“I did! I studied all night and read Merchant of Venice twice. I swear, that book is not written in English.”
I look over my shoulder at him and clutch my wallet with both hands. “What do you want, Mitchel?”
Mitch looks like he wants to run away, or maybe sit on the floor and put his head in his lap. Whatever it is, it is obviously hard for him to ask. Already at my limit, I begin tapping my foot in quick succession.
“I need a tutor. After comedies, we’re doing tragedies, and I know they’re going to kick my ass.”
“You want me to do it?” I choke out, amazed he has the nerve.
“Mr. Base said you’re my best shot. You come highly recommended.” He tries to smile, as though his flattery will be my tipping point. I turn around and face the front of the line; three people are standing between me and my ravioli.
“I don’t tutor,” I spit. I hear him suck a breath in through his teeth. He always does that when he’s getting annoyed. In the past, when I was particularly bored, I would make a game out of getting him to make that sound. I used to find it cute. Today, it makes me want to throw him into the school’s basement and swallow the key.
“You do everything else,” he snaps, getting frustrated. “Please, Raye, I’m desperate. You know my mom. If my grades keep bombing she’s going to make me quit football. And yearbook. And Kasey.”
Ah. So that’s what is making him grovel. Kasey. Exceptionally small with dark brown hair and eyes, she is almost as beautiful as Lindsay–on the outside. On the inside, she is both stuck-up and timid, an unpleasant combination. Mitch has been dating her for a little over a year, and it is a widely known fact his mom hates her guts. Any reason she can find for breaking them up, she’ll take it. I can’t blame her.
“Mr. Base said if you agree, it’ll count as extra credit,” he says, finally finding footing in the conversation. I am well on my way to early admission for university, and I’m always looking for ways to help my applications along. With my record, god knows I need it.
“We both have a spare third period. I’ll meet you in the library on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’ll give you one hour. And I want a signed note from Mr. Base agreeing to give me extra credit.”
“Seriously? Thank you, Raye. Honestly, thank you.”
I turn to face the lunch lady, place my order, and immediately begin to regret my decision. Nothing about spending two hours a week with Mitch sounds fun. Actually, it sounds like a great way to end up with my fist in a wall.
“What did Mommy’s Boy want?” Lindsay asks as I place my food on the table and take my seat. The girl never misses a beat. It’s both a blessing and a curse.
“He needs help in English. He’s nearly failing,” I explain, feeling a little nauseous thinking about tomorrow’s assignment.
“So? Good riddance! Maybe they’ll hold him back a year and I won’t have to look at his stupid face in biology anymore.” She smiles, waving her fork in the air like a weapon. The only person with less love for Mitch than I have is Lindsay. “Wait. You said no, didn’t you?”
When I don’t answer, Lindsay hits my shoulder, causing me to drop my ravioli. The sound of it splattering on the disgusting floor is one of the most depressing things I have ever heard. I glare at her before poking another piece and popping it in my mouth. “What the hell is the matter with you? You can have any guy in the school and you’re still moping over some asshole who broke your heart over two years ago?”
“That’s not why I agreed to help him,” I answer, trying to keep my voice level. It’s true. Other than a feeling of utter annoyance every time I see his face, I am completely over Mitchel Wright.
“Bullshit it isn’t,” Lindsay replies.
“Linds, it’s not. I swear. Mr. Base is going to give me extra credit, and I’ll take as much as I can get.”
She rolls her eyes at me and leans over the back of her chair. “What? Having a ninety-nine percent average isn’t good enough?”
“Ninety-three. And no, it’s not.”
Rule two: Having a goal is the best distraction.
“Fine. Whatever. But I swear to God, Raye, if I hear a slight breeze of a rumour you’re hooking up with him, I’m clubbing you over the head.” She uses her fork to demonstrate clubbing me, flicking a tomato seed on my cheek.
“You couldn’t take me if you tried,” I counter, shoving a few more ravioli into my mouth.
No matter what I say to Lindsay, she is convinced the reason I don’t date is because I’m still hung up on Mitch. The truth is I don’t want to date. I don’t want the messiness involved. I don’t want the burden of always worrying about someone else and their feelings. Hell, I don’t even want to deal with my own feelings. Most emotions make me feel angry. So I try to never feel anything at all. It’s safer for all parties. Yes, Mitch hurt me, but I have long since moved on. God knows he has.
“Probably true,” she laughs, already over the seriousness of the conversation. She turns to Melody, a junior with long purple braids and another member of our cheer team, and begins talking about what dresses they’re going to wear to the homecoming dance. The monstrosity is still two weeks away; I can’t fathom how they’re already planning what to wear.
They know better than to include me in their conversation, so I enjoy the remainder of my lunch in peace, letting their conversation play in the background.
After lunch I make my way to the library in search of a quiet place to work on my homework. Right before I place my hand on the door, the loudspeaker overhead announces the principal wants to see me in her office. I groan. Not today.
Even though my rebellious phase is over, I still manage to spend an inordinate amount of time in the office. It’s as though the principal is worried I’m going to revert to my old ways, and by keeping a close eye on me, she can intervene before things become out of control again. It would be sweet if it weren’t so goddamn annoying.
“What can I do for you, Principal Lawrence?” I ask, walking into her office like it’s my home–which it may as well be–and plopping myself down in the chair across from hers.
Candice Lawrence is a slightly chubby woman with large blue eyes and bright blonde hair she wears curled tightly into fine spirals. Today she’s wearing a bright pink top that screams, ‘Hi, I own twelve cats and I plan to die alone, but I’m very happy with that, thank you.’
Her whole office screams cat-lady, too: pink pens in a pink cup; cat stuffed animals on the window sill; and a stack of unused pink notebooks with cat designs neatly tucked on a pink shelf. If the office gets any more pink or feline accessories, it’ll probably cough up a big pink hairball. I don’t know who decides what qualifications are necessary to become a high school principal, but if she is any indication, the interviews are done over the phone.
“Miss McKenna.” She smiles warmly, waiting for me to settle down. I feel a heart-to-heart coming. The last one was about three months ago, right before sophomore year ended. She had gotten wind of my mom dismissing my therapist and became instantly concerned. I was then subjected to an hour and a half of her attempting to convince me to change my mind. I have a feeling she’s still bitter about her lack of success.
I sigh and fold my hands in my lap, plastering on my most adult-pleasing smile.
“How was your summer?” she asks, mimicking my posture.
“It was fine, thank you.” I remind myself she isn’t doing this to torture me. Probably.
“Did you go anywhere exciting?”
“Oh, yes,” I reply, unable to control my sarcasm. “My mother took a whole month off and brought me to Europe. We visited Rome, Paris, and–”
“Did she spend any time with you at all?”
I give her a what-do-you-think look she seems to interpret correctly. Sighing and pulling up what I imagine to be a large file on her computer, Principal Lawrence begins today’s lecture.
“I see you went to summer school again this year. Eleventh-year chemistry and physics–oh, and swimming,” she l
aughs. I fail to see the humour.
“It counts as my physical education credit for the year.” She knows I hate gym class because I missed almost an entire semester’s worth during ninth grade. It had been a huge pain in the ass to make up for.
“I’m a little surprised you didn’t want to take the sciences during the school year,” she says, looking over the chart again. “They were always your favourites.”
“Biology,” I correct her. “Chemistry and physics are a means to an end. Better to get them over with in a month rather than stretch them out.”
I cross my arms over my chest, focusing on the bird pecking away at the roots of a tree outside the window. If past precedent is taken into account, I have at minimum another forty minutes of this to sit through before she’ll dismiss me.
“Of course, of course,” she replies, finally looking up to meet my eyes. She smiles warmly, as though it will make her next statement better. “I have a little task for you, if you don’t mind?”
What? Principal Lawrence never asks anything of me except that I continue to be the star pupil I have transformed myself into. No favours, no tasks, no assignments. In fact, she has even suggested on more than one occasion I try lightening my load.
“Okay…” I reply, skeptical.
“Tomorrow we will have four new students joining us,” she begins, clicking at something on the computer. “They’re coming from Montreal, so you can imagine what a change Stonewall will be for them.”
From a big city to a tiny speck of a town; that’ll be quite the change, alright. I let out a little snort, which somehow prompts her to continue.
“Anyway, I need someone to show them around the school. To make sure they are adapting. I immediately thought of you.”
“No offense, Principal Lawrence, but I don’t think I’ll make the best welcoming party. Can’t you find someone else?” The last thing I need is more social responsibilities. I will likely have to be pleasant toward them as well, which will make the whole thing even more agonizing.
Principal Lawrence seems to read my thoughts. “I know you tend to avoid situations like this,” she says, fluffing her tightly wound hair, “but I think it will be good for you. Widen your social circle a bit.”
“How much wider than a cheerleader do you expect me to be?” I ask incredulously. Being social was the whole point of joining the team. To get people like her and my mother and Dr. Dallas off my back. If it isn’t good enough, why have I been bothering? I sure as hell don’t enjoy spreading my legs wide for the world to see.
Frustrated, I cross my arms more tightly and let the fake smile slide off my face.
“Honestly, Raye, you’d think I’m asking you to light yourself on fire. It’s one day of your time and you might surprise yourself; maybe you will meet someone you genuinely like.”
The fire option sounds sort of pleasant in comparison.
“I like the other girls on the team,” I lie, trying to loosen my arms and failing. I let out a frustrated sigh, knowing she sees right through me. “Fine. One day. I’ll give you one day of free tour guide services. And I want a glowing letter of recommendation for it,” I add, more hostile than what is acceptable.
One of Principal Lawrence’s eyebrows shoots up in the air. I am amazed the other manages to stay put. “I already agreed to write you a letter last year,” she warns.
“Yes, but I don’t want any bullshit about how I’m troubled and have since reformed or any of that garbage.” I hold up my hand to her when she starts to interrupt. I know I’m testing her limits, but I continue anyway. “I’m serious, Principal Lawrence. I’ve been good. I’ve come down here for every one of your little check-ups for the last year; I’ve joined every club you’ve suggested; I’m on the damn cheer team; and my grades have been flawless. I think I’ve atoned for my sins, don’t you agree?”
I uncross my arms and stand, hovering over her desk, just a little. If I am nothing else, I am my mother’s daughter.
“I suppose so,” she replies, eyeing me warily.
“Great,” I snap as I turn to walk out of her office.
“I’ll send them your way before first period,” she shouts as I make my way out the door.
I feel a little appalled by my behaviour. Not because it wasn’t warranted, but because I let my control slip. I’ve done so well over the past year and a half, hardly ever snapping or letting my frustration show to those who matter.
Rule three: Remain calm.
I pull my hair up into a high ponytail as I head toward my locker, eager to finish fourth period and drive home. Today has been one stressor after the other; my temper is bubbling over the surface, waiting to erupt. It’s better if no one is around me when it does.
I practically run to my car after biology, avoiding everyone including Lindsay, who usually accompanies me to the parking lot. I’m halfway home before I remember my house is running dangerously low on everything edible. Pulling a U-turn, I head back toward the lone grocery store in the town’s centre.
The lot is busy, as it is every day around this time. I park my car at the back of the lot–away from as many cars and rogue grocery carts as possible–and head inside. I’m so anxious to leave; I barely notice all the crap I’m loading into the cart until I make it to the freezer aisle and realize I don’t have room in the cart for ice cream. I shove my arm in the bin with the chocolate and peanut butter flavour, digging around until I find a tub that isn’t dented.
A cool breeze stings the back of my neck. I feel like a hand is brushing through my hair, even though it’s still pulled up. My back goes rigid as I straighten my body and turn around. There are about a dozen people in the aisle, none of whom are paying me any attention. I look around, the feeling of being watched sprouting goose-bumps on my arms.
I toss the ice cream in my overflowing cart and make my way to the registers, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling churning in my stomach.
It takes the checkout lady ten minutes to start my order, and another ten to ring up all my items and bag them. That’s the thing about being the only grocery store in town: No competition means they don’t have to try hard to achieve customer satisfaction. More annoyed than when I arrived, I tap my credit card to the machine and push the cart out the door without telling her to have a good day.
By the time I load all of my bags into the trunk of the car, I have completely forgotten about the unsettling feeling I had in the store. In less than twenty minutes I will be home, a fresh tub of ice cream in my hands. I slam the trunk and climb into the car, throwing my arm over the back of the passenger’s seat so I can reverse.
I slam my foot on the brake three seconds too late.
She appears out of nowhere.
Small, with wavy black hair falling to her shoulders, her big black eyes are wide with shock as my car’s bumper slams into her stomach.
By the time I register what has happened, she has crumpled to the ground.
CHAPTER 2
When my alarm goes off Tuesday morning, I am flooded with relief. For the first night in a week, I didn’t dream of him. He didn’t jump into a canyon, slice his wrists, or burn alive in a house fire.
I didn’t dream at all. My head is empty, filled with a blurry haze that must have lulled me right to sleep and pulled me deep into unconsciousness for the entire night. Yet, for some reason, I don’t feel rested. Instead, I feel dizzy and tempted to throw up.
I allow myself an extra few minutes under the covers, trying desperately to keep the contents of my stomach inside my body. When I deem it safe, I slowly pull the blanket away from my face and glance out the window. It is another bright and sunny day; an ominous warning. Today isn’t going to be any better than yesterday. I have Mitch and the new students to babysit.
I groan, tempted to call in sick and spend the day in front of the TV. If only I could allow myself such luxuries.
Finally rolling out of bed, I head to the bathroom to shower. I usually shower before bed, but I was so tired last nigh
t I hadn’t bothered. I manage to hop in and out in five minutes, a record I’m not happy about breaking–long showers are one of the only blissful things I have left to enjoy. I dry my hair, brush my teeth, apply one light coat of mascara, and bolt down the stairs, already behind schedule.
“You were out late,” Mom says, breaking our morning routine.
“No, I wasn’t,” I reply confidently. I was home by five, per usual.
“I got home at eight and you were nowhere to be found.” She actually looks up from her paper. Sometimes I forget how alike we look; her big green eyes are a mirror of my own. Only her skin, a few shades darker than my freckled complexion, sets us apart. “I almost starved to death.”
Was that a joke?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I came straight home from the store, made a batch of spaghetti and meatballs, read Hamlet, and went to bed early.
Mom gives me a smirk and returns to her paper.
I look at her quizzically for a few seconds before I shake my head and grab a travel mug, filling it to the brim with coffee.
When I reach for the box of cereal bars, it isn’t tucked away in the corner next to the coffee maker where I usually keep it. After a minute of searching, I find the box hidden away in the pantry with the rest of the food.
I am finally losing my mind.
I slip out the door and head to school in a daze, trying to clear the blurriness inside my head. I remember getting the groceries, packing the trunk, driving home, and going to sleep. I remember reading Hamlet. I can even smell the garlic still clinging to my fingers from the spaghetti sauce. Still, the blurriness won’t go away. I feel like I’m missing a vital piece, my mind fighting to remember something that isn’t there.
I give up by the time I pull into the school’s parking lot, the warning bell ringing as I slam the door of my Honda. I’m late to meet the new students, but the school isn’t complex; I have faith they can manage without me. If they can’t, well, there isn’t much anyone will be able to do to help them, anyway.
Lindsay is waiting for me by my locker, a striking girl with long golden hair and bright blue eyes standing next to her. I know for a fact I have never seen her before because her face is simply unforgettable–small and delicate with an upturned nose and round, full lips that look naturally red. I wonder if it’s possible to airbrush someone in real-life.
BONDED Page 2
