“Well,” says Ches, eyeing me from the visor mirror as she smudges her eyelids with deep navy eyeliner. “Did Dakota call you?”
I roll my eyes. Not because I’m annoyed with her, but because I’d been silly enough to hope that she might. “Nah. Not that she has any reason to.”
“So what’d you do all day yesterday then?” Matt asks as he peels off down my street. “You were totally incommunicado.”
I pop the paper top of my chocolate milk open and take a slurping sip. “I just wanted to get caught up on blog comments and homework.” And that’s totally true, but I also found myself daydreaming about Dakota and the idea of starting fresh with a friend who I don’t have to share.
“You sure you weren’t busy with your fancy smarty-pants journalism camp friends?” asks Ches, a touch of bitterness in her voice.
If she only knew! As far as Matt, Ches, and even Grandma Lou are concerned, I spent my summer at Pleasant Oaks Journalism Camp on Lake Erie. None of them know the truth, which is that I spent the summer as some sick science experiment and Peter Stanchek sort of forced me into joining his rebellion, changing everything.
I shake my head to force myself not to think about that. I made the decision to leave Peter in the past, along with everything that happened at the Harbinger Foundation, but I’m starting to wonder if that’s going to be as easy as I’d hoped. Since I’ve been home, I’ve had my head focused on two goals: (1) Get back to everyday life like nothing happened and maintain a low profile, and (2) keep my feet on the ground.
“Nope, and trust me, journalism camp is nothing to be jealous of,” I say, unable to avoid the image of Peter falling off a skyscraper as I jumped right behind him, totally unsure if my flying abilities would be enough to save him and not turn me into a pancake.
My voice must sound distant, or maybe there’s just a booger hanging out of my nose, because both Matt and Ches watch me in their mirrors as we sit at a stoplight.
I put on a high-pitched laugh for both of them. “Everyone smelled like broccoli, and the most exciting scandal to rock the place was a dry-shampoo shortage at the commissary.”
Matt laughs. “Yeah, definitely not our brand of nerd, Ches.”
She sighs as he hits the gas. “Yeah, well, I bet those nerds don’t have to panic over having a high enough GPA and impressive enough application so they can get a crack at a full ride to a state school. And test well! Did I mention test well?”
I twirl my finger through one of Ches’s curls. “You’re all those things and more,” I promise her. Last fall, Ches had a eureka! moment and realized that the only way she’d ever get out of Glenwood was if she got a scholarship and a degree. The only problem? Her GPA was so bad, she probably would have been better off starting from scratch, so she’s been on a campaign to save her academic career all through junior year and now senior year. “Besides, we’re only three weeks into the school year. Nothing major to stress over yet.”
“And hey,” says Matt, “Zach from the crystal shop said you’d always have a job there. If you get stuck in Glenwood, you might as well be the town authority on all things metaphysical.”
Ches groans, squirming in her seat. “Zach just wants me to go full-time so he can see me dressed like a wench when the shop has a booth at the Ren faire.”
“I mean, I would also like to see you dressed as a wench,” I offer. “Just at least once.”
Matt turns his blinker on as he merges into the student parking lot line. “It’s not too late. We could just skip. We could go to the mall.”
“Malls are so pedestrian,” says Ches. “Nothing exciting happens at the mall.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, memories from this summer swarming me like a cloud of bees.
“No mall for me,” I say.
Matt groans. “School it is.”
As the last bell for first period rings, Mrs. Raburn, a short, stout black woman with her springy curls slicked back into a puff of a ponytail, takes a red marker to her dry-erase board and writes out NEW ASSIGNMENTS. Mrs. Raburn is our school newspaper sponsor and journalism teacher. She takes her job very seriously, which I appreciate, because that means she takes us seriously. “Okay, let’s get cracking on our next issue.”
Rebecca Khan’s arm shoots into the air.
“Yes, Ms. Khan?”
“Cross-country season starts this week and since my girlfriend, Clarissa, is on the team, I’ll be at all the meets anyway, so is it cool if I cover their first meet for the sports article?” Rebecca, who is half Pakistani with thick black hair that is always braided into a long, smooth braid, smiles sweetly.
Mrs. Raburn’s gaze sweeps over the newspaper staff. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s clamoring to cover cross-country. If there are no objections, it’s yours.”
Rebecca turns to Johnny Leonard, our editor in chief. “Just have your piece to me by first period on Thursday,” he says. “Two hundred words. And I know it’s just running through sticks and leaves, but maybe try to find some kind of angle?”
Rebecca gives him a thumbs-up. “Two hundred words and an angle. You got it.”
Johnny lets out a chuckle and pushes his fingers through his hair as he jots her assignment down. His brown curls bounce with every movement, and by some miracle, his skin with its olive undertone escaped puberty with only a few acne scars.
I clear my throat. “I think my piece last week did pretty okay.” I made a listicle called “The Introvert’s Guide to Surviving Homecoming.” I’m being modest when I say “pretty okay.” It was a hit. Well, Matt and Ches thought it was funny, at least.
Johnny’s eyes light up. “It was hilarious!”
Mrs. Raburn tsks quietly. She’s not a fan of journalism that includes lists or memes, but if you ask me, reading the news is gloomy enough. Why not lighten it up when you can with a list of internet-famous dogs ranked by snuggle factor? That’s the kind of hard-hitting facts I’m interested in.
I clear my throat. “So I was thinking maybe I could do something like a little guide to the school musical for everyone who doesn’t get theater?”
Johnny nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that could totally work.”
“Like a cheat sheet,” I say. “And a frequently-asked-questions section?”
“Why are people always breaking out into song?” Johnny asks in a deep voice, like he’s just some random reader.
“How come I don’t jeté out of a room when I’m sad in real life?” I say, and snort at my own dumb joke.
Johnny grins and jots down my pitch. The gold chain of his Star of David necklace peeks out from the collar of his T-shirt.
My cheeks flush as I look around and realize that we’re the only ones laughing. I begin to shrink back, but then Johnny gives me a brief but dazzling smile.
“Actually,” says Mrs. Raburn, “I was thinking you might want to try your hand at something a little grittier, Faith. There’s that party drug making the rounds at Shady Oaks Prep. Might be interesting to do a little digging there, no?”
I look to Johnny for some kind of out. It’s not that I don’t think we should be covering stories like that, but does it have to be me? Especially now, with the chaos of this summer still ringing in my ears.