KALYN

IT’S A CLICHÉ to say that Jefferson High looks like a prison, but it’s also the truth. I don’t say goodbye to Mom when she drops me off, even though she wishes me a happy birthday. The hot September air smells like sticky cinnamon.

The front hall is empty when I get inside. Well, almost empty.

There’s only one tumbleweed in this windowless space, and man, does he look like he’ll tumble, made of skinny twigs like that. But I need help, and apparently stick-boy’s the only soul besides yours truly who’s late for class.

And that’s uncanny, too, because damn if he doesn’t look like the kind of dweeb who drools over textbooks. His glasses are more old man–ish than mine ever were, and there’s a quill tucked behind one of his ears. He’s wearing a T-shirt with Shakespeare’s iconic mug and the words Will Power! slapped on it, for chrissakes. This kid is dying for more English Lit class. He’s Christopher-Marlowe-with-a-knife-in-his-eye dying for it.

People assume I don’t like English Lit, mostly because people suck. But I inherited the bookworm bug from both parents. Dad has a shelf of murder mysteries in his cell. He knows it’s ironic. Mom’s always had a taste for forbidden romance. That’s also pretty ironic, when you think about it.

Back in Alleghany, she kept a stack of Harlequin paperbacks in the living room. They held up one side of the coffee table where a leg was missing, but that table was always slanted because Mom was constantly wiggling books loose for rereading. You’d set your drink down and end up cussing.

And I get peckish for words. I’ll read anything from John Donne to coupon pamphlets. Ten bucks says this guy— ­Quillpower, let’s call him—is more particular.

Quillpower leans against a row of lockers, looking left and then at a handheld game and then right and then rinse-repeating the cycle.

“Hey! You’re local, right?”

Quillpower’s head snaps up. He scans me in one swoop before dropping his eyes. His fingers start moving faster.

“I’m new. My name’s Kalyn Sp—wait. Shit! I forgot my last name. Paulski? Popski? Do either of those sound like real names to you?”

“Not remotely.” His voice sounds like how he looks: weedy and crisp.

“Yeah, I know. Dumbass hick can’t even remember her own name. Funny, right?”

He’s back to groping the handheld. I feel like maybe it’s a defense mechanism, like when pill bugs roll into pebble-balls. “Never mind. Just—which way to the office?”

Quillpower unsticks one hand from the screen and points. His arm’s so thin I wonder why the weight of his hand doesn’t snap the damn thing. I follow its trajectory and see a dozen doors.

“Mind showing me there?”

But that’s about as much mingling as this weed can handle, because he’s already tumbling elsewhere. Quillpower scuttles away and falls through the boys’ room entrance.

“Thanks anyway!” I holler. If I’ve got social issues, Quill-power clearly has social volumes. But he did point me the right way. We used to find pill bugs in our pantry back in Alleghany, and I always liked them. Mom calls them roly-polies, which is just too good a name to squish.

And what’s in a name? Apparently every damn thing.

“Pawlski, Polansky, Powpowpowsky?”

“I don’t have a Kalyn Powpowpowksy on the roster.” The secretary, a “Kitty Patrick” by her brown name placard, peers at me from behind an ancient computer. I don’t know how she can see me past the collection of framed dog photos lining the counter. “You’re a sophomore?”

“Yeah.” I’m smiling again. God, don’t girls get cheek-aches from this crap? I’ve never felt sorry for pageant queens before. Then again, a pageant queen would have received a nicer welcome. Mrs. Patrick took one look at my face and nearly jumped through the ceiling, all, “Jiminy Christmas, girl, wipe your face!”

I’d totally forgotten my eyeliner trails. No wonder I spooked Quillpower. But the minute Mrs. Patrick asks me to wash my face, I tell her I sure as hell won’t.

She raises tattooed eyebrows and leans forward in her roller chair, beads rattling against her blouse. “Well, whatever. Stick to your guns if you want, Annie Oakley.”

Mrs. Patrick’s got rhinestones on her nails, and her dyed red hair has streaks of violet in it. I bet she was a rebel in high school. I bet she skipped college to join a grimy punk band. Bet she misses the excitement.

“Still not seeing you, dear.” She clicks her mouse. “But wait, now—we do have a Kalyn-Rose Poplawski registered in the freshman class.”

“That’s it!” The rest of her sentence drops. “Wait, what? That’s a mistake.”

“We’ll get that fixed. It’s been a tragedy in here ever since they had Brad covering while I was on vacation in Tampa. Brad’s the worst, Kalyn-Rose. So how do you really spell your last name?”

“No, the mistake is, I’m not a freshman. I’m a sophomore.”

“Some credits didn’t transfer, and it looks like your attendance in Alleghany was . . . ​we’ll say patchy. You’re a freshman again, sweetie.”

“But I’m sixteen today!”

“Happy birthday!” Mrs. Patrick rifles through a drawer.

“This is bullsh— Come on, Mrs. Patrick. You’re cool, right?”

She passes me a glittery purple pencil. “It’s Ms. Patrick, and yes, I’m the coolest person in this office. Not that there’s a lot of competition.” A man at the copy machine, probably Brad, gives her this sad, basset-hound stare. “But it’s not up to me. You’re on Officer Newton’s list.”

Not only does this guy reject sweet tea in our kitchen and guilt Mom into thinking she’s no kind of mother; now he shoves me backward into freshmanhood?

“Well, shit-sticks.”

“Language. Look.” Ms. Patrick taps her glasses. “Take it up with Officer Newton. For now, just get to class and don’t burn the place down.”

“I didn’t burn down Alleghany. I only pulled the fire alarm on occasion.”

“You’ll be in room 107. Mr. Smalls. I’ve drawn you a map.”

Ms. Patrick is in her fifties, looks like. She seems local as hell, so maybe she worked here eighteen years ago. I wonder if she remembers Dad. I wonder if she thought he looked like the kind of kid who’d be in prison one day. Do I look like that, too?

“Anything else I can help you with, Kalyn-Rose?”

“It’s not Kalyn-Rose.” I tuck the birthday pencil behind my ear, à la Quillpower. “I mean . . . ​it’s just Rose. Can you show me how to spell Poplawski?”

Ms. Patrick doesn’t bat a lash. She spells out the letters on a heart-shaped sticky note and shoos me out of the office.

I retrace my steps, duck into the girls’ room, and scrub the black off my face. I pull my braid to the side of my head and wind it twice around my skull before rolling the last bit into a knot, twisting my hair tie tight around that. I tuck the glittery pencil into the knot and tug a few bangs from my hairline.

I look like some discount duchess, crowned in red ropes. I practice a meek smile. My eyes aren’t as pink now that the contacts have nestled there for a while. I almost look like a nice, straitlaced country girl. It’s anything but Spence, anything but me.

People sometimes claim they were born lawbreakers. I’ll do you one better—I was conceived one. Kids like me are raised on Happy Meals, destined to start smoking by age thirteen before they become dropouts.

But some kids are destined for great things, like Girl Scouts and summer camp and homemade food, and whatever else rich people think is great. I imagine Rose Poplawski is that kind of girl. Maybe other people will imagine it, too.