12
It was strange, going to school without Martinez. For all those years at the elementary school, he was like a parrot on my shoulder. He got nervous about the first day of school. He was bummed that he couldn’t play video games all day anymore. He knew which kids at school were the bullies and the tattletales, and he dreaded seeing them. And he would chatter about it every morning, as Taleesa dropped us off at Houmahatchee Elementary. As the big sister, I was the one who had to calm him down, the one who had to make sure his lunch wasn’t poking out of his backpack, the one who warned him his britches weren’t zipped. (Martinez hates the word “britches,” which Dad uses from time to time. Dad, and grizzled old prospectors in Westerns. And me, sometimes, because it annoys Martinez.)
Now we were driving to Houmahatchee High, a place where twelve-year-olds like me would wander the halls alongside seniors with mustaches and sophomores in Air Force ROTC uniforms. Suddenly I realized that, for all those years, taking care of Martinez kept me from being scared myself.
“Why do you keep checking your fly?” Taleesa asked. “Is something going on down there? You know, it’s almost time for all those changes that turn a girl into—”
“STOP!” I said. “Just stop, T. Don’t make this whole thing any weirder than it is.”
I can’t remember when I didn’t know about the birds and the bees, because my parents believe in “being frank and honest” and they talk all the time about how all this realistic information will keep me from getting pregnant in high school. And they are totally correct. I am never getting pregnant. I am never ever doing any of that.
“You’re already sounding like a teenager,” Taleesa said.
“Uuugh,” I replied, realizing suddenly that I did sound just like a teenager in some dumb sitcom. But why couldn’t she see that it wasn’t me that was changing? It was circumstances that were changing. One minute I’m doing my real life’s work, darn near running the animal shelter, and the next minute I’m thrust into Teen World against my choice. I wanted to say this so much but somehow it just came out as a big ball of frustration. “Uuugh.”
Martinez didn’t have any problem when we dropped him off at Houmahatchee Elementary.
“With Atty gone, now I can assert my rightful kingship over this place,” he said as we pulled in to the drop-off. “So long, great oppressor.”
“So long, Britches,” I shouted as he got out of the car.
“I’ve got ninety-nine problems,” he shot back, but I pulled the door shut before he could finish.
And then we pulled up to Houmahatchee High, a big chunk of cinder-block building. The building was new, just finished last year, but it looked spookily familiar.
“This thing looks just like the county jail,” I said. “It looks like a big nursing home where people go to watch Wheel of Fortune and die.”
“Check yourself before you poke fun,” Taleesa said. “You don’t have any idea what people are doing in their free time at a nursing home. It’s okay to be crotchety and grumpy at twelve, but don’t go projecting it on somebody you never met.”
Adding to the jailhouse atmosphere, there was a deputy standing outside, the school resource officer. I felt a little twinge when I saw the car and the uniform, but as we pulled closer it was clear it was definitely not Troy Butler, but some older balding guy who smiled and waved at everybody. Probably retired.
The guy standing next to the resource officer wasn’t in uniform, but he seemed a lot more like a cop. Aviator glasses, a little bushy mustache, three-piece suit, with a big radio in one hand. As we pulled up I could see him stopping some of the taller boys and looking close at them to see if they’d shaved properly.
“I guess that’s Dr. Dalton, the vice principal,” Taleesa said. “Looks like he’s the disciplinarian. Good luck.”
I got out, hoisted my backpack over my shoulder, and headed for the door of the school. At first, Dalton didn’t notice me—he was busy telling some girl her dress was too short—and I tiptoed past. But just as I reached for the door: “Young lady,” he said. “Come here, my friend.”
I turned. The aviator glasses were looking me up and down. Creepy. So I looked right back at him the same way.
“Are you going to go all the way into school without saying hello?” he said. “Is that polite and respectful? Is that the Purple Devil way?”
So we’re doing this.
“I’m sorry, hello.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m—”
“Let me make something really clear from the outset,” Dalton said. “We have rules here. Purple Devils are polite. You’ll always say hello. You’ll always acknowledge when someone else is there. You’ll always lend a hand.”
I nodded. I’m a smart aleck, but I know when to keep my mouth shut.
“And you’ll wear a belt. That’s in the dress code, for young men and young women. We went over this at orientation, so you know this.”
“I missed orientation,” I said. “I know it’s strange, but my mom’s a writer and she’s bad to forget stuff when she’s working.”
“Purple Devils don’t make excuses,” he said. “You’re in high school now. Seventh grade, but high school. You’re becoming an adult, and you need to take responsibility for your actions, not blame your parents. Now give me a 341.”
“A what?”
Dalton sighed, reached into his pocket and pulled out three folded-up slips of paper. “Each of these is a Form 341. You carry three of them around in your right front shirt pocket. You’re supposed to wear a shirt with a front pocket. Every time I see you commit an infraction, I can ask you for a 341. When you have none left, or when you lose your 341s, that’s a trip to the office. Understood?”
“Understood.” I turned to leave. “Why is it called a 341?”
“It’s based on Air Force Form 341,” he said. “The military uses it in basic training. And, here, since you don’t have one, is a copy of the Houmahatchee Code of Conduct. Now: aren’t you going to say hello?”
All right, I thought, time to turn on the lawyer stuff. I thrust my hand out.
“Atticus T. Peale, pleased to meet you,” I said.
And just like that, the angry-cop face went away.
“Atticus . . . hey, you’re Colonel Peale,” he said, suddenly bright and almost chummy. “You’re friends with Governor King.”
“We’ve met,” I said. “I wouldn’t say we’re close.”
“Well, I’m a big fan of Governor King,” he said. “It’s good to have a strong conservative man in charge. What’s he like in person?”
I shrugged.
“He likes cookies,” I said. “He doesn’t like alligators.”
Dalton’s face clouded over again. Guess I shouldn’t have been so flippant about it.
“Well, a lot of people would love to have his ear,” Dalton said. “A lot of people who don’t have connections in the political world. You’re lucky to get to meet him.”
And that was my introduction to seventh grade. There, see what I mean? Seventh-graders live in a madhouse run by madmen. We’re not crazy, and we’re not going through a phase. I’d like to see Backsley Graddoch running around with 341s in his front pocket. Imagine how he’d behave!
Inside the school lobby, there was a giant mural of a sinister-looking purple demon with a football in one hand and a pitchfork in the other. And next to him, in bold letters, the Houmahatchee Code of Conduct:
Purple Devils are Honest.
Purple Devils are Sweet.
Purple Devils are Decorous.
Purple Devils Look Up Words They Don’t Know.
Purple Devils Respect Tradition.
Purple Devils are Humble.
And on and on. There were maybe fifty items. I hoped they wouldn’t ask us to remember them all.
I pulled a crumpled sheet out of my pocket. When we missed orientation, the school district mailed us a nastygram with my locker number on it and the name of my homeroom teacher, Ms. Pinson. So, let’s find this locker.
As I headed down the hall, I realized something: I was scared. Genuinely scared. Facing judges and governors never was all that hard. Other kids, though, that was hard. They’re all so handsome and pretty, they laugh and say funny things, and I never feel like I really get what’s going on in their heads. I want to say cool, fun things, too, but my head just isn’t in the same place.
In the hallway, I saw a lot of new faces. Skater boys looking awkward without their boards. Beefy rednecks with crooked smiles and camouflage jackets. Tall volleyball girls who looked like they could jump across the Grand Canyon and still land on Barbie-doll tiptoes.
And Premsyl Svoboda. Leaning against his locker, talking to some girl with big glasses who clutched her books against her chest and laughed with big, braces-covered teeth. Whoever she was, she liked him, and he knew it. And it wasn’t hard to see why. He was taller now, with his blond hair in a cool, floppy cut. He looked very ready for high school.
I looked at my locker number and groaned. No. 622. Premsyl was leaning on locker number 623.
“Hey, Premsyl,” I said.
“Hey, Atty,” he said.
“Pretzel?” chuckled Braces Girl. “Did she just call you Pretzel?”
“Only my mom calls me that now, Atty,” Premsyl said. “The kids on the Genius Bowl team call me P.J.”
“P.J. is like the king of Genius Bowl, aren’t you?” Braces Girl said.
“I wouldn’t be if Atty were on the team,” Premsyl said. “She’s super smart. You could join, Atty.”
“I probably won’t have time,” I said. “I go straight to the animal shelter after work. Lots and lots to do.”
“Oh, yeah,” Premsyl said. “Colonel Peale. You’re the animal activist now.”
“Please do not call me Colonel,” I said. “Some of us like our original names just fine.”
“Oh,” said Braces Girl. “So this is her. This is the one you told me about. She’s the one who thinks she’s a lawyer.”
I really thought Braces Girl seemed sweet at first. She probably was, usually. But now that I’d butted in to her talk with Premsyl, she was just full-on catty. And I realized I was feeling catty, too.
I took a deep breath. Come on, Atty, think like a lawyer.
“Look, y’all, I see where this is going,” I said. “Premsyl, you’ve become really cute. Your accent is great. And, yes, your name is Premsyl and, yes, you’re my ex-boyfriend.” I turned to Braces Girl. “But Premsyl has already rejected me, and I’m not going to get into some kind of competition with you about it. I’m just here because it’s my locker he’s leaning on. So I’ll just get in and out.”
Braces Girl blushed. “I don’t know where you get off. I’m not hitting on P.J. I’m just having a conversation.”
“Well, P.J.’s hitting on you,” I said. “Be good, Premsyl. If you break her heart, I’ll break your face.”
And off to class. That went well, I thought. And yet, in my gut, I knew it didn’t go well. No matter what you say in high school, it’s going to be wrong somehow.
Into Ms. Pinson’s classroom. The first thing I saw was twenty-five faces suddenly looking up at me. Everybody had already arrived, and they were all clustered in groups: future cheerleaders, the girls who love horses, gamer guys, and so on. There were maybe three desks available. Everybody seemed to be watching to see which one I’d choose.
None of my old elementary-school friends were there. Not Venetia and Sam, the girls I used to jump rope with. Mia the Spelling Bee Goddess was in private school this year. I noticed Peyton Vebelstadt, lanky and beautiful as ever, sitting with the future-cheerleader types. I waved.
“Hey, Peyton,” I said. “How’s the cat?”
Peyton looked at me with her eyebrows furrowed and waved half-heartedly. Some girl whispered something into her ear and they giggled together. Then she looked back at me, again seeming worried.
Ah, well. Guess I won’t sit next to her.
In the back of the room, some girl was slumped over her desk, seemingly asleep. Black leather jacket, uncombed mass of black hair. If she was asleep, I guess she wouldn’t mind me taking the desk in front of her.
Ms. Pinson stood up and started taking roll. I guessed she was the biology teacher: I couldn’t take my eyes off the grody “visible man” model she stood next to, a rubber dummy with rubber-dummy liver and intestines just hanging out there like anybody’s business.
During roll call, I always wish my last name started with A. Why is it so nerve-racking to wait for your name to be called?
“Atticus Peale,” Mrs. Pinson called, finally.
“Here.”
She squinted at me. “You’re Atticus?”
“Atty for short,” I said. I saw her mouth the word “female” as she wrote something in her attendance book.
“Okay, Atticus Peale. Reagan Royall,” Mrs. Pinson looked around the room eagerly. “Reagan Royall?”
The sleeping girl behind me looked up, wiping drool off the corner of her mouth. “Syeah?” she said, with a sultry detached tone. She had really been asleep. As she tossed her head, I could see a bright pink stripe down the middle of her black mane of hair. Give her a chance to comb it, and it would look very punk.
“Miss Royall,” the teacher said. “Am I seeking pink hair?”
“I like to think of it as purple,” Reagan Royall said.
“You realize that’s not permitted by the dress code,” Mrs. Pinson said. “We went over this in orientation. Purple Devils don’t have purple hair.”
I snorted. Couldn’t help it. “Well, technically,” I said. “Purple Devils are purple.”
“Miss Peale, do you have your copy of the Code of Conduct? Open it up to the first two pages.”
I dug into my backpack and got the book out. On the first two pages, dozens of PURPLE DEVIL statements. I scanned down and there it was:
48. PURPLE DEVILS WEAR SKIRTS BELOW THE KNEE
49. PURPLE DEVILS DON’T HAVE BEARDS
50. PURPLE DEVILS HAVE NATURAL HAIR COLORS
I shook my head. “Well I’ll be da— aaaah. Well, I’ll be danged. It’s really in there.”
“I want to make one thing very clear,” Mrs. Pinson said. “We like to have a collegial learning environment at Houmahatchee High, but that’s dependent on everybody following the rules. There’s zero tolerance for disrespecting the rules.”
Reagan Royall sniffed. “What does ‘collegial’ mean exactly? Does that mean this is like college?”
Mrs. Pinson: “Purple Devils look up words they don’t know.”
I nodded and showed Reagan the code. “That’s for real. It’s Rule Number Four.”
“So,” Mrs. Pinson said. “Am I correct that you were sleeping in the classroom just now?”
“Yeah, but I have a disability,” Reagan said, smacking her lips. “It’s my ADD medication. It makes me zleepy.”
What an amazing lie. You just knew she was faking, but she seemed so calm. Wow.
“You have attention deficit disorder?” Mrs. Pinson demanded.
“Yeah,” Reagan said.
“So, you have an IEP then?” Pinson asked.
Reagan looked blank. She looked at Pinson, then at me. I mouthed the word “Yes.”
An IEP is an “individualized education plan.” The teachers write one up for you if you have a learning disability or are gifted or whatever. I have one, but Taleesa won’t let me read it.
“Yes,” Reagan said firmly. “Yes, in fact I do have an IEP.”
“And what sort of medication are you taking?”
Reagan looked blank again.
“Ritalin,” I whispered. Too loud, as it turns out.
“That’s it,” Pinson said. “I won’t have lying and deception in this classroom. To the office with both of you.”
“So, you’re that crazy alligator lawyer girl,” Reagan said as we sat in the office, awaiting our turn with the principal. “You’re a colonel.”
“I’m not a colonel,” I said. “That’s all a bunch of fake stuff the governor came up with.”
“You know, this is weird,” she said. “But I think Governor King is kind of hot. I’d like to tie him up and put some guyliner on him.”
I snorted again. This girl would say anything for a laugh.
“You know, this is perfect,” Reagan continued. “We’d make a good team. You’re a lawyer. And I’m an outlaw. We’re natural allies.”
“I don’t think you understand how this lawyer thing works,” I said.
“Sure I do,” she said. “Outlaws do what their heart tells them. And lawyers clean up the messes. Lawyers defend you even though they know you’re guilty. They’re natural friends of the outlaw.”
“I’m a defender of animals,” I said. “All my clients are innocent.”
“Not anymore,” Reagan said. “I’m your client now.”
“How does a girl like you get a name like Reagan? That’s not a very punk name,” I said.
“Are you kidding me? Ronald Reagan almost blew up the world. He believed you should pretend to be a madman so you can win in negotiations. He’s absolutely punk,” she said. “Actually, if you must know, my dad’s a Reagan-worshipper. A big conservative. He’s all about the Second Amendment and the deficit and all that. He owns like a hundred guns, they’re all over the house.”
“Your mom must love that,” I said.
A darker chuckle from Reagan, now.
“I don’t have a mom,” she said. “She offed herself. Seriously, she got addicted to painkillers and committed suicide. Years ago.”
For the first time, I got the feeling Reagan Royall was telling me the truth.
“My mom, too,” I said. “I mean I have a stepmom now who I call my mom. But my first mom . . . it wasn’t drugs. She was just depressed, I guess. She killed herself, and I can hardly even remember her.”
Reagan looked at me like she was ready to throw a punch. “You had better not be scamming me,” she said. “It’s one thing to pretend to have ADD. It’s another thing to like about this. That would be cruel.”
“I’m totally not scamming you,” I said.
We sat in silence for a long time. I didn’t look at Reagan, she didn’t look at me. Then she reached over and grabbed my hand, with a light needy pressure, the way Martinez used to do when something scary was on TV.
Just then, the principal stepped out of her office. She put her fists on her hips and looked at down at us, hand in hand, with a weary look.
“Great, and purple hair, too,” she said. “All right. Into my office.”
The principal’s name was Rhonda St. Stephens. I didn’t know much about the school, but I knew about her, because I saw a profile of her in the Herald. It seems that she’d read about me in the paper, too.
“Let’s settle one thing now, Colonel Peale,” the principal said as she sat down at her desk. “You may have friends in high places, but that’s no reason to be high-handed with anyone. You were rude and dismissive to Dr. Dalton this morning. I won’t have it.”
At first I was angry. I never asked anybody to call me colonel, and now it was like a big sign around my neck. But then I went into lawyer mode. What would you say to a judge who dressed you down like this?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am. I didn’t intend to be rude, and I didn’t feel any disrespect inside, but that doesn’t matter.” I fished in my pocket and pulled out one of Dr. Dalton’s little forms, the 341. I offered it to Mrs. St. Stephens.
“Oh, those stupid forms,” the principal said. “Put it away, or give it to him yourself. Okay. I want to make one other thing straight. Miss Royall, Miss Peale. I don’t know what kind of relationship the two of you have, and it’s none of my business. What your parents allow is between you and them. But public display of affection is prohibited at this school. Whether you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend is none of my business, but you won’t hold hands or hug or kiss anybody in this building.”
Reagan and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Respect,” warned Ms. St. Stephens. “You treat everyone in this building with respect.”
“My apologies,” I said. “But I do have a question. If we’re just friends, holding hands in the way girls who are friends do, is that okay?”
The principal looked back and forth between us, with a deer-in-headlights look. “Yes,” she said. “I guess that’s okay.”
“Not that we would ever do that kind of girly-girl crap,” Reagan said. “Talking about our emotions and holding hands and writing with glitter pens.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “We were just—”
“Shut up,” Reagan said. “You are so not punk.”
“Now on to the real business,” Mrs. St. Stephens said. “Purple hair is prohibited in the Code of Conduct. I know you didn’t read the Code of Conduct, but you should have. Or your parents should have. So I’m sending you home until the hair gets corrected.”
Reagan looked stunned. And suddenly I saw something, right over the principal’s shoulder, that gave me a brilliant idea.
“With all due respect, Ms. St. Stephens, given the vagueness of the purple hair rule, wouldn’t it be best to go a little easier on my cli— I mean, on Reagan?”
“The rule isn’t vague,” the principal said. “Purple Devils have natural hair colors. It’s part of the code we all live by.”
“I’ll concede that my friend and I were remiss in not reading the Code,” I said. “And ignorance is no excuse for breaking the law. But what is the rule, exactly? What is a natural hair color?”
“Purple is not a natural hair color,” Ms. St. Stephens said. “That’s self-evident.”
“But the rule is directed at ‘purple devils,’” I said. “What’s natural for a human might not be natural for a purple devil.”
“I see what you’re doing here, Miss Peale,” the principal said. “Hairsplitting legal arguments won’t get you out of this. Anyway, we’ve thought of that already. You’ll notice that the mascot on the school emblem, even though he’s a purple devil, has black hair, in a crew-cut that is a natural look for a boy.”
“But in the picture on the desk, right behind you, there’s a purple devil with purple hair,” I said.
She turned and looked. There was indeed a photo of a high school boy, in purple body paint and little horns, posing with the school’s cheerleaders. He was shirtless and wore brown rodeo chaps that I guess were supposed to look like furry devil-legs. He carried a real pitchfork, spray-painted yellow, with a deflated football impaled on it. And his hair was purple.
“That’s our mascot,” the principal said. “He’s in a costume. It’s not the same as showing up to school with purple hair. You have to use some common sense.”
“I’m trying,” I said. “But you’ve got to admit it’s confusing that the rule is phrased in the ‘purple devils’ form. Particularly when we have competing images of a purple devil.”
Ms. St. Stephens shook her head. “You’re not getting her out of this.”
“Here’s what I propose,” I said. “I’m not contesting the rule itself, I just think it’s not fair to punish someone with a suspension because of an unclear rule. So what if Reagan stays at school today, without being sent home, with a promise to get rid of the purple hair by tomorrow?”
“Hey,” Reagan said indignantly.
“Let me do the talking here,” I said. “And to be clear, if she wants to dye her hair all black, that’s a natural hair color?”
“It’s a deal,” the principal said. “All black, tomorrow. Now on to what I consider the much more significant issue: lying to a teacher. That’s absolutely unacceptable here or in any area of life. I don’t think I even have to tell you why.”
I nodded. Reagan slumped in her chair and glared at both of us, still mad about the hair.
“Reagan, you lied about having an IEP,” the principal said. “You didn’t even know what an IEP was, did you? And Atty, you supplied her with information. You helped her lie.”
Reagan kept on slumping, but somehow more defiantly than before. I sat silent for a few seconds. What could I say that wouldn’t incriminate me?
Then I realized, maybe there was one thing.
“Does Reagan in fact have an IEP?” I asked. Just because she didn’t have ADD didn’t mean she didn’t have something that sent her to, say, the school psychologist.
“Well, let’s just check,” the principal said, swiveling over to her computer. She typed a few things, then she turned red-faced.
“So she does have an IEP?” I asked.
“Under student privacy laws, I’m not allowed to discuss that with anyone but Reagan and her parents,” Ms. St. Stephens said. “We’re done here. Reagan, black hair tomorrow. You’re free to go.”
It wasn’t until lunch that I felt the tug of the animal shelter.
“I should be cleaning the dogs’ cages right now,” I said, looking down at the ham sandwich on my Styrofoam plate. “I should be walking Millie and Mason and all the new dogs. School is getting me so far behind in my real life, I’ll never catch up.”
Reagan chewed quietly. Then: “So, you’re really serious about this animal stuff, huh?”
It was lunch and we were still together, like friends who’ve known each other for years. Turns out we scheduled for a lot of the same stuff, even Gifted English at the end of the day. Once you’ve got someone to sit with at lunch, one of the scariest tasks of seventh grade is complete.
“You know,” I said. “I love puppies, but I really don’t think I’m any more a dog lover than most people. I just feel like everybody deserves to have a voice, and animals don’t get a voice unless we help them. So that’s . . . I guess I feel like that’s my job in the world.” I sat up a little straighter as I thought more about it. “You know, that’s it. I have a job already. And all of this school stuff is just getting in the way of me doing my job.”
“Sad,” Reagan said. “I see this all as job training. It’s getting me ready for my future career as a rebel leader in a dystopian future.”
I snorted, then straightened up when I realized she was at least half-serious.
“You know,” I said. “I could really see Reagan out there with a bow and arrow, fighting the dictator’s robot army. So there’s something we have in common. We both love science fiction.”
Reagan shook her head.
“It’s not science fiction,” she said. “Look around you. They’re already sorting us out into professions now. There’s the boys in camouflage over at that table, and over at that table is your buddy Peyton, being held hostage by the other pretty-pretty girls. And over there is your crowd, the Genius Bowl types. “
“I’m not sure that’s my crowd.” I said. Then I squinted closer. “Hey, I see Premsyl, but I don’t see Braces Girl. I wonder where she went?” I took a big bite of ham sandwich and leaned in to watch.
“Braces Girl?” Reagan asked. “You mean the chick with a camera who’s right behind you?”
I turned, mouth full of ham sandwich, and was blinded by a flash. It was indeed Braces Girl, with a camera with a big fat lens like the ones they use at the Houmahatchee Herald.
“Now that’s journalism,” said Braces Girl. “Animal Advocate Eats Ham Sandwich. Do you mind telling us, Colonel Peale, why you defend alligators but eat pigs? Isn’t that a contradiction?”
I couldn’t say anything. I was still chewing on the ham.
“I should introduce myself,” Braces Girl said. “Rebecca Braxton, cub reporter for the Purple Devil Times, the school’s newspaper.”
I swallowed.
“Braxton,” I said. “So you’re related to the Braxtons from the Houmahatchee Herald?”
“My parents,” she said. She pulled out a notebook. “So, I’m wondering if you’d like to talk a little bit about eating meat. Isn’t it a contradiction, for someone who loves animals, to eat ham? Where do you draw the line between an animal you help and an animal you eat?”
I was stunned. It wasn’t just the question, it was all the stuff swirling around it. Premsyl, who I didn’t even care about, and our encounter at the locker, and the sudden flash in my face.
“I’ve never really thought much about it,” I said. And it was true. That stunned me, too. All the little piggies I’d been eating all this time.
“Do you have any rules about the meat you eat? Do you limit yourself to free-range meat or something?”
I blanked. And then the bell rang.
“We can catch up on this later,” Rebecca Braxton said. “Think about it.”
“I . . . gee, I will.”
Reagan scooped up her books.
“Well, I don’t know what that’s about,” she said. “But it wasn’t about journalism and it wasn’t about meat. She thinks you’ve got your hooks in Mr. Czech Republic. She sees you as a threat.”
“But I told her,” I said. “I told both of them I’m no threat at all.”
“Welcome to high school,” Reagan said. “This is what it’s going to be like. A six-year battle for survival. See, they’re pitting us in death matches against each other already. The dystopian future.”
“So how was it?” Taleesa said when I got in the car.
“Weird,” I said, suddenly relieved to be back on home turf again. Taleesa with a pen behind her ear, checking her phone for calls from editors while driving. Martinez in the back with his video game open and a peaceful look on his face, like a baby who just got his bottle.
“Everybody called me ‘Colonel,’” I said. “I’m going to be in the student newspaper with a mouth full of ham sandwich. There are like three pages of written rules for how to do everything, and a lot more unwritten rules. It’s a case I can’t win.”
“Hm,” said Taleesa. “Make any new friends?”
“Just one,” I said. “A girl named after Ronald Reagan.”
Martinez laughed. “A girl named Ronald? Cool! I hope she has frizzy red hair and giant clown feet.”
“Any cute boys?” Taleesa asked, nudging me a little with her elbow and winking.
I shrugged. “Boys aren’t cute, really,” I said. “Not boys my age. Premsyl was there. He’s kinda cute, but if I talk to him at all, his current girlfriend will stab me.”
“Can we go to McDonald’s?” Martinez asked.
“This too shall pass,” Taleesa said. “Junior high is tough on everybody. It’ll be over before you know it.”
“Six more years,” I said. “I was doing fine before all this started. Can’t I just homeschool and work at the animal shelter?”
“You know I don’t have time for homeschooling and my work, too. I’ve already spent ninety minutes picking y’all up. Why on earth do they schedule the end of elementary school an hour before the end of high school? And yes, Martinez, we’ll go to McDonald’s before I drop you at the animal shelter.”
“I love it,” Martinez said. “The dogs love me when I smell like hamburger.”
Sigh. “I think I’ll just get one of those salads,” I said. “Taleesa, was seventh grade like this for you? Was it lonely?”
Taleesa laughed. “Oh, no,” she said. And then she got serious. “When I was in seventh grade, that was back before Old Martinez stopped drinking. He got arrested on some stupid charge, loitering and intoxication or something, and he lost his job. And his girlfriend at the time, she wasn’t mean to me, but she just seemed to hate having me around while her man was in jail. So I liked school in the seventh grade. There was a good lunch, and people would talk to me. I got on the school paper so I wouldn’t have to go home.”
Well, now I felt like a total wimp.
“I’m just telling it like it is,” Taleesa continued. “I know life in this town can be rough in other ways.”
And then I just blurted it out. The thing we don’t talk about. I couldn’t stop myself.
“This town—that school—they bullied my mom to death,” I said. “Didn’t they? This is where it started. This is where they branded her a weirdo and never let her live it down.”
Taleesa shook her head.
“I just don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t know your mom. I don’t know what she went through. I know it’s the right thing to try and walk a mile in the other person’s shoes, but sometimes you’ve just got to show some respect and say you’ll never ever know what those shoes feel like. . . . Look, is there something you need to tell me? Are you being bullied or something?”
“No,” I said. But as I said it, I thought of Princess P. I reached into the glove compartment for my phone. A whole day of messages.
Princess_P: Enjoy your first day at school, Colonel. Your powerful “friends” can’t save you from being ridiculed at school, fatso.
Princess_P: If I were as ugly as you, I’d kill myself rather than endure high school.
Princess_P: Ever notice how a dead gator looks like it’s sleeping peacefully? No, I haven’t either.
ShelterMegg: Atty, see me as soon as you can. Easy has escaped from his pen.
ShelterMegg: I’ve informed the judge that Easy’s escaped. You’ve got to help me find him.
ShelterMegg: We’ve got a court order from the judge. Meet us at the courthouse at 4 if you can.
“So much for McDonald’s,” I said. “We need to get to the courthouse right now.”