Ian makes a little growling noise. I pretend like I don’t hear it but I touch his arm again, trying to calm him down.
“Who is that?”
He shudders and leans down so I can hear him. “That is Nick Colt, otherwise known as bad news.”
I laugh. “Otherwise known as bad news?”
“What?” Ian’s big eyes turn sad in his banana-long face.
“It’s just everyone around here sounds like they’re fifty years old: otherwise known as bad news.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me through the hall. “Don’t people say that where you’re from?”
“In Charleston?” I’ve come across a lot of interesting ways of speaking while traveling with my parents outside the U.S., but Maine still is in the United States, last time I checked.
“You’re from Charleston.” He nods. “No wonder.”
“No wonder what?”
He stops outside a door. “Nothing.”
“No, really.” I hope he doesn’t think I’m a hick or a bigot, which is what some people think about anyone who lives south of New York City.
“You just seem different.”
“Hollow?”
“What?”
I drag my feet for a second, horrified that I said that out loud. “Nothing. Sorry.”
He doesn’t seem phased. “So if you need any info about anything, just ask me. I’m on cross-country and basketball, and I’m in key club and I’m the junior class president, and some other clubs too, so if you want to join anything, just let me know. I’ll get you in like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Sorry. Corny.”
“No. It’s . . . good. You’re a little bit of an overachiever, huh?”
“There’s no point in blending in, you know? Got to grab the power where you can.” He shakes his head at himself. “That sounds awful. I just mean . . . you’ve got to do what you can to get ahead, to get into college, that stuff. Well, we’re here.”
He gives a little lopsided grin as we face a classroom doorway. Beyond it people are shuffling their stuff around, cramming themselves into seats, gossiping about all sorts of things I don’t understand. They all have Gap clothes and that sort of almost-designer, mall-casual look, except all the guys wear work boots. There are a few guys wearing flannel and black sweatshirts. And here I am in my holey jeans with peace signs. I take a deep breath. I have no chance of fitting in, transferring in the middle of junior year. It’s hopeless.
The ache inside me grows and grows.
Auroraphobia, Northern Lights creep you out.
Autodysomophobia, you are afraid of someone who smells vile.
Automatonophobia, ventriloquist’s dummies terrify you.
Automysophobia, being dirty is the end of the world.
Autophobia, you are afraid of yourself.
. . .
The evil Megan girl is not in my homeroom, but she is in my Spanish class. Ian drops me off at the door there too and she eyes us suspiciously. I swear, if she were a cat she’d be hissing.
“It really wouldn’t be a big deal for me to come and walk you to your advanced chemistry class,” Ian says for the fourth time. “I mean, I don’t want you to get lost or anything.”
“Okay. Yeah. Thanks. Who is that girl?” I nod at Megan.
“Oh, Megan Crowley.”
I stand up on my tiptoes and whisper, “I think she hates me.”
He laughs and nods while I go back to my flat feet. “Probably.”
I wait for more. He just kneads at the top of his shoulder and yells hi to some guy in a soccer shirt who yells hi back to him.
My hands find their way to my hips. “Are you going to tell me why she hates me?”
His attention turns to me. His eyes flash. “Probably doesn’t like the way you smell.”
“What?” I step back. I thought he was nice, not slap worthy. Not like I go around slapping people, but whatever.
He raises his hands. “Just kidding. Just kidding. You’re the competition. Megan hates competition. She has a thing for Nick Colt. She saw you come into school with him. End of story, beginning of competition.”
“Right, like I’m competition. Mini me.” I walk into Spanish class, where Megan whispers snide things as Mrs. Provost, the teacher, introduces me to everyone and finds me a place to sit. The girl next to Megan giggles behind her hand and looks at me. Great.
The last thing I’m paying attention to is Mrs. Provost, who is saying, “Zara, what an unusual name.”
She glances at my ripped-up jeans with the peace signs and her eyes shift into another thought. “Nice to have you here. Class, let’s begin. All in Spanish.”
I stare out the window, zone out, and wish more than anything that I’m back home with my dad and he’s alive and my mom’s all happy and we’re eating eggplant smothered with mozzarella cheese and everything is normal again. But it can’t ever be normal again.
Outside, a birch tree bends from the weight of the snow. It’ll spring back up once the snow melts, back to its normal, upright self.
Could that happen to me?
The answer is a big fat no.
Megan Crowley turns all the way around in her seat to stare at me. Something evil flashes in her eyes and for a second I think she’s not real, not human. She lifts a perfectly manicured fingernail at me and mouths, “I am onto you.”
¿Qué? No entiendo.
“What?” I mouth back.
She does it again. “I am onto you.”
Mrs. Provost sweeps between us. “Girls, I am so happy that Zara is making friends, but now is not social time. Now is Spanish time. Zara? Why don’t you tell us about Charleston?”
“Um . . .” I look around for help. It’s just a bunch of pale people staring at me. God, how can Maine be so white? “Um, Charleston is really beautiful and warm. There are these antebellum houses and—”
“In Spanish, por favor,” Mrs. Provost interrupts. She pulls at her bra strap and lifts it farther up her shoulder.
She wants me to talk about antebellum houses in Spanish? I hate this place. Megan laughs behind her hand and turns back around. I shiver. It is so cold here.
“Charleston es caliente y hermosa,” I start again. “A mi me gusta allí.”
A thin girl with wild brownish hair waves at me as we leave class. An orange Hello Kitty T-shirt bags off her shoulders. Her nose twitches like a bunny’s and she hops up and down to get me to look at her.