Chapter 6
Ihate how in the movies best friends will always have the same classes together and even their lockers right next to each other. That's not how reality works. Reality is more like your lockers are on opposite sides of the school, and if you're lucky you'll get one or two classes together.
Naturally, I'm all by myself in first-period astronomy.
The astronomy teacher quit over the summer, so they hired a physical trainer and budding Hollywood screenwriter with a skyscraper forehead and tufts of receding hair to babysit us while the IntegriTruth AI teacher does all the work.
His name is Mr. Deel, and he spent yesterday making it clear to us that everything we'll learn in this class is government propaganda.
I walk in with my head down and gravitate to the first empty seat I can find, then notice it's right next to Roland Greenway. I visibly shudder and move on to the next empty seat, near the back of the room. As soon as I sit, somebody pokes me from the side.
It's Darren Lam. “That's Byron's foot desk.”
“But it's not his desk,” I say.
Carsten butts in. “It doesn't matter. He needs to stretch his legs out during class.”
“It's a desk. Not a footrest.”
The bell rings. Byron finally enters. He strides to his desk until he sees me in front of it, then stops.
He crosses his arms sharply, his eyes stewing with impatience.
I pretend not to see it. I don't care. I'm not getting up.
I'd rather deal with this than sit next to Roland and absorb his unbearable pick-me energy.
“Well,” Byron says, looking at his watch for a moment until he gives up and calls me a barbarian. He drops his backpack aggressively and takes the seat behind me, then places his feet right up to my lower back.
I'm not going to confront him, especially since I don't have Felix here for backup. But Dr. Collins gets on the intercom and calls for us to stand for the Texas pledge, and I know if I do that Byron's feet are going to take my seat, so I don't.
“Honor the Texas flag,” everybody recites with their hands on their hearts, all eyes on the Texas flag above the door. “I pledge allegiance to thee, Texas, one state under God, one and indivisible.”
Right on cue, Roland turns around like the busybody he is and sees me and Byron sitting. “Wade and Byron aren't standing. That's so disrespectful to the flag, and to the astronauts who went to the moon with Texas's help.”
“Stifle it, Roland,” I say.
“Astronauts on the moon? You mean the actors in the Nevada desert?” Mr. Deel says, not looking up.
“Mr. Deel,” Byron begs in his whiny diva voice, “my legs need proper circulation since I'm a dancer. Wade is interfering with my physical therapy.”
“Then circulate them somewhere else,” I say.
Byron presses his foot hard into my back. I jab my elbow into the bottom of his shoe, not softly, but not that hard either. Still, Byron suddenly falls out of his chair screaming like I chopped his foot off with a machete. Everybody turns from their desks and watches Byron flailing on the ground.
“My toe! You hit an ancient pressure point!”
Carsten and Darren rush to his side.
“I need a doctor! NOW,” Byron wails.
“Look what you did, you monster,” Carsten says to me.
“You sociopath!” Darren says.
I glare at the class like I'm being cross-examined. “I barely touched him!”
They pick Byron up and carry him out of the room like a couple of paramedics.
And this is just the first two minutes of my day. Nothing prepares me for the surprise I get when I take my seat in Spanish.
The name SE?ORA brEEDLOVE is written on the board and my blood runs cold. If she's related to Sutter, I've got to get the hell out of here. I cannot handle any more Breedlove terror.
The bell rings and a bright-faced woman walks quickly into the classroom.
“Okay, everybody, take your seats,” she says, clapping her hands. “Me llamo Senora Breedlove.”
I raise my hand. “Are you by any unfortunate chance related to Sutter Breedlove?”
“He's my son, actually,” she says. The entire classroom groans.
I'm stuck for an entire year with the person who laid the rotten egg that is Sutter.
I imagine an entire planet full of Breedloves, writhing around the slimy eggs they've hatched out of, hissing at each other and drinking the blood out of decapitated woodland creatures.
“I'm a last-minute sub since your real teacher left, so I'll tell you a bit about myself.
I went to school many years ago to be an actress, but I switched my majors to Spanish and Arabic.
I spent some time in Morocco while in the Peace Corps and taught English, then got married and stayed home with my kids.
I'm happy to be here and hope to get you all excited about learning Spanish.”
Sra. Breedlove claps her hands together like she's trying to wake the dead. “Okay, estudiantes! We're going to create telenovela scenes today. One minute, maximum drama! It's okay if it's not perfect. None of us are.”
Great. The last thing I need is to embarrass myself in front of Sutter's mom on day one. I slouch lower in my seat, hoping she'll forget I exist.
“I'm coming around to pair you up,” she announces, crushing my dreams of sitting this one out. She starts pointing around the room and looks at me.
“You with her,” she says, pointing to Daisha, the treasurer of the theater club sitting right next to me. I recognize her from the morning announcements, where she's always way too peppy about fundraisers.
“So what's our tragic storyline?” Daisha asks, looking into a small makeup mirror as she applies lip gloss. “Secret lovers? Evil twins? Amnesia? Dead parents?”
(Please make it go away)
“I don't know telenovelas.”
“Come on, work with me here. What's the most dramatic thing you can think of?”
“I don't know… Finding out your aunt's been stealing jewelry from an old folks' home?”
“That's cartoonishly evil,” Daisha says. She closes her eyes for a second until she lights up. “Ooh, I got it. Your mom's cheating on your dad with a circus clown. And you saw the clown in the house, thinking it was a monster about to gobble you up!”
“I call dibs on the son, I guess,” I say. “Unless you want me to be the mom.”
“When you accuse me, you need to sell it. Can you cry on cue?”
“I've never done this before.”
“It's a telenovela. Somebody's gotta cry.”
We draw up a script using an online Spanish dictionary, but somehow many words are coming to me without it. I thought I had forgotten everything. The whole thing is me accusing my mom of sleeping with a clown and not loving my dad:
Me:
?Mamá, vi un payaso en casa!
DAISHA:
?No, no lo vi!
Me:
?Sí, lo vi!
Me:?Qué es esto? ?Es un condón con maquillaje de payaso!
DAISHA:?Deja de mentir! ?No hay ningún payaso!
Me:?Le estás poniendo los cuernos a papá!
DAISHA:
?No! ?Quiero a tu papá!
Me:
?No! ?No lo quieres!
Sra. Breedlove calls out, “Cinco minutos, everybody!”
Daisha spends the next few minutes coaching me on telenovela acting—lots of hand gestures, gasping, clutching your chest like you're having a heart attack.
We get picked first.
I already feel the weight of everybody watching me. My brain feels like it's glitching.
(It doesn't look like it's moving)
Heat creeps up my neck.
(That's when it's coming right at you)
Daisha circles me like a shark.
(You're my little champ)
I gasp so hard I actually choke a little and drop to my knees. My voice cracks for real. Now, to my horror, I'm tearing up as I try to get the words out. Daisha's acting face breaks, and she looks genuinely shocked.
I'm still on the floor when I snap out of it. The class is dead silent, looking at me in awe.
“?Excelente!” Sra. Breedlove breaks the silence, clapping. “There's a future movie star in our classroom!”
I scramble back to my seat, wiping my face. I can't believe I did that. I'm so embarrassed.
Daisha slides back into her seat next to me, grinning. “So that was good. Like, heartbreakingly good. You should come to the theater club today. We're announcing this year's musical.”
“I don't have theater-kid DNA in me.”
“You threw yourself on the floor wailing about your mom cheating with a clown. In Spanish. While actually crying.” She raises an eyebrow. “I think you do now.”
“Yeah, I was crying because of something else.”
“Uh-huh. Look, Ms. Easterling is announcing the school musical today. Come hang with us!”
“You mean Mr. Easterling?” I ask.
Daisha shakes her head. “She's trans,” she explains. “She transitioned over summer.”
I let out an intrigued “ohhhhhhh” and tilt my head back. Mr. Easterling was always so gruff and athletic, which was a weird combination for somebody teaching theater. Hopefully nobody's giving her shit, but who am I kidding? In this town, somebody will.
“Mr. Easterling was always intimidating and off-putting. Is Ms. Easterling nicer?”
“She's a lot more relaxed these days. You should come say hi,” Daisha says.
I'd feel weird going to a social event without Felix.
Plus, the drama kids are kind of intense.
Last year an ambulance had to come get a freshman because they had an anxiety attack after being on the receiving end of a single unwelcome glare from Byron, which is difficult for me to imagine now that I've seen him cry for medical attention after I poked his foot.
“What do you say?” Daisha asks.
“Maybe. I'll think about it.”
Sra. Breedlove starts clapping again to get everyone's attention, and we move on to the next activity.
As class ends, Daisha stops at my desk. “Theater room, three p.m. Don't make me hunt you down.” She leaves before I can respond. Great. Now I have to figure out how to avoid the theater room at three.