Every pair of eyes was staring at me. Some in boredom, others with slight interest. The rest seemed to be blank, thank God.
I started to dart toward the only empty seat I could find, in the second row, but Mr. Misaki called me back.
“Miss Lorde,” he said, going back to his perch on the desk. “Would you mind sharing a few things about yourself?”
I looked at the class in front of me and blinked.
“Wait, you guys really do that here?” I asked him, shocked that what I’d seen in movies was actually true.
Mr. Misaki looked at me, confused, and it hit me that he wasn’t joking. He really wanted me to introduce myself. He gestured again for me to start, and I swallowed and began to speak.
“Um, I’m Frankie,” I offered uncomfortably. Then I shrugged, because I wasn’t sure what else to say.
I looked over at Mr. Misaki, but he was no help.
So I scanned the rest of the class miserably, hoping that most of the other kids would at least feel my pain and grant me immunity on what was happening. But either the other kids had never had the pleasure of embarrassing themselves publicly or they were perfectly happy to revel in my horror, because I didn’t see any sympathy in their faces. Until my gaze fell on one face that I recognized.
Ollie sat in a seat near the window, and as we made eye contact, he held up his thumbs and mouthed, “You got this!”
“Uh—well—um,” I stammered, surprised to see him there and momentarily losing my concentration.
Of course he would be in this class.
I’d been staring at Ollie so long now that the kids who were paying attention to me began to turn around and stare at him, too. When he realized people were turning to face him, Ollie leaned back in his chair triumphantly and gave them all a little wave.
Oh, God. He’s going to make this even worse, isn’t he?
I had a horrible vision of him joining me at the front of the classroom and trying to introduce me himself.
No way, uh-uh, not going to happen, buddy.
I immediately forced myself to look somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“Like I said, I’m Frankie,” I choked out, trying my best to sound like I was unaffected by what was happening. “I just moved here from Paris. I live on coffee. And, uh, that’s pretty much it.”
“Well then,” Mr. Misaki said when he realized I wasn’t going to say anything else. “Why don’t you take a seat right there and we’ll go ahead and get started.”
I practically sighed with relief as I beelined for the only chair that was left open and fell into it gratefully. It might have been second row center, but at least it was far enough away from Ollie that he wouldn’t be able to try to talk to me again.
It’s not that he’s a bad guy. Heck, I don’t even know him. But if I’m not careful, a guy like that could easily sabotage my whole plan.
“I believe we left off on June twentieth’s entry,” Mr. Misaki said, holding up his copy of The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank.
I looked down at my desk, nearly expecting a copy to have materialized out of nowhere, but it was empty.
“Miss Valera,” Mr. Misaki said. “Would you mind sharing your book with Frankie for now until she can get her own copy?”
“Sure,” a striking brunette said beside me. She had hair that went all the way down to her waist, and she was wearing a little yellow tunic that was perfectly pressed and topped off with a crisp white collar. She glanced sideways at me and gave me a polite smile before scooching her chair over to mine and placing the book partially on my desk.
“Thanks,” I said gratefully, even though I knew the girl had no choice in the matter.
“It’s no problem,” she said to me easily.
From his place at the front of the room, Mr. Misaki began to read from the book.
I’d read Anne Frank’s diary a few years back when Dad and I had gone on a short trip to the Netherlands. The author had been several years older than I’d been at the time, and for a hot second, I’d thought it would be trés chic to write in a diary like she had.
But then it was pointed out to me—by my dad—that we were only able to read Anne’s book because someone else had gotten ahold of her private thoughts and made them public. Even if her intent had been to have it published eventually, everybody in the world now had the ability to read what she’d written.
And that was too big a risk to take, I’d thought. What if somebody found my diary and read it? What if they gave it to a publisher? Or the police? I might as well have handed the government a confession right then and there.
So that put the kibosh on writing in a diary. At least until my therapist insisted I keep one.
I quickly scanned the entry that Mr. Misaki had referenced.
Ahhh, it was the one where Anne muses that nobody would ever want to be privy to the thoughts and feelings of a thirteen-year-old.
And maybe that would’ve been true if she’d been a normal, boring, typical kid.
But she hadn’t been.
And neither was I.
I thought of my black-and-white notebook back in its new hiding space at the bottom of my red trunk.
At least I was in good company. Because now Anne was a legend.
Not that I want that kind of notoriety. In fact, I really hope nobody ever reads this. Or if they do, I hope it’s long after I’ve died so that I can’t get in any trouble for the things I might reveal in this journal.
Because one thing’s sure, the stuff I do could get me in a lot of trouble if anyone knew about them.
“It’s very interesting that at the time, Anne poses the theory that no one could be interested in hearing about what she has to say about life, just because she’s a young person,” Mr. Misaki says, closing the book. “Especially when we now know that what she had to say held extreme relevance in both that particular time period and that place, as well as now in our modern day. In fact, if she had listened to her original instincts, we might have very little knowledge or proof of what it was like for someone in hiding during the Nazis’ occupation of the Netherlands. Regardless of her age, this diary is an unflinching representation of a specific time in the world’s history.
“For your assignment today, I’d like to pose a question to you,” Mr. Misaki continued. “If you were to keep your own diary, what sorts of subjects would it deal with? What is happening in your world now that reflects our society?”
“You mean, like, what’s really in lunch lady Esme’s meat-loaf surprise?” a freckled boy in the back row said loudly.
“There you go, Dustin! Questioning the contents of our food is a very hot topic right now,” Mr. Misaki said, nodding. “With more than thirteen-point-five million children and adolescents battling obesity in our country, it would make sense that young people would want to make a conscious effort to pay attention to what exactly is in the food they consume.”
“Is BTS better than 1D?” a girl called out next.
“Duh, seven’s better than five,” another girl answered, looking disgusted by the question.
“But 1D has Harry Styles,” the first girl said.
“Who cares!” a blond boy near the front yelled out, rolling his eyes. “They’re all a bunch of freaks.”
“Now, Brandon, let’s not downplay Stacey’s question,” Mr. Misaki said. “Music can be very influential, and it’s worth considering how K-pop and other international singing groups have shaped the way Americans look at other cultures. For instance, what is it about BTS that resonates with young people in the US, when the majority of their music isn’t even translated into English? What is it about the group that transcends this language barrier?”
“They’re hot,” a girl offered.
“They look like girls,” Brandon said, sounding even more annoyed than before. “Does that mean you like girls, too, Natalie? You do hang out with Jordana a lot….”
The girl named Natalie instantly turned red but narrowed her eyes at her tormentor.
“I don’t like girls like that,” she answered through clenched teeth. “Do you like guys like that? It seems like you’re always slapping butts on the field. Maybe you like it a little too much.”
“Okay, okay. I’m afraid we’re getting a bit off-topic here,” Mr. Misaki said, waving his hands in the air. Then his face went thoughtful. “Though a discussion on gender and sexual identity would certainly be relevant in today’s world.”
A bunch of kids around the class snickered at this, and I found myself rolling my eyes.
Really, people?
I’ve been all around the world and met so many different people that it seemed crazy to me that anyone would have hang-ups about a person’s sexual orientation in the twenty-first century. Gay, straight, bi, trans, who cares as long as love is the goal, right?
Were these really the things that regular kids worried about? Food, boys, music? What kind of place had Uncle Scotty sent me to? I was beginning to wonder if kids were idiots no matter where you went. Wealth and refinement didn’t seem to buy you taste—or class, for that matter.
“Let’s use this as a starting off point for your writing assignment.” Mr. Misaki forged on. “For the next week, I’d like you all to keep a diary. Write down your thoughts, your fears, the things that take up time in your life at this present moment. It can be about anything. Only rule is that it’s true to your life.”
Mr. Misaki was sounding a lot like Dr. Deerchuck. At least the assignment wouldn’t be a stretch for me.
“Ugh,” the girl next to me groaned softly as Mr. Misaki dismissed the class a little while later. “What a pain.”
I forced a smile. “I know what you mean,” I answered. I was going to add that I didn’t see how writing our problems down was possibly going to solve them, but something made me hold back. Instead, I said, “By the way, I’m Frankie.”
The girl tossed her copy of Anne Frank into her bag and swung the black backpack onto her shoulder. The gold Gucci logo shone under the fluorescent lights.
“So we heard,” she said, gesturing to my former spot at the front of the classroom. “I’m Annabelle.”
She didn’t reach out to shake my hand. In fact, she didn’t really look at me at all as she introduced herself.
“Who has time to worry about the world’s problems?” she continued. “I mean, what about me?”
I started to chuckle but then realized she was serious.
“Oh,” I said, swallowing back the laugh the best I could. “I think maybe that’s the point?”
Annabelle just stared at me blankly.
“Whatever,” she said. “I think it’s a waste of time.”
I didn’t feel like arguing with her, especially when I was inclined to agree with her on journaling, but for different reasons. So I cleared my throat and changed the subject.
“Uh, I have Mrs. Wallstone next period,” I said, showing her my printout. “Is her class far from here?”
Annabelle took my schedule and scanned it critically.
“Old Lady Crankypants?” she said, almost to herself. “She’s the worst.”
“Annie, you coming?” someone called out from the direction of the classroom door. I turned to see a huddle of girls, all equally pretty and properly dressed, studying us intently.
Annabelle held up a single finger, displaying a perfectly rounded baby-pink nail. Then she turned back to me and handed over the paper.
“Just take a right out of here and keep going that way. You’ll run into it eventually,” she said with a shrug. She took one last look at me, seeming to analyze me closely for the first time. After a moment that lasted a little too long for my comfort, she waved her pink nails at me. “Toodles, Frenchie. Welcome to Western Middle.”
She turned on her heel and sauntered over to her group of friends, who all gave me a quick once-over before hustling out the door.
“It’s Frankie,” I said, even though she was already gone.
“So it is!” a voice said from behind me.
Ollie.
“Cool name, by the way,” he said as he appeared by my side like I’d invited him to join me. “Need some help getting to your next class, Frankie?”
I cringed as he said my name. He rolled the r like there was something fancy about it.
Again, everything he did seemed to have a special flourish. And I wanted my life to be flourish-free.
“Nope,” I said quickly. “I mean, thanks, but that girl, Annabelle, just gave me directions.”
“Really?” he said, sounding skeptical. “What’s your next class?”
“Mrs. Wallstone,” I supplied.
“And where did Annabelle say to go?” Ollie asked.
“She said to take a right out of here and keep going until I hit the class,” I answered.
“Yep,” Ollie said, nodding. “Annabelle was sending you out to the Dumpsters in the back of the school.”
I stopped and looked at him dumbfounded.
“What?” I asked, not sure I’d heard him right.
“She sent you to the Dumpsters,” he repeated.
“Maybe I just got her instructions wrong,” I muttered, following him out the door and looking down the hallway to the right.
Ollie shook his head. “You didn’t,” he said. “She’s messing with you.”
“Why?” I asked, thoroughly confused. I hadn’t done anything to her.
“That’s Annabelle,” Ollie said. “She’s sort of…well, evil.”
I let this sink in. Who did something like that to a new girl? Were other kids my age really that childish?
“Okay, so how do I get to Mrs. Wallstone’s?” I asked with a sigh.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Ollie said, smiling brightly. Then, with a little hop in his step—I’m not joking, he literally hopped—he turned left and started off down the hallway. “Allow me to show you the way, Frankie Lorde.”
“Oh, brother,” I said to myself as I reluctantly followed.