“What about Gavin?” I asked, unable to keep it in one more second. I couldn’t get him out of my head. I’d been trying to figure out how to find him again, and the best I’d come up with was camping out in the woods and hoping not to get shot by him.
“You mean the First Year in the wheelchair?”
“A First Year, like a freshman?” I asked. “I don’t think he’s that young. And he wasn’t in a wheelchair when I met him.” The details of my forest encounter came spilling out.
“There’s only one Gavin at Kingussie,” she said wistfully, “and he’s certainly not the guy you met.”
“Maybe he already graduated,” I offered.
“Could be,” she said. “Gavin’s a pretty common name here, and Kingussie’s the only high school for eight towns. I’m sure I’d recognize him if I saw him.”
Jo continued to tell me about the other things I wouldn’t find at Kingussie: no big football games (unless you counted the soccer matches they called “football” in Britain, which I didn’t), no cheerleading, no Homecoming, or Prom. They did have a year-end “KAY-lee” (spelled cèiligh for some insane reason) that she described as a “cool square dance” where everyone wore their kilts, but how a square dance could possibly be cool was beyond me. And I learned that even though Kingussie High was a public school, everyone had to wear a uniform.
I hated the idea at first, until I realized it would probably be a lot easier to blend in if I wasn’t immediately judged for my Midwest fashions.
It turned out the wrong clothes were the least of my problems at school. I apparently had the wrong everything else.
CHAPTER 6
I stopped outside my new high school and studied it for a minute, even though Jo was pulling my arm and practically dancing to get inside.
“Come on!” she said. “We’ll be late!”
“I know, I know,” I answered. “I just want a good look at it before I go in to the slaughter.”
I am not exaggerating at all when I say Kingussie could have been a prison. Or an old, abandoned factory. If it weren’t for the “Kingussie High School” wooden sign mounted outside in a weird little wishing well, you could never tell the difference. Unlike American high schools, there was no welcoming front entrance—no covered walkway or grassy area or steps or anything—just two dull, crimson metal doors on the front of the flat, gray-brick building.
As we passed through the doors, I noticed plastic flowerpots hanging from a hook on either side of the door, but instead of bringing cheer or comfort, they only served to scare me more. The plants inside were prickly and dead, and as they swung in the wind, the chains creaked as if saying, “Run away. Run away.”
There were less than three hundred fifty students in the whole school, so of course, everyone knew everyone. As I walked down the hall with Jo, I felt the stares as keenly as if I was an alien from another planet. Sure, I was new, but in my uniform, what made me stand out so much that people were looking me up and down and whispering?
I didn’t have to wait long for the answer.
As Jo helped me open my locker, three girls walked up to us. The one in the middle grabbed my hand and held it in both of hers.
“Jo,” she cooed. “Who is this lovely creature? Introduce us!”
“This is Maren,” Jo answered. “Maren, this is Elsie.” I could tell by Jo’s flat tone that Elsie was not her favorite person. I’d have to remember to cheer her up later by letting her know “Elsie” was mainly a name for cows in America.
“Lovely to meet you,” Elsie said, smiling entirely too widely.
“Hi,” I replied, consciously trying to keep my answer as short as possible to hide my “foreign” accent.
Elsie suddenly let go of my hand, which I wasn’t expecting, and my arm fell clumsily against my leg. It was the perfect gesture, though, to accompany Elsie’s line of sight, since she was now looking at my shoes.
“Nice shoes. Good tights. Well done, Jo. You got her properly outfitted,” Elsie said. I was actually wearing Jo’s tights and an extra pair of her shoes, and mentally thanked her for saving me from a foot mocking.
Elsie continued her inspection, opened her mouth to say something, and then changed her mind. Instead, she reached for my neck with both of her hands. Instinctively, I jerked back, and bashed my head against the lockers.
“Sorry to startle you, Dewdrop,” Elsie said. “I was only trying to fix your tie. While Jo might insist upon wearing hers like a nob, we want you to be posh.” As she talked, she undid the perfectly looped, thin, orange-and-black-striped tie around my neck and retied it with a big, sloppy, loose knot. I was glad my mother’s necklace was hidden under my blouse, tucked away from scrutiny. “There,” she sighed. “Much better.” Her own tie was fashioned the same way, so at least she wasn’t setting me up to be made fun of . . . at least I thought so. “So, what’s with your hair?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” I replied, realizing I was twisting a lock of it in my fingers. Thankfully, I no longer chewed on my hair when I was nervous, like I did until junior high.
“It’s pretty,” Elsie said. “But it’s just so . . . big. And so . . . styled. Why do you do it like that?”
Styled? Who knew crazy and naturally curly was a style? I stepped away from the lockers, scanned the crowd, and realized all the girls had the same hairdo: straight, or wavy at best, mostly short, and cut very sensibly.
“Um, my hair’s just always been like this,” I answered.
“No way,” Elsie replied, still sounding nice despite her actual words. “No one has hair like that, except on the television. That’s it, isn’t it? All the magazines say you Americans get your hair cut like the celebs. Is it true?”
“No. I mean, I guess I know people who get their hair cut like a celebrity they like. But I don’t.”
“Oh, rubbish, you all do,” she continued. “You’ve got movie star hair! Nobody walks around with movie star hair for no reason.” She addressed her posse. “I’ve heard they splash out a fortune in the salons over there.”
“They splash out on more than just their hair,” a male voice breathed into the back of my neck.
“What are you getting on about, Anders?” Elsie said with not a small amount of jealousy.
I swung around to find the infamous Anders, popular but mean according to Jo, standing far too close to me. He had light blue eyes, bleached-blond hair, and was apparently spoken for. Yet he kept speaking to me.
“So, are they?” he asked. He smirked with the confidence of someone who knew he was handsome. I hated guys like that. Especially when it was true. Anders was pretty gorgeous.
“Are they what?” I asked, wanting to take a step away from him, but standing my ground because everyone was watching.
He either didn’t notice my discomfort or didn’t care, because he leaned in, his lips brushing against my cheek when he spoke. I had never been so near to a boy’s mouth, and I got goose bumps all over my body.
“Real,” he exhaled. “Are they real?”
I held my breath. “Wh-what?” I managed to stutter.
“Your diddies,” he whispered.