Chapter 12 #2
Deja.
She took my goddamn backpack. Ugh! I storm out of the front door, single-minded determination goading me on. I slip my cell phone out of my back pocket and search for the school’s address in Maps. Thank goodness service isn’t needed to use it.
Okay. Thirty-minute walk, but I can get there in twenty.
I tilt my face toward the cloudless sky, relishing the sun’s beautiful rays.
Soon the climate will shift, bringing colorful leaves followed by freezing snow.
The cold and I do not get along. I’m built for Texas heat, not Oregon winters.
I’ll need a sturdy coat, warm clothes, suitable footwear, and funds to buy it all. Too bad money doesn’t grow on trees.
I raise my hand to my forehead, using the appendage as a makeshift visor to shield my eyes. The vibrant azure sky is utterly stunning. The same color as his eyes. Sam’s eyes.
His name whispers through my mind, stirring restless emotions within me. I have so many questions.
Where is he? How is he doing? Is he happy?
Guilt has plagued me since that tragic night three years ago. That night everything changed. That night I betrayed my best friend and became the villain in my own story. I became my mother.
Selfish. Despicable. Conniving.
I will never forget the unadulterated pain reflected in his poignant gaze. It gutted me… flayed me to the marrow. I felt his hurt as if it were my own.
A solitary tear leaves a wet path on my smooth cheek.
God, I miss him so much. His lopsided smile. His corny jokes. His hugs. His… everything. But his warm, lulling voice most of all. Sam was my listening ear, my shoulder to cry on, and my loyal confidant—my savior on my lowest days.
I know we’ll always be connected on an intrinsic level. Nothing will ever change that. Not time, distance, or the scheming woman who gave birth to me.
Shame stopped me from seeking him out. What would I say to him? Does he hate me?
I’m afraid to learn the answer.
Coward.
The self-recrimination booms in my mind.
My eyelids slam shut, recalling the last time I saw him. Bleeding. Broken. Still. So still. More tears start to fall.
And then the fire. I couldn’t believe it. My Sam… responsible for burning my home to the ground. He didn’t say one word to defend himself. Everyone thought he was just some psycho stalker obsessed with me.
Why didn’t he talk? Did he keep quiet to protect me?
Another person in his predicament would’ve told it all. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had.
A blaring horn and skidding tires disband my morose brooding. The motorists, a man and a woman, lunge from their respective vehicles. Arms flap frantically as they yell obscenities, each accusing the other of almost causing the fender bender.
I continue on my way, veering around the next corner.
Across the street, to my left, I spot the side view of an imposing brick building.
The beige structure is the tallest in the general vicinity.
A parking lot is directly below, with a long flight of stairs leading to what I assume is the main entrance.
There aren’t many people milling about, since the bell for homeroom rings in roughly fifteen minutes.
I quicken my strides, not wanting to be late on my first day.
I enter the double glass-and-chrome doors, breathless and a bit sweaty. I burrow my fingers into my hair, and, sure enough, the roots are beginning to frizz.
I release a frustrated sigh and roll my eyes skyward. “Give me a freaking break.”
This is one epic bad streak. My hair will be a puffy mess in a few hours.
“Chop, chop, young lady,” a man clutching a walkie-talkie in his hand rushes me. “The bell for homeroom rings in ten minutes.”
“I’m new here,” I say in response. “Can you tell me where the main office is?”
He aims the walkie-talkie straight ahead. “Down this hall, on the right. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks. My name is Zilp—”
“Hurry along now.” He dismisses me and dashes down the hall. “Hey! You kids better get moving. Detention for anyone caught in the hallway without a pass after the bell rings.”
What a total douche.
I continue on my way and enter the door with “MAIN OFFICE” in bold, black print across the front.
“Good morning.” I fold my arms across the reception desk and read the gold nameplate at my elbow. “Ms. Leacock.”
“Hello, dear.” She beams, peering at me over the rim of her glasses. “What can I do for you?”
“I need my locker number and a printout of my class schedule, please,” I answer her. “It’s my first day.”
Not that I have anything to put in said locker. Fucking Deja.
“First and last name?”
“Zilphia Kensley.”
“Spell it for me, dear.” Her deft fingers fly over the keyboard, typing out each letter. “Your locker number is 183.” A few right clicks on the mouse, then she pushes away from the desk. “I’ll be right back.”
She walks over to the printer, grabs two papers from the tray, and hands both to me. “Here you are, dear. Your class schedule and instructions on how to set your lock.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome. Have a great first day.”
My stomach rumbles, reminding me to seek nourishment ASAP. “Can you point me to the cafeteria?”
Please don’t let it be too late for breakfast. Hunger headaches are a super bitch.
“It’s closed until first lunch block, which starts at eleven ten,” she responds, regarding me sympathetically. “If you want to catch breakfast in the mornings, get here by eight twenty at the latest. The building opens at eight if you want to come earlier.”
I glance at my schedule and inwardly groan. Fuck my whole entire existence. My lunch block isn’t until twelve twenty. It’s the third and last lunch block of the day. That’s a million hours away. Not really, but three and a half hours is a long damn time when you’re hungry.
Ugh! I’m going to keel over and die from starvation before then. Maybe the cafeteria workers will have pity on me and toss me a stale muffin or something. No, I better get to homeroom. I don’t want to risk the Hallway Scrooge giving me detention.
“You need a school ID to get breakfast and lunch. It’s used the same way as a debit card.
Stop by the library sometime this morning to have one made.
It’ll take about five minutes.” Ms. Leacock plucks a colorful flyer from a plastic holder and slides it across the wooden surface for my perusal.
“Create an account on this website. Enter the six-digit number on the back of the card and follow the prompts. You’ll need to add a payment method if you don’t qualify for free meals. ”
I knew all this beforehand, but the last twenty-four hours and hunger pangs have my brain in warp mode.
The process here is similar to the one at my last school.
I more than meet the criteria to receive free meals, but Momma refuses to apply for the program, and she didn’t offer me a single red cent.
“Okay.” I add the flyer to my other papers. “I appreciate all your help.”
“It’s what I’m here for, dear.”
I step into the hall and study my schedule.
“All right. Let’s see what we have here,” I mumble to myself. “Homeroom is on the second floor with Mr. Larkin.”
My eyes dart to the analog clock hanging above the office door. Two minutes. I spot the stairwell ahead and take off running. My precariously high wedges pound against the ivory-and-turquoise vinyl flooring as I race to my destination.
I launch myself into the classroom a split second before the bell rings. A few stragglers rush in behind me. I drag my feet to a vacant desk and limply drop into the chair, unsuccessfully trying to control my erratic breathing.
Having an asthma attack right now would be so sucky.
It’s been a year since my last attack, but I always keep my inhaler in my purse just in case.
I straighten my posture and begin the breathing exercises my primary care physician taught me.
Several long, deep breaths later, I’m back in tip-top shape, but my stomach isn’t. It’s snarling at me.
The girl sitting next to me giggles. “That’s some growl.”
Mirth-filled eyes regard me through thick lenses.
She has vitiligo or some other skin condition, though my initial assumption is likely correct.
Pale patches of skin dominate her face, neck, and hands.
An oversized long-sleeved shirt and loose-fitting jeans cover the rest of her.
She’s not dressed for the weather. I wonder if her choice in clothing has anything to do with her skin condition.
“Sorry about that. My stomach usually has manners.”
“No sweat.” She giggles again, displaying lime-green braces. “I have a granola bar if you want it. It’s vegan, though.”
“Yes please.” Saliva pools into my mouth. “I’m dying over here.”
She rummages through her backpack purse and pulls out a mixed-berry granola bar. I want to shout for joy, but I doubt the teacher would appreciate my antics.
“Oh my God,” I say instead, ripping the wrapper open. “You deserve the Presidential Citizens Medal. Seriously, I was seconds away from croaking over.”
“You’re absolutely right,” she readily agrees, nodding her head once. “I’ll write the president a letter, detailing my outstanding contributions toward eliminating teenage hunger.”
We both laugh.
“Name’s Zilphia, by the way.”
“Neat name,” she responds. “Leah, short for Sesalee.”
“Neat name,” I repeat her compliment to me.
I admire my guardian angel’s gorgeous fuchsia-tipped micro locs while scarfing down my continental breakfast. The tiny locks hang over her seat. She must have started them when she was very young.
“Want another one?” she asks.
I cock an eyebrow at her. “Is the sky blue? Bring on the granola.”
She brandishes a peanut butter granola bar this time.
“You truly are a lifesaver.” I eagerly accept the sweet honey oat treat. “My stomach owes you a debt.”
“No debt,” Leah replies. “Helping a fellow peer is reward enough.”
I smile. Maybe the day won’t be a total bust after all.
“I noticed you’re empty-handed,” she mentions. “No school supplies?”
“Oh… umm.” Leah’s cool, but I’m not comfortable airing my family’s drama to a stranger. “I couldn’t find my backpack this morning. Everything’s been hectic since the move.”
“I have a tote bag and extra supplies in my locker. You’re welcome to anything you need.”
“Do you have a best friend? If not, I would like to apply for the position.”
She grins. “You’re in luck. I have several best friend positions available, actually.”
“I can provide references too,” I say cheekily.
Yep, the day is turning a new leaf. I met a genuinely nice person, and my belly is no longer grumbling.
“Zilphia, I presume?” Mr. Larkin asks.
“You presume correctly.”
“Welcome to Bentworth High. This is for you.” He hands me a laptop and two sheets of paper. “The first document is the laptop agreement. Sign and date the bottom. Your username and temporary password are on the second document.”
I scrawl my signature and date on the appropriate lines, then hand the agreement back to him.
“Perfect. You’re all set.”
Mr. Larkin ambles back to his desk and sits on the smooth surface, placing the paper beside him.
“All right, everyone.” He thumps bony knuckles against the wood to quiet my chattering peers. “Settle down. It’s time for roll call, then we’re going to discuss everyone’s favorite topic.” Mr. Larkin pauses for dramatic effect. “Arriving to classes on time.”
A collective chorus of groans and disgruntled boos resounds throughout the classroom.
“Hey, spare me the attitudes,” Mr. Larkin admonishes. “You guys knew this was coming.”
He continues with the morning routine, despite his petulant audience.