September 25, 2010
Dear Tony,
Sorry it's been awhile. Nahuel and Huilen got into a pretty bad fight a couple of weeks ago, so Nahuel took off to scout out Europe for a bit. Personally I think he just wanted an excuse to explore. I'm sure he's fascinated by the differences there. He's pretty furious about the situation right now, though. When he was away, he picked up their trail up in Berlin, so we had to hightail it pretty quickly once we got the news. You should have seen Huilen's face when she got his call. Just imagine a petite, latina woman screaming incoherent expletives at the top of her lungs into a payphone and I think you'll get the idea… I guess it's just hard to believe that this whole time, we've been wasting our efforts here when we could have cut them off in Eastern Europe ages ago…
We haven't caught sight of Joham yet. Nahuel thinks it's just a matter of time, but I have my doubts. Daddy Dearest knows when to lay low, especially after that incident in Spain, but at least one thing's for sure: if he wasn't aware of how serious Nahuel was about ripping him to shreds, he sure as hell is now.
I'm not going to lie. Lately things have been…difficult. I won't go into details. It's not something I feel comfortable about saying in a letter. Let's just say Serena enjoys her little games. But enough about me. How are you? How's Bella and Reni? What's Minnesota like? Got your package yet? I got mine. :D You were right about the ink—without any venom it just fades away after a couple of hours. I'm still trying to find the right amount to add and it's tricky. I'm sure I'll find it soon enough. Better be in the mood for sushi when I see you. ;P
Can you believe it's been a year since we last saw each other? I can't. It seems like only yesterday we were having foot races on the dirt roads. Time flies. I wish it didn't. I wish things could go back to the way they were before everything went to hell (you know what I'm talking about).
But of course, we can't change that.
Miss you.
XOXOXO, Miri
Her scent, faint yet still discernible, is practically stamped across the thin paper: cherry blossoms and raspberries. I open my nightstand and take out the sheaves of letters wrapped in red ribbon, adding the newest one to the collection. I stand there, holding the bundle for the longest time, rubbing the dry paper between my fingertips.
Something's off. I read the letter again. We're not living in Minnesota. That was just a stopping point for us since the rail system didn't extend to Canada. Once we arrived, we paid the movers their money and Mom drove the moving truck, with us in the front seats beside her, the rest of the way through the border. We arrived in Prince Rupert, British Colombia about two days later. Miri knows this. I know she knows this. This is the fifth time this has happened.
What are you trying to tell me?
I continue to stare at the infuriating sheaf, as if giving it the evil eye will force it to divulge its secrets. Needless to say I get no answers. The cold, harsh reality that there's no way to know for sure what's happening to my friend makes my fingertips itch with agitation. I feel the adrenalin in my blood, taste it in my venom, and it takes all of my preciously limited restraint not to bury my fist in the drywall. Instead, I place the sheaves of letters back in the drawer and plop down on my bed.
Breathing exercises might be effective for humans, but they don't seem to do much for my racing heart or mind. I do try, though, meanwhile letting my eyes roam across my new room, partially furnished already with my things—my desk, my dresser drawer, already holding my battered boom box, and of course, my twin-size. I've already plastered the walls with my drawings, and even my desk and dresser are now littered with junk and various detritus I can't help but save. The room itself isn't as big as the old one, but it does have its perks, particularly the ceiling-high window with its fire escape to the roof.
I try to tell myself that it's probably nothing, that she's probably too tired to care about mistakes in her letters to me, but I can't shake the nagging feeling that something is terribly wrong. Doubt and half-formed theories gnaw away at my insides, fueling my worry and discomfort. I shut my eyes tight, trying to will everything away.
Time passes. When I re-open my eyes, my room is black, the night stars outside my window covered by dark grey storm clouds. I enjoy the solitude, the simple comfort an empty dark room can provide. Sighing, I stretch myself out on the bed. My eyes find the drawings on my wall again, particularly the sketches in pencil. I smirk, letting the memories that inspired the drawings replay in my mind.
Just then, the door cracks open, and from the scent in the air I can tell it's Reni. I hear her enter my room, her steps hesitant, heartbeat fast. I lie still, pretending to be asleep. After silently closing my door, she tip-toes farther inside. Thankfully her back is to me, and I hold back a laugh as I spy her dark silhouette. Her back is hunched as she explores the inside of my room, like something out of a Looney Toon episode. I sit up, leaving my bed, creeping towards her, keeping my movements and my breaths low. She doesn't notice a thing. I pounce.
"BBBBLLLLLAAAUUURRGGHHGH!" I roar, and I engulf her in my arms. She shrieks in surprise and delight as I flip her upside down.
"What are you doing in my room, huh?" I tickle her mercilessly, paying close attention to her ribs.
"I wanted…to borrow… your paint set!" she squeals, her explanation interrupted throughout by her high-pitched giggles. She starts squirming like crazy once I start tickling her neck, giggles turning into full-out shrieks, the back of her heels kicking my upper back. With a grunt, I turn her right side up and sling her over my shoulder as if she's a sack of potatoes. Leaving my room, I walk through the hallway and into the living room/ kitchen area. Mom is at the counter, chopping vegetables at vampire speed to our left. On the right, the television is on. She looks up and a smile splits across her face at the sight of us.
"What are you two up to?" she laughs, pouring the veggies in a bowl next to the stove, the blue sleeves of her sweater rolled up.
"Nothing, just playing," I say, dumping Reni on the couch. She giggles as she lands on the cushions, curling into a ball like an over grown kitten. I sit on the floor, reclining against the footrest. Crawling over, she places a palm on my scalp and pleads, "So, can I?"
I arch my head back to stare at her.
"Yeah, alright."
I get off the floor and quickly zip back to my room. I'm back outside a minute later, my hands full with paper and my paints. I place some newspaper I swipe from the counter on the floor and then let her loose.
I sit on the couch.
"...and in local news, reports of bizarre animal sightings have continued. The public is warned to avoid any leisure activities in the surrounding wilderness until the animal task force can identify the cause of this strange behavior…."
My eyes are drawn to the television screen at the reporter's words.
"…what do you thinks causing this, Johnny?" the newscaster asks his colleague.
"It's hard to say. There are a lot of contributing factors; depletion of normal food sources, destruction of natural habitat, etc…."
Vaguely I register the shifting of the couch as Mom sits beside me.
"What do you make of this?" I ask mildly, gesturing towards the screen. Her form is hunched towards the television, brows furrowed, hands clasped together as her forearms rest on top of her thighs.
"I don't know. It could be nothing. But until we know for sure, I don't want you two going hunting without me."
I nod, folding my arms against my chest as we listen to the rest of the news. It's unnerving, the report. Like with Miri's letter, I can't shake my feeling of unease. Nahuel's words resurface in my mind:
There's no such thing as coincidence.
And to think, over a year ago, I was telling him to fuck off…
The memory of his "lecture" causes a foreboding flutter in the pit of my stomach. Déjà vu. I can't take just sitting here, in this suddenly hot, suffocating space, the memory of that shitty afternoon making my skin crawl and my forehead sweat, so I get up and head back to my room.
"Where are you going?" Mom asks, craning her head to look at me.
"The roof," I reply, without looking behind me.
"Be careful."
I grunt in response.
The storm hasn't started yet. So, leaving my rain coat, I slide the glass panes of the window open and step onto the rusty platform. The metallic frame clangs beneath me as I climb up the steps, breezy gusts of wind cutting my face, like cold kitchen knives. But I feel no instinctual urge to retreat back into my room. Reaching the final ladder, I climb up, taking care not to crush the frail, rusty bars in my grasp.
I reach the top and sling my body over the buildings railing, my feet crunching on the ceiling gravel as I adjust my posture into an upright position. The roof is bare. Save for the loose coating of gravel on the floor and some exhaust pipes, the place is deserted. I walk to the middle, admiring the view of the lights from the neighboring buildings, before continuing on ahead. The wind is stronger here, so I zip up my black hoodie out of habit. At the ledge, I rest my hands on the railing and stare down at the world.
Far below me, people scurry around even at this late hour, like ants. I can hear them, their conversations as clear to me as if they were up here on the roof with me. They talk of normal things—relatives, work, school, friends, food, movies, all of it. Bored, I look back up to the sky, frowning at the grey clouds that make the nighttime canvas, once a stunning, irreplaceable art piece in itself, now exactly like the people and their personal dramas below. Unremarkable, uninteresting, and just plain grey.
I run my hand through my hair, trying in vain to soothe my nerves, but to no avail. Two days ago I relished our move to this place, relieved to finally be away from the petty and narrow-minded humans that made up our previous home. All too soon my giddiness faded, as it always did, when the similarities of this new area to the small town became clear. The weather, the rules, virtually everything else was the same. I can't hide from that fact anymore. The truth is the truth, no matter how many times I try to smother it with forced optimism.
I'm going to hate it here just as much as I hated Cherryville.
I can feel it. It's inevitable. The organization, the suburban homes and spoiled brats with their Apple computers and designer jeans, who've never known what true hardship is, who bitch and moan about dishes and food they don't want to eat when millions of others starve, seems to be synonymous in every first world country. And as more time passes, my contempt for this truth seems to only increase.
I miss the freedom of living on the edge. Of being able to explore without some government official tailing you, trying to force you into a classroom for seven hours a day. I miss the sweet, clean air and sky of the tropical forests, without internet or Nintendo DS's or text messages. I mean, technology's fine once in a while, I admit, but now? Memories of Jack and his obsessive text messaging dance through my mind. Facebook over Myspace. Verizon over Sprint. Nokia. Apple, Blackberry…. Christ, who gives a shit?
I miss the sun—the warm afternoons amidst wild flowers and grass, shaded trees and hidden waterfalls. I miss exploring the shady back alleys and tin slums where sinister dealings took place, the invigorating rush I felt when running, not for food but from someone.
Mom's call from my window wakes me up from my wistful yearnings, and I move away from the railing, making my way back to the ladder. I can smell her cooking from here, and my mouth waters involuntarily. As my hand grips the rusty rail of the fire escape, a small seed of hope blossoms despite my melancholic mindset; just two more years and I'll be free of this place.
Six days later I'm in our new bathroom, silently cursing the pompous idiot who developed the concept of school uniforms. I look into the mirror to study myself fully. Tousled mahogany hair greets me along with emerald green eyes and a pale, serious, heart-shaped face. Beneath, long fingers grasp the edges of the sink. Really though, my hands are applying only the most feather-light of pressures. My eyes go down to my attire: a navy blue jacket, white, button-down long-sleeve, complete with a navy blue tie and grey slacks. There's no point denying it. I look like a pretentious douche. My reflection agrees whole-heartedly, face scrunching up in disgust.
"You look dorkie," a child-like voice says matter-of-factly. I turn, my eyes drawn down to a bronze-haired cherub in a yellow nightgown, clutching a worn stuffed lion. "Why are you wearing that?" she asks curiously. I release the shiny porcelain from my grasp and take a step towards her. I crouch down until we're at eye level.
"I'm wearing this because the grown-ups who run the school district are self-righteous, egotistical, shi-"
"Language," Mom murmurs from the kitchen.
"…dummies," I finish, clearing my throat to mask what I was about to say with a more…child friendly response.
I stand up and brush by her, signaling her to follow me into my room. Once inside I grab my school bag from the floor and sling it over my shoulder. Still tired, Reni curls up in my bed under the covers, half her face peeking out and lying flat on the mattress. She lazily watches me dart across the room, gathering my notebooks and pencil.
"Alright Reni, see you later."
"Bye."
In the living room, Mom's on the computer typing out something for work, the sound of the keys mirroring the pitter-patter of the raindrops outside. Hearing my arrival, she turns around in her chair, a strange expression molding into her face as she takes in my attire. She gets out of her seat and walks over to me, silent as a mouse. Once we're face to face, she starts fusing over my tie, to my annoyance. But I say nothing.
"…When did you get so tall?" she finally asks, but her voice is so soft that I throw away the assumption that she's expecting an answer. When she's done, a sad smile is playing on her lips, eyes reflecting the maturity and wisdom her vampiric beauty camouflages.
"Mom, what's wrong?" I ask. She places a hand on my cheek. Instead of flinching away from the cold, I welcome it, her touch soothing the bundle of nerves tangled in my stomach. I cover her hand with mine.
"It's nothing….I just….you grew up so fast."
True. Just last year we were the same height. Now, I tower over her at 5'7, and I'm still growing.
"It seems like only yesterday you were sleeping in my arms."
"Mom…" I feel my face heat up with embarrassment.
"I know, I know, sorry." She fixes my collar hurriedly, after glancing up at the clock.
"All right," she says, looking up at me with stern eyes, "have a good day, and remember what Flan taught you. And please stay out of trouble."
"Don't I always?" I smirk sardonically. She looks at me pointedly.
"Alright, O.K," I say, rolling my eyes as I hug her goodbye. After putting on my raincoat, I shift my bag and walk out the door.
"I love you."
"Love you too."
Outside, a light drizzle has replaced the cascading drops that just minutes before had dominated the streets. The city is sluggishly awake, the humans groggy as they make their way to their jobs. School doesn't start for another forty five minutes, so I take my time absorbing my new surroundings: apartment complexes, cafes, shopping centers, boutiques, etc.
I'm about halfway to the school when I see it—a small crowd of people gathered at the alleyway. Between the bundled-up bodies I can see the wooden arms of a makeshift cross surrounded by roses, with a picture in the center. I probably shouldn't bother. I mean humans die every day, but the picture on the makeshift cross catches my eye. I walk up to the mourners. I can tell they're not family. If they were they would have been crying, not just…stoic.
I tap one of the men on the shoulder.
"Hey, what happened?' I ask, quietly.
He looks at me, surprised. Be it because of my good looks or blind caring, I don't really care. He rasps out an answer.
"Hit and run. Poor kid never had a chance…..guy was drunk."
I look past him to examine the picture fully: the dead kid looks about nine or ten. I stare at the photograph for another couple of minutes before finally wrenching myself away from the morose memorial. As I walk away, I make a mental note to later warn Mom about this walk route. Reni would have to take the long way to school after all.
The appearance of the tall, imposing grey building signals my arrival: Oakdale High School. I check my watch: 7:40 A.M. I still have time to spare. The front lawn is littered with massive trees and students. It's easy to see which clique someone belongs to despite their uniforms. Already I'm seeing the familiar black and metal wrist bands that growls Goth, the jewelry that squeals popular socialite, and the ruffled clothing that murmurs bullied loner. They're all separated, cut off from each other in their self-absorbed huddles, with only a few strays exploring the outskirts of the circles, quietly relishing the freedom in not belonging to a group.
I cross the street, and trudge my way through the lawn, ignoring the stares and whispers from the people I pass by. Examining the building further, I realize that it's fairly modern, maybe five to six years old.
Once inside, my deductions are proven correct. The locker-adorned walls and stairways are clean and clear of graffiti. I even pass an elevator for the second, third, fourth, and fifth floors. To my right is the main administration office, which I enter. The interior is standard, from the seats, to the counter, to the fat, middle-aged receptionist in the ugly grey sweater, typing away at the computer. Quietly, I walk up to her.
"Excuse me."
She looks up, and instantly her eyes widen at my appearance. I force myself not to roll my eyes as I wait for her come back to earth.
"M-may I help you?"
"I'm new here. I was just enrolled last week." At this, she nods in recognition and begins rifling through a collection of folders to her left.
"Let's see….Oh! Here we are. Anthony Swan?" she asks me, eyes watching me from under her rectangular glasses as her fingers lie in between the papers.
My fists clench involuntarily.
"Yeah."
I hold out my hand to receive the folder, but her eyes have gone back to the computer screen. I let my hand fall back to my side.
"It says here that you have a sibling starting today as well, an Isabella Swan?" She arches her eyebrows at me from underneath her glasses. Again I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
"My sister's starting next week. She's already discussed it with the principal."
"Oh?"
"It's in the file." I can't help but let my annoyance slip out.
She looks at the computer screen again, a severe scowl replacing the startled confusion she wore mere moments ago, even when she sees that I'm telling the truth. Reluctantly, she hands me the folder.
"Inside you'll find your schedule and a map of the school. Also, the pink slip will need to be signed by all of your teachers by the end of the week. Just bring it back here when you're done," she sniffs.
"Thanks." I turn around to walk out the door when I'm stopped by her sudden cry, "Wait!" I look back to her, confused. She's not alone anymore. Beside her is a younger guy, a bit older than me, tie loosened, with dirty blond hair and a boyish face. A door behind her is ajar. He walks around to the counter to join me, and as he does so, the receptionist says, "Chris will show you around. If you have any questions, just ask him."
"Uhh, no, it's okay, I can find—"
"Nonsense."
"Just let her do it, she's not gonna budge," Chris whispers to me, slightly amused. I look to him, and subtly he nods.
"All right….thanks."
"Anthony, right?" he says, once were out the doors.
"Tony. Anthony's a mouthful."
"Right. So here's the deal Tony: you got the main office, auditorium, and cafeteria on the first floor." He gestures towards the T-shaped end of the hallway, where a set of double doors are. "The gym is beyond those doors, off to the side of the field, easy enough to find. Now, each floor is for each grade level; Second floor is for the ninth graders, third for the tenth...you get the idea. You're tall for a tenth grader, so the eleventh graders will probably leave you alone, but for Christ's sake, stay away from the fifth floor. The twelfth graders at this school believe strongly in uh, initiating the lower classmen."
I look at him incredulously.
"Yeah, I know, it's fucked up," he responds nonchalantly. We walk towards the stairwell to our left. "Thankfully, it seems like only this year's twelfth graders are bastards, and they'll be gone in June. Anyway, each grade level has a vice principal assigned to it, along with a counselor to help with discipline, college, that sort of shit. There are a lot of students here, so the ADMN needs all the help it can get." He gestures to the room we exited minutes ago. "So if you ever get called to the principal's office, don't go to the main office."
We stop in front of the stairwell and he points up at the steps. "Since you're a tenth grader, go to the tenth grade vice principal. That would be Mr. Fallows. He's in room 24C on the third floor. All right, let me see your schedule." I hand him the paper. "Let's see…Jazz, okay…U.S History…. English with Richards, he's all right….AP Art History." He freezes as he reads aloud my fourth period class. "How the fuck did you get into Allen's AP Art History class?" he asks, amazed.
I shrug."Is he an asshole or something?"
Chris chuckles. "THAT is the understatement of the century." He glances up at the clock and bristles as he realizes what short time we have.
"So that's all the important stuff you need to know." He hands me back the paper.
"Oh, one more thing." With a single finger he points to the ceiling. "The band room is on the ninth grade floor, and Allen's class is on the twelfth grade floor. Lunch is after fourth period."
The shrill ring of the bell brings his informative introduction to an end.
"Well, you got seven minutes to get to class. See you around, kid." And just like that, he walks to the elevator without a care in the world. I'm left with only seconds to think about the information he's given me before the hallway is filled with students. Their chatter blends together in a never ending cacophony as I'm swallowed by the masses, and instantly, I'm annoyed. I begin my walk up the stairwell to my first class.
The second floor consists of hallways adorned with more depressing lines of grey lockers, occasionally broken by the heavy blue doors of the classrooms and transparent squares of windows. When I take my first step into the bustling space, I can now fully appreciate why the seniors are so into "initiating" the freshmen: They. Are. Tiny. Jesus, it's like I've stepped into Disney world, and I'm in Snow White's kingdom. All that's missing is the evil, hunch-backed witch in her black cloak.
Just then, a freshmen wearing a black backpack half his size trudges past me, his back painfully hunched over the strain of carrying the monstrosity. I snort.
As I walk down the hallway to the band room, the other freshmen give me a wide berth. I can practically smell their fear. I remember what Chris told me downstairs. It seems he downplayed the senior's idea of fun drastically. Why the freshmen's torment bothers me I have no idea, but it soon makes sense to me why the building plan of this school is so compartmentalized; it would practically be all-out hunting season for the lower classmen if they were forced to mingle with the seniors' constantly.
I push those thoughts to the back of my mind as I enter the music room.
"Oh my God, did you see him?"
"Who?"
"Hello? The new guy?"
"Where?"
"There."
Without looking, I sense her make-up covered gaze hitting the left side of my face.
And she'll gush her excited expletive in 3, 2, 1-
"Holy shit!" she exclaims under her breath. I bite back a snort as I focus on keeping my face impassive. "He's hot! What's his name?"
"Tony."
"Does he have a last name?"
"Who cares? The point is he's fucking hot and Taylor's party is this weekend—"
"Stacy, Crystal, do you have anything you'd like to share with the rest of the class?" a stern voice interjects. Mr. Richards, my new English teacher, is glaring daggers at the two foolish girls.
"Um, no?"
"Then please be quiet." He turns back to the white board to write more notes on Hiroshima, by John Heresey. I'm in the middle row of the classroom. So far Richards seems okay, but I can't be too sure. After all, I've been wrong before.
The bell rings, signaling the end of class. As I stuff my notebook into my bag I spy from the corner of my eye a group of girls congregating in the corner, whispering to each other whilst sneaking glances at me that they think I don't notice.
"You ask him."
"No, you."
"I'll ask him," says a haughty-looking girl with blond hair. She starts to make her way toward me and I curse under my breath. Hurriedly I sling my bag over my shoulder as I rise out of my seat, but I'm too late.
"Hi."
I turn around. She's shorter than me, with long, platinum-blond hair wrapped in a tight, stylish bun and ridiculously large hoop earrings. My eyes are drawn down to her uniform: standard white dress shirt and grey skirt, but she seems to have put her own spin on it—her sleeves are rolled up, as is her skirt, showcasing more leg. Meanwhile her feet are barely covered by shiny black stiletto heels, designer, no doubt.
I look back up to her face. She'd be considered pretty to most humans, I guess, but not to me. Her hair reeks of peroxide, the tell-tale sign of one who regularly dyes her roots, while her face is…ugh. She's wearing too much eye make-up and foundation, giving her that tan, plastic, fake Barbie look that seems so in these days. What is it with teenage girls and their ambition to become hyper-sexualized blow-up dolls before they're 18? I try to be polite.
"Um…Hello."
She giggles in this high-pitched falsetto way that makes me want to gag. "So," she begins, trailing a manicured nail up my arm, to my increasing disgust, "me and my friends were wondering if—"
"Swan!"
I turn around. Richards is correcting the date on the board—October 11th, 2010. "Stick around. I have to give you your textbook. Girls, get to class," he says without turning around. Blondie pouts regretfully in what she thinks is an adorable way as I step to the side to allow her and her cronies to leave.
Again, I try to keep my face impassive as they walk past me, but inside I can't help the wave of relief that comes with their departure. My arm feels tainted, dirty from where she touched me. I've never wanted a bleach bath more. Once they're gone I walk up to Richards' desk. Without a word he hands me a textbook.
Outside, the hallway traffic is already beginning to die down, so I hurry up the two flights of stairs to the infamous fifth floor. I'm expecting sameness: identical grey lockers, linoleum floors, and stuffy, warm, scent-soaked air.
I'm almost right: identical grey lockers and linoleum floors, but icy, morning air drifts inside from a shattered window to my left, cleansing the area of its collective indoor scent of hot, delicious-smelling bodies mixed with whiteboard marker and other miscellaneous smells.
I walk over to what's left of the window and stick my head out the square hole. I look down, and am greeted by the sight of glass shards sprinkled on the ledge of the building.
"Hello?" asks a frightened voice behind me. I turn around only to find no one there, nothing but lockers. I'm about to start my walk to class when I hear it again.
"Please, is anyone there?"
I don't take another step. My eyes search for the source. I breathe in a lung-full of air in an attempt to root out the location of the mystery voice. Despite the fresh air of the outdoors breezing in through the window, I can still get the vague whiff of body odor, sweat, notebook paper, grass, apple pie and vanilla—
Wait. What? I sniff again. Nope, definitely not mistaken. Apple pie and vanilla draws me closer and closer to the lockers until I'm inches from the metal doors.
"Can someone please let me out?" And then I see it. A flicker of movement in one of the door slits—someone is inside.
"You've got to be kidding me," I whisper to myself.
I reach out to the metal handle and with a simple twist break the lock, opening the door. Out tumbles a kid about my age (well, physically my age). His light brown hair is disheveled, and he's missing his school jacket, but other than that he's fine. I carefully help him up, his thin frame practically glass under my grasp. As he looks up to me his dark brown eyes widen with fear, and he stiffens, to my confusion.
"Y-you wouldn't happen to be a twelfth grader, would you?" he finally asks, fearful.
"No. Tenth." His posture relaxes.
"Thank God," he breathes. He starts brushing himself off. "Thanks for letting me out, I thought I'd be stuck in there all day."
"Don't worry about it. What happened?" I ignore the ring of the late bell.
"Pricks jumped me and my friend on our way to class…Oh shit, Nathan!" And he spins around, back to the line of lockers, and unlocks the one adjacent to his. For the second time today another kid tumbles out of a small, enclosed space. This one is smaller than the first, with russet-colored skin and short-cropped black hair, though he still has his jacket. He's unconscious. With my help, the first boy props him up.
"Should we get help?" I ask him.
"Naw, it's okay—he always does this. He's hella squeamish." He begins to lightly slap his friend's face. Five seconds later, the kid—Nathan—wakes up and stands sluggishly between us, holding our arms for support as his eyelids blink rapidly.
"…What…happened?"
"We got stuffed into lockers and you fainted. You just had to go back for your damn jacket…" the first boy trails off, annoyed. We release him and he sways dangerously on the spot before finally standing still. Well. Relatively still. His back is hunched over and his eyes are on the floor, hand massaging his temple while the other is propped on his thigh. That's when I notice something peculiar about him—his scent. Over his earthy aroma is the hint of something…sour. Nauseating. I smother the thought as another swaying spell hits him and he grabs the front of my jacket and his friend's tie for support.
He probably has a dog for a pet, but still…his scent is making me sick. As he gets back on his feet and takes deep breaths, I realize what the sour scent reminds me of: vomit—fresh, steamy, raw, and sour. He smells like dog and vomit. I swallow the influx of venom—for me, the equivalent of a gag reflux— that surges in my mouth with a thick gulp.
"Sorry," Nathan mumbles to the ground after he gets a hold of himself. He sighs and finally looks up, wearing nothing but a sheepish half-smile. That is, until he catches sight of me. The minute he does his smile drops and his eyebrows shoot up into his forehead. He jerks away from us, slamming himself against the lockers with a metallic bang, his heart pounding as though it's been injected with epinephrine. A look of pure horror now dominates his face, aimed toward me.
"Hey, it's okay. He's a tenth grader," says the first boy, putting his hands up to calm him. Nathan's eyes dart back to his friend's. "He's a tenth grader," the first boy repeats, in a softer voice. After a couple more minutes of calming words, Nathan's shoulders relax and he pushes himself off of the lockers. His sheepish, apologetic smile has re-appeared. I don't buy it. The same sense of unease I felt six nights ago is at the fore-front of my thoughts. It never goes away, even after he says his thanks.
"We should get to class," I find myself saying.
"What do you have next?" the first boy asks.
"AP Art History."
His eyes widen in shock…and delight.
"So do we!" he grins. "I'm Cole. Cole Maxwell."
"Tony Swan."
He leads the way, but we both stop when we notice Nathan's not with us. He's leaning against the lockers again, hand over his heart, eyes fixed on the broken window in front of him.
"Hey, are you coming or what?" Cole asks Nathan, with a hint of concern. Nathan shakes his head, never breaking eye contact with the window.
"You guys go ahead, I-I don't feel well. I'm going home." And without waiting for a response, he turns his back on us and begins his descent down the stairwell, the back of his jacket flapping behind him.
"Is he always that…anxious?" I ask, once he's gone.
"Yeah, pretty much. Admittedly, I've never seen him freak out that bad before. So, uh, I haven't seen you around, are you new or something?"
"Yeah. Today's my first day."
"Hmm." Several seconds of awkward silence passes between us until I decide to just ask the question.
"So, um, they always stuff you guys in there?" We turn a corner.
His face turns beet red. "No. It's not a regular thing. I uh…" he trails off, chuckling nervously, "might have pissed them off royally."
I soon learn why Mr. Allen, a tall, forty-something Caucasian with dirty blond hair and piercing blue-grey eyes, wearing a grey sweater vest over a white dress shirt and slacks, is a bastard. He spends the first five minutes of our arrival chewing us out in front of the class, without even realizing that I'm new, much to my ire. Once he's done, I explain things. He doesn't even apologize. Instead, he gives me a monster textbook and barks at me the assignment. I'm still wiping flecks of his spit off of my face when I sit down.
The class is mostly made up of juniors and a handful of seniors, but they leave us alone. Throughout, Cole can't seem to shut up—about his family, his grades, his life, everything. From his hyper demeanor, I wonder if he has some sort of disorder, ADHD maybe, but I say nothing. I mean I'm half-vampire, who am I to judge? When the bell finally rings, Cole invites me to sit with him and his friends for lunch. But just when it seems like things are getting better, karma, or whatever divine spirit is out there makes a 180 and screws me over.
"Swan, a word," Allen calls to me as I place the textbook back on the shelf. Save Cole, who's waiting at the doorframe, I'm the only student left in the classroom. I walk up to his desk, confused. He's sitting with his arms crossed on the desk, leaning towards me with a look so severe it would turn Medusa to stone. What he says to me catches me by surprise, and for the first time makes me wish I were a human drinker.
"I don't appreciate lateness, and I despise excuses, especially from students who think they can get away with being late their first day simply because it's their first day. If it happens again, I'll have you thrown out of my class." He glares at me from his cold, blue eyes, contempt and judgment curling his thin, rubbery lips, showcasing yellow, coffee-stained teeth.
"The principal of Freedom High School in Massachusetts was kind enough to send me your file." He types something on the computer one-handed, without breaking eye contact. Suddenly my name is on the screen in bold print. Below, words like vandalist, defiant, trouble maker and possible mood disorder wave hello to me, like old friends. He rises from his chair, and now we're face to face. Different flavors of rage course through my being as his words hit every single one of my nerves.
"I've met you're kind before," he says, nostrils flaring. "…No ambition. No future plans except maybe a jail cell…wasting your life away on childish actions….poisoning the others…..waltzing in here late with an arrogant swagger you don't deserve…"
He crosses his arms. "If I had my way, you wouldn't even be here, in my classroom, let alone this school. But it's not up to me. Rest assured though, the first chance I get, you'll be out of here in a heartbeat." His face is cold and expectant. He wants an outburst. He just might get it, but not in the way he expects.
Inside I'm seething, my vision completely screened over in a red haze. My eyes go to the emerald shards, now visible to me, floating dangerously close to the asshole's head. He has no idea how close he is to being decapitated, to my horror and delight. Just one slip of the hand and his head could be sliced from his—No! I rip my eyes away from his petulant stare. I remember the incident in Flan's office— the panic and fear emanating from the poor man as he tried to grasp a hold of something he could not and will not ever truly know—my savage nature using my anger to briefly break out of its constraints. I cannot slip up. Not. Again. The thought reverberates in my mind, and with difficulty I retake control, repeating the exercise that saved Flan. Seconds tick by.
"I'll be sure to remember that," I finally answer, my tone dangerously soft.
His eyes widen a fraction in shock. By his surprise, it's easy to see that this hasn't happened before. Without waiting for a response, I turn and leave.
"Fucking prick," I mutter angrily as we walk out the door and out of earshot.
"I've never seen him that bad before. What did you do?" Cole asks, trailing behind me.
"Nothing….just…he found out about some of the trouble I got into at my old school." We walk down the steps to the first floor.
"Trouble, huh? So, where did you move from?"
"Cherryville, Massachusetts."
"That doesn't sound so bad. So? What. Did. You. Do?"
I shake my head. "Just drop it. It's in the past."
"You get into fights?"
"Cole—"
"Drugs? Pranks? C'mon man, give me something to work with here—"
"Christ, will you just drop it!" I snap at him. He flinches at my tone. We walk down the steps and into the first floor hallway in silence and with each step comes wave after wave of guilt for snapping at my new…friend.
"Sorry," I murmur once we reach the glass door.
"Forget about it." He shrugs without looking at me.. "I never know when to shut up. It's my bad." He pushes open the glass doors.
The cafeteria is a bustling, chatter-filled cavern. Here, it's easy to see where the class lines are drawn: the seniors are mainly at the far right corner of the room, rambunctious and cocky. The juniors, near the middle, like the seniors in demeanor, but more subdue, followed by the sophomores, then finally, the freshmen. The freshmen are closest to the lunch lines. From the awful aroma in the air, I can tell the lunch lady is serving some kind of chicken noodle soup that I'm positive tastes as bad as it smells, so I decide to skip lunch and just go hunting tonight or tomorrow.
"Guy's, this is Tony."
I'm greeted by the five or so other sophomores, some with their sleeves rolled up in an attempt to make their pretentious attire somewhat casual, their jackets strewn over the backs of their seats. We sit down.
"Rumor's that you got lockered," a red-haired boy to our left says to Cole as I remove my jacket.
"Aww, crap, how'd that get around?" Cole asks, mortified.
"Word travels fast."
"Hey, did you get the math homework for—"
So it begins—the trivial questions being bounced around back and forth concerning classes and gossip, how crappy the food is, how they need to get laid before graduation, and who they'd like to get laid by. I'm easily bored. Maybe this place has a more high strung set of students, but beneath the unusual animosity between the upper and lower classmen is the same petty problems the children of Cherryville harbored. I silently inhale a mouthful of air to exhale.
And in that one, innocuous action, I involuntarily shatter the blanket of security my mother has worked so hard to create.
Amidst the mixed, nauseating scent of Axe cologne, fancy perfume, body sweat, crappy soup and linoleum is a scent that should not be here. It is defined, it is heavenly, and it is most certainly not human. And what's worse is that there's more than one.
A low growl, too soft for a human to hear, rumbles in my chest before I can stop myself, before I can even begin to fathom why the hell any of our kind could be here. This time I don't swallow the surge of venom that fills my mouth. I let it coat my teeth, settle into the taste buds of my tongue, its sweet, unique flavor acting as a stimulant for my defensive blood lust.
I sniff the air, trying to find the scent's source, and my gaze is led to the lower right corner of the room, opposite to where the seniors are. Therein lies a table, almost hidden away from the rest of the population. Even though I'm expecting it, my heart jumps in my chest as I recognize the chilling stillness, routinely broken by carefully initiated movements, and the all-too-pale skin. I count five of them; a gorgeous blond girl and a lanky guy covered in scars, a dark-haired giant, a black-haired pixie, and a bronze-haired one, whose back is to me.
Vampires.
The minute the word crosses my mind, the bronze-haired one's head jolts upright, as if hearing me. His companions don't notice.
"Who are they?" I find myself asking aloud.
"Who?" Cole asks. He follows my gaze. "Oh. Them." But instead of adopting a look of absolute terror, he smirks. He looks to his friends knowingly, and suddenly the whole table's grinning like fools. Calmly, he plucks an orange from one of his friend's trays and begins to peel it.
"They're the Cullens."