Uninvited: An Unloved Ones Prequel #2 (The Unloved Ones Prequels) (4 page)

I’ve taken a seat in the middle of the classroom. At first I wasn’t sure if I should sit in the back like Becka would, or in the front, like I prefer. There are no assigned seats (Mr. Tandy’s way of treating us like adults), so I compromised and picked a seat in the middle of the classroom. But I find I’m having trouble concentrating on the lesson. I keep staring at my empty seat in the front row, and thinking about how no one even notices that I’m gone. It’s not until Mr. Tandy turns off the lights that I am roused from my thoughts.

He flicks on the overhead projector. A chill goes through me at this change in lighting—another reminder that this is not a dream. He places a clear sheet on the projector, and draws an right triangle in blue ink, his fingers projected as giant shadows on the front board. He labels the sides 5, 8, and
x
.

“Now,” he says, looking up at the class. His face is lit from below, his large glasses sending shadows across his forehead that look like angry eyebrows. “Who can tell me how we can find
x
?”

I resist the urge to raise my hand. It would be out of character for Becka to do anything but drool when asked a simple question.

The class is silent, and I have a moment of pity for poor Mr. Tandy. I can’t imagine how dull it must be to wake up, day after day, and have to recite the Pythagorean theorem to a bunch of brain-dead slobs. I bet he’s missing me now.

 Then Shelly raises her hand. Shelly is one of those quiet girls who will never amount to much. Even though no one else is participating, Shelly waits for Mr. Tandy to call on her.

“Um,” she says, her voice barely a squeak, “that one equation. The two sides squared equal the long side squared.”

Mr. Tandy’s eyes go wide like someone’s just proposed to him, and he shouts, “That’s right! Very good, Shelly. Very,
very
good.” He writes in the formula on the projector, and I can’t help but feel a little miffed.

He’s never cared that much when I got the answer right. And I
always
got the answer right.

He moves on with the lesson, and as he goes from right triangles to isosceles, and then onto word analogies, more and more students start raising their hands. I can’t hide the look of amazement on my face. What is going
on
? These people never try. Eventually, so many people are taking part that I don’t feel that it would be out of character for Becka to try as well. She’s always been a joiner.

“D,” I say, answering the multiple-choice question. “FOOD is to SATIETY as BALLAST is to STABILITY.”

“Well done, Becka! I knew you were holding back.”

Even though he is praising my answer, I am still somehow jealous of Becka.

By the end of class, Mr. Tandy is in seventh heaven. He hasn’t even finished his coffee. “Well,” he says, taking off his glasses and wiping his forehead with a napkin, “thank you, class, for such spirited interaction.” He gets up from his stool and flips back on the light, laughing to himself. “I’d like to claim that it was my fabulous teaching, but I can’t take all the credit.”

“Maybe it’s the weather,” says some boy in the back row with stains all over his shirt.

Half the class looks toward the window. The day is grey and uninspiring.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Tandy allows.

“Come on,” says Shelly, “we all know what it is.”

I don’t know where this girl’s confidence suddenly came from, but I don’t like it. The smirk on her face gives me goose bumps. The class turns to her for her theory, and she soaks in the attention, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“It’s because Little Miss Perfect’s gone,” she says, and points to my empty chair. “Without Jacqueline White’s big mouth, the rest of us finally get a chance to speak.”

A few laughs and mumbles of agreement sound around the room. I look up at Mr. Tandy, my mouth open with offense. Surely, he will defend me. I
was
his favorite.

But he just leans against his desk, taking a slow sip of coffee, and his eyes look toward the window. He’s considering it! I lean forward, waiting for him to snap out of it. We all know I’m the only one with a future in this school. I’m the one with perfect attendance. I’m the one that knows every answer.
I’m
the favorite—don’t forget it now, Mr. Tandy!

He lowers his coffee mug and smacks his lips. He shrugs. “Hmm. Maybe.”

The bell rings, and class is over. The class stands up as one and starts to crowd toward the door. I am too stunned to move as the herd shuffles around me. I can only stare at Mr. Tandy in disbelief. I want to yell at him. To slap him. But his open dismissal of me leaves me feeling drained, and I can’t muster the energy I need to stay mad.

The truth is I’m crushed. I knew I wasn’t popular with the other students, but I can chalk that up to jealousy. But the teachers? The teachers are paid to be my friends. When the last of the other students have left the class, I force myself to my feet, and pull Becka’s ridiculous knapsack over my shoulder. I walk up to the front of the room, where Mr. Tandy is still looking out the window while enjoying his morning coffee, and wait for him to notice me.

“Oh, hi, Becka,” he says after a moment. “Good job today.”

I’m silent, my eyes wide. “Mr. Tandy?”

He gives me a soft smile.

“Do you think it’s true? Do you think class really went better today because Jacqueline White was gone?”

He looks at me, not answering right away. Then he takes a deep sigh, and sets his coffee mug on the table. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, not necessarily.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s more like—you know, Becka, I grew up on a farm.” He must see the confusion on my face, because he holds up a hand. “Stay with me, Becka. And on this farm, we had a bunch of animals. Pigs, cows, sheep. The pigs were my favorite, and every spring they’d give a litter. And most times, all the little piglets would be the same size, and they’d all get their fair share of milk. But sometimes, there would be a big old piglet, double the size of the others, who was able to sort of
push
the others out of the way, and hog all the milk for himself.”

My eyes widen in horror as I finally see where he’s going with this.

“So what my momma showed me was,” he continues, “that sometimes, you have to hold the big pig back so the others can get a turn too. You know what I’m trying to say?”

I gulp. “Jackie?” I whisper. “Is that what who you mean?”

He chuckles, and then glances up at the door to make sure we’re alone. “Just between you and me,” he says, leaning in, “Jackie is the biggest attention hog I’ve ever known.”

 Two loud boys walk into the classroom, and Mr. Tandy looks up.

“See you tomorrow, Becka. Keep up the good work.”

I walk in a daze to the door, and once outside, I need to lean against the wall as the mobs of students filter through the hallways.

They hate me, I realize. They all hate me. Even the teachers.

But
why
? I’ve never done anything to them. I was trying to be
good
. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was doing the best I knew how. I close my eyes, worried that I might cry, and shake my head. I want this nightmare to stop.

A familiar voice wakes me. “Hey, babe. You’re looking hot today.”

I open my eyes. Standing before me is Todd, his green eyes locked on mine. He’s wearing a hunter green shirt that matches his eyes, and one of his hands is grasping the strap of his backpack.

 I can’t speak, and he gives me a reassuring smile, his perfect teeth flashing in the dim hallway. Then, seeing my expression, his smile falls.

“Becka,” he asks, “What’s wrong?”

I can only blink.

He takes my hand, and says, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here now.” He pulls me close, and wraps his arms around me, hugging me tight. He’s warm, and by habit I rest my head against his chest. It feels so good to be near him again. I take in a deep breath, and close my eyes to savor it. He even smells like I remembered.

“I’ve missed this so much,” I say, and I feel his chest rumble with a laugh.

“It’s only been a few hours,” he says.

“It’s felt like a lifetime.”

He loosens his hug and holds me by the shoulders in front of him, so that he can see my face. I stare up at him with unconcealed longing, and my eyes fill with tears. I thought I’d never be this close to him again.

He reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. We’re staring into each other’s eyes as the noise of the hallway seems to fade. There’s movement on all sides of us as students pass all around us, but here, with him, it’s like the calm in the center of a storm. He looks down at me and leans in, closing his eyes. He presses his lips against mine, and kisses me.

At this intimate touch something inside me snaps. All the calmness of the moment is gone, and I remember he isn’t kissing me. He’s kissing Becka. A flash of anger runs through me, and I push him away, beating my hands on his chest.

I miss him
so
much. How come he doesn’t miss me? How come he is kissing someone else?

“Why?” I ask him, the tears back and running down my cheeks. “Why was I not good enough for you?”

“Whoa,” he says, putting up his hands. “What happened?”

I can’t deal with this. I turn away from him, and run down the hallway, pushing past people I can’t see through my tears, and keep running until I reach the only place I can be sure he won’t follow: the girls’ restroom.

I walk up to the sinks and stare at myself in the mirror. Only it’s not me. It’s Becka.

My tears have ruined her mascara yet again. Her hair is worse than I remembered it, and her clothes are wrinkled. I couldn’t see that in the light of her room. There are bits of lint and animal fur on her pants, even though I don’t remember seeing a pet at her house.

My stomach sinks. Todd has a dog. This is from a time she had gone over to his house.

I can’t help it: I scream at Becka’s reflection. “I hate you! I hate you!” I bash her fist against the mirror, again and again, until the scratched and graffiti-covered mirror cracks. I can see blood running down the knuckles of her hand, but I smash it again. I don’t feel the pain.

Then something happens that evaporates my rage immediately.

I feel Becka. It’s like she’s starting to wake up in my mind, struggling to regain control of her body.

“No!” I command, and stare at us in the mirror. “
I’m
in control here.”

I stare at our reflection in the mirror, waiting in silence until I feel that it is no longer us, just me staring back at myself.

I take a deep breath, and then look down at the blood running down the metal sink. I turn the nozzle on the sink and a blast of water sprays out. I run my cut and bruised hand underneath the flow, cleaning the wound I can see but not feel. My breathing returns to its even rhythm, and I hear the final bell ring. I’m late for class.

No, I correct myself.
Becka’s
late for class.

I smile, taking my time to dry the blood with paper towels before I leave the restroom and enter the empty hallway.

My boots clack against the shining linoleum floor, and echo down the halls. I’m almost disappointed that a hall monitor hasn’t spotted me. I’d love to give Becka detention. I reach my second period—which has already started—and ignore the looks as I cross the room and take my seat. I set my knapsack on the ground, and turn toward the teacher, Mrs. Paisley. She has stopped talking, and is looking at me like an escaped mental patient.

I look down at my hand. “It’s nothing,” I say. “It’s just a little blood. Go on with the lesson.”

She is frozen, her hand half raised. She must have been talking with her hands when I walked in, and at the sight of me, froze in mid-motion like a department store mannequin. Finally, she blinks and says something.

“Excuse me. But you’re going to have to leave.”

I roll my eyes. “And why is that?”

Her expression grows frosty. “Because, young lady, you’re interrupting my class.”

I look at her for a moment before realizing it. Then my confidence disappears.

Crap.

I look around the room, at the familiar faces of the other students. The students of my class. Jacqueline’s class.

“Oh,” I say, and quickly pull on Becka’s knapsack. “I thought—I thought I was somewhere else.” The other students in the class are giggling as I make my way back to the door as quickly as I can.

“Wait!” Mrs. Paisley calls out, but before she can do anything, I’m out the door and running.

“Stupid!” I yell at myself. I make it around a corner, just in case Mrs. Paisley opens the door to follow me, and dig into Becka’s pocket to find her schedule.

Her
second period is Reading Skills in Room 12F. I go down the stairs to the first floor, waiting for a janitor to pass, and then cross to a row of doors by the exit to the parking lot. I find Room 12F, and slip inside the door.

There’s a woman barely older than the students standing in front of a room with only eight desks, only one of which is empty. As per Becka’s style, it’s in the back row.

I sit down and mouth the word “Sorry” to the teacher. She’s a bubbly-looking woman in her mid-twenties, wearing clothes that are much too old and serious for her personality, as if she weren’t the real teacher, but merely playing dress-up. She gives me an enthusiastic smile and runs to her desk to correct the attendance sheet. I look up at the board. On it, she’s written the word VERB, underlined it, and then circled it. She runs back to me, and hands me a sheet of paper. It’s a photocopied worksheet of simple sentences, with the minimalistic instructions: “Find the verb.”