“I’ve been thinking maybe you should talk to Dr. Cunningham about those phobia pills. You know, the kind for people who have a hard time in crowds? Agoraphobia! That’s what it’s called,” he burst out, remembering. “Do you think that could help you?”
Helen smiled and ran the charm of her necklace along its chain. “I don’t think so, Dad. I’m not afraid of strangers, I’m just shy.”
She knew she was lying. It wasn’tjustthat she was shy. Any time she extended herself and attracted attention, even accidentally, her stomach hurt so badly it felt almost like the stomach flu or menstrual cramps—reallybadmenstrual cramps—but she’d sooner light her hair on fire than tell her father that.
“And you’re okay with that? I know you’d never ask, but do you want help? Because I think this is holding you back....” Jerry said, starting in on one of their oldest fights.
Helen cut him off at the pass. “I’m fine! Really. I don’t want to talk to Dr. Cunningham, I don’t want drugs. I just want to go inside and eat,” she said in a rush. She got out of the Jeep.
Her father watched her with a small smile as she plucked her heavy, old-fashioned bike off the rack on the back of the Jeep and placed it on the ground. She rang the bell on her handlebar jauntily and gave her dad a grin.
“See, I’m just peachy,” she said.
“If you knew how hard what you just did would be for an average girl your age, you’d get what I’m saying. You aren’t average, Helen. You try to come off that way, but you’re not. You’re likeher,” he said, his voice drifting off.
For the thousandth time Helen cursed the mother she didn’t remember for breaking her father’s sweet heart. How could anyone leave such a good guy without so much as a good-bye? Without so much as a photo to remember her by?
“You win! I’m not average, I’m special—just like everyone else,” Helen teased, anxious to cheer him up. She nudged him with her hip as she walked past him, wheeling her bike into the garage. “Now, what is there to eat? I’m starving, and it’s your week to be kitchen slave.”
Chapter Two
Still without her own car, Helen had to ride her bike to school the next morning. Normally at a quarter to eight, it would be cool out, even a little chilly with the wind blowing off the water, but as soon as she woke up, Helen could feel the hot, humid air lying on her body like a wet fur coat. She had kicked her sheets off in the middle of the night, wriggled out of her T-shirt, drunk the entire glass of water on her nightstand, and still she had woken up exhausted by the heat. It was very un-island weather, and Helen absolutely did not want to get up and go to school.
She pedaled slowly in an attempt to avoid spending the rest of the day smelling like phys ed. She didn’t usually sweat much, but she’d woken up so lethargic that morning she couldn’t remember if she had put on deodorant. She flapped her elbows like chicken wings trying to catch a whiff of herself as she rode, and was relieved to smell the fruity-powdery scent of some kind of protection. It was faint, so she must have put it on yesterday, but it only needed to hold on until track practice after school. Which would be a miracle, but oh well.
As she cruised down Surfside Road she could feel the baby hairs around her face pulling loose in the wind and sticking to her cheeks and forehead. It was a short ride from her house to school, but in the humidity, her carefully arranged first-day-of-school hairdo was a big old mess by the time she locked her crummy bike to the rack. She only locked it out of tourist-season habit and not because anyone at school would deign to steal it. Which was good because she also had a crummy lock.
She pulled her ruined hair out of its bonds, ran her fingers through the worst of the tangles, and retied it, this time settling for a boring, low ponytail. With a resigned sigh she swung her book bag over one shoulder and her gym bag over the other. She bent her head and slouched her way toward the front door.
She got there just a second before Gretchen Clifford, and was obliged to hold the door open for her.
“Thanks, freak. Try not to rip it off the hinges, will you?” Gretchen said archly, breezing past Helen.
Helen stood stupidly at the top of the steps, holding the door open for other students, who walked past her like she worked there. Nantucket was a small island, and everyone knew each other painfully well, but sometimes Helen wished Gretchen knew a little bit less about her. They’d been best friends up until fifth grade, when Helen, Gretchen, and Claire were playing hide-and-seek at Gretchen’s house, and Helen accidentally knocked the bathroom door off its hinges while Gretchen was using it. Helen had tried to apologize, but the next day Gretchen started looking at her funny and calling her a freak. Ever since then it seemed like she’d gone out of her way to make Helen’s life suck. It didn’t help matters that Gretchen now ran with the popular crowd, while Helen hid among the braniacs.
She wanted to snap back at Gretchen, say something clever like Claire would, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she flipped the doorstop down with her toe to leave the door propped open for everyone else. Another year of fading into the background had officially begun.
Helen had Mr. Hergeshimer for homeroom. He was the head of the English department, and had mad style for a guy in his fifties. He wore silk cravats in warm weather, flashy colored cashmere scarves when it was cold, and drove a vintage convertible Alfa Romeo. The guy had buckets of money and didn’t need to work, but he taught high school, anyway. He said he did it because he didn’t want to be forced to deal with illiterate heathens everywhere he went. That was his story, anyway. Personally, Helen believed he taught because he absolutely loved it. Some of the other students didn’t get him and said he was a wannabe British snob, but Helen thought he was one of the best teachers she’d probably ever have.
“Miss Hamilton,” he said broadly as Helen stepped through the door, the bell ringing at exactly the same time. “Punctual as usual. I’m certain you will be taking the seat next to your cohort, but first, a warning. Any exercise of that talent for which one of you earned the sobriquetGigglesand I shall separate you.”
“Sure thing,Hergie,” chirped Claire. Helen slid into the desk next to her. Hergie rolled his eyes at Claire’s mild disrespect, but he was pleased.
“It is gratifying to know that at least one of my students knows thatsobriquetis a synonym fornickname, no matter how impertinent her delivery. Now, students: another warning. As you are preparing for your SATs this year, I shall expect you all to be ready to give me the definition of a new and exciting word every morning.”
The class groaned. Only Mr. Hergeshimer could be sadistic enough to give them homework for homeroom. It was against the natural order.
“Canimpertinentbe the word we learn for tomorrow?” asked Zach Brant anxiously.
Zach was usually anxious about something, and he had been since kindergarten. Sitting next to Zach was Matt Millis, who looked over at Zach and shook his head as if to say, “I wouldn’t try that if I were you.”
Matt, Zach, and Claire were the AP kids. They were all friends, but as they got older they were starting to realize only one of them could be valedictorian and get into Harvard. Helen stayed out of the competition, especially because she had started liking Zach less and less the past few years. Ever since his father had become the football coach and started pushing Zach to be number one both on the field and in the classroom, Zach had become so competitive that Helen could barely stand to be around him anymore.
A part of her felt bad for him. She would have pitied him more if he wasn’t so combative toward her. Zach had to be everything all the time—president of this club, captain of that team, the guy with all the gossip—but he never looked like he was enjoying any of it. Claire insisted that Zach was secretly in love with Helen, but Helen didn’t believe it for a second; in fact, sometimes she felt like Zach hated her, and that bothered her. He used to share his animal crackers with her during recess in the first grade, and now he looked for any opportunity to pick a fight with her. When did everything get so complicated, and why couldn’t they all just be friends like they were in grade school?
“Mr. Brant,” Mr. Hergeshimer enunciated. “You may useimpertinentas your word if you wish, but from someone of your mental faculties I shall also be expecting something more. Perhaps an essay on an example of impertinence in English literature?” He nodded. “Yes, five pages on Salinger’s use of impertinence in his controversialCatcher in the Ryeby Monday, please.”
Helen could practically smell the palms of Zach’s hands clam up from two seats away. Hergie’s powers for giving extra reading to smart-ass students were legendary, and he seemed determined to make an example out of Zach on the first day. Helen thanked her lucky stars Hergie hadn’t picked on her.
