Chapter 14
14
I t’s the morning of my first day at a new school, and I nearly set my hair on fire.
“Exaggerate much?” you might be thinking, but that’s only because you can’t smell the smoke or feel the terror. There’s a one-inch wide and three-inch long flat iron mark right next to my part from a stubborn cowlick that wouldn’t submit to smoothing out, so I tried to force it. And force it again. They say the third time’s a charm, but that’s only if you consider melted hair the latest fashion trend. I don’t. Coupled with the Paul Mitchell hairspray I resorted to using, my head is currently half-burned and entirely flammable. If I’m lucky, someone will walk by with a can of gasoline and put me out of my misery.
Emma. New girl. Bad hair. Curious odor.
Doesn’t that just scream prom-queen material?
In a panic, I swiped with the iron once again, knowing my mother would start yelling in five, four, three, two,—
“We’re late, Emma!” Her frustrated voice carried up the stairs.
“One second!” I slammed the iron on the counter hard enough to rattle the mirror. “Stupid hair.”
“Emma, your seconds have just run out! If you don’t get down here now, you’re going to find yourself walking?—”
“Okay, okay!” I could handle many things, but showing up on foot the very first day at a new school wasn’t one of them. Nothing screamed loser like a girl hoofing it her senior year. “Here goes nothing.” Oh, my wretched reflection.
I flipped off the light and trudged down the stairs, pausing on the last one to grip the handrail. Breathing in, breathing out, I tried to calm myself…tried to stop my heart from beating out of control. That is until my mom rounded the corner and gave me an if-looks-could-kill glare. Then I picked up the pace and headed for the door.
“Okay, I’m getting in the car. I don’t see why we’re in such a rush.” I, for one, would like to stop time with a snap of my fingers. Or maybe time-travel myself back to first grade when I made friends by climbing trees and reluctantly submitted to a hair washing once a week. Back before social awareness—otherwise known as my off-the-charts anxiety—kicked in.
“We’re in a rush because you’re late.” Mom closed the front door and marched down the steps behind me. “And now, so am I.” She glanced at me over the roof of the car and frowned. “You have something in your hair. Right there,” she motioned with her hand, “above your bangs.”
I set my jaw, just so annoyed. “I burned it with the flat iron. The stupid crease wouldn’t flatten out no matter how many times I tried.” Slamming the door, I looked out the passenger window as we backed into the street.
“Oh, I wish you’d told me. A little spray conditioner would take the mark right out.” Mom flipped her hand. “Nothing we can do about it now, I guess.”
Now she tells me.
Nothing seemed to be going right, not since our move to this godforsaken town from Los Angeles. Los Angeles . I missed it, the water, the scent of salt in the air, the fast pace, my friends. There was just so much to do there and not nearly enough time to fit it all in. Instead, because of Mom’s new job and Dad’s departure, I wound up here in Pendleton, South Carolina—population 3,084. Seeing as we had to cross the desert, the northernmost part of Texas, and Music City, this town was practically halfway around the world.
In only one short week, I discovered that people in the South drive slowly, talk slowly, and seem to be in no hurry to do anything at all. Case in point: Could the old Ford Escort in front of us please speed up? At this rate, I’d make it to school by next Tuesday.
“Emma, try to have a good attitude about today.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my attitude.” My head flopped back between the headrest and the window.
My mother sighed. “It won’t be as bad as you think.”
Please. I heard that line over and over in the last three months, and frankly, I didn’t buy any of it. It was as bad as I thought it would be. Worse, even. And now she’s dropping me off into a sea of people I never met before, feeling not unlike a puppy in a pet store begging for someone to like her. And I don’t like to beg.
“Mom, I don’t know anyone here, and I’m showing up with burned hair. Not exactly the impression I wanted to make on my first day.”
She said nothing.
Two turns later, we pulled in front of the ugliest school I ever saw. Flat and brown with a walkway that stretched into forever, its main hallway like a tentacle reaching out to snatch me inside. I shrunk away from it.
“I’ll pick you up here at three-thirty,” Mom spoke around a tube of lipstick, then rubbed her lips together before tossing the tube inside her bag.
“Umm, no.” I watched her zip her purse. “I’ll meet you at home.” I retrieved my messenger bag and John Green paperback and climbed out of the car. I hesitated for a second beside the open door, suddenly overcome with a strong desire to jump back in and hold tight to the seat like a child. Maybe, just maybe, I was stronger than her. Surely, she couldn’t force me out. If only I hadn’t bitten my fingernails to the quick in my nervousness.
“Are you going to be okay? Do you need me to come inside with you?”
My eyes widened. “Mom, please.” I glanced around, hoping no one heard her. “I’ll see you later.” I pushed the door closed with my hip and took off, dragging my feet like they’d been dipped in cement that hadn’t quite hardened. I made it to the school’s entrance, fully aware of the stares the few straggling students threw my way. As hard as I tried, it was impossible to ignore them.
The office sat cattycorner exactly five steps past the front door. A round woman wearing a stick-on nametag with Mrs. Young written on it handed me some paperwork and a pen.
“Here you go. Your mother forgot to fill out these two forms.” She stood over my shoulder—so close that her little puffs of breath landed on my skin every few seconds—and kept pointing to things I missed.
“Don’t forget your social security number.” She cleared her throat. “You forgot to fill in your phone number.” She tapped her pencil on the desk. “Remember to sign your name at the bottom.”
It was all I could do not to say, Okay, lady. I get it.
Finally done, I capped the pen and pasted on a smile, ignoring the overwhelming combination of baby powder and coffee emanating off the woman’s skin. She smiled wide and handed me my schedule.
“Thanks.” I mustered up some fake enthusiasm and scanned the office, not knowing what came next. I totally needed to work on my people skills.
“You’re welcome. Feel free to come back in here if you need anything at all. I’ll be happy to help you.”
I nodded. “I will.”
But no, I wouldn’t.
Intending to head straight for my first class to avoid the humiliation of having to speak with anyone else, I gathered up my things and turned. And that’s when I slammed straight into the guy behind me, knocking him backwards like I’d pushed him with both fists. The open water bottle he held sprayed all over his black t-shirt. My bag and newly printed schedule flew in two different directions.
So much for not being humiliated.
“Slow down, slugger,” he says, tugging at his clinging shirt and pulling it away from him. The shirt made that suction cup sound as it disconnected from his skin. He let go, and his shirt snapped back, a spray of water landing on his face that he wiped off with one hand.
“I’m s—sorry,” I stammered, reaching for my bag, and feeling white-hot embarrassment creep up my neck. I looked around but couldn’t find my schedule anywhere. “I can’t believe I just did that.” I closed my eyes for a moment, wanting to die. Please, God, take me now. I’ve lived long enough .
“Oh no! Shane, are you okay?” Mrs. Young grabbed a handful of Kleenex and shuffled around the desk, wiping frantically at his black shirt but only making the situation worse. Now, not only did his shirt look like he just walked through a torrential downpour, but it also had little, papery white bits all over it.
“Don’t worry about it.” He laughed quietly—seriously, laughed —then stepped away from the office lady and bent down to pick up my misplaced paper, partially wedged under a sofa leg against the wall. He handed it to me, leaving wet fingerprint marks on the corner.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks. I appreciate?—”
That’s when I fully looked at him and swallowed hard.
Wow, he was gorgeous. An image of him shirtless on a Sunset Strip billboard flitted across my mind. What? I grew up in Hollywood. Models were everywhere. I couldn’t help it.
Not my proudest moment.
Of course, dousing him with water wasn’t either. He was probably the best-looking guy in school, and I’d just tried to drown him.
Still facing me, he frowned. “You know, you have something in your hair.” He pointed to his own head. “Right about there. In front. No, a little further over.” He was actually giving me directions to the burned spot.
Okay, God. Feel free to suck me into heaven any minute now .
“Thanks. I’ll go check it in the bathroom.” Right after I flush my head down the toilet.
“Shane,” Office-Lady said. “Do you want to change your shirt? We probably have some extra ones in here.” I watched, feeling so pathetically awkward, as she scooted toward the closet and opened the door to peek inside. “Here’s one.” She held up a white t-shirt with the words Kiss My Attitude written in red across the front of it.
“Um, thanks, but I’m alright.” He flashed a lopsided grin at me like he’d just dodged a bullet—never mind that I’d fired first. “I have another shirt in my gym locker. I’ll go change in a minute.” Pulling a piece of paper from his binder, he slid it toward her. “I do have a question about my schedule, though.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” Office-Lady looked very concerned, and I’m pretty sure she threw an annoyed glance my way. “Let me see if I can help you.”
While she put on her glasses to look at the guy’s schedule, I pulled my bag over my shoulder and wondered what the heck just happened. The guy named Shane gave me a two-finger wave, and I turned to leave. He wasn’t even mad . Not wanting to give him another minute to realize he should be, I headed for the exit, standing back to let another guy enter the office from the hall.
“Oh man—what happened to you?” he asked Shane as he brushed past me.
“Nothing, I’m just an idiot.” I heard him answer, but I kept moving with my head down, certain the entire school was watching me. But my mind kept replaying that smile, the one Shane flashed after I knocked into him. Where were the in-my-face threats, the name-calling that I was used to? I could handle those things, but smiling? Suddenly I felt unsafe.
After a long minute of wandering aimlessly, I found room 411. Physics. Not my best subject, but not my worst, either. As soon as I stepped into the classroom, the whispering started.
“Is that the new girl?”
“What’s wrong with her hair?”
“I think her name is Emma.”
“Emma Lee, I heard. What kind of name is that?”
And that’s the thing about my name; even I know it’s strange. Emma’s not that bad. But pair it with Lee, and people either A. look at me with pity, B. wait for me to finish, thinking I’ve gotten stuck in the middle and surely there must be more, or C. suggest I change it. Who could blame them? I’ve never understood why my parents chose it for me. In my mind, I pictured both of my parents falling-down drunk the night before my birth— completely out of their senses—thinking in their stupor that a name like mine would be hilariously clever. Real funny.
As I walked to the front, whispers of “She’s pretty” and “She’s not as pretty as I thought she’d be” alternated from the two girls sitting on the second row, both of whom donned the same pixie-cut short hair and matching imitation Ugg boots. The only difference: one wore the pity-she-has-such-an-awful-name expression on her face, and the other looked at me like she had a bad taste in her mouth. I wanted to toss a breath mint at her.
Instead, I handed a copy of my schedule to the teacher, Mr. Franklin, who looked at it and confirmed that, yes, I’d made it to the right class. The gap in his front teeth matched perfectly with his short stature, thinning dark hair, and black-rimmed glasses. He wore a light blue button-down with a barely-there stain just below the collar—as if he’d dripped ketchup and rubbed frantically at it on his way out the door. His tie hung just off-center, and his khaki pants were slightly too long. They made a whoosh, whoosh, whoosh sound as he walked across the room. Something about his overall look made him seem as out of place in this room as I was. At least he acted friendly, unlike the curious faces that openly stared at me.
“You can have a seat next to Hannah Edwards there in front.” He pointed to a wide table with two chairs just to the right of where we stood. My heart stopped. The front row? What kind of teacher makes the new girl sit on the front row? One who likely got bullied as a kid and sees me as an opportunity for payback, that’s who.
I swallowed hard and walked over to the table. Grabbing a pen from my backpack, I busied myself with doodling tiny pictures all over my notebook: a red flower, another one, and a purple heart with a black arrow stabbing through it. I felt twenty pairs of eyes trained on me through the entire fifty-minute lecture.
The rest of the day didn’t get any better. Whispers followed me everywhere, although new phrases were added, like “She’s not that friendly” and “I heard she moved here because her dad left.” How did they know that? I worked hard to look up from my own feet more, but it didn’t seem to make much of a difference. So eventually, I stopped.
I liked my new shoes better than the students in this town, anyway.
When the last bell rang, I couldn’t leave fast enough. I practically ran down the hall, my heart and feet stopping when I saw Shane-the-water-guy for the first time since this morning. He didn’t see me; he stood at an open locker several feet away, pulling out a stack of books. I took a sharp left and bolted for the exit. Crisis averted.
Except I didn’t want to hurry home. The house would be quiet and empty. Kind of a sad little metaphor for my current life.
I walked as slowly as possible, and on the way, I discovered a couple of odd things about the town. For one thing, there were no long lines of vehicles at any traffic light or stop sign—not one. I never heard the blare of a car horn; or, for that matter, people shouting insults at each other. Apparently, people here moved too slowly to get angry.
Another thing—a strange one, really—was the way everyone waved at me. People I had never met. The first couple of times it happened, I looked around to see who was behind me, once spinning stupidly in an entire circle. By the time I realized how dumb I looked, it was too late. An elderly man saw me from his front porch, then pressed his fingers over his lips to hide the laughter. Glad to entertain. When he caught me looking at him, he picked up his broom, shoulders shaking, and swept the front porch of his charming but slightly run-down house. Something about the sound of the broom swooshing back and forth, back and forth, mesmerized me. I slowed my steps to listen, suddenly wanting to ask to help, clearly so hard up for company that a broom and dirt seemed like a viable option. I couldn’t remember the last time an adult who wasn’t my mother genuinely smiled at me.
Ignoring the odd urge to bond with the elderly over cleaning supplies, I picked up my pace, knowing I couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer. I was headed home to an empty house that would remain that way for the next few hours—a fact that I would normally embrace with no small amount of enthusiasm. But with nothing to do and no one to invite over, this fate seemed entirely unfair to my almost eighteen-year-old self.
Isolation isn’t worth embracing when it’s suddenly your only friend.