Kat and Meg Conquer the World
Anna Priemaza
CHAPTER 1
KAT
HELL IS NOT BRIMSTONE AND SCORCHED FLESH; HELL IS BEING A HIGH school freshman for the second time. Hordes of cocky, confident upperclassmen swarm through the hallway behind me on their way to the cafeteria, jostling my backpack or my shoulder like I’m nothing. Because I am nothing to them. Just a freshman. An insignificant particle who can’t get her locker open fast enough to move out of the way of the lunchtime rush.
I yank at my lock once, twice, three times, before it finally clicks apart and I can swing open the forest-green metal door to use as a shield. In Legends of the Stone, I don’t bother using a shield, since enemies never get close enough for me to need one. But I need one here. I hide behind it, finally safe from the wandering elbows and careless shoulders, as I slide off my backpack and start to line up my textbooks on the top shelf.
I’ve made it to Friday, but Friday’s not over yet. I count my breaths as I try to block out all the chatter behind me.
One mathematics . . . two science . . . three Ancient Civilizations . . .
Being a noob freshman again would be easier if it was because I had failed all my courses. That would mean it was my own idiotic fault. But I’m not a freshman again because I failed. I’m a freshman again because Alberta and Ontario hate each other. Which is worse than if I had failed, because it’s so entirely out of my control.
“High school should start in grade nine,” says Ontario.
“No way, loser, it should start in grade ten,” says Alberta, for no reason other than to be spiteful.
And who suffers as a result? Innocent students like me, dragged through the crossfire by my parents, who thought it was a brilliant idea to move from Ontario to Alberta just before my grade ten year.
My English text drops into my backpack with a loud thud, and I hold my breath, hoping the noise doesn’t draw anyone’s attention. But the throng behind me is already thinning, and I’m still a nothing, thank goodness. I let my breath out slowly. Grab my other textbooks and my lunch and slide them more carefully into my bag.
I suppose my parents should be left out of it. They’re just trying to look out for Granddad. And he really does need looking after. His skin is so thin and papery these days that when he leaned in to hug me after we arrived, I thought the zipper of my hoodie might catch on a wrinkle and tear away an entire gray sheath of it. But when I drew myself away, it was still intact; no recesses of red flesh contrasted against his colorless skin like he’s a wereboar that’s been sliced open with a legendary sword. Thankfully. I hope I die before I get that old, because I don’t think I could handle worrying about my skin peeling off like paint from an abandoned barn.
I click my lock shut, swing my backpack on, and turn to face the almost-empty hallway. My throat constricts. Now what? There’s no way I’m going to the bustling cafeteria, with its fluorescent lights and jabbering students and judging eyes. I don’t know anyone, so anywhere I sat, I’d be an isolated doe, an easy kill for a hungry wolf pack. Their stares would tear me apart, and within seconds, my bloody carcass would be spread across the floor. Not literally, of course. But I’m still not doing it.
For the last few days, I’ve eaten outside, in a forgotten corner of the school—back against the cold, coarse brick, face to the sun’s soothing heat.
But today the rain’s coming down so fast the sky’s practically melting, so outside isn’t an option. I have nowhere to go. I force myself to go anyway. To wander down the hallway, one step after another. To hurry past the couple making out in the back stairwell and past the group of girls who chatter away like they’ve known one another since kindergarten. Because they probably have.
I pass a girls’ washroom. I could eat in there, out of the way. But I don’t really want to munch on my sandwich to the soundtrack of toilets flushing. Besides, the washroom may sound solitary, but there are always people in there.
So not the washroom. But then, where? I’m running out of ideas.
I hear, instead of feel, my breathing quickening into short, uneven spurts. Get it under control, Kat, I chide myself. Just breathe. One wolverine . . . two toilet stalls . . . three . . . three what . . . three wild mushroom soup . . .
Mom made me see a counselor in Ontario after I had one of my panic attacks in the canned vegetables aisle of the grocery store. The store manager had to call my mom to come get me. I’d have been painfully embarrassed if I wasn’t too busy focusing on my inability to breathe.
The counselor was useless, mostly, so I’d never admit to her that the breathing exercises she taught me actually help.
“Try breathing,” she said. “That’s right, nice and slowly. Count them in your head. One elephant . . . two elephant . . . three—”
“Why elephants?” I interrupted, crinkling my nose. I’m not sure why it bothered me, because I do like elephants.
“It doesn’t have to be elephants, Katherine.” She always said Katherine, even though I had specifically told her it was Kat. “It’s just a placeholder word to slow down the counting. You can put in whatever you want.”
Four cucumber . . . five Alberta . . . six Pythagorean theorem . . .
My breathing has slowed. Thank goodness. The last thing I want is to have a full-blown panic attack in the middle of the hallway during my very first week at a new school. Talk about something to attract the wolves.
I need to get out of this hallway. I just have to get somewhere. Anywhere. Please.
As if in answer to my silent plea, just to my left a door opens and a safe haven materializes out of nowhere—the library. With computers. I force myself not to run. One step. Two steps. Ten steps. Eleven. Then I am in a seat and wiggling the mouse. Wake up, computer.
The screen flickers to life. I log on to the internet.
It’s not going to work. Of course it’s not going to work. But I can’t not try.
My fingers automatically tap out the web address, click download. I watch the progress bar slowly fill.
The other computers are empty. If it was possible to download and install and log in, wouldn’t all the computers be in use? Wouldn’t everyone want to be in here?
But the file finishes downloading. And installing. And I’m entering my username, tapping out my password. Inputting our server details.