IT’S FINALLY Friday, and I don’t want to go school. I need to go, and I know that I need to, but returning to school and facing the people who sent me into the entire hand ordeal is a necessity. I dress slowly, making sure my arms are covered and that the scab on my arm doesn’t tear open. It did on Wednesday morning, and my mom almost saw it, but I pulled a blanket around my shoulders and hid my blood-droplet-stained shirt in the depths of my closet. She doesn’t know. Nobody is going to find out.
I wander downstairs with my backpack weighing down my shoulders. It’s like the calm before the storm again. There are no books in my backpack. The only thing in it is the very last of the makeup work from the end of last year and the summer homework everyone is expected to do and be done with on the first day of school. The people at school really have done a great thing, bending the rules so I could spend my senior year with the same class that I’ve spent every other year with. I’d hate to be a junior. Again.
I am seriously worried that Emmett won’t be there because I need him, but I still can’t get ahold of him, and it freaks me out.
I eat breakfast silently, and my mother actually makes lunch for me, something that hasn’t happened in a while. I watch while chewing my food as she puts my sandwich in a bag with an apple and some other stuff. I can’t taste my breakfast, and I feel numb with fear, which is new. I’d rather go back to the National Poetry Accolades.
I don’t say much, and my mom tactfully makes conversation, chattering about how empty the house will feel now that I’m going to school, but I mumble something about coming back home. She brings up Emmett, asking if I’ve heard from him, and I just shake my head. I’m trying to help, but he won’t listen, I explain as I put my dishes in the sink. If he doesn’t get back to me, I’m storming his house, I think. Because this shit has gone way too far.
My mom nods thoughtfully, suggesting I send one more text because she’s concerned too, and I know because Emmett spends so much time at our house, and I thought it was for me, but he was probably avoiding arguing parents too, and I keep feeling stranger and stranger, and I’m not sure how to process my emotions, and I tell my mom that while I take my antidepressants, which I think have lost their effectiveness or something, because I can feel heaviness settling back into my limbs and emotion leaching out, and I have nothing to say.
My mom has always driven me to school; working from home allowed her to do that for me, and I’d take the bus home. Today is no different. I glance at myself in the little mirror in the car and press my hair down and make faces at myself for no reason. I don’t wear makeup, other than at the Accolades, and school isn’t special enough to warrant me putting any effort whatsoever into my appearance.
I get to the school early, and there are people here already, looking just as miserable as I feel. I go into the main office to get all the emergency contact forms I missed and then am directed to my guidance counselor. The ladies in the main office welcome me back profusely, and I wonder how much they know, based on the rumors and gossip, and what my mom has told them in passing conversation when she dropped off my makeup work.
There is a bulletin board on the wall with bright letters that spell out the phrase “Our Students Are Stars!” There is a newspaper clipping with the yearbook picture I took last year and a headline talking about my poetry and the National Poetry Accolades. I wander across the guidance office to look at it before being ushered into a seat across the desk from my guidance counselor. She grins this really huge and toothy grin, and it’s supposed to be welcoming, but it’s just disconcerting.
“Hello, Carter!” she chirps, literally chirps, and I have to try my hardest not to grimace.
“Welcome back, it’s been a while,” she continues cheerily while I suppress a truly vicious eye roll. Eye rolls are so unappreciated these days.
“We have your schedule for your senior year based on the classes you registered for last February. It looks like you’ll be taking precalculus”—now I suppress a groan—“biology, poetry, civics, French, Shakespeare, and it looks like you’ll have a study hall for your last class. You are aware that means you can leave early?” I nod and smile and pretend that everything’s hunky-dory for her oversized smile. It’s too early for this shit.
“So, according to your schedule you have lunch during civics, and your class will be split into two parts so you can go to lunch.” I clench my teeth and make vague sounds of agreement, but I’ve been in the school since I was a freshman, and I know how the schedule and the lunch schedule work, and I do not need reminding. I focus on the jar of candy on the desk, eyeing it. She notices that I have stopped listening and sees me staring at the colorful wrappers. My guidance counselor opens the jar and gestures to me, so I take a small package out, tearing open the corner with my teeth, before quietly putting the brightly colored candy on my tongue. I mutter a quiet thank you around the sweet.
“Do I have any classes with Emmett Lewis?” I lean forward and cut her off. She seems a bit surprised, and I lean back, glad to have distracted her.
“Well, I don’t know.” She’s too perky for 7:10 a.m., and it annoys me beyond belief. How is anyone this perky, ever? “You’ll find out today when you go to those classes.” I blink a few times and nod as if that hadn’t occurred to me. I give her the big pile of makeup work and get my schedule and a small assignment notebook in return, so I thank her quietly before going to my first class, glad to be out of the office.
I climb the stairs to the second floor, locating my math class quickly and going in. Nobody else is there yet. The teacher looks at me.
“You must be Carter,” he says, and I nod confusedly. “I was told you’d be arriving today and that you need a textbook.” I move farther into the classroom and slide my backpack off of my shoulder, placing it on the desk.
“Are there assigned seats?” I ask my shoes, not looking at the teacher as I am given a large book. I’m actually hoping there are because I have no clue where to sit or who is in my classes. The teacher looks at the classroom and nods.
“I put everyone in alphabetical order by last name, so you should be right… there. You’re the last name on the list, Miss Rogers.” As he gives me the good news, he points to a corner seat by the window, and I am almost elated. I sit quickly and pull out my phone to text Emmett. I’ve decided to send him one text, and then I will not send anymore until he replies, but I write plainly and avoid the glib language we usually speak with for fun.
A syllabus is placed on my desk, and I flinch at the sudden flutter of paper because I can’t help it, but I slip it inside the book and pull out the assignment notebook I got a few minutes ago, flipping it open.
“Do I need anything specific?” I look up at the teacher for a moment before looking down to dig in the backpack for a pen with a good grip on it so my writing won’t be too terrible. Well, I have been practicing too, and it’s easier to write now than it was.
I quickly jot down everything I need for the class and put the book away as the warning bell rings and students begin to file in. Darcy shuffles in, yawning and clutching the mug of coffee she always has. It’s larger than my head, and I’m glad that little things don’t change and that she still has the giant mug. She can’t function in the morning without it. She plops into the seat next to me, looks at me briefly, and places her head on the desk tiredly for a moment before popping back up, bolt upright. I smile a little at the fact that she reacted like I had always been there. It was oddly pleasant to think I could blend in a little bit, but Darcy was always tired in the mornings. I’d pass her in the hallway, and she’d be leaning against lockers, trying and failing to stay awake.
“Carter!” she squeals, moving to hug me but stopping herself and leaning back, seemingly unsure if I want a hug or not, and I don’t, so I appreciate her stopping. “I didn’t know you were coming back. I would have brought you coffee or something.” I smile a little more, but it falls off my face quickly, smiling feels a little wrong when I’m imprisoned in a school.
“Yeah,” I say softly after a moment. “I’m back and stuff. And don’t bring me coffee. Bring me a cinnamon bun. Those are so good.” She makes happy noises because there is no other description besides happy noises, and they’re really nice. The bell rings, and the teacher takes an immediate command of the classroom.
“Darcy, it’s good to see you awake,” he begins as everyone laughs, including Darcy. He launches into a quick explanation of rational exponents and how we should remember them from last year and how we’re going to build on them now, and then he collects the homework and passes out the homework from the last class. It’s incredibly efficient.
The rest of the class blurs by as I scribble notes on a piece of paper I borrowed from Darcy, trying to catch everything the teacher says and write it all down somewhat legibly. The teacher finishes his lesson, assigns homework, and sits at his desk with five minutes left of class. I turn to Darcy so I can press her for information.
“Is class always like this?” I say.
“Yeah, usually. I mean, I think so.” She yawns hugely, gently pushing her hair off her shoulders. Darcy may have more hair on her head than anyone I’ve ever encountered.
“I mean,” she continues, “I’m not always the most awake person. I’m so unsuited for mornings. But yeah, it would seem so.” I ask her next what’s up with school.
“Well, let’s see….” She takes a large gulp of her coffee and tells me that Brittany is still an awful person, (and I’m not looking forward to seeing her this year. Not after what she said to me in the store). Darcy only has one class with her, and that Harper’s been a little bummed because her hearing got a little worse, but she just turns her favorite movies up in volume and added subtitles, and Darcy said that it’s really loud, but she doesn’t mind, and that one of the boys in the drama department transferred to a private school, and she’s worried because there aren’t too many boys floating around in the drama department, and that there are going to be girls who will play boys, which was inevitable anyways, and she keeps going while I nod occasionally before stopping her when the bell rings to ask about her schedule.
My next class is biology, which Darcy is also in along with Brittany, but there are no assigned seats so I am dragged to the table where Darcy camps out, that is, thankfully, in the back of the room, and I sit there quietly and wait for the teacher.
Brittany literally sashays in and sits in the front of the class and doesn’t notice me, but I look down to avoid the chance of eye contact anyways, because she’s just a really awful person, and the encounter I had with her in the store is painful and bright in my memory, and I am glad when the teacher wanders in for a distraction as I repeat my process of getting forms and finding out what I need. As the teacher turns around to get a textbook, I have to pretend I don’t hear my name being hissed with several insults attached to the end of it.
The morning continues in much the same way. Harper wanders into the biology classroom right before the bell and sits at the table, excitedly greeting me, and we chat about superheroes for a few moments, and I find out she’s in my civics and Shakespeare classes, and Darcy is in my poetry class, and they are there to support me, and it’s really weird because I never thought of them as friends before, and the experience is a new one, and it’s strange. I’m not one for friends, but I suddenly have some.
Darcy is a little like Emmett. She’s super friendly with everyone, but she’s also a bit of a loner in the same way I am. She tells me before class starts that she still feels guilty for the party, and I have to ask her what she’s talking about before I remember that she still feels bad about my hand, but that is the furthest thing from my mind, and I tell her and I want her to feel better. She smiles a little before yawning again and practically diving into her coffee mug.
Harper is loyal to Darcy. They’re really loyal to each other, and it’s kind of adorable. And Harper’s so friendly anyways, and she’s ready to accept me as a friend purely based on the fact that Darcy’s glommed onto me, and it’s really cool. And we did party together when we were drunk, but I don’t know how much of that she remembers.
I decide not to ask about the fact that I saw Harper holding Darcy’s hand for almost the entire class. I’ll ask them during lunch because I’ve already been invited to sit with them.