Gravity

chapter 3

Hugh drove me up to Hawthorne the next morning. He had to get to his gallery early, so I arrived an hour before school was due to start. Idling the car in front of the stone steps, we sat for a moment in silence. I knew he practically itched to give me a pep talk, and I braced myself to pretend to agree with everything he said.

"You'll do fine," he assured me simply, leaving it at that. I felt almost let down. He had more faith in me than I did. I stepped out of the car reluctantly, and watched his Mazda drive off, wondering if I should have begged him to let me ditch. Just one day, although I knew if I took the day, it would turn into a week. Maybe longer.

Three years ago, Hawthorne High had been ripped down and rebuilt on its old foundation. I remember riding past the construction site, watching the workers dangle precariously from support beams inside. Now Hawthorne was as an impressive structure, the jewel in the crown that showed the state that Hell took academics seriously. More than a few seniors were accepted into Ivy League schools every year.

Tugging at the hem of my shirt, I hoped my choice was all right. The shirt was black with capped sleeves. I wondered if I looked too depressed in the color, or rather lack of color. I hadn't dressed in anything but pajamas and sweat clothes for a while, and I had no idea about trends. Should I have worn the blue striped one I debated, that was now lying on my bed? I contemplated picking up a magazine when Claire and I went school supply shopping, but the grinning girl on the cover with her laser-white teeth put me off.

I knew I was just putting off the inevitable. I walked up the steps and opened the door, walking inside. A small vestibule stood between me and the interior. HAWTHORNE HELLCATS HAVE SPIRIT read a banner in the school colors of purple and gold.

Last chance to run, a voice in my head coaxed. You can still get out of here.

I wrenched the glass door open instead. The smell of school flew into my nostrils, familiar but not at all comforting. Like canned spaghetti, with an undertone of evil. I knew my way around now, so at least there was that. Hawthorne architecture could be a maze to the uninitiated, as I discovered last year. All the freshman and sophomore classes were conducted on the bottom two levels, yet I found myself more than once wandering around on the top floor, beneath towering seniors as they giggled at my lack of direction.

I pulled out my schedule and walked around, finding my classes to kill time. Better that I know where to go than get lost or be late. Subjects were divided into hallways, and I soon recognized the orientation from memory. Being in school felt as strange as I anticipated it would, but in a different way. I felt like I was sleepwalking through the halls, like I wasn't really there.

The only other people around were a few of the office staff and a custodian. Most people spent their off time in the commons, which was not only a cafeteria and activity center but a hang out spot. But I didn't feel like going there right now. It felt like if I did, I would set in motion the actual start of the school year. I wanted to hold it off for the few minutes of freedom that remained.

Instead I went looking for the library. Disappointment hit me when I saw it was still housed in a tiny, pathetic corner room with no windows. Not that I had expected a change. Well, I had hoped for one, but I assumed the worst. One would think that with the seemingly bottomless wallets that funded the school's rebuilding, they could have afforded a decent library. But they had other concerns.

I peered in the window at the four rows of ancient paperbacks, all probably donations from people cleaning out their cluttered closets. Hugh told me that the town library was under renovation now that Hawthorne was finished, but I didn't want to get my hopes up about that, either. Considering how Hawthorne had fared, renovating could mean emptying the nonfiction section and installing a basketball court.

A local committee called the Thornhill Society held the responsibility for the renovation projects. They'd only sprung up last year, amidst a bunch of newspaper articles touting what a fresh change they would bring to the town. To my eyes, nothing needed to change, but apparently the adults thought differently. Thornhill provided all of the funding, through fundraising and their own benefaction, and no one was allowed to forget it. All of the wealthiest local families were members, the ones who lived in the gated community at the edge of Hell with perfect lawns and obscenely huge houses. An inch at a time, Thornhill owned a little more of the rest of us.

I passed a door marked BASEMENT ACCESS. A chain ran between the handles, secured with a sturdy new steel lock. A lot of my classmates used to go down there to fool around and drink during class hours, so it didn't surprise me that the school finally took preventative measures.

I started to move on, but stopped when I thought I heard voices. Listening, I frowned. Whispering, and from close by. The hallway in front of me was empty, and there were no TVs or radios nearby that I knew of. Besides, it wasn't that kind of sound.

I turned to my left. The voices seemed to be coming from behind the basement access door. I crept towards it, part of me thinking the whole thing was ridiculous. The door was locked, how could anyone be behind it? The whispers grew louder as if in answer to my thoughts; I could almost make out what was being said, but the sounds seemed to be not quite words.

Pressing my ear flat against the surface of the door, I listened. The voices stopped immediately, so fast that I pulled back. After a second, my breath picking up speed, I pressed my ear against the door again, harder. Listening for anything at all. Nothing but silence greeted me.



Painting and Drawing was my last class, located in the electives hallway, across from woodshop. Every elective, whatever that meant, was jammed in the hall, like leftovers. I hate Art class, only because I'm terrible at it. My best artistic skill is gluing sequins on Popsicle sticks, and even those turn out crooked. But Hugh insisted I take it every year, because art is good for the soul. Or because he couldn't admit to himself that he hadn't passed on the painting gene.

In every hall I'd visited, the gaudy purple lockers stood open, airing out after sitting the summer closed. I walked past the little metal spaces and found my room. Cupping my hand, I peered into the window. I couldn't completely tell with the inside lights off, but it looked bigger than the room Intro to Art was held in last year.

A loud bang ricocheted off of the walls. I jumped back a foot, clutching my chest. My mind reeled at the possibilities. A shooter, a bomb... But the sound had been distinctly metallic. I turned to look down the hall, fearful thoughts racing through my head.

All of the lockers were shut. Every single one.

I ran down and out of the hallway, heart hammering. At the same time, my mind reached desperately to contemplate logical reasons. No forced air. No breeze. Nothing to cause the doors to shut, especially all at the same time. Nothing rational.

I turned back over my shoulder and gasped. Every locker door stood open again, exactly as they had been when I first came down the hall. But my ears were still ringing from the sound.

Forcing my body to turn fully around, I walked cautiously down the hall, waiting for whatever trick was being played on me to happen again. But nothing happened. I pushed one door with the tip of my finger and it swung shut gently, sliding into the frame.

How did I just imagine that? I thought. Am I losing my mind?

I walked quickly out of the electives hall and down to the commons. It was very possible.

With polished, white tile flooring and a domed cathedral ceiling, the commons looked like something out of a high class college. Of course, that was probably the exact idea of whoever designed Hawthorne 2.0. The walls were already covered with school memorabilia and flyers, announcing football games and charity drives set in motion. The room was really the central hub of the school, long windows lining the far wall to let in filtered light. If a person were looking for someone when classes weren't in session, odds are they were hanging out in the commons.

I camped at one of the side tables, trying not to think about what had just happened. Avoidance was my way of dealing with everything these days. Whatever caused the sound had to have a logical explanation, even if I couldn't think of one at the moment. Maybe I only imagined the lockers being shut, because of disorientation from the sound. I clutched to the explanation to try to still my thoughts.

Putting in my earphones, I watched other people trickling in to the room. My music sounded strange in the school setting, almost off key, the lyrics too serious. I wondered idly why school couldn't be like in the movies, where everyone, even the nerds, had perfect hair and interesting plotlines. Maybe it was that way for some people.

The bell rang faster than I had anticipated. I went to homeroom. We were assigned our lockers first out in the hallway. Hesitant due to my strange experience earlier, I put in my combination, and peered inside the locker. Other than the smell of industrial strength disinfectant, there was nothing remarkable about it. Our teacher called us back into class, and I didn't give it a second thought.

Out of place didn't begin to describe how I felt. I was like a thistle in a garden of roses and lilies. I shuffled behind everyone else and took a seat in one of the front desks. I had forgotten how uncomfortable school desks were.

A girl I had often talked to before sat next to me, her hair in a high ponytail. She was wearing a t-shirt with our school logo on it. I remembered her name was Amy. Or Ashley.

"Hi!" I said, trying to attempt a smile. It felt like a grimace. My voice sounded like I had been sucking on a helium balloon, far too enthusiastic this early in the morning. I caught the barely perceptible widening of her eyes.

"Hi," she muttered, looking at me like I was going to explode in front of her. She waited for me to say something else, so of course my mind went blank. Without another word, she turned in her seat to talk with the girl to her left.

I had been dreading this kind of reaction, but it still stung. I hadn't been in contact with anyone since July. I turned my phone off, deleted my email without reading it. It wasn't like I blamed them for their feelings; they were probably hurt by my bold insensitivity. But for a long time, I couldn't stand talking to anyone. The words felt wrong. But now I was lonely, even if it was by my own making.

Our principal, Mr. McPherson, came over the intercom and greeted us.

"Good morning, students," his voice boomed over the loudspeaker. "Welcome to a brand new school year. I hope you're all ready to begin. All it takes is a positive attitude and you can persevere."

I try to have respect for authority figures. But McPherson was an exception. He always favored the rich and athletic kids over the rest of us, to the point of absurdity. And he exuded insincerity. He wore ugly suits straight out of the 1970s, with leather elbow patches. I wondered if he still had the large moustache he had grown to distract from the comb-over on his balding head.

"I also wanted to extend thanks to the Thornhill Society for the new additions to the gym," he said. "As well as the beautiful stone fountain out front."

I hadn't even noticed the fountain. Typical of the kind of things their money went to, sports-related trappings and aesthetics. I tuned out the rest of his ramblings.

I went to Geometry first period, the class I was least looking forward to. My math teacher, Mr. Vanderlip, was a twitchy little man with a paisley tie. He quickly revealed that he favored those good at the subject. On his classroom billboard, photos of his calculus classes and math competition teams over the years were perfectly aligned in straight rows, complete with labelmaker tags.

Math was number one on my list of things I dreaded. Probably because I am not the most logical person. I barely squeaked through Algebra last year, so the step up in difficulty worried me. My mother was a math genius, but she never had the time to teach me anymore. When I was younger, we used to sit at the dining room table after elementary school, carefully filling in worksheets. Rumor had it that Mr. Vanderlip could be really hard, and he didn't like to offer extra help. I assumed I would be royally screwed if I didn't pay the utmost attention.

He jumped right into the textbook with no introduction, covering the board with chalk. Then he berated the first student who raised his hand and had the answer slightly wrong.

"This is remedial stuff! I can't believe that you don't know the difference between a supplementary angle and a complementary one," he squawked, then visibly clucking his tongue.

As he turned his back, his striped shirt wrinkling, I watched everyone else debating whether they should ever raise their hands again. It could be a very quiet class if this kept up.

I could follow the basics, mostly lines and angles. Relief was slowly spreading through me; maybe it wouldn't be such a nightmare. That feeling only lasted until he assigned three lessons for the night's homework, when any hope I had deflated like a broken balloon.

"We need to blow through the easy stuff," he responded to our collective groan.

At Hawthorne, physical education was a required subject for two years. Not surprising for a school so concerned with athletics. I wasn't bad at sports, I just wasn't interested. I could generally hold my own when forced to engage in them, but I would much rather have been reading. Claire had tried enrolling me in volleyball and cheerleading classes, but to no avail.

I went to the girl's locker room to change. It reeked of raspberry body spray. A few girls were primping in front of the full length wall mirror on one side, one of them using a flat iron on her hair. The practicality of styling hair before we all got sweaty made no sense to me. I often wondered if I had been born too much of a tomboy, even though I thought I had the basics of primping down.

I found the locker with my name taped on it, misspelled as usual. I was not a font. As I changed, I overheard two girls gossiping on the bench by me. Great, and in the worst possible class they could be in.

Lainey Ford and Madison Taylor — the exact two people I didn't want to see ever again in my lifetime. The most popular girls in school. Actually, Lainey was the most popular, and Madison orbited her like a loyal planet around a sun, fully aware that anyone could replace her.

Between them, they had enough fake blonde hair to make a wig store. Lainey's family was obscenely rich, and could probably buy out every business in town. Her father already owned several of them, including the tanning salon, which was why Lainey's skin glowed like an orange creamsicle. I knew both of their parents were card-carrying members of Thornhill.

"I know Henry likes me already," Lainey bragged, fixing the concealer underneath her eyes as Madison held up a compact mirror. Gossiping about some boy, as usual.

"How do you know that?" Madison asked. The silence that followed indicated Madison's ignorance. Lainey apparently wanted her to stew in it.

"Because we're perfect for each other," Lainey said simply.

I looked over at her as she sat up a little straighter and tilted up the chin of her heart-shaped face.

"Have you ever seen such a hot guy?" she asked rhetorically. "There's no way I'm letting anyone else in this school touch him. The first girl that gets near him, I'll go ballistic."

He must be something, I thought, throwing my street clothes in the locker and spinning the combination lock. Lainey had been in love with Ambrose Slaughter, the aptly named school bully, for years. I figured I'd hate this Henry, if she was so keen on him. Another idiot more concerned with the label on his jeans than the brain in his head. Another addition the school didn't need.

I walked out of the locker room and into the brightly lit gym. The only changes I noticed were new basketball hoops, but I'm sure our wealthy benefactors had dumped a bunch of money into something. Oh well, it was theirs to spend. It didn't help me to keep internally complaining about it, no matter how unfair it seemed to me.

Coach Fletcher had also been my gym teacher last year. A more utterly humorless woman did not exist. Gym class was a battlefield, and we were the soldiers in training.

"Sit down below the bleachers," she instructed us. We complied, sitting cross-legged and waiting for instruction. When everyone was seated, she regaled us with the essentialness of gym to a well-rounded academic career.

"This isn't a goof off class," she barked. "I know some of you may think, "Ha ha, it's phys ed, we can play around." Well, cut that idea right out. Physical education is incredibly important to your well being. It's essential you learn how to be part of a team, not to mention gain coordination and stamina."

I squinted up at the round fluorescent lights. They seemed to be a million miles away, and I felt microscopic. I was still half-asleep, and I rubbed my tired eyes.

"First up today is the fitness test," Coach said. "For any of you who weren't here last year, at the start of every year, each one of you performs a series of physical tests so I can determine what skill level you fall into."

The results of the test didn't seem to make much of a difference in the activities we ended up doing, but it was a Hawthorne formality. Just a check mark on a form.

Situps were first. I could make it up to thirty before I had any issue. My neck started to burn and I dropped back down. Lainey and Madison were blowing through what seemed like hundreds of them. When the time came for pushups, most of the girls opted to do them against the wall, giggling about their boobs.

Then we lined up and had to run several yards, from one masking tape line to another and back as the Coach timed it with her stopwatch. The serious look on her face was that of someone training contenders for the Olympics. I waited in line, vaguely aware that Lainey stood right behind me. She kept nudging me forward, a centimeter at a time.

"Why is everyone so slow today?" she huffed. I imagine she was rolling her eyes at the back of my head. "This is going to take forever."

Lainey was one of the stars of the female basketball team, just another reason that made her a darling in the eyes of McPherson and the rest of the school faculty, Coach included. Lainey was the only one Coach ever smiled at, no matter how polite anyone else was. Coach always regarded me as a troublemaker, probably because Jenna caused mischief in her class. Once she even stuck a post-it note with "woof" Sharpied on it to the back of Coach's jersey.

"Hurry up," Lainey squawked the second the kid in front of me was finished. Irritation bubbled up inside me. "Some of us have lives."

Since I could not for the life of me come up with a snappy comeback, I got into position. Crouching down, I sprinted to the end of the line and back in just under forty seconds.

"Not bad," Coach said, nodding at her stopwatch as if it had been in control of my movements.

"Not good either," Madison said under her breath, and Lainey giggled. Lainey's pointy shoulder made contact with my collarbone as I retreated to the bleachers. I rubbed the sore spot. This was not going to be fun.