3

“Now, the kids in this town are different from city kids. They have been raised right, for the most part.”

Mrs. Carpenter pulled into the Silver High School parking lot and bounced into a parking space. She shut off the truck engine, left the keys hanging in the ignition, and got out. I pressed my back against the seat and closed my eyes.

“Well? Aren’t you coming, Maggie Mae?” she asked after a long moment. I opened my eyes. She was staring at me from her open door.

I thrust my chin forward, took a deep breath, and opened my door.

Every single person in that parking lot—student, parent, and teacher alike—stopped what they were doing and stared. I tried not to make contact with any of those eyes, but somehow my eyes locked on his. I couldn’t help it. He was staring right at me and his eyes were as dark as his inky black hair. By his suddenly raised eyebrows, he was very aware that I was gawking at him. He blinked and walked past.

“Bridger O’Connell, wait!” Mrs. Carpenter called out. My heart seemed to freeze as he stopped and faced her.

“Yes, Mrs. C.?” he asked, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.

“Would you mind showing Maggie Mae around the school while I get her registered?” Mrs. Carpenter nodded toward me.

Bridger glanced from Mrs. Carpenter to me, eyeing me from my stringy wet hair to my shoes, and hesitated.

He wore all the right things—name-brand jeans that fit him like they’d been tailored to his tall body, a tan leather jacket over a button-up shirt—even his backpack looked brand-new. I looked down, hating the fact that my jeans were too long and bunched up over Jenny Sue’s old running shoes, hating the rips over both my knees, hating the black T-shirt that was faded to more of a reddish gray, hating the duffle bag I used in place of a backpack. I wouldn’t want to be seen with me, either.

“I don’t need any help, Mrs. Carpenter. I can show myself around,” I said, not taking my eyes from Bridger’s.

“I don’t mind,” Bridger said halfheartedly, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t want to be seen with you. It might tarnish my image,” I replied, tucking my hair behind my ears. It was easier to go to school when everyone thought you were a loner because you chose to be, not because you were dirt poor and dressed all wrong. “I’ll meet you in the office, Mrs. Carpenter,” I said, glancing at her astonished face before pushing past Bridger O’Connell. He smelled amazing.

For a small town, the school was big, with white tile walls that made it feel antiseptic. I’d been in enough new schools that finding my way around another was second nature. The students stared as I wandered by. Their conversations stopped—until I walked past. And then the halls filled with voices.

After a quick self-guided tour, I made my way to the front office and found Mrs. Carpenter talking to a short, plump woman sitting behind the front desk. The plaque on the desk read SHAUNA WINSLOW. She held a piece of paper out to me.

“Your new schedule,” she said. “Your transcripts arrived this morning and I took the liberty of basing your new classes off the old. Welcome to Silver High.”

“Thanks.” I took the paper and scanned my new schedule. Chemistry, then Algebra II, and then twelfth-grade English followed by lunch and a free period. After that I had Animal Medicine, Health and Wellness, and Agricultural Studies. Animal Medicine sounded interesting, but everything else was just day-filler till I could get my diploma and be done with school forever.

“I’ll show myself to my first class,” I said, looking at Mrs. Carpenter.

“All right, Maggie Mae. I had Shauna write your bus number right here.” She touched the top corner of the schedule. “It’ll drop you off about a quarter mile from my house.”

“ ’Kay,” I replied.

“She’s sure an independent thing,” Shauna Winslow said as I walked out the door.

I wandered down the deserted hall, scanning the closed doors for room 3. When I found it, I put my hand on the icy knob, took a deep breath, and turned.

The smell of rotten eggs and perfume greeted me—lab day.

I scanned the room as I closed the door behind me. Everyone was neatly paired at individual lab tables, doing an experiment with sulfuric acid or some other fragrant chemical.

“May I help you?” the man at the front of the room asked.

“I’m Maggie Mae Mortensen. I’m new to this school and was assigned your class,” I explained. My mouth went dry as every pair of eyes in the class shifted to me.

“There must be some mistake,” the teacher said, shaking his glossy bald head. “Only the brightest students who took my biology class last year are eligible for my advanced chemistry class. And besides, you won’t have a lab partner.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, I just got a schedule from Shauna and it says I’m in this class.”

The teacher strode over to me, yanking the schedule from my fingers without a word. He scanned the schedule and frowned. I focused on his tacky brown tie. “Well. Have you taken chemistry before?”

“Yes, junior year.”

“That solves it. You don’t need to take it again. I’ll go to Principal Smith’s office and get you switched to a more … appropriate class.”

He squeezed past me and out the door. I stood, silent and miserable, and returned the stares of the students.

What felt like a year later, the teacher came back and handed me my schedule.

“All fixed,” he said smugly. Where my chemistry class had been listed was a black line. Written above it in permanent marker were the words “Track and Field—Gym.” I guess I’d just joined the track team.

“Where’s the gym?” I asked.

“I’ll show her, Mr. Guymon!” a female voice piped out. A short, dark-haired girl hurried out of her seat.

“Thank you, Bonnie,” Mr. Guymon said. I could see the relief wash over him as I turned to leave.

“I’m Bonnie Schuler,” Bonnie said, holding her hand out to me as we walked. I placed my hand in hers and shook.

“Maggie Mae,” I replied.

“So, where did you move here from?” she asked, voice as sweet as honey.

“Albuquerque.”

She gasped and grabbed one of my hands in both of hers. “You’re from the city?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I love the city. My family goes there every fall for back-to-school shopping. I got this shirt there.”

I looked at her Abercrombie T-shirt and nodded as if impressed.

“Did you know Albuquerque is the thirty-fourth largest city in the country?”

“No. Didn’t know that.”

“Oh my gosh! And you lived there? How could you not know?”

I shrugged.

“Well, anyway, here we are. The gym. So, do you like running?”

Do I like running? Not particularly, I thought, recalling the grueling days in ninth-grade gym class where the teacher made us run three miles. “Sure,” I answered.

Bonnie started laughing. “I can totally tell you’re from the city.”

“You can?”

“Yeah. You’re so aloof. And your freaky black hair. You totally look Goth.”

I nodded. “Well, thanks for showing me the way, Bonnie,” I said as I pushed the gym door open.

“Sure. And Maggie Mae—” I turned to look at her. “Sit with me at lunch if you want,” she said as she hurried down the hall.

I walked into the silent gym and stared at the hall of fame jerseys tacked to the wall.

“Where are you supposed to be?”

I whirled around.

“I said, where are you supposed to be, young lady?”

A barrel-chested man in his midthirties stared me down from a door leading into what I assumed was the locker room.

“Hi. I’m new. I have Track and Field first period,” I explained, walking over to him and waving my schedule.

He eyed me and frowned. “Did you bring your gym clothes?”

I didn’t own gym clothes. “No, sir.”

“Well, at least you wore tennis shoes,” he said and motioned me to follow him.

We walked down a hallway and through a door that led outside to a football field surrounded by a track. In spite of the sun being up, a thin fog clung to the field.

“I’m Mr. Fergusson. The students call me Coach. We’re doing the fifty-yard dash today, followed by hurdles. You ever done hurdles?”

“No, sir. Never done the fifty-yard dash, either,” I informed him, eyeing the barely visible hurdles set up on the far side of the misty track. My stomach started to flutter.

I turned to Coach, prepared to explain that I had most definitely been dumped into Track and Field by mistake, but as I opened my mouth to speak, he blew the whistle that hung around his neck.

A small group of students dressed in gym shorts, hoodies, and sneakers materialized out of the mist hovering around the bleachers. They began lining up at a line painted across the track.

“Maggie, put your bag down and join the other students,” Coach said gruffly.

I slipped the empty duffle from my shoulder and lined up with the other students. They studied me, their eyes lingering on my jeans. I felt more out of place here than I ever had before. One pair of eyes caught and held mine. It was the boy from the parking lot—Bridger O’Connell. He nodded as if to say hello. I swallowed and looked away.

Coach hustled fifty yards down the track, put the whistle to his lips, and fiddled with a stopwatch. The whistle pealed out and the students burst into action, leaving me in their dust. I blinked, realized I was supposed to be running, too, and dug my toes into the rubbery track.

Mist clung to my face, coating it with a sheen of moisture. My feet pumped, barely touching the ground, and within two seconds I had caught up to the track team. Then I passed them. All of them. I breezed by Coach—and the finish line—and kept following the curve of the track, my feet light as feathers. A grin lit my face. Running, when bullies weren’t after me, felt like flying. And I liked it.

As the first hurdle solidified out of the mist, I leaped and soared over it. The second hurdle was the same. I glided over, hardly impacting the ground when I landed, took a step, and leaped over the next. And the next, until I’d gone all the way around the track.

I couldn’t stop grinning as I skidded to a stop a few yards from Coach and the team.

“Show-off,” someone murmured. “We’re doing the fifty-yard dash, not hurdles.” My smile faltered.

“That was … impressive,” Coach said, eyeing my sneakers. “Have you ever done any type of sprinting before?”

“No, sir.” I panted. “Except when I’d run away from the mean girls at my old school. They couldn’t catch me.”

He studied me for a minute with curious brown eyes. “All right. Maggie, let’s have you and Bridger go to the start line and race the fifty-yard dash again.”

I looked at Bridger and caught the tail end of a scowl scurrying over his face.

“You afraid she’s going to beat you twice, O’Connell?” Coach taunted.

“Not likely,” Bridger said, running a hand through his glossy black hair.

As Bridger and I walked to the start line I studied his long, muscular legs. Not likely was right. I don’t know how I beat him the first time around.

Bridger positioned his toe just at the start line, touching his fingertips on the track, and stared straight ahead. I stood with both my toes on the line, my arms hanging at my sides, and listened for the whistle. And when it blew, I took off.

I never saw Bridger, even in my peripheral view. As I approached Coach I saw the stopwatch in his hand, heard the rhythmic sound of the watch’s ticking until I crossed the finish line and his thumb clicked down on it. But of course that would have been ridiculous, hearing the stopwatch, with my heart pounding in my ears.

Coach started jumping up and down and hollering, punching the hand holding the stopwatch into the air over and over again. “You set a new school record!”

“Are you serious?” I asked, completely dumbfounded. I knew I was fast, had learned to be out of necessity, but setting a new record?

“She beat the school record! She beat your dad’s thirty-year-old record, Bridger!” Coach hollered. “I can’t believe it!”

Bridger stood just past the finish line with his hands on his knees and his head down, breathing hard and studying me out of the corner of his eye. The rest of the team hovered around Coach and his stopwatch. A couple were smiling, but the others were frowning, looking between Bridger and me. I guess they weren’t hoping I’d lead the school to victory.

We never raced hurdles that day. Instead, Coach had me individually race the fifty-yard dash with every person on the team. Twice. I beat them all.

“You’re a natural,” Coach said, slapping a hand on my shoulder as we walked back to the lockers. “Tomorrow, bring your gym clothes. We’ll do hurdles. I promise.”

I nodded, trying to catch my breath.

News of my running traveled fast. In my next two classes, the students were whispering about it before I sat down. And most of them were scowling at me, as if setting a new school record was like infecting everyone with head lice.

At lunch, I looked for Bonnie and found her looking for me. I sighed with relief. There’s nothing more embarrassing than sitting alone at lunch while everyone stares at you.

“Hi!” Bonnie chimed. “Are you buying lunch or did you bring something?”

I scowled. Mrs. Carpenter and I had completely forgotten about my lunch and I didn’t have a dime I could call my own. “I’m not hungry,” I lied, eyeing her tray. The cafeteria was serving tacos, applesauce, Jell-O, and cookies. My stomach grumbled.

“Not hungry? After all your running this morning, you don’t even want a Sprite or anything?”

“No. I’m good.”

I followed her to a long row of noisy tables where the seniors sat. Bonnie sat on the second-to-last seat at a narrow rectangular table, and I filled the last. Everyone stopped talking and turned to stare at Bonnie and me.

“What?” Bonnie asked, baffled. “This is the new girl I was telling you guys about. From Albuquerque? I told her she could sit with us.”

I studied the students. Bridger O’Connell sat at the center of the table, surrounded by the school’s prettiest girls and best-dressed boys, and they were all shooting daggers in my direction. Bridger was obviously still mad that I’d beat him, and beat his dad’s old track record. And, apparently, so were the students sitting with him. In fact, his dislike seemed contagious. Everyone in the cafeteria was glaring at me—not just the seniors.

As one, every single person at the senior table, except Bonnie, turned their backs to me. Bonnie, her face as red as the tomatoes on her taco, looked at me as if I might be infectious. She was faced with a choice. Be my friend and lose all her others, or ditch me and keep her reputation intact.

“Um,” she mumbled, studying her lunch. She was nice. Too nice to tell me that she didn’t want to be friends.

“Gee, Bonnie. You know, actually I am a little bit hungry. I think I’ll go check out the vending machines. I’ll see ya,” I said. She looked at me, relief plain in her eyes.

“Oh. All right, Maggie Mae. Maybe I’ll see you around or something.”

“Yeah. Probably,” I answered, forcing a smile to my face as I stood from the table and walked away. Of course she’d see me around. She just wouldn’t notice me.

I found a quiet spot by the girls’ bathroom and leaned against the brick wall, waiting for lunch to end. I had eaten at just such a spot at my last school.

“This spot’s taken,” a voice said.

I turned and stared into a pair of chocolate eyes framed by sleek black hair and olive skin.

“What?” I said.

“That’s my spot.” She motioned to the wall I was leaning against.

I crossed my arms and gritted my teeth. Was a spot by the girls’ bathroom worth fighting over? She crossed her arms over her chest and glared.

“Wait a sec,” the girl said, a smile tugging the side of her mouth. “Are you the new girl? Who kicked the entire track team’s asses this morning?”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

She let her arms fall to her sides. “That rocks. I wish I could have seen it. I’m Yana.” She looked at the brick wall and shrugged. “I suppose there’s room for two.”

“Yeah. That would be nice.” I let my arms relax and sank down to the floor.

Yana sat beside me and pulled a plastic fork and Styrofoam box out of her camouflage-print backpack—the kind of box you get from a restaurant for leftovers. She opened the lid and took a bite of something orange and lumpy.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

“From my grandpa’s restaurant. He sent it home with me last night after my shift.”

“You work at a restaurant?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it pay well?”

Yana shrugged. “I mostly get paid in tips. Some nights it doesn’t pay all that well, but on a good weekend night, I’ve come home with more than a hundred dollars.”

That sounded like a fortune. I could imagine having my own money. “Are you guys hiring?”

“Why? You need a job?”

“Yeah.”

Yana pulled a piece of paper from her backpack and jotted down a name and address. “Stop in and fill out an app. Ask for Naalyehe. He’s the tall leathery guy with a heart of gold—and my grandpa. You can’t miss him. Tell him Yana sent you.”