Page 14 of Okay, Cupid

Because it would be too confusing to just show up at a new school out of the blue, Leah and I went in last week to register me for classes. We re-created our usual schtick of her pretending to be my older sister because there’s no way anyone would believe she’s my mom.

We’d worked on our backstory, our history, changing things up to have our parents die in some tragic accident. According to Leah, there’s nothing humans love more than a sob story, especially when you give them the chance to be the hero.

Hearst High is right on Geary, meaning I only have to walk two blocks to the bus stop to catch the 38R just as it’s stopping to hop on for a few stops. The bus is nearly empty, with only two older ladies talking to each other near the front. It’s easy to slide my bigger headphones on, pick a playlist, and relax on the twenty-minute drive. The closer we get, though, the more excited I become. It’s slow, and then all at once I feel like I’m going to be sick, like I’m going to throw up out of excitement.

I look at the older ladies at the front of the bus; one of them is knitting something, showing the other. And they both smile at each other, a special kind of joy in their eyes. The one who isn’t knitting kisses the other tenderly on the cheek. It feels private, like I shouldn’t be looking at them in this moment.

I shouldn’t, because the longer I watch them, the more this odd feeling settles deep in my stomach, dragging, pulling me further. I want to meet someone and know that I’m meant to be with them. I want to hold their hand, to kiss them. I want to be taken out on dates and take bad pictures. I want to get caught in the rain and steal a kiss. I want to watch bad movies and take the bus down to Ulta because I’m out of my favorite moisturizer.

I shouldn’t chase these thoughts; they’ll only lead somewhere I don’t want to be.

Luckily it’s not long before the bus pulls up to the stop in front of Hearst, and I and several other kids around my age hop off the bus, stepping out onto the sidewalk and crossing the green lawn to the front steps of the school.

This is my place for the next month. Or, with any luck, just for a few weeks. It’s bold, but I want to beat my own deadline. That’ll really impress Richard and prove to Leah that I know just what I’m doing.

The school almost looks like a castle or an old church, with these high brick walls and steep roofs. There’s even a bell tower! And the interior is just as fancy, the hardwood floors shining, lockers lining each of the walls, tall windows letting in plenty of light. Kids walk around in the early morning, either heading to their classrooms, hanging out in the hallways, or grabbing breakfast from the cafeteria. One kid zips by on a skateboard, a teacher shouting for him to stop, but he just keeps skating by.

I steal a moment to take it all in. I’ve only ever gotten to see high school through the movies, where homework doesn’t seem to really exist, and kids have too long between classes to have their emotionally fraught conversations. But now I’m in a real school, surrounded by real teenagers.

It’s so chaotic.

And I already love it.

I catch a few stares and wonder if the kids are looking at me simply because I’m an unfamiliar face, or if there’s something more malicious to their glares. I’m not going to hide myself; I won’t be someone who I’m not.

I wish it wasn’t such an exciting feeling to see all these new faces, all these kids my own age. But the truth is, it is. There’s something so magical about feeling like I blend in, like I’m being perceived as a normal, everyday teenager. None of these kids have any reason to suspect that I’m not actually human.

I stop by the guidance office to grab my finalized schedule—a little Cupid magic ensuring that I share a fair amount of periods with both Huy and Alice—and the lock for my locker, following the map to the box the counselor highlighted for me.

I look over the papers in my hand. My locker assignment, the campus map, my schedule, which at first seems to be standard fare. English 3, algebra 2, biology.

It’s the other three that get me. Culinary arts, orchestra, and last and certainly least, physical education and weight lifting.

“Weight lifting?” I whisper to myself. “Orchestra?”

I don’t know how to play an instrument, and I’ve never even dared to try to lift weights, but I can imagine my arms snapping like toothpicks the second I try to pick up one of those dumbbells.

If I had to guess from the photos I’ve seen, Alice is a band kid, meaning I could get some great one-on-one time with her in class if I play my cards right. I could totally fake an instrument! Give me a triangle or drumsticks and I can pretend all class period long. And cooking—well, I can barely boil water, but it can’t be that hard.

Weight lifting, though? Yikes.

I follow the map to the little highlighted box toward the center of the school, counting the lockers as I pass by them to the only one that seems to sit unused, without a lock on the door. I triple-check the number to make sure I’m using the right one before I slam the door shut, fixing the lock and making sure I have the combination copied in my notes app. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy a girl. Around the same height as me, Black, with long, large box braids. Her attention is fixed on a mirror that hangs on the inside of her locker; she’s pulled the skin around her eye in an attempt to get her eyeliner to work, but based on the R-rated words she’s whispering under her breath, I feel like it isn’t going well.

“Shit,” she hisses, grabbing a makeup wipe from her locker to clean up the failed attempt.

My first instinct is to leave her alone. I’m a stranger, after all. But Leah’s lessons come back to me. She and Richard always warned me about forming connections to humans, getting too close. But they also told me how important it can be to get closer to the people I’m meant to help. How to use humans to our advantage.

“It’s a balance,” Leah told me once. “You have to find it, be aware of it.”

It’s just my luck that there, on this girl’s mirror, is a picture of Alice. Even from a few feet away, I can tell it’s her. And when I look a bit further, I see more pictures of this girl with Alice, hugging, kissing each other’s cheeks. The girl’s locker is pretty eclectic—for every picture of Alice there’s another of John Boyega and another of Pedro Pascal, so it’s hard to see if I’m missing any other evidence.

So, this girl and Alice are friends. Best friends, maybe? It feels like best friend behavior to have pictures of someone in your locker.

“Hey,” I say, stepping behind her. This makes her (a) jump and (b) only ruin her makeup attempt further. I wince. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” She grabs another wipe, cleaning up her face. “It was going poorly anyway.”

“I, uh … I can do makeup,” I tell her, turning my cheeks so she can see the hearts and clouds painted around my eyes. I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I’ve put hours of work into this face. “Do you want some help?”