The laughter continues when Jeremy Everling’s name is called, and he shouts “Dracula!” Then Brandon Fischer says “Werewolf!” and Ellie Good squeals “Mummy!” and so on, though Lipton Gregory very politely says, “Present.”
It’s not on my list—being laughed at—because that one goes without saying. The being-laughed-at is what makes all the rest of it so terrifying. I let my hair fall around my face and sink into a puddle behind my notebook.
The sub hushes everyone, but cannot silence the roar in my ears. It’s grown louder and more frequent since Jenna left two months ago, like an army of zombie vacuum cleaners that will not die. I open my book and pretend to read the assignment Mr. Braxley left for us, but I can’t focus. A small, folded square of paper appears in front of me. I don’t look up to see where it came from. It’s a joke, no doubt. A picture of Frankenstein. Neck bolts and all. I should brush it to the floor, or slide it to the back of my book.
I’m not exactly sure how long I’ve been staring at it when I hear Lipton clear his throat. I glance over and he darts his eyes at the square of paper and back at me.
Oh.
I unfold it. There are two words scrawled inside.
I’m sorry.
I hold the note in my hand for the rest of the class and try to clear my mind of any strange words I might inadvertently blurt out if asked another question. All I can think is, if Jenna had been here, she would’ve answered for me. She would’ve heard the sub calling my name and said, “She’s here!” And Frankenstein would never have happened.
I should’ve said “that’s okay” or at least smiled at Lipton when he passed me the note of apology, but I don’t think of it until later when I’m sitting on my book-on-the-toilet-seat in the bathroom eating a sandwich. Which is gross, I know, but the cafeteria and I are presently estranged and there’s nowhere else to go. I spent second period in here, and then decided I might as well stay through until lunch. The girl in the red Converse high-tops comes in and I scoot my backpack in front of my feet so she won’t recognize my shoes and think I live here. Even if I kind of do.
After three hours, my butt hurts and I’m starting to feel claustrophobic. The idea of staying in this stall any longer is getting worse than the prospect of leaving, so I gather my things at the next bell and make my way to fifth-period English. We’re reading 1984 together so it’s quiet and nobody looks at me, not even Hallie Bryce, who sits two seats up and one seat over. She holds her book at eye level rather than hunching over it like everyone else. A couple of girls behind her to the right are imitating her, sitting all prim with their books in the air and giggling, until Mrs. Day scowls at them.
Hallie doesn’t seem to notice or care. She just keeps reading with her impeccable posture. I guess when you’re that perfect, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.
About five minutes before class is over the door opens and one of the students who helps in the office delivers a yellow slip to our teacher and scurries out.
“Vicky Decker?” Mrs. Day’s eyes drift around the room. She looks right past me, which is exactly what I hope for in most situations. Except now it just means everyone else has to turn and point me out to her. They’re like a synchronized swimming team featuring me at the middle of their formation.
“Vicky?” Mrs. Day waves the yellow slip at me. “For you.”
Add it to the list: getting a yellow slip. So embarrassing. I slide out of my desk and walk to the front, my face burning. Back at my seat, I read the slip, which is from Mrs. Greene, the school psychologist. It’s an appointment for tomorrow at nine fifteen. Right in the middle of first period.
Yippee.
I make it through last period and practically fall onto the bus, where I text Jenna the whole agonizing story of my day.
She doesn’t text back for a really long time. Longer than usual. I start to worry something’s happened to her. A bus accident. Or worse, the kids in the back she’s been telling me about have messed with her. Stolen her phone, maybe. Which means . . . ugh. My humiliating texts about Lipton and Frankenstein and my guidance appointment are now being read by . . . someone not Jenna.
JENNA? You there?
I’m so relieved when the “. . .” appears, I could cry. I stare at the screen, waiting. The bus ride home is almost over and I’m holding my phone in both hands as if squeezing it tighter will make the message come through faster. Finally it is there in a blip and it says . . .
LOL
LOL? What does she mean, LOL? I scroll backward, worried I missed something funny. Maybe while I was dumping all the depressing details of my day, she shared something humorous that happened to her? Or maybe . . . did I make a joke I’ve forgotten?
But no. There’s nothing.
Someone shoves my shoulder.
I look up, and crap, we’re at my house. I grab my backpack and scurry up the aisle and down the steps and out the door to the curb. The bus rumbles away. I stand there catching my breath for a minute, then start across the driveway to our front porch, my backpack banging against my leg. Our house is a brick ranch with a gray roof. My mother keeps our shrubbery neatly trimmed at all times, the flower beds mulched and weeded and blooming with seasonally appropriate colors—orange and yellow chrysanthemums at present, perfect fall colors. She fusses over things like that because the house itself is so plain, she always says. Low and unassuming and overshadowed by its fancier two-story neighbors, like Jenna’s old house, which sits across the street diagonally from ours.
I try not to look at it too much. It seems so empty, even though new people are living there now.
My phone starts buzzing in my hand. It’s Jenna. I let it ring a few times so it doesn’t seem like I’m waiting for her call, even though I am.
“Hey.”
“Vicky. Oh my God.” There’s still a laugh in her voice.
“It wasn’t funny,” I say. “At all.”
She snickers. “Actually, it kind of was. Frankenstein? I’m dying.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“I’m laughing WITH you,” she insists.
“Wouldn’t that require me to be laughing? Because I clearly am not.” I pace the driveway. “I made a complete fool of myself, and everyone was laughing at me, and you’re the only one I can talk to about it, and now you’re laughing at me, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Jenna says. “I didn’t realize you were so upset.”
How could she not realize? She usually knows what I’m feeling before I do.
I drop my backpack on the front porch and sit on the step. “I was worried something happened to you on the bus.”
“Well . . .” There’s a singsong to her voice. “Remember that guy I told you about?”
“The one who was looking at you in a bad way, with the two girls?”
“I said I wasn’t sure if it was bad or good,” she says. “Turns out it was good. They invited me to sit with them. Well, he did. Tristan.”
“In the back of the bus?”
“I know, it’s so cliché. Cool kids in the back of the bus. But they are. Totally cool.”
I force a smile. “Tell me everything,” I say. “So I can live vicuriously through you.”