more about grades than a little natural musk.
Finally the bell rings, and Ryan runs through the door so fast he nearly smacks into me. He’s still wearing his sling, which he’s tagged himself with a Sharpie message that reads, “Keep Calm and Carry My Books.”
“There you are!” he pants. “Oh, man, you owe me. I told Miserandino your grandma died yesterday.”
“What are you talking about? And that’s not cool. Both of my grandmas are still alive, man.”
“Philosophy,” he says. “The class we just had. Or
I
just had.”
I place my hands on his shoulders, making the most of our six-inch height difference. “Ryan,” I say. “What are you smoking? We have a free first period Tuesdays.”
He swats my hands away, his blue eyes twinkling with some mixture of amusement and schadenfreude. “Jaxon,” he says, imitating my condescending tone. “Today’s a
Monday
schedule, dude.”
“Oh, no.” I feel the blood drain from my face. I’ve accidentally cut my first class of the year. With Mr. Misery, who takes no prisoners. “Oh,
shit
.”
“Yup. You so owe me.”
“I don’t owe you,” I say, grabbing my bag. (If today is a Monday schedule, that means I have Spanish in five minutes, which means I need to get halfway around the building.) “I stayed with you in the ER all day Thursday. If anything,
you
owed
me
. And now we’re even.” I make a break for the stairwell, and Ryan follows. “By the way,” I say once we’re out of the goth girls’ earshot, “did you know our lockers are in the freak hallway?”
“I found out this morning when some chick with a septum barbell tried to scalp me tickets to see a band called Blood Spatter,” Ryan says. “I already put in a request with the main office to switch.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
“I would have, if you would have been
on time
,” he says, trying to rub it in some more.
“You could have texted me,” I say as we exit the stairwell on the second floor and merge into boisterous teenage traffic. “Or did your phone get dislocated trying to jump the toaster?”
Ryan gets quiet, and I wonder if I’ve hurt his feelings, but when I turn back to check he smiles at me nervously.
“Look,” he says, struggling to keep pace, “I was going to talk about it at lunch, but, um . . . I’m kind of not supposed to hang out with you for a little while.”
“What?!” I stop in my tracks, and a tiny freshman plows into me, sending his iPod flying. Ryan retrieves it for the kid and then drags me over to a nearby water fountain.
“I know,” he says. “But my parents are pretty pissed about what happened.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” I say, glancing at my phone. I have sixty seconds before I’m late to my second class of the day.
“They kind of think it is,” Ryan says, looking at the floor and scratching the back of his neck.
“Why would they think that?”
“Because I kind of . . . told them it was?”
“Ryan!”
“I know, I know,” he says, holding up his good hand defensively. “But they were so mad at me for not telling them about it, they were going to take my Xbox 360, so I needed a scapegoat.”
The warning bell rings—thirty seconds—and I take my cue. I back away from Ryan and toward the small beige-paneled room where I’ll be forced to perform dialogue scenes in which I describe in detail every piece of furniture in my imaginary Mexican hotel room.
“I don’t have time for this,” I yell. And as I turn my back I wonder if it’s remotely possible that this could all be a dream, one of those worst-case-scenario anxiety nightmares in which everything that could go wrong, does. I’m an accidental truant and a self-selected freak. My best friend can’t talk to me, and my former crush is getting manhandled in front of me by a giant basketball star. I have a patchy mustache and old clothes, and nobody sees past that to the person underneath.
No one but her, anyway. Devorah’s different from
Finally the bell rings, and Ryan runs through the door so fast he nearly smacks into me. He’s still wearing his sling, which he’s tagged himself with a Sharpie message that reads, “Keep Calm and Carry My Books.”
“There you are!” he pants. “Oh, man, you owe me. I told Miserandino your grandma died yesterday.”
“What are you talking about? And that’s not cool. Both of my grandmas are still alive, man.”
“Philosophy,” he says. “The class we just had. Or
I
just had.”
I place my hands on his shoulders, making the most of our six-inch height difference. “Ryan,” I say. “What are you smoking? We have a free first period Tuesdays.”
He swats my hands away, his blue eyes twinkling with some mixture of amusement and schadenfreude. “Jaxon,” he says, imitating my condescending tone. “Today’s a
Monday
schedule, dude.”
“Oh, no.” I feel the blood drain from my face. I’ve accidentally cut my first class of the year. With Mr. Misery, who takes no prisoners. “Oh,
shit
.”
“Yup. You so owe me.”
“I don’t owe you,” I say, grabbing my bag. (If today is a Monday schedule, that means I have Spanish in five minutes, which means I need to get halfway around the building.) “I stayed with you in the ER all day Thursday. If anything,
you
owed
me
. And now we’re even.” I make a break for the stairwell, and Ryan follows. “By the way,” I say once we’re out of the goth girls’ earshot, “did you know our lockers are in the freak hallway?”
“I found out this morning when some chick with a septum barbell tried to scalp me tickets to see a band called Blood Spatter,” Ryan says. “I already put in a request with the main office to switch.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
“I would have, if you would have been
on time
,” he says, trying to rub it in some more.
“You could have texted me,” I say as we exit the stairwell on the second floor and merge into boisterous teenage traffic. “Or did your phone get dislocated trying to jump the toaster?”
Ryan gets quiet, and I wonder if I’ve hurt his feelings, but when I turn back to check he smiles at me nervously.
“Look,” he says, struggling to keep pace, “I was going to talk about it at lunch, but, um . . . I’m kind of not supposed to hang out with you for a little while.”
“What?!” I stop in my tracks, and a tiny freshman plows into me, sending his iPod flying. Ryan retrieves it for the kid and then drags me over to a nearby water fountain.
“I know,” he says. “But my parents are pretty pissed about what happened.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” I say, glancing at my phone. I have sixty seconds before I’m late to my second class of the day.
“They kind of think it is,” Ryan says, looking at the floor and scratching the back of his neck.
“Why would they think that?”
“Because I kind of . . . told them it was?”
“Ryan!”
“I know, I know,” he says, holding up his good hand defensively. “But they were so mad at me for not telling them about it, they were going to take my Xbox 360, so I needed a scapegoat.”
The warning bell rings—thirty seconds—and I take my cue. I back away from Ryan and toward the small beige-paneled room where I’ll be forced to perform dialogue scenes in which I describe in detail every piece of furniture in my imaginary Mexican hotel room.
“I don’t have time for this,” I yell. And as I turn my back I wonder if it’s remotely possible that this could all be a dream, one of those worst-case-scenario anxiety nightmares in which everything that could go wrong, does. I’m an accidental truant and a self-selected freak. My best friend can’t talk to me, and my former crush is getting manhandled in front of me by a giant basketball star. I have a patchy mustache and old clothes, and nobody sees past that to the person underneath.
No one but her, anyway. Devorah’s different from
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