In Between (9 page)

So far this is a good place to hang out. No one has been in here in fifteen minutes. Even if they did come in, my feet aren’t visible, and I’m eating so quietly they would never know I’m here.

Today has been rough, but not completely unbearable. Sure everyone stares at me like I’m weird, but by far, I’m not the biggest freak on campus. I would need many more tattoos and piercings to even be a contender. Once I considered getting a tattoo, but then I thought—

Creeeaaak!

Great. Someone’s in here.

I hear the gurgle of the sink running, so it’s probably safe to quickly get the apple out of my bag. Millie thinks a growing girl needs her fruit servings.

My backpack hangs by a hook on the back of the stall door. I’m just gonna grab it without letting my feet down—a small balancing act—but I’ve had practice.

Almost have it . . . just a little bit more to the left and . . .

Crash!

In a big production of arms, legs, a squirting juice box, and one falling backpack, I tumble onto the floor in a tangled heap.

Ow.

“Hello? Hello? Are you okay?”

That voice sounds familiar.

In fact, those shoes peeking under the door look familiar.

Frances Vega.

Maybe if I just sit here absolutely still, she’ll go away.

“Is everything okay in there?”

I won’t move so much as a black fingernail until she leaves.

“Well, hey, Katie.”

And before I can say pass the toilet paper, Frances Vega’s face appears over the top of the stall partition to my left.

Now that’s just rude.

“Everything okay? I couldn’t help but overhear your fall.”

I would imagine the students in the next town heard my fall. I peer up at Frances, not really sure where to go from here. “Uh, yeah, I’m okay. You know, checking things out, making sure the floor is clean and all the sanitation codes are being met.” I brush the carrots off my skirt. “I don’t want to get too invested in a school that’s just going to be shut down by the health department.”

“Really? Because it looks to me like you were having lunch in the john.”

There’s just no way out of this one, is there?

“I wanted some peace and quiet. I thought I might find it in here.” Hint, hint. Go away.

“Did you get lost on the way to the cafeteria?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Katie?”

It hasn’t occurred to Frances we could come out of our respective stalls and have this conversation.

“Yes?”

“I know it’s hard being the new kid at school.”

Yes, it is. Really hard. And today has been stressful, and it feels like years before three o’clock will roll around, and you have no idea what it’s like to be me.

Frances’s face disappears, and I can hear her climb off her toilet seat. Now what?

Knock. Knock.

“Katie, it’s Frances.”

I swing the stall door open. “Of course it’s you. I knew that!”

Frances blinks. “I was making a joke.”

Great, now I’ve hurt her feelings.

“Look, I really appreciate all your help today. I do. I just wanted a little alone time. Thanks for checking up on me, but I think I’ll get out of here and walk around a bit.” And where will I go? I don’t have the slightest idea.

“Great. I’ll introduce you to some people. Come on.”

I barely have time to zip my backpack before Frances is dragging me out of the ladies’ room toward the cafeteria.

“You were smart to bring your lunch today. The cafeteria is serving chicken fried steak with gravy. You need to avoid anything they cover up with gravy and try to pass off as meat.” Frances chatters away as the lunchroom comes into view.

There are lots of tables. And lots of kids.

We walk past rows and rows of students, but no one casts a welcoming glance in my direction. These are the moments I hate the most. I don’t have to deal with the awkward new girl moments like where to sit and who to sit with if I eat lunch in the ladies’ room. Granted, the bathroom doesn’t score any points for aromatherapy, but you can’t beat it for privacy.

Frances steers me toward a group of students who must be her friends, as they are waving and motioning to her. I’m probably walking into a meeting of the overachiever club.

My palms are starting to sweat. My dog collar is suddenly too tight. I can’t hold a conversation with these people. If they are Frances’s friends, their lunch-time conversation probably consists of playing Guess My Favorite Element on the Periodic Table, solving quadratic equations between bites of French fries, and debating which president had the strongest foreign policy.

I cannot hang out with these smart people. I must find an escape route. Oh, no, getting nearer. We’re closing in on them.

Wait—

There’s the guy in the skirt. And there’s the girl with the Mohawk two tables over. The skirted one nods his head in greeting. That’s as good as any invitation I’m gonna get.

Saved!

“Frances, I see people from class. Gotta go, bye.” And with the world’s fastest brush-off, I leave Frances Vega and practically run to the table where my fellow misfits are seated.

Mohawk girl salutes me with a fry. “Hey.”

“Hey,” echoes skirt boy.

“Hey,” says some dude in a trench coat, his mouth full of nachos.

“Hey.” This from skirt boy’s overly tattooed girlfriend.

Alert the English department—these people are in desperate need of a thesaurus.

“Hi.” I’m probably wowing them with my expanded vocabulary.

“You the new kid?” Mohawk girl checks out my hair.

“Yeah, I just moved here from upstate. I’m Katie.”

Mohawk girl nods. “I’m Angel. This is Vincent. She indicates the skirted friend. Angel introduces the whole table, and Jackson, the guy in the trench, gets me a chair.

“So what’s your story, Katie?” asks a girl whose name I’ve already forgotten.

“Oh, you know, typical stuff. My mom’s in prison, I’m currently in foster care, and I’m just passing through.” See, I could be tactful and subtle with other people, but with this group, I know there’s no need. The worse my story is, the more they’ll like me.

“You have a rap sheet?”

“A rap sheet?” I think I know what they mean, but I’m hoping I don’t. Do I have to have done time to get my membership card to this table?

“Yeah, you ever been arrested?”

“Um, no.” The group doesn’t look too impressed, but no one’s asking for my chair back either.

“Me neither,” one of them says finally, and three or four more chime in in agreement.

“You ever get in any trouble though?” Angel asks.

“Well, yeah. But nothing serious.”

Okay, this is a weird conversation. Should I change the topic? Maybe ask them about their hobbies, where they live in town, who their favorite teacher is—what
they
think about foreign policy?

“You’re gonna find out real quick this town’s boring. Nothing to do here. You have to make up your own fun. You know what I’m saying?” Vincent strokes his bleached goatee.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Tomorrow, you sit with us. We’ll show you the ropes around here. Right, Angel?”

“Yeah, Vincent. We sit here every day, so we’ll see you here.”

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch and the end of one uncomfortable discussion. Angel, Vincent, and their mismatched posse bid me goodbye and head off to their respective classes.

I’m still sitting at the table, reviewing the last ten minutes, when Frances taps me on the shoulder.

That girl is everywhere.

“Did you have a good lunch?”

“Sure.”

“Great! Guess what time it is now?”

Time to pretend like she isn’t getting on my nerves just a wee bit?

“I don’t know.”

“Time for PE!”

Physical education right after lunch? I assumed that was a typo on my schedule. What kind of madness
is
this?

Oh, well, I ate lunch on a toilet, nearly broke my neck falling on the floor, and was made to feel inferior by Vincent and Angel due to my lack of a criminal past.

It can’t get any worse.

“T
oday we will
be doing push-ups, pull-ups, squats, lunges, sprints, medicine ball passes, and, if you’re lucky, line drills!”

My day just got worse.

“In honor of our new student, Katie Parker, we’ll be starting with twenty-five extra push-ups! Get to it! Get to it! Nose to the floor!”

With a groan, I drop to the floor and do push-ups until I’m shaking.

Can’t go much longer. My arms are Jell-O. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one . . .

“I’m Coach Audrey Nelson, and I’m here to turn you into a lean, mean, athletic machine,” a sinister voice whispers near my ear.

In my peripheral vision, I see Sergeant Evil squatting next to me, watching my progress—or lack of it.

“How you doin’, new girl? You think you’re ready for this class? Did you think PE meant you’d be walking laps around the gym? Did you?” Coach Nelson’s voice escalates for all to hear, and if I weren’t so intent on reminding myself to breathe, I would be embarrassed.

How many more? I spy girls to my left and right rolling over in defeat, clenching their abused arms. I will endure. I will out push-up these Chihuahuas.

Sweat drips off my face like rainwater, and my arms and shoulders are on fire.

Anything, I’ll do anything to make this insanity stop.

“Twenty-five more, ladies!”

After another grueling set of push-ups, plus some pull-ups, crunches, squats, and other torturous activities, Coach Nelson blows her shiny whistle and demands we get into pairs. I’m so exhausted I just want to drape myself over the bleachers like a wet spaghetti noodle and wait for the feeling to come back into my arms and legs.

“Wanna pair up?”

Angel with the Mohawk. I was so busy burning off a year’s worth of calories I didn’t even notice she was in the class.

“Yeah, sure.”

The whistle blows again, this time with a command for us to toss the medicine ball to one another. I don’t know if I can. I think I left my arms back there at half court.

“Gimme twenty-five good ones, or we up it to fifty!”

Coach Nelson weaves through the pairs, assessing the quality of work.

“She’s a sweetie,” I say in a whoosh, as the ball is torpedoed into my hands.

“Today is Meltdown Monday. It’s our hard day.” Angel shares this tidbit in between the grunts and groans accompanying her attempt to stay upright.

“So Wednesday will be better?”

“Yeah, that’s washed-up Wednesday. We do laps in the pool all period.”

Oh, well, that sounds easy. Sure. Laps for ninety minutes. No problem.

I’m afraid to ask, but I must. “And Friday?”

“Fried Friday. The class is forty-five minutes long on Friday, and Coach Nelson devotes the entire time to abs. You won’t be able to sit up until Sunday.”

“Can’t wait.” I heave the ball to Angel.

“Gimme ten laps then head for the showers!” As if screaming her orders isn’t enough, Coach Nelson blows the whistle hanging so proudly against her In Between Chihuahua polo.

As I’m entertaining visions of the coach choking on her Gatorade, Angel drags me along beside her, and we run our first lap around the gym.

“So what are you doing this weekend?”

“Uh . . .” I can hardly breathe. I think I’m going to die. I’m not going to make it. “I . . . uh, I guess nothing. Hanging out at the house.” Inhale. Exhale.

“Some of us are going to get together Friday night and hang out. You should come with us.”

I will be dead by then. Death by cardio. Overdose on strength training.

“Yeah, I’ll check my schedule.”

“Tomorrow, when you sit with us at lunch, you can get to know everyone.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

One. More. Lap.

“We’ll fill you in about Friday night.”

“Uh-huh.” I meant to say ‘Thank you very much. That sounds like a lot of fun, and I’m glad to have someone to eat lunch with,’ but I couldn’t get enough air for all those words.

“Get those knees up! You sissies! I see you dragging! Who do you think you are? Do you think you can get away with that laziness? I want to see champions in my gym! Do you understand me? I’m training champions, not couch potatoes!”

Coach Psycho roars out a few more orders and insults. She is really wearing on me.

“She’s harsh,” I murmur to Angel as we finally approach the end of our last lap.

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“I think you like to run! I think you want me to tack on more laps! Okay, then, ten more laps! Get those knees up!”

No way.

“Can you believe her? She’s evil. I hope she swallows that stupid whistle.”

“Yeah,” Angel replies heatedly. “I hope she trips over her Nikes and splits her khaki shorts.”

“I hope her athletic socks cut off her circulation and her hairy legs turn purple.”

This is fun.

Angel laughs. “Or I hope she develops a condition where she pees her pants every time she yells.”

“Angel, five more laps for you! If you can talk, then you’re not working hard enough! Do you hear me, girl?”

“She is such a drag,” Angel says in between breaths.