Unravelling. Elizabeth Norris
pretty face. I had to proofread one of his essays in Honors Humanities last year—luck of the draw—and not only was his paper done, but it was actually good. Good enough that I had to struggle to edit it, which doesn’t happen to me often.
“Oh, Janelle!” Dockery says, handing me my schedule. “We missed you last week. I was so sorry to hear about your accident. I’m glad you’re okay!”
“Thanks,” I say before glaring at Alex, who’s already sitting at our usual table.
He just shrugs, like he can’t understand why I wouldn’t want Dockery—and thus the entire school—to know I got hit by a truck and came back from the dead. For someone so anti-drama, he’s clueless about how it starts.
With a sigh, I drop my bag next to him and flop into my chair before glancing down at my schedule. Once I look at it, I’m tempted to tear it into pieces.
It’s all wrong. Which is a nightmare. Because Miss Florentine, my guidance counselor, is overworked, and schedule changes are never guaranteed.
I look at my schedule again.
Earth science, American Literature, algebra, and chorus. So I’m supposed to take science for stoners, basic English, and freshman math. I wouldn’t mind chorus, but I don’t sing.
“Don’t be overdramatic. It’s not that bad,” Alex says. “Just follow my schedule. I’m sure we can get you bumped into my classes.”
Last resort, I could get my dad to call and complain, since that’s how things actually get done around here. I cannot get through junior year in classes with freshmen and stoners. “How full are your classes?” I ask as the bell rings.
“You should be fine for Spanish, but APEL . . . ,” Alex says, and I can’t stifle a groan. He wrinkles his nose. “Poblete had thirty-five of us on Thursday and forty-one on Friday.”
Thirty-two is supposed to be the cap on the AP English Language class. I’m doomed.
The majority of first period passes like this:
Alex goes to physics, and I head to the counseling office. The secretary says Florentine can’t possibly see me right now. I reword my request until she changes her mind.
Florentine says my schedule can be changed, but the classes I want are full.
I reword, and she sends me to Mr. Elksen, the VP in charge of scheduling, who can apparently override the rules.
Elksen’s secretary says I’ll have to come back later.
I try to reword, but she actually has a backbone.
I head to Principal Mauro’s office instead to see if she’ll override my schedule for me.
Her secretary says she’s busy, and I’ll have to come back later.
Mauro herself comes out to see what’s going on.
She says I have to fill out a schedule change request form and speak to Elksen like everyone else.
It’s amazing anything ever happens in this school.
I’m about to try to press my luck when the hallway double doors swing open, and Mauro stops listening and turns to see who else is interrupting her game of solitaire.
But it’s security.
And Ben Michaels.
His hood is pulled over his head, shading his hair and his eyes, the white earbuds of his iPod barely visible. He has no backpack, and as if he isn’t being escorted by two campus security guards, he just shuffles his ripped Chuck Taylors as he walks, with an ease that screams, I don’t care.
He’s just another one of those guys I can’t stand here, DGAFing their way through life.
“Miss Tenner?”
Ben’s head tips up at the sound of my name, and from underneath his hood, I can see his eyes widen in surprise for a second, before his whole body shifts, tension rolling through it.
I feel giddy with excitement, because he’s right here with the answers I need. My heart beats too fast—for a second—and then I remember we’re not alone.
I wish I could freeze everyone else and demand he clear up the muddiness in my brain and explain what happened at Torrey Pines.
But since I’m not magical . . . that isn’t possible.
I turn back to Principal Mauro. “I just really need to get my schedule fixed.”
“And as I said, you’ll need to go through the proper channels,” she answers automatically. “There are plenty of other students with scheduling needs as well.”
I want to shout at her. But I don’t.
I shift, adjusting the weight of my bag on my shoulder, and turn to leave.
And almost run right into Ben. I come within centimeters of touching him, and my eyes lock onto his. Then the scent of mint, soap, and gasoline hits me, and it’s like I’m on my back on the 101 looking up at him all over again. But he turns away, and we narrowly avoid any physical contact. I watch his back for a few seconds, but he doesn’t turn around.
It doesn’t matter. Every nerve ending in my whole body feels as if it’s on fire.
The inefficiency makes me want to throw up.
And for all Nick’s flirting this morning, and all those sweet thoughts that turned me into a melty pile of mush, turns out he’s still a douche bag. Sure, I told him to go to lunch without me, but he said he wouldn’t.
sry babe get u off tmrw
Based on that grammatical monstrosity of a text, I know he’s already off campus with Kevin, headed to Bread Bites, so I wander into the quad for lunch.
I’m walking toward the grassy area in front of the L building when some girl lets out one of those bloodcurdling screams— the scary-movie kind. My body tenses, and I swear I can see headlights in front of me, and I have this crazy desire to throw my hand up and cover my face.
But as I whirl toward the sound, the girl—Roxy Indigo, who I only know because she got a 6 percent in our ceramics class freshman year—has dissolved into hysterical laughter, while she tries, halfheartedly, to pull her denim skirt—currently bunched up around her waist, revealing a black thong—back down over her hips. After homecoming last year, word around campus was she got so drunk at the after-party that she passed out and peed herself in the back of her date’s SUV.
Which reminds me that I don’t have any friends here, because I’ve never really wanted any.
Except . . .
Ben Michaels is staring at me. Lounging in the shade of the theater overhang with a couple of his stoner buddies, he’s only a few feet from Roxy, and once she gets her skirt readjusted, she’s headed back over there.
He doesn’t turn his head to look at her, even though it’s obvious she’s talking to him. He just watches me. And normally, this is the point where I’d roll my eyes at the creeptasticness of it all. I mean, hello, stalker much? But he’s not leering at me. And the look on his face isn’t this possessive, he-wants-to-devour-me kind of look. It’s different. Almost as if he’s daring me to go over there.
So I do. And as I walk toward him, I stare right back at him, letting every ounce of frustration—at my schedule, at this day, at this life I managed to create