Zombie Blondes (3 page)

“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” he says. “A lot of things in Maplecrest are done differently.”

He starts to drift away again and this time I stop him. “Don’t you want to know my name?” I ask him.

“It’s Hannah,” he says. Then he smiles for the first time. And I’m a little surprised, but he actually has kind of a sweet smile. “I was paying attention in class when the teacher called your name,” he explains.

“Oh. Right,” I say, remembering third period for the second time. “Well, thanks for the warning,” I say with just
enough attitude for him to know I’m not being completely serious.

“Do yourself a favor and stay away from them,” he says with just enough attitude to let me know he’s being deadly serious. Then he disappears into the crowd of faces, leaving me alone to listen to the million fragments of conversations happening all around me until the bell rings.

The whispers start
the moment I sit down. Voices soft and slow from behind me. So quiet like trying not to make a sound but making sure I hear them just the same. The sound of syllables something like a hissing noise. Something like words slithering out from pointed tongues. A secret language mumbled behind hands held up to cover their mouths.

I don’t have to know what they’re saying to know it’s about me.

I bite my lip and keep my eyes safely on my notebook because I know this is a test. I saw them watching me as I walked in. Hair so blond it would look white if it wasn’t for their skin’s snowy shade. The faint blue glow of electricity in the center of their eyes. Studying me. The way I walk. The way I dress. Everything about me, trying to figure out where I fit in.

The best thing for me to do is to ignore them. Despite what Lukas, the lunchroom boy, thinks, I’m aware of how mean popularity can make people. I’ve been through it enough times to be an expert. I know one wrong look in their direction could make me a gossip target for as long as I
end up staying in this place.

When the whispers fade away, I hear them shuffle in their seats. Hear the sound of their shoes moving across the floor, coming toward me. Then the scent of vanilla perfume lingers over my shoulder and I brace myself, waiting to find out my fate.

“Hey, new girl?” one of them says and I turn my head to look up at where they’re standing above me.

“Hey,” I say. My voice coming out smaller than I planned and they seem to notice. Giggling a little at how nervous they make me.

“Your name’s Hannah, right?” the other girl says and I nod. “Well, I’m Morgan,” she says. “This is Miranda.”

“Hi,” I say, speaking quieter than I did before.

Miranda gives me a smug smile in response. Her hands firmly on her hips and her back arched slightly like an unfriendly cat. “We were just saying how much we really liked your bag,” she tells me, her eyes darting down to take a quick glance at my backpack with the flower patches stitched into the fabric.

“Thanks,” I say but without sounding happy about it. I don’t dare take a look at my bag. I keep watching them instead. Searching for any signs of what’s going to come next, because I can’t help but feel like I’m being set up.

“Where’d you get it?” Morgan asks. I take a careful look at her before answering. There’s nothing mean about her face. Innocent like an angel. A friendly smile on her lips, too, and I start to relax.

I’m overreacting.

It’s that Lukas kid’s fault for trying to spook me.

I start to breathe easier.

“I made it myself,” I say. A little more sure of myself this time.

“Really? That’s so cool!” Morgan says. Then she bends down to take a closer look. She traces the flower patches with her fingers and smiles at me. Asks me where I got them and if it was hard and I start to smile back. Tell her it wasn’t that hard. Trying my best not to let on how proud I am about it.

“It couldn’t have been
that
easy,” Miranda says.

I glance over at her and see the start of a cruel smile. The pink skin under her eyes no longer looks gentle. Looks more like fire than flower petals, the way it looked before.

“I mean, you were probably in second grade or something, right?” she says. The words like the sound of an angry dog with sharp teeth.

They wait for my face to turn bright red before they start laughing. Wait for me to tuck my lip under my top teeth before they start to go back to their seats. Making sure I’m humiliated before leaving me alone.

“Can you believe she thought we were serious?” I hear Morgan say.

Miranda laughs and says she can believe it. “Anyone with a stupid little-girl bag like that would probably believe anything,” she says.

I don’t say anything because it was my fault for falling for it. I never should’ve let my guard down. It was stupid of me. I know better than that. But I really did believe her. She sounded so honest when she lied.

I push my bag under my desk with my feet. I knew it
would make Morgan and Miranda snicker, but I didn’t care. I just wanted it out of sight. But I feel bad about it right away. The same way I used to feel when I’d hide my stuffed animals so my friends wouldn’t know I still kept them. So I slide it back out into the row a tiny bit and try my best to ignore the laughter that starts up again a few desks behind me.

The whispers start all over again after that. Louder this time so that I can hear them clearer. Saying how cheap my clothes look. Saying they make me look homeless or something. I can feel my face turning redder as they rattle off insults like the whisper of bullets. Machine-gun whispers that only go silent when our English teacher walks in and begins to take attendance.

I listen as the names are read out loud. Watch hands shoot up in the air one after the other along with a chorus of “here” as the teacher goes through the alphabet. And I guess I should have listened to Lukas a little better. I should have stayed away from any and all cheerleaders.

My arm goes up when the teacher calls my name.

“Here,” my voice escaping my lungs like a small cough.

The teacher pauses and looks up from the piece of paper in her hands. Narrows her eyes at me to memorize my face. “Welcome to Maplecrest, Hannah Sanders,” she says, without sounding like she really cares at all before reading the next name.

I sink down in my desk.

There’s no doubt that I’ve been welcomed, that’s for sure. My two new best friends made sure of that. Made sure I knew exactly where I fit in. As a social outcast. The bottom of the food chain. Alone at the freak table, eating lunch with
Lukas.

I watch the clock the rest of the period, counting the minutes until the day is over. Ignoring the rumors about me that spread from desk to desk like a disease. Spread through a series of hissing and laughter and dirty looks in my direction. I do my best not to let it show that it bothers me. Watching the clock and waiting until the moment I can disappear into the tide of kids flooding the hallway. Looking forward to being anonymous once again.

My first day at Maplecrest High was hardly a success. Far
from it, actually. Minus one creepy admirer and a perfect pair of stuck-up cheerleaders, no one even bothered to notice me too much. A few sideways stares is about all. I can’t believe the kids in such a boring town would find me so dull. I guess I’m just more pathetic than I thought.

My dad says I just need to make more of an effort. “They’ll come around once they get to know you.” That’s what he said yesterday after I got home and told him how much my day kind of sucked. It didn’t exactly comfort me. I mean, that’s what dads have to say. It’s like a law of parenting that you have to think your own kid is special. It doesn’t make much sense if you think about it, though. Every parent believes it, but it’s a fact that not every kid is special. Somewhere along the way, some of them must be
wrong.

My dad’s bound to be one of them. Our lives are filled with his mistakes, so the chances are pretty good he’s mistaken about me, too. It’s quite possible that I’m no more interesting than the background noise of slamming lockers in the hallways.

I’m not ready to give up just yet, though.

Day two is more important than day one, anyway. At least I’ve always thought so. It’s kind of like the dogs I used to watch in the park back when we lived in the city. The dogs would spend the first fifteen minutes just sniffing one another out before they made up their mind whether to play or fight. That’s what the first day at a new school is like. Sniffing out the new dog. Day two is when they decide whether they want to play with me or chase me away.

Of course, I can make that choice, too.

I don’t have to sit around and wait to be noticed, not on the second day. I can go up to them just as easily. I guess that’s what my dad means by making an effort. But it makes more sense when I figure it out on my own. I just don’t like him to be right, that’s all.

“You can do this, Hannah!” I whisper to myself before taking a deep breath and closing my locker. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder and shoving my hands in my pockets, I step into the traffic of laughter and shuffling feet, passing through small groups of friends on my way into homeroom. Crossing my fingers deep inside my pockets, I scan the mostly empty desks for a friendly face.

My options aren’t so great.

There’s the dark-haired boy in the corner by the window.
His hair’s as black as midnight and I can see the dandruff flakes falling as he runs his hand through it each time he turns the page in the book that’s only inches from his heavy glasses. Yeah. Not exactly my ideal vision of a best friend.

The two other choices don’t get much better. The first one is asleep and the other is a mousy-looking girl with her hands folded across her desk like she’s at church or something. Plus her makeup is like a little kid’s playing dress up, heavy lipstick and blush in big circles like a circus clown’s.

“Excuse me, I’d like to get by,” a girl says as she taps my shoulder and turns her body to slip past where I’m blocking the doorway.

“Oh . . . sorry,” I say and step aside. Only she steps in the same direction so that I step into her way. “Sorry,” I stutter again, noticing the bleached shine of her hair for the first time. A cheerleader’s smile to go with it.

She’s one of them.

Perfect and popular and I just bumped into her like a clumsy freak. The backpack thing and now this! Strike two. Three strikes and their clique will hate me forever. So I tell her once more that I’m sorry and carefully step completely out of her way.

“Really, it’s okay,” she says. She smiles wider and shakes her head just enough to let me know that she means it.

“I was just . . . ,” I start to say without any idea of what it was that I was just doing. “I don’t know . . . daydreaming, I guess.”

“It’s not a big deal,” she says. A second smile shows that she means it and that I can relax. She takes a few steps away before
looking at me again. “Where are you sitting?” she asks.

I shrug my shoulders. “Nowhere yet.”

“Sit here,” she says. She points to a desk in the back row as she sits in the desk beside it. I can’t help but wonder if this is another trick. Another set-up like Morgan’s compliment on my bag the day before, but I don’t dare turn down the invitation. Besides, she says it more like a command than an invitation.

I slide into the seat she’s assigned me.

“What was your name again?” she asks. “I’m Meredith.”

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Hannah.”

I bite my lip and try to think of something else to say. Nothing comes to mind, though, and I feel like an idiot sitting there staring at her. So I turn my head away and pretend to read the different banners and signs pinned onto the walls. Notices about upcoming pep rallies and football games. Meredith is busy fixing her hair in a little pocket mirror and doesn’t seem bothered either way if I speak or not. And I know I’m blowing a chance to get in with her, but I can’t help it. Not one interesting thing comes into my brain.

God!

Maybe I’m really just as boring as the mousy girl sitting in the front row!

I hear the click of her compact snapping shut and peek over as Meredith zips her purse closed. I can see her through the strands of my hair that hang across the side of my face. She’s studying every part of me. I know she is. Checking for flaws and I wonder if I’d hear her snickering if one of her friends would be sitting next to her.

“So,” she says to get my attention and I look over at her.
I cross my fingers again, praying my face doesn’t turn bright red as she looks me over carefully. “So, like what are you?” Meredith finally asks.

I open my mouth but no sound comes out.

No one has ever asked me a question like that before and I’m not sure how to answer. I’m not even sure I know what it means. “Um . . . ,” I stutter and my tongue feels a few sizes too big as I stumble to come up with an answer.

Meredith laughs. It’s not a mean kind of laugh, though. It’s a misunderstanding sort of laugh as she changes the question around. “I meant, like what are you into? You’re not like one of those girls who writes creepy poems about drowning or anything like that, are you?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“No,” I say and I can see a faint sense of approval like a flash of lightning in the blue storm of her eyes.

“So what
do
you like?” her voice asks in the slow sound of a warning.

“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Normal things, I guess.”

“Good,” Meredith says. “I like normal things, too.”

Then we both grin a little at how stupid we sound and things get easier from there now that we don’t feel like strangers. She asks me what classes I have. I hand her my schedule, which I still keep close in my pocket to peek at before each class is dismissed so that I know where I’m going. She looks it over. Making faces as she reads the teachers’ names. Making slightly more dramatic faces to let me know which teachers are truly awful and which are just the regular kind of annoying.

I keep silent and nod in agreement at everything she says. That seems to please her enough to keep talking. Listening is just fine with me. It’s better than being ignored.