THERE was a time when I would have been nervous to be the new kid. However, by now I've had my fair share of first days of school and had gotten used to the routine: get to school early to get registered in the office. Get lost on my way to class because the map the secretary drew for me is unclear. Introduce myself as Harry from Chicago. The truth is I hasn't lived in Chicago for nine years but it's easier to answer questions about Navy Pier than it is to try to remember a fun fact about Sunbury, Ohio. The next step is make or break-it's time to claim a seat. Maybe next to the cute girl in the red tank top or over by the greasy looking guy in the back. I'll want to sit next to the girl but a girl causes extra complications when it's time to leave again. Greasy guys don't really give a fuck if you suddenly stop showing up to English.
This time is different though because I'm apparently staying here.
In Forks, Washington.
The most unknown town in the entire country. The greenest, wettest place I've ever seen. Our new house is so far from the highway that I'm convinced we'll eventually be swallowed up by the massive trees and vines that cover everything.
I guess I should be relieved to have some stability, to see mom "happily remarried at last." At least, that's what Dr. Halverson said before mom and I packed up her Volvo and drove the two thousand miles to a wet, green hell.
But honestly I don't really feel anything at this point-I've already got this routine, an old habit I can't seem to break.
Anyways, when I finally find room 104 and my first period English class, the teacher introduces me with so much enthusiasm that it makes me feel like I'm five years old and at my first day of kindergarten. New kids must not be a common thing here and the thought washes over me in a wave of dread.
I'll stand out more than I already do-tall and gangly with messy brown hair that never seems to lay flat. Add new-kid-in-a-small-town to that list of descriptors and I should just give up now.
Happy junior year to me.
"Go ahead and sit anywhere that's open," the teacher, Mrs. Mackenzie, says kindly and gestures a chubby hand towards the rest of the class, the two dozen or so pairs of eyes that have been trained on me since I stepped through the doorway.
I have three options.
The first is in the second row next to a girl with a mess of platinum curls and an anxious hand with fingers that are going tap tap tap on her desk. Though her blue eyes are friendly, she pops her gum.
Too loud. Definitely too loud.
The second option appears to be fast asleep, her face completely hidden under a wild curtain of dark hair. She doesn't stir and nobody really acknowledges her presence. Something about her makes me feel like the chair next to her was left empty intentionally. Okay, moving on.
Option three is a desk next to a lanky guy with long, shaggy hair the color of wheat fields in Indiana. Not as greasy as I usually prefer but he will do.
"Austin," blonde kid says softly as an introduction. I give him a half smile, keeping my eyes on his faded White Stripes t-shirt. Lack of eye contact is the best way to establish the casual detachment I strive for. We don't exchange anymore words and I try to listen to Mrs. Mackenzie get a discussion started on symbolism in Invisible Man. Her voice is a little hoarse, like she's getting over a cold, but it's unwaveringly cheery and my stare stays on the way her owl shaped brooch glimmers in the fluorescents for the remainder of the period. The familiar boredom is seeping in. I've already studied this book at the private school I attended for six months in New Jersey. That was also the place I helped my last greasy friend, Jeremy, sell all the prescription drugs we could find. Jeremy used to jokingly call me the Xanimal because I was taking bars of Xanax with breakfast nearly every day.
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At least it wasn't lines of coke.
I don't really like drugs-they were just what everyone was doing. They didn't play baseball, they played poker for coke and hundreds of dollars. The Xanax was different though-it was prescribed to me, totally legit. I just took them with gin at eight in the morning.
Obviously, I fit in just fine.
When the bell rings, Austin hangs back, asking me if I know where I'm going. I always appreciate this small kindness-it makes things a little easier.
"My next class is in that hallway, too, I'll show you," he says, his eyes scanning the schedule in my outstretched hand. He's got a slight accent, a hint of a southern twang.
"Thank you."
We make our way to the front of the room and the dark haired girl who slept through the entire period steps out in front of us, her eyes not leaving the linoleum floor. I only catch a glimpse of her face, of a rosy, pale complexion. She's swallowed in a black hoodie, black jeans, and black boots.
Just outside, two girls are standing in the middle of the hallway, their arms crossed over their chests. Foot traffic works around them, like rocks in a stream. The shorter girl has ear buds in and she's twisting them with a blue polished finger as one corner of her pink mouth twitches upwards. The blonde next to her is at least a head taller than her and not nearly as friendly looking. Her blue eyes are hard as steel, her red lips set in a firm line.
As soon as the dark haired girl reaches them, they turn on their heels, walking down the hallway with a certain authority and a certain kind of grace. Students fill into the space they left and everything continues on as if that wasn't the weirdest thing I've ever seen.
I want to ask Austin about them but I manage to stop myself. I'm bored-not rude. Besides, Austin's face is beet red and I think it would just be better for the both of us to just continue on our way in companionable silence, moving the opposite direction from the three before us.
* * *
I'm fully planning to sit alone during lunch. The small tables near the fire exit are usually empty because these old, small town schools are always the same. Dim lighting, gray tinged atmosphere, Formica and linoleum everywhere with that terrible 1970s orange. They're far from the line and from the trash cans. Not really the most ideal or practical spot.
Unless you're avoiding the awkward where-do-I-sit dance of walking slowly down the aisles of tables, ignoring the curious stares of your new peers. Waiting in line for lunch is brutal. I don't know anyone and everyone is just staring at me, no one bothers to say hello. I pull my phone out of my back pocket, just for something to do. Two new messages.
Hope you're having a great first day, don't forget what Dr. Sheppard told you about being open! Love you, I'll be out front at 3. Love, mom.
Where the fuck are you? Vic says you moved?
Okay, two very different messages. I can practically hear Jeremy's frustration in his text but I genuinely forgot to tell him.
I wonder what Dr. Sheppard, my newest therapist extraordinaire as well as my newest enemy, would say about that.
In the time it takes for me to get a slice of pizza and make my way across the cafeteria, the table I was banking on is taken.
