Run and Hide (2 page)

Through the windows of the bedroom I could see … nothing. It was still dark out.

My sticky, hot mouth yawned as I grabbed my phone to scan the room with its light. The room was grosser than I remembered. After some fumbling through a couple of Walgreens bags, I gripped the flashlight and turned it on, and fished out a hairbrush from my luggage before the flashlight lit the way to the bathroom.

Between the missing pieces and smeary spots in the mirror, I found my hair lying atop my head in an uncomfortable bundle, different pieces swaying in all directions. Before I even thought to do it, my hands gripped the brush and started to tame the beast that was my bed-beaten hair. A few brushstrokes calmed and parted it, leaving an auburn fountain of hair to hug my chin. Who knew cutting off years of life could be so rewarding?

Bag on my shoulders, first-day outfit on, and phone with GPS loaded in hand, I stepped down the four steps that led to the broken-concrete pathway. The sky poured streams of light through holes in the clouds, tipping the pitcher of rays more every minute. It was 6:25, and it didn’t matter if I was ready to leave. One foot after the other I left everything I owned but a schoolbag, wallet and phone inside a shack on an empty old road in Greensboro, North Carolina.

The farther I got from the shack, the nicer the town looked again. Roads were covered with hurrying cars and short lines of traffic, but they were quiet. Tree branches jutted into the sidewalk; a middle-aged person or two walked their dogs. I passed the Walgreens from the day before; had I really walked that far?

Awaiting a sight that resembled Rock Bridge High School, the lifesaving blue line and blinking dot guiding me to Rock Bridge was replaced by three bright-white letters. “Dad” was calling again. Why was he awake? Since when did he care so much about what was going on with me?

My thumb hesitated over the red “reject” button on the screen. Then I pressed it.

“Shit,” skipped through my lips. “Talkie Mushrooms.” An old habit from middle school, when I used to feel guilty after cursing. I reached the front gate of the schoolyard: 6:56 a.m.

Some kids were entering the building, while others embraced the friends they must have missed violently over break. It looked a lot like school back in Georgia, but cleaner. I made my way up the steps to the entrance, and finally into the building. Kids cluttered the first hallway with thin bodies and wide voices. A few noticed me but most didn’t, too busy blushing over seniors or
aw
-ing at freshmen.

Thank God I’d looked at it the night before. Yanking out a school map as a new junior was the opposite of blending in
.
Only one turn, and I reached a door with “209” showing in the window, a few minutes early since class didn’t start until 7:05. As planned, I rushed into the bathroom to try to brush my teeth.

At the sink a girl washed her hands, and I pretended to check my hair. When she left, I whipped my toothbrush out of the back pocket of my book bag, wet the bristles in the sink and rushed into a stall to brush. I had toothpaste of course, but quickly realized that I needed—and didn’t have—a cup to rinse. I finished brushing, spit the thick paste into the toilet bowl, and flushed. When I left the stall I found a new girl primping in the mirror. I turned my head so she wouldn’t see the paste that slipped through my lips and rested in their corners. I’d passed a water fountain right outside the bathroom on my way in, so I left the bathroom to head out and take a swish to rinse.

After a final gulp to wet my dry, nervous, anxious, worried, nauseous throat, I hurried into room 209 for Ana’s first day of school.

A tall, blonde, gorgeous woman of probably twenty-eight stood erect in front of the class. Black-rimmed glasses topped her petite nose and too-big smile. “Welcome, come find your name on the seating chart and please take a seat.”

As I turned to face the desks, slowly but surely each person in the room made a point to eye down the
new girl
. I did as the teacher requested, silently.

One row from the back, in between K. Roberts and T. Strickland, in front of Z. Tyler and behind H. Johnson, was my seat. I walked to it, avoiding any eye contact, and just as I sat the school bell rang four times.

“Hello, juniors, I am Mrs. Daniels, and I will be your homeroom teacher this year. Welcome to your first day of 11th grade. Now, I know each of you is excited to be here, awake and learning at seven o’clock in the morning, but if for some reason you aren’t, I simply ask that you stay awake long enough for me to finish attendance.” Four or five heads went down, and two or three conversations started as Mrs. Daniels went to gather her attendance forms. To these people, twenty-minute homeroom meant twenty-minute naptime.

The classroom was pretty small compared to the ones in the school I went to back in Georgia. The walls were just as dull and prison-like, though. But this place was okay, not horrifying.

To the right of me, T. Strickland talked to another guy about the adventures he partook in throughout the summer. I presumed him to be one of those high-school-is-the-prime-of-my-life-so-I-will-get-high-and-get-wasted-and-pop-pills-as-much-as-I-can-now-because-it’s-all-downhill-from-here-anyways types of guys. He obviously liked to party. Behind me Z. Tyler sat motionless, meditating to screamo-rap he decided the whole class should hear through his cheap headphones. He was obviously hard of hearing. K. Roberts, the girl to my left, sat informing some other girl of her and her boyfriend’s “rocky” summer together in which he cheated on her twice and she hooked up with three of his best friends within two nights. She had obviously had a bad childhood. I realized, though that maybe I should stop saying that—these days, guess whose life was the most screwed-up of them all?

“Ana Smith?”

“Here.”

“Where?”

“Here,” I spoke louder and raised my hand.

Mrs. Daniels nodded. “Trey Strickland?”

I laid my head down and listened to the screamo-music blasting behind me. Not so bad. Refreshing even. Fifteen minutes later a bell rang again, and everyone rushed to leave homeroom.

I took a left, a right, following numbers and arrows posted on the walls, went downstairs, took another left, and arrived at room 119: American Literature. A man named Mr. Douglas taught this class, and seventeen students were there when I showed up. Mr. Douglas seemed stern and unpleasant, and so the whole class felt unpleasant. Unpleasant for everyone in the room except for the couple in the corner, that was. Those two couldn’t have been discouraged if a terrorist was threatening to stab them to death while the world was falling into a fiery pit of lava, as long as they didn’t have to let go of each other. They whispered and giggled the entire class, and by the end they’d smiled so much they had to massage each other’s cheeks. Doubtlessly insane.

Second
period was okay, but it let me know that this class would be my toughest math yet; gifted Pre-Calc equals no joke. Third period was similar: Physics. I had feared Physics since freshman year and it already seemed as scary as I’d predicted. As expected, the stare-at-the-new-girl thing went on in every classroom, too. I guessed some things were the same wherever you went.

Next was American History with Mr. Kyle, and I walked in last. Unfortunately I’d taken a “shortcut” that wasn’t a shortcut at all; in fact it was the longest route I could’ve possibly taken, since I hadn’t accounted for concentrated groups of freshmen congregating in the middle of hallways. Every one of the eighteen other students were already comfortably seated, and the only desirable seat left was in the back right corner, near the bookshelf, next to a guy in a hooded sweatshirt.

The hood lay atop his head, his head atop his crossed arms and facedown above his desk. The kid didn’t move or flinch once in the first few minutes of class. In fact, until Mr. Kyle called, “Eric Brantley,” he didn’t move at all. When he heard his name, he lifted his hand, robotically, and laid it back down precisely identical to how it had been before. A few girls chuckled at his lack of enthusiasm, and I wondered if when I moved robotically, mechanically, I did it as gracefully as he had, or even close.

“Ana Smith.”

My eyes shot to the front of the classroom. “Here.”

Through class, I kept glancing over my left shoulder to see if this Eric Brantley kid might lift his head. He didn’t. Mr. Kyle handed out syllabi and talked about books and curriculum for the year, and mystery hooded-boy didn’t move once. What was stranger was that no one else in the room thought it odd, or even disrespectful. Maybe he’d had a bad day. Maybe he was that bad guy that nobody bothered. Maybe he was tortured inside and everyone knew but no one could help. Maybe he just needed—the bell rang to end fourth period, and he lifted his head.

And that must have been why he’d covered his face for so long. He had the most gorgeous dark brown eyes and tan skin, black hair that faded into the shadows of his hoodie. Jawbones fit for a man twice his size, and thick, black eyebrows to frame it all in. Viewing his face like scenery, I couldn’t tell how much time was passing. How long was I staring?

Then he grinned at me. Of course he had an adorable smile that forced my teeth from behind breaking lips.

“Don’t forget binoculars tomorrow.” His voice was plain and soft, but blunt.

“What?” I asked, unsure of his motive. Flirting?

No. He just walked away, his head shaking slowly as he left the classroom.

What a fail. What a jackass. Did he know I’d been watching him?

Next period was lunch, finally, a break from scary syllabi and “expectations” for the year. The lunchroom wasn’t a far walk, and it didn’t take long to get my meal. Pretty quickly I was through the line and headed to an empty table. When I sat, of course, a group of horribly chatty girls filled the seats around me. They introduced themselves, obsessed with my hair, and my outfit, and my figure, and soon seemingly every aspect of my life—at least what I made up of it.

“My mom raised me by herself, it’s always been just the two of us.”

“What about your dad?” beautiful, longhaired Arianna asked.

“My dad raped her when she was twenty. Never met him.”

“Wow. Well … do you play any sports?” This one came from Taylor, short, blonde, smiley.

“I uh … used to play,” I cleared my throat, “lacrosse, at my old school, in San Diego. I was crushed when I heard they didn’t have that sport here.”

“Shame, well, there’s plenty of other sports, soccer maybe?” Brit, clearly the athlete of the group.

“Anyways, the real question is, what kind of boys do you like?” one of the shorter girls, Michelle, asked. “The boys here will
love
you.”

I wondered what she meant by that. “Well you know, I like tall, jock-type guys, I guess.”

Arianna smiled and nodded. “We’ve got you covered there, girl.”

“I’ve never seen a California license. Do you have yours yet?” tall, thin Kylie asked.

“No, not yet,” I told her, thinking of the Georgia license reading “Sydney Collins” hiding in the wallet in my bag.

“Aw, poo.”

After a quick pout of disappointment, the girls proceeded to flood the air with stories of summer concerts and sneak-outs. Fun stories, but I couldn’t help noticing the hooded kid from History class sitting in the corner of the lunchroom, alone, at least one empty seat between him and anyone near him. His head down and his iPod in his ears, he didn’t have a lunch tray or any food. What a strange kid. What a jackass.

Once past another set of new-girl stares, sixth-period Spanish was a breeze. Mom never spoke a word of Spanish, but something about the Latina blood in me must have made Spanish come easily to me. The professor, originally from Arkansas, asked me if I signed up for the wrong class, assuming I was fluent. I conjugated something wrong as I answered, and he left me alone.

After Spanish, I took a deep breath. I was almost done with the first day at Rock Bridge. No one had suspected anything might be out of place with me, and the school day had almost finished. I knew if I could get out of the school building with no problems on my first day, that I could be okay in Greensboro. There was just one class left in my way.

And that class bored me halfway to suicide. That was until the end, when we got into a short discussion about AIDS. The teacher was the most biased, pro-abstinence woman I had ever come in contact with. She called on this pregnant girl in the class to share her “learning experience” with the rest of us.

After some blatant probing, the girl told her, offended, “I believe we’re old enough to choose our own actions, and take responsibility for whatever results from them,” and I hadn’t agreed with any ideal more in my life. On cue, my phone buzzed in my bag and I thought I should find a place to charge it before I left.

Library. I found it directly after class, secured an outlet by one of the computer docks, and browsed Youtube on a school computer until the battery was full again. Dad had called twice more, sent four texts, and two emails, since I rejected his call that morning. I refused to read them.

He might ask a question that made me think through how stupid I was being. Or maybe he forgot I even left, wanted me to grab him some McDonald’s on the way home. Ignoring him felt so … freeing. I had to make sure my new freedom never left me.