Chapter 3
three
Ash
My first day of school is exactly as terrible as I’d imagined.
I’m not sure which I hate more—everyone gawking at the new kid, or the overly peppy students like that girl outside who pretend to give a damn about becoming my friend.
I’ve been around enough people like that to know when I’m being treated like a charity case.
Thanks, but no thanks.
At least, the classes themselves don’t seem too bad. Even my AP classes feel like a joke compared to the swanky private school the Ellingtons had sent me to. It’s perfect. I can sleepwalk my way to graduation, then get the hell out of here and never look back.
The next couple days pass in a blur. Go to school, ignore everyone but the teachers, go home, ignore my aunt, go to sleep. Then, wake up and do it all over again.
Gradually, the other students take the hint and leave me alone. All except one.
“So, how’s your first week going?” the perpetual thorn in my side asks, somehow singling me out the instant I slink into the cafeteria.
Greta Mathers strikes me as the poster child of overachievers.
While my other would-be welcomers quickly gave me up as a lost cause, she seems to have taken my standoffishness as a personal challenge.
I grunt noncommittally and try to brush past her toward the lunch line, but she falls into step beside me.
“Great,” she says cheerfully. “Glad you’re fitting in.”
I eye her askance, unable to tell whether she’s being serious. Fitting in has never been a legitimate possibility for someone who can do what I do.
“Speaking of fitting in,” she continues, “there’s a few clubs I think you ought to consider. As the new kid here, it might help introduce you to everyone. What are you into?”
“Privacy,” I mutter.
“Oh, you care about privacy rights? Me, too! Maybe you’d enjoy the debate club. I could help you convince Mrs. Federo to make that a topic this semester. Or there’s always the programming club if you’d prefer to take a more direct approach to internet privacy.”
I whirl on her, trying to use my height to my advantage as I loom menacingly. “I prefer to be left alone.”
The effect is somewhat ruined when she refuses to retreat, smiling up at me instead. “Ah, a loner then? Well, if you’re not into programming, I’m sure I can think of some other clubs that might work. How do you feel about reading? I’m part of a book club you might enjoy.”
Abandoning my failed intimidation tactic, I grab a tray from the bin and edge forward in line toward the food stations. “Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around?”
She shrugs. “Honestly? Not really. I try to keep my lunch period flexible so I can prioritize whatever needs my attention the most.”
And of course she’s decided that what needs her overbearing attention most right now is me.
Greta keeps up a steady stream of chatter through the rest of the line.
I do my best to tune her out, but she barely seems to notice my lack of response.
She’s telling me all about the drama club and their upcoming list of performances when I finally exit the queue, depressing cafeteria slop in hand.
“So, where do you want to sit?” she asks, killing off my hope of escaping now that we’ve gotten our food. Apparently, she’s allotted her entire lunch hour to me.
I glance around the cafeteria, scanning the tables, but no help comes from there. Most of the tables are packed, and the few that aren’t have enough seats to accommodate both of us.
“Hmmm.” Greta purses her lips, performing her own scan of the cafeteria. “It’s pretty crowded. Want to go find somewhere outside to sit? I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but upperclassmen are free to eat lunch wherever they want so long as they remain on school grounds.”
And there it is—the opening I’ve been waiting for.
“Actually,” I say, “I’m supposed to meet someone for lunch.”
“Oh!” She perks up at that. “Look at you, already making new friends! Where are you meeting them? I can show you where to go if you—”
“That’s okay.” I make a beeline for the cafeteria doors, praying she doesn’t follow. “I know where it is.”
“Cool. Catch you later, Ash!”
“Right,” I mutter as the doors swing shut behind me. “Later.”
I wander aimlessly for a while before finding a quiet corner in a secluded hallway. I think it’s the science area, though I’m not sure—all these beige hallways look the same to me.
Settling down on the vaguely sticky floor, I pull out my sketchbook and a pencil. Drawing’s been one of the few constants in my life. I’d picked up the habit when I was young as a way to make sense of my experiences—to capture what I saw in my dreams.
Back then, my sketches had tended toward the fantastical. These days, however, I prefer to keep my work more grounded, focused right here in the real world where I’m determined to stay.
I don’t stop to think about what I’m going to draw, letting my fingers speak for me as they sketch the initial lines of their own accord. Gradually, the lines morph into the rounded curves of a face.
That boy from Monday—the scrawny one in the hand-me-down clothes too big for him. The one who’d been staring at me outside school.
My pencil strokes have captured the soft lines of his cheeks and plush lips. The messy mop of hair crowning his head.
I should stop. I’m not above a no-strings-attached hook-up now and then, but thirsting after anyone I have to see every day seems like a terrible idea. Just look at how things between Harvey and me had turned out.
As for anything beyond a brief fling, well…that’s not in the cards for me. Romance leads to intimacy, and intimacy leads to too many uncomfortable questions. Too many opportunities for me to slip up or make a mistake.
Still…one drawing of a cute boy is harmless enough, right?
Shoving down my unease, I continue with my sketch, shading as I go.
No doubt I’ve got the proportions of his nose wrong, or perhaps made his lips too full or his cheeks too narrow.
I’d only really seen his face the once. Other than the occasional glimpse in the halls or in class, I’ve ignored him as determinedly as I have everyone else.
But this kind of sketch isn’t about accuracy or precision. It’s about capturing sensation—evoking the feeling of what I’d seen. Details pale in comparison to the whole picture.
And on that front, I think I’ve done a pretty good job. I’ve just started on his eyes, struggling to capture the odd mix of melancholy and strength I’d glimpsed there, when someone clears their throat above me.
“Um, hi. What are you drawing?”
My pencil jumps on the page, leaving a wild squiggle. I hurriedly slam my sketchbook shut and glare up at the intruder. My heart skips a beat when I see who it is. Shit. The subject of my sketch stands there, smiling down at me hesitantly.
“It’s private,” I snap.
The boy’s smile fades. “Right. Of course. Sorry.” He rubs at the back of his neck, then holds out his hand. “I’m Dylan.”
I stare at his proffered hand. Even if I wasn’t determined to keep my distance, the thought of touching the subject of my most recent drawing feels oddly intimate.
After a moment, Dylan lowers his hand, awkwardly shoving it in his pocket. Guilt coils through me, and I sigh.
“Ash,” I say reluctantly.
“Ash…” Dylan repeats. He considers the name. “Your parents must’ve been fans of Pokémon.”
“It’s short for Ashton,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Besides, the name existed long before Ash Ketchum ran around abusing animals.”
“Whoa, did we watch the same show? I don’t remember any animal abuse.”
I shrug. “Not sure what else you’d call shoving living creatures in tiny cages and forcing them to fight for your own selfish amusement.”
“They were his friends!”
“Some friend,” I snort.
“Not a Pokémon fan. Noted.” Dylan grins at me.
Heat skitters across my skin before I remember myself. I fix him with my trademark scowl. “So, what did you want anyway? I’m busy.”
Dylan’s smile dims as he gestures past me. “I usually meet my friends here for lunch. Mr. Simon lets us eat in his room. And you’re, uh, kinda blocking the door.”
I glance behind me. Sure enough, there’s an alcove there with a door set into each side. A light shines through one of their windows, though I can’t see past the frosted glass.
Oops.
I should just apologize and scoot out of the way. That would be the easiest way to bring this unwanted disruption to a close. But some foolish part of me yearns to drag the interaction out a little longer.
“Why are you so late?” I ask. “Lunch is almost over.”
He scuffs his worn sneaker on the tiled floor, looking a bit sheepish. “I was in the library catching up on my Calc homework for this afternoon.”
“Aren’t you supposed to do that, you know, at home?”
“Gee, thanks. Next time, I’ll tell my little brother that. I’m sure that’ll make him behave.”
His tone drips sarcasm, and a chuckle bursts out of me before I can stop it. His eyebrows shoot up at the sound, appearing as surprised as I am.
“Have at it,” I mutter, sliding to the side.
Dylan opens his mouth to reply, then seems to reconsider whatever he was going to say, settling for, “Thanks.” He goes to step past me, then pauses, one hand on the doorknob.
“It must be rough, being the new kid when everyone already knows each other. Feeling like you don’t fit in. You’re welcome to join us if you want.”
The bleak understanding in his tone makes me think I might not be the only one who feels like they don’t fit in. For a brief moment, I allow myself to actually consider his offer. Maybe lunch with him wouldn’t be so bad.
Then, he meets my eyes. The pity I see there breaks whatever weird hold he has on me, and I narrow my gaze.
“Actually,” I reply coldly, “the worst part about being the new kid is that no one will leave me the fuck alone.”
Dylan’s shoulders slump. “Sorry. See you around, I guess.”
He vanishes into the room, several unfamiliar voices calling out greetings as he shuts the door behind him. I stare after him, feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet. Like Greta, he was just trying to be nice. It’s not his fault he made the mistake of being nice to me.
It could have gone worse, I console myself as I grab my things and retreat down the hall to search for a new nook to hide in.
I might have been a colossal dick, but at least I’d gotten my point across.
After that disaster of a conversation, he won’t bother me anymore.
I can focus on keeping my head down and surviving…
just as I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember.