Out of Order (2 page)

“I mean, if you have other plans...that's cool,” Tammy says with a shrug.

“No,” I say quickly, pulling my eyes away from Zelia and looking back at the three blond girls. “No plans.” I toss my books in my locker and grab my jacket. When I look up, Zelia is gone.

A soft rain is falling as we cross the grass to where the school-grounds back onto a small cobblestoned square. I walked through it on my way to school this morning. At one end sits an old church building with a tall steeple. It is painted in soft yellow and olive green, and a sign out front tells me that it's actually a theater. A long red brick building runs down the other side of the square, housing a weird assortment of businesses: a pizza place, an acupuncturist, a tattoo studio, a hair salon, a gallery.

The pizza place is small and dark, with maybe a dozen tables inside and a couple more outside. It smells of garlic and cheese. I quickly order a coffee and take a table in the back corner while the others cluster around the counter trying to choose between Hawaiian, Greek and Meat Lovers. I am hungry but I feel superstitious; eating anything on this first day might be bad luck.

I couldn't have eaten anything at breakfast if I'd wanted to. My stomach was a tight ache of knots. Mom kept coming into the kitchen to check on me, saying, “Come on, Sophie, just a piece of toast. You have to eat something, honey.” I finally told her I had first-day-of-school nerves and she backed off and left me alone. Two minutes later she was back in the kitchen, offering to drive me to school. She seemed so anxious to help that I almost let her. Almost. Arriving at my new school with my mother trying to hold my hand was definitely not part of my plan.

I watch Tammy, Heather and Crystal joking around and giggling as they make their way back to our table carrying slices of pizza on green ceramic plates. Tammy has long wavy hair; the other two have straight hair tied back in bouncy pony­tails. All three have long nails, lip-gloss and eyeliner.

I touch my own crazy hair and hope that the rain hasn't wrecked it. It's red, like Mom's, and so thick and curly that it's impossible to do anything with. I spent half an hour with a blow dryer and conditioner this morning, just trying to elimi­nate the frizz. My nails are short and bitten, but looking at the girls as they sit down, I decide that my makeup is about right.
It's Mom's, but she hardly ever wears makeup, so she won't miss one eyeliner. I waited until I was halfway to school before applying it, bending over and squinting into the side mirror of a parked car. Mom's pretty relaxed—I'm sure she'd let me wear makeup if I wanted to. I just didn't want to have to ask.

Crystal slips into the seat on my left. “So, Tammy says you just moved from Ontario. How come your family decided to live out here?”

I smile and remind myself to meet her gaze. “My gran lives here. My granddad died in the spring, so my mother thought we should be closer...” I trail off, not wanting to talk about myself too much.

She pulls a long stringy piece of cheese off her pizza and wraps it around her finger. “So, are you living with your grand­mother then?”

I almost laugh. Having Gran over practically every day is bad enough. “No. No, she has her own place. We're renting a house.”

Tammy crosses her legs, jogging the table and slopping a little of my coffee. “I guess you must be missing your friends a lot, hey? I'd hate to move.”

Crystal gives a little squeal. “Tammy, you are
so
not allowed to move.”

I move my coffee mug around, making wet circles on the table's black surface. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I miss them a lot.”

Tammy leans across the table toward me, eyes filled with sympathy. “Hey, are you sure you don't want any pizza? It's really good. I'll buy you a piece if you want.”

I shake my head. “Thanks. I'm not really hungry.”

She takes a bite of hers and chews. “Mmmm. Well, I admire your willpower,” she says, her mouth full.

Heather and Crystal nod in unison.

“Yeah,” Heather says, “no wonder you're so thin.” She puts her hand on her own flat tummy. “I'm totally jealous.”

Crystal puts her pizza down. “Me too. I shouldn't even be eating this.”

“You all look fine,” I say, suddenly feeling irritable. I look past them and out the window. It is raining harder now, fat drops splatting on the tables outside and filling up the ashtrays. Across the square, I can see Zelia. She is sitting on the steps of the theater, smoking a cigarette. She must be soaked, but she looks like she doesn't even notice the rain.

THE FIRST WEEK
is a blur of new classes, new teachers, new faces and new names. I learn my way around the school and figure out which, if any, classes I will actually have to work in. Schoolwork is always pretty easy for me. The challenge will be to act the part of the new Sophie Keller. Not to slip up. Not to let anything about the past slip out. I spend my lunch hours with Tammy, Heather and Crystal, who treat me like I've been part of their circle forever.

On Thursday afternoon the sun finally breaks through the clouds. Mom drives me out to the barn after school, and I ride Keltie. We can't ride in the Weld when the ground is this wet, so we head down the road and onto the trails that circle Elk Lake. It's beautiful, the sunlight sparkling on the wet trees and the rippled surface of the water, but I feel tired and some­how restless. It's weird. Everything is going exactly as I had planned—better than I had hoped even—but it doesn't feel the way I thought it would.

When Mom picks me up, she tells me that Gran is coming over for dinner. I stare out the car window. Gran. I had only
met her a few times before we moved out here. When we first arrived, she gave me this amazing quilt she made—a thousand tiny pieces of fabric carefully stitched together, the colors soft and glowing. There was a card attached too, with a note saying she looked forward to getting to know me. She hasn't even tried though; she's too busy looking for things to criticize and complain about. Clearly I am not quite the granddaughter she had in mind. Then again, she isn't the grandmother I would have picked either. I don't know which of us is more disap­pointed in the other.

Tonight, I have barely pulled my chair up to the table when she starts in on me.

“Riding, were you?” Her eyes are sharp and as brown as chestnuts. “I hope you did your homework first. You don't want to get behind this early in the school year.”

I look at Mom, but she just looks away and pretends to adjust the tablecloth.

I sigh. “Gran, if I don't ride right after school, it's too dark. I'll do my homework after dinner.” At least I'll have an excuse to leave the table.

She doesn't say anything. She keeps her eyes on mine and shovels a forkful of rice and chicken into her mouth. I always thought old people didn't eat much, but she sure does. She's tiny too. Birdlike.

I take a few bites of chicken and chew as slowly as possible, trying to look like I'm eating more than I am. Mostly I just push the food around on my plate and take sips of water.

“Sophie always does very well at school,” Mom says.

Gran grunts, like she doesn't believe it. “You're a terrible one for playing with your food,” she says to me. “Always fiddling with this and that.”

She is talking with her mouth full of food, which I think is much worse manners than playing with it, but I don't say anything.

Mom catches my eye in a silent apology and turns to Gran. “Could you pass the pepper, please?” she asks.

I wish she'd tell Gran to leave me alone. I push my chair away from the table. “May I be excused?” I say, looking at Gran pointedly. “I should go up to my room and do my homework.”

Gran looks at Mom. A piece of rice is stuck to her lip. “Jeanie, the child has hardly touched her dinner.”

Mom stifles a sigh. “Yes, Sophie. You may be excused.”

THE NEXT MORNING
, it is still cold and dark when I wake. I rub my hands across my face, trying to erase the awful night-long dreams of taunts, mocking laughter and shoves in the hallway. I snuggle under my covers and pull Gran's quilt up over my head.

I thought the dreams would stop if I managed to Wt in at my new school, but last night was worse than ever. I can't stand the thought of another day of faking it, another lunch hour listening to Tammy, Heather and Crystal talking about which boys are cute, how hard the homework is, which concert they wish they were going to, which girls have the best clothes.

I drag myself out of bed to shower and dress. I look at
myself in the mirror and have a sudden urge to hurl some­thing heavy at my reflection. I imagine watching it shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. Pieces of pink shirt, almost the same as Heather's. Pieces of blue jeans, identical to Crystal's. I close my eyes for a second. You look like one of the group, I remind myself. This is what you wanted. I blow-dry my wild hair into submission, tie it back in a ponytail and walk slowly to school.

Tammy passes me a note in class, slipping the crum­pled paper onto my desk while Mr. Farley is writing on the board. I unfold it and hold it under my desk to read.
Are you okay? How come you're so quiet this morning? P.S. I love your hair like that.
Little hearts instead of dots hover over the
i
's. I look at her and shrug. Then, forcing a smile, I silently mouth that I'm fine.

At morning break, the girls are all extra nice to me. I let them think I'm homesick for Ontario and missing my old friends. The lie hangs between us like a heavy curtain. We have something that looks like friendship, and only I know that it isn't. It's not as bad as being the old Sophie Keller, but it's not much better either.

Somehow I make it through the rest of the morning, doodling tiny screaming faces on the back of Tammy's note— eyes hollow, mouths open in inky anguish. In all my planning, I never thought beyond this point, never planned what to do once I was accepted by the others. It never occurred to me that it wouldn't be enough.

At noon, I toss my books into my locker and slam it shut. I stand there for a moment, facing the closed door. It's the same
shade of green as the lockers back at Georgetown Middle School. Everything is rushing at me: the memories of the last two years, Gran's constant criticism, all the lies I have told. It's all swirling around in my head, feeding off itself like wind and fire.

“I think this is yours,” a clear voice says from behind me.

I turn around. It's Zelia, holding a piece of paper. I reach out to take it. Tammy's note. Zelia is holding it upside down so the side that we can see is the one covered with dozens of tiny screaming faces. I grab the paper but she doesn't let go. Our eyes meet, and I see a flash of something like recognition flicker across her face.

“Like that, is it?” she says. Her voice is low, amused, sympathetic.

She releases the paper and I crumple it up and shove it into my pocket.

I can't think how to respond, but I don't seem to be able to take my eyes away from hers either.

She gives me a lopsided half-grin, one corner of her mouth curling upwards. “It's Friday.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But it's only the first week of September.”

Zelia's cheeks dimple. “Exactly.”

I stare at her.

She shrugs. “It's only the first week of September. Lots of time left to make some changes.”

“What makes you think I want changes?” My voice is a little sharper than I mean it to be.

She blinks slowly, blue eyes shuttered. “Whatever.” She gestures toward the pocket I shoved the paper into. “Maybe you
just like drawing little tortured faces. Whatever floats your boat. Don't let me interfere.”

She turns and walks away.

I am still staring after her when Tammy appears beside me. Her constant smile irritates me. It's not fair, I know, but I almost feel angry with her for believing all my lies.

“Hey,” she says. “It's Crystal's birthday. We're going for pizza to celebrate.”

I look up at her cheerful expectant face. Over her shoulder I can see Zelia, twenty feet away, standing and watching. “You know,” I hear myself say, “I'd love to but I didn't bring any money. Another day, maybe.” I can hear her saying something about lending me money, but I just smile and shake my head. Then I walk down the hall toward Zelia.

She waits, as if she knew I would follow her. “I had a feeling you wouldn't want to hang out with the Clones for too much longer,” she says.

“The Clones?”

“The whole blond American Eagle thing. I can't tell them apart.” She shrugs and tosses her head. Her hair is glossy, almost blue black, and so straight and fine that I can see comb lines.

I stifle a guilty laugh. I have been struggling all week not to mix their names up. “They're nice enough,” I protest.

She shrugs again. “Whatever.” Her eyes meet mine and I hold my breath. With a sudden desperate intensity, I want her to like me. To choose me. But I'm not the type that usually gets chosen.

“I'm going outside for a smoke,” she says. She starts to walk away. Then she turns and says over her shoulder, “Come with me?”

“Sure,” I say. She walks quickly, ahead of me. I follow her down the hall and out the doors; then I run a few steps to catch up and walk beside her as we cross the grass to the square.

When we get to the stairs leading up to the old theater, Zelia sits down on the bottom step and takes a pack of ciga­rettes out of her jacket pocket. She waves her hands in front of her, taking in the square in a grand gesture. “Welcome,” she says. “I call this place my living room. I try to be on school property as little as possible.”

I drop down beside her. It is raining lightly and the steps are wet, the damp seeping into my jeans. A pair of scruffy dogs wander across the cobblestones and sniff through the fallen leaves. I pull the sandwich my mother made out of my pocket, unwrap it and toss it to them. “You don't like this school?”