Part 7 (2/2)
”Are we waiting for someone?” Kurt asks again.
I shake my head. She should be gone by now. ”Follow me.”
I turn around once and see the stark happiness on Thalia's face. Her big yellow-green eyes take in every part of the school. The linoleum floors, the crackling fluorescent lights, the archaic mahogany trim along the doors, and the random stained-gla.s.s windows that clash with the new water fountains and rows of lockers. The stickers on the lockers. The murals on the walls.
We stop in front of Room 311. Mr. Adlemare looks down on us through his gla.s.ses. He wears a light blue, short-sleeved b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt with red suspenders that hold up brown trousers, and I wonder, out of everything that you could wear in public, why a purple polka-dot bow tie?
”Mr. Hart. Thank you for joining us. These must be your cousins from...?”
”Italy.”
”Florida.”
”Ireland.”
”Ah, I see.”
Kurt clears his throat. ”We travel constantly.”
”No one place is home! Lovely. Welcome, welcome.”
”Thank you, sir,” my cousins say in unison.
Some people snicker. The smells of everyone overwhelm me. Their interest smells of burning sugar.
We take the row in the back, where the Goth-punk-stoner kids sit. Homeroom gets less and less crowded toward the end of the year. I stare at the scratches on my desk and admire the announcements Mr. Adlemare has written on the board. Notice the way everyone gives us a long once-over. Anything not to look at Layla, sitting there and saving me a seat like always. I can feel her eyes on me, but I won't look.
Thalia takes out a notebook and pen, and I watch her draw Mr. Adlemare's face. She's quite good actually. I draw a mustache on her portrait of Mr. Adlemare, and she bursts into her bell-chime giggles. Kurt shakes his head, disapproving.
Someone sighs angrily, and I know it's Layla. But this is the only way I know she'll be safe. I can't drag her into this freakish sideshow. This past week has been the longest we've ever really been apart. It's just, what am I going to say? Hey, guess what? I'm a merman now. I just have to keep ignoring her, the best friend I've had my whole life. The only girl who gets it, gets me. Yeah, I'm a good guy. But right now, looking at her as she gives up trying to catch my attention, I wonder if I have enough strength to stay away from her, even though not doing that could kill her.
When I look at the clock again, it's already time to leave. She's the first one out the door, two seconds before the bell even rings.
Yo, Hart!” Angelo's voice carries even from down the hall. ”Ball drill!” He does this every time he thinks you're not looking. I'm the only one who ever catches the ball. It's in the air before he finishes his sentence. I can catch it; I know I can. I extend my hand up and to the left, but so does Kurt. The basketball is in his hands even before I hit the wall of lockers.
”I don't remember your name being Hart.” I push myself up right away.
The guys walk over to us. I stretch out my shoulder. Kurt throws the ball back at him. Thalia watches them carefully. They really need to stop acting like the Mermaid Brigade.
”So these are your cousins. Where are you from again?”
Kurt looks to me and I answer, ”Canada.”
”Aren't Canadians more-?” Bertie looks like he's trying to do x2 + (a + b)x + ab = (x + a)(x + b).
”More what?” Kurt asks.
”Pale?” And he still hasn't solved it.
”We travel a lot,” Thalia says, winking in their direction. I think she likes being a teenage girl more than Kurt likes being a teenage boy.
The effect is instant, though. The boys relax their posture and are all smiles. Angelo lets his basketball drop, and it bounces across the floor, causing three freshmen to trip over it.
Bertie can't seem to decide which foot he wants to s.h.i.+ft his weight on. ”Man, where have you been? You didn't show at the Wreck and you didn't show yesterday. The team is worried about you. They think you're seeing a shrink or something. And that guy? You know? The reporter? Nikky's dad? He's writing that you're going to be s.h.i.+pped into one of those psych facilities. Like in the movies?
”Oh. Check this.” He turns around to show us the new design etched into his almost bald head. It's a series of zigzags that makes it look like his head is getting hit by lightning. ”Pretty cool, huh?”
The bell rings, and I start to wonder if I'll ever get my ”cousins” to cla.s.s on time.
”We got Espanol,” Angelo tells me but looks at Thalia. ”Adios, amiga. They speak Spanish in Canadia, right?”
”Yeah, see ya,” Jerry and Bertie singsong.
Once they're down the hall, we're the only ones left except for the kids who aren't going to go to cla.s.s at all.
”Is there a way you can fix that? Make yourselves look different so that you don't attract so much attention?”
”We do look different. We are glamoured,” Kurt says indignantly. ”It's a light spell to tone down our natural colors. We are no longer achingly beautiful. Now we're just exceptionally beautiful.”
English lit is just down the hall. I open the door for Thalia. This time Layla sits in the front row facing the window so that unless you're craning your neck, you can't really see her face. That smell of burnt sugar mixed with something else is back. Ms. Pippen sits at the edge of her teacher's desk, facing the door and waiting for the latecomers. Today she's wearing a skirt that ends tightly around her knees in a purple-and-green paisley pattern and a white b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt that's one b.u.t.ton shy of being inappropriate. She has the kind of waist that looks like it disappears under the cinched belt. I bet if I put my hands around it, my fingers would touch.
Her face is delicate and pointy, with s.h.i.+ny brown hair that is always perfectly waved to the side. If she said she was twenty-five or thirty-five, I wouldn't be surprised. She seems more like she should be teaching first grade in 1955 rather than a high-school English cla.s.s in Brooklyn circa now.
”Old habits, Mr. Hart,” she says. Ms. Pippen walks over to her desk. I can smell the springy wood cleaner she sprays on it between cla.s.ses. There are two piles on her desk: homework coming in, and homework going out. She uses a small Mason jar as a pencil holder and a red marble apple as a paperweight.
”Now, Mr. Hart, who are these lovely young people joining us today?”
”These are my cousins, Kurt and Thalia, visiting from Canada.”
Kurt says, in his awkward splendor, ”But we also travel a lot, which is why we aren't so pale.”
Everyone laughs a little. Look at us: it's like we've been lying our whole lives.
As everyone giggles and fawns over Thalia and Kurt and how their favorite place to visit is Italy, I let myself look over at Layla, who stares out the window. The gray overcast sky is so bright that it floods everything on that side of the room, and she's cast in this kind of angel light, her golden-brown hair loose around her shoulders. She leans her face against one hand and doodles in her notebook with the other one.
On a normal day, before the storm, we'd have written each other letters throughout the day. Nothing specific, just our ramblings. She showed me how to fold the letters into four-pointed stars. I have a whole drawer full of them. I can't remember the last time we wrote each other one, and that's when I realize I can pick out her scent mingling in the expectant burnt-sugary sweetness of everyone else. The smell of disappointment that's coming from her-crushed flowers and dew and the fog before it rains. I lay my hands flat on my desk to give me something to do, because if I don't, I'm going to get up and go to her. What is wrong with me?
”Now, because there are still a few days left to our time together, we will continue with our Greatest Poems by the Greatest Poets anthology. Mr. Morehouse, flip so you land on a page randomly. Please read the poem on the page.”
Wonder Ryan nods, sits up straight, and flips through the pages like a deck of cards. He lays the book out flat, open to a page somewhere in the beginning. He glances at Thalia before looking down at where his index finger is pointing, and his smile falters. It's incredible: Wonder Ryan's kryptonite is poetry. ”Uh, it's 'Because I Could Not Stop for Death' by Emily d.i.c.kinson.”
”Lovely,” Ms. Pippen says.
Wonder Ryan clears his throat and gives a well-I-guess-I-have-to kind of smile and reads: Because I could not stop for Death- Uh, He kindly stopped for me- The carriage held but just Ourselves- And, uh, Immortality?
We slowly drove-He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For his civility- Someone in the back shouts, ”Go, Wonder Bread!” and the short burst of jeering stops. For a moment, Ms. Pippen frowns. I wonder if she's going to reprimand him for being such a s.h.i.+tty reader and the cla.s.s for being jerks, but then I think it's something else. She smells of lament, of the sea before the storm. Her eyes trace Ryan's face and look away just as quickly. ”Interesting, Mr. Morehouse,” is all she says.
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