It’s dark.
This is the scariest part of the whole journey. If I get caught, I’ll definitely be in trouble, because there’s no logical reason for me to be here. That thought spurs me to run until my toes hit the stage.
I climb the stairs, then slip behind the curtain. Back here it’s even darker, and it smells like dust and candle wax. For a moment the air seems to thicken, as if something is standing right behind me.
I hold my breath and stretch out my arms like I’m blind. I keep stumbling until my hands close over what I was looking for—the black iron ladder bolted to the wall. I climb until, finally, there’s light streaming in through the dirty attic window.
The attic is massive, with countless trunks and cardboard boxes overflowing with hats and plastic swords. In one corner there’s a giant papier-maché dragon with a glittering red eye.
The first time I came up here, I was so afraid someone might discover me any minute that I spent the whole period pacing. But then I found the passageway.
Behind the old armoire I locate the two crooked boards dangling from their nails like fence posts. I push them to one side to see the room beyond this one. In the crawl space between the attic and my secret room, the floorboards are crisscrossed, and there are a couple of feet of dark void where there is no floor at all. I have to jump.
And now I’m standing in my room. The walls and floors are much darker and smell older here. It’s empty and just big enough for me to lie down in one direction but not the other. There’s one window, round like a porthole on Elian’s ship, where I can look down at the courtyard where no one ever goes.
In my room that feeling, the one that sits at the bottom of my chest, practically disappears. I can see all four corners, and no one knows this place exists but me.
When the bell rings for lunch, I sit and pull the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an Elian Mariner book from my backpack. This story is one of my favorites. Sometimes Elian just goes on adventures, but sometimes he saves people. In this one he saves an entire planet.
WHEN I WAS a sophomore, Principal Pearce read some study on the inverse correlation between temperature and academic performance, and there was no turning back. He cranked the AC so high that even if it’s scorching out, inside we have to dress for a Siberian winter. The cafeteria’s the only room in the school that was spared his policy of Freezing Us Into Learning, so the second I walk in, I start tearing off clothes.
At the same time I twist my body sideways, winding through the dangerously crowded room. My friends and I have to cram into a table that shouldn’t seat more than ten, which means finding a chair’s like a game of Twister. When you combine the sudden heat, stripping, and intertwining limbs, lunch is basically soft-core-porn-time.
I manage to squeeze in next to Emerald, and our thighs press together. As usual, her reddish-blondish-brownish hair is up and twisted into a complicated style most girls would save for prom. Her eyes lock onto mine—so blue I’d figure she was wearing contacts if I hadn’t known her since the fifth grade.
“Hi.” I smile, kind of mesmerized by her, like always. She looks like a 1950s starlet with her perfectly painted red lips, pale skin, and the mole on her cheek—basically way too glamorous to be sitting here eating greasy french fries out of a Styrofoam container. There are about a million things I want to say to her right now, but I’m distracted.
Across from me, Camila’s just whipped the scarf off her neck to reveal a shirt so low-cut that if she sneezes, her nipples are going to fall out. I try to pretend I’m not looking, mostly out of courtesy to her twin brother, Matt, who’s sitting beside her. The pair of them stare at me for a second in that eerie twin way, reminding me how much they look alike—both small with dark hair and skin. When we were kids, they dressed alike too, till she started wearing tight skirts and four-inch heels.
I tear my eyes away from Camila when Charlie slams down his tray, looking even more menacing than usual, then with great difficulty folds himself into a seat. I used to envy his height till it got to ridiculous levels. When you’re six foot five, you just don’t fit anywhere. He’s forever complaining about his cramped legs and sore knees. But then again, he’s forever complaining, period.
Case in point: “Fucking freshmen. Do you know how long it takes to get through the line now?”
I do in fact know. He’s been telling us every day this year. Allison (Charlie’s on-and-off-again girlfriend since sophomore year) sits on his thigh, which is as long as a freakin bench, and gives him a sympathetic pat. Calming Charlie is a big part of her job description. The tall blonds look enough alike to be another pair of fraternal twins—the time I said that aloud to Charlie didn’t go over so well, though.