The boy on the track slows. Stops. Walks over to the grass and grabs his water bottle. He’s tall, dark haired. The distance between us is enough that I can’t be sure, but I think he’s looking at me. Then I know he is because he offers a terse nod.
Luka Vujic. We were friends about a million years ago, until . . . when? The middle of fourth grade? He wasn’t at Glenbrook last year as a sophomore—I think his dad was transferred somewhere out west. Now he’s back, and he’s changed. It isn’t just that he’s taller and leaner. There’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
Now those eyes are fixed on me. I bob my head in reply and turn back to my friends.
“Oh. My. Gawd,” Dee says. She’s an equal-opportunity oh-my-gawder. “Is that Luka?”
They all turn their heads and stare.
“He is so cute,” Kelley says.
“So cute,” Dee agrees. “And so much more mature than his friends.”
“You think?” Carly asks.
Dee shrugs. “He doesn’t burp and make fart jokes. Not in the caf, anyway.”
Now there’s a recommendation of maturity if ever I heard one. But I do think Dee’s right. Despite the fact that he’s easygoing and friendly, Luka always seems to hold himself apart somehow, even in a crowd.
Carly watches Luka for a moment, and then she says, “He’s not just gorgeous. He’s smart, too.”
We all stare at her. That isn’t something that usually impresses her. She’s more of a solely-interested-in-cute-face-and-lots-of-muscles, all-the-better-if-he-has-a-car kind of girl.
“What?” she asks, eyes wide. “It’s hard to miss. He’s in my chem class and he pretty much skates through every question without a hitch.” She smirks. “He sits next to me and doesn’t seem to mind explaining stuff.”
“But you’re good at chem,” I point out. “Why do you need him to explain stuff?”
All three of them look at me like I’ve grown a second head. Then I get it. “Right. It isn’t a question of need—”
“It’s a question of want,” Carly finishes for me with a grin. “So far, I have Luka helping me in chem, Darnell helping me in Spanish, and Shey helping me in geometry.”
“Shey,” Kelley says on a sigh.
“You don’t need help in any of those classes,” I say.
All three of them roll their eyes at me.
“I do,” Carly says, with a lift of her brows. “I really do.”
“I hope the new guy’s in all my classes,” Kelley says. “Was he in any of yours today?”
“I don’t think he started classes yet,” Carly says. “I think he was just meeting with Principal Murray when I saw him in the office this afternoon.”
“I guess it’s a paperwork thing.” Kelley sighs again. “Now we have to wait till Monday to see what classes he has.”
And they’re off, talking about him again, speculating on how his schedule might overlap with theirs. My attention wanders, but I catch the words hot and old-school aviator sunglasses. They jump to the next topic: the Halloween dance. It’s still weeks away, but it takes time to plan a good costume.
I haven’t yet put much thought into mine.
I wish I could. I wish I thought it mattered. My friends all get so excited about things like movies and dances and shopping; they feel things so intensely. I go through the motions and bluff extremely well, but I’m not like them. I haven’t been for almost two years. And that kills me. I just want to be . . . normal again.
I stand by the fence, watching them, far enough away that I’m part of their group, but not.
This time, the chill crawls up my spine before I hear the words.
Miki Jones.
Better and better. He knows my last name, too.
“What?” I ask under my breath, scanning the trees, the garbage can, the fence. I’m annoyed now. Someone’s hiding somewhere. Voices don’t just materialize in a person’s head. But my friends are focused on one another, not one of them noticing that someone’s calling my name, and I have the horrible thought that maybe I am hearing voices, like that guy in the movie about the beautiful mind.
Not liking that possibility, I decide it’s a prank. “Having fun?” I mutter as I spin a slow circle and end up facing the street again. The crossing guard’s gone. There’s no one else around. Except—
There’s a girl, a little girl. She’s squatting in the road in the middle of the crosswalk. Doing what? Picking something up? I expect her to stand up and move along, and when she doesn’t, wariness shoots through me.
A memory hits: me walking across that same crosswalk when I was a kid, and my mother waiting on the far side of the street with a hug and a cookie. I hit back, burying the image because it hurts too much to think about it. Pain’s one of the two things I do still feel with a razor’s edge. Anger’s the other. Everything else is muted and distant, like I know I ought to feel things even when I don’t.
Right now, I choose anger instead of pain. That little girl shouldn’t be there. Someone should have picked her up after school. Her head’s bowed, and she doesn’t look up when I yell, “Hey,” and again, louder, “Hey!”
There’s something familiar about her. . . .
Crap. She’s Janice Harper’s little sister. She’s deaf. And Janice isn’t here to get her because she’s in detention.
Luka Vujic. We were friends about a million years ago, until . . . when? The middle of fourth grade? He wasn’t at Glenbrook last year as a sophomore—I think his dad was transferred somewhere out west. Now he’s back, and he’s changed. It isn’t just that he’s taller and leaner. There’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
Now those eyes are fixed on me. I bob my head in reply and turn back to my friends.
“Oh. My. Gawd,” Dee says. She’s an equal-opportunity oh-my-gawder. “Is that Luka?”
They all turn their heads and stare.
“He is so cute,” Kelley says.
“So cute,” Dee agrees. “And so much more mature than his friends.”
“You think?” Carly asks.
Dee shrugs. “He doesn’t burp and make fart jokes. Not in the caf, anyway.”
Now there’s a recommendation of maturity if ever I heard one. But I do think Dee’s right. Despite the fact that he’s easygoing and friendly, Luka always seems to hold himself apart somehow, even in a crowd.
Carly watches Luka for a moment, and then she says, “He’s not just gorgeous. He’s smart, too.”
We all stare at her. That isn’t something that usually impresses her. She’s more of a solely-interested-in-cute-face-and-lots-of-muscles, all-the-better-if-he-has-a-car kind of girl.
“What?” she asks, eyes wide. “It’s hard to miss. He’s in my chem class and he pretty much skates through every question without a hitch.” She smirks. “He sits next to me and doesn’t seem to mind explaining stuff.”
“But you’re good at chem,” I point out. “Why do you need him to explain stuff?”
All three of them look at me like I’ve grown a second head. Then I get it. “Right. It isn’t a question of need—”
“It’s a question of want,” Carly finishes for me with a grin. “So far, I have Luka helping me in chem, Darnell helping me in Spanish, and Shey helping me in geometry.”
“Shey,” Kelley says on a sigh.
“You don’t need help in any of those classes,” I say.
All three of them roll their eyes at me.
“I do,” Carly says, with a lift of her brows. “I really do.”
“I hope the new guy’s in all my classes,” Kelley says. “Was he in any of yours today?”
“I don’t think he started classes yet,” Carly says. “I think he was just meeting with Principal Murray when I saw him in the office this afternoon.”
“I guess it’s a paperwork thing.” Kelley sighs again. “Now we have to wait till Monday to see what classes he has.”
And they’re off, talking about him again, speculating on how his schedule might overlap with theirs. My attention wanders, but I catch the words hot and old-school aviator sunglasses. They jump to the next topic: the Halloween dance. It’s still weeks away, but it takes time to plan a good costume.
I haven’t yet put much thought into mine.
I wish I could. I wish I thought it mattered. My friends all get so excited about things like movies and dances and shopping; they feel things so intensely. I go through the motions and bluff extremely well, but I’m not like them. I haven’t been for almost two years. And that kills me. I just want to be . . . normal again.
I stand by the fence, watching them, far enough away that I’m part of their group, but not.
This time, the chill crawls up my spine before I hear the words.
Miki Jones.
Better and better. He knows my last name, too.
“What?” I ask under my breath, scanning the trees, the garbage can, the fence. I’m annoyed now. Someone’s hiding somewhere. Voices don’t just materialize in a person’s head. But my friends are focused on one another, not one of them noticing that someone’s calling my name, and I have the horrible thought that maybe I am hearing voices, like that guy in the movie about the beautiful mind.
Not liking that possibility, I decide it’s a prank. “Having fun?” I mutter as I spin a slow circle and end up facing the street again. The crossing guard’s gone. There’s no one else around. Except—
There’s a girl, a little girl. She’s squatting in the road in the middle of the crosswalk. Doing what? Picking something up? I expect her to stand up and move along, and when she doesn’t, wariness shoots through me.
A memory hits: me walking across that same crosswalk when I was a kid, and my mother waiting on the far side of the street with a hug and a cookie. I hit back, burying the image because it hurts too much to think about it. Pain’s one of the two things I do still feel with a razor’s edge. Anger’s the other. Everything else is muted and distant, like I know I ought to feel things even when I don’t.
Right now, I choose anger instead of pain. That little girl shouldn’t be there. Someone should have picked her up after school. Her head’s bowed, and she doesn’t look up when I yell, “Hey,” and again, louder, “Hey!”
There’s something familiar about her. . . .
Crap. She’s Janice Harper’s little sister. She’s deaf. And Janice isn’t here to get her because she’s in detention.
