Guy One laughs. Not some short, snickery laugh. A throw-back-his-head, loud, sharp-edged laugh. The kind where everyone turns to see what he’s laughing about laugh.
I check out the floor, wondering if I can pull up the green-and-white squares and hide under them.
Guy Two says, kindly, “New shoes?”
I turn and see the warmth in his voice is echoed in his smile. I can’t tell for sure whether it’s a smile of sympathy or pity, but I manage to nod.
Guy Two winks, turns and disappears into the crowd with Guy One. A wink! A wink? What did that mean? Did it mean anything? Gah! I’m obsessing about a wink. Must. Stop. But … what if he is, you know, That Someone Special?
“Omigawd! If they are just a sample, I am so going to love high school!” Randi fans herself as we dive into the sea of beings in the hall. “First assignment—find out who they are!”
“They’re probably seniors,” Tanya says. “They’ll be gone in June.”
“So?” Randi flips her hair across her shoulders. “I’m not looking for a forever deal. I just want to make the most of freshman year.”
“Whatever.” Tanya searches the locker numbers.
We are nowhere near ours yet, as I know from move-up day last spring, when the then-freshman gave us the Official Guided Sightseeing Tour of Franklin High.
“I’m concentrating on Del,” Tanya says. “I want a guy who’s going to be around for a while.”
Nina and I exchange knowing glances. First day, and already Randi and Tanya are completely fixed on some guys. I swallow a clump of guilt, however, because I’m still hyperventilating over the image of a certain wink. I’m also tiptoeing, so my shoes won’t make any more body-function noises.
Walking four across doesn’t work for long. We are bumped, jolted, jarred and shoved around as if we are insignificant flotsam, which, being freshman, I guess we are. The florescent lights cast a purplish glow on everything and everyone. It doesn’t help that the lockers are a dull maroon and the walls a dark gray. I think maybe that’s supposed to be some version of the school colors, which in reality are red and silver. Whatever. The contrast to sunlight reminds me summer is really over, even if the calendar says there are still two more weeks.
Slammed lockers. Loud voices. The scent of dozens of clashing perfumes, hair sprays, after-shaves. Shifting shadows of tons of kids I’ve never seen before. Sensory overload!
Through the confusing maze we find our lockers, propel ourselves over to them, try the combinations. A reassuring click, and Success! Our lockers open. Warning bell rings. Stampede. Jostle our way to homeroom before we get trampled.
We claim seats in the middle of the first two rows, Randi and Tanya in front of Nina and me. I see a few familiar faces—Tim Cook, Deana Lloyd and Kurt Durand huddle in the back of the room, scoping things out. There are a lot of people I don’t recognize, though. Three middle schools filter into Franklin High, so I figure I’m not going to know two thirds of the kids strolling into homeroom trying to look cool, calm and casual.
One head with a thatch of dark brown flyaway hair sticks up several inches above the rest. He cuts from the herd, comes down my row and plunks himself next to me. I detect a faint earthy aroma, sort of like the freshly-tilled soil of Dad’s vegetable garden. I try not to look at him, but he thrusts a hand the size of a softball mitt at me.
“Howdy.”
I hesitate, then slip my hand in his. I feel thick calluses as he gives my hand a firm yet gentle shake. “Uh, hi.”
I quickly note the work boots, jeans and red shirt with “John Deere” on the pocket. I am thinking, Farmboy.
“I’m Colt Strand. Lincoln Middle School.” He runs his hand over his hair, which tames it for a couple of seconds before it sticks out all over the place again, and not in a good way.
Lincoln is on the west side of Franklin, a more rural area that still has several farms. And Colt for a name? How country can you get? Could I have guessed it, or what? I don’t want him doing some first day of school latching on thing, but I don’t want to be completely unfriendly, even though it would be more convenient. It’s one of my many flaws. “Uh ... Becca Temple. Um ... Truman Middle School.”
Luckily, I am literally saved by the homeroom bell from more conversation. As the last clang sounds, in strolls a tall guy with sun-streaked hair, muscled arms, dark tan. Jeans, sandals, black T-shirt. He looks just old enough to be a teacher. Silence drops like a theater curtain as he surveys the room with a commanding air. He turns, picks up a piece of chalk from the chalkboard tray and writes, Mr. Raynor.
He flips the chalk back on the tray and faces the class. “This is my homeroom. Some of you will have me for ‘You and Others.’”
According to the description in the school handbook, “You and Others” covers “careers to character,” which is a pretty small portion of the alphabet, but a too-wide range of subjects, if you ask me.
The teacher-type points to the board. “Mr. Raynor. This is the last time you’ll hear that name. From now on it’s ‘Duke.’ That’s from Latin, for leader. But I’m not going to lead you. I’m going to teach you. It’s up to you if you want to learn.”
He crosses his arms and stands there like The Terminator. He studies us with eyes the color of green ice.
The loudspeaker at the front of the room comes on, and a sultry voice announces that she is Principal Demchak. She welcomes us to Franklin High, goes on to say how during school hours cell phones, iPods, etc., must be turned off and kept in lockers, backpacks, purses or pockets.
There’s more, but I can’t hear it, because Mr. Raynor, uh, Duke, talks over it, taking attendance and counting how many will be having hot lunch in the school cafeteria. (Not many.) He says, “This crap is busy work, but I have to do it.”
Okay. Practical me is thinking, yeah, it’s probably a pain to do it every morning, but otherwise how else will the office staff know the attendance? How will the lunch-room crew know how much food to prepare? I peek at my schedule, hoping I do not have “Duke,” (who should be a German Shepherd, not a teacher, in my humble opinion) for You and Others. I do. Ugh.
Bell rings. I haven’t heard so many bells, since, well, school ended in June. Randi, Tanya, Nina and I bunch together in the hall before setting off to class. Randi and Tanya have P.E. Randi says “I can’t believe I have to sweat and shower first period!”
“Yeah ....” Tanya says, but she’s looking down the hall at the back of Del Jara’s head. She tugs Randi’s arm. “Let’s go. I think I can catch up to Del if we hurry.”
Randi and Tanya meld into the blob oozing its way down the hallway. Nina and I elbow our way across the unwieldy mass to English class. Maybe it’s the clamor of the hallway or maybe my shoes are getting broken in, but they don’t sound quite so fart-y. Still, I lift and place my feet very carefully. I don’t want to take any chances.
Nina takes a seat in the middle of the first row. I sit next to her. The teacher, in a rumpled brown jacket, runs his hand through his hair as he rests on the corner of his desk like a sack of potatoes, a beaten-down look on his face. It’s the kind of expression teachers usually have months into the school year, not the first day. His name is Dudley McCoy and he’s been around forever. I mean, my dad had him for a teacher. Dad let it slip that Mr. McCoy’s nickname is Deadly Dudley. I can see why. He looks deadly dull.
To make matters less interesting, Farmboy takes the seat on the other side of me and offers another howdy. I nod, figuring that’s enough to be polite without being at all encouraging.
It isn’t long before I discover I was right about the class being totally dull. Deadly is all spelling, punctuation, grammar and sentence structure. Not that that stuff isn’t important, but we had it all through middle school. I can only hope the first day of class is some sort of refresher course and we’ll get into some books or plays or short stories soon. Such as tomorrow.
I regain consciousness in time to hear the bell for second period.
“Well, that was special.” Nina fakes a yawn. “See you fourth period.” She turns and is immediately swept into the massive clump of arms and legs.
She has Russian and I have Latin next. Dad was seriously breathless when he saw that Franklin High still has Latin. He insisted I sign up for it. Needless to say, no one I know is taking it, so I’m on my own for second period.
Ms. Bianco is tall and slender with blonde hair done up in a tight twist. Eyeglasses on a chain hang down against her chest. She’s attractive, yet very businesslike. Her dark snappy eyes look out from a round face, and it is obvious from the start that she loves Latin. I’m almost blinded by the reflection of sunlight bouncing off an engagement ring with a diamond the size of the Mount Hood. By the end of class I am declining the verb, “to love:” amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatus, amant. Maybe Ms. Bianco’s enthusiasm carried things along, but Latin was less boring than English class, not that that is saying much.
I fight my way back to homeroom for You and Others, hoping maybe it’ll be better than I think. Maybe Mr. Raynor, that is, Duke, won’t be too annoying. If not, at least I’ll have Randi, Tanya and Nina to share the misery.
“Okay.” Randi is next to me, talking as if she never left my side. “I know who they are.”
“Um, they?”
“The two gorgeous guys.”
“Oh. Yes ....” I try to sound über casual, but suddenly a certain wink is flashing in my brain like a neon sign.
“They’re seniors.” Randi says this as if, one, there was never any doubt and two, as if what else, she’d never waste time with anyone except a senior. “My hunk is Justin Cardon. He’s a quarterback for the football team, not the starter—but he should be.”
Suddenly Randi can judge football skill potential.
“He goes with Madison Gray. She’s all pretty face and prom queen material, but they fight all the time, so, no problem.”
“Ah,” I say as if I agree with her no-problem assessment of the Justin-Madison situation. Ow! Hey, did someone just pinch my butt? I turn to look, but the hall is so crowded I can’t pick anyone out of the lineup. Maybe it was a wayward pencil.
“The other guy is a senior too, Brent Kincaid. He’s president of the chess club or squash club or something like that.”
“Oh?” I try to hide my interest. Brent Kincaid. What a great name. How Randi could not distinguish between chess and squash is a minor point, but I would like to know which. I mean, maybe I’d lurk around the chess club or squash club. Just out of curiosity. Hey, I’m not a stalker. I am, however, sort of wondering if Brent is going with anyone.
“Brent’s been going with Claire somebody since freshman year. It’s like they’re practically married.” Randi waves her hand in a gesture of disgust. “But who cares about Brent?”
I do, I don’t say. I shouldn’t, of course, especially now that I know he has a girlfriend. While I’m too wussy to go after a guy in the first place, I certainly wouldn’t go after one who’s not single. That would be, like, I don’t know, cheating, and I would never cheat—another one of my downfalls. I try not to hope that Brent and Claire, after three years, are getting tired of each other, because even hoping something like that makes me feel guilty. Why did I have to be born with such an over-developed conscience?
The warning bell rings as we step into You and Others. Tanya and Nina have saved seats for us. We sit down and Randi repeats her bulletin about Justin and Brent. I turn and realize Farmboy is sitting next to me, just like in homeroom. No howdy, only a smile and nod. Thank goodness. I don’t know if I could handle three howdys in one day. I nod, but I leave off the smile.
The bell rings and Duke, who has been sitting at his desk, stands and faces the class. He smiles, big time. His teeth are round and even, like the decorative scallops on the edge of the roof of Nina’s house, only whiter. “There are two things I never want in this class. First.”
Duke (will I ever not want to gag over that name?) turns and writes Bullshit on the blackboard. “Bullshit! I don’t want to see it in you, hear it from you or read it in your papers for this class.”
I see all kinds of nodding, especially from the kids I know who’ve totally perfected the art of bullshitting.
“Second!” Duke writes Self-Justification on the board and underlines it twice. “Take responsibility for what you do. No whining, no excuses, no explaining.”
Again, the nodding heads, mostly from the biggest whiners, excuse-makers and over-explainers.
“No bullshit, no self-justification and we’ll all get along just fine.”
Yeah, yeah, whatever. Are we going to learn anything useful here?
“There’re is no textbook for this class. No lesson plans either.”
Yeah, that might require some work on Duke’s part. How much time is left in this class? I glance at the clock. Forty-seven minutes? Take me away!
“Okay! First question. For the guys.” Duke clenches his jaw and narrows his eyes slightly. “What’s the most important thing to do before going out with a girl?”
Tim Cook yells out, “Go to the ATM!”
Duke cuts off the laughter with a frown. “That’s materialistic.” He points to Kurt Durand. “You.”
Kurt blinks, as if waking up from a long nap. “Uh ....” He rubs his cheek. “Shave. Real close.”
A smattering of laughter.
“No. But you’re on the right track.” Duke looks around the room. “Anyone?”
No one volunteers. Duke stands there for almost a full minute. (I counted). “Masturbate!”
The room fills with gasps, giggles, oohs and whoas. Me? I’m thinking, Ew, let me out of here.
“Masturbate,” Duke repeats, “so you won’t screw around and get a girl pregnant.”
Gag. Pretty sure that’s not in the lesson plans. If this class wasn’t required, I’d drop it.
Tanya turns and whispers to me, “He is so cool!”
Double gag! I look over at Nina and Randi. Yikes. They have the same captivated expression on their faces as Tanya. What is wrong with them? Or is it me? Why am I so not in the same realm with them?
Colt leans over and whispers, “He’s bullshit.”
Great. My thought exactly. But what does that mean, being in the same mental zip code as Farmboy?