One of the Guys (3 page)

I'm frozen like a deer in headlights. Actually, a deer would be much more dignified right about now. I'm a joke. A terrible, lame joke. I think I hear a gasp behind me. The date, I assume.

Ollie whispers, “Sooooooo…how long do we do this for?”

Someone grabs the back of his sweatshirt and pulls. Ollie scrambles to pull up his shorts before he stumbles backward, arms flailing.

“Good evening, Luke Brown,” Principal Rogers says, anger in his voice.

Yeah. This was a bad idea
.

I hike up my shorts, but it's too late to run.

Principal Rogers grabs my elbow, his huge nostrils flaring. Ollie and I exchange a look, mine pure terror, his mild amusement. Rogers folds his arms across his chest, sniffs, and says, “And Toni Valentine. Well, I hope you both enjoy the rest of your evening.” He sighs and takes his date's hand. “Because I will be informing your parents about this.”

I feel like I might puke. I dry-heave a few times. The date in the red dress looks at me with disgust.

“Please don't do that—” I begin, but Principal Rogers isn't listening. He's walking away with his date.

“Toni. Relax,” Ollie whispers to me, rather pleased with himself. At least someone had fun tonight. “What's the worst that could happen?”

Yeah. Famous last words.

three

O
NE MONTH LATER, I'M SITTING IN
a brightly lit classroom at the Winston Academy for Girls. My dad used to joke that the day I wore a skirt would be the day the zombie apocalypse rolled into town. Two hours in and I have yet to see a zombie, but I do feel like the living dead. Someone bathed in raspberry perfume this morning, causing a war to rage inside my nostrils. I might fall to the floor and convulse, the smell's that thick. Maybe it's not the perfume. Maybe I'm allergic to all this estrogen.

“You okay?” the girl next to me whispers.

I respond by covering my mouth and sneezing so hard that a giant wad of snot lands in the palm of my hand. Carefully, I move my hand under the desk and smile.

“Fine,” I reply. “Just tired.”

The girl chews on a strand of her honey-colored hair as she attempts to write down every word of the lecture. A leather day planner rests at the edge of her desk, a name embroidered in pink curly letters at the bottom:
Emma Elizabeth Swanson
.

I'm definitely not in public school anymore.

Our Business Mathematics teacher pity-smiles at me from behind her glasses and dives into a discussion about supply and demand. I continue to wonder what I should do with the snot on my palm. If I were sitting beside one of the guys at Burlington High, like I should be this year, the snot wouldn't be an issue. I would wipe it on Cowboy, the least likely of the group to retaliate, and laugh.

But what would a “lady” do?

Here at Winston, boys feel as mythical and mysterious as unicorns. There's no sign of them anywhere. No obnoxious belches. No stupid high-fives. No talk of monster hunting. It's unsettling, like I'm walking among a race of polite aliens wearing plaid jumpers and lip gloss.

How am I supposed to survive a year on another planet?

The girl sitting in front of me suddenly turns to the aisle, flips her head over, and spritzes her brown curls with a bottle of raspberry-scented hairspray. Ah-ha. Found the source of the overwhelming stench. She flips upright again and smiles at the teacher, who gives her a stern look before continuing on with the lecture.

A more frightening question: What if I become one of them?

I keep my palm turned up, shifting uneasily as I decide what to do. They didn't cover snot-related problems during orientation this morning. I'm about to ask Emma Elizabeth Swanson for a tissue when the bell rings. Quickly, I wipe my palm on my plaid skirt and pray that no one notices.

“I saw that!”

I spin around, but the redheaded girl rushing through the aisle isn't talking to me. She's chatting with her group of friends about a film on African cats she watched over the weekend. She walks by me as if I were a mere shadow. I should probably make an effort at friend-making, but Emma Elizabeth Swanson, my best option so far since she's the only one who's actually spoken to me, has already left the classroom.

I pick up my books and move with the crowd into the hallway, where the raspberry smell finally lifts. The mass of plaid-wearing bodies thins as everyone zooms to their lockers and hurries off to their next class. A sense of loneliness settles into my stomach as I pop open my locker and switch out my Business Mathematics textbook for Carl Sagan's
Pale Blue Dot
. I have to read it for my English elective about space and time or something.

That's another thing. The classes here all sound like college courses.

I sigh and retie my ponytail. I shouldn't be a Winston girl. Yeah, Principal Rogers talked to my mother about the mooning incident, let her know the kind of shenanigans I was up to with the guys, but it didn't have to lead to
this
.

As much as my mother would love to see me wear a skirt or paint my nails or talk about my feelings, she would never sever me from my childhood friends and send me to a new school for my senior year because of one little incident like that. Mom isn't evil. Brian, her new husband, is. Brian brought home brochures full of smiling uniformed girls and told Mom that an all-girls school would keep me out of trouble, get me away from the bad influences, and turn me into a lady.

What Brian doesn't know was that mooning the principal was my idea. I
am
the bad influence. I don't get it—butt-revealing is innocent compared to most activities that take place inside the secret nooks of high school. Yet somehow, I am punished.

For the rest of the day, I concentrate on keeping the basketball shorts underneath my knee-length skirt from riding up my thighs, which proves to be quite the distracting challenge. And they keep peeking out so I roll them up a little, which doesn't help the comfort factor. But I would feel too naked without them. When the last bell rings, my head throbs, and I long to make Brian's life as miserable as possible. I receive more homework in the first day than I would in a month at Burlington High.

Before I'm released back into the wild to tackle the pile of assignments, I stop by the guidance counselor's office for a check-in.

“Did you meet any cute boys today?” Mrs. Kemper laughs and waves her hand in front of her face like she's swatting at a fly. “An old joke, forgive me.”

“Funny,” I mumble, shifting my weight to adjust my shorts again.

“Tell me about your first day. You fitting in?”

A quiet snort escapes me, but Mrs. Kemper doesn't acknowledge it. Her hair cascades in thick curls around her pixie-like face. Several loose brown strands stick to her navy blazer. She picks one off, letting it fall to the floor like a delicate feather as she waits to hear what she wants to hear: that, yes, I am fitting in oh-so-wonderfully with the most privileged and sophisticated female students in the state of Vermont.

Me. The girl with permanently skinned knees and dirt under her nails.

“I'm fine.” I force a polite smile. I wish Winston offered a
Perfecting the Fake Smile
class. After all the practice I'd had today, I would ace it. “Everything's great.”

Mrs. Kemper nods, obviously not believing my lie. “The first day is the hardest. Hang in there, Tonya.”

“Toni.”

“Who's Toni?”

“I just prefer to be called Toni.”

Mrs. Kemper turns her chin up. “But Tonya is such a pretty name.”

I shrug, knowing this is a lost battle. Here, I am Tonya. Everywhere else, I am Toni. This place doesn't even accept boy
names
.

“I suppose we're done here,” she says, clearing her throat. “Oh, don't forget about your first group session on Friday.”

I blink a few times. “Group session?”

Again, she chuckles. “Hard to remember it all, isn't it? Once a week, you meet in the library with a small group of your peers to discuss whatever may be bothering you. It's a way to learn how to express yourself eloquently.”

My jaw hangs open. “You mean we talk about our
feelings
?”

Mrs. Kemper stands and grins. “Yes. That's not a bad thing. Have a good afternoon, Tonya.”

Oh my God. She's not kidding. I stand, my knees shaking. According to my mother, this year is about
growth
and
the future
. In other words,
no fun
. This was supposed to be the year to hang out with the same guys I've known since the second grade, avoiding as much responsibility as possible.

So much for that.

On the drive home (an hour commute, another perk of attending Winston), I crank up the radio in hopes that a dose of good country music will erase my headache. I sing along to a sad ballad, belting out the tune so loud my neck veins pop. It doesn't help.

The scent of raspberry hairspray still tickles my nose as the green hills surrounding the Winston campus shrink in the rearview mirror. I sink further into the seat of my Maxima, the one comfort from my old life that I took with me. It used to belong to my dad. Fast food wrappers sprinkle the floor and the backseat is full of various clothes and books and Mountain Dew cans. No one can force me to act like a lady in here.

I glance at the stack of intimidating textbooks on the passenger's seat and roll down the window to keep the panic attack settling into my chest at bay. At Burlington, I had accumulated enough credits to take afternoons off or graduate early, but there's no such thing as an afternoon off at Winston.

Instead, I'm taking classes like “The Community Ecology of the Forested Landscape,” where you basically walk around the campus woods studying Vermont plant-life for a semester. Which wouldn't be bad, actually, if I had Loch by my side. He would find potential Bigfoot tracks or something cool like that. He'd make it fun.

I resent my GPA, and Brian, for landing me on this strange planet.

Alone.

When I get home, I park in the driveway and jog over to Loch's house next door. I shed my plaid skirt halfway across the lawn, stomping on it twice, finally able to breathe. I'm excited for the evening ahead. We're going to the lake for the first time in more than a month.

Over the last few weeks, I have felt a disconnect with the guys. We've been to a few movies, played some video games, but something doesn't feel quite the same. Something changed after I announced my transfer to Winston.

When we do manage to hang out, Loch shows up late but avoids telling us where he's been. I just hope he isn't seeing his ex-girlfriend again. And Ollie spends way too much time talking about the excitement of senior year, one I won't be a part of anymore, not completely, no matter how hard I try. Even Cowboy seems quieter than usual. Sullen.

I'm worried the guys are distancing themselves from me because I'm no longer one of them. I'm a Winston Girl. I don't know. I hope it's just all in my head.

I wind around to the back of the Garrys' household, excited to see my boys. After much texting last week, we agreed on the monster hunt tonight. I don't want to miss out on the pre-hunting activities, including an epic battle of
Mario Kart
. If they started playing without me, Yoshi is likely taken, which means I'll be stuck with Peach again.

As I slide through the basement window, I breathe in the familiar scent of dry wall and stale chips. I land on the shaggy carpet with a giant thud and let out a belly-shattering belch that could put any beer-guzzler to shame.

“Aw, that's better! I've been holding that in all day!” I exclaim, rubbing my stomach.

I turn and find that I'm staring at the horrified face of Amy Garry, Loch's little sister. She's painting her nails on the coffee table, a group of freshmen girls scattered around her, all doing the same thing. The four girls stare in shock, their glittering nails reflecting the dim basement light. I once nicknamed Amy Garry “My Adorable Shadow” because she used to follow us around everywhere. But now she's got this look on her face that suggests she'd very much like a sinkhole to swallow me up.