“Knock it off,” says Beth Ann, slipping out of Marvo’s embrace and rushing back to her desk.
He laughs. “You started it.”
“I just . . .” She growls. “I need to find that stupid essay. I swear I left it in here.”
Marvo helps her search, rifling through the stacks of folders and loose papers on her desk. The bell rings. Beth Ann starts whimpering.
“We’ll find it,” he says. “Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!”
“Okay!” Marvo’s hands are pressed to the sides of his head.
I slide my backpack on and stand to leave. I don’t want to be late for class. I don’t want to get in the way. I avert my eyes and slowly head toward the door. That’s when I see what’s pinned to the bulletin board. “The Refugee Crisis of 1939” by Beth Ann Price.
I stop. Point to it. Clear my throat. “Is this it?”
Beth Ann spins, runs to the board. “Ohmygod. Yes!”
She grabs me by the shoulders and says, “I could kiss you,” then unpins her paper and hugs it to her chest. Marvo twirls her around, her red sneakers flying through the air. Red Converse. High-tops. I stare at them spinning and then bouncing up and down.
They’ve got yin-yang symbols on the toes.
Beth Ann . . . she’s the girl from the bathroom who asked if I was okay. No wonder she was staring at my shoes the other day. I dash out and am halfway down the hall when I think I hear someone calling “Vic!” But I don’t look back. I probably heard wrong, anyway, or they’re shouting for Victoria Ewing or Victor Santos or even someone named Nick or Rick. There is nothing more humiliating than turning when it’s not you they’re calling.
And it’s never me they’re calling.
8
IT’S NOT UNTIL LAST PERIOD that I realize I put my yearbook computer monitor to sleep but never closed the photos. If anyone sits down to use that workstation, they’ll see the way I zoomed in on random loners and think I’m really strange. The moment the bell rings, I head there instead of toward the buses.
I’m out of breath when I open the door and, in a rare show of mercy from the universe, the room is empty. But there’s a soda can next to the keyboard, and when I touch the mouse, a blank screen comes up.
Someone’s already closed all the photos, which means they’ve seen what I was doing. I push my chair away from the desk and leap up to race for the bus, slamming right into Marvo.
He clutches my upper arms to steady me. “Whoa there.”
“Sorry. Didn’t hear you come in,” I pant, stepping out of his grasp.
“You staying after?”
I shake my head, eyes darting to the clock above the door.
“You ran off before. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“No, I . . . bus,” I say. “I have to catch the bus.”
He waves off the urgency of my transportation needs. “I can take you—”
“No. I mean, thanks. But, no. It’s okay. I can make it.” I scoot to the door.
“Hey, Beth Ann and I meant to tell you before. There’s a party at Marissa’s house on Saturday,” he says. “All the yearbook staff is invited. You should go. It’ll be fun.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay. I’ll try,” I say, knowing full well that “walking into parties alone” is at the very top of a list even more terrifying than the Terror List. “Sorry, I have to go.”
“Go! Go!” He holds his hands up like he’s surrendering. “I’ll see you later, Vi.”
I fly out the door. Vi?
He called me “Vic” before. Now he’s suddenly calling me Vi? Pronounced vie, as in lie, pie, sigh, oh my, I’m gonna die. Vi as in Vicurious. I swallow the dread that’s creeping up my throat.
Has Marvo seen Vicurious? The very irrational, paranoid part of my brain starts worrying that my log-in for the yearbook computer is somehow linked to my Instagram and anyone could hack into it and see what I’ve been doing.
But I must quickly dismiss those thoughts, because the buses leave in about two minutes, which means I have to run. Like, full-out sprint. Which I can’t do. I mean, I know how to run, and I do have a modicum of athletic ability, but I can’t race down the halls that way. It draws too much attention.
So, I fast-walk as calmly as possible. When I reach the front of the school, the buses are closing their doors. The first in line is starting to drive away. I stutter to a halt, chest heaving. It’s an excruciating moment of indecision. Do I approach my bus, and risk that the driver won’t notice me and I’ll have to bang on the door or stand there looking ridiculous as he drives away? Or do I stand here looking ridiculous right now and risk that he does notice me and honks until I get on the bus?
It’s a no-win situation, so I’m considering a third option, which involves ducking behind a nearby shrubbery or sitting on the ledge by the school entrance as if I’m staying after on purpose.
Unfortunately, or fortunately—I’m not sure which—I don’t have to make any decision, because Lipton comes tearing out of the school shouting, “Wait! Hold the buses!”
He sprints past me, skids to a stop, and spins around. “Are you missing your bus, too?”
I nod feebly.
Lipton lunges for me, grabs my hand, and starts dragging me toward the departing line of buses. “What number?”
“Th . . . thirteen,” I sputter.
He tears toward bus thirteen, dragging me behind him and waving frantically. Also shouting. “Hold up!”
The bus in front of mine starts pulling out, but we reach bus thirteen before it moves. Lipton slaps his hand against the door. The driver sees us and pulls the lever that swings it open.
I want to disappear, slide right under the bus. I remember once a kid slipped on ice and fell beneath the bus and it ran right over his legs. Even that sounds slightly more appealing than boarding the bus right now with everyone staring.
Lipton beams at me like he’s just climbed Mount Everest, and the driver says, “You getting on or what?”
So I get on and slide to the window of the first seat that’s empty. Lipton takes off for one of the buses behind me, and someone shouts, “Go Tea Bag!” out the window. Everyone laughs. I concentrate on calming my gasping breath, making it shallow and quiet.
More than anything I want to text Jenna right now. Sinking low in my seat, I pull out my phone and log into Instagram instead, curious to see what Vicurious and her seventy-eight followers have been up to today. Except Vicurious doesn’t have seventy-eight followers anymore.
She’s got 1,723.
I blink at the screen. One thousand, seven hundred, twenty-three people are watching me? That’s more than the entire student body of Edgar H. Richardson High School. I try to imagine them all seated in the gym for a pep rally, filling the bleachers and the floor. I have that many followers?
I turn my phone off. Press my forehead to the cool window. Close my eyes.