20

NAME: CAPRICORN ANDERSON

I don't remember exactly when I stopped keeping count of how many people's names I knew. It was somewhere in the five hundreds, and the total had to be even higher now.

The yearbooks made the biggest difference. I'd look at those little black-and-white pictures, and suddenly an image of someone I'd seen around school would pop into my head. And poof, I'd know another student.

I was kind of lagging behind on the sixth graders because they weren't in the C Average yearbook, but Mrs. Donnelly had the elementary books as well. And there they were—the graduating fifth-grade class.

Rain would be proud. I used the memory technique she had learned from a college professor who'd passed through Garland in the early seventies. You find a connection between the name and something about the person. For example, Monique rhymes with streak, and this 12th grade girl had a blond streak in her dark hair. Eighth-grade Darryl was built like a huge barrel. But sometimes I had to be a little more creative. 10th grade Ron had a birthmark shaped like a crab, which made me think of the Crab Nebula. AstRONomy. It sounds difficult, but once your brain is used to working that way, it happens almost automatically.

For someone who grew up knowing only one person, suddenly knowing hundreds of them was a little intimidating, but I had to admit it was kind of wonderful too.

In Sophie's opinion, studying old yearbooks was just another reason why I had to "get a life." Of all the things she said to me, this was maybe the most baffling. How could I get a life when I was obviously already alive?

We were seeing more and more of each other at school, despite the fact that we were in different divisions. However, she wasn't watching TV with me at home anymore because Trigonometry and Tears had gone into reruns, which meant they were showing old stories that we'd already seen.

I thought it was fantastic, because it gave you another chance to notice things you might have missed the first time around.

She rolled her eyes at me. "We just saw this episode two weeks ago. Lashonda flunks home ec and gets caught lending Troy's letter jacket to that college man she's been dating on the side."

I wished she hadn't said that, because I wanted to be surprised again, even though I knew it was going to happen.

But she'd been fairly upbeat lately. She was so happy with her bracelet, and I was thrilled that I'd been able to do that for her.

The best thing about being eighth grade president was definitely the checks Mr. Kasigi had given me. It was funny—a money-obsessed world was the main reason Rain had dropped out and formed Garland. Yet, in my experience, money was really excellent, and every time I spent it, someone ended up smiling. Except Sophie, who kept screaming that Mr. Kasigi was going to have my head on a plate sooner or later like she did that morning in the hall. I couldn't understand why Sophie was getting so worked up about it, so I explained to her that money could help hospitals and disaster victims and starving orphans. What was so terrible about spending it, I asked? Thanks to Mr. Kasigi's checks, I was in a position to lend a hand. It was everything Rain had taught me to believe in. I think Sophie saw my point, because she sighed and stopped shouting at me after that.

Mr. Kasigi would be back from his conference next week, and I couldn't wait to show him how good I'd become at using money. Also, I needed some more checks. The first batch was almost finished. He was going to be impressed.

C Average High School had two lunch periods of one hour each- the first for junior high and the second for senior high. On Wednesday, classes were canceled during the junior high lunch period so all the middle schoolers could go to the football field.

Hugh explained it to me. "It's a pep rally."

"Pep?" I repeated.

"You know, cheering, excitement, rah, rah, rah. The whole division gets together to watch the players bonk helmets and beat their chests."

"And that takes an hour?" I queried. I was getting better at understanding middle school customs, but this one didn't make much sense to me.

"Not really," Hugh admitted. "Most of that time is getting everybody in and out again. But it's pretty intense. We play Rhinecliff on Saturday, and they're our biggest rivals."

"Over what?"

"Football, of course. And as the eighth-grade president, you have an important role."

Rain and I weren't sports fans, what with the obsession over winning and losing, but I couldn't disappoint everybody after they'd made me feel so welcome.

I followed Hugh into the mass migration of students heading out of the building at eleven fifteen. We were a noisy procession, with horns and cowbells and excited voices chanting rhyming cheers.

It was hard not to be swept up in it, even though I wasn't sure what it was about. So much of school was like that—more a feeling than anything of substance.

"What's my part in all this?" I asked Hugh.

He led me away from the crowd thundering onto the metal bleachers and into a low hut marked LOCKER ROOMS. We slipped through a door that said VISITORS.

Hugh plucked a set of large pads off a wall hook and placed them on my shoulders. "You're going to be out there with the team."

I was alarmed. "I don't know how to play football."

"Don't worry," he soothed me. "It isn't a game. You just have to show your support for the team."

As if on cue, the PA system crackled to life. "Faculty and junior high students, give it up for your very own Claverage Junior Condors!"

Running feet clattered in the hall outside. The field exploded with cheers. Even more deafening was the metallic boom of thousands of feet on the bleachers. A band was playing, but it was barely audible over the crowd noise.

"Am I late?" I asked anxiously.

"No," Hugh replied, "you're going to be right on time." He eased a yellow football jersey over my head and began tucking my hair under a matching helmet.

"Maybe I need a bigger hat," I suggested.

"Maybe you need a haircut," he countered, cramming the bulky headgear into place.

A faceguard lowered itself into my field of vision. I felt like I was peering out from behind a fence.

"Is that really necessary?" I asked.

"Definitely."

For an instant, I thought he looked kind of sad. I was concerned. "Is everything okay?"

"When is everything ever okay with me?" he complained. "Now get out there and make our division proud." He pointed me through the doorway, which led down a concrete tunnel and onto the field.

The crowd noise swelled to a deafening crescendo. But you know how cheers sound friendly? This was different—angrier. Mean, even. I scanned the bleachers and saw a sea of hostile faces staring straight at me.

But I was here to support our team. I started walking toward the players just as they started toward me—and began to pick up speed. I could feel the ground shake as they reached a full-on stampede.

It was then that I made a startling discovery. They were all dressed in football uniforms like I was, but their jerseys were blue and red, not yellow like mine. I peered down at my chest and read, upside down, a single word: RHINECLIFF.

Why was I dressed as the other team?