Need, Page 3

  She takes a breath in the middle of her gushing and I take advantage.

  I nod, all awkward. “Yep, that’s me. Hi. I need to register for classes. Sorry if that makes extra work for you.”

  Evil Announcement Girl huffs and her nose actually twitches but the secretary smiles and says, “How sweet. She’s sorry. Your mother raised you well. I’m so sorry about your stepfather, dear.”

  A gulp sticks in my throat but the word manages to get out. “Thanks.”

  “I knew them, you know, your parents . . .”

  The secretary pulls off her glasses and squints at me with smiling pity eyes, then she pulls the edge of her shirt sleeves down closer to her wrists and hauls out a folder, plopping it on the counter. Evil Announcement Girl rolls her eyes and turns her back. The secretary lady doesn’t even notice. She yanks out a class schedule. “Here you go, sweetie. All your classes. I’m Mrs. Nix.”

  I take the computer printout with my shaking hand. The whole paper shakes with it. God.

  “It’ll be okay, dear. First day’s the hardest!” She turns to Evil Announcement Girl. “Megan, you want to show Zara to her first class?”

  Megan. What an absolutely perfect name for Evil Announcement Girl. Megans always hate me.

  This Megan isn’t about to break my record.

  She turns and glares at me. “I have announcements.”

  Mrs. Nix smacks her head. “Oh, that’s right.”

  She calls behind her shoulder. “Ian. How about you bring Zara to her homeroom?”

  Megan smirks and points at my jeans. “Nice peace signs, hippie freak.”

  I smile at her and mutter in my head, “Nice shoes made by child slaves in Asia, materialistic Barbie.”

  After she turns her back on me, I cover my mouth to make sure I don’t actually say my come-back out loud. Mrs. Nix bounces on her heels, watching for Ian.

  “Here he is,” she sings. “Show Zara to her class, dear?”

  The boy in the back of the office unfolds his long legs from behind a computer and smiles at me appraisingly. “Sure thing.”

  He saunters over and stands so close that I have to crane my neck to look up at his long, pale face crowned with out-of-control reddish blond waves. Are all the boys in this town tall? My step-dad wasn’t that tall, although I’d always thought he was, especially compared to me.

  “Pullman. Easy. Mine too.” Ian slings a pack behind his shoulder, smiles at me, and grabs my paper. “You have her locker number, Mrs. Nix?”

  Mrs. Nix smacks herself in the head again. If she keeps that up, she’ll bruise. “Sure, right here. How could I forget?”

  She shakes her head at herself and smiles at me. “Sorry. Age.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

  I shoot a look at Megan, amazed by how much she hates me already, and scurry out of the office with the loping Ian picking up speed ahead of me. He notices and slows down.

  “Sorry.” He blushes. “Long legs.”

  I smirk. He blushes harder and starts stumbling over his words. “I didn’t mean that you were short or anything. I just meant that my legs are . . . well . . . they’re long, you know, and . . .”

  I touch his arm. “It’s okay.”

  “Really?”

  He smiles at me, one of those little boy smiles, like he’s just been offered a chocolate chip cookie even though he spilled coffee grounds all ov er the Persian carpet.

  “Really.” I take in a deep breath. “You a runner?”

  “You could say that.” He grabs my elbow. “I won All-State in the 1600 last spring and I was All–New England in the—”

  “Bragging competition,” someone grumbles as they bump me, jolting me away from Ian, whose hand tightens on my elbow in a way that is way too protective to be normal. MINI Cooper guy waves and says, “Excuse me.”

  I stare after massive MINI Cooper guy. His shoulders are huge inside his sweater, not that I’m looking or anything. And the sweater looks cashmere, which is pretty hoity-toity for Maine. They must have Big and Tall stores around here, or maybe he ordered it off the Net.

  Ian makes a little growling noise. I pretend like I don’t hear it but I touch his arm again, trying to calm him down.

  “Who is that?”

  He shudders and leans down so I can hear him. “That is Nick Colt, otherwise known as bad news.”

  I laugh. “Otherwise known as bad news?”

  “What?” Ian’s big eyes turn sad in his banana-long face.

  “It’s just everyone around here sounds like they’re fifty years old: otherwise known as bad news.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me through the hall. “Don’t people say that where you’re from?”

  “In Charleston?” I’ve come across a lot of interesting ways of speaking while traveling with my parents outside the U.S., but Maine still is in the United States, last time I checked.

  “You’re from Charleston.” He nods. “No wonder.”

  “No wonder what?”

  He stops outside a door. “Nothing.”

  “No, really.” I hope he doesn’t think I’m a hick or a bigot, which is what some people think about anyone who lives south of New York City.

  “You just seem different.”

  “Hollow?”

  “What?”

  I drag my feet for a second, horrified that I said that out loud. “Nothing. Sorry.”

  He doesn’t seem phased. “So if you need any info about anything, just ask me. I’m on cross-country and basketball, and I’m in key club and I’m the junior class president, and some other clubs too, so if you want to join anything, just let me know. I’ll get you in like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Sorry. Corny.”

  “No. It’s . . . good. You’re a little bit of an overachiever, huh?”

  “There’s no point in blending in, you know? Got to grab the power where you can.” He shakes his head at himself. “That sounds awful. I just mean . . . you’ve got to do what you can to get ahead, to get into college, that stuff. Well, we’re here.”

  He gives a little lopsided grin as we face a classroom doorway. Beyond it people are shuffling their stuff around, cramming themselves into seats, gossiping about all sorts of things I don’t understand. They all have Gap clothes and that sort of almost-designer, mall-casual look, except all the guys wear work boots. There are a few guys wearing flannel and black sweatshirts. And here I am in my holey jeans with peace signs. I take a deep breath. I have no chance of fitting in, transferring in the middle of junior year. It’s hopeless.

  The ache inside me grows and grows.

  Auroraphobia, Northern Lights creep you out.

  Autodysomophobia, you are afraid of someone who smells vile.

  Automatonophobia, ventriloquist’s dummies terrify you.

  Automysophobia, being dirty is the end of the world.

  Autophobia, you are afraid of yourself.

  . . .

  The evil Megan girl is not in my homeroom, but she is in my Spanish class. Ian drops me off at the door there too and she eyes us suspiciously. I swear, if she were a cat she’d be hissing.

  “It really wouldn’t be a big deal for me to come and walk you to your advanced chemistry class,” Ian says for the fourth time. “I mean, I don’t want you to get lost or anything.”

  “Okay. Yeah. Thanks. Who is that girl?” I nod at Megan.

  “Oh, Megan Crowley.”

  I stand up on my tiptoes and whisper, “I think she hates me.”

  He laughs and nods while I go back to my flat feet. “Probably.”

  I wait for more. He just kneads at the top of his shoulder and yells hi to some guy in a soccer shirt who yells hi back to him.

  My hands find their way to my hips. “Are you going to tell me why she hates me?”

  His attention turns to me. His eyes flash. “Probably doesn’t like the way you smell.”

  “What?” I step back. I thought he was nice, not slap worthy. Not like I go around slapping peop
le, but whatever.

  He raises his hands. “Just kidding. Just kidding. You’re the competition. Megan hates competition. She has a thing for Nick Colt. She saw you come into school with him. End of story, beginning of competition.”

  “Right, like I’m competition. Mini me.” I walk into Spanish class, where Megan whispers snide things as Mrs. Provost, the teacher, introduces me to everyone and finds me a place to sit. The girl next to Megan giggles behind her hand and looks at me. Great.

  The last thing I’m paying attention to is Mrs. Provost, who is saying, “Zara, what an unusual name.”

  She glances at my ripped-up jeans with the peace signs and her eyes shift into another thought. “Nice to have you here. Class, let’s begin. All in Spanish.”

  I stare out the window, zone out, and wish more than anything that I’m back home with my dad and he’s alive and my mom’s all happy and we’re eating eggplant smothered with mozzarella cheese and everything is normal again. But it can’t ever be normal again.

  Outside, a birch tree bends from the weight of the snow. It’ll spring back up once the snow melts, back to its normal, upright self.

  Could that happen to me?

  The answer is a big fat no.

  Megan Crowley turns all the way around in her seat to stare at me. Something evil flashes in her eyes and for a second I think she’s not real, not human. She lifts a perfectly manicured fingernail at me and mouths, “I am onto you.”

  ¿Qué? No entiendo.

  “What?” I mouth back.

  She does it again. “I am onto you.”

  Mrs. Provost sweeps between us. “Girls, I am so happy that Zara is making friends, but now is not social time. Now is Spanish time. Zara? Why don’t you tell us about Charleston?”

  “Um . . .” I look around for help. It’s just a bunch of pale people staring at me. God, how can Maine be so white? “Um, Charleston is really beautiful and warm. There are these antebellum houses and—”

  “In Spanish, por favor,” Mrs. Provost interrupts. She pulls at her bra strap and lifts it farther up her shoulder.

  She wants me to talk about antebellum houses in Spanish? I hate this place. Megan laughs behind her hand and turns back around. I shiver. It is so cold here.

  “Charleston es caliente y hermosa,” I start again. “A mi me gusta allí.”

  A thin girl with wild brownish hair waves at me as we leave class. An orange Hello Kitty T-shirt bags off her shoulders. Her nose twitches like a bunny’s and she hops up and down to get me to look at her.

  “Hey.” She waves again, this massive kind of wave, like when you’re trying to hail a taxi on a busy street. But this is a hallway, not a street, and it’s nowhere near busy.

  “Hi.”

  I put my oh-so-exciting, brand-new Spanish textbook into my pack. Then I snap it shut. In passing I notice that one of the snaps is missing.

  “I like your pack. Did you get it at an army-navy store?” She bounces on her toes when she talks like she has way too much energy for her body and just has to do something with it.

  “Yep.”

  “In Bangor?”

  “No, Charleston.”

  She smiles super wide. “Are you Zara White?”

  I step back, swinging my pack over one shoulder. “How does everybody know that?”

  “Small town.” She smiles an apology. “News travels fast. We get all excited when someone new comes. I’m Issie.”

  “Oh, so you knew I didn’t get my bag in Bangor.”

  “Sort of.” She pushes her teeth together and smiles big. She makes big eyes to go with it and then blurts, “I love Bangor, though, so I was hoping. ’Cause I love your bag too. Oh, I am babbling. I hate when I babble. Devyn says it’s cute, but I know it’s not, it’s super annoying. So, is your name really Zara?”

  I try to calm my nerves and be friendly. I smile back. “It’s really Zara.”

  “Like Sara but with a Z. That is much cooler.” She bee-bops her head up and down. “Cool. Cool. Cool. Good to meet you. Where you going next?”

  “PE.” I smile again. I like PE in Charleston. It’s always outside. There are no books involved. You don’t have to talk to anyone except to try to annoy them. You can blend in.

  She bounces up and down on the back of her feet. Her skirt flits around her legs. It’s super long and flowy, like her hair. “Cool. That’s in the gym. Of course PE is in the gym. Duh?”

  She bonks her forehead with her hand so hard I want to get her an ice pack, but she seems fine and she bounces out, “I’m going there too. I’ll show you.”

  “Oh.” I stop in the hall and look around for Ian. I don’t see him. I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Suddenly, I feel sort of abandoned.

  “Are you looking for Ian?”

  I shrug. “Um . . . yeah. I guess so. He’s showing me around.”

  She has been beaming at me but now she frowns.

  “What?” I ask.

  “He must like you. I’ll tell him I’ve got you from here. He’s very overachieving. He’ll be your escort all year if you let him.” She grabs her phone and sends him a text telling him that she’ll take me to PE. “There. All set.”

  She is efficient, this girl, and I like that. She links her arm in mine and says conspiratorially, “It’s hard being new. I was new once too.”

  “Really? When did you move here?”

  “First grade.”

  I smirk at her and she laughs. “It was still hard. I still remember it. Totally uncool. Everybody looking at me, sniffing me out, because I was the new girl, trying to decide if I was worthy to be in their pack or not. It was awful. Nobody played with me at recess for an entire month. Swinging by yourself is not cool, not every day. Not when everyone else is playing tetherball or tag.”

  She sounds so sad; I pull her closer to my side. I want to take care of her. “It was a long time ago.”

  She shrugs and smiles at me. “Yeah. And it didn’t last forever, right? But I remember how hard it was.”

  She lowers her voice to a whisper as we walk by Megan Crowley and her little posse of girls trying to look hip in the high school hallway, which is a ridiculous thing to even try to do, because it is a high school hallway. “Megan Crowley hated me too.”

  “Is it that obvious?” I ask.

  Issie nods. “She hates everyone she thinks is a threat.”

  “Why am I a threat?”

  She pulls her arm away from mine and uses it to bash me with her notebook. “Don’t even play that game with me.”

  She giggles again, and pulls open the door to the locker room. I smell baby powder and stinky running shoes and I smile. It smells so familiar. If I close my eyes, I think I could almost pretend I’m home.

  But I’m not.

  “That Megan girl,” I whisper because Megan’s flounced into the locker room with her posse, “do you think she’s kind of weird?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know . . .” I remember the way she didn’t seem real for a second. “It’s silly. It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing is ever nothing,” Issie says, and then she staggers backward. “Oh my God!”

  “What? Issie, what is it?” I look around for a spider on the floor or something. Maybe Issie has a spider phobia. Those are pretty common.

  Issie turns panicked eyes on me, swallows, and then gushes out her words like they have a life of their own. “We’re running today. They’re testing our mile. Oh God, this is so uncool. This is yabba-dabba bad.”

  I almost jump in midair and hug her. “The mile! Great.”

  “Great? Running a mile? You are crazy.” She opens a locker and pulls out gym clothes. “Maybe you’ll fit in here after all.”

  I yank my old, gray U2 War concert shirt on. It is excellent to run the mile in, all soft and faded. My dad got it at a concert back in the eighties. “You don’t want me to fit in?”

  “It’s nice to have someone different,” she says, gesturing toward Megan
’s gaggling crew putting on their spaghetti-strap camis. “Someone not like them, you know?”

  Megan hoists her hair up into a new ponytail for PE. She adjusts her perfect breasts beneath her perfect cami and gives me a perfect glare.

  “I’m not like them, Issie,” I say, sticking my finger through a hole at the bottom hem of my T-shirt.

  “Cool.”

  “I just like running.”

  She hauls on a Snoopy shirt, baby blue and cute. “Why? Why would you like running?”

  “It makes me feel safe,” I tell her as we tie our shoes. I do not tell her that it makes me feel closer to my dad.

  As I stretch, Coach Walsh, the gym teacher, nods and takes my name, then blows the whistle and we all take off around the track for a warm-up lap.

  “Bedford’s the only high school in northern Maine with an indoor track,” he boasts to me once I’m back. “The whole community rallied behind this. Fund-raising and everything.”

  “Right. That’s cool.” I stretch out. Again. No one else is even stretching out, except Issie and she’s almost falling over every time she bends down and reaches for her toes. It’s funny to see someone so cute be so uncoordinated. She has the same color hair as my dad.

  Megan scowls at me and I get that feeling, the squiggly feeling. I push my fingers into my eyes.

  The gym teacher grabs me by the elbow and barks at me, “You okay? You have low blood pressure or something?”

  I run a hand through my hair. Issie stops stretching and stares at me. Everyone seems to be staring at me.

  I feel a little ophthalmophobic, which is a very normal phobia, where people are afraid of being stared at.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” I lie.

  Coach Walsh trains steely eyes on me and lets go of my elbow. “Okay, line up then.”

  We all line up except for this guy in a wheelchair, Devyn. He smiles at me when I line up, introduces himself. He has a movie star smile, just white teeth and charisma, big eyes, dark skin. He’d be perfect looking if he didn’t have such a large nose, but the truth is it looks good on him, natural and powerful. He winks at Issie, who blushes.

  “You can do it, Is,” he says.

  She rolls her eyes, twists her lip, and says, “As long as I don’t pass out.”