SEVEN

September 9th

Grade ten is just millimoments away from starting.

Merde sandwich!

The first day back at school always blows big time. But for some reason, adults always expect us to be excited at the idea of getting back to school. When in fact the reality is, unless you’re a cheerleader, a browner, or a clueless, drugged-out motorhead, it’s the worst day of the year. And for me, this year is shaping up to be worse than any other. Facing high school with no friends is one thing. But doing it on zero sleep, under the umbrella of certain death, just two weeks after the most important person in your life secretly offed herself is indescribably heinous.

I take the long way to school, delaying the inevitable as long as possible. Today I’m feeling more like a ghost than a girl. My feet make their way down the sidewalks and across the streets like they’re on autopilot, but the entire time my head is completely lost in my thoughts. For two days and two nights now, I haven’t been able to get Aunt Su’s letter out of my head. Not even for a second.

You are going to make a big difference in someone’s life.

What does that mean? Really. I’m just a sleepless kid from a village that dreams of being a town. How is someone like me going to make a difference? I mean, does she think I’m going to use these long night hours to change the world or something?

Outside the school, kids are hanging together in small, mostly blond groups. All the exact same cliquey formations from last year — as if the past three months haven’t even happened. Avoiding eye contact with all of them, I duck around the corner from the chattering crowd and squat down on the pavement, waiting for the first bell to ring.

So in case you haven’t realized it yet, I’m kind of what you’d call the odd girl out. And not just at school. I’m the odd girl out pretty much everywhere I go. Never been part of any group and never really wanted to be. My mom likes to tell people I’m shy. She thinks it makes me sound halfway normal. I hate it when she does that. “Shy” is a lame way to try to make me sound like a person who’s afraid of other people. I’m not afraid of other people. I just prefer my own company. “Introvert” is a much better word for someone like me. Aunt Su always used to warn me that the world will interpret introversion as snobbery, so I’d better get used to a snooty reputation. She knew that from first-hand experience.

Lucky for me, I usually don’t care what other people think.

“Hey, Lily.”

See? I’m so used to being left alone that, for a second, I don’t even realize someone is talking to me.

“Lily?” the voice tries again, a little louder this time.

I look up, shielding my eyes from the bright morning sun. Emma Swartz is standing in front of me, hands awkwardly gripping the straps of her backpack. Her red hair bounces over her freckled shoulders in a series in perfect spirals.

“Hey,” I say. It sounds more like a question than a reply. Except for that one time at Aunt Su’s cabin, Emma and I haven’t spoken two words to each other since I snuck away from her birthday party and pulled the arms off her Barbie doll collection in senior kindergarten. Why is she talking to me now?

She shuffles her flip-flopped feet against the cement. Her toenails are painted almost the exact same shade as her hair. Just a couple of gradients on the colour wheel away from Beet It.

“I just wanted to say … you know … sorry about your aunt dying. That really sucks. She seemed really nice …you know … I used to see her in my dad’s store sometimes.”

Emma’s father owns our village’s only bookstore, Beachside Books. He used to invite Aunt Su in for author visits every once in a while. Remembering this now, my defences lower slightly.

“Thanks,” I mumble, blinking hard to kill the stinging in my eyes. Okay, you’ve said sorry. You can leave now. But, apparently, Emma has more she needs to get off her chest.

“Yeah, every time she came to the store, she used to draw crazy cartoons of herself inside her novels. Always a different one in each book.”

She smiles as she speaks about Aunt Su, making her braces glitter in the sunlight. Against all my better judgement, I feel myself softening a bit.

“Yeah, she liked doing stuff like that,” I say, thinking about the funny little sketches she’d drawn inside my birthday cards every year. The one from my last birthday is the best — it’s a picture of me and Aunt Su lying awake under a field of purple and green stars, making faces at the man on the moon. Since the day she died I’ve been passing the nights with it right next to my bed, hoping it’ll somehow help me get to sleep. And then I think about the angel drawing from her suicide note and my insides turn back to cement.

“So anyways,” Emma continues, “I just wanted to tell you that … well, I always thought your aunt was pretty cool.”

Yeah, I thought so too, until she killed herself and abandoned me. I can feel an angry scream start to rise in my throat, but I push it back down. Don’t need to expose my freak around this school any more than I already have.

“Thanks,” I say instead.

“By the way, I like the purple.”

“Huh?”

Emma lets out a funny, snorty kind of laugh. It sounds so much like a backward sneeze that I almost say gesundheit. “You know, in your hair? It’s awesome.”

My hands fly up to my jaggedy head. I almost forgot about the colour treatment I put in.

“Thanks. I did it myself.”

“Really?” She sounds genuinely impressed. “Maybe you’ll show me how sometime?”

I don’t know what to say to that. Next thing, she’ll be inviting me over to do our nails and watch High School Musical. I can feel my defences creeping back up again. That’s when the first bell rings, mercifully saving me from any more attempts at small talk.

“See ya ’round,” I say, happy to pull myself up off the pavement and make my escape into the school. Pushing my way through the crowd, I head straight to class so I can snag one of the choice seats in the back of the room. The seat you get on the first day is almost always the one you end up with for the rest of the semester, so it’s vital to choose wisely. But when I walk through the door of my homeroom, my heart sinks to the floor. I’m too late — the entire back three rows are already claimed. Half blind with irritation, I slump into an empty third-row seat, silently cursing myself for getting caught up with chit-chatty Emma and not getting here on time.

The second bell rings out, cutting through the buzz of excited voices and warning us to shut our traps. Our homeroom teacher rises to his feet, holding a crumpled piece of paper in his left hand. Mr. Becker. All the kids call him Pecker behind his back. He’s our pervy phys. ed. instructor from last year who used to leer at all the pretty girls in their skimpy school-issued gym shorty-shorts. Even though it went against the official dress code, I always wore black leotards under my pair. As a result, after a full ten months of daily dodge ball and badminton sessions, I don’t think he even knows my name. Not that he’d leer at me anyway. I don’t think I’m the kind of girl pervy gym teachers look at that way.

As soon as the anthem is over, Pecker ambles to the front of the room, a painful smile glued to his face. He’s one of those old men who always look like they’re holding back a fart. You know the type.

“Welcome back to the start of another year. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Mr. Becker.” I groan inwardly. For those of you who don’t know me? What is he talking about? The exact same group of kids has been going to this school since junior kindergarten. Who doesn’t know Pecker?

“We’ll start with attendance, and then I’ll pass around the seating plan, locker assignments, and class schedules,” he continues. “But before we begin, I’d like to introduce a brand new student.” He pauses here, as if to let the effect of this announcement sink in.

“That’s right, a new student. Mr. Benjamin Matthews will be joining us this year, all the way from Upper Canada College in Toronto.”

The classroom chatter drops a little in volume while everyone looks around to locate the private school newbie. Everyone except me, that is. New kids in our midst are a rare occurrence. But inevitably they turn out to be as dull as the rest of the nitwits around this place.

“Says here that last year, Benjamin was … let’s see …” Pecker pauses for a second to consult the crumpled mess in his hand. “… the editor of his high school’s newspaper, the treasurer of his student council, and the vice-president of his Junior Achievement executive team. I’m hoping that means we can expect great things from him at Big Bend High. Benjamin, would you stand up so we can all see who you are? People, please help me welcome him to our school.”

My ears twitch with intrigue at the word editor. Is this new kid a writer like me? It’s almost enough to get me excited. I’ve never met anyone else my age who wanted to be a writer. But when a familiar voice speaks from behind me, rising just slightly above the drone of conversation, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end. It’s a voice so bored, I know right away it can only belong to one person.

“It’s Ben. Just Ben,” the voice says.

An invasion of shivers lands on my skin. I think I actually stop breathing.

So.

Rude Dude has a name.

I blink slowly and whisper the name so quietly, it sounds like a breath.

Ben.

Only three letters, but it explodes in my mouth like a handful of Pop Rocks chased with cola.