Some of the pretty girls in the drum and bugle corps are crowded near a large live oak that we usually hang out by. They perform at all the football halftimes, and they’ve got the shiniest hair and the best figures, and they’re some of the most popular girls in the school – even if they are Eastside like us. But for being a high school drill team, they sure do take themselves seriously. Their officers are notorious for giving out demerits for wearing dark fingernail polish or chewing gum in the halls. One time in the bathroom, Connie asked a corps member who looked down her nose at Connie if the girl could do something with her boyfriend without an officer’s permission, and the girl burst into tears and ran out. Connie laughed real loud after that. She’d used some pretty nasty words with the girl, too. But Connie doesn’t flinch at anything.
Just like right now, when she walks up to the oak tree and says to the girls, ‘Hey, this is our spot. You know that.’
One of the corps members acts like she’s staring at a cockroach, but she knows better than to mess with Connie Treadway. They slide off, giving each other knowing glances. Expressions that say, How does anyone end up like that, anyhow?
I wonder if any of the cliques are discussing the news about what happened at the drive-in on Saturday. A little voice reminds me that what happened involved me, but I manage to hush that voice as quickly as it comes.
Reading my mind, Sunny says, ‘Did anyone see the headlines this morning? My mom and stepdad don’t take the paper.’ She puts an emphasis on the word headlines and raises her eyebrows knowingly, like by saying Preston Fowler’s name out loud, somehow the fuzz will come by and arrest us all.
But none of us have seen the headlines, so we don’t know what’s going on. Just then, a female voice yelling my name cuts across the lawn.
‘Evie! Hey, Evie!’
‘Oh, Christ,’ Connie mutters, and the four of us turn and spot Diane herself walking – no, running – across the lawn, her hand waving heartily and her hair bouncing with every step. She’s wearing a sweet lime-green dress and a chocolate-brown cardigan, and she looks like a teen model from the Sears catalog.
‘Here comes Miss America,’ Connie continues, but I don’t respond. I see Diane’s clear eyes, rosy skin, bright white teeth. I try to imagine her pressing a bloody handkerchief to the back of my head, smoking a Salem over her cluttered kitchen table. Even though I know it happened – and it happened to me – I can’t conjure up the picture in my head.
Then I try to imagine her stabbing Preston Fowler until he’s dead in a heap in the dirt.
I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment, trying to focus on the present, and when I open them there’s Diane, standing in front of me. She’s a little winded from her sprint across the Eastside lawn.
‘Hi,’ she says brightly, smiling right at me. Something about it makes me uncomfortable. Is she trying too hard or is this just how she is? ‘I know you said maybe we could talk at lunch or in class, but I saw y’all and so …’ She runs out of steam as her mouth catches up with her eyes, taking in this group of girls who are my friends. My best friends.
I think it’s hitting her all at once. The kind of girl I really am. The kind of girls I hang out with.
Bad girls.
Connie gives Diane a sort of bored look verging on outright mean, then shifts her view to pick at a grubby thumbnail. Sunny is studying her, taking in Diane’s fancy clothes and peaches-and-cream complexion, and not without some real jealousy. I count on Juanita to be the most decent one and she is, finally offering a, ‘Hi, I’m Juanita.’ But her voice is hesitant.
‘Well, I’m Diane,’ Diane says, her voice too loud, her smile so big her gums show. She’s nervous all of a sudden. I can tell. She swallows hard and reads my face, making sure she’s all right standing here.
‘Hey,’ I say, at once shy and kind of embarrassed, too. Sunny introduces herself, but Connie keeps her mouth shut and a scowl on her face. The truth is, I owe Diane. I wish I didn’t, but I do. And I can feel Connie Treadway breathing down my neck, judging all of this.
The morning bell rings, ushering us all to class. Diane follows as we troop up the front walk and head in through the main doors. I sense her trying to catch up with me, and it makes me irritable.
‘Will I see you in English class?’ she asks me, her voice low like she’s trying to keep a secret, only she isn’t very good at it.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Yes.’ I think back to yesterday at the park, when I fought so hard for Diane. Maybe there was a part of me that hoped this first meeting wouldn’t feel so awkward. And maybe now there’s a part of me that wishes it hadn’t happened at all.
Connie and Sunny break off from us without saying goodbye, and Juanita, Diane, and I head as an awkward trio down the main hall, dodging jocks careening around us and bumping into lockers and teachers clapping their hands and urging us to get to homeroom.
‘I’m this way,’ Diane says, nodding her head up the nearest stairwell.
‘Well,’ I manage, uncertainly placing my hand up in a strange sort of salute, ‘see you in English.’
Diane nods, her smile overeager, and she disappears up the stairs, her shiny hair bouncing up and down on her back like a Slinky.
‘So she’s definitely sitting with us at lunch?’ Juanita asks, popping a perfectly shaped coal-black eyebrow at me.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ I start, realizing that I had a lot more confidence about my plan yesterday. Something about Diane in the flesh makes me feel uncertain and strange. I feel an obligation to her, sure. But how far should it go? And the idea of Diane and Connie seated together at the same cafeteria table is practically impossible to imagine. Like a nun and a criminal sharing a sandwich.
‘Well,’ says Juanita. ‘I’m just real curious how it’s gonna be.’
To be honest, so am I.
The tardy bell rings, but Juanita and I just stand there, obstacles in the way of students more dedicated than we are who are racing to class. Once the halls are nice and clear, Juanita and I dawdle down the rest of the main drag, neither of us talking much and both of us definitely trying to picture just what lunchtime will bring.
Of all my classes, English is the one I cut the least. I guess it’s because Miss Odeen is honestly swell for a teacher. She’s young and real pretty, with honey-blond hair and a big smile. And you can tell she’s smart from the way she knows so much about the writers and other important people we talk about. On the first day of school she told us this was her first year as a teacher, which means she still likes teenagers, I guess.
‘Evie Barnes!’ she says to me as I walk into third period. And before the tardy bell, no less. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
‘Hey, Miss Odeen,’ I answer, kind of bashful. I catch Diane from the second row, waving me down and pointing excitedly to an empty seat next to her, even though it’s impossible to miss. Her expression is as cheerful as Miss Odeen’s.
‘Hi!’ Diane says. ‘How are you?’
‘Hi,’ I say, sliding into the seat. I haven’t sat in a row this close to the teacher since the seventh grade. I can feel the kids around me boring holes into my back with their eyes. Surely they must be wondering what I’m doing talking to someone like Diane. None of them are really my crowd, but they’re kids who understand the social system at Eastside. And girls like me don’t talk to girls who look like Diane.