3
First Day of School?
Ifreeze in place. Sweat drips off my forehead. I should be rushing into the school building with the other stragglers, but I can’t bring myself to move. A growing fear fills my mind. It could happen again. In class. In front of kids I don’t know. The scratching and the inability to breathe. They’ll think I’m a freak. Shit! I grab my backpack from its spot in the grass, and instead of walking toward the school doors, I run back to my car and lock the door.
I just need a minute to gather my thoughts—a brief pause to breathe and collect myself—then I’ll get to class. So why am I turning on the car? Why am I exiting the parking lot and turning right on the Pike? Oh my God! Simon, what the hell are you doing? Stop and turn around now! But my body has gone rogue. I keep driving, a death grip on the wheel. I cruise back and forth aimlessly, north and south, on Rockville Pike. I think I just skipped my first day of school. Hives break out on my hands and forearms, and I scratch like a flea-ridden dog. What’s happening to me? I need to get off the road and make a plan. I head for the one familiar place I know—Starbucks.
I could go back now. Tell them I got lost on my drive to school. I drove too far and got stuck in rush hour traffic. That’s believable. I’m new after all. I may not even get detention. They’ll say, Don’t worry about it. Here is your class schedule. Enjoy your first day. Right? Wrong! Earth to Simon. Don’t be an idiot. Everyone has GPS on their phones. This excuse won’t fly. I need to face the fact that I’ve skipped school. Even worse, I’ll have to tell Mom and Carole.
And what will I tell them? I could say I was scared. I got nervous and ran. There’s no way I can tell them that I lied about last night and there was no deer. That I couldn’t breathe and thought I felt something scratching inside, itching to come out. They’ll think I’m crazy, or worse, that I’m hiding something from them. Mom will say, Didn’t we bring you up better than this? How will you ever get into college if you skip school and become a delinquent? Are you doing drugs? Do you want to end up like your uncle Brian? This is a nightmare, and I don’t even know how I got myself in this damn situation. My pits are swamped out, my hives are spreading, and my brain is sloshing back and forth between my ears. I need a cold drink. Now!
I head into Starbucks and get in line. When it’s my turn at the counter, a familiar, olive-skinned face with a supermoon smile greets me. His name tag says Hector, but I already know that.
“Hello, friend, good to see you again. What can I get you this morning? The usual? Caramel Macchiato.”
Mom loves her espresso, and she has sent me here on coffee runs since the day we moved to the neighborhood. “Um, no, that’s my mom’s drink. I’m not sure what I want,” I say, bracing myself against the counter.
“Are you okay? You don’t look well.” He glances at my inflamed skin. “Do you need me to call someone for you?”
I scratch frantically at my arms and the realization of what I must look like hits me.
“No! I’m fine. I just need a cold drink. I’m overheated,” I say, fanning myself a bit too dramatically. “Uh, tell me what’s good?”
Hector calls over to his coworker, a bouncy girl with a blonde ponytail sticking out the back of her Starbucks cap.
“Marcy, can you watch the register for a few minutes? Thanks!”
He steps from behind the counter and leads me to a small table by the window. “Here, have a seat. I’ll get you an iced tea. Do you like iced tea?”
I nod.
“Great! Black, green, or passion?”
Passion?
“Never mind. Do you want it sweetened?”
I nod and he disappears behind the counter. When Hector comes back, he’s carrying the largest cup I’ve ever seen filled with a beer-colored beverage.
“Thank you. What is this?”
“Trenta iced green tea. It’s good for you. Full of antioxidants. Drink!”
I take a sip, and it seems like the most refreshing drink ever. Hector pulls out the chair across from me and sits. He runs his fingers through his thick mass of dark hair. Tea dribbles from the side of my mouth and onto my already-wet-from-sweat T-shirt. I must look like an idiot to him.
“Crap! I’m sorry. I haven’t paid for the tea yet.” I reach for my wallet, but he stops me with a reassuring hand on my arm. A new sensation of red-hot embarrassment flushes across my face.
“Please, the tea is on me. Actually, it’s on Starbucks. But I won’t tell if you don’t.” He puts a single finger to his lips. “I’m just glad I was here to help you when you needed it. By the way, my name is Hector.”
“I know; it’s on your name tag.” I point to it like a fool. “Thank you, Hector. I think I’m okay now. The green tea is making me feel so much better. What kind is this again? You said something with a T?”
His deep, hearty laugh is infectious, but I am not sure what I said that was funny. I like his laugh, and I smile for the first time today.
“Trenta is the size of the drink, not the kind of tea. You know, like extra-large or super-size.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks and…other places. Uh, where is this coming from?
Hector sits back in his chair, arms behind his head. Super-size is right! His biceps are bigger than my thighs. Patches of dark hair peek from the sleeves of his shirt as they roll back with his arms. I’m guessing he is a few years older than me, but not by much. How is he so…manly? I look down at my thin, pale arms. I don’t think I’ve ever tried to flex these sad muscles. “What’s your name, friend?”
