Liv skidded into homeroom at the clang of the bell, earning applause from the teacher and hoots from her friends, quite the opposite reaction Doug would receive. She took the open seat, right in front, and was glad that the hour was taken up with first-day preliminaries: going over schedules, the year calendar, the sorts of things devoid of emotion.
She didn’t realize how much she’d been dreading second period until she sat down at a desk, this time way in back, to the confusion of Phil and Darla, and felt her muscles tighten against the chair. It was English, the class that should have been taught by her father, in the same room she’d visited so many times as a kid. The teacher who’d replaced Mr. Fleming, both as English teacher and drama coach, Ms. Baldwin, had made the room her own, but Liv couldn’t stop seeing the shelf behind Baldwin’s desk that had once held thirty-five copies of James Galvin’s Resurrection Update—the book that had meant so much to Lee Fleming, right up until the end.
The shelf didn’t even hold books anymore. It held idiotic troll dolls with multicolored hair. It shouldn’t have aggravated Liv, but it did. She had avoided exchanging a single word with Ms. Baldwin in the two years they’d shared the same building, even though the woman had done nothing worse than show an affinity for ugly dolls. Liv knew it wasn’t fair to Baldwin. It was only English.
Then Baldwin said the five words that earned any teacher ire: Get to know your neighbor. Next to the imbecilic Name Game, it was the most tedious of first-day time wasters, in which students were forced to pair off, interview a classmate, and then introduce that classmate aloud. Ridiculous, considering the size of the school and how long most of them had known one another. The shtick was likely for Baldwin’s benefit, another reason for Liv to resent it.
Mired in disgruntlement, Liv moved too slowly. Darla chose Phil, of course, and every teammate Liv could see quickly paired off. She was recalculating when a fist knock-knocked her desk. She looked to her right and found the wide, dazzling grin of a boy she’d never seen before. He was tall and long-limbed. What stuck out most was his obvious sense of style, a rare quality in high school boys. His clothing was probably secondhand but actually fit, and was tucked and rolled where most guys would have ends flapping and flopping.
“I’m Bruno!” he cried, as if they were long-lost companions.
The grin kept going. He had great teeth, their bright white set off against skin further darkened by actual stubble. Hair, indeed, looked to be his biggest struggle: It puffed from beneath his shirt cuffs, and a gallon of gel must have been used to sculpt that swoop on top of his head. Liv looked all right today—she’d gotten up early to tie her hair in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Bruno’s unguarded gaze, though, made her doubt.
“I’m Liv,” she said.
“Yeah, I know. Let’s buddy up.”
Buddy up? Liv threw out a desperate look for someone who might be less challenging than this guy, and, finding none, shrugged. Bruno scooted his desk; it bumper-carred against hers. Everyone else was doing the same, and the noise helped Liv relax. She took out a fresh notebook and inked on the first page BRUNO.
“Let’s see: I’m Bruno Mayorga, I’m seventeen, I was born in Nuevo León—that’s a Mexican state—but was still a baby when I came to Iowa. I only moved to Bloughton this summer, but I plan to work on the school paper, and do lots of drama, and also chorus, and hopefully a couple small groups. I’ll probably join the tennis team, even though I’m not very good, but I hear the team is terrible, so maybe I’ll actually get to play. I have three sisters named Mia, Elena, and Bianca, and three dogs. I’m into music, but that’s super boring. Why did I even mention that? Who’s not into music? Oh, my dad is still in Mexico. I basically don’t know him. I know you don’t really have a dad, too. I don’t mean to be awkward about that. Sorry if that’s awkward.”
Liv finished writing before exhaling.
“You’re an easy interview,” she said.
“Yeah, but that’s because I want to talk about something else.”
Liv felt her shoulders close up as they did any time her past was questioned. Don’t do that, she instructed herself. Be the tallest you can.
“And what’s that?” she asked.
He clicked his own pen, gestured at his blank page.
“Let’s get this done first. You’re Olivia Fleming. I’m guessing you’re also seventeen? You don’t have any siblings, if I remember what I heard, and you’re in like twenty-eight sports.”
“Where’d you learn all that?”
“Oh, just from people this summer. I always do some groundwork before starting at a new school.”
“Why do you keep starting at new schools?”
Another big grin, though this one looked strained. “Hey, we’re done with me. Did I get all your details right? No pets?”
“Yeah, a dog.”
“Oh! Tell me about the dog. Dogs go over great in these things. If you’ve got a picture on your phone we might not have to talk at all.”
“Well, his name is John, and he’s a blue-heeler mix—”
“His name is John?”
“My dad named him. After a poet.”
“Which poet?”
“I can’t remember. John somebody.”
Bruno laughed. It fit with his grin—comforting, welcoming. He took a note.
“‘Dog named after John the poet.’ That’s good stuff. Anything else?”
Liv sighed. “What’s the point? All these people know me. We’ve been going to school together forever.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Yeah, but you get the basic idea about someone, just by being awake. You can tell who’s nice or whatever.”
“Am I nice? Or am I whatever?”
“You’re nice.”
“Then why do you look so scared of me?”
“I’m not scared. I just—you’re talkative. And I’m tired.”
“Haven’t had your coffee yet. You’re definitely a coffee drinker.”
“I guess you can add that to your notes. ‘Drinks coffee.’ God, that’s why these things suck. You either sound boring or like you’re desperate for attention.”
“And it’s probably hardest for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. Your dad. Like, that’s interesting. I’ve only heard a little bit of it, and even I can tell it’s super interesting. But because it’s unhappy, we all have to pretend like it doesn’t exist. ‘I drink coffee, and my dog is named John’ sort of pales in comparison.”
Liv gave Bruno a careful look. Was the offhand way in which he mentioned her dad disturbing or disarming? Nothing duplicitous could hide behind such a smile.
“You said you wanted to talk about something,” she said.
Bruno leaned closer and raised a conspiratorial eyebrow.
“I saw you bust up those guys this morning, and it was amazing.”
Liv slapped down her pen and covered her eyes.
“Oh Jesus. Is the video out already?”
“No! I mean, I don’t know. I saw it in person.”
“There were people watching?”
“It isn’t like there was a whole crowd. It was just me. You didn’t see me because you were busy kicking all sorts of ass. Like I said, I want to join the chorus. I went down there to introduce myself to Mrs. Meachum.”
“I’m going to end up in the video, I just know it, and then it’s just going to be more…”
“More what?”
“More I have to deal with. Like why I’m still sticking up for Doug Monk.”
“What’s wrong with sticking up for Doug Monk?”
“In all your summer spying, you never heard anything about Doug Monk?”
“Not spying. Research. And no, he never came up.”
“What am I supposed to say? I guess he’s an old friend.”
“And your new friends don’t like him. That’s how it goes.”
“They just don’t understand … I mean, unless you know Doug, he can seem … he’s tough to talk to. His family life is weird. He’s basically on his own. It’s hard.”
“Well, I think what you did was heroic. It was about the most heroic thing I’ve ever seen. You’re a hero.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious here. It was really, truly amazing. You see that stuff in movies, but in real life? You tore those assholes new assholes.”
“If I’d been a guy, it would’ve gone totally different. There’d be pride issues, and they would’ve beaten me up. See how heroic I am?”
“I think you’re selling yourself short. If that’s true, then how come more girls don’t go on Liv Fleming–style anti-bully rampages? Because they’re scared. I’d be scared, too. That’s why you’re my hero, and that’s my final word on the subject.”
Bruno crossed his arms and lifted his chin in defiance. Liv rolled her eyes, but there was a squirming in her stomach she mistook for dread before identifying it as dread’s opposite. Her relationship with Doug had been soaked in stigma for so long that she couldn’t trust any positive feelings anywhere near it. She stared down at the list of Bruno’s sisters in a desperate hunt for a topic change.
“You were saying hi to Mrs. Meachum, huh? Really getting a head start on the brownnosing.”
“Hardy-har. I actually happen to like teachers. Plus, I’m not above a little brownnosing. They’re casting for Oliver! next week, and if I don’t get a lead, these hallways are going to be ringing with my sobs. With my beautifully musical, pitch-perfect sobs.”
A funny thing to say, but Liv didn’t hear it. At the word Oliver!, it was like coal dust had been poured over her head. Her vision went dark, her brain darker. The word sat on the desk before her like a scorched, unidentifiable, yet disgusting object, something vaguely threatening and not definitively dead. She wanted to push her desk away in hopes that the object would drop to the floor and she could ignore it like a dead roach.
Bruno had quit talking. He ducked his head into her field of vision.
“Liv?”
She blinked, barely seeing him, then crawled her eyes through the room of oblivious natterers to the teacher standing before her stupid shelf of dolls. Mrs. Meachum might be handling the musical side of the play, but it was Baldwin who selected the productions, cast them, and directed them. Liv grit her teeth and let the feelings seep in.
“That bitch.”
“Baldwin?” Bruno shrugged. “This assignment isn’t that bad.”
Only this boy’s recent arrival made him any less ignorant than anyone else. Oliver! was intimately linked to Mr. Fleming’s downfall. It had been his final production, the one that had proven to everyone that he had no place in civilized society. A mere five plays had passed in the interim, and Baldwin thought that was long enough to bring Oliver! back?
Ten minutes later, Liv’s entire body quaked with a level of anger she could barely rein in. There was no need for Baldwin to fish around for volunteers to go first. Liv raised her hand and stood, to the surprise of Bruno, who, by his big grin, had clearly expected to launch their joint interview. Liv ignored him; she ignored the other students; she recalled lessons of speech classes past and focused on her audience, which numbered one: Ms. Baldwin.
“My name is Liv Fleming,” she said in a trembling voice, “and the fact that you’re doing Oliver! this year makes me sick. You don’t have any sensitivity at all. You’re a terrible, terrible person. I hope you go to hell.”