Ana of California (18 page)

The woman slid two pieces of paper over the counter without looking up. She flipped a switch and another bell sounded.

“Those are your schedules, along with locker assignments, combinations, and a map of the school on the back. Brady, I'll walk you to your locker and homeroom to get you situated, and I'll let you navigate on your own, Ana. You two have any questions or problems, come right on in here and see us. Pep rally's on Friday, so I hope to see you both wearing yellow and blue, the official colors of the Hadley Lions.

“Roar,” Mrs. Molloy deadpanned.

Ana scanned the map, which didn't appear too daunting. She checked her schedule. “Excuse me,” she said, “I'm supposed to have art class, but it says I have independent study.”

“Art is full,” Mrs. Molloy said, shuffling papers behind the counter.

“I was assured by Abbie Garber that I had a place.”

“Brady, would you mind waiting out in the hall, please?” Mr. Tucker said.

They waited for Brady to shut the door behind him. Ana fixated on his diminutive figure outside the window in the hall just as she'd always chosen a point of focus when she knew something was about to be discussed to her detriment.

“We know your situation, Ms. Cortez,” Mr. Tucker began, “I mean regarding your farmwork before and after school. I had a chat with both Mr. and Ms. Garber, and Mr. Garber and I wondered if you might need an independent hour to get your homework finished with all that you have going on. We
always have such an interest in Mrs. Darnell's class, so I'm sorry to say it's already full for the semester.”

“But I
need
to take art. Ms. Garber understands this more than Mr. Garber ever will.”

“It's an elective, Ms. Cortez. You're welcome to use your free hour however you see fit in the library, which includes doing your own art research or finishing homework. I believe it is more than fair.”

“I believe it's incredibly disappointing and never about having a choice because it's always about you people making the ultimate decision. I'm fully aware that life
isn't
fair.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Independent study is fine,” she said. “I accept my fate.”

Ana headed for the door; Brady saluted her through the window. She heard Mrs. Molloy whistle faintly behind her.

“Enjoy your first day,” Mr. Tucker said as she left.

She gave Brady's shoulder a squeeze before making her way down the dim hallway, her new-old boots clicking along the glossy floor toward the bank of lockers. When she found her locker, she was surprised it was clean and not covered in scratched musings penned by whoever had occupied it before her. Opening it, however, revealed the familiar. Almost every surface was covered in permanent markings proclaiming it the former lair of the football team's most ardent fan with
GO
LIONS
!
or
LIONS
#1
!
screaming from every surface. She adjusted her books and wedged her hat in above them, pulling a few flowers out from the brim and poking them through a buttonhole on her shirt. “Same here and same everywhere,” she whispered into the metal.

As Mrs. Molloy's voice echoed the morning announcements throughout the empty hallways, Ana followed the map
to her homeroom class, which was also the same as her first-period class. Ms. Gregg, her new English teacher, waved to her from the slivered window on the door. She took a deep breath, knowing this was always the hardest part. “The audience will soon tire of the same show,” she told herself. She opened the door as Mrs. Molloy announced Friday's pep rally over the loudspeaker, which momentarily diverted the classroom's attention into a rousing round of cheers. Ms. Gregg smiled and pointed to an empty seat in the second row, which also happened to be the seat directly next to Rye Moon, whom Ana barely recognized due to her very new, very short hair.

“
Hola
,” Rye whispered in the chaos of everyone catching up with one another around them.

“Whoa, dude,” Ana said, noticing a few heads turning in her direction.

“It's
The Little Prince
meets breathless French ingenue. You like?”

“I love! It's perfect. You're wearing lipstick.”

“I know. And check out my jumpsuit,” she said, sitting back in her chair to reveal what looked like an olive green flight suit tailored to her petite frame.

“You look so different.”

“Told you, it's all about the mood of the season.”

Another bell rang and a portion of the class exited, leaving a few seats empty. Ana took out her notebook as more and more eyes invaded her periphery. She noticed a few of them were watching and whispering in Rye's direction too. Ana turned toward her, but Rye was bent over going through her bag, making a point not to notice them.

“Take a seat, students,” Ms. Gregg said.

Ana listened as those around her chatted about their summer vacations, realizing that she'd never had one, ever.
There were also audible whispers about another student, someone who'd gone away for most of the summer, as if this was something people in Hadley just didn't do. It was mostly other girls doing the whispering, with a few guys chiming in.

“I would kill my parents if they made me go away and then grounded me when I got back,” said the long-limbed, long-haired girl who was sitting directly in front of Ana and talking to a group of girls. She sat with one pale leg wrapped around the other under a short blue dress the exact shade of her eyes, her wide, post-orthodontic smile perfectly frosted in pale pink gloss. Every bee seemed to buzz around the girl, every bee except for Rye Moon. Rye rolled her eyes at Ana, who smiled. Ms. Gregg continued to write on the chalkboard, oblivious to the chatter behind her.

The buzzing reached a fever pitch as Cole walked in, plenty of people in the busy hallway pausing to watch him cross the threshold. Ana suddenly knew whom everyone was tittering on about. Half the room seemed to treat him as a welcomed friend, the other half froze, pretending not to look anywhere near his direction. It was strange, Ana thought.

Cole slid into a seat nearby to the delight of the girl who curled her entire blue ribbon body in his direction. He said hello as if they knew each other, and then glanced over at Rye, whose body pretzeled back down to her book bag. Ana wished she had her old hair back because it was easier to peek out from behind it without being seen.

“Ana,” he said, silencing the room yet again. “Hey.”

She glanced up, careful to meet him eye to eye.

“Oh, hey,” she said.

“We meet again.”

“Indeed.”

Both the girl in front of her and Rye shifted their attention in Ana's direction. Another bell rang.

“All right, everyone,” Ms. Gregg said. “Hope you had a great summer. Let's jump right in. We're reading two novels this semester in addition to some plays, and we'll be doing essays and in-class debates. I'll know when you haven't done the reading, so do the work and prepare to be called on. Some of you may have already read what I've assigned, but I think it will only add to the spirit of our debates. First up is a book called
The Chocolate War
. Has anyone read this?”

The room remained silent.

“I see one hand in the back of the room. What's your name?”

“Dillon.”

“What did you think of the book?”

“Is that the one with the kid who goes to the chocolate factory?”

The room erupted in laughter. A couple of
idiot
s and
derp
s thrown in and the sound of a loud high five.

“No, it is not, but
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
is a wonderful story. Next up will be Jack Kerouac's classic
On the Road
. Has anyone read it or any other Kerouac?”

Ana and Cole both put up their hands.

“Two of you, great!” Ms. Gregg said. “Cole, why don't you tell me what you like or dislike about Kerouac.”

“Well, I like his sentence structure and rambling way of thinking. But mostly, I like that he lived for travel and adventure, that he was all about climbing forbidden mountains, so to speak, and living life to the fullest on his own terms.”

“Well said. What about you—it's Anna, isn't it?”

“Close. It's Ana,” she said to whispers in the back of the room. She took a breath. Manny popped into her head, reminding her to speak clearly. “Kerouac is one of those guys you either love or hate, I guess. I'd say that my dislike comes mainly from an inability to understand his chaotic logic. A lot of people find him to be sort of a jerky inebriated degenerate, which he apparently was at times. I don't love all of his work, but what I like about him is his ability to champion the riot in people. Because we all have it inside of us, right? Some of us are just less afraid of letting it out. And Kerouac held those with fight in them, those who refused to be ignored, as the ones who were most interesting on the blank page of life. I think that's rad.”

“What an interesting way of looking at it,” said Ms. Gregg, nodding her head. She went around the room asking each person about their favorite novel. Ana was fascinated to hear revealing bits of background about each of her new classmates. There were more than a few mentions of
Catcher in the Rye
, and one of the guys in the back got a laugh when he said
The Boxcar Children
. Ana chose
Kafka on the Shore
, much to Ms. Gregg's delight, and to Cole's, who made a point of nodding at her when she said it. She noticed that Rye was uncharacteristically quiet through most of the class, her head down until it was time to choose a favorite book. She chose
Breakfast at Tiffany's
before changing it to
In Cold Blood
. When the bell rang, Rye jumped up and catapulted herself out the door, stopping to turn around the moment she realized she hadn't waited for Ana.

“See you at lunch?” she said, looking like she was in a hurry to go.

“Of course,” Ana said, making her way to the door. “Where shall we—” But Rye was already headed down the hall.

 • • • 

A
bbie checked her reflection in the driver's mirror. She pinched her cheeks to wake them up and put on the lipstick she found in the glove compartment.

“What am I doing?” she asked herself as she fluffed out her hair.

She carried a box of produce and a bundle of flowers across the street to Will's café.

“Great to see you again,” Will said as he opened the door. “You ran out before we had a chance to talk last time.”

“Migraine,” Abbie lied. She followed him inside and set the box on the back counter. There were bistro tables and chairs filling the room and an oil painting of a sea captain on the far wall. “The place looks incredible,” she said.

“So do you,” he responded.

Abbie blushed and ignored the comment.

“I've got all kinds of goodness for you today. You wanted tubers, right? I brought sweet potatoes and sunchokes, both of which are practically popping out of the ground on the farm.”

Will smiled and inspected the produce. “Beautiful,” he said. “Still no fungi?”

“Not really our specialty, but I can connect you with Alder Kinman, who grows chanterelles on his property.”

“I'll take you up on that. What else are you going to thrust upon me?” he asked.

“Plenty,” she said, throwing him a smile, which he returned. “I think you'll find our salsify and purslane are
unparalleled. And we're harvesting Asian pears and quinces. I brought both for you to try.”

Will picked up a quince and sniffed it. “I can make a
membrillo
with this,” he said. “You into Spanish cooking?”

“Not as much as I probably should be, but I've been making Mexican dishes at home. Ana seems to enjoy it. She also enjoys critiquing my recipes.”

“I don't doubt it.” He laughed. “From what I've heard, you're pretty fantastic in the kitchen. Not that I didn't guess that already.”

“I brought a variety of dahlias this time too,” Abbie said, changing the subject. “Thought the color palette would go with the dark grays of the restaurant.”

Will crossed his arms and nodded his head. “No tomatoes? Eggplants?”

“Not at the moment, I'm afraid.”

“No other types of nightshade?” he asked, looking straight at Abbie, whose body stiffened.

“No, um, can't say we have any other types of . . . of that.”

He continued staring at her as she fumbled for her keys.

“I should probably get going,” she said.

“C'mon . . . ,” he said, leaning forward from behind the counter. “I can't just stand here without acknowledging that you are who I think you are.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the year 1988 and the release of Nightshade's seminal album
Midnight Angel
. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're the angel.”

Abbie knew there was no way to lie or hide her way out of this. It wasn't as if anyone stopped her on the street. She was certain no one in Hadley was even aware of her brief
fame, however short lived. Heavy metal wasn't something on anyone's radar anymore.

“Yes, that was me,” she said, deciding to own up to it. “It's not something I'm proud of or acknowledge at this time in my life, though.”

“Why not? You're one of the most iconic album cover babes in the history of heavy metal! I had you on my wall!”

“Wow. I feel naked all of a sudden.”

“That's what I loved about that cover. You weren't. Nightshade got so much heat for that, remember? Just you in that white dress floating against a black background . . . it's the only album my mother let me hang on the wall. Man! If I could go back and tell my younger self that I'd one day be standing—”