We stroll out of the classroom with a few others from the film club, all of them chatting excitedly about the movie, debating symbolism and the duality of the characters as they straddled childhood and adulthood. Nico’s enthusiasm is palpable, and I’m struck by how much respect the others seem to have for what he has to say.
I should probably chime in with my thoughts, but I’m too distracted by being in an actual high school hallway and the distinct stink of cafeteria grease and hormones. Body spray and deodorant. Books and sweat. Yet I still want to stop and read every single flyer taped to the red-and-yellow-striped walls of this building. I want to swipe my hand across the lockers. I want to peek into the classrooms and see the rows of desks lined up and read the assignments on the whiteboards.
I want to belong here.
My focus narrows in on a hand-painted banner hanging above the double front doors, advertising Playa Bonita’s Homecoming next week. I wonder if Nico is planning on going to the game, or if he’s taking someone to the dance.
Bids: $20 for a single or $35 per couple.
Will he use money from his job at the library to buy a ticket? Or tickets?
The group disperses at the steps in front of the school. Some shove empty pizza boxes into the nearby recycle bin. Others pile into cars. A few take off on foot. But everyone leaves with the promise to see each other tomorrow or at the next meeting. I want friends like that. And the assurance of when and where we’ll see each other again.
It’s one more reason I want to go to regular school. I wish my parents would change their minds.
“Do you like school?” I ask Nico as he unlocks his bike.
“I guess. But, I mean, it’s school. Does anybody really like school?”
“What about the parts that aren’t school?”
“Like film club? Yeah.”
We walk past the flagpole and onto the sidewalk, the windows of my house glowing bright across the street.
“We obviously don’t have stuff like film club in homeschool. I’d be the only one going.”
“Is that why you don’t like it?”
“That and a lot of other reasons.” I sigh. “I think I’d like the nonschool parts of regular school. Clubs. Football games. The cafeteria.” Homecoming.
“Juniper, nobody likes the cafeteria.”
“They don’t? I feel like I’m missing out on a crucial part of the American high school experience.”
“You’re really not.”
“If you say so.”
It’s impossible to convince someone the things they take for granted are worth longing for. So Nico doesn’t think the cafeteria is all that great. The food is probably gross. And the walls probably smell like oily tater tots, and there are probably cliques at every other table, like this movie I watched with Mimi called Mean Girls. But it’s a room full of teenagers, and that alone makes me want to be smack-dab in the middle of it.
“Why don’t you just go to Playa?” Nico asks.
“My parents would never agree to it. And since I’m a minor, I’d need to have their permission to enroll.” I won’t even mention the vaccinations.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but can I ask what their reasoning is? Is it a religious thing?”
“No. It’s a hippie thing.”
“Ah, sure.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you know you can come to our film club anytime you want, right? You can be an honorary member.”
“Sweet.”
“We’ll always have film club,” he says dramatically, and it makes me laugh.
“Ugh, that makes me sound so pathetic.”
“I meant it like, ‘We’ll always have Paris.’ You know? From Casablanca.”
I look at him, confused. “Is that a movie?”
He waves his hand. “Forget it. It’s not even that funny.” He gestures toward my house. “This is you, right?”
“Yeah.” I look up and stop short on the sidewalk.
I gasp and pull my hand to my mouth. Holy hell. My front door. Who did that? And why? I almost sink, but Nico balances me.
There’s a giant letter A painted in red paint on our front door. The point of it hits the exact middle of the top of the door, and the rest of it drips right over the original stained-glass inlay, across the threshold, and onto the doormat.
My eyes dart around our house and land on the lawn, where the word anti-vaxxer has been spray-painted in the same scarlet-red paint across the grass. A for anti-vaxxer. I get it now.
“Juniper?” Nico says.
My name sounds far away and garbled.
I shake my head. Tremble. Push the tips of my thumbs into the corners of my eyes to try to keep from crying. Our house. Our door. “Oh my god.”
“Juniper, what’s going on?”
“I need to go.” I run to my front door.
“Juniper!” Nico drops his bike on the ground, and it lands with a clatter. He scurries behind me, but I manage to get inside and shut the door before he gets to me. I lock it, worried that if I don’t, he’ll turn the knob and come in after me. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even jiggle the handle. He knocks instead. Because he’s polite. He calls my name again.
My dad comes in from the kitchen, dunking a metal tea steeper into a mug of steaming water. “Who’s at the door?”
“Nobody.”
Nico knocks again.
“Doesn’t sound like nobody.” My dad pulls the door open. The scarlet A reveals itself to our living room in all its horrific glory, but my dad’s too busy looking at Nico on the front porch to notice. “Can I help you?”
“Someone painted a giant A on your door,” Nico says, pointing.
And that’s right when my mom comes down the stairs.
“What on earth?” she shouts, rushing to the door. She touches her hand to the paint, and her fingertips come back tinged with red. “Russ! Our home has been vandalized! Who would do this? What does it mean?”
My dad narrows his eyes at Nico. “Was it you?”
Nico holds his hands up. “What? No way.”
“Dad, why would he knock on the door to tell you about it if he did it?”
“Who are you?” my dad says to Nico, his voice rising in that serious way he has.
“Russ, this is Juniper’s friend. They were studying together at the school.”
I look sideways at Nico like don’t you dare tell them we were watching a movie.
“I’m Nico Noble,” he says, all calm and collected, and I remember him telling me he’s not weird about meeting parents. “I go to Playa and work at the library.”
My dad gives him a half-hearted handshake. “Nice to meet you.” He turns to me. “So you two didn’t see who did this?”
“I’m pretty sure we would’ve noticed someone defacing our front door,” I say.
My mom paces, wringing her hands. “What do we do?” she asks my dad.
My dad motions Nico into the house, then walks outside and bangs the door shut to examine it from a different angle.
“Unbelievable,” he shouts from the porch, and comes back inside, the door slamming closed behind him.
All the noise is enough to make Poppy and Sequoia come stumbling down the stairs together—Sequoia with his blue pajama bottoms pulled too far to the right, making them look twisted and uncomfortable. Their rashes have peeled, but their skin is still a little blotchy and pink. I stand in front of Nico, as if that’ll be enough to shield him.
“Have you had the measles shot?” I ask him under my breath.
His eyes crinkle in confusion. “Um, yeah. Why?”
“Just … you should go outside. It’s a cesspool of germs in here.”
“Honestly, Juniper,” my mom says, her arms flapping at her sides. “Nobody is contagious anymore.”
My dad points his finger in the air. “I’m calling the police.”
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” Sequoia asks, his voice cracking with fear. He pulls his stuffed animal closer. “Is someone getting arrested?”
“God willing,” my dad says.
“Mom?” Poppy says. “What’s happening?”
“Come here.” My mom sits on the couch and pats the cushions on each side of her so they’ll sit down, too.
“I’ll be right back.” I motion toward the door so Nico will follow me outside.
“What’s the deal?” he says when we get to the sidewalk. “Why would someone do this to your house?”
“Trust me, you don’t even want to know.”
“Just tell me. I’m not that easy to shock. What’s going on?”
“My parents are anti-vaxxers. With a great big capital A.” I gesture toward our vandalized front door. “It’s why I don’t go to your school.”
He shakes his head, confused. “Wait. You’ve never had a shot for anything? Ever?”
“Nope. That’s why I got the measles. And then my siblings got them.”
He gasps. “No way.”
“I thought you weren’t easy to shock.”
“No. It’s just … pretty much everyone in town has been talking about the measles since that baby died. Everyone’s trying to figure out how she got it. They’re worried there’s going to be an outbreak, because a few others have already gotten sick.”
“Yeah. She got the measles from me.”
He shoves one hand into his pocket and the other through his hair. Takes a step back. “Jesus.”
“It’s a lot to take in, I know.”
“It’s just…,” he tries, flummoxed. “Yeah. It’s a lot.”
I nod.
He pulls out his phone.
Glances at the time.
He wants an out.
I give it to him. “I should get back inside.”
“Yeah. I should probably”—his eyes run across the word scrawled in scarlet paint in our grass—“go.”
“Totally. I get it.”
He takes another step back. Pulls his helmet free from the handlebar. Fastens it under his chin. A huge sticker of a film reel takes up the whole left side of it, and I miss the idea of him already. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
He flicks on his bike light. I hug myself around the middle to keep myself from crumbling as I watch him pedal away.