Dark Hope (4 page)

“You should go, Mom.”

She looked up, startled. “What?”

I launched into my reasoning before she could stop me. “It sounds really important. I mean, your client wouldn’t call you on the weekend if it wasn’t, right?”

She nodded her head, the grooves in her forehead growing deeper.

“You’ve already taken care of everything for me at school. And I really don’t need you to take me in. I’m fifteen, Mom,” I added, gently. “I would really prefer it if you let me go in by myself, just like any other kid.”

Her eyes got a little misty again as she tucked the phone back into her pocket and folded her hands in her lap. “Like any other kid,” she echoed back wistfully. “Maybe we should go over the instructions again,” she said.

“Mom, I’ve got it. I promise.”

She sighed, her shoulders sagging in acceptance. Then, she stood up, resting one hand gently on my head, stroking my hair just like she had when I was little, smiling ruefully.

“I guess I’d better let them know and go pack, then. If you need me, I’ll be just down the hall.”

She left me alone in the den, the clippings and pictures from my past in my lap, wondering just what else I didn’t know about my past.

I woke up to an empty house and a note written on the back of an old grocery receipt. “Note” is actually an exaggeration; it was a list of what my mom calls “bullet points”:

Mom had taped it to the bathroom door along with a twenty dollar bill. I glanced at the alarm clock. It was only seven a.m., but already my mom was long gone to catch her flight to wherever. I didn’t know how I was ever going to keep track of where she was. She flew to a different city every day.

This was what I wanted, I reminded myself as I brushed my teeth. Anonymity. Space. A parent who didn’t hover around me all the time, afraid I’d disappear if he looked away for even an instant. I was tired of being the girl who’d been abducted, the girl who had never been able to remember a thing that had happened to her.

I rifled through the closet to find something that would help me blend in. Everything in there was too ridiculous for words—I guess I’d have to remind Mom that I was not going out for cheerleading,
nor was I planning to be an extra on some stupid teenage reality show. Besides, after years of wearing uniforms, I had no idea what went with what. I fought back a rising sense of panic and pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, hoping it would do the trick. I fiddled with my hair, worried that my Mark would show. I settled for wrapping a chunky scarf around my neck, thanking my stars that it was still cold and that the scarf wouldn’t attract attention. I glanced at the clock again and frowned. Time to catch the bus.

I walked swiftly to the end of the cul-de-sac, mowing down a granola bar on the way. Nobody else was waiting. I kicked at the pothole in the pavement and shifted my backpack, fervently hoping that the pothole would open up and swallow me before I’d have to board the bus and suffer through this day. The sound of gears grinding uphill warned me I’d have no reprieve, and then the yellow lights came into view.

I boarded the bus like a prisoner walking to the gallows. The minute I stepped on I slunk into the first seat I could find, hoping to avoid all the “new girl” stares I was sure to attract.

“Fresh meat!” Raucous laughter mocked me from the back of the bus. Something hit me in the head—a wad of paper. I sunk even lower into my seat, fiddling with my scarf and praying they’d just ignore me.

“New girl! New girl!”

I looked up at the boy demanding my attention. His long bangs fell into his eyes, which were full of undisguised curiosity and mischief. He shook his hair and darted a look into the back of the bus. His friends shouted, egging him on. I hugged my backpack more tightly and waited with a sinking feeling for him to continue.

“Watch this!” He plopped down on my seat, deliberately crashing into me, and proceeded to belch the alphabet at me. My face burned with embarrassment. The entire bus seemed to be laughing
at my discomfort. I huddled next to the window, trying to make myself as small as possible. Emboldened, the boy snatched my hat and began playing keep-away with his friends. Instinctively, I felt for my scarf, making sure it was still wrapped safely around my neck, its ends tucked away where nobody could get them.

What if I’d made a mistake coming to this school? How would I ever fit in if I couldn’t even handle this?

As soon as the bus lurched into its parking spot, I dashed out of my seat, climbing past the boy and into the aisle.

“New girl, wait up!” he called.

I pushed through the door, not bothering to respond to the moronic boy. Dunwoody High was bigger than I thought: two stories of gleaming glass and clean brick, surrounded by massive parking lots and playing fields. Buses were disgorging kids and a steady buzz was already building from the crowd. I squared my shoulders and walked through the set of double doors, willing my stomach to be calm.

A tide of students rushing through the hallways swept me into its current. People jostled about me, not paying me any notice as they bumped and pushed me aside. I looked around and realized with relief that I’d lost the horrible boy from the bus. It would be easy to get lost in the shuffle here, I thought, in a good way. I resisted the temptation to pull out any of the detailed lists and maps my mom had compiled for me—too conspicuous—and instead felt my way to the front office.

“What is it, sweetie? Do you need the nurse?” the bustling woman at the front counter demanded as I crossed the threshold. It was an oasis of quiet compared to the hallway, and I felt wrong interrupting it.

“Um, no, ma’am, I’m just checking in. I’m a new student starting today—Hope Carmichael?”

I braced myself for the knowing look of recognition and curiosity that always came after I announced my name, but the woman gave no sign of having heard of me. Instead she started shuffling through piles of papers. Maybe this wasn’t a mistake after all.

“Carmichael … Carmichael … ah, yes, here it is, Carmichael!” She triumphantly produced a clipped set of pages from the bottom of the pile. “Your mother was in here last week. Quite a handful. Very on top of the details, shall we say.” She rolled her eyes at the memory.

“That sounds like her,” I said, smiling to myself.

“You probably have your entire schedule already, don’t you?” she said, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Your mother wouldn’t leave until she had that. All your papers were in order; she made sure of that well in advance. So just run along to your homeroom.” She ran her finger down the page in front of her. “Home economics, Mrs. Raburn. Second floor.”

As I was swinging my backpack over my shoulder, though, she called out, “No, wait. Note here says there’s been a change. Wait over there on the bench, honey, and let me see what this is all about.” She bustled away into a back room while I stood, waiting.

She came bustling back, clucking like a mother hen. “I don’t know what happened, dear, but you’ll just have to make the best of it. Room 107—past the gym.”

“What is it?” I said, peering at the slip of paper she handed me.

“Shop, dear. Now run along, and be sure to give Mr. Reynolds that hall pass, or you will get a tardy.”

Of course I got lost when I tried to find my locker. The bell had rung, sending everyone scurrying into their classrooms like cockroaches fleeing the sudden light, leaving me to wander until I accidentally found the gym and then, past it, room 107.

I stood outside the door. The smell of grease and tar wafted out
to me, making me want to gag. I rewrapped my scarf, like a ritual, and pushed through the doors.

I walked right in, interrupting the lecturing teacher, who had drawn up the entire shop class in a semicircle around him. My entrance provoked a multitude of stares, hoots, and snickers. I looked around at the students. They all wore dingy denim or canvas aprons, heavily stained with greasy handprints. I was the only girl. I clutched the hall pass in my hand a little tighter, crumpling the paper.

“Can I help you?” Mr. Reynolds turned to me, annoyed that I’d interrupted his class. His eyes bugged out behind the safety glasses he wore, making him look like an overgrown insect.

“Um,” I started, uncomfortably frozen in his stare. “Um. I’m a new student assigned to your class. Which is crazy, because I’m not supposed to be in here,” I said, unable to stop the nervous chatter from escaping my lips. “I mean, I was supposed to be in home ec. Or AP chemistry now. Not shop.”

Mr. Reynolds glowered at me from behind his safety glasses. I realized I’d inadvertently insulted him.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with shop,” I added lamely, thrusting my hall pass up at him.

He pushed his safety glasses up onto his forehead and read the pass. “Carmichael, eh? Nobody informed me you were joining my class. I take it you have no experience with the mechanical arts?” He pinned me down with a glare as I shook my head.

“You’re just in time,” he continued. “I was just about to demonstrate the proper use of a blowtorch. You can be my model.”

The entire class erupted into catcalls. Over the din I heard someone shout, “New girl!” With a sinking feeling, I peered into the crowd. There, in the back of the class, I spotted the obnoxious boy from my bus.