But me, I felt like a ton of bricks. Maybe it was my backpack. At least, something was weighing me down.
“Okay, spill what’s wrong,” said Jenah. “I’m trying to cheer you up, but something’s wrong and I’m betting some part of it has to do with Devon. And no, I don’t know how he changed his hair that fast, but I expect there’s a sink in a boys’ bathroom covered in black dye. Look, you’re not even thrilled about getting rid of that awful Pop Pop. Hey, over here. Talking, talking, me.”
We stopped at our locker and I thumped my backpack to the ground. I didn’t feel any lighter. I traded out my books for the American history text and Jenah grabbed a lime-green hair streak and clipped it next to the highlighter-yellow one.
“You’re always trying to help people out,” Jenah said. “And you like Devon. Why’d you suddenly change your mind about helping him?”
“Does he look like he needs our help?” I said.
“No,” admitted Jenah. “His aura sure was different. All purple-black.” She watched me stare into the hairy depths of the locker. “Cam,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
A billion things welled up inside me but I couldn’t say any of them, because they all traced back to the witch in my life.
Devon’s demon.
The destruction of the school.
The dragon’s loneliness.
“I don’t want to buy pig’s ears ever again,” is what finally came out.
“Okaaay,” Jenah said. She studied the air around me, like she did when she was looking at her invisible auras.
I could never figure out if she really saw anything. But again, who was I to judge? My frustration swirled around in my brain.
Jenah touched a finger to an invisible spot next to my shoulder, then shook her head. “Way too mustardy,” she said. “You and I. Need to cut class. You will tell me about the pig’s ears and the box of frogs.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, brushing her finger aside. “I can’t cut American history and you can’t cut English. You like English.”
“That’s why I can cut it,” said Jenah. “But fine. We’ll meet after school. You’ve got something you need to share and I’m here for you.”
The thought of sharing the awfulness that was the witch made my stomach churn. “I’ve got stupid algebra tutoring after school,” I said. I slung my backpack over my shoulders and turned. I tried to laugh off Jenah’s concern, but the words came out bitter and obviously false. “Anyway, there’s nothing to share.”
I strode off to American history and I didn’t look back.
*
As always, American history was full of cheesy videos (I could’ve cut, I know), AP biology was fascinating, and gym was sweaty. Biology’s my all-time fave, so it trumped my worries about Devon and his pixie-frogs for an hour. But when we started running boring hurdles around the track in gym, it all came pouring back.
Possibly it also didn’t help that Reese is in my hour of gym and she kept bringing girls up to me and telling me to tell them how cute Devon was.
It’s obvious that the only reason Reese is popular is because she’s Sparkle’s best friend, and not to be catty, but I’m pretty sure the reason Sparkle’s best friends with a dingy sophomore like Reese is because she’s rich and Sparkle isn’t. Reese herself is nice to everyone because it’s easy to be. She doesn’t pick fights or humiliate girls just for fun. Sure, this makes her mostly harmless and fools a lot of people. But put a girl like Reese who’s nice because it’s convenient next to someone like Celeste at the grocery store who actually believes in doing good for people, and you’ll see the difference. I’m not saying Reese was nice to purposely cover up a big malicious black-hearted void, although I’ve known girls like that. I’m saying she was a dim bulb who gave no thought to moral right and wrong, and whose superficial manners happened to be pleasant. I wouldn’t trust her farther than I could throw her.
Reese’s backbone today against her leader, Sparkle, was an unusual event, which is why I suspected it was demon inspired.
Because the rule of thumb here at Triple H is this: whatever Sparkle says, is so.
I told three girls on the hurdles that yes, Devon had green eyes, two girls in the shower that yes, Devon had floppy black hair, and one extra-persistent girl that no, I did not know his email, or his shampoo type, or whether or not he would like gifts of soda and cheese whirls left next to his locker.
By the time I got to the algebra classroom I was Devoned out. It was a relief to see someone sitting in Rourke’s room who was guaranteed not to ask me about Devon.
“Kelvin? Are you waiting for the tutor, too?”
“Kelvin is the tutor,” Kelvin said in his robot voice.
“Very funny. But I’m on to your sense of humor.”