A guy several rows back says, “Old movies?” The other students laugh.
“Hot women?” someone else volunteers.
“No, guys, come on. Anybody?”
Just as I think about offering the answer he wants, to put him out of his misery, a voice from the back says, “Government-funded investigative agencies.”
That was more specific than the “spies” answer I was ready to offer.
“Yes, thank you, Trevor.”
I turn around and raise my eyebrows at him. He just shrugs.
Mr. Buford writes several acronyms on a big whiteboard using a pen I can smell from where I sit. How is he not high from that thing? I’m amazed at the lack of computers at this school. “Study them and know them by their full names. This will be on the test.” Those words cause an eruption of notebooks to fly open so fast that, had I been in my old school, I would’ve thought Mr. Buford had used Telekinesis. He laughs. “Ah, the magic word gave you a little motivation to get in gear. Good. Today we’re going to discuss the FBI.”
When class is over, I slowly put away my notebook, giving Trevor plenty of time to come up and say hi. After zipping my backpack, I casually look over my shoulder—he’s gone.
There went my only friend in Dallas. And that’s using the term friend a little loosely. Okay, a lot loosely. I could barely call him an acquaintance. Whatever he is, I had been hoping I would run into him at some point today so I wouldn’t feel like too much of a loner loser.
Out in the hall, I look both ways, hoping to catch a glimpse of his back, but all I see is a mass of people. Trevor is nowhere in sight.
I make it to lunch without having to come up with any fun facts except name, age, and where I moved from. Regardless of my practice session with my dad, California came flying out of my mouth without warning and I had to go with it. I had been so careful, trying not to slip up and call it the Compound, that a whole different state had resulted from my nervousness. Oh well, either story would’ve been a lie. At least this way, I won’t have to tell half the truth and risk spilling the other half along with it. I’ll go home and write my own backstory. It will be easier to remember.
The common area in this school is a big section of grass, interspersed with trees and surrounded by stone benches. For as long as I can remember, Laila and I have been friends—ever since she stood up for me on our first day of kindergarten. I’ve never been alone at school since. Now I’m very much alone, and it feels wrong. Rather than eat lunch by myself with an audience, I search out the library.
The smell of books, a mix of dust and leather, greets me as I walk through the door, and I smile. At Lincoln High, the library is three rows of computers where we can download information onto our cards. I get all my books from the one remaining bookstore in town, which without me there will probably go out of business. But that bookstore is nothing compared to this. This library is two stories high with a wide staircase leading up to the second level. Windows line the entire upper portion all the way around, blanketing the floor with light. If I were alone I would throw my arms out and spin in a circle. Instead I walk up the stairs, running my hand along books as I go.
I find the classics section, and after perusing for a while, pull out A Tale of Two Cities, which seems appropriate, and start to read. Just when I begin to realize Dickens’s “worst of times” seem a lot worse than anything I’ve been through, I hear the sound of a crowd of people walking along the tile-floored entrance downstairs.
Crap. I must’ve missed the bell signaling lunch was over. A class is obviously meeting in the library today. I pull out my schedule from the front pocket of my backpack, hoping to find something different from what I know is printed there. PE. The two little unassuming letters make me cringe. Tomorrow seems like a better day to start PE. Nobody should be forced to do physical exercise on Mondays. The decision to ditch on my first day produces a twinge of guilt in my gut. But knowing I can claim “new kid” status for at least a week, I push down the feeling.
I scoot farther back into the aisle, certain no one will find me. Why would they? It’s the classics aisle. It has to be one of the least visited sections in a high school library. So when footsteps scuff the flooring, I’m genuinely surprised.
I look up to see Trevor intently focused on the row of books to his left. His finger trails along the bindings and then he stops and slides the book he holds in between two others.
“Hi,” I say when he turns.
His shoulders jerk back in surprise before his face fully registers recognition. “Oh, hey, Addison. What are you doing?”
“Apparently I’m ditching PE.”
“I was surprised to see you in Government this morning. I thought you said you were a junior.”
“I … uh …” Panic wells in my chest. Had my dad put me in an advanced class? What am I supposed to say? Well, yeah, my mind is at least ten times more efficient than a Normal person’s, so my dad probably wanted to challenge me as much as possible. Even if I were allowed to say that, it probably wouldn’t go over well.
“Did you test into it?”
“Yes!” I say entirely too loudly. “I mean, yes, I did.” I point to the book he just put back, trying to change the subject. “What are you returning?”
“Oh.” He looks at the spine of the book. “Nineteen Eighty-four, Orwell.”
I loved that book, but I don’t like to influence people from giving their honest opinions about a book before I tell them how they should’ve felt. “Did you like it?”