In Between Page 6

  “Band. Very well. We have an excellent music program at In Between High.” Mrs. Whipple picks a piece of lint off her Educators Are Sew Loved quilted vest, then prints out the final draft of my schedule.

  “I have another meeting to go to, but I’ve arranged for a student peer helper to show you around, Katie.”

  Mrs. Whipple’s gaze is fixed on me. Her expression says, “I know your type. You will be in the principal’s office before the week is over, and I will be waiting.” Maybe she just needs one of Millie’s big hugs.

  “Mrs. Scott, thank you for coming in. I hope Katie finds In Between High to be just the place for her.” The counselor’s face isn’t the least bit convincing. She should take drama as her elective.

  “I don’t see any reason why she wouldn’t.”

  My non-Mom hugs me, then gives me a one last pep talk before she heads for the door.

  “Bye, Millie.” And like she did, I squeeze her hand, making a lame attempt to communicate my appreciation.

  Millie winks in reply.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Scott.”

  “Yes, good-bye, Mrs. Whipple. I’ll see you in church Sunday.”

  The door shuts behind Millie.

  Mrs. Whipple lowers her bifocals. “Young lady, my eyes will be on you.”

  “That sounds kind of painful.”

  With a growl, the counselor heaves herself from her chair. “I’m late for a meeting. Your peer helper will be here shortly. Don’t steal anything.”

  Like a personality? For you?

  “I smell trouble on you.” She yanks the door open. “I dare you to prove me wrong.”

  Chapter 12

  “Welcome to In Between High! I’m here to show you around.”

  A stunningly beautiful girl of some sort of Asian descent sticks her hand out like a well-trained used-car salesman.

  I put my hand in hers, and she shakes it like she means it. I study her, taking note of her almond-shaped eyes alight with curiosity and interest, her flawless olive skin, her glossy raven hair (when it’s that beautiful, you can’t call it black), and her model-thin frame. If it weren’t for the blatantly sincere kindness plastered all over her face, I’d have to dislike her immediately.

  “You must be . . .” She scans a copy of my schedule. “Ah, yes, Katie Parker. Well, welcome Katie Parker. I’m Zhen Mei Vega. But you can call me Frances. Like you, I’m in the tenth grade. I am student council reporter, yearbook photographer, first chair flautist in band, though sometimes I play clarinet too; then I’m assistant editor of the school newspaper, secretary of the Future Scientists and Engineers of America, and Fellowship of Christian Athletes leader. I also run track, take piano lessons, and sing in our church choir. I’m sure we have lots in common.”

  The girl said that all in one breath, and of all the stellar accomplishments she listed, that impressed me the most. And no, even though there are plenty of options for me to choose from, we do not have anything in common.

  “Oh, did I mention Spanish Club?”

  “I don’t think so. I kind of got lost after the band thing.”

  “Right. Well, let’s take a look at this schedule. Each week you’ll have English with Ms. Dillon; she’s in room 200. You’ve got biology with Mr. Hughes. It’s in room 104, right by the cafeteria, which kinda gets gross during dissection time. Then there’s PE with . . .”

  Frances’s voice becomes a buzz in my head as she gives me a commentary on all my classes, teachers, and room assignments. When she begins to walk down the hall, I follow. She is dressed in a funky T-shirt and skirt, and even though it looks like it might be her own creation, I think Millie the fashionista would approve.

  The halls of In Between High could belong to any high school in America. Old tile and red lockers decorated with dents, graffiti, and padlocks abound. Event and club posters adorn the mostly beige walls. Trash cans are tucked in every corner. We pass the occasional fire alarm, which is a personal temptation of mine. Those things call my name. I usually try not to answer.

  We arrive at the entrance to my first-hour class, which is English. I can’t remember what my tour guide said about this teacher, but I’ve never minded English too much. When I want to be, I’m good at it. I can’t solve for x to save my soul, but I can easily race through the pages of a book. And when you’re left alone as much as I was, you need something to keep you company. Math? Never much of a companion.

  “So, as I was saying, if you have any questions, just let me know. I’ll meet you at your locker after your math class, and we can eat lunch together in the cafeteria. I’ll show you how to get to the caf and which foods to avoid.”

  Frances really takes this job seriously. I hate to hurt her feelings, but I’m not ready to eat lunch with a perfect stranger. She can’t be too excited about it either. I’ve been in quite a few different schools, and I have a strategic plan for the first week or two of lunch.

  “Yeah, thanks, but I think I have lunch under control.” I almost manage to look her in the eye when I say that.

  “Oh, okay. Well, this is English. Ready or not, here we come!” And with that chirpy exclamation, Frances bursts into the room with me in tow. “Good morning, Ms. Dillon. This is Katie Parker. She’s a new student.”

  Thirty pairs of eyeballs shift in my direction. For the millionth time today, I am painfully aware of my poor clothing choices. Hi, I’m from the Addams family.

  “Thank you, Frances. Welcome, Katie. Everyone, say hello to Katie Parker.”

  The teacher, Ms. Dillon, looks to be about twenty-five. She is like a younger version of Millie—thin, blonde, cute, and stylish. No quilted vests for this educator.

  Ms. Dillon guides me to a seat near Frances and hands me a literature book, and I flip through it, absorbing the pictures, recognizing some of the short stories. Kind of sad to get excited over a lit book.

  Most of the students have gone back to their work, totally dismissing me. Two classmates, a guy on my left and a girl two seats in front of me, do look over and nod or throw up a hand up in greeting. The girl has a purple Mohawk. And the guy is wearing my black skirt.

  Ms. Dillon moves the class on to the next assignment, which is writing a haiku. I love those things. Five syllables in the first and third lines, seven in the second.

  I’m dressed like a goof.

  Where was the bathroom again?

  Can I skip PE?

  After English, I follow Frances to World History. She drops me off at the door with a cheery goodbye and promises to pick me up next door. Before Frances flutters off, she hands me a map of the school to study. She enjoys her job as student peer way too much.

  History ends up being an incredibly long period, taught by some guy named Mr. Patton, who should’ve retired about thirty years ago. I could hardly hear his lecture above the sound of his hearing aids whining and humming. I’m betting his notes on the Egyptian pyramids are pretty accurate. I mean, the old man was probably on the pharaoh’s payroll.

  Like my last school, In Between High runs on block scheduling, so my next class will be my last one before lunch. As promised, Frances is waiting for me as I leave history. Frances doesn’t take Algebra II, being the brainiac she is, so I’m left to fend for myself in there too. Algebra proves to be even more boring and tedious than history. I was aware of every single second. Math is so not my thing, and it doesn’t help I’ve moved just enough to get thoroughly behind. I’d blame it on my mom, but nobody cares when it comes to those standardized end-of-course tests. There’s a bubble for answers A, B, C, and D, but never a bubble to mark “I don’t know the answer, but since Bobbie Ann Parker is my mother, and I think that explains it all.”

  After an eternity passes, I hear the beautiful sound of the bell ringing for lunch.

  Then I remember I told Frances not to worry about me.

  Why did I do that? I could have at least let her show me to the cafeteria. I am a directional idiot—I get lost in my bedroom at the Scott’s house. I don’t remember where the ca
feteria is!

  Time to implement my “New School Lunch Strategy.” I grab my backpack, which contains the lunch Millie packed, and head to find a quiet place to eat.

  Chapter 13

  There is something so unappetizing about eating ravioli while perched on the lid of a public toilet.

  And yet here I sit—Indian style, atop the best commode in the joint, napkin tucked into my collar, and a cool juice box balancing on the toilet paper holder. Millie packed my lunch—ravioli in this thing that keeps it warm all day, chips, carrot and celery sticks, a few chocolate chip cookies, and an apple.

  So far this is a good place to hang out. No one has been in here in fifteen minutes. Even if they did come in, my feet aren’t visible, and I’m eating so quietly they would never know I’m here.

  Today has been rough, but not completely unbearable. Sure everyone stares at me like I’m weird, but by far, I’m not the biggest freak on campus. I would need many more tattoos and piercings to even be a contender. Once I considered getting a tattoo, but then I thought—

  Creeeaaak!

  Great. Someone’s in here.

  I hear the gurgle of the sink running, so it’s probably safe to quickly get the apple out of my bag. Millie thinks a growing girl needs her fruit servings.

  My backpack hangs by a hook on the back of the stall door. I’m just gonna grab it without letting my feet down—a small balancing act—but I’ve had practice.

  Almost have it . . . just a little bit more to the left and . . .

  Crash!

  In a big production of arms, legs, a squirting juice box, and one falling backpack, I tumble onto the floor in a tangled heap.

  Ow.

  “Hello? Hello? Are you okay?”

  That voice sounds familiar.

  In fact, those shoes peeking under the door look familiar.

  Frances Vega.

  Maybe if I just sit here absolutely still, she’ll go away.

  “Is everything okay in there?”

  I won’t move so much as a black fingernail until she leaves.

  “Well, hey, Katie.”

  And before I can say pass the toilet paper, Frances Vega’s face appears over the top of the stall partition to my left.

  Now that’s just rude.

  “Everything okay? I couldn’t help but overhear your fall.”

  I would imagine the students in the next town heard my fall. I peer up at Frances, not really sure where to go from here. “Uh, yeah, I’m okay. You know, checking things out, making sure the floor is clean and all the sanitation codes are being met.” I brush the carrots off my skirt. “I don’t want to get too invested in a school that’s just going to be shut down by the health department.”

  “Really? Because it looks to me like you were having lunch in the john.”

  There’s just no way out of this one, is there?

  “I wanted some peace and quiet. I thought I might find it in here.” Hint, hint. Go away.

  “Did you get lost on the way to the cafeteria?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Katie?”

  It hasn’t occurred to Frances we could come out of our respective stalls and have this conversation.

  “Yes?”

  “I know it’s hard being the new kid at school.”

  Yes, it is. Really hard. And today has been stressful, and it feels like years before three o’clock will roll around, and you have no idea what it’s like to be me.

  Frances’s face disappears, and I can hear her climb off her toilet seat. Now what?

  Knock. Knock.

  “Katie, it’s Frances.”

  I swing the stall door open. “Of course it’s you. I knew that!”

  Frances blinks. “I was making a joke.”

  Great, now I’ve hurt her feelings.

  “Look, I really appreciate all your help today. I do. I just wanted a little alone time. Thanks for checking up on me, but I think I’ll get out of here and walk around a bit.” And where will I go? I don’t have the slightest idea.

  “Great. I’ll introduce you to some people. Come on.”

  I barely have time to zip my backpack before Frances is dragging me out of the ladies’ room toward the cafeteria.

  “You were smart to bring your lunch today. The cafeteria is serving chicken fried steak with gravy. You need to avoid anything they cover up with gravy and try to pass off as meat.” Frances chatters away as the lunchroom comes into view.

  There are lots of tables. And lots of kids.

  We walk past rows and rows of students, but no one casts a welcoming glance in my direction. These are the moments I hate the most. I don’t have to deal with the awkward new girl moments like where to sit and who to sit with if I eat lunch in the ladies’ room. Granted, the bathroom doesn’t score any points for aromatherapy, but you can’t beat it for privacy.

  Frances steers me toward a group of students who must be her friends, as they are waving and motioning to her. I’m probably walking into a meeting of the overachiever club.

  My palms are starting to sweat. My dog collar is suddenly too tight. I can’t hold a conversation with these people. If they are Frances’s friends, their lunch-time conversation probably consists of playing Guess My Favorite Element on the Periodic Table, solving quadratic equations between bites of French fries, and debating which president had the strongest foreign policy.

  I cannot hang out with these smart people. I must find an escape route. Oh, no, getting nearer. We’re closing in on them.

  Wait—

  There’s the guy in the skirt. And there’s the girl with the Mohawk two tables over. The skirted one nods his head in greeting. That’s as good as any invitation I’m gonna get.

  Saved!

  “Frances, I see people from class. Gotta go, bye.” And with the world’s fastest brush-off, I leave Frances Vega and practically run to the table where my fellow misfits are seated.

  Mohawk girl salutes me with a fry. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” echoes skirt boy.

  “Hey,” says some dude in a trench coat, his mouth full of nachos.

  “Hey.” This from skirt boy’s overly tattooed girlfriend.

  Alert the English department—these people are in desperate need of a thesaurus.

  “Hi.” I’m probably wowing them with my expanded vocabulary.

  “You the new kid?” Mohawk girl checks out my hair.

  “Yeah, I just moved here from upstate. I’m Katie.”

  Mohawk girl nods. “I’m Angel. This is Vincent. She indicates the skirted friend. Angel introduces the whole table, and Jackson, the guy in the trench, gets me a chair.

  “So what’s your story, Katie?” asks a girl whose name I’ve already forgotten.

  “Oh, you know, typical stuff. My mom’s in prison, I’m currently in foster care, and I’m just passing through.” See, I could be tactful and subtle with other people, but with this group, I know there’s no need. The worse my story is, the more they’ll like me.

  “You have a rap sheet?”

  “A rap sheet?” I think I know what they mean, but I’m hoping I don’t. Do I have to have done time to get my membership card to this table?

  “Yeah, you ever been arrested?”

  “Um, no.” The group doesn’t look too impressed, but no one’s asking for my chair back either.

  “Me neither,” one of them says finally, and three or four more chime in in agreement.

  “You ever get in any trouble though?” Angel asks.

  “Well, yeah. But nothing serious.”

  Okay, this is a weird conversation. Should I change the topic? Maybe ask them about their hobbies, where they live in town, who their favorite teacher is—what they think about foreign policy?

  “You’re gonna find out real quick this town’s boring. Nothing to do here. You have to make up your own fun. You know what I’m saying?” Vincent strokes his bleached goatee.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Tomorrow, you sit with us.
We’ll show you the ropes around here. Right, Angel?”

  “Yeah, Vincent. We sit here every day, so we’ll see you here.”

  The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch and the end of one uncomfortable discussion. Angel, Vincent, and their mismatched posse bid me goodbye and head off to their respective classes.

  I’m still sitting at the table, reviewing the last ten minutes, when Frances taps me on the shoulder.

  That girl is everywhere.

  “Did you have a good lunch?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great! Guess what time it is now?”

  Time to pretend like she isn’t getting on my nerves just a wee bit?

  “I don’t know.”

  “Time for PE!”

  Physical education right after lunch? I assumed that was a typo on my schedule. What kind of madness is this?

  Oh, well, I ate lunch on a toilet, nearly broke my neck falling on the floor, and was made to feel inferior by Vincent and Angel due to my lack of a criminal past.

  It can’t get any worse.

  Chapter 14

  “Today we will be doing push-ups, pull-ups, squats, lunges, sprints, medicine ball passes, and, if you’re lucky, line drills!”

  My day just got worse.

  “In honor of our new student, Katie Parker, we’ll be starting with twenty-five extra push-ups! Get to it! Get to it! Nose to the floor!”

  With a groan, I drop to the floor and do push-ups until I’m shaking.

  Can’t go much longer. My arms are Jell-O. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one . . .

  “I’m Coach Audrey Nelson, and I’m here to turn you into a lean, mean, athletic machine,” a sinister voice whispers near my ear.

  In my peripheral vision, I see Sergeant Evil squatting next to me, watching my progress—or lack of it.

  “How you doin’, new girl? You think you’re ready for this class? Did you think PE meant you’d be walking laps around the gym? Did you?” Coach Nelson’s voice escalates for all to hear, and if I weren’t so intent on reminding myself to breathe, I would be embarrassed.