Infinite (Strange and Beautiful, Book 1) (4 page)

She made it sound like the class would be pretty easy, though,
and I knew that Luke took Spanish too, and he said that she didn’t give a lot
of homework, so I was happy about that. She spent the majority of class
teaching us the alphabet in Spanish, but I could only remember up to the letter
H by the end of class.

After Spanish, it was lunchtime because I had Lunch A, and I was
ready for it because my stomach started growling toward the end of class. The
boy sitting in front of me turned around once to look at me and kind of smiled
before he turned back around. It was still kind of embarrassing, but because I
could tell her anything, I said to Tegan, “I think I scared Todd Marcum when my
stomach began to eat itself out of hunger,”

“My stomach was growling too,” she confessed. “I was too nervous
to eat breakfast this morning.”

“My mom made all of us eat,” I replied. “Skylar, of course,
complained and looked morose the whole time.”

“Still on a diet then?” Tegan surmised.

“Yep, only a couple of months away from turning into Skeletor,”
I grinned.

We made our way to the cafeteria after Tegan showed me where to
find her locker. I made a map of it in my mind just so I wouldn’t forget and
end up lost later. When we got to the cafeteria, I saw Skylar sitting with her
best friend, Stevie—known to her parents as Stephanie. She and Skylar had been
best friends for three years. They met their freshman year and had been hogging
the phone lines ever since.

I started to wave, but then I remembered my vow not to embarrass
Skylar or tell anyone I was her sister, so I just followed Tegan to the end of
the very long lunch line. On the bright side, though, the high school had an a
la carte line with pizza and soft pretzels, which sounded a million times
better than what usually came on a tray. I wouldn’t consider myself a picky
eater, but Government food freaked me out. Well, except for the pizza. It was
the one thing I could actually get excited about eating at school. Aside from
pizza days, I used to always take my lunch to school, but I thought I’d give
high school food a try. Or at least the a la carte line, anyway.

After we got our food (pizza for Tegan and a pretzel with cheese
for me and juice for both of us from the vending machine), we went to sit with
some of Tegan’s friends. To tell the truth, I really didn’t have very many
friends. There were people I’d talk to in my classes, but I didn’t really hang
out with any of them outside of school. Sometimes I’d tag along with Tegan when
she’d go out with her other friends, and while they were nice and would talk to
me, I knew they thought I was weird. It was as if I’d been deemed a freak in
kindergarten and had been unable to shake the label ever since.

Sometimes Mom would tell me she thought I needed to make more
friends to spend my time with. I knew she thought that Tegan was the only
person I ever talked to, which wasn’t the case at all. I talked to people at
school. I knew most of my classmate’s names, but I wasn’t sure if all of them
knew mine. Still, it wasn’t like I was completely anti-social or made the
decision alone to have so few friends. I just didn’t see those other people I
talked to outside of a school setting most of the time, but I was mostly okay
with that. Besides, I’d rather have one really great friend like Tegan than
have ten that weren’t so great.

Lunch ended way too soon, but then it was time to go to my elective
class: Journalism. I had to coax Tegan into taking it with me, but it was
Journalism or Sociology, and Tegan had no interest in Sociology. I thought it
sounded like it could have been cool because it’s the study of human social
behavior, which I found thoroughly fascinating, but Tierney told us that the
teacher, Mrs. Fortright, was a complete bitch. Since Tierney hardly ever cursed
or thought badly of people, we knew it had to be true. So Journalism it was.

Our class was in the computer lab, and our teacher was Mr.
Hensley. He was tall and thin with thinning reddish brown hair and big glasses.
He was really nice and told us all about what we’d be doing in class, which
was, essentially, making a newspaper for the school.

Tegan groaned, and I grinned as I wondered what I could possibly
write about, but instead of picking topics right away, he taught us about
different laws and rules of good journalism. Then we had to pick a name for our
newspaper. He made us all write down a suggestion, and he wrote the names on
the board. Then we voted and narrowed it down to three before we voted again
and picked the official name, which turned out to be the oh-so-exciting title
of
The Scoop
. I didn’t like the name. I liked my suggestion—
The
Juggernaut—
better, but not many people knew what it meant, so I guess they
didn’t vote for it. Or at least that was the story I told myself.

I really liked Journalism, and Tegan seemed to like it too
despite her groans and initial misgivings. That class went by way too fast, and
before long it was time to go to our last class of the day: English
Composition.

Our teacher’s name was Miss Barkley. I had heard many stories
about her from my siblings. Luke was convinced that she was a lesbian, and I
had to admit that she was rather butch, which lent itself to Luke’s theory. She
had super short hair and had almost a rugged look to her face. She wore wire
rim glasses, and the way she stood reminded me of a drill sergeant. Skylar
never really mentioned her thoughts on Miss Barkley’s sexual orientation—not
that it mattered anyway; Skylar usually just complained about how hard her
class was. The one thing Luke and Skylar really agreed on was that Miss Barkley
was really strict.

To tell the truth, she kind of scared me, and from the reaction
of the rest of the class, I wasn’t the only one. Everyone sat up straight and
listened as she spoke and went over the class curriculum. Then she started
handing out assignments. A lot of them. I’d officially died and gone to Hell.
She was the only one who gave us any homework on the first day. She’d also
assigned all freshmen to write a paper about themselves when we registered for
school. I’d been shocked when Mom handed me the assignment along with my class
schedule. I’d slaved away writing several drafts during the two weeks before
school began, and after meeting Miss Barkley, I felt like I should have worked
even harder to make my paper presentable. From the looks of the syllabus, the
class would only get harder. According to her outline, we would have homework
almost every night and an essay a week. Oh, how I loathed essays.

When the bell finally rang, the whole class scurried out of the
classroom. It was as if we couldn’t get away from Miss Barkley fast enough. I
waited for Tegan outside of the class, though, and we walked to my locker.

The only book I had to take home was my English Composition
book, but I had to get my trusty olive green messenger bag. I didn’t like
purses much, so I kept my wallet and all of that stuff in my messenger bag. I
also kept notebooks in there too. As of last night, my newest notebook had
apparently become something of a journal. It also housed my poetry and some
short stories I’d started. I usually didn’t tell anyone that was what I was
writing, though.

I hadn’t started off with the intention of making a secret of
it, but I hadn’t really intended to try my hand at writing either. I’d always
told myself stories in my head, sure, but the notebooks were just part of a
weird fetish I had when it came to notebooks. I’d started collecting them by
accident, usually picking up one or two when there was a sale of some sort.
Then I realized it was stupid to have a bunch of blank notebooks, especially
when they weren’t the typical spiral bound notebooks like Mom bought us for
school. No, these were heavier bounds books, likely made for journaling.

One night I’d picked up a pen and just started writing some of
the stories I’d told myself. I’d been doing it off and on ever since. Tegan was
really the only other person who knew about my writing, and sometimes I’d let
her read it even though it made me nervous to share something so personal.

After my locker, we went to Tegan’s locker. She threw her books
into her bag and draped her fake Louis Vuitton bag over her shoulder. It was
like one Oprah had talked about on her show, and Tegan had been insanely
excited to get it. She’d told me more than once what it was called, but it
never seemed to resonate because, as I said, I wasn’t a fan of purses. Tegan
loved them, though, and I was pretty certain that if she had the money, she’d
spend copious amounts of money on getting the real name brand bags. And somehow
I’m
considered the weird one?

As Tegan turned toward me, Tierney appeared around the corner
and walked over to us. “So how was your first day of high school?” she asked
with a smile.

It was eerie just how much she and Tegan looked alike. They were
both so insanely and unfairly pretty with the same long, wavy melted caramel
colored hair and gray eyes. The only difference was Tierney was slightly taller
and had a ton of freckles, and her hair was shorter, falling just above her
shoulders in a stylish layered hairdo I could only wish my hair would comply
with.

In short, they were both gorgeous, inside and out. And, over the
years, Tierney had become like the big sister I wish I had and Skylar refused
to be.

“It was okay,” Tegan replied.

“We have homework in English Comp,” I complained.

“Sorry, I guess I forgot to warn you about that,” Tierney said,
scrunching up her straight, freckled nose. “Do you need a ride home?”

I knew without a doubt that Skylar and Luke would have already
left without me, so I smiled sweetly and nodded. “That would be wonderful.”

“Okay, let’s go,” Tierney said easily.

We followed her down the hallways, which were thinning out
quickly, and out to the student body parking lot. When we reached Tierney’s
car, a black 2002 Sunfire, she unlocked the door and I climbed into the
backseat while the other two got in the front. Tierney’s car was so clean. I
was slightly worried she had an obsession with it. If she were about twenty
years older, I figured she and Mom would’ve been great friends. I could totally
see them sharing tricks for getting stains out of the carpet or discussing the
best way to keep the windows from getting streaks when they washed them.

I mused over the idea of Tierney as a middle-aged woman as she
drove to my house. We listened to one of the popular radio stations, which only
played a total of twenty songs a day at strategic intervals so as if to cover
the fact that they had nothing new to offer. Tegan told Tierney about all of
her classes, and she had a pretty good grasp on explaining the day, so I only
added my input when I thought of something particularly interesting, and in no
time we were in front of my house.

Tegan hopped out of the car and pulled the seat forward so I
could get out. I thanked Tierney, and Tegan said she’d call me later as she
climbed back into the car. I walked up the walkway that led to the oak front
door of the two-story off white middle class house that I called home.

As soon as I stepped inside, I thought I had stepped into a war
zone. I could hear Mom yelling, which was really unusual because she was
normally so quiet. I had no idea who she was yelling at, but I knew it was
either Skylar or Luke because both of their cars were in the driveway. I took
off my shoes by the door walked into the kitchen and saw Mom staring both of my
siblings down.

I sat my bag down with a frown and asked, “What’s going on?”

“Cecilia! Oh thank heaven’s you’re all right,” Mom exclaimed
with a look of relief. “How’d you get home?”

“Tierney drove me.”

“See, Mom. I knew she was fine,” Luke said and walked off before
she could say another word.

Mom turned back to Skylar and scowled. “You got lucky this
time,” she said before she marched off. Most likely to go clean something.

Then Skylar turned to me and glared. “If you want a ride home
with me, be outside by the car by the time I get there. And if you’re getting a
ride from someone else, leave me a note in my locker,” she said before she
stomped off looking pissed.

I looked around the kitchen and sighed. “My first day of high
school was fine,” I said to no one as I walked over to refrigerator. “I found
all of my classes fine. I really like Journalism. I do have homework, though,”
I said as I grabbed a Coke. “I guess I’ll go get started on that now.”

Silence answered me as I made my way upstairs to my bedroom.

While, on the first day of school, it was obvious
that Miss Barkley was a very strict English Composition teacher and I knew I’d
probably struggle with her class more than any of the others, by the end of the
first month of school, I was convinced that she hated me. Or, at the very
least, disliked me very much.

“Why would Miss Barkley hate you?” Mom asked when I complained
about the teacher on one occasion.

I had no answer, but the evidence of Miss Barkley’s hatred
seemed pretty cut and dry to me. I tried to explain to Mom that while I never
talked in class and never wrote notes or zoned out the way I sometimes did in
my other classes (Mom was not enthused by this confession), Miss Barkley
always
called on me to answer questions when I didn’t know the answer. If I raised my
hand to answer, she’d skip over me. It was as if she waited to see the look of
terror or blankness on my face when she’d ask something I didn’t have the
answer to, and she’d pounce. Sometimes I’d guess, rarely ever right, or mumble
that I didn’t know, and she’d snap, “Wrong! Anyone else?”

It was mortifying, and if Miss Barkley didn’t hate me, then she
had to be sadist.

The only other possible explanation, aside from sadism, was that
Miss Barkley disliked me because she disliked my brother. I’d overheard Luke
telling one of his friends that he’d called Miss Barkley a dyke last year,
which was totally rude and uncalled for in my opinion, and he was pretty sure
she’d heard him as she walked by.