The Watchers (4 page)

“Thanks.”

She paused thoughtfully. “Don’t take today
too seriously. It’ll be better tomorrow.” Surprised by her advice,
I smiled. She smiled again, her dimples flashing into life. “Good
luck!”

With a wave, she turned back the way we
had come, a natural bounce in her step. I watched her walk away,
impressed at her generosity, a part of me skeptical of her motives;
too many false friends and liars in my past had me thinking her
motives were entirely genuine. Before she disappeared from sight, I
heard a final thought:
I hope she knows
what’s in store for her today…

I did, too…

Pushing the massive metal door open, I saw
the gym, which looked like every high school gym I had ever seen –
bright, open, and strangely ominous. The teacher, a middle-aged
man, who had the look of someone muscular gone to seed, stood in
the middle of the floor tying up what appeared to be mesh for
tennis courts. His moon face let me know he had spent years
indulging in both food and alcohol. Round, bloodshot eyes the color
of mud looked at me dully. My first impression was of a very
massive pig wearing a wig. I went to him, trying to get visions of
Ms. Piggy out of my head, and gave him my name and the form for him
to sign.

He gaped at me and I heard:
No one said she was one of those punk chicks…
Damn, I need a drink. I think I’ll sneak one in at lunch. Donna
would never have to know. Unless she catches me again…

He took the paper I was offering him and
signed it with a sigh, longing for the bottle he had tucked in his
desk. He gave it back to me and, in a tired, hopeless voice,
pointed out where everything was. Mumbling to himself, he shuffled
away to find me a uniform to change into. I watched him go, pity
flooding my stomach as the thought that he had given up on life, on
himself, a long time ago, permeated my brain.

When he came back, I took the uniform he
offered me, and went to the girl’s locker room without comment. I
changed slowly, not wanting to go back out where the other kids had
already gathered on the bleachers talking and chattering with
frightful teenage normalcy. The day of reckoning was at hand…
Finally, feeling like I had stalled long enough, I stuffed my
clothes and bag in a spare locker and walked out, dragging my feet
every inch of the way.

As I crossed the floor, scanning the
bleachers for a place to sit, I noticed particulars about the group
for the first time. Most of the class of fourteen or so was
gathered around four figures. It was obvious from the seating
arrangement that the four teenagers in the middle were members of
the ‘popular crowd.’ The four consisted of two boys and two girls.
The girls were pretty in the typical, cookie-cutter way. One girl
was blonde and lanky with high cheek bones and a pixy nose; the
other girl was brunette and very petite, almost diminutive, and had
similar bone structures in her face. The boys differed wildly.
While one fit the idea of typical, the other looked far from garden
variety. The cookie-cutter boy was bulky and athletic. He had brown
hair and a square jaw, which was balanced on his square face. I
knew that if he weren’t in his gym uniform, he would definitely
have a letterman’s jacket on, flaunting the school’s colors. But it
was the other boy, the non-cookie-cutter, whom I couldn’t drag my
eyes away from. He was talking to everyone in a voice which echoed
around the large space, and I felt a magic, a certain sense of
presence the others could never have. After hearing him tell a
rather simple, funny story to the crowd, I was convinced he could
talk a bear into giving up its honey stash.

I stared, trying to understand how anyone
could be so graceful in simply shifting their weight on metal
bleachers, and he looked up. He met my stare with an intensity that
was as breathtaking as it was startling. Could looks burn a person?
I felt scorched.

I sat, hoping he wasn’t one of the popular
kids prone to teasing for something as accidental as a stare. It
was more than embarrassment for getting caught staring that had me
on edge, though. His eyes, green and full of some secret fire, had
me actually feeling self-conscious about the way I looked, and I
never worried about the way I looked. I shook my head to get rid of
the vision of him, but I couldn’t. He was there, a shimmering
mirage unwillingly lodged into my brain by the girls who were
staring at him in brainless entrancement. Not able to help it, I
looked at him through a girl’s eyes, more willing to look than I
would ever admit.

His face was angular with a strong jaw line.
He had black, messy hair, which made his snowy skin appear even
paler. I wondered if the hair was a deliberate choice or if that
was just the way it fell. He wasn’t my normal type, too preppy, too
boy band-ish, but I had to agree with the others; he was
beautiful.

There was something else about him, too. I
ran a hand through my hair as I tried to place the curious knot of
recognition in my stomach. It was as if I knew the curve of his
face, the way he tapped impatiently on the bleachers. It was as if
we had spent hours in conversation that no one but us could enjoy.
I chuckled at the thought. That was as unlikely as me painting my
fingernails pink.

A voice cut through my internal ogling, and I
shut out the visions of him.

“Hey! You’re Clare Michaels right?”

I turned and saw the girl with long
blonde hair lean forward out of the chattering crowd. Everyone
stopped talking and turned to stare at the question. Over the
sudden silence, I heard a rush of thoughts I couldn’t keep out, my
temples pulsing in time to the assault. The loudest thought
was:
I bet she’s killed people! Just look
at her! Mom says that she’s lived all over the world. I bet she’s
seen a lot. I bet she’s done a lot. I bet everyone would be jealous
if she were my friend. It would give me an edge over the rest. And,
I could totally pay back Michelle for thinking she’s better because
her family owns half the town, take her down a notch.

“Last time I checked, I am,” I said knowing
those thoughts had been the blonde girl’s. They matched her
voice.

“I’m Jennifer.”

I looked away to keep from laughing out loud.
Just once I’d like to meet someone who looked like her named
Virginia or Evelyn. “Hi, Jennifer,” I said.

“Why don’t you sit up here with us?” she
invited, patting the bleacher next to her in a way that turned the
question into a command.

The boys, who were sitting to her left,
shifted over to give me room, already figuring I wouldn’t say ‘no’.
I looked at them for a second, wondering if I was being set up. It
would be true to form. I shrugged and moved to sit next to the
bulky, brown-haired boy not caring if it were a set up. I’d lived
through worse, and if I got this out of the way now they’d leave me
alone later. It was better this way.

There was another surge of thought as I sat
down:

She’s hot, despite her hair. I bet she’s been
around. I wonder if she’s into football players?

My aunt knew her mom. I bet I could use that
to get her to talk to me.

She’s so cool! I want a nose ring!

Everyone was excited
about
her
?

I wonder if she really lived in China.

I guess it really is true that the children
pay for the sin of the parents.

Startled, I tried to follow that last thought
to its owner. I couldn’t be sure under the deluge, but it felt as
if it was coming from a girl sitting outside the group. Everyone
else’s eyes, while judgmental, were excited and curious. Hers were
cold and distant; an impenetrable barrier of hardened emotions. I
shivered and turned away wondering if she really knew how true that
thought was.

“This is Mark Sheldon.” Jennifer pointed to
the bulky boy next to me as soon as I was seated. He winked slyly.
“This is Michelle King.” She pointed to the girl on her other side,
who nodded at me. “And that’s Daniel Adams.”

Mark leaned back so I could follow Jennifer’s
finger, which was pointing directly at Mr. Popularity. His eyes,
which had been on the same girl I had been looking at, came back to
mine, and I saw that they were cold as well, but it was a different
kind of cold. It was a cold which was kept there to hide a raging,
burning fire within. He nodded once and flicked his eyes away
towards the locker rooms, apparently already bored with the
introductions. No one else from the group seemed to merit an
introduction as, in a voice laced with excitement, Jennifer started
plying me with questions: where I was from, how I liked King’s
Cross so far, where I went to school before, what kinds of things I
was interested in…

The rest of my new classmates listened in
with fascinated wonder; even the kids who were sitting a little
farther from the group, obviously not part of the ‘popular crowd,’
were quiet as they listened to this strange exchange.

The questions did little to settle my nerves.
I felt as if I was being interviewed or cross-examined on the
witness stand for a murder I didn’t commit. It was hard not to.
They all thought I was some sort of wild, crazy fiend, living on
the outskirts of life; a rebel and a trouble maker, poised to set
fire to the school on a whim. That was why they were all so
interested in me and hanging on to my answers like they were
scripture. How could I explain that not everyone in cities led
adventurous, party going lives? How could I explain that not
everyone who looks Punk is Punk? How could I explain that my life
had been lived with the understanding that not being noticed was
the best way to not get dead? How could I take away years of
prejudice in one morning? It didn’t matter; I would let them think
what they wanted. It didn’t mean they knew what, or who, I was.

Mr. Henley ambled out of his office and
cut short the twenty questions with a blow from his oversized
orange whistle. He called the roll and told us we would be playing
tennis again – apparently they had been playing it for a while –
and that we should find partners to play against. I wasn’t shocked
when my new acquaintances all had partners in seconds, leaving me
to myself on the bleachers. Typical. Their interest in me only
stretched as far as the entertainment I could provide them. At
least, it was something familiar in a day that already felt
unfamiliar and foreign. Mr. Henley noticed me as I watched the
bustle of humanity below and ambled over. “No partner, eh?” he
asked scratching his greasy brown hair. He looked over and his moon
face turned sly. “Well, you can play against Daniel then. You don’t
mind do ya, Daniel?”
Sorry, kid.

I looked over, wondering why Mr. Popularity
hadn’t partnered with Mark, who was obviously his friend. I hadn’t
noticed in the bustle of activity that Mark had partnered with what
looked like another athletic type, who shared his mental capacity
of none.

Daniel sighed audibly at the request and
stood, but when he answered his tone was polite. “Of course not,
Coach. I’d be happy to.”

I rolled my eyes at his hypocrisy and watched
him descend to the floor wishing I could sit the class out. He
moved past me noiselessly, as if he was walking on air rather than
hard metal, his face impassive. After a startled pause, I followed
him, stomping down the bleachers like a whole herd of baby
elephants, rejecting his silent grace. I slowly followed as he
walked to the one lone net on the very end of the gym, farthest
from the entrance, smiling at people as he passed. To me, he looked
like a diplomat on the floor of Congress politicking for all he was
worth. When we reached our net, he bent down and grabbed a racket
from the pile to hand to me. I stared at him with a frown, trying
to understand…everything.

“What?” he asked as I took the racket.

I shrugged. “I just figured that you’d play
with Mark. Isn’t that the law of the jungle?”

Was that too honest? Too blunt? Who cared? He
was one of them.

He smirked, his smile not leaving his lips.
“No one will play with me, not even Mark. One too many lost
games.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked,
twirling the racket in my hands absently.

“Not all jungles are the same.”

It was my turn to smirk. Yeah. Right.

He walked around to the other side of the
small court, winking at Jennifer and Michelle as he went. I set my
stance, my temper flaring at the wink. I couldn’t tell for sure,
but something about his tone and his actions had me thinking that
he was being insincere. If there was one thing in this world that
made me angry, it was posturing. His insincerity went beyond the
normal teenage posturing I was used to. Which just irritated me
worse. I suddenly wanted to teach him a lesson.

Daniel bounced the ball on the floor once,
and even over the sounds of people yelling and playing their own
games, I could hear it hit. It was like an avalanche, or the
beginning of something else.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Are you?” I retorted.

He planted his feet and smirked again, the
cold in his eyes unwavering. For once, I was glad Ellen had thrown
me into too many clubs to count over the years in the hope I would
find a niche; that I would fit in somewhere, anywhere. A desperate
attempt at normalcy I knew would never work. But it served its own
purpose. How was he to know that I had helped my school to state
finals in tennis last year?

I smiled ruefully. That was before I had been
asked to quit the team; to not return for next season. Most of them
had started treating me like a second class citizen when I – the
freak loner – started winning all our practice matches. I had
retaliated in admittedly juvenile ways, like the spiders in the
captain’s locker. My attempts to expose her to the insects of
Savannah had not been appreciated by the coach, to say the
least.