I just stared at her, unsure of what to say.
“Hi, my name is Wyn. I just moved here with my brother, Ilyan, who has taken care of me since my parents died,” she said in a deeper, slower voice that seemed more natural for her. “I turned sixteen in January, but don’t have a driver’s license yet; I prefer to get around on my skateboard. My favorite band is Styx, which I know is way before my time; but I can’t help it—I love them. I like rice pudding with raisins and think ice cream is too sophisticated for me. I like to read, but not so much that my brain turns to mush. Oh! And I love long walks on the beach with handsome men with rippling biceps.”
We laughed together; it was the strangest introduction that I had ever witnessed.
“Well?” Wyn asked when the laughter had died down. She was staring at me, waiting for me to introduce myself in the same way.
“I’m Joclyn,” I began, my nerves swimming in my legs. “I live with my mom; my dad took off when I was little. I turned sixteen last week, and I prefer a long board to a skateboard.”
She grinned from ear to ear when I said that, glad for a connecting tie.
“Ummm… I love Fruit Loops and late-night British comedies. I don’t have a favorite band, but I like to listen to music when I’m doing homework,” I ended lamely, as if asking her a question.
“And the guy?” Wyn prompted.
My insides turned to jelly as an image of Ryland flashed through my mind.
“Oh, you know: tall, dark and handsome, and all that jazz,” I answered, flipping my hand to the side.
“Well, I guess you’ll do.”
“Do?”
“Seeing as it’s my first day, I need a friend, and I like you the best out of all the irritating cheerleaders and pompous nerds I have met today.” She smiled, and I couldn’t help but reciprocate.
I had always purposefully ostracized myself; however, there was something about Wyn that made me want to know her better. Of course—in the back of my mind—I wondered how long it would take for her to figure out something was wrong with me. Everyone always did, even without seeing my mark. I had always been just a little bit “off”.
“What class do you have next?” she asked, jumping to her feet when the bell rang.
“Advanced Drama.”
“Oh, goodie! Me, too!” She grabbed my hand and towed me out of the now empty cafeteria, jabbering about how lucky she was to have found me on her first day. It wasn’t until we had left the cafeteria that she realized she had no idea where she was going and opted to follow rather than lead.
I led her down the hall as she continued to jabber about how her first day had gone and all the irritating people she had met. I smiled at her description of our very eccentric American History teacher. “Small, withering, Mardi Gras attendee” fit him.
I hesitated outside the door of the drama room. I had been placed in the advanced drama class by mistake this year, and as such, it was a class filled with seniors, meaning that the notorious Cynthia McFadden was in this class. While it was unlikely that most people would mention anything about the cast list for Hamlet, I knew her kind. The probability that she would say something was high, and I preferred to steel myself against it.
The drama room was a large sunken performance space, surrounded by tiers of carpeted risers that rose up from the center of the room where you entered. Ms. Flowers, the drama teacher, always kept the room dimmed during performance time with stage lights blaring; but during class time, we were treated to fluorescent lighting that made every soda stain on the carpet pop out. A large thrift-store couch sat right in the middle of the lowest tier, looking out on center stage. Most of the students lounged on the different levels as they prepared for class to start, leaving the couch for Ms. Flowers’s use. Wyn ran off to find Ms. Flowers while I went to my usual alcove.
“Well, if it isn’t Smelly MyHoodie,” Cynthia McFadden’s voice echoed around the large space, causing several heads to turn. I crinkled my nose at her poor attempt at name-calling, waiting for the deeper onslaught.