Class Favorite Read online

“Hey, Rosemary,” I said enthusiastically. I kind of stood in front of her for a sec, then realized I was blocking her from getting out of the aisle. “Oh, sorry,” I offered.

  “That’s okay,” she said, glancing blankly at me with her long-lashed eyes. I made a mental note of her nude glossy lipstick. As she stepped around me, the smell of green apples wafted past me. How could she smell so good this late in the day?

  I followed her out the class door, and when she turned left she looked over her shoulder curiously to see me coming up behind her. I forced my instant fear of looking like a stalker out of my mind and focused on my first task: acting normal.

  “Hey,” I said again.

  “Hey.” She grinned, showing her pearl-white crooked front teeth, which, you know, actually looked pretty cute on her. I’d just assumed she’d had braces like everyone else . . . except me, of course.

  “Hey, Kayla,” she said to my spit ’n’ sneeze victim, who was walking with Jessica.

  “Text me!” Kayla called to Rosemary as she passed us, not even bothering to look at me.

  “So,” I said, glancing back at them. I pressed on. “That quiz sucked, huh?”

  She gave a little “humph,” like something between a laugh and a hiccup. “I guess. Hi again, Jason,” she said as we passed him leaning against the lockers.

  Oh, yummy Jason . . .

  “’S up, Rosemary,” he said. Did he just smile at me?

  “Yeah,” I continued. “I hate pop quizzes,” which I immediately regretted saying because who likes any sort of quizzes, much less the pop kind?

  Rosemary politely stared ahead, so I quickly glanced down at my CF qualities list, then said, “Oh, hey, those are really cute jeans. Where’d you get them?”

  As we got to her locker and she started spinning her combination, she started to look downright suspicious of me or maybe just annoyed. But she kept answering my questions.

  “The mall,” was her reply, which wasn’t a really revealing answer. I mean, everything comes from the mall. But did she get it at a place like Macy’s or 5.7.9?

  Once she closed her locker and started back down the hall, I realized I might have time for two more questions, because she was heading in the direction of my locker, which I needed to stop by before last period. And if I left her there, it’d be like she was following me, like she was walking me to my locker, and then maybe it wouldn’t look so weird. That’s what I was hoping for, anyway.

  “So,” I said as we rounded the corner. “Got big plans this weekend?”

  Up the hall, I could hear Shiner’s high-pitched laugh. He shoved a sixth grader against a locker and twisted his nipple.

  “Woo-hoo!” he hollered. “Go on, whistle! Whistle!”

  “Ow! Come on, man!” the kid hollered as he sputtered out a whistle-less blow.

  Rosemary glared toward Shiner, and I felt sorry for the kid he had in his greasy grip. “Not big plans,” Rosemary answered. “Just hanging out with some friends.”

  “Cool. Your parents let you stay out late? ’Cause my mom, she can be a real pain sometimes about curfew. But if my dad still lived at home, I think it would be worse. Your folks still together?”

  “Yeah,” she answered as we headed toward my locker and the front of the building.

  As we came up on my locker, we both noticed a crowd around it. I saw Rosemary’s mouth fall open before my own could.

  My first thought was that there had just been a fight. I imagined someone was on the floor, face beaten bloody, waiting for someone to haul him to the nurse’s office before he went to the principal’s. It was the look on everyone’s face that made me think that: Some were laughing, some were whispering to one another, lots had their faces scrunched up in disgust, like whoever was in the center of their circle was really horrendously messed up.

  8

  Can You Exude Beauty in an Ugly Situation?

  You’re strutting through the food court wearing your killer new cream-colored pants, when a five-year-old menace comes racing through the aisles, smearing your pants with ketchup and mustard. How do you react?

  a) By screaming at the kid for ruining your clothes and telling his mother she’s an unfit parent

  b) By “accidentally” tripping the kid on the way back to his table

  c) By laughing it off, saying that your dull pants now look like a Jackson Pollock painting

  It was an ugly, offensive mess. And it was all over my locker.

  “That’s so wrong,” said student council secretary Emily Sanders.

  “Oh, dude,” said Sean Hurley.

  “My God. Is that your locker, Sara?” Rosemary asked.

  There must have been a dozen tampons taped to the outside of my locker, plus a couple of those fat, granny-size Kotex—the ones with wings, no less. My face burned hot, and I clenched my fists around the strap of my messenger bag, forcing back the tears that were threatening to burst through.

  “Oh . . . my . . . God,” I muttered as Rosemary stepped away from me and toward her friends, who were staring, hands over mouths. I tried to quickly think how she might handle it, but there were at least a dozen other people standing around, staring, gawking, with a tinge of pleasure on their faces—exactly the kind you get when you see a real gnarly fight. They were all whispering and shaking their heads, glancing at me but refusing to look me in the eye.

  “Hey, what am I missin’?”

  Shiner strutted up to the scene, textbook cupped in his hand. I took one look at him and wanted to yank that stupid coral necklace right off his chicken neck.

  “What’s going . . . oh man, Thurman,” he said. I thought my heart would pound out of my chest and splat at his stinking feet as I waited for him to say something moronic that would add to my humiliation. But he didn’t. He just stood back and stared at the ground. This was so bad that even Shiner wouldn’t make fun of me.

  “Who did this?” I tried to demand, but I think it came out sounding more like a pathetic whimper with zero authority. I searched the crowd for a sign of Arlene, but she wasn’t there, and I knew that if I didn’t pull myself together quickly, it wouldn’t be long before I started crying. My mind reeled. I was angry and embarrassed, but I had to maintain control. “Who did this?” I said again, but with more force. I didn’t deserve this. I’d never done anything to anyone, and I didn’t deserve to be publicly humiliated. “If no one’s going to own up, either help me clean this up or just get on.” I yanked a tampon off to emphasize my point, even though my hands were shaking and I felt like vomiting. When I looked back at the crowd, many were dispersing. Then I locked eyes with Jason. Of all people, he had to see this.

  His hazel eyes bore into me, like he was trying to understand me. I couldn’t help but stare back, thinking briefly that his eyes looked crushingly sympathetic, like when you see a dog get plowed by a Suburban. His golden-brown hair fell over his forehead, and for a microsecond I felt everything fade away. Then he gave me one of those pathetic smiles, the kind that says, No matter how big a loser you are, we can’t help but feel sorry for you. Which made me feel even worse.

  Even in the enormity of the situation, I realized I should try to exude some poise. “That was nice of them to take them out of the wrappers,” I said, flicking one of the tampons.

  Ugh. I immediately cringed at myself for always saying and doing the dumbest things.

  Jason nodded and said, “That’s one way of looking at it.” And then . . . he smiled. At me. Jason Andersen looked me right in the eyes and smiled.

  The warning bell rang, and everyone finally started to move on. Some last giggles, then someone joked, “Anybody got a tampon?” A few erupted in laughter.

  He scratched the back of his head and looked at my locker. He sighed and said, “Man, Thurman. Whoever did this is a real psycho.” He looked back at me. “Well. I guess we better get this cleaned up.”

  We? He said we? I was painfully aware that there was no we when it came to Sara Thurman and Jason Andersen. I stood there paralyzed,
wondering what he was going to do next. I half expected him to laugh at me—“Just kidding!”—then walk away, even though I knew Jason wasn’t that kind of guy.

  The halls had almost completely thinned out when he set his books down on the floor, walked across the hall, and dragged a trash can over to my locker.

  “Look,” I said, all weak and shaky and embarrassed. “Really, you don’t have to do this.”

  And then: Rip! He yanked a Kotex superabsorbent with wings off my locker and dropped it into the garbage.

  “Oh, my God, Jason, I’m serious.” Seeing his hands grab that winged monstrosity made everything seem wrong. Even though he might be able to help me realize my Class Favorite dreams, I didn’t want him to see me like this. “Look, I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. This isn’t your problem.”

  “It’s not really your problem either. I mean, you didn’t ask for this,” he said as he tore off a tampon. Amazing that he just trusted that I didn’t do something awful to deserve that. I wasn’t sure I would have given the benefit of the doubt just like that.

  “And if you ask me, whoever did this should totally be expelled.” I couldn’t handle any thought of Arlene yet. It was just too awful. Instead, I concentrated on Jason, who was actually talking to me and even sort of being my knight in shining . . . well, in a really cool Hilfiger shirt. But he probably just felt sorry for me.

  And then he gave this look—a half smile with kind eyes, and then one of his blink-and-you’ve-missed-it winks. “Come on,” he said, reaching out and lightly brushing my arm. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up before Shiner comes back to take pictures or something.”

  He was joking, but the truth was it was a total possibility. And if anyone got a photo of this, they’d probably use the picture of my locker for my class photo instead of the one I had posed for in September.

  Jason and I fell into a rhythm of tearing the taped items off and dropping them in the trash. The halls were silent, and we didn’t speak, only gave fleeting glances at each other. It was actually pretty nice. Considering.

  “So it’s true!”

  Jason and I turned to see Kirstie storming down the hall. When she got to us, she propped her hands up on her slim, curvy hips, and her mouth hung open. It was good to finally have a friend there, but it felt a little late. Anyway, weird as the situation was, I felt comfortable with Jason.

  “Hey, Kirstie,” I said as Jason looked over his shoulder at her, then turned back and tore some tape off my locker.

  “Sara,” she moaned. “You poor thing!”

  “I just came out of algebra, and it was like this,” I said. “This is Jason,” I introduced, and then mouthed to Kirstie, This is him!

  Jason forced some tape off his finger. “Hey,” he said, looking at Kirstie briefly.

  She smiled and flipped her hair off her shoulder.

  I started digging my nails under the adhesive on my locker. It wasn’t coming off in sheets but in little rolled-up balls. It was never going to come completely off.

  “Don’t you have class?” Jason asked Kirstie.

  “Don’t you?” she asked back.

  “Yeah, I guess so.” He laughed.

  “Kirstie is new,” I informed Jason. “She moved here from Raleigh.”

  “Cool,” he said.

  “So how’d you get stuck helping my girl here out?” she asked him.

  “Volunteered.”

  “Wow, Sara,” Kirstie said, looking to me. “You better hold on to this one. He’s a keeper.”

  I blushed, then Jason brutally clarified, “I’m just helping out.”

  “You play basketball, right?” Kirstie asked him.

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “I can tell. You just have that kind of body. Doesn’t he, Sara?”

  I couldn’t tell if she was somehow trying to help me out or if she was hitting on him, but she was making me uncomfortable.

  Kirstie reached over and pushed my hair off my face. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “With friends like Arlene . . .”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, glancing at Jason.

  She sighed. “Look, let’s get together later and figure it out, okay? But I gotta get to history or they’re going to suspend me before I get my first report card.” She looked to Jason. “You headed this way?”

  Jason dropped the remaining bits in the trash like a dead fish. “Yeah, I guess I should probably get to class.”

  “Cool, we can walk together,” she said. When Kirstie looked at me, her face was both apologetic and hopeful. “You got it from here, Sar?” Kirstie asked.

  “Yeah. Sure,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. The aching in my stomach started creeping up again. Kirstie had talked of friends coming to each other’s aid, and I wondered why she was bailing on me now. Not to mention she was taking my crush with her, even if Jason wasn’t there under the most optimal circumstances. “I got this. Y’all go on.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Jason asked as he stepped around the trash can.

  “Yeah, totally. I mean, you’ve done too much, anyway. Thanks a lot for helping me and all.”

  He did that wonderful quick-wink again and said, “No problem.”

  As I watched them walk down the hall, I realized that my brief interaction with Jason was a total fluke. He was just taking pity on me. And Kirstie—had she been flirting with him? Or was I being hypersensitive?

  Suddenly, from far down the hall Kirstie turned to face me. Walking backward she hollered, “Polish remover!”

  “What?”

  “Nail polish remover! It’ll help get those little stickies off your locker.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Alone in the quiet hallways, I dragged the trash can back to where Jason had gotten it, then tore off a bunch of blank sheets of notebook paper and covered the mess in the trash. I picked up my bag, knowing I wouldn’t go to my last class. As I stood staring at my defiled locker, my shoulders started to shake, and I finally started bawling—really hard crying, the kind that makes your head hurt. I put my face in my hands, not wanting to see that stupid locker and all its disgustingness, not wanting to think that it must be Arlene who did it, or whether or not Kirstie had been flirting with Jason. I wiped my eyes, took a deep breath, and walked away.

  I ran out the back entrance of the school, the breeze from my stride drying the tears on my cheeks. The leaves on the trees that surrounded the edges of the field were just beginning to bud. There was a light breeze blowing over the camouflage patches of tan and green grass on the athletic field. I whipped my hair out of my face, but the wind pushed it back. They say the weather in Texas is unpredictable, but to me, the consistency was as mind-numbingly rigid as an algebra equation. It was always cool to warm in the winter, and hotter than a hillbilly in the summer. As I headed toward the bleachers in the distance, I thought how my life was more unpredictable than Texas weather.

  I turned up the collar of my corduroy jacket and stuffed my hands in my jean pockets. As I came upon the bleachers, I saw a dark figure sitting alone beneath them.

  A guy squatted, smoking—I could see the little white streams of smoke. I didn’t know anyone who smoked, especially not at our age. The smoker spotted me coming toward him and tossed a white bit to the ground. When I got closer, I saw that it was just Shiner.

  Only one thing could come from the biggest jerk in school: pure torture. I sought solitude and found Shiner. I knew the little weasel would be ruthless, and even though I was not in the mood, I prepared myself.

  “Well?” I said, looking down at him sitting on a patch of dirt. His skinny knees in baggy shorts were pulled up to his chest, and his puffy Dallas Cowboys jacket was wrapped around his bare legs.

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, are you hot or are you cold?”

  Shiner glared back at me, and I didn’t care that I was starting it this time. I mean, he was wearing a winter coat with shorts. He always did that, every fall and spring, and it bugg
ed the crap out of me. Besides, I was sure that by then the whole school knew about my locker, so what did I care what Shiner thought of me?

  “Leave me alone, Thurman,” he mumbled, looking back down at the dirt.

  “You shouldn’t smoke, you know. Cancer, emphysema, bad breath . . .” When he didn’t acknowledge me, I asked, “Hey, what’s wrong with you?” He never let me get at him without spitting something back at me.

  “I said go away. And before you start,” he warned, “I didn’t do that thing to your locker.”

  “I didn’t say you did. I didn’t even think you did.”

  “I’m just saying. I might do a lot of stuff, but I wouldn’t do that. That was really messed up.”

  I sat down next to Shiner, mindful of No. 8 on my list: friends. But would he help or hurt me as a friend? Then I remembered No. 3, that I should try harder to be nice, so I settled into the dirt beside him. He ran his pale hand through his hair, and he looked tired, but not from lack of sleep—something seemed to be bugging him. I realized I hadn’t been in such close proximity to him since the Fall Ball. I briefly considered that maybe he wasn’t really an imbecile—maybe he just played one in our school.

  “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothin’.” He picked up a rock and tossed it past me.

  “Why aren’t you in class?”

  “Ms. Weaver kicked me out.”

  “What’d you do this time?”

  “I didn’t do nothin’,” he answered quickly.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s true,” he answered defensively. Shiner was always getting kicked out of class, and Ms. Weaver was notoriously evil. She once tried to have a kid expelled just for wearing a Papas and Beer T-shirt. And, one time, rumor has it, she taught school in Dallas and tried to enforce the no-hats-in-class rule on a kid named Jonathan Steinberg by making him take off his yarmulke. His parents threatened to sue the school, because of the whole freedom-from-religious-persecution thing, and Ms. Weaver dropped it, but not before Dallas could drop her. Supposedly that’s how she ended up here. Kind of like a sentencing.

  “You mean to tell me you were just sitting at your desk, minding your own business, and suddenly Ms. Weaver yelled at you to get the hell out of her class?”