All of It (2 page)

I have a few friends in class, too—friends that I didn’t see much this summer. John, who’s painfully shy and a little nerdy … okay, a lot nerdy (but who says that’s a bad thing?), is super nice and has the world’s most innocent face hiding under a head full of curly black hair. John’s innocent to the point of being naïve, but I can’t fault him for it. It’s a relief when compared to the majority of my other male friends. John’s the type of person that you know would never laugh at you even if you shared your most embarrassing secret with him. John, unfortunately, is one of those kids who’s never quite fit in. It’s not that he’s bullied. To bully someone you have to notice him first. John doesn’t get noticed. He blends into the background and people look right past him. This is a shame, because they’re missing out. John’s awesome. And he bakes killer banana bread.

Monica’s also in my calculus class. She’s almost the exact opposite of John, aside from the fact that she’s also unbelievably intelligent and kind. She’s tall and thin with long brown hair and huge brown eyes. She’s captain of the basketball team and one of those rare people who is very beautiful, very popular,
and
very smart. (When the planets align perfectly during a leap year one is born). I met Monica sophomore year when we both endured a semester of American History wrought with many, many bad Hollywood movies (shown not as a supplement, but a substitute to actual teaching) coupled with daily fire-and-brimstone, highly editorialized, creative interpretations of actual events from our teacher, Mr. Ranier. Mr. Ranier didn’t return the following semester. We heard he was on “sabbatical.” We also heard the following year he moved to the Deep South and not only started his own new church, but a new religion. Anyway, after that bonding experience with Monica, I believe she and I will indeed be friends for life.

Let me be clear: Mr. White is no Mr. Ranier.

Mr. White talks a little bit about his summer vacation to the East Coast and then gets right into the first lesson. Math has never been my favorite subject, but it comes easily to me. I’m trying to focus on the lesson, but about fifteen minutes in he’s lost my interest and my mind begins to drift. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about my morning with Dimitri. How on earth did he aggravate me so much? I’m generally pretty laid back, but I was so keyed up after five minutes with him I wanted to run from the building screaming. And then the wink—what was that about?

The bell rings and summons me back to reality. I quickly jot down the homework assignment and jam my book in my bag while making my way to the door. My daydreaming’s delayed my departure and now I’m apparently the last person in line to exit.

“Hey Veronica!” John’s waiting at the door for me, a big, sweet smile on his face.

I can’t help but return his smile. “Hey Brother John, what’s up?” Seeing him standing there smiling at me takes me back to kindergarten. I feel five years old again.

“So, what do you think? Is calculus going to be hard?” There’s earnest excitement, or maybe it’s panic, in his voice. With John it’s hard to tell.

He’s definitely looking for reassurance. “Hard for me? Yes. Hard for you? No.” For his sake I’m trying to hide my amusement.

“You know if you ever need a tutor—“ He’s looking down at his scuffed white tennis shoes as if he’s embarrassed to offer.

I interrupt him before he can finish, “Thank you, John, very kind of you to offer assistance to a damsel in distress. Always the gentleman. You really should have lived in medieval times; you would’ve made a damn fine knight.” He’s blushing. “You’ll be the first person I call on, mon frère. By the way, how’s your mom? I heard she was in the hospital.”

“She’s doing fine. Cholelothiasis.”

“Cholelo-what-sis?” John’s always been obsessed with the all things medical, especially the terminology. Medical school will be a breeze for him.

“Gallstones,” he clarifies.

“Oh right,
that
cholelothiasis. I’m glad she’s okay.” I smile and pat him on the arm as I squeeze past. Turning the corner heading toward the science wing—and my obligation—I call back loudly over my shoulder, “Hasta la pasta, John.”

“See ya, Veronica,” he calls back. He’s smiling. I can hear it.

It’s been several minutes since the bell rang. Dimitri’s probably already gone. As I approach, the crowd’s thinning out and I see him standing with his back to me leaning against the wall across from his classroom. A few steps closer and I notice he isn’t alone. Chloe Murphy is talking to him. I take that back. She isn’t talking—she’s shamelessly flirting. She’s standing very close, though flashing back to the personal space issue I encountered with Dimitri earlier, I decide he probably doesn’t mind.

Chloe’s pretty. Stereotypically pretty: petite, blond hair, blue eyes, big boobs, blah, blah, blah. She works her looks
hard
, probably because she’s been blessed with the IQ of an avocado and has nothing else to offer. Turns out teenage boys are into dumb blondes. Who knew?

Boys can be so stupid.

Predictably, she always treats boys badly. She chews them up and spits them out. In her world, guys are disposable. She’s never come remotely close to gaining my respect. I’ve always hated her. Not that I’m jealous, I’m not. I don’t have time for jealousy. It’s exhausting and pointless. Chloe is just … mean.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I apologize quietly through gritted teeth. The good mood John blessed me with thirty seconds ago is long gone. I clear my throat and add, “Especially given the stellar choice of company.” I’m not sure he even hears me.

But he does. Dimitri simultaneously steps back from Chloe and turns around to face me. He’s clearly not annoyed by the interruption. This both surprises and relaxes me—a little. Chloe leans to the side to glare at me. If looks could kill I’d be struck dead where I stand.

“I was beginning to think you forgot about me,” he says, relief evident in his voice.

“No such luck, Texas Ranger,” I mutter.

“Bye, Dimitri,” Chloe says in a pouty voice, batting her eyelashes. She brushes up against him like a goddamn cat as she walks by.

Head down, eyes focused on rifling through my bag looking for Dimitri’s schedule, I shout at her in my head as she walks by. “Slut!” I want to scream. God, I’d love to punch her right in her pretty little face. Just once. I’d never do it of course; I don’t have it in me. My body, though physically suited, is pacifistic. My mouth, on the other hand, though not prone to pre-emptive strikes, defends stupendously when provoked. Lucky for her the two don’t work in concert.

“Just a bit of advice,” I mutter. “That sort of physical contact with Chloe Murphy should require a full body condom, lest you contract something extremely difficult—if not impossible—to get rid of.” I can see the corner of his mouth rise as I continue the mad search through my bag.

After several seconds of watching me aggressively attack my book bag’s contents he says calmly, “Photography.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask though I’m not looking at him and I’m not listening either … obviously. I’m still focused on the stupid whore. And it’s distracting me from the task at hand, finding his schedule. I’m annoyed with myself at this point. I hate feeling unprepared and unorganized. “Oh, here it is,” I say as I look up at him, pulling a folded paper out of my bag and waving it in the air.

He looks at me patiently, the small, amused smile on his face as he leans toward me and whispers, “My next class. It’s photography.”

I unfold the paper and scan my finger down the page. It’s not until I see the words on the paper that his words finally register in my head.

“It’s photography,” I whisper. My face blisters red. “I’m sorry.” I don’t know if the words are even audible, but I catch his acknowledging, forgiving nod out of the corner of my eye. I can’t look up at him. I can be such an ass sometimes.

I turn and he walks closely at my side. I don’t mind as much this time. We don’t say anything as we walk out the doors and across the courtyard. He opens the door for me and follows me into the art building.

“Thanks,” I whisper. My face is still blazing and I can’t look at him. “The photography studio is the third door on the left.” I point down the hall and turn to exit.

I run all the way to French class. The bell rings just as I reach for the door.

“Excusez-moi, I’m sorry,” I say quietly to Madame Lemieux. I seem to be saying that a lot this morning.

She smiles back. “Bonjour, Veronica. Take your seat.” She gestures to the empty seat near the center of the room.

This is my third year of French with Madame Lemieux. A foreign language is required for college admission, which is the initial reason I signed up my sophomore year. I was inexplicably drawn to French. It seemed the most romantic of my three choices. What I didn’t anticipate was that I would fall completely in love with France and the language. I constantly daydream of someday looking out at Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower under a full moon in the arms of the love of my life, or walking with him along the Seine at twilight near the end of summer when the air is still warm. Someday …

Madame Lemieux spent the summer in the Lorraine region of France visiting extended family. She shares dozens of photos. Each one accompanied by a wonderful story. She’s an animated storyteller and can make even the most mundane traditions sound exciting. I’m so engrossed in the lesson that I jump in my seat when the bell rings. It startles me. It seems as if I just sat down and it’s already over.

“Merci. Au revoir.” Madame Lemieux’s singsong voice bids us farewell.

French class propelled me back into my usual happy mood. I take a few deep breaths and vow to keep it going as I head back to the art building to meet Dimitri. My embarrassment has subsided.

As I step outside into the courtyard the sun shines on my face and warms me. The clouds that masked the sky earlier as I drove to school this morning have passed. The gray’s been replaced by brilliant blue. Looks like the weatherman was right; it is going to be a sunny day after all. It’s going to be a good day.

I smile as I open the door to the art building. I look down the hall toward the photography lab, but he isn’t there. Did I miss him waiting outside for me? I turn to walk back toward the door, but as I turn I see him standing near a photography display opposite me. He’s leaning up against the wall, arms crossed, staring at me. A smile slowly lights up his eyes.

“French or English?” He’s trying, for the most part unsuccessfully, to stifle a laugh as he walks to meet me.

“Pardon me?” I’m confused now, but still smiling. I remind myself that it’s going to be a good day.

He doesn’t speak again until he’s standing within a foot of me. He pauses, smiles again like the cat that caught the canary, and repeats himself, “French or English? Which class have you just come from?”

I’m caught off guard, but answer without hesitating, “French.”

He nods, a look of satisfaction painted across his face. The smile grows wider. Obviously he’s the only one in on the joke. “We’d better get going. I don’t want to be held responsible for your
second
tardy, too.”

I stand there dumbfounded. He holds the door open, waiting patiently. “After you?” He poses it as a question, gesturing toward the courtyard.

I should ask him how he knew. I want to. But I can’t find the words. My mind’s racing a hundred miles an hour. Did I share my schedule with him this morning? No, we barely exchanged ten words. I’m sure I didn’t.

“Veronica … are you coming?” His voice is slow and deliberate, but light. It jolts me back and without thinking, my body moves out the door, though my mind slips out somewhere along the way. I’m fairly certain it’s still back inside the building … puzzled.

We walk silently to and from our next two classes. Psychology and English are a blur, which is too bad, because English is my other favorite subject. I mechanically take notes in both classes. I can always review them in study hall to find out what I’ve missed.

I look at Dimitri’s schedule as I walk to the gym to retrieve him, tracing down the list with my finger: third period Spanish, fourth period P.E., fifth period lunch, sixth period study hall. I stop. No movement, unless you count my heart that’s now relentlessly slamming against my ribcage. I stand there holding the paper securely with both hands now, looking at it in horror. My stomach somersaults. He and I have the next two periods together. How am I going to face him for the next two hours? Wait, it’s not like we have to eat lunch together, right? Am I obligated as his guide for the day? It’s the polite thing to do, but is it the “right” thing to do? Do I ask him to join me? I don’t want to give him the wrong impression and I honestly don’t want to suffer an extra hour of the embarrassment that’s sure to come.

I suddenly realize I’m standing completely still in the middle of a very busy hallway carrying on an internal conversation with myself. Though the conversation is internal, at least I hope I haven’t said anything out loud. The way this morning’s been going, I very well may have. I’m sure the expressions on my face revealed every emotion that went along with the dialogue. My forehead pinches together, and as I begin to move my feet, I whisper to myself, “Calm down, it’s going to be a good day.” This I do say aloud, because reassurance is necessary. That and it’s just easier to convince myself if I hear it.

I try to clear my mind as I step through the double doors into the sunlight and walk across the courtyard to the gym. The heat of the day is comforting. The sky remains clear, the same brilliant shade of blue it had been earlier. I walk slowly soaking it in as I breathe deeply and steadily. My eyes are closed and my heart rate returns to a semblance of normalcy. I’ve walked this path a thousand times and can literally do it with my eyes closed. Besides there’s no one in the courtyard—it’s always empty. Most people prefer to walk indoors.

Our school is made up of four buildings: the gym and athletic facilities, the art and performing arts studio, the cafeteria and auditorium, and the academic classrooms and staff offices. Corridors connect all the buildings so you don’t actually have to go outside to get from one building to the next, a handy thing to have in the winter since we do live in Colorado. The buildings and corridors surround the courtyard on all sides. It’s a long grassy area slightly larger than a tennis court. There’s a tree and a flower garden. It’s a sanctuary in the middle of the chaos. I take every advantage to be out in it when it’s warm. It’s kind of like my little secret.