Alice in Zombieland - Showalter Gena - Страница 12

• Предыдущая
• 12/79
• Следующая

“Yes, but only a little…lot.” I’d always had difficulty lying. “Want to ditch?” I asked hopefully. We could start fresh for block two.

“No, I don’t want to ditch, and I’m not even going to attempt to figure out what a little lot is. I want to make an entrance in my own class. After all, the center of attention is the best place to be.”

Uh, no, no it wasn’t. I backed up a step. “I’ll wait for you outside, then.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said, merciless. “They’ll love you. And if they don’t, well, let me know who I need to punish. That’s a specialty of mine, just FYI. So is tough love.” She patted me on the butt. “Now go get ’em, baby cub.”

“Kat, wait. I—”

“You heard the part about tough love, right? And P.S. In a few months, you might graduate to a full-on tigress, but until then…” She opened the door and gave me a push inside the room. “You’ll have to endure the growing pains.”

I survived first block with only a splash of humiliation. The “teacher,” and I use the term lightly, made me stand at the front of the class and tell the students a little about myself and why I was late. Apparently there were to be no breaks for anyone. Not on the first day, and certainly not for first timers who should know how to read a map.

My thinking on the matter: Mr. Buttle—whom I would forever call Mr. Butthole—was on a power trip, but whatever. I got through without any internal scarring because a very cute boy with puppy dog brown eyes smiled encouragingly at me, then made the universal jerk-off sign the moment Mr. Butthole turned his back, sending everyone into peals of laughter, thereby taking the attention away from me.

Second block took place in the same hall but third was in another building. Still, I made it on time and the class proved to be a breeze. No one tried to talk to me except the short, rotund Ms. Meyers. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair in a bun. Her glasses were too big for her face and continually slid down her nose, but she wasn’t unpleasant to look at.

“I’m so excited to begin a brand-new year with you,” she said, clapping, “and I know you will be too when you hear what I’ve got planned! By the way, this is Creative Writing, in case anyone accidentally wandered into the wrong room. Anyone? No? Great. On with our stories!”

I propped my head on one hand, and I meant to pay attention, I really did, but my mind drifted. I’d like to say I pondered my future, ways to improve my general state of mind, something, anything useful. But, no. My brain hopped the train to Colehollandville and refused to detour.

One question after another formed. What had happened out there in that hallway? Had Cole experienced anything when he looked at me? The way he’d snapped his teeth at me, as if I’d bewildered him without saying a word…maybe. But then again, maybe that had been a gesture of irritation. I’d basically eye-raped him.

And what if I tranced out (or whatever you wanted to call it) the next time I saw him?

Desperate to know, I’d searched for him after both my first and second classes. I’d looked through numerous passageways, along the stairs and, okay, yes, I’d even slowed down in front of both the boys’ bathrooms I’d passed, but there’d been no hint of him.

Maybe that was a good thing. He intimidated me.

There. I’d admitted it. He was big and bad and obviously well-acquainted with violence. I’d had enough violence in my life, thanks. Besides, there were only three possible outcomes if the two of us actually spoke.

1) He’d tell me to ~bleep~ off.

2) He’d tell everyone I was ~bleeping~ insane.

3) He’d ask me who the ~bleep~ I thought I was because he’s positive he’s never seen me before.

I didn’t know him, and yet I easily imagined him cussing. A lot. Kat would so not approve.

“—I think you’ll find her work symbolic of—”

Ms. Meyers’s voice intruded, trying to claim my attention, but my dilemma quickly returned to center stage. I sooo wanted to talk to my mom about Cole and what had happened. Because of my dad, she’d understood weird in all its varying shades and degrees. She wouldn’t have laughed at me. She wouldn’t have rushed me in for an emergency therapy session. She would have sat me down and helped me reach a conclusion that satisfied me.

I missed her so much and wished, so badly, that I’d been nicer to her there at the end.

Well, well. What do you know? My mind could go somewhere other than Cole Holland today.

No way would I mention any of this to Nana and Pops. They’d freak—not that they’d ever show me. For me, they would smile and pretend all was well, never realizing I’d once caught them whispering in their bedroom.

Poor thing. Therapy isn’t working. Will she ever recover, do you think?

Not sure. All I know is that I hate that she’s hurting so badly, but there’s nothing I can do. She won’t let me.

I know. I’ve never felt so helpless.

They’d tried to get me to go to the movies, ice-skating and shopping, things kids my age supposedly liked to do, but my answer was always the same: no. Each time, they had kissed me on the forehead and said, “Maybe next time.”

Refusing to worry them further, I’d swallowed back the words Maybe never. I spent most of my time in my room, and that’s the way I liked it.

I had a routine. I spent my mornings reading The Iron Fey series. I spent my evenings listening to the mix tapes my dad had made for my mother. (I was staying in her old room and had found her old cassette player.) I spent my nights searching for monsters. On weekdays I left the house for school and on weekends I left for church. That was it.

The bell rang, shattering my thoughts like a fist through a mirror, and I bolted upright. Ms. Meyers was stacking books on her desk. Kids were already filing out of the classroom. I gathered my stuff and rose to do the same.

“Alice Bell,” Ms. Meyers called before I could leave.

Our gazes met, locked. “I prefer Ali.”

She nodded and offered me a warm smile. “I looked over your transcript from Carver Academy and liked what I saw. With straight A’s, I’m guessing you didn’t sleep in class.”

Ouch. “I wasn’t sleeping, I promise.”

Her smile grew, letting me know that she wasn’t offended. “I know reading and writing aren’t everyone’s favorite thing, but give me a chance tomorrow, okay? If you don’t like what I’m saying, if I fail to engage you, fine. Sleep or daydream or whatever you want to call it.”

Fair enough. “You have my word.”

“Good.” She motioned to the door with a tilt of her chin. “Go on. You’ve got places to be, I’m sure.”

I stepped into the hall—and prayed the world would suddenly end. Frosty and one of his more feral friends were waiting for me. Clearly. Their gazes zeroed in on me—arrow, meet bull’s-eye—and they leaped into motion, closing the distance between us. I bet they were here to warn me away from Cole.

How humiliating! I kept walking, and they kept pace beside me, flanking me. Testosterone walled me in, neatly shutting out the rest of the world.

“S’up. I’m Frosty,” the rough-looking blond said. Up close, I saw that his eyes were not completely brown but a pretty blueberry with flecks of chocolate.

My stomach growled. Okay, so I was hungry, and that was probably why his eyes reminded me of delicious food. So what. An appetite was a good thing, and I’d been without one all summer.

“This here’s my boy Bronx,” he added when I failed to respond.

“I’m Ali.” Either I hadn’t noticed Bronx earlier—so not likely—or he’d been running late. “Bronx, huh? Is that where you’re from?”

“Nope,” Frosty answered for him.

Bronx said nothing, but oh, did he stare. For a guy with barbells in both of his eyebrows and hair dyed an electric blue, that stare bypassed demon-dark and went straight to devil-damned.

• Предыдущая
• 12/79
• Следующая