Mr. Grayson’s head swivels around when I open the door to his classroom. My mother calls Mr. Grayson a fussy man. Mostly, the male teachers at this school dress in chinos or jeans. Mr. Grayson doesn’t. He always wears a suit and tie, and nine times out of ten he has a vest on under his suit jacket. He carries his lesson plans and test papers in a leather briefcase. No backpacks for him. He is a real stickler for propriety. And for the rules, most of which he made up and apply only to his classroom.
Rule number one is always be on time. Be in your seat on time. Hand in your assignments on time. Get your permission slips and your report cards signed on time.
Rule number two is always knock.
I don’t knock, which is why his eyes are squinty behind the windows of his glasses. At first I’m sure he’s going to say something sarcastic, the way he always does when someone is late or misbehaving. He does this because he knows that if there’s one thing every teenager on the planet is afraid of, it’s being made fun of. Being made to look and feel ridiculous. Having people laugh at him—or her.
But today he doesn’t whip off a sarcastic remark. Instead, his eyes register the same surprise as Mr. Michaud’s.
“Oh,” he says. “It’s you, Addie.” He recovers enough to add, “It’s good to have you back.” I can’t tell if he means it.
I take a seat—my seat, which is empty, as if it has been waiting for me all this time. The rasping sound as I pull out the chair fills the deep silence of the classroom.
I sit.
Mr. Grayson clears his throat and points to the board, where he has written some notes. I stare at them, but I don’t copy them down. I don’t volunteer any answers either. I don’t even pretend to listen. It doesn’t matter. Mr. Grayson goes on as if I’m not there.
I know without looking that kids are stealing glances at me. I know that one of those people is Neely. She’s sitting where she has been since the beginning of the school year, over by the window. I turn and catch her sneaking a look at me. Her pale face turns crimson, and she ducks her head.
I glance at the person beside her. It’s Kayla. She looks me in the eye, as if daring me to do anything to her. I meet her gaze and hold it, unblinking, until she finally looks away. When she does, I feel myself expand, as if I’ve devoured her. This is why I’m here. This is exactly the feeling I have been imagining.
Emboldened, I turn my attention to my next victim. John. His head is down, but I see him trying to peek at me out of the corner of his eye. It turns out he’s a bigger coward than either of the girls. He doesn’t look up, even though I can tell by the redness of his ears that he knows I’m watching him. He can’t—or won’t—acknowledge me.
Finally the bell rings. My heart begins to race. My neck tenses, then my shoulders, in what Dr. Zorbas calls preparation for fight or flight. My breath quickens. I try to slow it down by counting as I breathe—in, two, three, out, two, three. Meanwhile, all around me, kids are flooding out of the classroom. Neely almost knocks some of them over in her dash for the door. John isn’t far behind her.
I take my time.
I walk slowly out of the classroom and down the hall. I know exactly where I am going to find her.
I don’t want to talk to her, but I have to. At least, I think I do, right up until I catch sight of her at her locker. Her locker door is open, and she is half-hidden by it. I see flashes of her hair, not as blond now as it was two months ago. I see some girls looking at her—Shayna and Kayla and Jen. They’re the girls Neely ogled all last year. They’re the ones she was determined to get to know. The ones she was so desperate to hang out with. They’re looking at her now, but they’re not standing with her or clustered around her for support. Jen spots me and says something, her mouth half-hidden behind her hand. The other two nod. But they don’t say anything to Neely. I wonder why.
I wait. Neely scurried out of class like a mouse desperate to get to its hole before the cat could trap her. She’s doing her best to make herself invisible. Does she know I’m standing here? Are the hairs on the back of her neck standing up? Does she have that prickly feeling you get when you think someone is staring at you? Will she close her locker door and meet my eyes?
If she does, then what?
I wait. I ask myself, What did you expect?