Out of Order

Robin Stevenson

Text copyright © 2007 Robin Stevenson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Stevenson, Robin H. (Robin Hjørdis), 1968-

Out of order / written by Robin Stevenson.

Electronic Monograph
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
9781551437606
(pdf)
--
ISBN
9781554696840
(epub)

I. Title.

PS8637.T487O98 2007    jC813'.6        C2007-902771-7

First published in the United States, 2007

Library of Congress Control Number
: 2007927584

Summary
: Sophie sees her move to Victoria as a chance to start over and leave her old self behind.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover and text design by Teresa Bubela
Cover artwork by Margaret Lee
Author photo by David Lowes

In Canada:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Station B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4

In the United States:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468

www.orcabook.com
10  09  08  07   •   4  3  2  1

For Ilse and Giles, with love and gratitude.

THANK YOU TO
Maggie, Ramona, Lynne, Barb and Bird for reading and sharing their thoughts on various versions of this story. Thanks especially to Pat Schmatz, who first read it as a short story, who kept on reading as it grew into a novel, and whose insightful comments and questions helped it take shape. Thanks to Sarah Harvey and to everyone at Orca Books for being such a pleasure to work with. And most of all, thanks to Cheryl May for making it all possible.

TOMORROW WILL BE
my first day at my new school. Tomorrow will be the test. No one in Victoria knows what I was like before. This is the way I want it. Maybe, if no one ever finds out about the things that happened in Ontario, I will be able to forget about them myself. Maybe the memories will become noth­ing more than ghosts drifting down the locker-lined halls of Georgetown Middle School.

Keltie shies, dancing sideways, frightened by something only she can see. I sink my weight into the saddle and steady her with my hands and legs. “Easy, girl,” I whisper, and she settles and drops back into a trot. I run my hand over the wet silk of her neck. The leather reins are slippery between my fingers.

My face is wet from the rain, but the water trickling across my lips tastes of salt, and I realize I am crying. I shift forward slightly and open my fingers on the reins, letting Keltie increase her pace as we disappear into the trees. The sodden leaves muffle the sound of her hooves. Out here in the woods, I feel safe.

TWO HOURS LATER
, we are back at the barn. My legs feel like jelly, and steam is rising from Keltie's black coat. I rub her dry with a rough towel and breathe in the rich smells of fresh hay and sweet feed. As I muck out her stall, pitchforking manure into the wheelbarrow, I feel a calm resolve. I have starved myself all summer; no one could call me fat now. I have been watching the popular kids. I know what music to listen to, what clothes to wear, how to act. I will go to my new school tomorrow, and I will act friendly but cool and nonchalant, like I don't care what anyone thinks. I will leave that scared fat girl behind in Ontario.

THAT NIGHT I
lay out my clothes for the morning and go to bed early. My room is cold but I fold my covers to one side and lie still and naked under a single cotton sheet. I reach to turn out the light, and breathe in the darkness. I rest my hands against my belly—hollow, concave, suspended tautly between the sharp bones of my hips. My hands slide up to my ribs—hard fragile ridges. My fingertips dig in, hard, under the bottom edge, feeling the bone from all sides. I trace the scalloped edges of the small hard hollow between my breasts, move up to the lateral tiger stripes of bones running across my chest and then to my collarbones, long and knobby-ended. My cold fingertips graze my shoulders, and my fingers curve behind to find the square bluntness, the corners, the delicate bones at the back that feel like the place where wings should grow.

AS I WALK
up the concrete steps and through the front doors of the school, my heart hammers out a panicky beat. I keep my eyes straight ahead and tell myself that no one is noticing me. No one here knows I am the girl to pick on. No one can read my thoughts.

Somehow I make it to my first class. English. I take a desk, as planned, in the back third of the room. Not too near the front, as I don't want to look like a keener, but not in the back row, like I'm trying to hide. The seat I choose is next to a couple of blond girls with expensive highlights and tight low-rise jeans. The kind of girls I always tried to avoid at my old school. They break off their conversation and look up.

“Hey,” I say. I have practiced this moment in front of the mirror a thousand times.

One of the girls gives me a warm uncomplicated smile. “Hi. You're new here, aren't you?”

I smile back, careful not to overdo it and seem too eager. “Yeah. I wasn't here for grade nine. I just moved out here from Ontario.”

“Cool.” She leans back in her chair, crosses her ankles and shakes her head so her long hair fans across her shoulders. “I'm Tammy.” She gestures to the other blond girl, who is applying lip-gloss to already shiny lips. “This is Crystal.”

Crystal nods and smiles. “Hi.”

They seem relaxed and friendly, and they look like they are probably fairly popular, although you can't always tell. “I'm Sophie,” I say.

We chat for a couple of minutes, and then, to my relief, the teacher arrives and I can relax. For the first time, I really believe that this might work.

Mr. Farley is short and round-bellied, with small wire-framed glasses. He is fairly young for a teacher, and he sits on the edge of his desk instead of standing. He clears his throat several times, and the class gradually falls quiet. “Welcome to grade ten,” he begins, his voice surprisingly deep.

The classroom door swings open, and a girl walks in. Black mini-skirt, black leggings, black combat boots. Thick white sweater. Dead-straight black hair that falls halfway down her back. She moves like a dancer.

Mr. Farley stops in mid-sentence, frowning.

The girl slips into a desk in the back row and drops her bag on the floor beside her. I quickly turn and face the front, not wanting to be caught staring.

Mr. Farley clears his throat and resumes his “Welcome to Grade Ten” speech. It's the same one teachers give every year, the one that starts with “This year is an important one...” I try to focus, but all through class I am aware of the girl
in the back row. I can feel a tug that is almost physical.

At 9:55 a buzzer sounds and we all scramble out of our desks and funnel into the hallways. Morning break. A whole Wfteen minutes to get through before my next class. Tammy and Crystal smile and say they'll see me around. I head to the wash­room and lock myself in a cubicle. I read the graffiti.
Jen K is a slut. Mrs. Bardell farts in class. Grady is a faggot.
The usual mindless garbage. But one scrawled line catches my eye. It is written in faded capitals right above the latch:
THINGS FALL APART, THE CENTRE CANNOT HOLD
. It sounds kind of familiar; I think it might even be from a poem we did in English last year. Still, it sends a shiver down my spine.

I stay in the cubicle until I hear the buzzer that signals the end of break.

THE BLACK-HAIRED
girl isn't in my math class, but Tammy and Crystal are. They wave and come to sit beside me.

“So, what do you think so far?” Crystal asks.

“It's school,” I say, like this is just what I am used to.

Crystal laughs. “Yeah. Don't you wish it was still summer? The holidays always go way too fast.”

Another blond ponytailed girl joins us. Tammy introduces her as Heather. I take this as a good sign. If Tammy and Crystal were a twosome, they might not want me around, but if this is a bigger group, perhaps there will be room for me too.

WHEN THE BELL
rings for lunch, the room clears fast. I stay back and follow the last students out the door. I don't want to appear desperate, like I expect the girls to hang out with me. As I head down the hall to my locker, I keep an eye out for them, just in case they ask me to join them.

I check the numbers...462, 464...my locker should be just along here. And then I see her, the girl who came in late this morning. She is leaning against the locker beside mine.

“Hi,” I say.

She looks me up and down. My jeans and blue sweater suddenly seem all wrong: babyish, boring, ugly. Her hands are thrust into the deep pockets of an army jacket, and she is wearing no makeup except for dark red lipstick. I wish I looked pale and interesting like her. Even now that I am thin, I have a round face and my cheeks are always pink, like a little kid's.

“Hey,” she says at last. “Are you my neighbor?”

I don't get it for a second. My cheeks start to grow warm. Then I realize what she means. “Oh, our lockers...yes. I guess I am.”

“It's alphabetical.”

I feel like my brain is filled with fog. I can't think clearly, and I take several seconds too long to respond. “Sophie Keller,” I say.

She nods and fixes me with the bluest eyes I have ever seen. “Zelia Keenan.”

Down the hall, I can see Tammy, Heather and Crystal watching us. I give a little wave, half hoping they won't walk over right away.

They do, though. Tammy smiles, first at me and then at Zelia. “Hey, Zelia, how was your summer?” she says.

“Just peachy.” Zelia gives Tammy a big fake smile. “I'll see you around, Sophie.” She slings her bag over her shoulder and walks off.

Tammy looks annoyed. “What's with her? Did I say some­thing wrong?”

“No.” I shrug. “I don't know.”

She exchanges a glance with her friends. “We're going for lunch at the pizza place in the square. Do you want to come?”

It is that easy. I just have to say yes, and I'll be in. I open my mouth to say it, and in that instant I see Zelia standing a little way down the hall, watching. Again, I feel that tug, that almost magnetic pull. I hesitate.