Bite Me

One

The teacher handed out a stack of permission slips, some camping field trip in November, and the hum got louder for a minute or two.

I stuffed the form into my bag without a second glance.

Beside me, Marcella guessed—probably correctly—that I would forget to show it to my dad.

I asked her to remind me and blew her three small kisses for good measure.

My art teacher, whose name I could never remember, snapped at the class to settle down.

She was an unusually tall woman teaching in a classroom with unusually short desks, so she often had to bend over to speak to students; my theory was that her sour attitude was the result of constant back pain.

Students generally avoided trying her patience. The classroom’s energy quickly subdued.

Then it stuttered like a scratchy record.

Under her breath, Cella said, “A-woo.” It was a very polite imitation of a howling wolf, her way of telling me somebody worth looking at had entered the room.

Scowling, I followed her eyes to the door.

We were a month into the school year, but standing at the classroom’s entrance was a student I didn’t recognize carrying one of those ludicrous gallon-sized water bottles.

He looked tall. Brown skin, tight brown curls.

Not too interesting. I turned back to my sketchbook, shaking my head to get rid of the buzzing feeling. It didn’t go anywhere.

“Right, right,” said the teacher. I tried to let her voice bounce off of me, but I couldn’t tune her out with that itch at my temples, behind my eyes, under my tongue. “We have a new classmate starting today. Everyone give a warm welcome to . . . Well, I’ll let you speak for yourself.”

“Oh, she totally forgot his name,” whispered Cella. After years of our friendship, she had perfected the whisper. Not even the other guy at our four-seat table heard.

The boy in the doorway looked right at us. “Mason Kane,” he said.

His smile brought about a new wave of energy in the classroom. Mostly female. The new guy wore joggers and a white T-shirt and had shiny red-and-white sneakers, and he looked strong. Apparently, that was enough to make an impression.

“Right, Mason,” the teacher said. “I’m Mrs. Garroway.”—That was it—“Happy to have you. Go ahead and say a few words to introduce yourself.”

“Uh. I’m Mason.”

That earned several laughs. Again, mostly female. Even the teacher, who had frown lines halfway up her forehead and the personality of a failing car engine, humored him with a chuckle.

“Funny guy,” I snickered to Cella. Normally, she would snicker, too, though she would try to conceal it. But she didn’t make a peep. She was smiling at the new kid. “Oh man, you too?”

Mrs. Garrison told him to take any seat and began the day’s lesson, which was my cue to stop listening. I tried to ignore the weird feeling, but it got louder. Closer. It made me want to cover my ears, even though it made no sound.

I ducked my head like I could hide from it, staring hard at my charcoal.

The good thing about this class was that I didn’t have to try too hard.

Art had always been a strong subject for me.

Even if the assignments I turned in had little to do with the instructions, as long as I at least worked in the right medium, I scored well.

Usually earned some praise too. The only times I’d ever seen Mrs. Garret smile were when she looked over my work.

And when good-looking new students made mediocre jokes, apparently.

I liked sketching the most, because I could get away with paying little attention to what took shape.

It was nice to let my hand take over, swapping pencils whenever it felt right, smudging until my fingertips were black.

But I couldn’t do that today. To block out the itching, nagging, biting feeling, I focused hard on the dark lines of drooping petals taking shape on my page: huckleberry blossoms. I almost always ended up drawing flowers.

It worked for a while. Mrs. Gilbert’s lecture came and went, and the noise faded into the background. Then Cella began to talk. Hers was the only voice that always cut through the hum. Normally, I didn’t mind. I allowed it—I liked it—because she was usually talking to me.

This wasn’t the voice she used when she spoke to me, though.

This was sweeter, better enunciated—the good-impressions voice she used on everyone else.

When I glanced up, she was talking to the new boy.

I’d already forgotten his name. He’d taken the last seat at our table, across from me and next to the other boy, whose name I’d also forgotten.

I wasn’t great with names.

Cella asked the new boy where he’d moved from, and then if Salem’s gloomy weather made him miss the California sky and if he was finding his way around okay and how he felt about starting at a new school. He told her Marcella was a pretty name.

The new guy noticed me looking.

“What’s up?” he greeted me. His eyes were nutty brown, lighter than mine. When I met them, that irritating feeling spiked.

“Hello,” I said shortly and turned back to my sketchbook. Someone coughed. Cella nudged my shin with her foot, just a brush at first, then a gentle kick.

“Kieran,” she said. Riding on a decade of friendship, I tried to telepathically communicate to her that now wasn’t the time. She didn’t get the message. “Kieran Callisto.”

“Need something?”

She nodded across the table toward . . . Max? Manuel?

“I’m Mason,” he said, in a tone that told me he was saying it for the second time, and I had missed the first.

“That’s really great.”

Cella kicked a little harder.

“You just said my name,” I said. “If he hasn’t caught it by now, it’s a lost cause.”

He laughed. It was a normal laugh, for all intents and purposes, but it felt like nails on a chalkboard or Styrofoam rubbing together, like it was grating my fucking brain matter.

“I guess it’s Kieran, then?” said Mason.

“Ding, ding, ding,” I said unenthusiastically. “You win an all-expenses paid trip to the Russian tundra.”

“Can I . . . go somewhere else?”

“A prize is a prize.” I dropped my gaze. Pointedly. Huckleberry blossoms. My grip on the pencil was tight; I pressed hard and left a too-dark vein in a leaf.

“What are you drawing?” he asked.

“A picture.”

Cella leaned in close. “Don’t be a dick, Your Majesty. It’s scary to be the new kid.”

“Deepest apologies, mother dearest,” I said. I had a perfect whisper too. It was why we worked so well as friends. So much shit-talking potential. “Why do I need to talk to him? You’re the one who thinks he’s hot.”

Mason laughed for no apparent reason. His presence at our table was . . . annoying.

“Don’t take it personally,” Cella told him. “He’s a sweetheart,” she added, which was a lie. “Just tired.”

Also a lie. I don’t get tired.

“I can tell,” said Mason. I felt another itchy spike, this time somewhere in my gut.

Scowling a little harder, I said, “Excuse me?”

“Nice hair, by the way.”

He said it like a dare. I had forgotten about the purple clips. Mason was still smiling, but there was nothing friendly about it. The boy next to him squirmed. Cella’s own smile—her good-impressions one—faltered at the edges.

The class hum continued in the background, but the room might as well have been silent as Mason held that smile. He was trying to stare me down.

He’d have to try harder.

His posture gave him away, back tense, at odds with his cocksure mouth. I leaned back in my seat, making a point to be his opposite. I relaxed my spine, letting my shoulders sag, and tipped my head to one side.

“Seen this one before,” said Cella, laughing to clear the air. “You know Twilight? Little indie film, you might’ve heard of it. Kieran is Edward—obviously—and Mason, I mean, look at you. So Jacob.”

“A-woo,” I said, grinning when the tips of her ears went red. “You sure about that, though? Marcus sure does sparkle.”

Mason showed his teeth, a big bright grin that seemed more like a snarl with his sharp canines and the mean look in his eyes.

I liked how it felt, riling him up. It scratched that itch.

I wasn’t a fan of most people, but I decided I really didn’t like him. He could feel it, too, I was sure: the instant disdain between us, the tingling urge to snap.

And he did snap. “Bite me,” he said, still smiling, like he could play it off as a tease. He didn’t know the weight behind his words, but I couldn’t help myself.

“I just might.”

His brow furrowed. Cella arched one blond eyebrow, bleached like her hair. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. I’d known her for over half my life. That look said, Not your smartest move.

She was right. I’d said smarter things. It was worth it, though, to mess with this guy’s head a little.

For the rest of the period, he reserved his attention for Cella. I pretended he wasn’t there, hoping I had built up enough good karma in my lifetime to go the rest of the day without seeing him again.

***

As it turned out, karma was not on my side. I didn’t have too many good deeds under my belt.

Mason was in my fourth period: environmental science.

I got a bad feeling the second before he walked through the door, and I groaned out loud at the sight of him.

Everyone else was too busy staring at him to notice.

He stared right back, too, making eye contact with the whole room, conveniently skipping over me to land on Cella.

His mouth tilted up. He was enjoying the attention.

The teacher directed him to a desk at the opposite end of the room. Bless her.

Somehow, he bothered me anyway.