IT TAKES THIRTY MINUTES TOfix my schedule. The process would have been much faster if they could access my Portland transcripts, but the system sucked those down the technological black hole. Everything had to be redone by shuffling through my files and inputting them into the computer. Nightmare.
All in all, my schedule isn’t the worst. I missed first period English III with Mrs. Lee, but that’s fine by me because I’ve heard she’s tough. I don’t have any of my friends in second period Spanish class, which is a bummer. I try not to fall asleep listening to Señora Martínez read us our syllabus word for word. She even makes us tape them on our binders so we “never miss turning in an assignment,” as if we’re six instead of sixteen.
The irony of all ironies happens when I walk into third period AP US History and see Jay. I remind myself the divine powers of destiny are not interfering with my life as he motions for me to sit by him. Despite the stares from my classmates, I do. I keep my body language casual because I amso totally coolwith Jay and Whitney, even though I haven’t seen her yet.
I’m starving by the time lunch rolls around. Lin texts me as I’m walking to the cafeteria, letting me know she’s waiting for me in the pizza line. Relief eases through me. I’m thankful that our small lunchtime rituals haven’t completely disappeared. I tell her I left my money in my locker, but I’ll be there ASAP.
I make my way through crowds of students until I reach my locker. It’s a lower locker (ugh) so I have to squat to open it. I pull out a few bills that I keep in my dance bag. I don’t know why I brought it today. I haven’t tried out for Wavettes yet and I didn’t know if my Dance III elective would be approved (luckily it was), but it was sitting by my backpack like it belonged there, so normal and familiar. I would have felt naked leaving the house without it.
When I enter the lunchroom, I notice not much has changed. The walls are already covered in this year’s hand-painted cheerleading posters. Drama flyers are taped to the double doors promoting the fall play. The circular tables designed to fit eight (butcanfit ten—we’ve done it) stand before me in their blue plastic glory. Even the weird, mixed-food cafeteria smell is unenticingly the same.
Our table is in the left-hand corner near one of the many windows. I’m relieved to see Jay, Raegan, Whitney, Lin, Colton, and Breck already sitting there. From afar I notice Breck’s braids are tied back with a recognizable red-and-black Cedarville cheerleader’s ribbon, and I wonder if he’s begun dating someone on the squad. It’s a minor detail, but it’s a subtle reminder of how much I’ve missed.
As I walk closer, I realize Whitney occupies the seat next to Jay—my unofficial seat. It makes sense. They’re dating now, so she should have the seat next to him. I can’t help the tingle of irritation that courses through me. Am I that easily replaced?
No. I’m being too sensitive.
“Kira!” Raegan leaps out of her seat, bumping the table with her hip as she reaches to hug me. She’s wearing a black skirt and a floral top with a pale green cardigan over it—one of many she owns. Cardigans have always been her thing. “I’msobeyond happy you’re back!”
I squeeze her tightly. Raegan is one of my oldest friends. We used to play together with our Betty Spaghetty dolls when we were little, and she would always make hers run for president. But Betty Spaghetty pantsuits didn’t exist, so she had to dress her up in the standard neon short-shorts. In middle school, she wrote an outraged letter to the Ohio Art Company suggesting they should highly consider evolving Betty from a fashion queen to a strong, independent woman figure for little girls to look up to. That’s just the type of person Raegan is. So it doesn’t surprise me that she’s made Leadership Council President this year.
Through her springy coils I see Whitney. She looks uncomfortable. Is it bad that I feel justified? Maybe.
But it’sWhitney. She’s the one who half-carried me to the nurse when I sprained my ankle at dance camp in middle school. When we were eight, she talked my dad into letting us go to her uncle’s ranch so I could finally learn how to ride a horse like a true Texan. She’s been there through all my fallout crushes and tears over failed tests and through all the frustrations with my dad.
I can’t hold Jay against her. We’ve been through so much. Besides, I was the one who cut off communication. It’s a miracle they’re all still talking to me.
When Raegan releases me, I bounce over and hug Whitney. I feel her tension dissolve, and I wonder if she can sense my own relief.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she says when she lets me go. Then she gestures for me to sit in the empty seat between her and Lin. “How was Portland?”
Lin slides a paper plate with a large pepperoni pizza slice on it. I thank her and hand her three bucks. “Uneventful,” I say truthfully. “I missed you guys.”
“We missed you, too,” Breck says, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring at his own reflection using the front-facing camera on his phone and stroking his smooth, dark skin near his cheek.
“Breck is growing a beard,” Whitney explains in a very unenthusiastic voice.
Breck looks up at the sound of his name. He leans closer to me in case I need to further inspect his patchy facial hair, which is not even close to a beard. “It’s coming in nicely, see?” He stares back at his phone. “I’m going to keep growing it.”
Whitney rolls her eyes. “Don’t. You look diseased.”
Breck ignores her, looking at me. “I’m trying to appear more distinguished. A beard is a sign of maturity and—” He glances at Lin. “I’m trying to convince this one to let me on Academic Decathlon.”
Lin appears unmoved. “We already have enough for Varsity.”
I know from Lin that decathlon is ranked by your GPA, the top-tier being Honors, then Scholastic, then Varsity, and you have to have a mix of all three in order for your team to compete.
“Ah, but I’m a Scholastic student.” Breck leans over the table. “And I know you need a replacement since Araceli graduated.”
“Yeah, we need adedicatedreplacement.”
While they bicker about Breck’s commitment to both basketball and decathlon, Whitney turns to me. Her wavy brown hair has been cut into layers that frame her face, and she’s ditched her heavy concealer for a more natural-looking powder. I didn’t think it was possible for her to get any prettier.
“Are you going out for Wavettes this year?” she asks me.
“Youhaveto!” Raegan squeals. She digs her fork into the packaged salads we swore we’d never buy because the chicken in them looked like cow brains. But I notice she and Whitney are both eating them. “I’m co-captain, did I tell you that? The team voted for me!”
“Only because nobody wanted Brianne Bossy-Ass as co-captain,” Whitney says. Is that jealousy in her voice?
