the misty fog his hand left behind: Sorry . It’s backward, of course.
I can think of no adequate response, but for some reason my hands land on my hips. He turns away, that stupid grin still smeared across his face. He disappears beyond the frame of the window, leaving me huffing and puffing. Out of breath, embarrassed, and, if I’m honest, warmer than I’ve been in forever.
Across the street the old guys wave their coffee cups at me. Bob stands and claps. His friend whistles—a piercing sound I can hear even inside the studio. It seems they’ve enjoyed the show as well. I’d curtsy, but my jungle animal routine sucked all the snark out of me.
I creep to the window and press my face against it. It’s cold, but the boy is gone. The town square juts out from the sidewalk like an octagon-shaped peninsula, and the clock catches my attention again.
I groan and zip my jacket.
Now that I’ve humiliated myself on Main Street, school should be a breeze.
2
Brielle
S tratus High looks cold. It’s always looked this way, I guess, but after my morning . . . workout, I was hoping for something balmy. At least temperate.
Metal roofs top the white, weather-resistant structures: a gymnasium, two classroom buildings, and a multipurpose room. Against the white sky and the white, functional buildings, evergreens grow in abundance: holly, pine, cypress.
My first class is advanced calculus, or so says the schedule I’ve been handed by a well-informed, excessively sympathetic secretary whose name I can’t remember. The calculus teacher, however, is new and apparently uninformed.
I nearly lose it when he introduces me to the rest of the class. My hands shake so fiercely I have to shove them into my pockets to keep them from becoming a point of attention. I’m sick again but force myself to swallow it down. As fast as humanly possible I take my seat at the back of the room and lay my head down on the desk. It’s pathetic but necessary.
I’m dizzy. Very dizzy.
Two-thirds of the kids in this classroom have passed through each grade with me, and every single one of them saw the news story three weeks ago. A fact utterly apparent by the pained looks on their faces. After my impromptu dance performance this morning, I’ve had quite enough attention. There’s no need to point more of it my way. Not when I’m convinced there’s some cosmic spotlight trained on my biggest failure.
I tell myself to keep breathing, to relax. Focusing on the teacher’s voice helps. Monotone and austere—I wonder how many kids will be asleep by the time the class is over. I keep my eyes shut as he begins the lesson, reviewing material I can’t make myself focus on or care about. Half the period passes before anything he says registers, and then his drab little voice surprises me.
“Ah,” he says, absent inflection. “It appears you’re not the only new student, Brielle. Everyone, meet Jake. Jake, everyone.”
Without lifting my head, without looking, I know who it is, and I burrow deeper into my parka. Two new students at Stratus High in one day?
It has to be him.
“There are a few open seats in the back near Miss Matthews. Take your pick.”
Mr. Calculus gestures haphazardly, and I duck into my parka. The entire class turns in my direction, but they’re not looking at me. Not this time. They all seem captivated by the boy sliding into the seat next to mine. An entire row—all girls— cranes around to get a better look, and a couple jersey-clad football players nudge one another as they size up the new kid.
The teacher trudges on, but the atmosphere in the room feels downright awkward. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad the class’s attention is no longer focused on me, but I feel bad for the guy. On principle, I refuse to join the stalkarazzi as they giggle and bat their eyes, but their worship has me curious.
Did I miss something spectacular about the kid this morning? Does he sparkle in the sunlight? Does he have fangs?