“There were copies in all the girls’ bathrooms this morning,” someone says. Mitchell shrugs again, his gaze on Lucy. It lingers for too long.
“Whatever, it’s a bunch of shit,” Mitchell mutters under his breath. He crumples Moxie in his quarterback hands and tosses it toward the front of the room where it bounces off the whiteboard.
“Please, let’s use the trash can,” Mr. Davies says, coming to life briefly.
The bell rings at last, and I catch Seth making a break for the door, not looking back.
In the crowded hallway, I find myself bumping up against Lucy. She has her eyes fixed forward, her mouth a firm line.
“Hey,” I say, my voice low. “I have an extra copy of that thing if you want it. My locker’s right there.”
Lucy turns, surprised, her eyebrows popping up.
“Yeah?” she asks.
“Sure.”
She stands off to the side as I fiddle with my combination, and once I find the one copy of Moxie I saved, I hand it to her.
“Thanks,” she says, grinning. “This thing is so cool.”
“Yeah, it is pretty interesting,” I answer.
“I didn’t make it, you know,” she says. “Do you know who did?”
I shake my head no. If I speak she’ll know I’m lying.
“That Mitchell guy is a complete asshole,” Lucy says, and when she says it I find my eyes darting up and down the hall, double-checking that Mitchell isn’t nearby. It pisses me off that my first reaction is to make sure he can’t hear us, but I don’t want to get caught by him and become the next brunt of his jokes. He scares me too much.
“He can kind of do whatever he wants around here,” I offer, my voice quieter than it needs to be.
“I’ve figured that out,” Lucy says, arching one eyebrow. “Anyway, thanks for this.” She tucks Moxie inside a notebook. “Hey, what’s your name again?”
“Vivian,” I tell her. “People call me Viv.”
“Right, I thought so. You never really talk in class, so I wasn’t sure.”
I shrug, not sure how to respond at first. “I don’t think talking in that class gets you anywhere,” I finally manage.
“Seriously,” she says. “Anyway, I’m Lucy. And as that asshole pointed out, I’m new this year.”
I smile and nod. “Yeah, I know.” I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to say. In East Rockport I run into so few new people.
Lucy smiles back, but when I don’t say anything else, she offers me a little half wave and starts off down the hall. I raise a hand goodbye, and it’s not until she’s filtered through the crowd that I realize I could have asked her where she was from or why her family moved here. I could even have asked her if she was planning on coloring stars and hearts on her hands this Friday as Moxie instructed.
I stare down at my own bare hands and realize I need to answer that same question for myself.
CHAPTER SIX
I always push the cart when my mom and I go grocery shopping so my mom can focus on the list—written on paper, of course. It’s been that way since I was in middle school.
“Black beans or refried?” she asks me, examining the canned goods in front of her.
“Refried.”
“Black beans are healthier.”
“Refried.”
My mother shoots me a look, but she gives in.
We almost always go shopping on Thursday nights if she’s not working. My mom can’t handle the craziness of the store on the weekends, and it’s a ritual we have together. But as I push the cart, trying to overcorrect its sticky rear left wheel, I find myself looking at my hands gripping the cart’s handle instead of talking to my mom.
My hands don’t have a single birthmark or freckle on them. My fingernails are naked—painting them always feels like a hassle. I try to imagine stars and hearts scrawled on these hands tomorrow. I try to imagine what it might feel like to walk the halls of East Rockport like that. My heart beats quickly, but I’m not sure if it’s out of excitement or anxiety. I picture everyone looking at me and all my friends asking me questions. I clench my hands into fists and take a deep breath.
“Okay, let’s head to frozen foods,” my mom says. She’s different from Meemaw and Grandpa in a lot of ways—except for a Stouffer’s addiction. I follow her, pushing the cart.
All week I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m doing. The truth is, since Monday morning everything has been pretty much … exactly the same. The biggest development was probably me giving Lucy my extra copy of Moxie. Claudia never mentioned it again, and Mitchell didn’t even bother making fun of it after that one time in Mr. Davies’s class—at least that I know of. I’ve wanted to mention it at lunch with Sara and Claudia and the other girls, but I’m worried that talking about it too much might make me look suspicious even though me being the creator of Moxie is about as likely as me visiting the International Space Station or inventing the cure for cancer in my chem class. At least that’s what the people who know me would say.
I’m not sure if I expected anything to come of it. Maybe it’s all over now. Maybe making Moxie was just a way to vent.
Sure, Vivian, but why did you include that thing about the hearts and stars if you didn’t want it to go anywhere?
I grimace, trying to ignore the question, but that’s impossible. Because somewhere inside I do want the Moxie zines to go somewhere. I know I do. I’m just not sure I want to commit to being the one to take them there. Wherever there is.
I scowl at the can of refried beans as I keep pushing the cart forward. It would be easier to just think about Seth, but I haven’t even seen him this week except for in Mr. Davies’s class. He walks in at the bell and leaves at the bell, and he never talks. Just takes notes and sits there all mysterious. Yesterday he wore a shirt that said Black Flag on it, and I spent the night listening to their song “Rise Above” on my phone. It made my toes curl and my chest ache, but in a good way.
I shiver through the frozen foods section as my mom tosses in a few boxes of lasagna and Salisbury steak. Finally, we make it through checkout, and I help unload the bags into our Honda. I’m making sure a carton of eggs isn’t placed too precariously in the backseat when I hear a male voice behind me.
“Lisa?”
There’s a pause, and then I hear my mom, her voice all tinkly and light. “Oh! John, hey. How are you?”
I slide out of the car to see my mom facing a guy around her age. He’s wearing green scrubs and a loose-fitting gray hoodie, and his face is covered in a red, scruffy beard. My mother’s face looks all lit up, like this guy is handing her a big Lotto check instead of just saying hi.
“Getting your grocery shopping done?” scruffy redhead dude asks.
“Trying to,” my mom answers, her voice still a little off somehow.
“You’re on tomorrow morning, right?” he asks.