“’Morning,” I mutter when we’re only a few feet apart. His head tilts and he nods before brushing by without a sound.
I take another swig from my coffee mug and resist the urge to glance back. Our school is two redbrick buildings with cement trim framing a grassy quadrangle that’s dotted with picnic tables and black-and-white checkered benches. An arched covered walkway connects them, and portables lie on the outskirts like shantytowns for student body overflow. The school itself backs up against a thick stand of pine trees that Duwamish High students call simply The Woods. Where lazy prep school boys in wrinkled polos cut out to smoke cigarettes between classes and sneak their hands up the plaid skirt of any girl who’s willing.
It’s early still. Too early to head to class. The main entrance will be locked while the teachers try to enjoy their last few minutes of peace and quiet. But the janitor always props open the back door of the west-side building, the one closest to the woods and, conveniently, nearest to my locker. That’s where I head.
Inside, the hallway smells as damp and musky as the outdoors. My shoes squeal against the linoleum. My locker’s close enough to the open door that the early fall breeze plays with my hair.
The halls are silent except for the faint trickle of music from a teacher’s radio. In front of my locker, I slide off my book bag and plop down cross-legged on the ground. I’ve packed a copy of The Awakening, a book I was supposed to have finished the last week I was in the hospital. I almost did, but my life got pretty busy what with twice-daily naps and finishing up that last season of The Bachelor. It’s funny how the more time you have, the more nothingness there is to swallow it up.
I turn to the dog-eared page near the back of the book. I’m not sure what to make of this Edna character. She’s very whiney for someone who’s had three lovers in the past two hundred pages.
I lick my finger and flip the page, trying to see Edna’s life the way she sees it. I’m about to finish the chapter when a strong gust blows in and ruffles the pages. I rub my hands together and blow into them, cold. The wind howls as it sweeps through the long hall. I trace the direction it traveled with my eyes.
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Reluctantly, I cast my eyes around, twisting my neck without moving. A creepy sensation inches its way up my spine. My fingernail finds the fleshy part of my forearm and I scratch into the smooth surface. Not enough to leave a scab, but the line stings like a mouthful of Listerine.
The feeling that I’m not alone makes me want to bolt. I peer down the hallway to the point where I can’t see around the corner. Someone’s watching me. Maybe I should leave.
No, I’m being silly. I force myself to settle down by rubbing my fingertip against the skinned patch on my arm. I push down. The stinging flares. Eventually, though, it calms me and I take a deep breath and return my attention to the book.
I pick back up with Edna, who can’t understand why Robert doesn’t love her. As far as I can tell, it’d be a lot easier if Edna just asked him. People in old books don’t communicate well.
But then there it is again. The watched feeling.
This time goose pimples spring up on my forearms. There’s a squeak—the sound of sneakers on a basketball court.
I tuck my heels in and slowly rise to my feet, new heart thumping. I tiptoe to the end of the row of lockers and peer around. Nothing.
A loud thump comes from behind me and my heart leaps clear into my mouth. I whirl around, hand clawing at my chest.
“Holy shit.” The words rush out in one long whoosh of air. A mangy Siamese cat peeps its head out of a trash can and stares at me with blank eyes as colorless as melted snow. I let my head droop, trying to catch my breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say out loud. “How the hell did you get in here?”
The cat hooks a bony limb over the top of the trash can and pulls itself onto the rim, balancing. Its cream-colored fur is both greasy and matted. The cat tosses its head and a puff of fleas—or maybe dander—flies from the ridges of its back, its skin pulled taut over a scrawny skeleton. Usually I love animals, but this one smells foul and looks diseased. It blinks at me once, slowly, before pouncing and slinking out the door to the woods. I breathe a deep sigh of relief but am compelled to check my pulse just like Dr. Belkin instructed. It’s fast. Faster than it should be, but not so fast as to tax my new heart in a serious way.
Brushing dust off the back of my pants, I stuff The Awakening back in my bag and swing it over one shoulder when I hear—
“So?” The voice is low but chipper. “How do you feel?” I jump at the sound of his voice and spin around.
Henry’s head is tilted slightly to the side. He’s wearing his stained Washington Huskies hat with the ripped brim and his curly brown hair pokes out underneath. He’s not laughing hysterically at me, so he must have missed the whole cat incident. Small blessings, as Mom would say.
I tuck my hair behind one ear and swallow hard, trying to steady myself. “Well, I feel like I’ve got about a zillion weeks of class to catch up on and an AP Euro exam next week that’s going to kick my ass.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you were Stella, but you must be the Grinch, here to steal all of the first-day-back cheer.” Henry leans a skinny shoulder against my locker. There’s an awkwardness that lingers between us. I know since he didn’t hug me right away. I haven’t given him an answer, not since my surgery. Not since there became a future to speak of, one that I could actually plan. Back then I couldn’t talk future anything. I couldn’t even think about what Henry and I could be when he asked. But now everything’s changed. I just need to catch up.
“Sorry, this is the first time in almost a month I’ve had to wake up pre-ten a.m. Be warned. Plus I barely made it out of the house without my mom forcing a surgical mask on me. Honestly, you’d have thought I was marching off into a nuclear war zone.”
Henry’s cheek dimples when he smiles. “I’ve always thought that’s what our uniforms were missing—surgical masks.” Without thinking, I touch the collar of my white polo, conscious again of the angry scar that runs up the entire length of my torso. It’s the first time in almost ten years I’ve been thankful to go to a school where uniforms are required.