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“...this one right here.” We stop in front of another nondescript door whose tiny window reveals my fellow cell mates. “The peer guide I’ve assigned to help you through the day is in this class. She’ll give you a more thorough tour, and if there are any questions she can’t handle, feel free to stop by my office anytime. The door is always open.” Her silver fillings wink at me from the back of her mouth when she smiles. I can’t remember her name no matter how hard I shake my brain.
“Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to navigate all right on my own.” I turn the schedule she handed me so that the map printed on the bottom is oriented, and bend my lips up in what I hope approximates a smile.
“Whatever you’d like, Agnes.” She shifts from one sensible pump to the other.
“Okay. Thanks again. I’m, uh, going to class now.” I point to the doorway I don’t particularly want to walk through.
What’s more awkward? Walking into a classroom full of seniors as the new girl? Or standing in the ugly hallway of your new school losing a staring contest with a guidance counselor whose name you can’t remember?
Lamest game of Would You Rather. Ever.
Coño, I have to choose, so I walk backward through the classroom door, keeping that demented smile wide until Mrs. What’s-Her-Face disappears into the shadows of the hallway.
“Good morning. You must be Agnes.” A woman with a no-nonsense voice gives me the evil teacher eye over tortoiseshell glasses that perch on the end of her broad nose. Even with her springy, salt-and-pepper curls factored into her height, she only grazes my chin. But the fact that I tower over her doesn’t stop me from squirming under her laser gaze. She has the same huggable, curvy figure and beautiful, soft, dark brown skin as my grandmother, but I cannot picture her taking a tray of warm coconetes out of the oven. I can picture her silencing a class of hooligans with one fiery look. “I’m Mrs. Lovett.”
“Good morning.” I modify my smile from demented pretend to real. I hate unnecessary authority, but I absolutely love ball-busting, no-nonsense bitches. I get the latter vibe from Lovett already.
“Ms. Ronston wanted me to let you know your peer guide will be Khabria Scott. Khabria, please raise your hand.” Mrs. Lovett’s voice snaps, and a hand pops up in response. I approve of my tour guide’s bold nails—matte black except for a shiny white ring finger nail, gold fleur-de-lis designs glittering on each one.
Because I’m nervous, I resort to a goofy, toothy smile, and feel extra dumb when Khabria folds her arms across her chest elegantly and gives me a tight-lipped, polite smile in return. She’s got this whole regal Nefertiti/Beyoncé vibe that’s intimidating and impressive all at once.
“You can take a seat second row, fourth desk back, Agnes.” Mrs. Lovett makes a mark in her roll book, and I slide into my chair while too many eyes dart my way, sizing me up because I’m so shiny and new. It’s uncomfortable but not mean.
“Hey. Hey, new girl?” A tall, good-looking guy with a bright yellow basketball jersey sitting just behind Khabria nearly falls out of his chair calling to me and waving his gorgeously muscled arms over his head. “Where you from?”
“Crown Heights.” I watch his face screw up like I answered him in Finnish. “Brooklyn.”
“Where?” He kicks the back of the Khabria’s chair as he tries to settle into a desk that clearly wasn’t designed for people over six foot six. Khabria whips her head so fast her black and strawberry braids are a blur.
She mutters, “Holy hell, you a moron, Lonzo.”
“New York City, man. C’mon, you’re makin’ us all look ignorant.” I can’t see who said it, but that deep, slow voice that rolls like a warm wave in the ocean is the most Southern voice I’ve ever heard—and I’m shocked by the fizzy glow that warms through me at the sound of it. I like it. I like it a lot.
“Why’d you move here?” The tall guy kicks my chair with the sole of his shoe to get my attention. When I turn to look at him, he grins wide, the way I smiled at Khabria before. “Too violent in your hood?”
“What?” I snort as thoughts of the last co-op meeting flit through my head. Old Mr. Madsen almost got in a fistfight with the “young hipster” who dared to adorn the communal herb garden with his found-art whirligigs, which Mr. Madsen screamed were “pretentious trash.” The meeting ended with Mr. Madsen knocking all the disposable coffee cups off the snack table and vowing to recycle the young hipster’s “eyesores” if they came anywhere near his flat-leaf parsley. “I lived in a really nice neighborhood. Not a hood.”
I mean, sure, there were the Crown Heights Riots, but that was way back in the ’90s. Ancient history.
“So why then?” Despite the twitchiness of his limbs, his dark eyes are calm.
When he repeats his question, more eyes turn to me from around the classroom. Shiny-haired cheerleaders and flexing jocks, slackers trying to pretend they aren’t dozing, nerds clutching their notebooks—two dozen faces fade in a kaleidoscope of dark and light as my vision tunnels.
Being the new girl sucks.
“Uh...”
“You hate snow?” He rubs a hand over his tight, dark curls and clicks his tongue when Khabria stomps her sneaker in frustration.
“No, you need to stop, boy. Who would hate snow?” She throws her arms out and rolls her eyes like it’s the most ridiculous concept she’s ever contemplated.
“You ever even seen snow?” He juts out his chin.
“No, but I want to. You trying to say you don’t want to ride on a sled? Or throw a snowball?”
“I heard snowballs hurt your hand.” He holds out his own hands, so big they could probably palm a basketball with zero problems. He flips them, studying his knuckles and then his palms like he’s trying to get a gauge of the damage a snowball could do.
I’m shocked silent. No snow? Ever? It’s a lot to wrap my frostbitten brain around. Despite the intense heat here, I feel like I still haven’t thawed completely from the last cold snap back home.
“Alonzo Washington, please stop harassing Agnes and come discuss the status of your term paper proposal with me immediately.”
The guy—Alonzo—leaps out of his seat and says, “Yes, ma’am,” like he’s a soldier in a very obedient army.
I’m about to go back to imagining a life devoid of snow when I hear a little alien-baby voice whisper, “Agnes? That cannot be her name. That name would be ugly if it were my grandmother’s.”
I swivel my head and face the kind of blandly vicious sneers that always seem to infect a select few in any group. My cousins in Santo Domingo would say they’re bocas de suape—mop mouths. In translation, they’re two losers who don’t know when to keep their traps shut. They’re so generically pathetic, if life was a movie, they wouldn’t even have names in the credits. They’re even wearing cheerleading uniforms. Could they be more cliché? Generic Mean Girl One is giggling like mad along with Generic Mean Girl Two. I turn full around in my seat and stare at them, ignoring my new teacher’s obvious throat clearing.
“Is there a problem, ladies?” she demands.
“My name,” I announce, still looking at the two overzealously spray-tanned, hair-tossing idiots in their cutesy matching uniforms. I love the way their cackles dry up and their perfectly made-up faces fall. “Apparently it’s hilarious.”
“Agnes.” I turn to look at my teacher, whose pursed lips and cocked eyebrows tell me she is clearly not amused. “Whatever this nonsense is about, it stops now. I don’t tolerate fools, and I don’t put up with time wasting. In fact, it’s really starting to piss me off that I wasted this much time already.”
A few people gasp or snort when she says piss, as if our innocent, nearly adult ears have never heard a single naughty word before.
“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” I say, sitting straight at my desk. I can take care of the Generic Mean Girl Twins later. Right now, I’m going to make it a priority not to “piss off” this woman. For all I know, this class might be the highlight of an otherwise miserable few months.
“Ma’am.” She crosses her arms over her wide chest. The idiotic giggles start again. I’m drowning fast.
“Me?” I point at myself. Mrs. Lovett’s nostrils flare very slightly.
“Me.” She points a thumb at her chest. “When you speak to me, your instructor, you refer to me as ma’am. Clear?”
“So, not ‘Mrs. Lovett’?” I swear to baby Jesus, I ask only to double-check, but I guess I’ve already walked too close to the edge of the smart-ass line, and now my classmates are hooting like I’m the Pied Piper of classroom anarchy.
“Do not test my patience today, Agnes,” Mrs. Lovett snaps. She slaps a paper packet and a copy of The Old Man and the Sea on my desk.
I leaf through the tattered pages, hold it up, and attempt one last smile that’s basically just me grasping at straws. “No friend as loyal.”
Mrs. Lovett’s lips twitch, and I curl my fingers around the old misogynistic tale of oceanic triumph and New Testament allusions, waiting to see if her lips will twitch up or...
Up. Smile. Score!
But now that I bought her love back with a cheap quote trick, I have to be on my best behavior while we scribble notes about Hemingway’s boozing and hunting and womanizing—and that means keeping my mouth firmly shut. Because, despite my best intentions, whenever I open my mouth, trouble finds me.
Also, I’m still not sure about the whole ma’am thing.
When we’re finally dismissed, Alonzo drags Khabria over to me.
“Agnes, tell this know-it-all that it hurts your hand to make a snowball.”
“Um, if you don’t wear gloves, it stings,” I admit reluctantly. I’m breaking a deep, unwritten girl code by siding with Alonzo, even on a matter this insignificant, but...
“See! I told you! Ooh, you so wrong!” Alonzo crows, shimmying his arms at his sides and strutting around Khabria in a weird, end zone type celebration dance. “My daddy told me when he was in Lamaze class with my mama they made everybody squeeze an ice cube to let them get a taste of labor pain.”
“Um, it’s uncomfortable, but I don’t think it’s anything like labor,” I cut in, but Alonzo is flapping his elbows like a chicken while Khabria sucks her teeth and sputters. I fear for Alonzo’s life if he keeps poking this very beautiful, probably lethal bear. “I mean, it’s mostly fun, not painful...” I trail off, and Khabria shakes her head.
“Ignore that fool. He actually enjoys being a dumb ass.”
It occurs to me that I could stick out my hand and introduce myself—no! Maybe that’s too weird?—but before I determine if the chance to make a new friend outweighs the incredible social awkwardness, Alonzo’s sauntered up to his group of cronies and Khabria is gliding away to join a clutch of girls wearing navy cheerleading uniforms that match hers—including both plastic airheads from earlier. Ugh, maybe I should be glad social awkwardness won out before I tried to befriend someone who hangs out with the twit twins.
I try to convince myself I dodged a social bullet, but it doesn’t feel awesome to be left hugging my books and wishing I could teleport to my next class so that I won’t have to suffer being the one and only student at Ebenezer High navigating the halls alone.
And then, suddenly, I’m not.
“Hey! Hey, Agnes!” Khabria’s tiny cheerleading skirt swishes around her long legs as she jogs down the hall after me. “I’m your peer guide today.” She tucks a loose red braid back into her updo and gives me a slightly bigger smile than when we first met.
It’s probably just a coincidence that the clutch of cheerleader clones she left down the hall erupts into squawks of laughter at that exact second.
Probably.
Panic feels like quicksand sucking at my ankles and threatening to pull me under. I half choke out my next words.
“Uh, no worries. I have this handy map.” I flutter the wrinkled paper between us like I’m waving a white flag. I surrender to social isolation—leave me alone in my misery. “I’ve been riding the subway alone since I was a little kid. I’m sure I can manage the halls of a high school.”
Khabria nabs my schedule and cocks an eyebrow. “Really? Because your next class is back that-a-way.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder as I grab the map back and try to get my bearings. I usually have a decent internal compass. I guess I’m just off-kilter today.
“Right. That way. Okay. I got turned around, I guess.”
Senior year. I’m supposed to be directing freshman to the nonexistent fourth-floor pool, not getting lost going down the main hall.
“I know it’s not the subway, but finding your way around here can be tricky. Let me give you a quick tour at least.” Khabria’s dark eyes warm with the kind of sympathy I’m used to giving, not receiving. I definitely prefer being in charge, not being led around. But I guess I don’t have much choice now.
“Okay. So...I see my next class from here. After that I have to head across this courtyard...or, wait? Is that a stairwell...?”
“C’mon.” Khabria marches me to my next classroom and bats her lashes at the cute young teacher manning the door. “Mr. Webster, this is Agnes. It’s her first day, and I’m her peer guide. Is it okay if I take her on a quick tour once the halls empty?”
Mr. Webster crosses his arms over his wide chest and sighs. “Ten minutes, Ms. Scott. Agnes will already be playing catch-up.”
“Fifteen? Please, sir?” she says, bartering with a flirty edge to her voice and biting her bottom lip for good measure.
Mr. Webster looks decidedly uncomfortable. He takes off his nerdy-cute glasses and cleans the lenses with the tail of his half-tucked dress shirt. “Fine. Go, quickly, so you can get Agnes back as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Mr. Webster,” she singsongs. We leave him frowning at his polished shoes.
Khabria whirls me down the hall, giggling the whole way, and I feel normal for a split second. When we’re at the stairwell, she tugs me close, glances over her shoulder, and dishes some seriously crazy gossip. “Webster tries to play it cool, but everyone knows he’s dating a girl who just graduated last year...and they started seeing each other before school was out.” Her eyes go wide and her perfect eyebrows rise up until they almost disappear in her hair.
“Did they get caught?”
There was a rumor about one of the teacher’s aides and a senior at Newington when I was in tenth grade. But the rumor barely had time to circulate before the aide was gone without a word. I can’t imagine what it would have been like if we found out the rumor was true, then passed that aide in the halls every day...
“No, but we all know it’s true. He was at a few high school parties over the summer, always looking like he wanted to disappear. Oh, here are the math labs, and your next classroom after you leave Webster’s class is the middle one.” She waves a hand at a cluster of rooms filled with students silently scribbling complicated geometry equations on whiteboards, then sneers. “I don’t know why he’d risk showing his face where there could be students around. I mean, it’s not like anyone told on him, but someone could’ve, and now he can’t get respect no matter how tough he tries to act because how do you respect someone with that little sense? Last year, he was one of the strictest teachers we had. This year, I think he’s just waiting on us to graduate, so one more class that went to school with his little girlfriend will be gone and out of his hair.”
Khabria’s words cut like a razor through tissue paper, and I realize she’s almost gleeful. I kind of get it. Right or wrong, there’s a certain thrill in holding power over the people who are supposed to be in authority, especially when they screw up.
“Has he ever made a pass at any of the other girls?” I ask. I try my best to avoid gossip for the most part, but there’s something weirdly comforting about it. It gives you the illusion you’re sharing a secret—even if the secret is something everyone in school is talking about.
“Nah. Apparently it was true love with him and that one girl, or whatever. Guidance office.” She points and it’s reassuring to see the familiar “mountain climber with an inspirational quote underneath” poster that must be required decor for every guidance office in the country.
“That’s crazy,” I murmur as I poke my head in and peek at the out-of-date computers and dusty college manuals. “I’d probably quit if I were him.”
“People ’round here are stubborn like that though.” She shakes her braids out with her fingers. “My gram always says people have more pride than sense. They’d rather be miserable than admit defeat. I think some people just like being miserable, period.” We stroll down a back hall. “Food science, shop, child care, music room,” she ticks off.
“I definitely get that vibe from some people.” I decide to test the waters. “No offense if they’re your friends, but those two cheerleaders in our English class seemed pretty bent on spreading misery...at least toward me.”
Khabria’s pace slows and a blush warms the deep brown skin over her perfect cheekbones. “People sometimes forget we’re supposed to be hospitable to newcomers, especially if we’re on cheer. I know the other girls came off badly today, but their bark is definitely worse than their bite. They prolly thought they were being funny or something.” She shrugs. “That whole pride thing. Don’t take anything they say to heart. Maybe it’s a side effect of being squad leaders every year since we were in peewee cheer—maybe they’re just used to ribbing on the new girl.”
“So they’ve always been the queen-bee types?” I can so imagine the Generic Mean Girls as preschoolers with pigtails and bows, lording over the snack table while they nibbled their graham crackers and sipped their juice boxes.
“Ain’t my queens,” Khabria bites out. She sighs and takes it down a notch. “Look, some people are really into cliques here. They have their friends, their jokes, their way of doing things... If you don’t like them, my best advice for you is just stay away.”
I realize I touched a nerve, and I get it. There are girls I would have counted as my best friends in middle school but haven’t spoken a word to in years—girls I’d still defend if anyone else tried to talk crap about them. People—even people you care about—can change so fast, and loyalties get complicated.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.” By now we’ve rounded back to the main hall and Mr. Webster’s class, all the initial closeness we shared over steamy gossip withered.
“Agnes, Khabria!” Mr. Webster pokes his head out the door, calls down the hall to us, and taps his watch in warning. “You’re five minutes late. Let’s hustle.”
“Thank you for showing me around.” I clutch my map in shaking fingers, off-kilter after possibly offending the first person who was actually nice to me.
“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need help with anything else today.” Khabria’s voice runs as cold as the water around an iceberg. She hesitates, then says, “Look, most people here are good folk. We get along, we help each other out. Don’t judge anyone too harshly based on a few minutes of knowing them.”
I watch her skirt flutter as she flounces away before I can answer, and I slip into class. My classmates text on their phones, paint their nails, and chat as Mr. Webster robotically lectures, his body language limp with defeat. I wonder if he regrets anything. I wonder if staying here at Ebenezer was him standing his ground or giving up.
If I stay here, would it be standing my ground or giving up? Bells ring, classes move, and I follow my map like a pro now that Khabria’s shown me the basic layout. For the rest of the day, I’m mostly ignored. Which is fine. I’m only enduring. Just a few months.
Just the rest of my senior ye—
It’s like I accidentally pulled the plug on a hot bubble bath. I search under the suds to plug it back up because if I don’t, every single emotion I’ve kept bottled up will drain, hot and wet and embarrassing.
No girl who grew up on the mean streets of Brooklyn (all right...fairly gentrified Crown Heights, but still) is going to cry on her first day of school in Nowhere, Georgia. I’d have to beat in my own ass. It wouldn’t be pretty.
The final bell tolls and crowds press out of doorways and into the hall on every side of me, a tsunami of bodies. I don’t care about being jostled, but it’s weird to not have a solitary soul waiting for me by a locker or gesturing for me to sneak down a back hall and beat the rush.
I sprint alone to my little Corolla—a poor consolation prize from my mother to make up for the dissolution of my pretty rad life because of her screwup—and peel out. I choke on the diesel fumes from the line of lifted pickup trucks that leads home.
Home.
That’s the word on repeat in my head when I veer the car to the side of the road and pull the damn plug, unstop everything I’ve been holding in. I’ve felt seconds away from drowning all day, and now I weep and scream like a banshee on meth in the semiprivacy of my car, letting it all drain out.
