Shelter (2 page)

The big girl hesitated before she climbed onto the pedestal. Someone in our group laughed. Then someone else.

Other than to show this girl that cruelty will not stop when you enter high school, I had no idea how this exercise was supposed to help anyone.

When the girl didn’t fall back right away, one of the freshman boys snickered and said, “C’mon, Ema. We’ll catch you.”

It was not a voice that gave her confidence. She pulled down her blindfold and looked back at us. I met her eye and nodded. Finally she let herself fall. We caught her—some adding dramatic grunts—but Ema didn’t look any more trusting.

We then played some dumb paintball game where two people got hurt and then we moved into an exercise called—I wish I were kidding—“Poisoned Peanut Butter.” For this event, you had to cross over a ten-yard patch of Poisoned Peanut Butter but, as Ms. Owens explained, “Only two of you can wear the Anti-Poison shoes to get across at a time!”

In short, you had to carry other team members on your back. The small girls laughed with a tee-hee as they were carried. A photographer with the
Star-Ledger
newspaper was there, snapping away. The reporter asked a glowing Ms. Owens questions, her answers filled with words like
bonding, welcoming, trusting
. I couldn’t imagine what sort of story you’d do on something like this, but maybe they were desperate for “human interest” material.

I stood in the back of the Poisoned Peanut Butter line with Ema. Black mascara was running down her face with what might have been silent tears. I wondered if the photographer would get that.

As it came closer to Ema’s turn for teammates to carry her across the Poisoned Peanut Butter, I could actually feel her start to shake in fear.

Think about it.

It’s your first day at a new school and you’re a girl who weighs probably two hundred pounds and you’re forced to put on gym shorts and then, to complete some inane group task, your new smaller classmates have to lug you like a beer keg for ten yards while you just want to curl up in a ball and die.

Who thinks this is a good idea?

Ms. Owens came over to our team. “Ready, Emma?!”

Ema (with a long
e
) or Emma. I didn’t know what her name was now.

Emma/Ema said nothing.

“You go, girl! Right across the Poisoned Peanut Butter! You can do it!”

Then I said, “Ms. Owens?”

She turned her gaze on me. The smile never changed, but the eyes narrowed slightly. “And you are?”

“My name is Mickey Bolitar. I’m an incoming sophomore. And I’m going to sit out this exercise, if it’s okay.”

Again the flutter in Ms. Owens’s right eye. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, I don’t really think I’m up for being carried.”

The other kids looked at me like I had a third arm growing out of my forehead.

“Mr. Bolitar, you’re new here.” The exclamation point was gone from Ms. Owens’s voice. “I would think you’d want to participate.”

“Is it mandatory?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Is participating in this particular exercise mandatory?”

“Well, no, it’s not manda—”

“Then I’m sitting out.” I looked over at Ema/Emma. “Would you mind keeping me company?”

We walked away then. Behind me I could hear the world go silent. Then Ms. Owens blew a whistle, stopping the exercise and calling for lunch.

When we were a few more feet away, Ema/Emma said, “Wow.”

“What?”

She looked me straight in the eye. “You saved the fat girl. I bet you’re really proud of yourself.”

Then she shook her head and walked away.

I looked behind me. Ms. Owens watched us. She still had the smile, but the glare in her eyes made it clear that I’d managed to make an enemy my first day.

The sun beat down upon me. I let it. I closed my eyes for a moment. I thought about my mother, who was coming home from rehab soon. I thought about my father, who was dead and buried.

I felt very much alone.

The school cafeteria was closed—school opening was still weeks away—so we all had to bring our own. I bought a buffalo chicken sub at Wilkes Deli and sat by myself on a grassy hill overlooking the football field. I was about to bite into it when I noticed her.

She wasn’t my type, though I really don’t have a type. I’ve spent my entire life traveling overseas. My parents worked for a charitable foundation in places like Laos and Peru and Sierra Leone. I don’t have any siblings. It was exciting and fun when I was a kid, but it got tiresome and difficult as I grew older. I wanted to stay in one place. I wanted to make some friends and play on one basketball team and, well, meet girls and do teenage stuff. It’s hard to do that when you’re backpacking in Nepal.

This girl was very pretty, sure, but she was also prim and proper and preppy. Something about her looked stuck-up, though I couldn’t say what. Her hair was the pale blond of a porcelain doll. She wore an actual, well, skirt, not one of those short-short ones, and what might have been bobby socks, and looked as though she’d just walked out of my grandparents’ Brooks Brothers catalog.

I took a bite of my sandwich and then I noticed that she didn’t have a lunch. Maybe she was on some kind of weird diet, but for some reason I didn’t think so.

I don’t know why, but I decided to walk over to her. I wasn’t much in the mood to talk or to meet anyone. I was still reeling from all the new people in my life and really didn’t want to add any more.

Maybe it was just because she was so pretty. Maybe I’m just as shallow as the next guy. Or maybe it was because the lonely can sometimes sense the lonely. Maybe what drew me to her was the fact that, like me, she seemed to want to keep to herself.

I approached tentatively. When I got close enough, I gave a half wave and said, “Hi.”

I always open with super-smooth lines like this.

She looked up at me and shaded eyes the green of emeralds. “Hi.”

Yep, very pretty.

I stood there, feeling awkward. My face reddened. My hands suddenly felt too big for my body. The second thing I said to her was, “My name is Mickey.”

Man, am I smooth or what? Every line is killer.

“I’m Ashley Kent.”

“Cool,” I said.

“Yeah.”

Somewhere in this world—in China or India or a remote section of Africa—there was probably a bigger dork than me. But I couldn’t swear to that.

I pointed at her empty lap. “Did you bring lunch?”

“No, I forgot.”

“This sandwich is huge,” I said. “Do you want half?”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

But I insisted and then she invited me to join her. Ashley was also a sophomore and also new in town. Her father, she said, was a renowned surgeon. Her mother was a lawyer.

If life were a movie, this was the part where you’d start the music montage. Some sappy song would be playing while they flashed to Ashley and me sharing lunch, talking, laughing, looking coy, holding hands—and ending with that first chaste kiss.

That was three weeks ago.

I made it into Mr. Hill’s class just as the bell sounded. He took roll call. The bell pealed again, and it was time for first period. Ashley’s homeroom was across the hall. I waited and saw that yet again she wasn’t here.

I described Ashley before as my girlfriend. That might have been an exaggeration. We were taking it slow, I guess. We’d kissed twice—no more. I didn’t really like anyone else at my new school. I liked her. It wasn’t love. But it was also early. On the other hand, feelings like this usually diminish. That’s the truth. We like to pretend that they grow as we get closer to our new partner. But most times, it’s the opposite. We guys see that gorgeous girl and we get this big-time crush, one that makes it hard to breathe and makes us so anxious, want it so bad, that we always blow it.

If we do somehow land her, the feelings begin to diminish almost immediately. In this case, my feelings for Ashley really did grow. That was a little scary in a good way.

Then one day I came to school and Ashley was absent. I tried her cell phone, but there was no answer. She was gone the next day too. Then the next. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t have her home address. I checked the name Kent online, but they must have been unlisted. In fact, there was nothing about her online at all.

Ashley had simply vanished into thin air.

chapter 2

AN IDEA CAME TO ME
during third period.

Ashley and I had only one class together—AP History with Mrs. Friedman. She was my favorite teacher so far. She was theatrical and enthusiastic. Today she was talking about how well-rounded certain historical figures were, begging us to become “Renaissance men or women.”

I hadn’t talked to her privately yet. I hadn’t talked to any of my teachers outside of class. I’d kept to myself. That was my way. I know I got “new kid” stares. One day, a group of girls were giggling in my direction. One came up to me and said, “Can I, like, have your phone number?”

Confused, I gave it to her.

Five minutes later I heard giggling and my phone vibrated. The text read:
My friend thinks you’re cute.
I didn’t respond.

After class, I approached Mrs. Friedman.

“Ah, Mr. Bolitar,” Mrs. Friedman said with a smile that lit up her face. “I’m glad to have you in my class.”

I wasn’t sure how to reply to that, so I went with, “Uh, thank you.”

“I never had your father,” she said, “but your uncle was one of my favorite students. You resemble him.”

My uncle. The great Myron Bolitar. I didn’t like my uncle and was really tired of hearing how swell he was. My father and my uncle were very close growing up, but then they had a major falling-out. For the last fifteen years of my dad’s life—basically from the moment I was conceived to the moment he died—the two brothers hadn’t spoken. I guess I should forgive Uncle Myron, but I’m not much in the mood.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bolitar?”

When some teachers call you Mister or Miz, it comes across as either patronizing or too formal. Mrs. Friedman hit the right note.

“As you probably know,” I said slowly, “Ashley Kent has been absent.”

“And so she has.” Mrs. Friedman was a short woman and it took some effort for her to look all the way up at me. “You two are close.”

“We’re friends.”

“Oh, come, Mr. Bolitar. I may be old, but I see the way you look at her. Even Ms. Caldwell is upset she isn’t catching your eye.”

I reddened when she said this. Rachel Caldwell was probably the hottest girl in the school.

“Anyway,” I said, dragging out the word, “I was thinking maybe I could help her out.”

“Help her out how?”

“I thought maybe I could get her homework and then, you know, pass it on to her.”

Mrs. Friedman had been cleaning off the blackboard. Most teachers used a Smart Board, but as Mrs. Friedman liked to joke, she was “old-school—literally.” She stopped and looked at me. “Did Ashley ask you to get her homework?”

“Well, no.”

“So you just took it upon yourself?”

This was a dumb idea. Even if she did give me the homework, where would I bring it? I didn’t know where Ashley lived. “Never mind,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”

She put down the eraser. “Mr. Bolitar?”

I turned back to her.

“Do you know why Ashley Kent has been absent?”

My heart started doing a slow thud. “No, ma’am.”

“But you’re worried.”

I didn’t see any point in lying to her. “Yes, ma’am.”

“She hasn’t called you?”

“No, she hasn’t.”

“Strange.” Mrs. Friedman frowned. “All I can tell you is that I got a note saying that I shouldn’t expect Ashley back.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“That’s all I know,” Mrs. Friedman said. “I guess she moved away. But . . .”

Her voice trailed off.

“But what?”

“Never mind, Mr. Bolitar.” She started wiping the blackboard again. “Just . . . just be careful.”

At lunchtime I waited on line at the cafeteria.

I always figured that there would be more drama to a high school cafeteria. Yes, it was full of cliques. The jocks here were called “Lax Bros” (Lacrosse Brothers). They all had long hair, big muscles, and started every sentence with the word
Yah
. There was a table for the “Animes”—white kids who think they’re Asian. They loved manga comics and video games that matched. The pretty girls weren’t so much pretty as skinny with too-high heels and expensive clothes. Then there were the gamers, the hipsters, the skaters, the druggies, the geeks, the theater kids.

There didn’t seem to be much class warfare here. These kids had been together for so long that they didn’t really notice. The so-called outcasts who sat alone had been sitting alone for so many years that it wasn’t so much cruelty as habit. I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.