The Story: Deviation

PROLOGUE

I want my story told.

I want it hollered round the world.

I want it like I want air in my lungs,

food in my belly,

warm river to wash,

family to love.

I want it like I want my freedom.

So I gone reach out my hand…

Give it.

* * *

It often starts with a dream. Maybe always.

June 8, 2009. 4:37a.m.

A girl wakes. Bubble of life-story-creation.

The telling begins with a journal entry:

"Hoooolllllyyyy shit. I can’t believe this. Screw all the magic that’s happened before, this is pure magic. Okay, I gotta get it down."

She writes. Seven pages. That bubble courses, swells, ebbs, until it’s a moon in the sky. Five times it wheels around. It lightens and darkens—a spherical creation, a world, a universe. Just depends on her attention. Oh, yeah, that dream. That story.

Sometimes, no awareness at all.

But the bubble need not employ patience. That denotes time, and this one revolves always.

Always, and six years. A dream. A telling:

Creation.

PART I The Story

unmarked

Action from obligation is slavery. Action from inspiration is freedom.

The chalk in Dan’s fingers snaps. The phrases in his mind are a mantra the tension in his body ignores. The Anger roils inside him, flushing his blood to just under the surface of his skin, as if he were still standing in the heat of the New Orleans cemetery. He loosens his fingers and the shorter nub of chalk pings into the tray.

Action from obligation is slavery. Action from inspiration is freedom.

Those phrases whir in his mind like the central heating in his classroom. He turns to the left and lets the memories of the funeral the week before drop like a blood red leaf from the oak branch outside the classroom window. Right, Dan, the present moment—October 2009 in Northern Virginia.

He raises the remaining chalk and scratches out four lines. He faces his second block freshman Algebra 2 class. So how do we find the area of a square? The heat from the vents whines.

Come on, guys. This is review. Nobody can tell me?

Stephen Matheson is playing on his phone. Marc Vincenzo is drawing. Melissa Avery’s head leans into her fist. She yawns. She is usually the student to reassure Dan that his words aren’t just pinging off the walls, but not today. The notebook covered with her quick, messy script is open over her math book. Every morning during homeroom, she feverishly writes in that notebook while waiting for attendance. Dan had finally asked her about it a couple weeks ago.

I’m writing a story for Nanowrimo, she’d said.

Nanowrimo?

It stands for National Novel Writing Month. She’s grinning and thumbing the corner of her notebook. It starts in November, but I’m doing some outlines, creating characters, stuff like that. Gotta try and write 50,000 words in a month.

That’s impressive, he’d said. I wish you the best of luck.

And he had. But that was before he’d gotten back from his Great Aunt Regina’s funeral in New Orleans. Before The Anger greeted him in full force upon his return.

He inhales sharply. Square the base to find the area of a square. The novelty of that wordplay had worn stone-smooth a long time ago. He remembered feeling quite brilliant when he first announced it, a young teacher organizing his class for the first time. He had been thrilled to be teaching at the same school he attended as a student, ready to make it better than when he left at graduation. He had looked forward to settling into the groove of repeating his lessons instead of crafting them. That groove was pleasant for about two years, when the baby was small and he had too little brain available for creativity. Create lessons, teach, change diapers, teach, new students, teach, another baby born, teach. Multiply that by twelve years, including summer classes, and he has taught Algebra 2 Standard twenty-seven times. That was over 114,480 minutes of the same formulas, the same exponential slope of boredom, the same high percentage of students who didn’t give a damn about the area of a square…

Dan loosens his tie half an inch.

Right. So let’s say this square has a base of six, what is the area of the square?

Stephen’s body jolts, but not to answer his question. Stephen grins at his iPod, probably at his new high score from stacking jewels in that Bejeweled game. The Anger stretches and Dan wonders if a person is physically able to smash an iPod in half and what horror might ensue if a student swallows the pieces? What kind of pain would stack to frightening, from those technological jewels being squeezed out the other end?

Yesterday I made Stephen Matheson drop and do fifty for mouthing off. Bertie had said between bites of meatballs during lunch in the teacher’s lounge. Man, I’m a high school gym teacher, not a preschool teacher. I haven’t lost it like that in a while.

I know. Dan had spoken low over his leftovers. I’ve never imagined inflicting harm upon a student, but lately…I’ve entertained some fantasies. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.

It’s called The Anger. Lynda Cappastacki peers over her romance novel.

Excuse me? Dan turns to the librarian.

When you start to feel less like an educator and more like a serial killer, that’s a phenomenon I titled ‘The Anger.’ Happens to every teacher. I taught English for thirty years. If you want to teach and stay sane, you’ve got to supplement.

Supplement? Bertie snickers; he stabs some broccoli.

Yes, supplement. Lynda’s eyes are small above her reading glasses. They dart to Bertie. Like the protein shakes you drink. But those are for the body. Back to Dan. I’m talking about supplementation for the soul. I write fiction. That saved me from The Anger a while ago.

Lynda returns to her book. Bertie had rolled his eyes. He has a name for her—Weird White Lady.

The Anger’s habitual presence for the past two years has been as subtle as the sock collar imprint at the end of the work day. Now having been named, it sneers proudly, daily. It licks its hairy lips and shows its teeth. Boredom, ennui, third-life crisis… Did this happen to every man at some point in his life? Or just public school teachers?

Action from obligation is slavery. That had been his Great Aunt Regina’s philosophy according to the wrinkled black woman, her partner named Georgia, who had given the eulogy. Dan never pondered the concept of slavery beyond American history, but something about that woman’s words fascinates him, perhaps even emboldens him in a way he hasn’t felt since the days of Dungeons and Dragons.

Did that explain The Anger? Because he lives by obligation instead of inspiration? Is that why his class doesn’t give a shit? Because they’re obligated to be here? Dan tries to remember being inspired by school, but at fourteen? When was the last time he was inspired at all?

Is it possible that his Great Aunt Regina in her liberated wisdom really knew more than Dan and this entire school? The world’s major social structure? The thought is ridiculous.

Dan’s shoes are tight; the sweat tickles between his toes. No one can tell me the area of this square? You all should have learned this in the seventh grade.

The air vent hums.

Melissa’s elbow collapses and her head rolls onto her desk at the slow rate of a fresh stack of charcoal becoming ashen under the flame.

Dan surrenders to The Anger. He grabs his teacher’s edition of Holt McDougal’s Algebra II and is at Melissa’s desk in three strides. He drops the fat textbook to the floor. It impacts with a crisp crack! Melissa’s head jerks up. Her eyes resemble a woken zombie, swollen and glazed. A bit of her hair is plastered to the drool at the corner of her mouth.

Melissa. Thank you for joining us. Since you obviously don’t need to pay attention to this lesson, I’ll assume that you can teach the next one. Tomorrow I expect you to tell me and everyone else how to find the area of a square, triangle, rectangle, and parallelogram.

Melissa’s lip quivers and her eyes gloss over with tears. I’m sorry, Mr. Jones…

Dan steps back to his desk and raises his voice. There are new rules in my classroom. If I see a iPod or phone, it’s mine. He stares at Stephen who promptly tucks his device in his pocket. If you fall asleep in class, then come prepared to teach the next lesson. Everyone understand?

Finally, every student blinks at him with awareness. The bell rings, and they hustle to the exit, avoiding his eyes as The Anger pulses from his stare.

When the last student is out, Dan crumples into the chair behind the front desk. He doesn’t like the remorse. When Mr. Wesley had pulled that stunt on him twenty years ago, he’d hated the man for an entire week. Dan had vowed to be a better person, a nice teacher. Well, he’s been teaching nice for twelve years…

Damn. He needs to do something about The Anger.

You okay, Daniel?

He jumps at Lynda Cappastacki’s hand on his shoulder. Oh, hi. Dan sits back again in his chair. I’m sorry; I didn’t see you come in.

The librarian smiles and pushes the rimless glasses higher onto her rather dominant nose. I heard a bang all the way from the end of the hallway. For a moment, I thought someone had been shot. Then Melissa Avery was crying in the hall and told me what you’d said. She shakes her head, though her smile curls. I didn’t think you had it in you, Dan.

The senior calculus class is making their way into the room. Lynda puts the DVD A Beautiful Mind on the teacher’s desk. I’m fine, Dan says. Just a little stressed, I guess.

Lynda pats his shoulder. It happens to the best of us. But just so you know, Stephen Matheson’s father came in while you were gone threatening a lawsuit because Bertie succumbed to The Anger. This new principal cares about the school’s reputation; she’s taking the demands of the parents quite seriously, so I wouldn’t make a habit of making good students cry.

She’s kept her voice low. Still, Dan’s jaw tightens. He grabs his stuff before the class notices the heat creeping under his skin.

Supplement. Lynda whispers and pats him on the back. Dan gives her a half-assed smile and leaves the classroom.

His shoes squeak on the waxed floor. He controls his breathing; he will not run down the hallway. His legs head in the routine direction toward the teachers’ lounge for his planning period.

He stops.

Inspiration hits him like a gunshot.

He grips his bag, nods once and turns right at the end of the hallway. It has been a very long time…

Dan pulls open the glass door to the library. The entrance is new, and he has to remind himself this is the same library he had come to as a student. Rearranged shelves, books added and then discarded in favor of digitizing, the creation of a new multimedia wing. He scans the back corner, hoping…glad Lynda is back at the classroom and not at the circulation desk to catch him wandering in her library.

It would be near the restrooms…

Oh! Mr. Jones, there you are! A woman intersects his path. She carries a stack of books and a Blackberry…what’s her name? Super Mom is what Bertie calls her—the overzealous parent always taking up space with her personality in the teachers’ lounge.

I was hoping to catch you after third block. Well, that saves me a trip. Super Mom negotiates the books in her arm and manages to poke her Blackberry with a stylus.

What can I help you with? Dan doesn’t like the unnatural sound of his voice.

I was wondering if you might want to join us for the Halloween drama trip this year? We have a good group of kids signed up, but we’re a bit short on chaperones. I know Susan is going to take Mikey and Ella to see their cousins in Baltimore this year, and I thought maybe you would want the company on Halloween weekend?

Excuse me? How the hell did this woman know of his family plans? He hasn’t told anyone, and his wife isn’t one to gossip. Especially to a gossip. It must be that damn Facebook. Privacy was a pre-twenty-first century luxury.

Super Mom taps her fake nails against the side of the Blackberry. Well, if you aren’t interested, that’s just fine. But it’s going to be a big production this year, and I didn’t want you to miss out.

No, thank you. I have other plans for Halloween. He steps around the woman and strides toward the back of the library.

Dan turns the corner after the aisle marked Poets of the 19th Century. Yes, there’s a door, just past the bathrooms. He takes one look back. No students, no Super Mom. Good.

He turns the knob at the door labeled Storage. It opens on easy metal joints instead of the swollen wood he remembers.

He steps in, bangs his shin, muffles his swearing, and closes the door behind him. The darkness is delicious. He grips his bag. The leather of it sighs. He breathes in the sweet musk of old books. His shin throbs. He explores the wall with his fingertips. He finds a switch and flips it.

A strip of flickering florescent has replaced the bare bulb and chain of twenty years ago. Too bad, he prefers the bare bulb.

The closet’s smaller than he remembered. Or is that because he’s bigger? Cheap aluminum shelves line the wall, and haphazard piles of books occupy the space between the shelves. Dan puts down his bag and picks up the top book to the stack that offended his shin upon entering. The cover of World Language is battered; the wax pulls away from the cardboard and the colors are unjustly faded from their ’80’s pallet of neon. Dan flips through the pages, landing on a note creased between ninety-two and ninety-three. The graphite clings to book page and note.

"Dear Patrick,

You rock my world. Let’s do it this weekend.

Love,

Lisa."

Dan smiles. He turns, picking up a copy of Spanish Today! Published in 1993. What are these books still doing here? When he had first found this closet, the books from the ’50s and ’60s were ancient. Bobby Tennenbaum had dared him to go in and pee in the corner. When Dan had finally agreed, his Dad’s flask full of piss in his pocket, Bobby and his sidekick Roy had shoved a chair against the doorknob, trapping him until Michelle Lee rescued him an hour later. It had taken him two years and a few chin hairs before he’d mustered up the nerve to pull Michelle Lee into the same closet for his first kiss.

That had been a good day. Catching his students at rare moments, like that kiss, reminds him why he enjoys teaching high school—4,738 teenagers thinking they’re the most important beings in this world. Sometimes he wonders why they grow out of that feeling.

He shoves a pile of books into another pile. American Art History slides onto his toe, spilling open to two faded pages. A light-skinned black woman in a painted portrait grabs him with her gaze. Her lips curl as if she knows something he doesn’t. Mona Lisa-esque. Underneath it reads Madame de la Fuente.

Supplement, huh?

Dan sits on the floor and pulls his laptop from his bag. Notes the time. An hour and a half before third block if he skips lunch. He needs to enter grades…

To hell with grades.

If fiction saved Lynda Cappastacki from The Anger, and Melissa Avery is allowed to write a novel during homeroom, then he should be given this. He opens the word processor.

Action from inspiration…

He selects Blank Document. Pops his knuckles. He grips the laptop, closes his eyes, and thinks of New Orleans. And that heat. And his Aunt Regina’s words.

CHAPTER ONE

Matty

Shit. Matty thought the word. She had only said it once in her life out loud. She heard her father say it when she was five years old. She repeated it, and her mother had washed her mouth out with soap. Ten years later, the word arrived in her brain, usually while her lunch was leaving. She had been vomiting every day for the past five weeks.

She wiped her mouth with toilet paper. A couple girls came into the restroom on the science wing of Hamilton High School. Matty froze. She chose this bathroom because hardly anyone used it after school. Nausea rolled through her gut. Oh, shit, not Bailey Henderson… There was no mistaking her voice. It was like honey that had congealed in the cold; her Southern accent was too sweet for the words that came out of her mouth. Fuck, it smells like shit in here.

Matty grabbed her bookbag and stepped onto the toilet. Please God, please don’t let them know I’m here.

You sure we won’t get caught? another voice asked.

Matty held her breath and peered through the crack between the door and the stall. Bailey wore the same slinky bunny outfit she had all day—except her jacket wasn’t covering the shimmery tube top. Her blonde hair under the bunny ears was too neatly curled, and the shiny eye shadow too vibrant for Bailey’s red-rimmed eyes. She gestured with a flask. Nobody’s coming into this bathroom. Relax, Chelsea. Like, you really do need some of this.

Chelsea’s Halloween costume was a cheerleader, though she was only a freshman and couldn’t make the team if she wanted to. The girl sniffed the flask. Where’d you get this?

My mom. She doesn’t even care that I’m taking it anymore. Like, she’s too much of a drunk to notice.

Chelsea frowned.

It won’t hurt you. Do you wanna kiss this boy, or what?

Chelsea clenched her free hand and sipped at the flask. She grimaced. Ugh! That’s nasty. It’s not Everclear is it? Stephanie Mitchell said that Everclear is so deadly, like, it would kill a baby inside of you, and you wouldn’t even have to get an abortion.

Matty’s armpits sweat into her black dress.

No, it’s not Everclear. It’s vodka, so no one will smell it on your breath. Stephanie Mitchell is a liar. That girl is such a prude. Like, she wouldn’t even have the opportunity to test out her theory. Bailey hopped up on the sink and grabbed the flask. She flipped it up into her mouth and her white throat pulsed with swallows. Bailey wiped her mouth. Like, do you wanna learn how to kiss or not?

Chelsea tugged at her skirt. I guess so.

K, well I’m the best kisser I know. So come here. Bailey hiked up her skirt and spread her legs. So, like, boys are pussies. Devon might be saying that he wants to kiss you, but when the time comes, you’re probably gonna have to make the first move. So put your hand around his neck like this, and then, like pull him closer.

Matty squeezed her eyes shut when Bailey put her lips on Chelsea’s. Oh, please God. No! Let me get out of here! Matty had to leave soon to get on a bus for a fieldtrip. How long were these girls going to be there?

Matty’s legs ached in her crouched position. Her black, Puritan dress for her costume was hot and stuffy. The girls kept kissing. Ben was Matty’s first kiss. It had been a little awkward, but it was so less creepy than what she had to listen to now. She rested her head on her knees and tried to ignore the pain in her gut. She didn’t know anymore if it was because she missed Ben, or if it had something to do with her baby. Shit, I’m not even fifteen. God, why did you let me get pregnant?

She hadn’t even known she had started her period. Your parents never discussed your menstrual cycle with you? Dr. Anson had asked at the teenage pregnancy clinic.

Matty shook her head. Her parents had pulled her out of sex education last year. She had gone to the library to work on homework while the rest of her classmates whispered about Mrs. Fink’s pastel pink, plastic penis. Sex is something you’ll learn about with your husband, not with inappropriate teenagers. Her mother had said while stirring soup for dinner. She couldn’t even look at Matty and say the word sex. She had kept her eyes on the soup.

Dr. Anson scanned a clipboard. Well, the end of your fourteenth year might be a little late, but you said you play soccer? You hardly have any body fat, so that probably delayed your period. You must’ve just started and hadn’t known. The timing was perfect so that with sexual intercourse, an egg was fertilized.

Perfect… Sexual intercourse was too sterile a term for what had happened. They had made love. It was perfect when the church camp gave them a free day and they took bikes to their spot in the grassy field at sunset. It was perfect that their bodies fit together. It didn’t feel gross or uncomfortable or wrong. It was perfect when they lay in the tall grass, the light making stripes on their skin. They traced veins and muscles with their fingertips they had never touched on another person before. It was the most perfect thing that had ever happened.

Matty was sure she and Ben would finally be able to date when they turned sixteen. She and Ben would go to UNC together, both on soccer scholarships. Get married. Then start a family…

But then perfect disappeared and in came the shit shit shit. There was no bar of soap big enough to make it right. Ben emailed her, saying his parents were making him move to New Hampshire. Had he told them? She and Ben had promised to keep it a secret. He had said that he loved her.

Now, she cried. And she never cried. She called. She texted. Nothing.

He had left her all alone.

At first she thought she had food poisoning. Her mom had put a cool rag on her forehead and she stayed home from school. But she kept throwing up. Rita Sanchez made a joke that maybe she was preggers. Her friends laughed. You have to have sex to be pregnant, Samantha said. She had stuck up for Matty. Sam had no idea that it could be true. No one else could understand what had happened in that field with Ben. How wonderful it had been…

But Rita’s comment had made Matty nervous, and the next night she peed on a stick. She burned it at the far edge of the backyard so her parents wouldn’t find it. Dr. Anson went over Matty’s options with her. She could terminate it. Terminate it? Ben’s child? No! She could put it up for adoption. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, either. She could raise it herself. That seemed the best option, but that would mean she would have to be around long enough. Her mother would skin her alive if she knew Matty had sex before marriage. Take a week to think about it, Dr. Anson said. That was a month ago. She quit soccer. She needed to vomit every day when school got out. So she lied to her parents and said she’d decided to do Odyssey of the Mind again. She stayed in the bathroom alone for two hours until her mom picked her up. Samantha didn’t understand why she had quit the soccer team. How could she tell her? Sam referred to girls who had sex as sluts.

The black fabric at Matty’s knees was wet with tears. Please God, please help me. What am I going to do?

Ummm…okay. Like, I think that’s enough. Chelsea said.

Are you sure? You could use some more practice… Bailey’s voice sounded dreamy. Yuck.

No, that’s okay.

Fine, whatever. Just don’t come crying to me if you don’t like kissing that dude. You know, Katy Perry’s song is popular for a reason.

What, ‘I Kissed a Girl’?

Hell yeah. Girls are just better, like, at everything really. Bailey hopped off the sink. Her high heels clicked against the floor. Like don’t go telling anyone about this, okay Chels?

Is that why you got kicked off the cheerleading team? Cause you kissed all the girls?

Bailey scoffed. No, I did this for you, because you’re like a family friend. Don’t get any ideas. I didn’t even like most of those cheerleading brats. They lost their best high kicker because I missed three practices…like, whatever.

Heat rushed to Matty’s forehead and she gagged. Shit. She bent over the toilet bowl and let it go, trying to be as quiet as possible. Tears burned her eyes and stars stabbed her vision. Please God, please don’t let them hear me. The tears splashed into the toilet and became part of the bile. She missed Ben. She missed her friends. She missed soccer. Please God, what am I going to do with this baby? She spit.

Ugh! Like, is someone puking?

That’s gross. Like I…I gotta go. Chelsea said.

Matty flushed the toilet and stood. She was shaking. She pressed against the bathroom wall and closed her eyes. Just leave. Leave me alone, Bailey Henderson.

As usual, God wasn’t kind to her. Bailey banged on the stall. Who’s in there?

Matty took a shaky breath and grabbed her bookbag. She walked out of the stall. You been in there the whole time? Bailey had her fists on her hips. God, you look like ass. You want some of this? It’ll make you feel better. Bailey gestured with the flask.

What had she said? It would kill a baby inside of you… Was that true? How was she pregnant and not Bailey Henderson? By the way Bailey and her boyfriend made out by the vending machines after fourth block, Matty was sure she had chances. Maybe Bailey was drunk so often that any sperm that came into her body was killed on contact. Matty bit her lip. She had to get out of the bathroom before she threw up again.

Matty shook her head. She turned to leave. Bailey grabbed her arm. Listen, you little freshman. Like, I know who you are. I saw you get that teacher’s pet award. I know you’re like, a good girl. You wouldn’t like it if I told everyone you were blowing Mr. Harris in order to get straight A’s?

Matty jerked her arm away, but Bailey was digging her silver nails into her skin. Matty shook her head. Bailey put that cold honey in her voice. Just don’t tell anyone you saw us in here, and you’ll be just fine.

Matty watched the tile square in the floor. She nodded. Bailey let go of her arm. Good.

Matty left the bathroom and grabbed a stick of mint gum from a pocket in her bookbag. Her fingers were shaking and she hoped no one on the fieldtrip would see them. She put the gum in her mouth.

Bailey laughed behind her. I hope you don’t like, have the swine flu!

* * *

Phyffer

Jessica Greene. Look at me.

Phyffer curled the corner edge of her Advanced Placement Physics book. Jessica Greene. Phyffer watched Jessica on the far curb of the school parking lot. Next to Brandon Wilson. They were chatting about music, and Jessica was finding songs on her phone to share along with her earbuds. Jessica Greene. Her red curls were pulled back in a tight ponytail, making her blue eyes a bit bigger. Jessica Greene. She was wearing short shorts, even though it was the end of October and cool. Phyffer imagined the goose bumps on Jessica’s thigh. Phyffer rubbed her own hands. Jessica Greene, lemme warm your skin…

If Phyffer repeated her name, Jessica should turn. Telepathy was real, Phyffer knew. She just didn’t have a lot of empirical evidence of it. Yet.

Jessica Greene laughed at Brandon and he grinned. Phyffer gave up and grabbed a pen from her bag. She scribbled on the inside jacket of the homemade cover of her textbook.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

Jessica Greene has a hot bod,

and she’s totally straight.

Phyffer started a doodle of Stewie Griffin over it, his big football head covering her words. Maybe it was a waste of time to try telepathy on her crush. Jessica had never spoken to Phyffer beyond the one time they had to do a project together for AP U.S. History last year. Phyffer had fantasized this morning as she approached her locker that Jessica would turn around and comment on her costume, something she had put a lot of work into.

Wow, Phyffer! You look great! I love cartoon characters. I’m so glad you dressed up as one, instead of something boring. You did a great job on the makeup. That white face paint, and the red over your eyes…wow! You look fierce!

Really, Jess?

Yes. I’d love to come over sometime. I can braid your hair. It looks great by the way. It’s so long, and your eyes today…wow, are those blue contacts? I must say though, I love the natural brown and the almond shape of them. You’re so beautiful, Phyffer…I’ve always thought so…

A gasp interrupted her reverie. Phyffer’s plastic sword rattled on the sidewalk beside her. A girl in a black dress tripped over it and stumbled onto her hands and knees.

Oh, dude, I’m sorry! Phyffer grabbed her sword. Are you okay? She held out her hand, but the girl wouldn’t take it. Once Phyffer stood, she recognized Matty Gorham, though her light brown hair was longer, her gray eyes rimmed in tears. What was her costume? Like, a Pilgrim? A white bonnet was tied around her neck and lay against her bookbag.

Matty glared at her.

Matty? Look, I’m really sorry. Do you remember me, from Odyssey of the Mind two years ago?

Matty nodded. Yeah.

We just got out of practice. But I thought you played soccer? That’s why you couldn’t do OM…

Yeah, I do. I made the Varsity team this year, but I quit. Matty looked at the school bus that was pulling up. A woman walked brusquely to the door. Phyffer recognized her as Matty’s mom. She was dressed as a witch.

Oh, are you going on the drama fieldtrip, too?

Matty bit her lip. Yeah, but hey, my mom thinks that I’m on the Odyssey of the Mind team. Will you please not say anything?

What? Why would you tell her that?

Before Matty could respond, Mrs. Gorham waved her hand. Matilda! Come on, it’s time to get on the bus!

Matty’s eyes pleaded with Phyffer. Please, just say I’m doing OM if she asks.

Phyffer nodded. This wasn’t the same Matty Gorham she had known two years ago. That girl had been more into designing paper airplanes with Benny Williamson than actually contributing to the team project. She was a quiet girl in general, but at least laughing and flirting. This Matty Gorham looked scared to death.

Phyffer grabbed her sword and secured it to the holster at her back. She swung her bookbag over her shoulder and followed Matty onto the bus. Mrs. Gorham had her Blackberry out. Her makeup was so unnecessarily thick it was as if an Avon lady had thrown up on Morticia Addams. Oh, hi…you’re Phyffer Reynolds? Got you right here on the list. Are y’all coming from OM practice? Matty didn’t mention you were on her team. Y’all going to make it to State again this year?

Phyffer shrugged. I hope so.

Mrs. Gorham smiled. She had a bit of pink lipstick smeared on her front tooth. Well, I hope you girls are having fun, that’s the most important thing. Matilda, I have snacks in the cooler if you want them. You’re looking really pale, and even thinner. You should eat something, Pumpkin.

Matty rolled her eyes and chose a seat in the middle of the bus. Mrs. Gorham walked out and announced to the kids in the parking lot that the bus was loading. Phyffer took the seat across from Matty on the right.

I hate when my mom calls me Pumpkin.

Phyffer laughed. Well, at least it’s not Fifey Toots. But as bad as it sounds, I kinda like my mom’s pet names. And my dad’s are even worse…

Matty looked out the window.

Phyffer adjusted her bag and sword on the floor so someone could sit next to her if they wanted. So what are you doing if you’re not on the soccer team or OM?

Matty folded her arms and scowled at her. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

Phyffer felt the need to cheer her up. That was one of her great talents—cheering people up. You and your friend Benny still trying to break the sound barrier with paper airplanes?

Matty stared out the window. No, I don’t see Ben anymore.

Oh, bummer. You guys were like BFFs.

Matty nodded. We were. He’s going to St. Paul’s, a boarding school in New Hampshire.

Oh, double bummer. What did he do to deserve that?

Matty sighed. The glass fogged at her window. I’m gonna go sit up front. You heard my mom, I’d better eat something.

Matty left. The air was chilly coming through the bus door. Phyffer scratched her head where the bobby pins held her long hair looped up to be shoulder length for her costume. Phyffer brought her bookbag closer, popped open a Sharpie marker with her teeth in one fluid motion and added Wilma Flintstone to her drawing of Fred’s car on the flap. There’s no tumbleweed, Fifey. It’s all in your mind.

The tumbleweed was the metaphor for her loneliness. It felt like a vacant ghost town in her middle, like the cobweb-draped old western ones that the Scooby Doo crew visited to solve mysteries. It was the reason she read books that focused on superpowers. Real superpowers, like ESP, telekinesis, lucid dreaming. Phyffer had come out as a lesbian last year, and it wasn’t her problem that a lot of people treated her like she had announced she was dying of some gnarly disease and was highly contagious. Geoff from the Art Club had been enthusiastic, if not a little aggressive in his attempts to recruit her into their LGBT-friendly school group, but Phyffer never liked how cliquey they acted. Like straight people just couldn’t understand… She wasn’t trying to board the hater-train. Why did it have to be so black and white, in or out?

Lily and Ramona, her former besties, never came over for Cartoon Network marathons anymore. They were in her gym class, but every time they doubled up on ping-pong together, they would talk about their latest crushes. Their mouths shut like they were under a muting spell when Phyffer would come to join them. It wasn’t as if she hated boys, she just didn’t wanna make out with them.

The tumbleweed wasn’t very companionable. Her mom assured her that life would get better after high school. Her mom was awesome. She and her dad had adopted Phyffer as a baby from China. She sometimes wondered what her life would’ve been like if she’d been allowed to grow up there instead of being one-too-many, like so many Chinese babies. Would she still have been gay? Of course, but how her life would be different!

Phyffer had the freedom to live her life as she pleased. And she did. She just wished she had some others to share in the awesomeness. So if it really was going to improve after high school, Phyffer was equipping her future with supertalents and superskills, instead of moping around like every other teenager.

Phyffer lifted her head at a smell, like herbs in a hippie shop, but even sweeter. A black girl came over to sit in the seat that Matty had formerly occupied. Phyffer realized her mouth was hanging open and shut it. Either this girl was dressed as an African for Halloween, or she really was one. She wore white cloth with intricately sewn designs wrapped around her body. White ovals (her thumbprints from facepaint?) dotted her arms and chest, and her skin shined darker underneath. Her head was wrapped in more white cloth. The bundle of beads at her neck made a nice music as she dipped her head. Hello, I’m Abeo. Her voice was lower than usual for a girl, and her accent sounded kinda like Rafiki from The Lion King.

Phyffer held out her hand and shook Abeo’s. Her palm was soft and so pink. I like your costume.

Thanks. It’s the ceremonial dress of my mother’s people, the Yorùbá of West Africa.

Yorruba… Phyffer tried the word.

Abeo laughed. Yes, that’s right. Not many try to pronounce these words correctly. But I have an appreciation for them. I like to study orthography; do you know what that is?

Phyffer shook her head. No, but it sounds rad.

It’s the system of spelling for a language. The Yorùbá language has a beautiful alphabet, though the subtleties of spelling aren’t of wide interest. At least, the standard orthography isn’t used as much on the internet.

It sounded like Abeo nerded out on language the way Phyffer nerded out on cartoons.

And what are you dressed as? Abeo raised her thin eyebrows.

"Suki. I’m a character from a cartoon called Avatar, the Last Airbender. I dig on cartoons like you dig on orthography."

Abeo smiled. I used to watch Looney Tunes sometimes.

Phyffer laughed. Classic! But is that all they have in Africa to represent American cartoon ingenuity?

Abeo shrugged. At home, we didn’t watch television very much. Now, there are too many channels at my host parents’ house. It gives me a headache.

"Yeah, I only watch cartoons. I don’t have time for anything else on TV."

Abeo nodded.

Thirteen responses flitted above Phyffer’s tongue, How long are you here? Well, tonight will be fun… Do you wanna try some telepathy? You don’t have to be afraid of silence, Fifey. Sometimes you can just let it be. That was her Dad’s quote. If she couldn’t practice telepathy, then she could try amicable silence. She smiled at Abeo, the white face paint pulling on her skin. Abeo smiled back. People filed into the bus. Soon the fieldtrip would be underway. Phyffer’s excitement warmed in her belly, chasing off that tumbleweed like a hot wind.

* * *

Bailey

Bailey climbed onto the bus. It was hard. Her high heels were wobbling. Noises, talking. Holy shit, look, Bailey Henderson,…lesbian. She stood at the front of the bus and blinked. She put out her hand…where was Robbie?

A soccer mom was suddenly too close to her. And what’s your name? Robbie answered for both of them. He looked back at Bailey. His faces, ugh…she blinked until there was one of them…his face was like, so disapproving-momish, and less adoring-boyfriendish. He didn’t like that she drank. Like, whatever. If he was gonna drag her on a field trip on a Friday night, then he’d better be nice to her.

Bailey stepped and stopped. The freshman who was puking in the bathroom was there in a seat. She was tying on some white hat thing. Bailey grabbed the seats to stay up. Damn, why’d she have to be on this bus? Bailey cleared her throat and the freshman looked up. The girl’s pale skin turned white in the darkening bus like a shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream