Beautiful Creatures (3 page)

E
ight streets. That’s how far we had to go to get from Cotton Bend to Jackson High. Turns out I could relive my entire life,
going up and down eight streets, and eight streets were just enough to put a strange black hearse out of your mind. Maybe
that’s why I didn’t mention it to Link.

We passed the Stop & Shop, otherwise known as the Stop & Steal. It was the only grocery store in town, and the closest thing
we had to a 7-Eleven. So every time you were hanging out with your friends out front, you had to hope you weren’t going to
run into someone’s mom shopping for dinner, or worse, Amma.

I noticed the familiar Grand Prix parked out front. “Uh-oh. Fatty’s camped out already.” He was sitting in the driver’s seat,
reading
The Stars and Stripes.

“Maybe he didn’t see us.” Link was watching the rearview mirror, tense.

“Maybe we’re screwed.”

Fatty was Stonewall Jackson High School’s truant officer, as well as a proud member of the Gatlin police force. His girlfriend,
Amanda, worked at the Stop & Steal, and Fatty was parked out front most mornings, waiting for the baked goods to be delivered.
Which was pretty inconvenient if you were always late, like Link and me.

You couldn’t go to Jackson High without knowing Fatty’s routine as well as your own class schedule. Today, Fatty waved us
on, without even looking up from the sports section. He was giving us a pass.

“Sports section and a sticky bun. Know what that means.”

“We’ve got five minutes.”

We rolled the Beater into the school parking lot in neutral, hoping to slink past the attendance office unnoticed. But it
was still pouring outside, so by the time we got into the building, we were soaked and our sneakers were squeaking so loud
we might as well have just stopped in there anyway.

“Ethan Wate! Wesley Lincoln!”

We stood dripping in the office, waiting for our detention slips.

“Late for the first day a school. Your mamma is goin’ to have a few choice words for you, Mr. Lincoln. And don’t you look
so smug, Mr. Wate. Amma’s gonna tan your hide.”

Miss Hester was right. Amma would know I’d shown up late about five minutes from now, if she didn’t already. That’s what it
was like around here. My mom used to say Carlton Eaton, the postmaster, read any letter that looked half-interesting. He didn’t
even bother to seal them back up anymore. It’s not like there was any actual news. Every house had its secrets, but everyone
on the street knew them. Even that was no secret.

“Miss Hester, I was just drivin’ slow, on account a the rain.” Link tried to turn on the charm. Miss Hester pulled down her
glasses a little and looked back at Link, un-charmed. The little chain that held her glasses around her neck swung back and
forth.

“I don’t have time to chat with you boys right now. I’m busy fillin’ out your detention slips, which is where you’ll be spendin’
this afternoon,” she said, as she handed each of us our blue slip.

She was busy all right. You could smell the nail polish before we even turned the corner. Welcome back.

In Gatlin, the first day of school never really changes. The teachers, who all knew you from church, decided if you were stupid
or smart by the time you were in kindergarten. I was smart because my parents were professors. Link was stupid, because he
crunched up the pages of the Good Book during Scripture Chase, and threw up once during the Christmas pageant. Because I was
smart, I got good grades on my papers; because Link was stupid, he got bad ones. I guess nobody bothered to read them. Sometimes
I wrote random stuff in the middle of my essays, just to see if my teachers would say anything. No one ever did.

Unfortunately, the same principle didn’t apply to multiple-choice tests. In first-period English, I discovered my seven hundred-year-old
teacher, whose name really was Mrs. English, had expected us to read
To Kill a Mockingbird
over the summer, so I flunked the first quiz. Great. I had read the book about two years ago. It was one of my mom’s favorites,
but that was a while ago and I was fuzzy on the details.

A little-known fact about me: I read all the time. Books were the one thing that got me out of Gatlin, even if it was only
for a little while. I had a map on my wall, and every time I read about a place I wanted to go, I marked it on the map. New
York was
Catcher in the Rye
.
Into the Wild
got me to Alaska. When I read
On the Road
, I added Chicago, Denver, L.A., and Mexico City. Kerouac could get you pretty much everywhere. Every few months, I drew a
line to connect the marks. A thin green line I’d follow on a road trip, the summer before college, if I ever got out of this
town. I kept the map and the reading thing to myself. Around here, books and basketball didn’t mix.

Chemistry wasn’t much better. Mr. Hollenback doomed me to be lab partners with Ethan-Hating Emily, also known as Emily Asher,
who had despised me ever since the formal last year, when I made the mistake of wearing my Chuck Taylors with my tux and letting
my dad drive us in the rusty Volvo. The one broken window that permanently wouldn’t roll up had destroyed her perfectly curled
blond prom-hair, and by the time we got to the gym she looked like Marie Antoinette with bedhead. Emily didn’t speak to me
for the rest of the night and sent Savannah Snow to dump me three steps from the punch bowl. That was pretty much the end
of that.

It was a never-ending source of amusement for the guys, who kept expecting us to get back together. The thing they didn’t
know was, I wasn’t into girls like Emily. She was pretty, but that was it. And looking at her didn’t make up for having to
listen to what came out of her mouth. I wanted someone different, someone I could talk to about something other than parties
and getting crowned at winter formal. A girl who was smart, or funny, or at least a decent lab partner.

Maybe a girl like that was the real dream, but a dream was still better than a nightmare. Even if the nightmare was wearing
a cheerleading skirt.

I survived chemistry, but my day only got worse from there. Apparently, I was taking U.S. History again this year, which was
the only history taught at Jackson, making the name redundant. I would be spending my second consecutive year studying the
“War of Northern Aggression” with Mr. Lee, no relation. But as we all knew, in spirit Mr. Lee and the famous Confederate general
were one and the same. Mr. Lee was one of the few teachers who actually hated me. Last year, on a dare from Link, I had written
a paper called “The War of Southern Aggression,” and Mr. Lee had given me a D. Guess the teachers actually did read the papers
sometimes, after all.

I found a seat in the back next to Link, who was busy copying notes from whatever class he had slept through before this one.
But he stopped writing as soon as I sat down. “Dude, did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“There’s a new girl at Jackson.”

“There are a ton of new girls, a whole freshman class of them, moron.”

“I’m not talkin’ about the freshmen. There’s a new girl in
our
class.” At any other high school, a new girl in the sophomore class wouldn’t be news. But this was Jackson, and we hadn’t
had a new girl in school since third grade, when Kelly Wix moved in with her grandparents after her dad was arrested for running
a gambling operation out of their basement in Lake City.

“Who is she?”

“Don’t know. I’ve got civics second period with all the band geeks, and they didn’t know anythin’ except she plays the violin,
or somethin’. Wonder if she’s hot.” Link had a one-track mind, like most guys. The difference was, Link’s track led directly
to his mouth.

“So she’s a band geek?”

“No. A musician. Maybe she shares my love a classical music.”

“Classical music?” The only classical music Link had ever heard was in the dentist’s office.

“You know, the classics. Pink Floyd. Black Sabbath. The Stones.” I started laughing.

“Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Wate. I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, but I’d like to get started if it’s a’right with you boys.”
Mr. Lee’s tone was just as sarcastic as last year, and his greasy comb-over and pit stains just as bad. He passed out copies
of the same syllabus he had probably been using for ten years. Participating in an actual Civil War reenactment would be required.
Of course it would. I could just borrow a uniform from one of my relatives who participated in reenactments for fun on the
weekends. Lucky me.

After the bell rang, Link and I hung out in the hall by our lockers, hoping to get a look at the new girl. To hear him talk,
she was already his future soul mate and band mate and probably a few other kinds of mates I didn’t even want to hear about.
But the only thing we got a look at was too much of Charlotte Chase in a jean skirt two sizes too small. Which meant we weren’t
going to find out anything until lunch, because our next class was ASL, American Sign Language, and it was strictly no talking
allowed. No one was good enough at signing to even spell “new girl,” especially since ASL was the one class we had in common
with the rest of the Jackson basketball team.

I’d been on the team since eighth grade, when I grew six inches in one summer and ended up at least a head taller than everyone
else in my class. Besides, you had to do something normal when both of your parents were professors. It turned out I was good
at basketball. I always seemed to know where the players on the other team were going to pass the ball, and it gave me a place
to sit in the cafeteria every day. At Jackson, that was worth something.

Today that seat was worth even more because Shawn Bishop, our point guard, had actually seen the new girl. Link asked the
only question that mattered to any of them. “So, is she hot?”

“Pretty hot.”

“Savannah Snow hot?”

As if on cue, Savannah—the standard by which all other girls at Jackson were measured—walked into the cafeteria, arm in arm
with Ethan-Hating Emily, and we all watched because Savannah was 5'8" worth of the most perfect legs you’ve ever seen. Emily
and Savannah were almost one person, even when they weren’t in their cheerleading uniforms. Blond hair, fake tans, flip-flops,
and jean skirts so short they could pass for belts. Savannah was the legs, but Emily was the one all the guys tried to get
a look at in her bikini top, at the lake in the summer. They never seemed to have any books, just tiny metallic bags tucked
under one arm, with barely enough room for a cell phone, for the few occasions when Emily actually stopped texting.

Their differences boiled down to their respective positions on the cheer squad. Savannah was the captain, and a base: one
of the girls who held up two more tiers of cheerleaders in the Wildcats’ famous pyramid. Emily was a flyer, the girl at the
top of the pyramid, the one thrown five or six feet into the air to complete a flip or some other crazy cheer stunt that could
easily result in a broken neck. Emily would risk anything to stay on top of that pyramid. Savannah didn’t need to. When Emily
got tossed, the pyramid went on fine without her. When Savannah moved an inch, the whole thing came tumbling down.

Ethan-Hating Emily noticed us staring and scowled at me. The guys laughed. Emory Watkins clapped a hand on my back. “In like
sin, Wate. You know Emily, the more she glares, the more she cares.”

I didn’t want to think about Emily today. I wanted to think about the opposite of Emily. Ever since Link had brought it up
in history, it had stuck with me. The new girl. The possibility of someone different, from somewhere different. Maybe someone
with a bigger life than ours, and, I guess, mine.

Maybe even someone I’d dreamed about. I knew it was a fantasy, but I wanted to believe it.

“So did y’all hear about the new girl?” Savannah sat down on Earl Petty’s lap. Earl was our team captain and Savannah’s on-again,
off-again boyfriend. Right now, they were on. He rubbed his hands over her orangey-colored legs, just high enough so you didn’t
know where to look.

“Shawn was just fillin’ us in. Says she’s hot. You gonna put her on the squad?” Link grabbed a couple of Tater Tots off my
tray.