Her jaw drops; two bright spots of color appear on her cheeks. For a moment, she’s speechless, no doubt swooning at my excellent thespian chops. “Well, well,” she says, recovering. “I see the gods have granted my wishes and finally given me a student worth teaching. Are you a fan of Shakespeare?”
“Am I a fan of Shakespeare?” I repeat. “Is Hamlet indecisive? Is Lady Macbeth mad? Is Falstaff . . . portly?” I realize, midsentence, that I am still speaking in my British accent, and clear my throat. “I’m Edgar,” I say, mimicking the flat American sounds of everyone else’s speech. “New kid in town.”
“And one I hope to see in the drama club this year. Thank you, Edgar, for joining me in a rousing performance from our first reading assignment this semester:Romeo and Juliet.Mark, Helen, Allie, come help me pass out books.”
I take my seat again, feeling awfully chuffed. Wait until Delilah hears about this. Andshethought I wouldn’t fit in. I have a sense that English is going to be my strong suit. Perhaps I will even advance a grade level, or be asked to proctor a course. . . .
Suddenly a book is slipped onto my desk, pushed closer by a slender hand with red polish. I look up to find the very girl who precipitated the fight that led to my morning beating. Delilah’s nemesis, Allie McAndrews, stands before me. Her sleek blond hair is shoulder length, and she has so much makeup on her eyes that when she flutters her lashes, all I can think of are spiders. Her lips turn up in a half smile, as if she knows a secret and I don’t.
“Maybe for once,” she says, “English will be interesting.”
At midday, when I enter the cafeteria, I see that Delilah is pacing. “You made it,” she says, grabbing my arm, as if she needs to convince herself I’m still really here. I understand; I feel the same way about her. “I thought maybe you’d end up in the principal’s office.” She scrutinizes my face. “You don’t have a black eye.” In truth, I’ve forgotten about the fight—so much has happened.
“Delilah, this place is spectacular!” I say, beaming.
She looks up at me, quizzical. “Maybe you got hit harder than I thought.”
“No, truly—there must be hundreds of students in this school, and each one is a mystery! And in chemistry, I get tochoosewho my scene partner is, instead of being told with whom I have to work—”
“Labpartner?”
“Yes, right, that’s what it’s called. And the best part is that nothing about my day has anything to do with saving a princess.”
“Congratulations,” Delilah says. “But trust me, the novelty wears off.”
She pulls me into a line and hands me a lime-green tray. Behind a plastic shield, what appears to be a troll in a hairnet is glumping slop onto a plate. “What is that?” I ask Delilah.
“Lunch.”
“But it’s . . . alive.”
“It’s not quite a royal banquet, but it meets the federal nutrition standards, apparently.”
Reluctantly I take the plate as it is offered to me. “I’ll go get us water,” Delilah says. I wander toward students clustered in small groups at tables. This, according to my schedule, is LunchPeriod. The freedom is almost unbearable: imagine a half hour every day when you are able to do whatever you want, without worrying that someone is going to open the book and force you back into place on page one. I take stock of the scene, marveling at how lucky I am to live this charmed life.
Then I notice someone waving. It’s Allie, from my English class, seated with her ladies-in-waiting, who all look unnervingly similar.
“Edgar,” she says as I walk over with my tray. “You can sit with us.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Delilah standing on the periphery, looking for me. “I’m so sorry, I already have plans for Lunch Period.”
Allie’s gaze follows mine to light on Delilah. Her hand touches my arm. “Just so you know,” she says coolly, “I’m kind of a big deal at this school. So when you’re done geeking out with the village loser, text me.” She pulls out a sparkly pink pen and writes a series of numbers on my forearm, punctuating it with a fat heart.
I walk back to Delilah and tap her on her shoulder. “Looking for me?”
She grins. “Always.” Delilah leads me to a table where Jules sits, trying to sculpt her mound of food with her utensils.
“Nice artwork,” I say.
“Does it look like those Easter Island heads to you? ’Cause that’s what I’m going for,” Jules says.
I try to pull Delilah’s chair out for her, because that’s what princes do, but the chair is oddly attached to the table and doesn’t budge. “It was a nice gesture, Oliver,” she murmurs,putting her hand on my arm—and then her fingers slide down to my wrist, pulling my hand up so she can read what’s written on my skin. “What’s this?”
“Allie requested a text from me,” I say. “I’m thinking she might enjoyBeowulf.”
Jules spits her chocolate milk across the table as Delilah’s eyes fly to mine. “Why do you evenknowher?”
“She’s in my English class. Which, by the way, Istoned.”
