Page 16 of The Way I Used to Be
“Hey,” I mumble back.
Mara frowns a little, but she’s used to it by now. Cameron and I are never going to be friends.
“All right, you ready?” she asks me, her face glowing with excitement, her short cranberry hair framing her features perfectly.
I take a deep breath. And exhale. I nod.
“Let’s do this,” she says, locking her arm with mine.
After homeroom, it’s trig, which makes me want to scream already. Then after trig, it’s bio. Stephen Reinheiser is in my class. I can feel him looking at me, staring with his glasses and his fresh haircut and his brand-new clothes—his trying too hard—craning his neck eagerly, begging for me to look up at him when it’s time to pick a lab partner. I quickly turn to the girl next to me and smile, as if to say: I’m friendly, I’m normal, smart—I’d be a great lab partner. She smiles back. And we exchange nods—done. The last thing in the world I need this year is another Columbus project with Stephen Reinheiser. The last thing I need in my new life is a Stephen Reinheiser. When the bell rings, I’m ready to bolt. Because I know he’s dying to say hello and ask me about my summer.
In the hall I hurry to my new study hall. I’ve never had one before because I’d always had band. There were always lessons, practice, rehearsals. Never just free time. As I walk I keep smiling at random people. And most of them smile back. I even thought I noticed a few guys smiling at me first. No, I definitely don’t need a Stephen Reinheiser holding me back this year.
Just as I’m floating along, I hear someone call my name. I stop and turn around. It’s Mr. Krause, my band teacher. Suddenly gravity drags me back down just a little.
“Edy, I’m glad I ran into you. I was really surprised not to see your name on my roster this year. What happened?” he asks, almost looking hurt that I’d dropped out.
“Oh, right. I just—” I search for the words. “I’ve been in band for so long. I just kind of wanted to branch out this year, I guess. Try some new things,” I tell him. He still looks at me like he doesn’t quite comprehend. So I test out my smile on him. And suddenly his face softens.
He nods his head. “Well, I guess I can understand that.” But just then the second bell rings. I open my mouth to tell him that I’m late, but he stops me. “Don’t worry, I’ll sign you a late pass.” And as he scribbles his signature on the slip of paper, he tells me “We’ll miss you. You’re welcome back anytime, you know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Krause.” I smile again.
He smiles back.
This is the way the world works, apparently. I can’t believe I’m only figuring this out now. I wonder, as I walk to my new study hall, if other people know about this. It’s simple really. All you have to do is act like you’re normal and okay, and people start treating you that way.
I arrive at my new study hall late. There’s a buzz of light chatter. Which is good. It’s never easy for me to study if it’s too quiet. I make my way to the front of the room to hand in my late pass.
Then I scan the room for an empty spot as I pace the aisles of desks. I see that guy—Number 12. He sits in the back of the room, at the tail end of a cluster of jock types, wearing his Number 12 jacket. There are no empty seats anywhere. I start to panic as I notice more and more eyes beginning to look up at me, afraid they might see that underneath my new outfit and hair and makeup and body, maybe I’m really not that normal or okay. I start up the next aisle when I hear a voice behind me: “There’s one back here.”
I turn around. It’s Number 12. He clears a stack of books off the top of the desk next to his, and looks up at me. And I actually have to look behind me to make sure he’s really talking to me. This is the same guy who so completely didn’t see me that day last year, he could’ve seriously injured me. He points at me and mouths the wordyou, with a small lopsided grin.
I walk toward him slowly, half wondering if this is some kind of sick joke to lure me into unfamiliar territory only to do something humiliating, like throw spitballs in my hair. I move into the seat cautiously, trying not to make any noise as I pull out my notebook and pen and planner. I open the planner to today’s date, and make a note: Smile.
“Eh-hem.” Number 12 clears his throat kind of loud next to me.
I just trace my pen over the word, over and over, branching out into designs that outline the letters until they’re barely visible. I consider taking out my trig homework, but that would just upset me, and I’m actually feeling okay—normal, almost.
“Eh-hem-hem.” Number 12 again.
I pivot away from him.
“Eh-hem.” He does it again. “Eh-hem!” I look up, wondering if he’s choking or something. And he’s turned toward me—facing me—smiling.
“Oh,” I say, not really knowing what else there is to say. “What?” I whisper. Maybe he said something to me and I just spaced.
“What?” he repeats.
“Oh. Did you say something?”
“No.”
“Oh, okay.” I start to go back to my doodling.
“I mean, I didn’tsayanything,” he whispers.
I look at him. He leans toward me. So I lean toward him slightly and try to listen as hard as I can. That’s when I notice his eyes. They’re this intense brown, so deep it makes me want to just fall all the way into them. “What?” I ask again.
