog threw up?”
“Jackson Mills, Harlon Samson, and Joey Holmes.”
“Screams pretentious jackass. Noted. What’s your dealio, Sam? ‘Cause I can spot a diamond in a pile of turds and you, my gal pal, are shining through the poo.” She munches on a fry angling a brow.
“She’s super smart,” Maz answers, spewing half chewed potato across the table.
“Ah. So you’re all ‘you peasants are beneath me’ intelligent like my brother. Cool.”
“No, no. Not beneath me, I want to stay invisible,” I respond, picking at my food.
“Where’s the fun in that? I’ll tell you the same thing I told Hendrix. Weird is beautiful, unique, and ownable. Don’t cower and blend. Own that shit.”
What is it with these kids and foul language? Words, people. Use better words. “Didn’t you say they homeschool your twin? Obviously, he doesn’t agree.”
“Too sensitive, my mom says. I swear he sucked up all the good genetics when we shared a womb. He’s a music prodigy. Has synesthesia. Boy can play anything you put in front of him but has the people skills of a slug.”
“You’re fraternal twins. You shared in utero space. It’s impossible he stole anything from you, but he’s lucky he gets to stay at home.”
“I’m lost. What’s wrong with your brother?” Mazric butts in; done with his food he catches up in our conversation.
“Nothing is wrong with him,” she bristles. “He sees music in living color. We hear it but he experiences it.
“You and him would get along great, Sammy Lee. Now if you’re done playing with your food, there’s a basketball and a court outside with my name on it.”
I notice, despite her earlier claim, Preslee’s lunch sits untouched except for a few bites. I choked down half my sandwich and most of my fries, but her tray is still full.
“You guys don’t mind if I tag along then?”
“Elvis, you and Splinter can be my cheerleaders.”
Mazric collects our trays, passing them to the cafeteria ladies before charging toward the double steel doors to the playground.
“Splinter?” Preslee questions.
“Don’t ask and don’t repeat. I’m already Spammy, don’t give Jackson any more ammunition.”
“Screw his preppy ass. You any good at b-ball? ‘Cause I got two left feet in worn-out shoes and more thumbs than a hitchhiking convention.”
My eyes trail to the Doc Martins on her feet. “I like your shoes. And yes, who do you think taught him to play?”
“Euphemisms, Sammy, I love ‘em so you might have to slough off your literal hat. I’m saying I suck at sports, but I understand why he calls you Splinter now.” She loops her arm with mine and we follow Mazric to the lone basketball court in the middle of the playground.
Before he even gets the ball out of his hands, Jackson and his cronies descend, followed by the prim and proper Townies. Mills dribbles his red and white striped ball in a circle around Maz. “So you say you’re best friends with Spam. Dude, the pound’s closed and now you can stop hangin’ with the dogs. Legit, buddy, how much can you have in common with an eight-year-old who knows it all?”
“You’re only eight?” Preslee whispers out the side of her pinched lips. “Did your momma reproduce with the Jolly Green Giant or what?”
I shrug off her comment, more interested in the flaming rage tensing my friend’s hands. “One, Sam,” Mazric emphasizes my name.“Is worth more than all of you.” From the top of the key he bounces his ball twice and sends it sailing over Jackson’s head. “Swish,” he cheers, collecting the ball he pushes past Jackson and extends his hand to me awaiting a high-five.
“Lucky shot,” Jackson grumbles. “Let’s play. Pick two other players and if you beat us, I’ll stop calling your pal over there Spammy.”
Mazric passes me the ball. “How bout it, Sammy Lee? Show this knucklehead how it’s done?”
My eyes lock on an interesting piece of asphalt. “Only if Preslee plays too.”
“As if. Did you miss my commentary about being absent athleticism?” Preslee inches backward.
“Elvis,” Mazric calls. Preslee looks up as he chucks the ball in a perfect bounce pass. She scrambles but catches it. “All you have to do is feed it to me or Sam.”
She pushes up the purple bridge of her glasses. “Whatevs,” she huffs.
Mazric pulls me closer. “No fear. You like to prove people wrong, so show this ass how wrong he is.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER the whistle blows. Jackson bends at the waist heaving for oxygen, along with his friends. Mazric and I spent the entire time playing around the three-point line, sinking shot after shot. If we missed, Preslee grabbed the rebound and we shot again. The other guys made a few but our points tripled theirs.
Angry over the loss, Jackson shoulder checks me. I fall, banging my tailbone on the asphalt. “You’re still Spammy,” he sneers.
“Hey, Jackass,” Mazric yells. Jackson turns just in time for his face to meet the ball. Blood sprays from his nose and a bellowing cry leaves his lips. “A deal’s a deal. Leave her alone and if you ever touch her again, Imma hit you with more than a ball.”
A teacher approaches, panicking over the amount of red pouring down Jackson’s chin and demanding an explanation. I’m prepared to unload the years of bullying I’ve endured to keep Maz out of trouble, but Jackson shoves Mrs. Burch’s fretting hands away, claiming it was an accident.
Side by side, Mazric, Preslee, and I head back inside with smug smiles, and for the first time, I have hope for a better year.
Eleven
Three Years Later
MAZRIC
A FEW MONTHS AFTER we met Preslee she introduced us to her brother, Hendrix, and three became four. Now we’re knee-deep in the middle of the eighth grade. I’m finding my groove on the basketball team, and Sam is working her way through the curriculum. The guidance counselor opened every class the high school offers to challenge Sammy, but she complains about her boredom and is envious of Hendrix’s home studies.
Jackson Mills is still a pain in the ass but if I stay friendly, he leaves her and Elvis alone. I finally grew taller; it’s nice to look down at Sam instead of up.
Aside from Preslee, Sam keeps to herself. She still wears baggy clothes and we spend our summers working on the farm and helping Johnny in his garage. I’ve been trying to drag her out of her shell but nothing works. She hangs out with Hendrix and Preslee but stays in her own world.
Preslee got contacts and her roundness became ample curves over the summer. She’s forever wanting to give my best friend a makeover, but Sammy Lee refuses.
I’m rocking back in my study hall chair when the long legs and blonde hair of Asia DeMarco saunter in. “Hey, Maz, I’m having a party this weekend. You coming?” She twirls a strand of hair around her finger.
“Maaayyybbeee,” I flirt, breathing in the floral scent of her perfume and admiring the low dip of her shirt.
“I promise to make it worth your while,” she returns leaning over my table, offering a perfect glimpse down her V-neck.
“Can I bring Sam, Preslee, and Hendrix?”
“As long as you come, I don’t care if you bring Big Bird.” She smiles and winks before flipping her hair and walking away. Her hips swish and the girl has one fine ass I ain’t too proud to admire.
“Man, you’re one lucky SOB. Asia’s smokin’ hot,” my buddy, Joey, hums his approval. I poached Joey Holmes from Jackson. He’s the only one who isn’t a total tool, but he is part of the crew who made Sam’s life hell and the girl holds a grudge like nobody’s business. “Her party is gonna be hella good.”
“I’m game if I can get Sam in.”
“Awe man. Spam...” His hands raise in guilt. “Sorry, shit, don’t hit me.” I unclench my fist, which drew tight when that damn name fell from his lips. “I mean Sam ain’t gonna go. You gonna pass up groping Asia DeMarco because of her?”
“If I can get Elvis and Jimmy on board she would. Especially Hendrix. If he agrees, Sammy Lee will say yes.” Ideas and schemes build in my mind, because it will take a damn miracle to get Samantha Gentry to agree to go to a party. Things got better for her after that first day and the ball slam to Jackson’s face, but she’s still happier when it’s just the four of us.
“Hendrix Carmichael? The one you call ‘Jimmy’? Man, I heard he was gay. Sam got a thing for him?”
Tightness turns my stomach. Interactions from the last three years flip through my mind. The first time Preslee invited us to her big house on the hill. The strains of Beethoven pouring from the open windows. Her introducing us to her brother Hendrix, who sat transfixed behind a black baby grand with his fingers mindlessly dancing across the keys and his eyes, the same color as Preslee’s, staring off into nothing. The two might be twins, but blue eyes are all they share. Where Preslee was chunky and short, Hendrix is long and lanky with weird elongated fingers and an intensity to match Sam’s.
Mom’s first impressions lecture made good when I met Hendrix. It took asking him to play “Who Let the Dogs Out” to clue him in I’m better suited to hang with the geeks than the sheiks. He refused but it sealed our friendship and began a heated debate on the musical talent of Baha Men.
This last year he grew taller and stronger, making him more rock star than Mozart. Dirty blond hair rests on his shoulders and he’s a dead ringer for Nickelback’s Chad Kroeger. He’s the only one of us who can talk in depth to Sam and not need a dictionary. He sees music the same way she sees numbers. Show them something once and bam it’s a permanent part of their mind. I don’t have a name for what’s clogging up my throat at the thought of Sam having a thing for Hendrix, but I don’t like it.
“He’s not gay. Or maybe he is. Doesn’t matter. He holds the key to making Sammy agreeable.”
“Promise me, even if she
doesn’t, you’ll go anyway,” he begs. As I shake my head, he continues. “Look, she’s your best friend but Samantha Gentry don’t fit in anywhere. She’s too smart for the geeks, too awkward for the preps, and too young for the sixty-year-olds who might actually understand her. We’re gonna be freshmen next year and you, my basketball phenom friend, will start varsity with the big boys. Chicks will take a number to jump on your dick, you can’t let her hold you back.”
His words hit home. He’s right, but thoughts of separating myself from Sam gut me. No one knows about the nights I climb the tree outside her room, slinking in like a thief. Our parents put the kabosh on us sharing a room during school, but in the dark my nightmares swallow me. Sam says I need to stop watching action movies before I fall asleep, thinking her cheesy eighties flicks keep death from chasing me. They don’t. The first night she climbed in my bed, she snuffed out the burning fuse with her tight hold. Stopped the ticking clock from counting down the seconds before a bomb blows me to pieces the same way officials said it did to my dad.
One second he’s working, the next his limbs litter the ground. A training exercise failure. My dad’s skill on the bomb squad useless. In my dreams, his fate becomes mine. When I wake, soaked with sweat and agony stealing my breath, Sam is more than my best friend: she is my savior. She doesn’t ask questions; we don’t talk about it. During the summer and on weekends she is there, next to me, ready to soothe. But when she’s not, I go to her. Up the limbs of the mighty oak, through the window she leaves open, and into her arms; for a blissful few hours I’m dreamless. I shimmy back down the tree before Johnny or my mom knows I’m gone. Sam is my excuse for refusing sleepovers, and I’m the boy who keeps the bullies from tormenting her.
The truth would destroy us both. These hornballs would twist what we do into something sexual. Joey doesn’t understand how vital Sam is or how I can’t lose her. Sammy Lee needs to broaden her horizons. She wants to be a doctor and doctors deal with people. She helps me conquer my fears. This party isn’t the be-all and end-all, but it’ll take her out of her box and I want to get personal with Asia’s tits.
