Wild Cat (6 page)

Ten

“Kat, honey? Are you okay in there?” Mom shouts. When I don’t answer right away, she knocks on the bathroom door.

It’s Friday morning and the first time since Monday that I’ve gotten dressed for school. I refuse to miss the whole first week of junior high. I wipe my mouth, flush the toilet, and splash cold water on my face. “I’m fine,” I call back.

“Hank needs to know if you’re riding with him, honey. He and Dakota are leaving in a minute. Wes took the bus. I could drive you later, if you feel up to it.” She pauses. “Or maybe you should stay home today and—”

I open the bathroom door and hope I don’t look like I feel. “Good to go.”

Her eyes narrow. Like it’s not hard enough to fool a mom, I have to convince a mom who’s also my doctor. “You don’t look fine.”

“Thanks, Mom. Just the vote of confidence I need to start seventh grade.” I move past her and get my book bag. “I’m good. Really.”

She doesn’t move. “Kat, you don’t have to do this.”

“Please,” I beg. “I don’t want to miss any more school.”

She sighs, but when I head downstairs, she follows. “Promise to call me if you . . . if you need to come home? I’ll keep my pager on. And I’ll make sure your dad has his cell on him. I’ve signed in your meds with the school nurse. So if you need anything for nausea or a headache, just go there.”

“I know. Thanks.” I really do feel better.

“Hey! Look who’s up.” Hank takes my pack and slings it over his shoulder. “Riding with me?”

“Yep,” I answer.

“Cool hair,” Dakota says. “Good choice.”

“Thanks.” I’ve gone with the black wig, but it looks brown next to Dakota’s hair. I’d love a wig exactly like her hair—curly, thick, black. She looks beautiful in her jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt.

“Let’s hit it,” I say. “I’d hate to be late for class. Four days late is probably late enough.” I kiss Mom good-bye. “Where’s Dad?”

At that exact moment, Dad comes running in, panting. “Phone. Mother. Wouldn’t let me hang up.” He takes a deep breath. “Your grandmother says good luck on your first day at Nice Junior High. She also said to call her if anyone gives you trouble.”

I love Gram Coolidge.

We’re out the door when Dad hollers, “Wait!”

Dakota rolls her eyes. Hank checks his watch. We all know what’s coming.

Dad catches us at the truck. “What do you call a cat who keeps the grass short?”

I’ve already figured this one out. But I can never leave him hanging. “I don’t know, Dad. What
do
you call a cat who keeps the grass short?”

“A lawn
meow
-er! Get it? Lawn meower?”

Dakota groans. She opens the driver’s door. “I’ll drive.”

“Think again,” Hank says, dangling the truck key. Dakota’s only had her license a week.

I take the front seat without arguing when she climbs in back. Better odds of me not getting carsick if I ride in front. We all know this, but we don’t say it. I wish Wes had waited for us. I can’t believe he’d rather ride the bus.

Hank starts the truck on the first try. Thinking of that first makes me realize another. “Do you realize this is the first time I’ve ridden to school with my sister?”

“You and your first times,” Dakota mutters.

“Seat belt, Dakota,” Hank orders, adjusting his mirrors before backing out.

Dakota buckles up. I’m already buckled. “Listen, Kat,” she says, “if you get sick, call me at the high school. I can take the truck and come get you.”

“What about me?” Hank asks.

“You can get one of the girls in your fan club to drive you home,” Dakota suggests.

Hank laughs. “Fan club? So, are you a member?”

Dakota gives him her “yeah, right” look.

I don’t think Hank has an official fan club, but it wouldn’t surprise me.

Dakota stares out the window. “Anyway, if I cut classes, it’s no big loss.” Something in her voice tells me she’s not joking anymore.

I glance at Hank. He flashes me a secret-code look. Translated, it means Dakota’s not exactly the dominant mare at Nice High.

Dakota’s life in Chicago gave her defenses that don’t work in our little town. She can come off pretty tough. She and I have gotten along since the day she came to live at Starlight Animal Rescue. But I’ve seen her A+ sarcasm in action against Wes and Hank. If she felt cornered or put down by people in her classes, I don’t think she’d take it in stride. She’d make them wish they’d never opened their mouths.

“Things will get better, Dakota,” I say. She’s still staring out the window. We’ve left the rural outskirts of town and turned onto the main drag of Nice. We’ll be at the junior high in a minute.

“You know what I hate?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Hand holding.”

“You hate hand holding?” Hank repeats. “Okay.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she says. “I can be as romantic as the next girl. But please. Like the halls aren’t crowded enough? Puppy love has to hold hands so nobody can get by?”

Hank laughs. “Didn’t realize you were so anti–hand holding.”

But I think I get it. When you don’t have a best friend or a boyfriend, it can hurt to watch people who do. Maybe Dakota wishes she had someone.

I know better than to say that to her though.

The picture of a father holding his kid’s hand flashes to my mind. “Dakota, I’m giving you a verse for today—a verse about hand holding.”

“See? I always thought you had a verse for everything. Now I’m sure.” She grins at me, waiting.

“It’s from Psalm 37. ‘Though they stumble, they will never fall, for the Lord holds them by the hand.’”

Dakota stares at me, her eyes narrowed to slits. For a second, I’m afraid I’m about to be on the receiving end of Dakota’s sarcasm . . . for the first time. It’s one first I’m not looking forward to. Then, like sunlight bursting out of clouds, she smiles. “Kat, you always know exactly the right thing to say. Do you come in a pocket version? I’d like to take you with me.”

“You don’t think she’s pocket-size already?” Hank says, sounding relieved. He pulls up to the junior high loading zone. Groups of girls huddle all across the lawn. A guy and girl walk by holding hands. Three girls hop out of the car in front of us. Everybody looks high school to me. I was the smallest kid in sixth grade, and I haven’t grown much. I probably look like I missed the elementary school bus.

We don’t say anything as we sit in the loading zone. Nice Junior High and Nice High School are side by side. The cafeterias overlap even, with a shared central kitchen in the middle. Still, I know it’s two different worlds. I don’t know what Dakota and Hank are thinking as we sit in the truck, but I’m thinking that all I want is to make it through this school day without getting sick.

My mind kicks into pray-without-ceasing mode, and I open the door.

“Show ’em who’s the dominant mare in this school, Kat!” Dakota calls as I climb out.

Hank honks the horn and turns in to the parking lot.

My elbow hurts when I wave, but I keep it up until the truck disappears into the mass of cars trying to park in the student lot. I wonder if Wes is here yet.

I hate the minutes in the hall before that first class begins. Having cancer makes you a bad choice for small talk. Like people are afraid they’ll ask me how I’m doing and I’ll answer, “Oh, I’m dying, thanks. And you?”

When the first bell rings, I take my time getting to room 121, my first-hour social studies class. I know where it is because Mom and Dad and I met with my teachers during the summer to work out a system for me to make up work when I’m absent.

I stand outside the classroom, listening to the buzz of voices. Their words crash against each other like waves. But the waves are all part of the same ocean. And I’m just passing through their ocean.

My stomach flutters, but I think it’s nerves. I sure hope so. The last thing I need is to puke all over the classroom on my first day. I hike up my book bag, walk in, and look around for an empty seat.

“Take your places, ladies and gentlemen!” Ms. Buffenmyer shouts. She’s younger than Mom, taller, and a lot thinner. Her brown hair is caught up in a banana clip.

I edge to the middle of the room. Desks to the left, desks to the right. Makes me think of the parting of the Red Sea.

Ms. Buffenmyer is messing with her briefcase, so I don’t think she’s seen me yet. But everybody else has. I know most of them from elementary school. A couple of kids from church smile at me, and I smile back, but their row is full. Across the aisle, a whole row of girls stare at me. When I smile at them, their heads swivel away in unison, like they’re on the synchronized stare team.

Maybe I have a big letter
C
, for “cancer,” on my forehead today and didn’t notice.

I need a seat. My legs twitch. They shake, like they’re not going to stand here another minute. If I don’t get a chair, I’m going to collapse in the middle of this classroom.

Eleven

Fiona Morris stands and waves at me from the front of the room. “There’s a seat up here, Katharine!” she shouts. “Come sit by me.”

I’m surprised she knows my name, even though we had gym together last year. I mostly sat out.

“Katharine!” Ms. Buffenmyer sees me now. “Welcome. Glad you could make it. I mean, it’s good to see you.”

I walk to the front and take a seat next to Fiona. She’s wearing a skirt with a green V-necked top. Her shirt matches her eyes. Her auburn hair flows straight to her shoulders and tucks under perfectly, like those expensive wigs in catalogs. I think she’s lived in Nice only a couple of years, but she was the most popular girl in elementary school last year.

“Thanks, Fiona,” I whisper.

She pats my hand. “I don’t mind,” she whispers. “Really, I don’t.”

I’m not sure why, but having her say she doesn’t mind makes me feel like maybe she does. Then she flashes me a smile, and I know I’m imagining things. I’d still be standing in the aisle if she hadn’t flagged me down.

Cassie’s on the other side of Fiona. I can’t believe how much she’s changed over the summer. She’s streaked her hair, and it looks great. Maybe it’s her low-slung jeans and low-cut top, but she could pass for 18.

“Hey, Cassie,” I whisper. “I love your hair.”

“Thanks. You too.” She smiles, but her gaze is stuck on my wig and stays there a few seconds too long. Makes me wish I’d picked the blonde wig instead.

Alex leans up from the seat behind me. He’s in my youth group at church, when I feel well enough to go. “Hey, Kat. Cool hair. New?”

I whisper back at him, “Kind of. Thanks, Alex.” I could hug the guy for liking my hair. My stomach unclenches. I reach into my book bag for a notebook.

Fiona leans over. “Don’t pay any attention to Alex. Boys can be so rude.”

I ease back into my seat, clutching my notebook like it will keep me from falling off the earth.

“All right,” Ms. Buffenmyer says, “let’s get down to business, people. Now, I’m going to need something in writing from you by the end of the hour. You’ve had a week to think about your social studies project.”

As if she’s just remembered that I haven’t been here all week, our teacher turns to me. “Um, Katharine, we’re doing projects in teams of two. Each team has to come up with a civic service project. Teams set goals together, draw up a plan, and do some kind of service for the community. The whole project will be worth a fourth of your grade.” A shadow passes over her face, and she steps closer to my desk. “Since you’re coming in on this late, maybe you and I can come up with an alternate project, something you can do at home if you want to. A report, maybe?”

I know she’s trying to be helpful, but the last thing I want is special treatment. “I’d like to do the civic service project.” My voice cracks, so I clear my throat. “It sounds great. Fun. I really want to do it.”

“Well . . .” Ms. Buffenmyer draws out the word like she’s trying to string thoughts together. “That’s a problem. We’re doing the work in pairs—partners. I . . . I don’t think we have anyone for you to work with.”

I hate the silence that follows. They knew I was coming. Why didn’t they put me on a team?

“JP, you don’t have a partner, do you? I mean, since Ian got his schedule changed?” Meagan Reed announces this from the back of the room. Meagan is probably the smartest person in seventh grade.

JP turns and glares at her, like she’s ratted him out. He’s wearing a Chicago Bears T-shirt and gray sweatpants. His legs are sprawled out, and his big feet rest on the chair in front of him. JP lives football. It’s the only thing I’ve ever heard him talk about, although he wasn’t talking to me. I don’t think he’s said two words to me in the last two years. In sixth grade, if we heard snoring in class, we all looked at JP.

“I’m doing my own project,” JP says.

“And what might that be, Mr. Peterson?” Ms. Buffenmyer asks.

“Football,” he answers. He slumps down even farther.

A few chuckles ripple across the room.

“I’m not sure you’ve quite grasped the assignment, Mr. Peterson,” Ms. Buffenmyer says.

“Will you just call me JP? I keep thinking my dad’s walked in or something.”

“Well, JP,” Ms. Buffenmyer says, “you need a partner. And a better idea than football.”

“Better than football?” JP whines. “Man, junior high is as tough as my brothers said it was.”

More laughs follow. I hate this. Everybody sees that JP and I should make a team. They also see that JP doesn’t want
me
for a partner.

“I have an idea, Ms. Buffenmyer,” Fiona says. We all look to her like she’s the teacher now. “Cassie and I were going to be partners. But, well . . .” She puts her hand on my arm. “Maybe Cassie could team up with JP, and Kat and I could work together.”

“Hey!” Cassie objects. “You and I already have our project.”

Fiona turns to her friend. “You and JP can do that one. Sounds like JP needs a new project anyway.
And
a new partner. Kat and I will come up with something else.”

“That’s okay,” I tell her, even though I’d love to be her partner. “You don’t need to switch partners because of me.”

“It’s not a problem,” Fiona says.

“Cassie really doesn’t want to,” I whisper.

Fiona whispers back, “Don’t kid yourself. Cassie’s got a monster crush on JP. She’s going to thank both of us later.”

“Cassie?” Ms. Buffenmyer says. “What do you say?”

“Well, I guess it might work,” Cassie says. She turns around and smiles at JP. “You game, JP?”

He shrugs. “I still think football was a cool idea.”

Cassie’s already out of her seat and moving in on JP. “Make room, guys. I need to sit by my new partner.”

“Good. Now get busy, people.” Ms. Buffenmyer strolls toward us. “Thanks, Ms. Morris.”

“Glad to help,” Fiona says.

“For this to work, though,” Ms. Buffenmyer says, “you girls will have to come up with your project by the end of class today. We don’t have time for an extension.”

“No sweat,” Fiona says.

I’m sweating already. I don’t want to wreck Fiona’s grade. “What were you and Cassie doing for a project?” I ask.

“Nothing terrific,” Fiona says. “Her dad owns Nice Pizza in town.”

“I didn’t know that.” We’ve eaten there a couple of times, but we’re too far out in the country for delivery.

Fiona studies her fingernails. They’re amazing—long and this bronze color that goes great with her hair. “Cassie and I were going to make up a new specialty pizza with tons of cheese, all kinds of cheeses. We thought we’d promote it for a week and see if we could make a profit. Then we’d give the profit to poor kids or something. Or use the profit to feed poor people. Something like that.”

“That’s pretty cool,” I say.

Fiona shrugs. Her hair swishes, like in those silky shampoo commercials.

Two guys from the second row are trying to get Fiona’s attention. When she looks at them, they’re pointing to themselves, trying to elbow each other out of the way. “Be on
my
team, Fiona!” one of them whispers. But his whisper is so loud that Ms. Buffenmyer walks over to them.

Fiona shakes her head. Again, her hair flows from side to side.

As I watch her, I can’t help wondering what it would feel like to be Fiona Morris. And if I
were
Fiona Morris, I wonder how much I’d regret pairing up with me.