I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. Melissa surveys me in the rearview mirror. I force my own pie smile.
“If they ask, Mrs. Haskell sent her records along two weeks ago, so there’s no need for her to go to the office that I know of.”
“Then we’ll go straight to homeroom. C’mon, Carey.”
Melissa looks as dubious as I feel, but another glance at her watch seals the deal.
“Okay. I’m counting on you, Delly, to get her to homeroom and her classes today.”
Melissa turns to me. “By the end of the day, you’ll be an old pro.”
Delaney snickers as I step out of the SUV and slide on an icy patch of asphalt. I fumble with my violin case, wondering why I even brought the dang thing. I must look like a doofus (Mama’s word for me). I wonder what word Delaney would use—something different, perhaps, but meaning the same. I barely have time to give Ness a hug and kiss, what with Delaney tugging on my arm and bossing me around.
“You’ll be right fine, Ness. Remember what I told you. Be a good girl. Have fun.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever,” Delaney says, waving at Melissa as she pulls out. “If you don’t get moving, we’ll both be late.”
I watch the SUV until it disappears, almost jumping out of my skin when a car horn blares behind me. I scurry up onto the sidewalk. Delaney pokes me in the chest.
“And don’t forget—you’re Carey Blackburn, not Benskin. Got it?”
Easy enough. Ever since the woods, I’ve been Carey Blackburn.
Saint Joseph, look out for my little sister today. Let the other girls be nice to her and let her make some friends. Please let it be a day of smiles. Her life’s been hard enough.
On beans I pray.
I take a deep breath and shift the knapsack strap so it’s no longer biting into my shoulder. My violin has a strap, too, superglued onto its case by Mama. I turn to Delaney, all prepared for her mocking words and breathy look of annoyance.
But she’s already gone.
I tug off the wool hat with the tassel on top (the tassel reminds me of saplings sprouting early) and stuff it into my coat pocket. I can only imagine what my hair looks like. I think of Delaney, hatless this morning, her hair perfectly swooped and curled.
Surreptitiously, I wipe the moisture from my upper lip. Flat hair (but clean), face glistening, lugging a scuffed violin case that screams secondhand . . . Delaney’s right. It’s hopeless.
Get a grip. All you have to do is ask someone where to go. What’s wrong with you? The woods at night were worse than this.
I follow a group of boys who are laughing and elbowing one another through the front doors, swept up like muskie in a strong current. Against the wall stands a formidable glass case filled with statues—trophies—and plaques. The glass is as clean as a mirror, and I catch myself, cheeks pinked, mouth frozen in an O like the choral mouths of Renaissance angels—or fish face. I press my lips together, swallow hard.
The hallway stretches infinitely to the left and right, with a staircase on either side of the glass case, the polished banisters curving up to the second floor.
“Move it. You’re blocking the way.”
A guy who must be a senior, going by his size and voice, pushes through the throng. I step backward as the river of faces whitewater by. I could kill Delaney on the spot, for two reasons: First, because she’s “ditched” me (her word) on my first ever day of school, and, second, because I’m actually scanning faces for a glimpse of her Barbie-doll good looks and peacock strut, since, whether I like it or not, she’s all I’ve got.
Pathetic. (My word.) But I’m sure she’d agree.
So many strange faces.
We gawk at one another like wild animals and humans, only I’m not sure who’s who.
Too many faces.
I swallow down the breakfast threatening to rise, pleading with myself, only in Mama’s voice.
That’s all you need, child, to be known forevermore as Puke Girl. Buck up! Life ain’t no picnic!
“Are you lost?”
I concentrate on his face as it slips from two back into one. I will myself to breathe.
A boy! I’m talking to a boy.
“Do-dooo I look lost?”
He cracks a smile.
“Actually, yeah. You have that befuddled, new-girl look on your face.”
I think of the girl in the glass case, her eyes wider than a cornered pheasant’s. His voice is steady as a handle, so I hold on to it, and he grins at me, holding my arm at the elbow to steady me.
“Where are you headed?”
“I’m a sophomore,” I manage to say, “and I have no idea where to go.”
“Do you know your homeroom number?”
I shake my head no.
“The teacher’s name?”
That I do know.
“Mrs. Hadley,” I say. “Do you know where she is?”
“I had her for homeroom last year. C’mon. I’ll take you.”
“Won’t I make you late?”
“You,” he says, eyes shining like Nessa’s when she’s up to no good, “will be my excuse. A decent one, for a change.”