And nervous. I hadn’t had that first-day-at-a-new-school experience since kindergarten. It’s not that I was worried about making friends; I just didn’t want to be noticed or bothered, and in a town this small, anyone that hadn’t lived here for three generations would be a source of gossip for weeks. I briefly considered skipping class to wander the town, but the little I’d seen was unimpressive and, anyway, I had zero cash.
I wandered back outside, pulling hard on the door twice to get it to actually close before studying the map. Mr. Warren was in room 3. Room 3 was ten feet to my left. I walked over and stared at the handle, knowing I had to open the stupid door eventually. Grabbing hold of the handle and expecting it to be warped and stuck like the office entry, I shoved too hard and pretty much fell into the classroom.
I pushed the door closed to cut out the cold draft that had swirled in after me, avoiding everyone’s eyes. A few students were sitting, others were lounging backward on their desks. Mr. Warren, an older man in a blue collared shirt, sweater vest, and khakis, was leaning back in the chair at the front of the room reading through a Dean Koontz paperback. He frowned as I waited awkwardly by the door and I wondered what on earth I could have done already to disappoint him. But then he smiled and he stood up, holding out his hand.
“You must be Caitlin,” he said as I stepped forward to shake it, very aware that everyone was staring at me. “Welcome. Have a seat anywhere.”
I nodded, then tried to find an empty seat. Tried, but failed. One girl just straight up stood in my way.
“You’re Caitlin Master?” the blond girl asked, standing half a head taller than me. She was built like a tank. I don’t mean she was fat; I mean it looked like she could wrestle bears.
“Holte, actually,” I said, trying to avoid this conversation.
“What?”
Something about her tone set my hackles on end. “My name,” I replied slowly, in case she couldn’t hear, “is Caitlin Holte.”
Ah, there was the anger again, fresh and raw, making me invincible and careless. So what if this tank-girl could wrestle bears? So what if everyone was staring at me again? I’d never been in a fight before. Maybe actually punching someone in the face instead of just wishing I could punch someone in the face would make me feel a little better.
The girl stared. Behind her, Mr. Warren watched us curiously over the top of his book. The moment stretched, and I could feel the eyes of the other kids on us.
Then, mysteriously, she relaxed. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said solemnly. “I know your aunt and uncle. Nice people.” She nodded at the other kids as if to say, “Come on; introduce yourselves.”
They murmured their names and smiled at me, but I forgot them immediately, overwhelmed by the abrupt turn of the conversation. After the last boy shook my hand, the tank-bear-girl said, “I’m Trish. Welcome to Stony Creek.”
The final bell rang. Mr. Warren stood and called everyone to attention, so I sat in the nearest empty seat, which happened to be next to Trish. My hands were shaking, and the classroom blurred in front of me slightly. Ever since the storm I’d been having dizzy spells. I chalked it up to remnants of the fever I’d come home with. That, or the rush of unused adrenaline that spiked my system when I’d briefly considered getting into a fight with Trish. The dizziness passed quickly and I slunk down in my seat, wishing for a lot of impossible things. It would be super great if my mom could somehow be not dead, but I’d settle for someone pulling the fire alarm so I could get out of here. Alas, no such miracle occurred.
For the most part, the junior class stayed together because there were virtually no electives to take at a school this size. Appearing to be engaged with my homework, I spent most of the day dodging conversation with Trish and the few brave others who asked me questions. I was actually just sketching in the margins of my books. I figured that counted as homework, given my career aspirations. People got the hint pretty quickly that I wasn’t much into chitchat, and with Trish’s line about being sorry for my loss, I guess they all understood why. Pretty sure I was giving off a newly minted orphan vibe.
First, second, and third period passed by in a blur of information that didn’t seem all that important for me to remember. Fourth was with a Mrs. Leckenby for art, which was mostly “sketching” with crusty markers and cheap tempera paint. I found a clipboard and tilted my paper toward me so no one could see the punk-rock/Victorian-crossover vest I was doodling. Frills and spikes, pale pink and black—not the most original idea in the world, but I was understandably off my game, and Mrs. Leckenby didn’t seem to care much what we made as long as we stayed quiet.
At lunch, everyone ate outdoors under the covered picnic tables. Trish stuck by me, but I was almost glad when Norah abandoned her fellow freshmen to plunk down her backpack at my table. She didn’t say much, but she was trying, which was more than I could say for myself.
I was just about to take a bite of my sandwich when I saw him out of the corner of my eye.
The him.