I close my locker and head toward my first class, concentrating on not tripping or getting slammed by a backpack or poked in the eye with a drumstick. The latter is a realistic threat, because Adrian Ahn is walking in front of me, twirling actual drumsticks.
Adrian is the official rock star of Edgar H. Richardson High School. He’s in a band called East 48. They’re good, like mosh-pit-diving-fans-screaming-their-heads-off good. Not that I’ve seen them in person, but they post videos on YouTube. He’s part Korean and dyes his long hair a darkish red color. Today he’s got it twisted into a messy knot with a pencil poked through it. Nobody else could pull that off, but Adrian looks amazing.
My eyes are glued to his man-bun (not buns, though they are certainly worth gluing one’s eyes to). I’m wondering what would happen if I yanked that pencil out of his hair when he suddenly spins around, throwing a stick in the air as he does a 360 on one heel. I come to an abrupt halt so as not to crash into him, but the kid walking next to me doesn’t. He knocks right into Adrian and pushes him away from the drumstick that is currently soaring through the air . . .
Right for my face. My hand shoots up to grab it.
“Whoa!” Adrian says, regaining his balance. “Good catch.”
I blink at the drumstick clutched in my outstretched hand. OMG, I caught Adrian Ahn’s drumstick. And he’s speaking to me. This is my chance to talk to somebody. Somebody who spoke to me first!
“Hi!” I blurt. It’s the only thing I can think to say, I guess because I spent the morning rehearsing it and working up the nerve to say it to Hallie, but I know immediately it’s the wrong thing.
So, of course, I say it again.
“Hi!”
Adrian laughs. “Hi to you, too.”
We’re stopped in the middle of the hall. Kids jostle me as they step around us.
“Can I, uh . . . get that back?” Adrian tips his chin toward the drumstick in my hand—which I am still holding up in the air like the Statue of Liberty. I quickly push the stick to his chest.
“I, uh . . . yes. Here’s your drumstick. I caught it. Self-defense, of course, totally. You could put an eye out with that thing. But here you go. All yours now. Happy to be of service.” Oh my God. Happy to be of service? Did I actually say that out loud? The word-spew is an occasional side effect of never speaking to anyone. It’s like my brain stores up every ridiculous thought I’ve ever had and then projectile vomits it all over the place.
To make matters worse, I cap it off with a cheerful, “Go forth and prosper!”
Adrian laughs again. “You too, Spock.”
I decline to clarify that I wasn’t quoting the Vulcan, who actually said, “Live long and prosper,” because my brain has thankfully gone into complete lockdown and we are swept away in the throng of students.
This is why you can’t have nice things, Vicky. Like friends. Or conversations.
Instead of continuing to my world history class, I duck into the nearest girls’ bathroom, trying to tamp down a sudden wave of nausea. I don’t succeed and heave into the toilet, holding my hair back with one hand and steadying myself on the toilet roll dispenser with the other.
One of the girls I dashed past on my way in says “Ew” and scurries out. I flush and stare into the toilet bowl, which is now clear and filling with water.
A knock on the stall door startles me. I turn to see a pair of red Converse high-tops on the other side, the yin-yang symbol Sharpied onto their rubber toes. I love that symbol. Jenna and I first discovered it the summer before seventh grade and adopted it as our own secret code. We doodled it everywhere, signed notes with it. We downloaded a custom emoji so we could text it to each other. We even got temporary tattoos of it once and swore we’d get real ones when we were old enough.
The wearer of the yin-yang Converse says, “You okay in there?”
“Fine!” I call out. Too loud. Why am I shouting?
“You sure?” the girl says.
“Yes,” I whisper. Too quiet now. I sound like a freak. I wasn’t always this bad, or maybe I was and didn’t realize it until Jenna left. It’s like walking on a balance beam while someone’s holding your hand and you’re perfectly fine until they suddenly let go and you can’t move.
The girl in the red Converse hesitates before pivoting and heading out. I wipe my mouth with toilet paper and flush again. It’s too late to get to class on time, so I take a disinfecting wipe from my backpack (I always have a supply on hand) and clean the toilet seat where I’ll be spending the next period. The bell hasn’t rung yet, but it will any second, and the thought of rushing into class after the bell makes me want to hurl again.
Being late for class is very high on my list of stupid everyday stuff that now terrifies me, aka the Terror List. It’s a mental list I’ve been keeping since the beginning of the year. I add to it whenever something makes me nervous or embarrassed or want to disappear. The list is long enough now that it’s become a sort of game for me to remember everything on it, like trying to name all fifty states. It includes: Starting conversations
Walking into class late
Making eye contact
Assigned seating
Having to choose my own seat
Saying something stupid
Getting called on in class
Finishing a test first
Finishing a test last
Group projects
Individual presentations
The cafeteria
Eating in front of people
Gym class
Sneezing in public
I can now add “Catching drumsticks” to the list. Also, “Not catching drumsticks.” Either way, that was going to be humiliating.
After going through the list, I take out my history book. I’ve discovered that it is big enough to span the width of the toilet seat and provide a slightly less disgusting surface to sit on. I use all of first period to study for my precalc test, which is next period, and also thankfully means I won’t have to talk to anybody. I can put my head down and just do the work.
That’s pretty much how I spend the rest of the day. Head down. Going to class. Doing the work. I pay attention enough but not too much, so I can escape notice by teachers who only have time to deal with the slackers and the scholars. My sweet spot is that inconspicuous in-between.
The final bell rings at 3:50, which is an hour and a half later than last year since our school switched to a new schedule that’s supposed to match the natural sleep cycles of teenagers (according to studies and the fact that everybody was sleeping through first period). By 3:57 I’m on the bus and slinking into my usual seat (the one over the hump of the tire where nobody else ever wants to sit). I pull out my phone to text Jenna.
You there?
You’ll never believe what happened today.
She doesn’t answer right away. Her day ends about ten minutes after mine even though we live two time zones apart, because her school still starts at the crack of dawn. I check her Instagram while I wait for her to get to her bus and see my text, but there’s nothing new since the kissy-face selfie she posted last night.
I embarrassed myself spectacularly today.