First, Last, and Always Page 5

  “She’s a junior, man,” some kid says about Alexa. I recognize the voice as belonging to Jeremy Hill. I went to junior high with him.

  “I thought for sure she was a senior,” another kid with spiked hair says. I forget his name. He didn’t go to junior high with me. “I saw her talking to Donovan in the hall,” Spiked Hair continues. He was all up on her.” Donovan, I’m assuming, is Lance Donovan, superstar athlete and a royal douche bag, in my opinion. From what little I know of him, one thing seems clear: He thinks the girls in Radcliffe attend school for his benefit, like they’re his personal servants, answering his every need. Charlotte told me about Lance liking Alexa. It started last year sometime after Alexa met this girl Jasmine Wentworth (who hates the name Jasmine, by the way, and prefers to be called Jazz). Jazz considers herself local royalty (her parents are real estate developers who built most of the housing developments in the area), and she expects everyone to treat her that way. She is also the person responsible for Alexa’s popularity as well as her change in personality.

  “Nope, she’s a junior,” Jeremy confirms.

  Another kid jumps in on the conversation. He didn’t go to West either, but I’m pretty sure his name is Gavin. “I heard about Donovan and Alexa Hubbard,” Gavin says. “They were at a party together a few weeks ago. My brother was there. He said Donovan showed up with Alexa but later on he saw him with some totally different girl.”

  “I heard the same thing,” Jeremy says. “The other girl was some totally smokin’-hot Russian or some shit. Didn’t speak any English.”

  A number of “oohs” ring out. “You serious?” Spiked Hair says.

  “Lucky bastard.” Gavin shakes his head. “That dude gets all the hot chicks.”

  “You know who else is hot?”

  Jeremy, Gavin, and Spiked Hair continue their testosterone-induced conversation as the rest of us finish dressing and head to our next class.

  “You trying out this year?” a voice nearby says. I turn my head. It’s Charlie Dunagal. We both tried out for the basketball team last year. It was my third time, his first. He didn’t make it either.

  “Basketball?” I confirm.

  He nods.

  “I signed up,” I tell him.

  Another voice pipes in. “You serious, man? You’re really gonna hang yourself by the balls again?”

  The voice is unmistakable—Lenny Grapinski.

  “Leave him alone, Lenny,” Charlie says.

  “Was I talking to you, Fungal?” Lenny sneers.

  Charlie purses his lips, shakes his head, and pulls his shirt over his head. I can see that, like me, he knows when not to push an issue.

  “Sorry I brought it up, Miles,” Charlie says, peering around Lenny’s head. Lenny gives Charlie the evil eye until Charlie finally takes the hint, grabs his things, and quietly leaves the locker room.

  “Seriously, Fiester.” Lenny focuses again on me. “What are you thinking? You’ve tried out three times. Three!” He holds up a fist, and I think he’s going to punch me. “Sixth grade,” he says, extending a finger. I realize he’s just using it to count. “You didn’t make it. Seventh grade,” he says, extending another finger, “was a bad sequel, and then in eighth grade you became a three-peat offender.” He extends a third finger and shakes it in my face. “That’s gotta be a record.”

  Turning away, I close my gym locker. He’s not looking for an answer to his question, but even if he were I wouldn’t know how to explain it to him. I’m not sure he or anyone else would understand. It’s just something I have to do.

  “Fiester, are you ignoring me?” He puts his grizzly-sized hands on my shoulder and spins me around.

  Under the clasp of his claws, I don’t move, although inside I’m scared shitless and running to the farthest place my mind will take me. We stare at each other for a few seconds. He’s breathing fire. I’m inhaling death.

  “Lenny, let’s go,” a guy behind him interrupts.

  Still glaring at me, Lenny snorts. “You’re gonna tank.” Visible plumes of air are coming out of his nostrils and curling up around his face. “You’re wasting your time.” By some miracle he lets go, and with one final grunt he walks away. Discreetly, I check to make sure my bowels didn’t release inside my pants. I think I’m okay and I’m still alive. A small but notable victory.

  Charlotte

  Lani meets me at the end of the day by my locker. “I’m here,” she says, making it sound like she’s out of breath even though I know she didn’t run. “Don’t panic. I know you’ve been dying to see me since lunch, but fret no more. I made it. Another day down and I’m still alive.”

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hmm.” She purses her lips. “That was not the jubilant welcome I was expecting.” She motions behind her. “If you want, I can go away, come back, and we can try this again?”

  At the same moment, Grayson walks by. “Charlotte!” he waves with CD in hand. “Thanks again!”

  I nod and wave back.

  Beside me, Lani’s lower lip is hanging down. “Okay. Who. Was. That?”

  “Grayson Miller,” I tell her. “He’s in my algebra class. I sit next to him.” I try to make it sound like it’s nothing.

  “And you didn’t tell me this yesterday?”

  “There’s not much to tell,” I say. “He’s just a guy in my algebra class.”

  “Uh-huh,” she narrows her eyes skeptically then blurts out, “So, what’s he like? Where’s he from? Why is he thanking you?”

  Before I get a chance to respond, Lani takes in a quick breath and clutches my arm.

  “Aw, shit,” she grumbles, narrowing her eyes. Her sour expression gets more tart by the second. “I knew she was here somewhere. I can’t believe I haven’t run into her yet.” My head flips in the direction she’s staring. It’s Vanessa Meyers. Next to her is Pixie Haircut, who I’ve since discovered is named Renee, and behind them are a couple other girls. They’re headed straight toward us. We don’t move.

  Vanessa walks right up to Lani and, with her books pulled into her chest, she smirks. “This is the problem with public school,” she says to Pixie Haircut while glaring at Lani. “Any half-wit can attend.”

  Lani’s lips slowly curl up into an overdramatic smile. “Whaddaya know,” she says to Vanessa. “I would not have believed it if I didn’t witness it with my own eyes, but trash can walk and talk.”

  Sucking in a breath, I poke Lani in the side as inconspicuously as I can, hoping she will take the hint and be quiet. I don’t want to get into a catfight.

  Fortunately, Vanessa doesn’t claw back. “Cute.” She smiles with a chuckle. “Real cute.”

  Pixie Haircut smirks beside her. “Let’s go, Ness. Don’t waste your time with these nerds.”

  Vanessa nods. “Yeah. We definitely have better things to do.”

  Lani keeps a missile-lock glare on Vanessa until she is practically out of sight. “Ness?” she says, choking out a laugh when they’re out of earshot. “Did that she-man just call her Ness?” She huffs. “She’s a ‘Ness,’ all right, Loch Ness monster. God, I can’t stand her,” Lani seethes. “And what is she wearing? She looks like an eighty-year-old woman with that ruffled sheath. Who wears ruffles anymore?”

  “I forgot to tell you. She’s in my algebra class, too,” I say.

  Lani grabs my arm and looks at me with wide eyes. “No way. Are you serious? Did she say anything to you? ’Cause if she did, I’ll—”

  “It’s fine.” I shrug. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “Are you sure? ’Cause I can spike her soda with Pepto-Bismol, or superglue her locker shut.”

  “Lani, you won’t do those things. Come on, let it go. I just want to get through our freshman year without any incidents,” I say.

  “Fine,” she promises. “I’ll do my best, but if Loch Ness plays dirty...” Lani glances at her watch. “Aw, shoot!” she says, not finishing her sentence.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I’m late.”r />
  “Late for what? All the buses are still here.”

  “I’m not taking the bus. My mom’s picking me up. I have to help her take the quads for a doctor’s appointment. “Call me later! I want all the details about Mr. Algebra.”

  “I already told you there’s nothing to tell!” I shout back.

  If she hears me, she doesn’t let on, but I’m pretty sure she heard me and chose to ignore it.

  On the bus, I join Miles in our usual seat.

  “Guess what happened after gym class?” he says right away, sounding as excited as Miles can possibly sound.

  “I don’t know.” I try to come up with something. “Did they tell you that you never have to go to back again?” Miles loathes gym class.

  He shakes his head. “Lenny was walking out of the locker room when Mr. Brack, our teacher, was walking in. Mr. Brack didn’t see Lenny and knocked him over.”

  “No way,” I say.

  “It gets better,” Miles tells me. “Lenny wasn’t looking, so when he fell onto the floor he didn’t know that it was Mr. Brack who ran into him. Lenny flipped out. He started swearing at some kid who walked in behind Mr. Brack, thinking it was him. He’s so mad he doesn’t realize Mr. Brack is standing right next to him. Anyway, Lenny ends up pushing the kid into a locker and busting his nose.” I gasp. “Yeah. It was bad. Mr. Brack had to restrain Lenny and practically carried him down to the principal’s office.”

  “Is that why he isn’t on the bus?”

  Miles nods. “He was given after school detention for a month. We’re Lenny free for thirty days, on the way home at least. We’ll still have to see him in the morning.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “I’ll take it.” This is one of those rare glass-half-full moments I have to appreciate.

  Miles

  Ten o’clock Eastern, seven o’clock Pacific, the phone rings. I pick up before the first ring is even finished. I know who it is. “Hello?”

  “Hey, bud!”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “How’s it goin’?” he asks.

  “Pretty good,” I say. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay.” He coughs. “I think I’m catching some cold. There’s a bug going around. Sheila was sick a couple weeks ago. I’m sure I caught it from her.” Sheila is my dad’s girlfriend.

  “That sucks,” I say.

  “Eh, I’ll live.” A heavy silence rests on the line. “So...what’s going on? What’s new?”

  “I started high school this week,” I remind him.

  “Oh, right. How was it?” he asks.

  “Good,” I tell him.

  “Good,” he says, leaving room for more dead space in the conversation.

  I never know what to say to Dad. I’m pretty sure he finds our conversations as much of a waste of time as I do. He calls once a week and once a week we basically say the same things. It’s hard to get personal through a phone, and the fact that he lives on the other side of the country only adds to the complexity of our awkward relationship. He’s the kind of guy who thinks being a good dad means sending money and providing insightful, fatherly advice. Unfortunately, he doesn’t do much of the first, and is he neither insightful nor fatherly with the latter.

  “So, how’s work?” I go with my usual line of questioning.

  “Busy.” He grunts. “I have a trip to India next week, and then they’re sending me to China. Guess I can’t complain too much, though. It pays the bills, ya know?”

  I don’t know. My mom pays our bills, however, instinct has taught me to ignore these types of comments. So, I say, “You think you’ll still be able to come out next month? I have those tickets to the baseball game that you said you wanted to go to.”

  He perks up. “Oh, yeah! I wouldn’t miss it. Of course I’ll be there.” The estimated probability that he will actually show up is twelve point seven five percent. I’ve literally calculated it.

  “Cool.” I wait for him to say something else.

  “So,” he starts, “uh...what else is going on? You have any big plans coming up or anything?”

  “Actually, I did want to let you know about something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I want to tell him about basketball tryouts, but I’m not sure how to bring it up. He wasn’t that excited about the idea of my trying out last year, and since I didn’t make the team then, I’m not sure how he’ll react this year.

  “What is it, bud?”

  My neck starts to feel hot and my palms sweat. “I was gonna tell you the next time I saw you, but I guess I’ll tell you now....” I’m so nervous.

  “Okay?” He’s wary.

  “Well...”

  “Go ahead,” he presses, starting to sound irritated.

  “I wanted to let you know that I...I signed up for tryouts. Basketball tryouts.” There’s a long silence.

  “Are you serious?” His voice changes. It’s a pitch higher. I can’t tell, but I think he’s excited.

  “Yeah,” I say, letting my shoulders relax. “And I also ran into one of the coaches. He knew who you were. He recognized my name and—”

  “What was the coach’s name?” Dad asks.

  “Coach Chad.”

  “Is that his first name or last name?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say.

  “Huh. Find out for me.”

  “Sure. Anyway, I saw your picture too...in the trophy case. I remember when you first took me into the school to see it. They moved it since then, but—”

  “Miles.” He cuts me off, sighs. “Look, bud. I’m not so sure this is the best idea.” There’s a long pause. “Do you really want to put yourself through this again?”

  “I’ve been practicing,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure you have, just don’t be disappointed if you don’t make it.” He said the same thing to me last year.

  “You think I won’t?” It’s a question posed as more of a statement, because I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

  Dad sighs. “I’m telling you this for your own good. There are just some people who aren’t athletically inclined.”

  Athletically inclined? It sounds like I have a disease. My stomach hurts.

  “But hey, I’m not saying you’re bad.”

  He’s not saying I’m good either.

  He continues. “Trying out when you’re in junior high is different from trying out when you’re in high school. There’s a lot more competition. I remember what it was like when I played, and the competition has gotten worse. You don’t want to embarrass yourself.”

  “Embarrass myself?”

  “I mean, not that you would, but we’ve been through this before,” he tries to explain.

  We have not been through this before. I’ve been through it before. He’s been unsupportive from afar and consistently absent from any and all school activities.

  He continues, “I think you know what I’m trying to say. I’m trying to help you. Kids in high school can be cruel.”

  Adults can be worse.

  “Seriously, just listen to your dad.”

  “Yeah. I understand.”

  He sighs. “I know you do. You’re a smart kid. You get it.”

  “I get it.”

  Dad starts to say something else, but pulls the phone away to cough.

  “Hey, Dad,” I jump in.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mom just called me,” I lie. “I think she needs my help with something. I gotta run.”

  “Oh, great.” From the relief in his tone, he seems as anxious to get off the phone as I am. “Well, hey, I’m glad I got the chance to talk to you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Think about what I said, okay? Maybe you can try out for something better suited for you. See if there’s an after-school club or math team or something. I think you’ll be much happier in the long run, but either way definitely do something extracurricular, ’cause colleges love to see that sort of stuff on your application. Just get involved, okay?”


  “Sure, Dad.”

  “Great. Hey, I love you, bud. I’ll see you soon?”

  That’s always the big question.

  3

  Charlotte

  On my way to algebra class the next day, a voice behind me whispers, “Feels like a death march, doesn’t it?” I turn around to find Grayson over my right shoulder.

  “Did you say something?” I ask, partly because I’m shocked to see him in such close proximity and partly because, while he may be looking in my direction, I’m not sure he’s actually directing his words at me.

  “Goin’ to algebra. It totally sucks. I don’t want to go,” he says.

  “Oh yeah, totally,” I pretend to agree. “Sucks.”

  “It’s up there with getting punched in the jaw,” he tells me. “And I should know.”

  “Someone hit you in the face?” I gasp. He’s an amazing healer.

  “My older brother. I was five. It was an accident, but still.”

  “That’s awful,” I say.

  “I know, and I relive it every day I show up for algebra. Hey,” he perks up, “we should skip.”

  “S…skip?” I stutter.

  “Yeah. Let’s just not go.”

  Imagine that the solar system suddenly shifts out of alignment, the letters of the alphabet are replaced by shapes, the tides begin to move in reverse, and all the music in the world starts playing backward. Can you picture the craziness? Okay, now imagine that you’ve been asked to put everything in order the way it was before. That’s how I feel right now.

  Grayson starts laughing, “I’m kidding! You should have seen your face. You’ve never skipped class before, have you?”

  Slightly embarrassed, I shake my head.

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. “Me neither, but for a second you thought I was badass didn’t you? Getting’ punched, skippin’ class...totally badass, right?”