Chapter Two

High school. The worst part of my life. Some say it’s the best, but I wonder what planet they’re from. If I can get through the long days without any morons making fun of the new kid, then I suppose it might be a tolerable.

Beth gives me simple directions on how to get to school by foot. I’m glad she doesn’t mention my disgusting display of emotions from the previous night, because it won’t happen again. Last night I swore to myself that I’d make this work, even if it takes every ounce of strength to get myself out of bed and to school every day. I just need to get through this year, and then my exile will be over. I’ll go home.   

I stand in front of the high school, watching students mass through the main doors. Everything in me says turn around and run—run fast and far. But I know change is what I’m here for.

The school reminds me of a penitentiary with its all-brick façade. Walls seem to disappear into their flat structure. Four areas of the building form bulky squares, rising above roof level. The only area that has any form to it is a large, circular building to my right.  

Oh, God. This really is a reformatory.

            The sign on the front lawn is brick, with a white board set in the center. Up top, it reads: CONARDHIGH SCHOOL. Below the name, plastic letters say: Welcome Students! But the first “t” in “students” looks more like an “l”. Idiots don’t know how to spell. Of course I’d get stuck here.

My personal prison sits back from the principle road and sidewalk. Trees with gnarled trunks and long limbs stand authoritatively along the way to the main entrance. Green grass splays across the lot, dotted with patches of yellow and brown. Birds whistle to each other through the trees.

I force my legs to move.

Breathe, I tell myself, counting my steps.

There are only a few students left outside, scurrying in before the first bell rings. I need to find the office. Walking toward the two main doors, I hang out for a minute, still uneasy about this whole going-to-school thing. Back in Charleston, I skipped classes.

I take a deep breath and make my feet move. Some kid bumps into me, then turns around.

“Watch where you’re going,” I grumble.

His eyebrows rise. “Yeah, uh, sorry.”

For a split second, I feel like a complete bitch.

“Where’s the office?” I ask.

He points toward the front doors and says, “In there. On the right.” Then he jogs inside.

Students crowd around the front counter; one guy is trying to get a couple of classes changed, another looks to be faking some sort of illness, and I’m not sure what the others are there for. I push through all of them. The old woman behind the counter seems startled by my approach.

“Can I help you, dear?” she asks. Her black-rimmed glasses slide down her nose every three seconds, and she forces them back up to the bridge. They magnify her eyes so much she looks like a bug.  

“I’m new and need to get a list of my classes.”

“Name?”

“Candra Lowell.”

She turns and walks to a back room, mumbling my name the whole way. I swear it takes her ten minutes to print the list off of a computer that’s older than I am. 

“Here you go, hon,” she says, handing me a list. “Do you need help finding your classes?” She reminds me of a white-haired robot, with her routine gestures and monotone voice.

            “Nope. I’ve got it,” I say, walking out the door, but she’s already helping someone else. 

Each classroom number is beside the teacher’s name on the list. The hard part: figuring out which hallway to take. There are so many. I walk down one hallway and I swear three more hallways branch from it. The stench of old peanut butter wafts into my nostrils. I don’t like the smell of older schools.

The tardy bell rings. A couple of students in the hallway obviously don’t care if they’re late; they’re too busy making out. One of the teachers storms around the corner and begins yelling at them. He then turns and looks at me.

            “You! Get to class!” I hear him mumble something along the lines of, “What is wrong with these kids?” as he stalks down another hallway, checking for more tardy students.

I really shouldn’t ask for help, because I’m too stubborn, but my conscience gets the best of me.

            “I’m new and don’t know where to go. Maybe you could help me?” I call behind him.

            He stops in the middle of the hallway, like he has second thoughts about helping me, but comes back and snatches the piece of paper out of my hand.

            “Walk down this hallway,”—he says, pointing toward the northern hallway—“and take a right. You should be able to find it from there.” He stuffs the list back in my hand.  

            If he had been at my old high school, I would’ve told him where to go.

My first class is Chemistry with Mr. Martin. He actually has the audacity to call on me for the answer to a question.

Luckily, I know the answer.

The rest of the students in the classroom watch me. I feel like I can’t escape their judging eyes.

After the bell makes its fast-paced clanging noise signaling the end of this class, everyone’s out of their seats and in the hallway before I can get my book in my bag. I check my class list as I walk out the door—English is next. English is always one of my best subjects. At least it’s better than learning elements from the periodic table.

I notice a locker combination scribbled on the back of the piece of paper: 28-10-42-5. My new locker number is 213. I decide to test it out. Of course, that requires finding it first. I look at the numbers on the lockers at the edge of the hallways to see what they begin with. It doesn’t take long for me to find the right hallway…and receive curious glances from fellow students.

Everyone knows when fresh meat has arrived.

The door is open when I get to English. I walk in and notice the teacher isn’t there. One-by-one, the students file to their desks, staring at me as they sit down. I fidget, flipping my notepad open and pretending I’m reading something. In reality, I draw a picture of the golden eyes in the woods outside of Randy and Beth’s house.

            Finally, Mr. Everett walks into the classroom, coffee in hand.

            “All of you can pass your homework from last night to the—” He freezes, realizing I’m standing beside his desk, like a lost puppy. I hand him my slip of paper.

            He glances at the slip and says, “Everyone, this is Candra Lowell. Where are you coming to us from, Candra?” His features are much more mature than Mr. Martin’s. With his stylish good looks and clean cut appearance, I can already guess that he’s the teacher that girls—maybe even a few guys—might have a crush on.

            “Charleston,” I reply.

            “Charleston, huh? You’re a long way from home. What brings you here?” He bites his lip. “I’m sorry. Don’t answer that. It’s none of my business.”

            Random giggles erupt across the classroom, more than likely from his admirers.

            “You’re right. It’s not. But, so I won’t have to answer the same question a hundred times today, I’ll tell you. I live with my aunt and uncle now because my parents couldn’t handle me getting into trouble.”

Everyone might as well know the truth. They’ll all either make up incorrect assumptions and wild stories, or they’ll know what really happened. The sooner I can tell everyone why I’m here, the sooner I won’t have to repeat myself.

But the whispers get me. I can handle name-calling, or bullies, but not whispers.

“Okay, why don’t you take a seat in the desk by Benjamin Conway?” He nods toward the back of the room.

            I give him a confused look while searching for an empty desk, not having the slightest idea who Benjamin is. Mr. Everett notices and points him out for me.

Benjamin is stunning, if a guy can even be that. His hair is the color of a dark, moonless night, and his skin has been kissed by the sun. The fact that he wears a button up, black shirt—rolled to his elbows—doesn’t help me any; it only makes him that much more attractive.

I hesitate before willing my legs to move in his direction.

If he heard what Mr. Everett said, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t look at me until I’m almost at my desk. When our eyes meet, something strange happens. My stomach does a flip and every nerve ending burns, like I’m swallowed in a sea of flames.

His eyes bulge, almost poking out of his head. And his eyebrows meet his hairline.

He’s as shocked as me.

Nobody else matters in the room. It’s just us.

My short daydream is sucked back into reality when I trip beside my desk and land face-first on the ground. I manage to wheeze out an, “Ow!” The room erupts into another fit of laughter. I, however, lay face down, wanting to cry.

“Well, Ms. Lowell, if you’re done tripping on your shoelaces, I can begin my lesson,” Mr. Everett jokes.

Like that helps. The class roars in hysterics. I’m a walking circus today.

“Errr,” I stammer. My voice has a nervous edge. “I’m done.”

My cheeks burn. Hell, my whole face burns. Although I can’t see it, I’m pretty sure it’s as red as a fire hydrant.

In my peripheral vision, I notice Ben staring at me. He doesn’t laugh like the other kids, just stares, which makes me more uncomfortable. Stray pieces of hair fall across my face, shielding me from his gaze. I purposely shake them so they cover my inflamed cheeks.

Before I know it, class is over. I don’t even know what the teacher talked about. I’m too embarrassed about my tripping incident to concentrate. I stop by my locker to drop off my books before heading to lunch. Students walk by and murmur. They’re talking about me. I just know it. Another kid walks by and bursts out laughing.

God, I hate high school.

The cafeteria is large and packed full of at least twenty rectangular tables with blue stools attached. There’s a deck outside where students can sit—something we don’t have back home. The aroma in the air bites at my nose, bidding me to eat. Although my stomach gnaws at my backbone, the food doesn’t look appetizing. Mushy greens, watery potatoes, burnt chicken fingers, and two-day old pizza aren’t my idea of a nice lunch. I cut in line to buy chocolate milk and find an empty table.

            Half the lunchroom glares at me. Do I really look that solitary? I feel that way.

            I’ve made it this far, just two more classes before I’m out of here.

With a few more snickers and looks, I want more than anything to be invisible. I fiddle with my chocolate milk container before downing the rest. Standing to throw it away, I feel the heat crawl up the back of my neck and, finally, into my cheeks. It’s like all of the glares so far have accumulated and hit me at once.

Then I think about Benjamin, and feel my face grow hotter. Everything from his gaze to the clothes he wore in class flashes through my head. What’s with him? There’s something…different. I can’t explain why I felt the sudden stab of uneasiness the closer I got to him, but it was definitely there.

            The bell rings, and I make my way through the ocean of students to my third class of the day, Algebra. It’s on the opposite side of the building from my other two classes.

They should really have a map for this place.

            I begin to wonder if they stuck me in these stupid classes because of my grades back home. This is torture. Not the kind of torture from the Medieval Period, but the kind where they try to eat away at your soul…slowly, mentally.  

Fortunately, I find my way to Mrs. Raulston’s classroom without a hitch. She and I trade—her book for my class list. She instructs everyone to turn to chapter seven as she flips the light switch and begins running the projector. The discussion is about ellipses, parabolas, and hyperbolas.

            Boring.

            I’m already exhausted, and it’s not even the end of the day yet. If I can lay my head down for five minutes…

            Something strikes my desk. I almost crash onto the floor.   

            “Candra Lowell!” Mrs. Raulston bellows, like a crazy old woman with a high-pitched voice, taking the “well” in “Lowell” to a whole new octave. “I will have you know that I do not tolerate anyone sleeping in my classroom.”

            “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep. Honestly.”

            “Do not let it happen again. This will be your only warning,” she says, sounding more and more like she belongs in a dramatic play of some sort. Her nose is stuck so far up in the air that it should be against the law. And what’s with her goggles making her bug-eyed?

            I don’t like her. She’s like an alien being from another planet and I want to run over her with my non-existent car. My lips curve into a wry smile at the thought. 

My extraterrestrial teacher keeps a hard eye on me the rest of the class period. I’m relieved to finally be out of there when the bell rings. How many more weeks of her?

My last class is Geography. It’s not hard at all to look at maps and locate countries, states, and capitals. By far, this will be my easiest class, and an easy way to wind down the day.

Mr. Williams seems like a very nice man. Nothing immediately jumps out at me as far as his disposition is concerned. His features are average—not too tall, cute, but not overly handsome, and he looks like he could afford to eat a few more meals. He never raises his voice, even as students are filing noisily into their seats.

I’m busy analyzing my new teacher’s personality traits when I hear a soft pssst. I glance to my right. A boy is trying to get my attention.

“Hey,” he says.

            I look up to make sure Mr. Williams isn’t looking in our direction.

            “Hey.” I smile.

            “You must be Candra,” he whispers, leaning across the aisle that separates us.

            “Yeah. What’s your name?”

            “I’m Blake.”

            “Nice to meet you, Blake.”

He’s cute. His height is shorter than most of the guys I’ve seen that day, and his blonde-brown hair wisps over the tops of his ears. But it’s his eyes that catch me off guard. They’re the most brilliant blue I’ve ever seen.

“My girlfriend, Jana, saw you earlier today and said you looked pretty outcast, so I figured I’d say hey.”

            “Umm…thanks.” Yeah, like that doesn’t make me feel even more awkward.

“You’ll like her,” he continues. “She’s usually in this class, but she had something to take care of today. She should be here tomorrow.”

“Oh, cool.”

That’s the first attempt anyone has made at talking to me all day. He seems like a nice guy. I notice some of the other students listen to us, but turn their attention back to the front of the classroom once our murmured conversation is over.

Mr. Williams finishes up his lesson, as the students prepare for the final bell to ring.

I’m glad the day is over. I walk with the drove of students out the side doors and into the parking lot. I stop long enough to take a breath.

“Candra! Wait up!” someone yells behind me.

            I turn to see Blake jogging in my direction. 

            “So, how’d you like your first day?” he asks.

“If you subtract the fact that I was late for my first day of school, got called on for an answer in first period, tripped over my own two feet in second period, sat by myself at lunch, fell asleep in third period, only to have my desk smacked with a ruler, then I guess it wasn’t so bad.”

            “Nope, sounds like you’ve had a great first day.” He grins.

I slide my hands in my pockets. “You know, you’re the first person who’s talked to me all day.”

            His face lights up. “Really?”

            “Yeah, really.”

            He shrugs. “Better than nothing, I guess. The kids here will warm up to you in no time. You seem like a pretty cool girl.”

            “Thanks, Blake.”

            “Hey, don’t mention it.” He blushes. “Well, I have to get home. Do you need a ride or something?”

            “No, I’ll walk. But thanks.”

            “Well, see ya tomorrow then.” He tosses me a wave over his shoulder.

            “Okay.”

I watch as he vanishes into the sea of cars leaving the parking lot. He’s not exactly what I’d consider a friend just yet, but it’s a start.

Most of the cars exit the parking lot before I begin walking home. I watch some students lag behind so they can chat with their friends. One girl touches up her lip gloss in the rearview mirror. A couple leans against a car, playing tonsil hockey. A few guys sit on the back of a dilapidated truck, like they’re about to throw a tailgate party.

I laugh while walking through the parking lot. Today’s been totally nerve-wracking, but it didn’t turn out as bad as I expected.