Cravings

By Christie Rushenberg

"A person should eat to live, not live to eat," Mom reminded me with a frown directed at the syrup bottle I was clutching. She just doesnt understand that sometimes Mrs. Butterworth, Chef Boyardee, and Sarah Lee are the only friends I have in the world.

Meet Maud Grover, a sarcastic, antisocial fourteen-year-old who eats her feelings and talks to food. During her first terrifying year of high school, she meets four people who will change her life:

An Enemy - Gabby, a skinny cheerleader craving the limelight

A Friend - Audrey, a theatrical hopeless romantic craving the ideal

A Crush - Zeek, a dashing socialite craving popularity

A Confidant - Black Jack, a roguish sk8ter craving authenticity

In this story about food, flaws, failings, and faith, each will show Maud who she truly is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781462857869

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Copyright © 2012 by Christie Rushenberg.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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CONTENTS

Book the First

Quarter One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Quarter Two

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Quarter Three

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Quarter Four

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Book the First

Freshman Year

For the anonymous, the hidden, the

voiceless, and all those who crave for more.

Jeremiah 31:25

Heartland%27s%20School%20Calendar%20copy.JPG

Quarter One

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Chapter One

The Supercilious Maud Grover

A person should eat to live, not live to eat, Mom reminded me with a frown directed at the syrup bottle I was clutching. She just doesn’t understand that sometimes Mrs. Butterworth, Chef Boyardee, and Sarah Lee are the only friends I have in the world. They don’t taunt me on the playground when I fail at swinging across the monkey bars. They don’t yell at me in gym class when I finish the mile run in record slow pace. They don’t stare at me in awkward silence when my blouse buttons pop under stress.

However, these friends do have their limitations. Mrs. Butterworth can’t agree to a leisurely lunch followed by a walk around the lake. Chef Boyardee certainly can’t ask me out on a date, although I’d never object to his cooking. I can’t call Sarah Lee and chat for the next hour and thirty-seven minutes about… well, whatever it is girls are supposed to chat about these days. But, most importantly, none of them can ever make me look good in a size six black spaghetti strap dress.

Nevertheless, having Mrs. Butterworth’s company at the breakfast table was comforting, even if I wasn’t having waffles or pancakes on this particular morning.

Honestly, Maud, I don’t understand why you insist on dragging out that grimy bottle every morning—even when you’re eating cereal. Mom closed the refrigerator door with one hand and shook the orange juice container with the other. Mom rarely understood my mastication needs. Her breakfasts consisted of bran and juice. Always.

Her expression amuses me, I said and winked at Mrs. Butterworth—whom I swore blushed underneath the dark confines of her glass cheeks.

"If you don’t finish your breakfast soon, I can guarantee that my expression will be less than amusing," said Mom, giving me The Eye—that certain look of warning which, if tested, results in the most dangerous of circumstances. Looking down at my never-ending oatmeal, I forcibly swallowed another spoonful of the bland mush—which Mom made sure neglected every bit of sweetness. Dieting. Pah! Gallant Captain Crunch could cheer me through the morning much better than grumpy Mr. Quaker Oats!

Maud, hurry up. Save the daydreams for summer. You’re going to be late for your first day of high school. Mom clanked her empty glass and plate in the bottom of the sink and grabbed her purse and keys as she headed for the door. I’m starting the car. If you’re not out in two minutes, you’ll have to walk. I can’t be late for work. I’m seeing an important client this morning.

I shoved two more spoonfuls of yuck into my mouth, grabbed my matching backpack and binder, double-checked my in-school snack (almonds today), and headed out the door.

As Mom drove and prattled on endlessly about how wonderful her high school years had been, I studied my class schedule which I had hastily scotch-taped to my binder cover. Knowing where to go and in what order was extremely important, especially for an underclassman. There was nothing more embarrassing than a Freshman wandering around, lost on the first day of school. The spectacle invited Seniors to duct tape you upside-down to a bathroom stall door. No, that wouldn’t happen to me. I rehearsed my schedule, beginning with Spanish I (Señor Torres, room 119) and ending with Creative Writing (Ms. Webley, room 132).

Being the girl that I was, I expected high school to be a never-ending nightmare. High school would be completely different from my old school, Immaculate Heart. Aside from the fact that I was now going to a public school instead of a small Catholic one, I expected other changes as well: No more recess. No more busy work. No more nonsense. And more frightening than the Lighter Side options at restaurants.

I imagined anorexic, pregnant girls caked with makeup and wearing skin-tight, revealing clothing. Zoned-out pot heads flashing their vibrantly colored boxers for all to see. Cheerleaders roaming the halls flaunting their big hair and abnormally muscular legs, filling the corridors with unwanted school spirit and cheer. Jocks tearing apart all nerds and torturing those poor souls brave enough to stand up to them.

Although, not everything would be horrible. Because I switched school systems, I wouldn’t know a single soul, which meant no one would poke fun at me directly on sight.

That would come later.

Look, Maud. There’s your school.

Pushing my glasses back up the bridge of my nose, I saw the tall, dark, windowless walls of Heartland High School. Some classmates within the cloistered walls of my grade school had heard from older siblings that Heartland was originally built to serve as a city prison, but for whatever reason, the Powers that Be changed their minds and made it a school—although many argue that it still serves as some type of prison…

I had visited Heartland a few times before with my guidance counselor (who can’t screw in a light bulb during broad daylight let alone advise students about class schedules or career paths), but I felt like an interloper. Even now as an enrolled student, I still felt like one.

Mom, along with dozens of other apprehensive parents, dropped me off at the curb. She blew me a kiss and told me to keep an open mind.

Sure.

Chapter Two

The Hidden Classroom

I shouldered through the doors and landed smack dab in the center of greasy, over shampooed, under dressed, cell-phone-talking, thumb-texting, lotion-rubbing, car-key-jingling teenagers. All around me, students perched on benches, reclined against stairs, and clustered near corners catching up over the short summer, admiring new haircuts, and discussing class schedules.

Get outta the way! Hands shoved me from behind. I plowed into a crowd of muscles and tight shirts. They furrowed their brows and shook their heads.

S—sorry, I stammered. I felt my face flush and headed for the nearest escape route. I wandered into a hallway presumably near the gym since I was surrounded by endless rows of glass cases filled with gleaming, grinning trophies perched in aggressive readiness, waiting to pounce. I suddenly felt vulnerable… And then there were the cheerleaders. Thirteen girls draped in silver and forest green clapped and swung their arms in annoying synchrony as they cheered the Heartland Hunters. The sight was enough to make me throw up. I tried to conceal my disgust, but I must have botched that up because one cheerleader sneered at me. This is why I’m allergic to painfully skinny limbs, layered platinum hair, and dark eyeshadow—all qualities which she possessed.

I made a beeline for the nearest wrought-iron bench and plopped myself down. I unsnapped the elastic around my binder, and withdrew my locker number and combination information. Locker number 1831, combination 36-6-0. Fabulous. Now, where to find said locker, exactly…

Looking up, that same cheerleader bore icy eyes into my soul. Good thing she wasn’t a gorgon, otherwise I’d have probably turned to stone. Having caught my attention, she curled her lip and continued maneuvering like a possessed jack-in-the-box, swinging her hands and torso in the air.

According to my watch, the bell would ring in fifteen minutes. Even though I didn’t need anything from my locker, the appearance of testing it out would be less embarrassing than sitting on the bench staring at the athletic cheerleaders stretching in inhumanly possible positions. I stuffed my binder into my backpack and shuffled down the hall, feeling their beautiful round eyes upon me—someone who can barely perform a cartwheel.

I managed to find my locker without too much difficulty and busied myself with testing the combination until the bell rang. The bell’s blaring brought an unforeseen swamp of students choking the narrow hallways. The sight reminded me the zoo’s koi fish toppling over each other for thrown breadcrumbs. Relief rushed through me when I found my Spanish classroom. As other students trickled in, most looked like they could be Freshman, despite two or three older faces. I took a seat near the teacher’s desk and observed the sterile learning environment.

Blank brick walls. Zero posters. Empty bulletin boards. A bare teacher’s desk. Well, almost bare, except for an old coffee pot, assorted coffee bags, and a stack of filters.

Our teacher, Señor Torres, matched the classroom well. He swam in a white woven shirt at least three sizes too large for his lanky frame. He pushed a few graying hairs out of his squinty black eyes as he welcomed the class with a forced smile. Hola, clase. Me llamo Señor Torres, y yo soy su profesor este año.

Unfortunately, all of my prior Spanish training consisted of Sesame Street and Dora the Explorer. Needless to say, I had no idea what the man was saying, and by the looks on everyone else’s faces, I was not alone.

Señor Torres handed out our thin textbooks, which we perused for the rest of the period while he sat behind his desk reading The Omaha World-Herald and brewing coffee. Most of the books looked somewhat new, but as I scrutinized my book’s ripped spine and waterlogged pages, I guessed it had spent a few cycles in a washing machine. I flipped through the crinkled pages and saw rows of vocabulary and colored pictures from the 1990s. Leaning back in the squeaky chair, Señor Torres propped his feet on the desk and buried himself behind the Midlands section. I predicted a year of learning nothing.

Algebra was next with Mr. Dipple, who was so short he could barely see over the podium. He craned his neck and stuck his nose in the air to enhance the shallow view. Floating above him were geometric shapes composed of taped colored straws. Unlike Señor Torres’ room, vibrant posters were plastered over every inch of wall space. He was a bit too excited about math.

"Welcome, class! Please find a seat. Don’t be too shy to sit up front! This year, we shall be learning about the fundamental equations and procedures of Algebra! It is very important that you pay attention in this class, after all, Algebra is the foundation for Geometry, Trigonometry, and Calculus!"

A girl perched in the front row shot her hand into the air. "Mr. Dipple, are we finally going to learn differential equations this year? Every year, I ask my math teachers, and every year they say no."

Mr. Dipple smiled so widely that I thought his face would break. What’s your name, dear?

Chloe Smykowski.

Mr. Dipple scribbled something on a paper. "I do apologize, Chloe, but differential equations are a mite advanced for high school students. Perhaps we should see about getting you into a more appropriate math class."

Chloe sat a little straighter and continued being a brownnoser.

The combination of Mr. Dipple’s exuberance and the kaleidoscope of color caused a migraine. When he pulled out the infamous Getting-to-Know-You questions, such as, Have you lived in Omaha your entire life? What’s your favorite color? and What are your goals this year?, my migraine exploded.

When the bell finally rang, I was thrown once again into the clots of students dragging to get to class. Biology was next in room 213. I hurried up a flight of stairs and turned the corner where I successfully found rooms 212 and 214. Now… common sense dictated that room 213 should have been either between 212 and 214, or at least somewhere down the same hallway. But, alas, room 213 was nowhere in sight. Perfect.

Did I dare ask about my lost classroom’s location? By doing so, I’d be advertising my grade level status, and if I asked a Senior, I’d be sentenced to the Senior Death List before noon…

No, I’d have to find it on my own, and if I arrived late for class, no teacher was mean enough to punish a Freshman on the first day.

Once the bell rang, I had given up searching. I found a custodian, and of course the room was inside a hidden hallway closed off by an unmarked door. How sensible.

The custodian scratched his whiskers as he walked me down the hallway. Yer be havin’ a rotten time with that one, missy.

What?

The custodian brought his voice to a whisper as we neared the classroom. She seems to have her knickers in a twist, that one. He drew away, shaking his head. Quickly thanking him, I opened the classroom door.

The air was as thick as buttercream frosting.

The students were all seated, stiff as statues and faces locked forward. No one fiddled with a backpack zipper. No one doodled on a notebook pad. All hands tensed on the black lab desks. All sat erect, waiting for instruction.

So good of you to honor us with your presence, Miss… ?

She was the ugliest woman I had ever encountered. Dark, thick pencil lines zigzagged across her thinned eyebrows. Ginger-dyed hair stretched back into an angry bun while iron and slate strands frizzed out from behind her ears. Sagging cheeks and jowls accentuated the sharp corners of her thin mouth. And steely eyes threateningly narrowed under a raised eyebrow.

Well? Don’t just stand there gaping at me!

Oh, Grover, Maud Grover. My face flushed as I felt a hundred eyes staring, seeming to unlock my deepest, darkest secrets. I wanted to burrow into the linoleum.

"Well, Miss Grover, as I said before, it is certainly an honor for you to grace us with your presence. I hope that you will not make a habit of these late appearances."

Sorry. I got lost.

Her thick, smoky voice only deepened as she stepped closer. This classroom’s location did not hinder their arrival, she said, nodding to the petrified students. "As you can see, every chair is filled… that is, except for that one there, next to Miss Gabby Brewster. As it turns out, Miss Gabby Brewster was the toothpick, platinum blond cheerleader who sneered at me earlier. The corner of her full lips curled at me, seeming to take satisfaction in my humiliation. Take your seat, Miss Grover, and to ensure that this episode will not repeat, you will join me for one hour after school every day this week to assist you with classroom familiarity."

I squeezed my way between desks feeling every eye upon me. On the first day of school, I’d managed to land myself in detention. I’ve never had detention in my life. Detention was for punks who beat up scrawny little kids for their lunch money, not for smart, shy kids like me.

The teacher didn’t speak until I’d completely sat down, perhaps in one last effort to embarrass me as I pinched and jostled into the tiny seat. "For those of you who haven’t heard, she flashed her eyes at me, my name is Ms. Gulch. This is a rigorous course in the study of life and living organisms, and I will remind all Freshman that this is not middle school anymore. I do not accept late papers, unfinished work, tardiness, or disrespect. Period. Her cold eyes bore into me. This is your most important class, and there is no reason to miss it."

In the third row, a student’s hand flew into the air. Ms. Gulch looked thoroughly annoyed. Do not interrupt me, Mr. Atwood.

I was just wondering what you meant—

Perhaps you misunderstood me, she hissed. "Do not interrupt. When I am finished, that is the time for questions. She scanned the room. I expect all homework to be completed upon arrival. No chatting with neighbors at any time except for lab work. And no retakes, rewrites, extensions, or extra credit. Period. Prior students have called me ‘The Wicked Witch,’ and I assure you—I live up to it."

The boy in the third row shot up his hand again.

You are impertinent, Mr. Atwood. Whatever gave you the notion that I had finished?

Well, Ms. Gulch, you stopped speaking.

A few giggles emerged from corners of the room. Ms. Gulch seethed. "I was merely pausing for inflection. Perhaps you are unaware of the elements of public speaking, Mr. Atwood? Ms. Gulch raised an eyebrow and smirked. As punishment, one week from tomorrow, you will present a fifteen minute speech to the class on cell fundamentals. This speech shall be memorized and contain three visual aids. If it is not conducted to my satisfaction, you shall try again the following week, however your speech will lengthen to thirty minutes. Is this clear, Mr. Atwood?"

All heads turned toward him in anticipation. But he didn’t cower like the rest in front of her. In fact, he seemed almost to slouch in defiance of her strictness. Animal or plant? he asked.

Excuse me?

"You did not specify which type of cell for this speech. Animal or plant?"

I had never seen a teacher shoot fire from her eyes before, but Ms. Gulch looked as if she were only moments away from incinerating him. "Animal. Is that clear?"

The boy’s ears grew red, but his green eyes gleamed. Crystal.

"Good. Perhaps now the class has learned the vital importance of listening without interruption, she snapped. As for the class itself, it would be advantageous for you to become acquainted with your table partner, as he or she will be your weekly lab partner for the remainder of the year."

I looked over at Gabby. She rolled her eyes and flicked her hair. Working with her would be as pleasant as petting a cat backwards.

"Now, are there any questions?"

Once again, the boy in the third row raised his hand.

Ah, Mr. Isaac Atwood. Please share your inquiries with the class.

"I was wondering, Ms. Gulch, about something you said about tardies and absences."

Yes?

"If we happen to be absent, God forbid, what is your make-up policy?"

Ms. Gulch shook her head. There isn’t one.

A muffled gasp echoed through the room.

My hand climbed into the air, and I anticipated the impending guillotine.

Miss Grover?

Why can’t we make up work if we are excused?

"Well, that’s an impudent question, now isn’t it, Miss Grover. As I said before, this is your most important class; therefore, I’m sure you will take great care not to miss a single moment."

But, what if we have to miss it? a small voice asked from the back.

I practically saw Ms. Gulch don a pointy black hat and cloak. "Don’t."

Ages later, the bell finally rang. Scooping up all my belongings, including the Biology text book containing over 1000 pages, I hurried out the door as quickly as my lumpy legs could scuttle. I would not waste one moment in that classroom with that Witch. Rounding the corner, I crashed into someone, my book, binder, and loose papers flying in a whirlwind. I wanted to cry.

As I doubled over and scrounged my wayward possessions, I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. As my eyes followed the hand to its owner, I found a pair of green eyes upon me, the same eyes that belonged to the boy in the third row of Biology. My heart started to race.

"I’m so sorry, he said. He grabbed a mess of papers and stacked them. Are you okay?"

I jammed my text book into my backpack. Yeah. Sorry, I should be more careful.

He shrugged. I’m glad I ran into you, though. I didn’t want you to go away feeling upset by that bit— He caught himself. "Err… witch. She shouldn’t have embarrassed you, especially on the first day of school."

My head sunk and shoulders slumped. Is it that obvious?

He gathered more of my things. What?

That I’m a Freshman?

He swept some of his silky raven hair out of his eyes. What? Oh, everyone gets lost finding her room, Seniors included. I mean, you certainly don’t look like a Freshman. Besides, I probably would’ve gotten lost too if my older brother hadn’t given me directions.

You’re a Freshman too? Just looking at his broad shoulders and sturdy arms, he couldn’t have been my age. Most Freshman boys looked tiny enough to be in 6th grade. No… He had to be at least one year older, if not two.

’Course. I’m Isaac Atwood, but I prefer Zeek. He held out his hand.

Maud Grover. I shook his hand and felt goose bumps run up and down my spine as his warm fingers curled around my mine.

Pleasure to meet you.

It’s too bad you have to give that speech, I said, dropping his hand. It’s kind of harsh.

No matter. I’m into speaking and acting. It’s no big deal. Hey, I better let you go. Don’t want to be late for your next class.

Oh, yeah, well, I’ll see you later then.

As Zeek walked away, I’d almost forgotten about Ms. Gulch. Perhaps Biology wasn’t going to be that unpleasant after all.

Chapter Three

The Illustrious Miss Audrey Cuffy

The rest of the morning flew by. After Biology, I hustled to Regions of the World with Mr. Ragget. It was as interesting as watching dust collect. I amused myself by observing a tiny girl named Ning Ling pencil grunge artwork across a sketchbook. After only five minutes into the period, my stomach was grumbling and snarling so much that I couldn’t concentrate. I decided to munch on a few almonds to tide me over, but before I knew it, I had eaten my entire snack—and I was still hungry. It didn’t help that the girl next to me, Jennifer Trush, was constantly texting and passing notes to her neighbor, skinny Lexi Essler. Her thumb-clicking and paper-folding only added to my lingering math-induced migraine. Mr. Ragget’s frequent worksheet distribution was the only thing worth noticing. If he continued said worksheet distribution for the entire year, his class would be easy.

Well, at least I thought so. Jennifer Trush thought her life was over. When the worksheets piled atop her desk, she froze in mid-thumb and almost dropped her phone. "What? Mr. Ragget, this is so much work! When are these due again? Tomorrow!"

Clearly, she’d never recover.

After fourth period came that beautifully dreadful thing called lunch.

Lunch was the only meal unsupervised by a parental unit. No one could order me to take smaller portions or to skip dessert or to eat healthfully. Hurrah!

However, despite such freedoms, my liberty was enough to guilt me about every single thing eaten. Ugh! For every hot dog, I’d remember that Gandhi spent several days fasting for non-violent independence. For every pudding cup, I’d remember starving children in China, grateful for even the smallest bread crumbs. For every mashed potato mound, I’d remember that I’m dieting. Pah!

And yet, I knew I’d still eat those hot dogs, pudding cups, and mashed potato mounds. I can’t understand why. Fat people never can.

I entered the cafeteria, grabbed a puke-colored tray, and got in line for the main fare. That way, I couldn’t feel too guilty about what I ate since it was the standard meal, not the deluxe. But, it didn’t really matter anyway because all cafeteria food tastes the same: bland and stale.

Food selection: check. Now, onto the more difficult task—seat selection. Since I didn’t know anyone except Zeek and Gabby, my options were few. Sitting with Gabby was absolutely unthinkable; I didn’t want to be tortured, me eating my seven course meal and she eating a parsley sprig. And as much as I’d have loved to sit with Zeek, he was already at a table full of blithe faces. How could I interfere with that?

I decided to take refuge at an empty table where I spent the whole lunchtime watching other kids laugh and visit with their friends. I should have brought a book or a crossword. Turning my milk carton to the side, I said, Well, Mr. Blue Bunny, it’s just you and me. This chocolate milk is excellent. You must have gone to great lengths—

Well, if it isn’t Miss Tardy, sitting all alone, talking to her lunch.

I froze, both embarrassed and angry. Tilting my head, I saw Gabby along with the whole Freshman cheer team, all thirteen identical with their uniforms, long nails, pouty lips, and layered hair. What do you want?

Oh, nothing, said Gabby, examining her fake nails. "Just dropping by to say hello to my new lab partner. I’m sure we’ll make a great team, that is, if you can find the classroom." The squad snickered.

"Why, Gabriella, I had no idea you had the heart to say hello to an unfamiliar face and make her feel welcome within your clique!"

Across the table stood a willowy girl with large eyes and a freckled gumdrop nose. Her auburn hair was swept back into a ponytail causing her tiny corkscrew curls to flare every which way. She wore a white cocktail dress covered with small black polka dots. It was as if she had just stepped out of the 1940’s. Weird. A strange gleam playfully danced in her sea-smoke eyes.

"Oh, Audrey, don’t be so silly. Cliques are backstabbers, and my friends are a team, a family."

Audrey planted her gloved hands on her hips. Not part of any family I’d like to join.

Gabby glowered at her. "You think you’re so clever. You might have gotten away with this in middle school, but high school is a whole new game."

And you’re wasting your lunch bullying others. Eat something, Gabby. I can see right through you.

Gabby’s eyes became thin slits. You’ve been warned, Audrey. She motioned the team, and they snaked through the cafeteria heading toward the dungeon—I mean, gym.

Audrey gave a lopsided grin and plopped down beside me. Don’t worry about her too much. She’s mostly all show and no substance… quite literally, actually. From my experiences with her in both elementary and middle school, I’ve found that if you ignore her, she’ll become bored and target the next victim. She blew an errant curl out of her eyes. "Look at me, carrying on without a proper introduction! My name is Audrey Cuffy, but I think that Miss Audrey Cuffy, or Lady Audrey Cuffy, or Madame Audrey Cuffy sounds so much more pronounced. After all, hardly anyone of important stature ever excluded a title from her name during the golden days of yesteryear. Audrey tilted her head back, as if considering something, then smiled. She extended her hand. Yes, I am Miss Audrey Cuffy, Freshman Esquire of Heartland High School."

I shook her hand gratefully. Maud Grover, I replied, then lowered my voice, also a Freshman.

She peered at me, then leaned forward. Why are you whispering? Are you about to tell me a tragical secret?

I bit my lip. No, it’s not exactly something I advertise.

She drew back. "What? Oh, I just think it’s utterly ridiculous how so many people are afraid that something dreadful will happen just because they’re a Freshman. It’s just a bunch of hullabaloo. No one ever does anything."

With my fork, I pushed around a mushy pile of string beans. How can you be so sure? I mean, this is only your first day too.

Well, the stories are just so absurd! They can’t be true. If a Senior were so bold as to stuff someone in a locker, he’d be caught. It’s too risky to do anything like that on school grounds. Security cameras are all over the place. Any Freshmen hazing would have to be off campus anyway. Even Gabby doesn’t have the guts to pull something during school. Actually, she’s so skinny I’m not quite sure she has any guts at all…

I pushed my tray away. Thanks for what you did. I’m used to the taunting, but no one has really stood up for me before.

She shot me a funny look. Really?

It’s just something I’ve learned to live with, I said.

Audrey played with the edge of her polka dot dress. Oh, don’t be silly. No one should be treated like that. Well, Gabby could use it every now and again, I suppose. She rolled her eyes, then absently tugged a brass pocket watch out of a yellowing fabric handbag. Lunch is almost over. We should depart. She swung her red heels over the chair and twirled around.

"Audrey, I don’t mean to pry, but why are you wearing such—old clothes?"

Her apple blossom cheeks reddened, and her eyes grew bright. Isn’t this dress adorable? There is something so romantic about antiques and vintage clothing. I quite prefer them to t-shirts, flip-flops, and pleather pants. Whoever invented the tube top must have been intoxicated. Personally, I think life was ever so much more charming at the turn of the century. Boys these days hardly qualify as gentlemen. And girls dress more like common whores rather than respectable ladies. Basically, I’ve given up on our generation all together.

I dumped my trash and tried to keep up as Audrey slipped through clusters of students. But where do you get your clothes?

Mostly from my Grandmother. But, I do know a few antique shops where I can acquire everything Gran can’t supply. And I have been known to sew on occasion. Say, what class do you have next?

I glanced over at the cover of my binder. European Literature with Miss Dalrymple.

"Me too! Oh, this is going to be such wonderful fun! Can’t you see, Maud? We are destined to be the best of friends! Perhaps even Kindred Spirits! Say, have you ever read Anne of Green Gables?"

Audrey and I found our way to class. I had never seen a classroom with such care put into it before. Huge, brass-framed pictures of authors penning their celebrated works lined the walls. Between each picture stood floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases full of yellowed, tattered paperbacks. Miss Dalrymple stood at the front of the classroom writing her name in fancy calligraphy on the chalkboard. She was a striking young woman with chestnut skin and tiny black and cranberry braids gathered in a loose bun.

Audrey and I quickly found two empty desks. I scanned the room and, to my surprise, found Zeek sitting two desks over. Then, to my utter disappointment, I saw Gabby dabbing foundation and concealer over her protruding cheekbones and scrutinizing the result in a tiny compact mirror. Also present was Jennifer Trush (texting in her lap, as per usual), a wiry boy in a ski cap playing a game of solitaire, and a barrel-chested blond boy who looked bored.

At the bell’s sound, Miss Dalrymple turned and smiled warmly at the class. Welcome to European Literature, class. My name is Miss Dalrymple, and though the summer has come and gone, I am happy to teach you the secrets and pleasures of novels, short stories, and poems. She stopped for a moment and inclined her head toward Gabby who puckered before the mirror. Excuse me, honey?

Gabby rolled her eyes up, her compact still in her outstretched hand. Yes?

I think it’s safe to say that your face will not fall off during your time within my classroom. Please put your makeup away. Miss Dalrymple nodded sweetly. Gabby groaned, clasped her compact,