Along Came Jordan

 

 

The morning sucked.

My eleven-year-old sister was pitching a fit — an amazing performance of yelling and wailing — smack in the middle of the living room. I pitched my own fit on the inside — silent, but every bit as strong. Neither of us wanted to switch schools. Our lack of choice pinched tighter than the new loafers I'd chosen to wear. Unlike Sarah, drama queen hysterics were not my style, but being forced to leave Bates Academy for Edgemont High in the middle of the term nearly converted me.

Not even the memory of my parting words to the jerk at Bates who betrayed me could brighten my mood. They were the slickest words I'd ever uttered, but today, even they didn't help.

"What do I wear?" Sarah hollered first thing.

Mom rushed into her room. "Good grief. Why didn't you plan last night?"

Bates Academy had uniforms. Every morning since forever, Sarah and I had put on the blue and khaki like trained seals. There were no decisions, no fashion statements, no indecent exposures.

Those days were over.

Sarah was clueless. I'd deliberated all evening over what to wear. For a nanosecond, I wished I were still on speaking terms with my ex-friend Farah. She would've known the exact outfit to make the right impression, but we weren't talking. After she'd played her evil role in Lance betraying me, we were over. Way over.

I was on my own.

For a sixteen-year-old, my wardrobe stunk. I settled on jeans and a long-sleeved white blouse. Once I rolled up the sleeves and tucked everything in, I looked pretty good. I guess I'd learned something from Farah, after all. I knew my long black hair was impressive, so I brushed it until it gleamed like the chrome on Dad's car.

With about thirty seconds to spare, Sarah and I were ready, sack lunches in hand, and bodies shoved out the door by a frazzled Mom, whose patience had curled up and died an hour earlier.

"Sarah, hurry your butt up," I urged as we started down the drive. "The bus won't wait."

"I don't want to take the stupid bus, and I don't want to go to a stupid new school."

I grimaced. "We've no choice. Let's do this."

She squashed her face into an ugly pout but increased her speed.

We made it to the corner, and the bus squealed and stopped at the curb. We climbed aboard and found an empty seat. The bus stopped at the middle school first so Sarah and a handful of other kids could get off. I could see the tears and a panic attack brewing behind her frantic expression.

"It'll be all right," I whispered. "Fifth grade is fifth grade everywhere."

She started down the aisle, and then turned to give me one last desperate glance. My heart sagged as she dragged herself out of the bus, her backpack clunking down each step behind her. I hoped she survived.

The bus rumbled back into gear and headed toward the high school. I prayed my eyes didn't share Sarah's look of terror. I made no move to notice or interact with anyone. Later, I'd be friendly and vivacious and charming.

Yeah, right.

I climbed off the bus and tromped toward the school. Once inside, I was swallowed into a mass of laughing and yelling kids, although I did remember to go to the office and get my schedule from Mrs. Atterbury. I knew her from the previous week, when Mom and I brought my transcripts. She bustled behind the counter, her box-like glasses slipping off her nose, giving me a momentary feeling of security. With a frizzy-haired, grandma-like secretary, the school couldn't be all bad.

"Locker 215," she said to me in a singsong voice. "I'm sorry, dear, but you'll have to bring in your own lock — the built-in on 215 is defunct. Remember to see the counselor if you encounter any troubles. He's a humdinger. You have a good day, Emili Jones, and welcome to Edgemont High."

I looked at my schedule. First period — English 10, room 206 — had to be second floor. I picked my way through clusters of kids, keeping my eyes straight ahead. The stairs were tight as I squished through the throngs, but I elbowed my way up into a wide hallway.

I concentrated on my breathing. Take a step; take a breath. Take a step; take a breath. Fainting dead away on the first day wouldn't be a good start.

"Private Girl, you're back." The voice was pure syrup.

I gazed into the hazel eyes of a girl who looked like a Parisian model. I'd run into her the week before, too. Even though we hadn't officially met, I hadn't forgotten how she'd gone out of her way to be a stuck-up creep.

Be friendly
, b
e friendly,
I silently repeated. I would
not
end up as a friendless loner again.

I smiled — at least I felt the corners of my mouth turn up. "Hey."

She narrowed her eyes. "You didn't change your mind about coming."

"Wasn't an option."

"Hmm. Let me see your schedule." She yanked it out of my hand, and I noticed her long nails were painted a deep purple. "We have two classes together."

My fake smile stayed fixed, super-glue tight.

"Most people are glad to have classes with me. Are you smart?" Her eyes roved over me. I could see her assessment gears churning.

"I do okay."

"What's your name?"

"Emili Jones."

"Well, Former Private School Girl, I guess I'll see you in class."

I snatched my schedule out of her grasp and kept walking.
What a weirdo.

It was obvious Edgemont High didn't have a specific homeroom like Bates, since none was listed. I found room 206, and a few kids were milling around. A chubby teacher dug in a file cabinet against the far wall, her tight blouse revealing every lumpy bulge on her back.

"Excuse me," I said.

She turned, and her wrinkled face widened into a smile. "You must be Emili Jones. I have your name on my roster. I'm Mrs. Winder, English 10. Sit wherever you like." She waved her hand toward the chairs. "No assigned seats in this room, no sirree. I'll get you a textbook pronto."

"Thanks," I said.

She seemed nice enough. I walked to the back of the first row and sat. A girl with a blotchy rash under the left side of her chin gave me the once-over. I responded with a half-smile and then studied my backpack as if it were sprouting leaves.

Her chair scooted back with a screech, and she came over to stand before me. "My name's Sally Wiley. What's yours?"

"Emili Jones."

"Welcome to our illustrious school." She bobbed her head, and her tightly-woven French braid swished back and forth. "Do you play a stringed instrument, by any chance?"

"No. Sorry."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, too. It's nice to get new members in the orchestra, although how would I know? We never get anyone new. Now band is another thing. They get new members all the time." Her brown eyes were flecked with yellow. "I'm a violinist, which you probably guessed."

Uh, no.

"My rash." She pointed to her red chin. "According to every person in my world, I practice way too much. They're dead wrong. I don't practice enough. How can anyone ever practice too much? I can't help it if my chin rest gives me skin like a sick lizard. It's the price we professionals pay."

I grinned, finding her earnest expression and overflowing puppy-dog enthusiasm endearing. Yep, I liked Sally Wiley.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"What do I do? I, uh, nothing. I get good grades."

"Yes, yes, but what are your interests?"

A few more students wandered into class. I could feel them checking me out.

"I make perfume."

"No kidding? Excellent.
Magnifique!
I want to learn everything about it." She leaned toward me and sniffed. "I don't smell any homemade perfume."

"Issues this morning. I was running late, but I'll wear some tomorrow."

"Perfect. What do you do at school?"

"Meaning?"

"Clubs and stuff."

"No clubs."

Sally shook her head, a frown on her face. "That won't do. There are lots of clubs here, and you need to get involved in something. Margo can help you figure it out."

"Margo?" I asked, but I didn't get an answer. The bell rang, and everyone, including Sally, sat down.

Mrs. Winder cleared her throat. "Good morning, students. Let's get underway."