Tony
The receptionist had the longest set of red acrylic nails that Tony had ever seen. She stared at them as if in a trance as the receptionist typed away at the keyboard. Something about those nails filled Tony with dread. Once, a while back, Andrea had fallen into the do-'em-yourself acrylic craze. Back then Andrea had sported a pale salmon pink set with rhinestones glued to the tips. Tony had hated those nails, hated the feel of them whenever Andrea snatched her by the chin.
"What'd you say your name was, dahling?" The receptionist chewed passionately at her gum as she peered at Tony over the rim of her glasses. Tony squeezed the strap of her bag and repressed the urge to glance at the documents spread across the desk.
"Marianne Simmons," Tony said, enunciating her words as if the inflection would match the falsified name printed across the documents. The receptionist nodded in approval, then squinted at her computer screen.
"I see. Says here that you attended St. Josephine's Middle School. You know, my best friend Perla - you know Perla? - last I heard, she was teaching physical education at St. Josephine's. Is she still making you ladies run the mile in the gym?"
Tony did not know Perla. She had never set foot in St. Josephine's Middle School. Worst of all, she had no idea if 'Marianne Simmons' was even a real person, or how Andrea had acquired so many documents in her name. She could tell by the receptionist's piercing gaze that her smile failed to reach her eyes.
"Yeah, yeah, Perla," Tony said quickly. "She, um - she was always nice to me. She excused me from the mile whenever I had, you know, cramps?"
The receptionist nodded again. Tony had passed the test. Marshall's advice had saved her: sprinkle in an embarrassing truth, and your lie will sound all the more genuine.
"That's ol' Pearl for you! Between you and me, sweetie, that woman has a heart too big for her bosom. And that's saying something. Here ya go!"
The receptionist slid a paper across the table: a tardy note to cover the first thirty minutes of Biology class Tony had missed due to Marshall's foot-dragging and bitching that morning. Tony stuffed the note in her bag, in between the packets of crackers and spotted oranges that she had swiped from a bowl in the waiting room. It was a habit that would require breaking. She was no longer under Andrea's surveillance, thus it was no longer necessary to stash food.
"Thanks again," Tony said abruptly, then turned away. The receptionist cleared her throat and Tony sighed. Of course, a tail-tucked retreat would not be so easy. The receptionist reached below her desk and unfurled a white and green t-shirt with a Tiger stamped in the middle.
"I thought we weren't required to wear uniforms here," Tony said.
The receptionist neatly folded the shirt and placed it on top of Tony's documents. Her eyes were drawn to the faded 'M' printed along the tag. The shirt would fit her mouse-thin form like a nun's habit.
The receptionist folded her hands on top of the bundle and looked Tony over - really looked her over. Her eyes traveled along the patched men's jeans cinched at the waist with twine, and the dingy yellow vest that Tony had 'borrowed' from a rack at the Salvation Army. The vest had lost several buttons over the years, leaving her flat midriff exposed beneath its stiff linings. The receptionist's eyes rose higher, to the several beaded chains resting upon Tony's chest and then the slight curves of Tony's breasts strangled against the neckline. Tony had never worn a bra a day in her life. There was no need to. Her tits couldn't make an impression if she was wearing a soaking, white t-shirt.
"It's just that-" the receptionist paused as she struggled to find a delicate way to phrase whatever she said next. The tip of her nail 'clinked' against an ashtray and a lump rose in Tony's throat. Tony had spent hours deciding on what to wear for her first day at Hawkins High. Her attempt at emulating civil academia attire had sent Marshall into a fit of laughter so raucous that he had choked.
"You want to make the right first impression, sweetie," the receptionist said. She was so genuinely proud of her ability to cloak her distaste in a tone of motherly concern. But Tony saw right through her. "The young men on this campus tend to get distracted very easily."
"That's not my fucking fault if they-" Tony stopped herself with an abrupt reminder that she needed to be small and unassuming if she wanted to survive. She snatched the shirt from the desk and tugged it over her head. As expected, it fit her like a sheet billowing across a laundry line. The red was slow in falling from the receptionist's cheeks as she stared back at Tony. No doubt, she was shocked by being cursed at in her holy, plastic plant and new file cabinet sanctuary.
"Thank you, Mrs. Rosenberry."
Tony gathered her documents and crumpled them inside of her bag. Once outside of the office, she paused to acclimate to the swift change from the perfumed, air-conditioned office to the muggy high school halls. A few students rushed past her: stragglers late to their second class of the day. Tony's heart thundered in her chest as she tucked her headphones over her ears and drifted through the halls. She had damn near memorized the map while sitting in the waiting room of the receptionist's office. Then she had memorized the names of the Alumni plastered along the wall, the number of times that water dripped from the cooler, and the number of slats in the broken vent above her.
She wasn't nervous, she reminded herself as she climbed an empty staircase. Of course, she wasn't. Her earlier debacle with Marshall and the boy named Eddie had discombobulated her and set her on edge a little bit. It hadn't been the greatest of first impressions.
She pushed open a door unceremoniously labeled '35.' The entire class fell silent as all eyes turned her way once again. Even the teacher appeared stupefied by her presence as he turned to look at her. The classroom was drab enough to constitute a cliche: a bubbling tank in the corner with toads resting upon logs, rows of desks laden with microscopes and beakers, posters touting the wonders of aerobic cellular respiration and bacteriophage viruses. Tony had been homeschooled for her entire life - if she could count Andrea's drunken lectures as homeschooling.
She put on her practiced smile and extended a hand towards the teacher. He glanced at it as if she was holding a pile of glistening guts, then looked back up at her without shaking it.
"Mar-i-Anne Simmons," Tony said. From the corner of her eye, she saw a student lean over to whisper in another student's ear. "I, um, transferred from St. Josephine's."
"Right, right." A light bulb went off in the teacher's head. He fumbled through a pile of papers on his desk as Tony stood there grinding her teeth. It was hard to tell if she was actually smiling or just grimacing at that point. "Ms. Simmons. Right, of course. Mrs. Rosenberry told me that you were coming. Er, she just didn't say when. No worries, we'll get you all settled. Class, let's give a warm welcome to Marianne!"
Tepid clapping. Amused grins. Whispering behind the palms. Someone giggled, and then quickly stifled their laughter as Tony met their eyes. A young woman at the back of the class raised her hand with a grin so fake that Tony knew trouble was coming. The teacher informed the students that now was no time for questions, and the young woman dropped her bangled wrist with a pout.
"No, it's fine," Tony said. Moved by habit, she lifted her hands to push her hair away from her cheeks before she remembered that Andrea had cut it short a year earlier. "If y'all have questions, go ahead and ask me. Instead of just sitting there whispering-."
The students gasped and looked around at each other. Now she had their attention. Tony felt as if there was a giant, blinding spotlight swaying above her. Sweat rolled along her neck and dampened the hem of her vest. It pooled in her underarms and melted the gel in her hair, causing sticky rivulets of black goop to roll from behind her ear.
"St. Josephine's is in Santa Monica, right?" The young woman with the bangles asked. "Does, like, everyone in Santa Monica dress like that?"
"Yeah, everyone in Santa Monica wears clothes. Obviously." Fuck, Tony thought. It wasn't her intention to be so brusque, but the energy in the room felt like a sword wielded against her neck. Defense mechanism - that's what Andrea called it when Tony lashed out in response to being backed into a corner. But I'm not backed into a corner, Tony thought to herself. She clutched her fists and then flexed the stiffness from her fingers. Her heart thudded in her chest. I'm not a threat. I'm not threatened. I'm just a small, gray-
"So, like-" another student raised his hand. This one was wearing a varsity jacket above a button-up shirt. "St. Josephine's is a reformatory school, right? Did you meet a lot of criminals when you were there?"
"Oh, don't try and act like this cesspit of an acne lounge is full of saints," Tony said without thinking. Then she gasped and covered her mouth.
It was a brutal line and she hated herself for it. But at least it had wiped that infuriating smirk from the young man's face. The teacher attempted, with little success, to regain control of the room as students burst out in applause and laughter. She wasn't a fool: she knew that they were still laughing at her, not with her. But she hadn't come to Hawkins to be inducted into any rank or clique. She had come to receive an education. Still, it felt shitty to be the odd outsider suddenly at the center of attention again. A silly and secretive part of her had hoped that the Hawkins populace would embrace her, perhaps find her oddities exciting and her history attractively enigmatic.
There were few open seats left in the classroom. The students thrust their bags upon the empty ones as she passed by. The teacher turned to face the chalkboard, oblivious to her plight to find one god-damn open seat. Seeing no other option, she hopped onto the table bearing the frog tank, and tucked her bag against her lower bag. Her position placed her right in front of a window. The heat felt magnified and searing upon her skin, but she relished it nonetheless. She lifted her head into the light and closed her eyes, allowing the voice of the teacher to become a distant hum. It was easier to assess her world through sounds and rhythmic patterns. By focusing her attention on the swish of the teacher's trousers and the flutter of pages turning, she was able to draw her attention away from the claustrophobic confines of the room.
One day, maybe, she'd take her recorder and just record the sounds of an empty classroom. There's no such thing as silence, she thought to herself as she opened her eyes again. Just inattentive listening.
She could see Marshall and Eddie standing in the parking lot below her. Marshall was leaning against the Lincoln, gesturing emphatically at Eddie with the tip of a cigarette. Eddie seemed enraptured by the conversation, judging by the way that he was pacing about. He was a lot like her, she realized: easily sent into a fit of fidgeting when his interest was piqued. A teacher crossed the lawn, and Eddie quickly ducked behind his van. She chuckled at the sight of him pressing his finger against his lips and gesturing for Marshall to 'act cool.' Even from a distance, she could read his flustered body language.
The teacher in her classroom droned on. Tony watched Marshall pull out of the lot and wave at Eddie from the window. For a moment Eddie simply stood there, both hands on his hips as he watched the Lincoln disappear around a bend. Then he lifted a cigarette to his lips and looked up at the windows. Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met and she waved, somewhat shyly, which was unusual for her. Eddie held her eye for a moment, flicked the cigarette onto the lawn, and then sauntered into the cafeteria as if he hadn't even seen her.
