First, Last, and Always Page 4

  “And I’ve proven my point.” Alexa waves her hands in the air as if she has just won a courtroom argument.

  I look down and stir circles in my cereal bowl. “Boys don’t look at me like that,” I remind her.

  “Yeah, ’cause you aren’t even trying. Jesus, Char, you gotta get into the game sometime. You’re in high school now.”

  Again, I know this.

  “You really should consider changing your look. The tomboy au naturel thing you’ve got going on is only going to attract lumberjacks and crackheads.”

  I’ve lost track of the number of shots she’s taken today. We’re nearing record levels. Eight, maybe nine?

  “I mean, look at your hair. My Little Pony has better hair than that.” She sighs, looking me over sympathetically. “I’m not trying to be mean, I swear.”

  And yet somehow she nails it every time.

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  My fingers grab a strand of my hair and I eyeball the condition of the ends. I don’t like what she’s saying, but she has a point. It’s been a while since I’ve had a haircut. Most of the time I don’t bother doing much to my hair and face at all. I just don’t see the point. There isn’t much I like about myself, but I like my ears. They’re small and petite. I guess I like my eyelashes too. They’re longer than some of the girls my age. Since I don’t wear makeup and most of my other facial features are average, at best, every advantage helps.

  I consider Alexa’s commentary. Maybe she is trying to be helpful in her own weird, twisted way. And maybe I’m being too sensitive. At a minimum, we’re at least conversing for the first time in a long while. “So you think if I dressed differently and styled my hair differently that—”

  We’re interrupted by the honk of a car horn.

  “Ooh!” Alexa squeals, her eyes widening with excitement. “That’s Lance.” She hurries around the house grabbing her things. I lean back in the stool and glance out the window at the red sports car in the driveway. A slight wave of envy comes over me.

  Lance Donovan, Alexa’s boyfriend, is a senior at Radcliffe High and the captain of the basketball team. He’s probably one of the hottest guys in school. Even in eighth grade, I knew who Lance Donovan was. He’s the kind of guy most girls want to lose their virginity to, and many have.

  Before leaving, Alexa stops in front of me and gives me a pensive glare. “Look, just think about what I said, sister-to-sister. Guys like Lance will never give you the time of day if you don’t make an effort.” Offering her biggest smile, she turns on her heels abruptly, glides across the room, throws her backpack over her shoulder, and makes her way to the front door. Still stirring circles, I pout over my bowl. I’m bummed that she’s leaving. I was kind of hoping she’d offer to let me ride in with her. Yesterday she was out of the house before I was even downstairs. Not that I’m really expecting her to ask, but wishing might be a better word. I’m not particularly looking forward to taking the bus again.

  Alexa seems to read my mind as I lift my head and stare longingly at the small red sports car in the driveway. Before closing the door to leave, she turns back around. “I’d invite you to go with us,” she says, “but there won’t be any room. Lance is picking up two of his other friends.”

  I shrug as if it never crossed my mind.

  “Oh, and hey,” she adds. “I forgot to tell you, if I see you in the halls, don’t be upset if I don’t talk to you or say hi or anything. Juniors and seniors don’t usually socialize with freshmen. I know you probably don’t care, but I just wanted to mention it anyway.” She flashes another smile. “See ya!”

  I watch them drive away. The wheels squeal as Lance backs out of the driveway. I’m pretty sure he leaves tire marks in the street.

  A few bites of cereal rest in the milk. Lifting up the bowl, I slurp up the last couple bites. It’s completely turned to mush.

  Miles

  Terrific. Another zit.

  As if the dime-size annoyance on my chin wasn’t enough, another irritation is growing on my cheek like a giant barnacle. It’s just what I don’t need on the first week of high school. Standing in the bathroom, I sigh at my reflection. I should be the poster child for average and unexciting: brown moppy hair, brown droopy eyes, and dull, pale skin. I suppose one could argue that the zits on my face actually add character.

  Lifting my hands, I pinch around the edge of the annoying pink mass. The more I pinch and prod, the worse I seem to make it. Peering under the sink, I grab some rubbing alcohol and pour it onto a cotton ball until it’s saturated. When I place the liquid-filled cotton on my cheek it stings, but it’s more of a good sting. I’m hoping the zit will disappear, that the alcohol will somehow cause it to obliterate into nothingness. When the stinging subsides, I pull the cotton off.

  Nope. Not going away, but there’s definitely a change. The zit has gone from dark pink to flaming red.

  With a sigh I throw the cotton ball in the trash and shrug. “Oh, well,” I say to the odd-looking guy in the mirror. “Maybe it’s not as noticeable as it seems?”

  “Miles!” Mom shouts from outside the bathroom. “Hurry up! The bus is going to be here any minute.”

  In the mirror I notice red blotches beginning to form at the base of my neck. While this might seem like another alarming bodily reaction, It’s not. I’m used to it. It’s a thing with me—happens when I get nervous.

  “Miles,” Mom says with a series of rapid knocks. “Come on, hon. I can see the bus down the street. You’re going to miss it.”

  “Coming,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

  Running out the door, Mom throws a lunch bag in my hand. “Have a good day,” she says as I fly past her. “Oh,” she shouts at my back, “I forgot to tell you, don’t make any plans for tomorrow night. Your aunt Irene and I are going to a movie. She wasn’t able to find a sitter for Cyndi and Bella, so I’m going to need to ask you to babysit your cousins.”

  Babysitting?

  I’ve never babysat before.

  Maybe the bus will hit me before the day actually starts.

  Charlotte

  The second day of any school year is always worse than the first because you know what to expect. Usually it’s no better than the year before. The ball of nerves in the pit of your stomach is still there, but now you add on the element of fear. Nothing is more terrifying than knowing you’re voluntarily entering a place where people want to verbally slice you to social death. I think the Japanese call this hara-kiri. In the United States, it’s called public school.

  The bright yellow monstrosity on wheels approaches my stop, where I am the only one waiting to board. The doors swing out. It’s like watching the jaws of an alligator open sideways—ominous and terrifying. I stand at the edge of the steps looking up. A stalky old woman with leathery skin, who is hunching over the steering wheel, stares down at me. She looks as happy to see me as I am to see her. Her sideways glance seems to say, You gettin’ on this damn bus, kid, or what? Clutching the railing, I lead myself up the steps, into the belly of the beast, and sigh.

  I feel like a freak-show circus act; everyone is staring at me. Glancing around, I look for the one familiar face that’s greeted me every school morning since grade school. In the back of the bus a hand shoots up into the air; then a head pops up. Thank God. Miles. As I walk toward him, the driver puts her foot on the gas. The bus lurches forward, which causes me to fall sideways, knocking my hip into some kid’s head.

  Whipping around, he rubs the side of his face. “Hey! Watch it, Chunk.” He sneers.

  I grab the seat to regain my balance. Heat rises up my neck and flares into my face. “Sorry,” I mumble.

  The bus driver peers at me in the rearview mirror. “Find a seat and sit down!” she yells.

  I scurry a few more seats back, plop down next to Miles, and bend forward, pressing my forehead into the seat in front of me. “I’m not sure I’ll make it through the day,” I whisper.

  Miles puts a hand on my sho
ulder. “You’ll be fine.”

  I sit up and shake my head. “Easy for you to say; you weren’t humiliated by your mother, your sister, a bus driver, and a jerk all in the same morning. Things are not looking good for me.”

  “You want me to kick their asses?” Miles asks this straight-faced, no inflection in his tone, as if he is totally serious.

  The thought of Miles beating up anyone or even insinuating that he would beat up anyone is so absurd it makes me laugh out loud.

  I’m still chuckling as he raises a hand to his face. “Are you laughing at me?”

  My chuckles cease immediately. “What?”

  “My face. It’s bad, right? I knew it.” The nervous blotchy patches start to form. “It looks like I’ve been attacked by a package of cherry cough drops.”

  “What do you mean?” I shake my head. “Your face looks fine.”

  He points at his forehead and then his cheek.

  “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  “Giant zits.”

  I lean in closer. “I can barely see them,” I say honestly. “They’re really not that bad.”

  “Really?”

  I point to his nose. “Actually that booger hanging out is way worse. Freakin’ huge.” I can’t help myself.

  Miles’s hand flies up to the center of his face.

  “I’m kidding.”

  “Cruel.” The word is muffled by his hand.

  “I know.” I smile. The blotches on his neck start to disappear. “So.” I change the subject. “Is your Dad coming this weekend?” Miles’s parents divorced when he was five. His dad now lives with his girlfriend on the West Coast, a three-thousand-mile trek from our small town of Springville, Pennsylvania.

  “Plans changed.” The familiar sound of disappointment rings in his voice. “He’s going to try to make it out next month.” Plans always change with Miles’s dad. Miles was supposed to visit him in California over the summer, but that never happened either. His father always has some lame excuse.

  Bounding onto the bus like a werewolf on the prowl, Lenny flies up the aisle and throws himself into the seat in front of us. “Dipwads,” he greets us with a nod. Looking at each other, Miles and I roll our eyes, put in our music plugs, and escape the howling wrath of Lenny the rest of the ride to school.

  Miles

  Gym class.

  It is my belief that high school phys ed is the equivalent of participating in the gladiator contests in ancient Roman times, where men fought lions and tigers in massive arenas, and were tested for their strength, agility, and bravery. Back in those days the weakest of men were killed by those same wild animals. Today, those of us who can’t run fast enough to keep up in flag football or those who don’t have the coordination to pass a volleyball or tennis ball across the net are mauled—not just physically, but verbally—by beasts of the human kind.

  Twice last year I had the wind knocked out of me in gym class. The most memorable instance was when some girl kicked a soccer ball my way and nailed me in the groin. Hovering over my limp body, she said to the teacher, “I swear I barely even kicked it that hard.” Those are the kind of words that make you feel like a real man.

  Today the torture of gym class happens upon me again. While playing flag football, Benny Higgins, a linebacker on the Radcliffe High football team, forgets about the “flag” part of the game and tackles me headfirst, crushing me to the ground. I moan as he collapses on top of me. Somewhere on the other side of the gym a girl screams, “Oh, my God, I think he killed him!”

  I could only be so lucky.

  Sprawling over me on all fours, Benny yells back, “Nah. He’s fine.” Then he looks down at me, shakes his head, and whispers, “Get up, you pansy ass.”

  The school system refers to our physical education requirement as “strength training” and “an assessment of one’s cardiovascular fitness.” I think it should also be defined as “punishment for those who have little to no athletic ability.” How I manage to squeak out a B-minus every year on my report card is amazing to me every single time. I’m sure the phys ed teacher gives me my grade out of pity. It’s the only class I never get an A in.

  Charlotte

  Sitting down in algebra class, I watch the door and nervously wait for Grayson to walk through. I’m not sure what he’ll say or think when I give him the CD. I’m one of only four people in the room and fortunately Vanessa is not one of them. Although it’s only the second day, it would be cool if she called in sick. Cool for me, at least. I’d feel sort of bad if Vanessa really was sick. Three more people enter. One more. I’m not sure I’ll be able to do this if Vanessa gets here before Grayson does. The thought of her looking over my shoulder while I give Grayson the disc is something, I’m sure, she and her friends would love to use as ammo against me.

  Two more students walk in. Neither are Grayson or Vanessa.

  Two deep breaths later...

  “Hi.” Grayson smiles at me smiling at him as he scooches into his seat.

  Mustering up every ounce of courage, I pull the disc out of my bag and discreetly place it onto the desk in front of him.

  He looks down. “Are you serious?” he says.

  “I told you I—”

  “This. Is. Awesome,” he cries.

  “Well—”

  “No. Seriously. It is.”

  “What’s awesome?” Vanessa appears out of nowhere. She sneers at me before turning and smiling at Grayson. “Hey, Grayson,” she says in the same familiar, flirtatious tone she used to talk to all the boys at the pool over the summer.

  “Vanessa,” Grayson says flatly, his voice four octaves lower. I wonder if he’s trying to impress her, or if, like most people who incidentally cross paths with a dangerous, predatory animal, he might be nervous around her.

  “What’s awesome?” she asks again.

  Oh no. This is where Grayson tells her I gave him a CD and she and her friends make fun of me forever. I can hear the taunts now echoing through the halls. “Charlotte made Grayson a mixtape!” they would shout out. Then to me, “You actually think you have a chance with that boy? Do you realize you probably wear the same pant size? The only way he would ever go out with you is if he was legally blind!”

  I hold my breath and wait for Grayson to respond. Instead of saying anything he carefully hides the CD under his arms. “Nothing. Just this thing Charlotte said, awesomely funny. Cracked me up.”

  More sneering back at me. Interesting. “Who knew Charlotte was funny?”

  “She is. She’s hilarious,” he repeats, winking at me conspicuously.

  She raises her eyebrows. Skepticism flutters in her lashes. “Okay then,” she says, stretching the syllables like taffy.

  With one last turn to Grayson, she bats her eyelashes and saunters to her seat.

  “Sorry,” Grayson whispers when she’s finally out of ear shot. “I hope you don’t mind that I did that. I just didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”

  I nod. “That’s fine.” I’m so relieved. I turn to the front of the class. My heart pounds out of the tips of my fingers and the bottoms of my feet. The bell rings indicating the start of class.

  “Okay class!” Ms. Ming writes an equation on the board. “Everyone turn to page fifteen.”

  I’m not sure what just happened, but there was an obvious connection and a friendly wink from Grayson, which, now that I think about it, could have been a random blink of the eye. A twitch, perhaps? Maybe something caught in his contact lens? Does he wear contact lenses? Am I breathing? No. What’s going on? Did Ms. Ming say something else?

  My brain is oatmeal. Normally, I’d be concerned by this inability to function, but right now this feeling of floating and dancing and total stupidity that’s happening in my head feels really good.

  And I don’t want it to go away.

  Miles

  Feeling bad for me, or possibly thinking me pathetic, Mr. Brack, our gym teacher, allows me to sit out the rest of class, which is a total relief; I h
ate flag football. When the class period is finally over, the next torturous part of phys ed begins: changing in the guys’ locker room. The locker room at Radcliffe High is like stepping back into the days of cavemen and barbarians; it’s all sweat and brawn. No one showers, even though after class some of the guys stink worse than a skunk in a raw sewage plant. Communication is in a language that may or may not be considered English. Mostly it involves a lot of grunting and yelling, as well as sounds from various other parts of the body. What little I can make out is mostly about tits, asses, and cars. As a guy I’m supposed to want to talk about all of these things, and yeah, each of these topics crosses my mind, some more than others, but I don’t feel the need to talk about them in public, and I guess I was raised to be more gentleman than heathen. Some days I wish it were the other way around. It sort of sucks to be one of the only guys in the locker room who doesn’t find the sentence “I’d spank her ass and motorboat her boobs” hilariously funny.

  Still, I’ve learned over the years that it’s best to chuckle and laugh when all the other guys chuckle and laugh. Even if I have no idea what they’re saying, or don’t agree with it. Doing this prevents unwanted attention and the potential for a serious beating—verbal and/or physical.

  This is a good example of one of those times. Some kid just brought up Charlotte’s sister. My first instinct is to tell him to shut up—not because I like Alexa, but because I don’t like the idea of anyone talking about Charlotte’s family in a negative way. I prevent myself from saying anything, because I’ve been in this position before, and I almost got beaten up for saying something.

  Alexa Hubbard went through a radical metamorphosis around her eighth-grade year. She went from glasses to contacts, lost the braces, grew five inches up and three bra sizes out, and started wearing makeup and different clothes. Besides gaining a popularity, she became the ultimate fantasy for many guys in our school. Instead of pictures of supermodels on their walls, the boys in our school had pictures of Alexa. I think she’s okay to look at, but there must be something wrong with me, because I don’t find her as attractive as all the other guys do. Part of it is all the makeup and hair stuff Alexa uses, but mostly it’s just her personality. She’s not the warmest person.