That Girl, Darcy Page 4

  “You can stay,” said Bridget. “There’s, like, a huge storm out there. You might get—what’s it called?—valley fever.”

  I laughed. “I think I’ll be alright. But thanks.” In truth, between staying here and facing a force of nature, I preferred the force of nature. “See you guys later.” Calvin rose to escort me out, as if the front door wasn’t just up the stairs.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Ethan,” he said with faux civility.

  “Elliott,” I muttered.

  He smirked. “Yes, of course.”

  “Bye, Elliott!” shrieked Bridget, waving gleefully.

  “Later,” said Jake.

  Darcy looked up but didn’t say anything. I took one last look at the group. I was still unsure if this was a good thing for Jake, but it seemed he was in far too deep to be saved if it wasn’t. I turned and stepped back into the dusty outdoors, where the storm waited.

  Chapter 4

  Monday. Oh, dreaded Monday.

  I woke up at five o’clock sharp to get ready for the first day of my last year of high school the same way I’d been doing it every day since freshmen year—unwillingly. Eleven weeks of summer break was not long enough to shed the stink of the previous school year, but it was more than enough time to get used to not waking up at the crack of dawn.

  I pulled myself from bed like the mattress was made of velcro. Mom was still asleep and Dad had already left for work, same as always. Typically I was able to run on auto-pilot, showering, dressing, and eating without much thought or conversation. Today, though, the mechanics of my morning routine still required conscious thought, and it made me even more irritable. I didn’t mind school as much, but getting there was a challenge in and of itself.

  It was with no small effort that I made it through my routine and trudged to the bus stop on the corner. Lucas and Jake were already there, and it was already getting warm out. Even though it was officially autumn here in Arizona, the hot weather didn’t go away without a fight. We probably wouldn’t see many more hundred-degree days, but it wasn’t going to be balmy out, either. Jake, I noted, didn’t seem to have been too badly affected by his time spent at the Manor. But then, psychological scars are hard to spot.

  We stood in silence. Lucas and I weren’t morning people, and Jake was, well, Jake. But after about two minutes, Lucas nudged me with a grin on his face.

  “Some party, huh, bro?”

  “Sure,” I said with a shrug. “Always are.”

  But I was only halfway thinking about the actual party, because now I was thinking about my brief and unpleasant encounter with Darcy there. An involuntary scowl took over my face, which Lucas must have noticed, because he looked at me with a wary eye.

  “You alright?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Jake grinned and kicked a pebble across the pavement. “He’s thinking about Bridget’s friend, Darcy.”

  I shuddered at the sound of her name. “Are they sisters?”

  “Not quite. They’ve known each other since they were babies, though.”

  I bet Darcy had been one cantankerous baby.

  Lucas laughed and poked me with his elbow. “What did you think about Darcy? I got the impression she was pretty stuck up.”

  Stuck up was an understatement. “Trust me, if her horse were any higher it would be a giraffe.”

  “You talked to her?”

  “A little, but that was a mistake I won’t be making again. She’s horrible. Her friend’s alright. Isn’t that right, Jake?”

  Jake shifted uncomfortably. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “What’d you find out about Darcy?” Lucas asked, eager to hear more.

  “Wasn’t she at your party?” I countered.

  “She didn’t say much to me.”

  I had no problem believing that. “Not much,” I told him, “Nothing at all, actually.”

  “So what you’re saying is, you really don’t know anything about her. She is new here, maybe she’s just shy. Not everybody’s a social butterfly,” Lucas said.

  “You would know, wouldn’t you?” I teased.

  “Of course I would. I happen to be a very social butterfly.” Lucas preened comically.

  I smiled, but I wasn’t going to let this go until they understood. “All I’m saying is that I know her type; I’ve seen it before. She’s not shy. She’s stuck up. There’s a big difference.”

  “A little prejudiced, don’t you think?” asked Jake.

  “Am I wrong?”

  “She was a little rude, maybe,” he admitted. Jake didn’t like to speak badly about people.

  “See?” I said triumphantly. “It’s the truth. She is stuck up. For whatever reason—which doesn’t matter, by the way—people like her think they’re above everyone else, and they act like it’s a chore to deal with the rest of us.”

  Lucas laughed. “But she didn’t tell you any of this, did she?”

  They still didn’t get it. “She didn’t have to.”

  The bus rolled toward us, and we spoke no more of Darcy or her attitude, for which I was most grateful.

  * * *

  There were several hundred people on the school grounds when the bus pulled to a stop on the front concourse. Stepping off the bus was like inching into a standing pool of water. There was no current; this early in the morning no one was in a hurry to go anywhere. Most people were just standing around in clumps, staring at the ground. Some were mulling around aimlessly, a few of the lively ones were sitting at the benches along the wall of the front office laughing and joking. I waded my way slowly through the masses, imagining I was in a crowd of zombies.

  The school was made up of four different buildings that were flanked by the stadium and fronted by the concourse and parking lot. The place had recently been renovated, but it still looked exactly the same as it had before. The only difference was now everything smelled like paint.

  I headed to Building Three, but instead of meandering the hallways like I sometimes did in the morning, I went directly to class. Stepping into the building for the first time since junior year felt as uncomfortable as slipping on an old sock you’ve only just taken off. This particular sock was dingy, moist, and smelly, and it had been worn by too many people. Even though it was a new year—and my last here—nothing about it really felt new. Sure, we all got new schedules and new classes, and there was a slew of new students in the form of doe-eyed freshmen, but for the most part, it was the same old faces, the same old teachers, and the same old routine in the same old buildings.

  My first class of the day was Advanced English III, which I was only taking because my counselor Mrs. Haggerston, who was entirely over-devoted to her job, suggested I take courses to bolster my GPA—which I thought was unnecessary, given that I had a 3.0. But “Aim high” was Mrs. Haggerston’s motto, and I hadn’t bothered protesting.

  I enjoyed English, but it wasn’t with an overabundance of joy that I entered the room. Because it was located in the corner of the building, the room was shaped like the foot end of a boot. The chairs in this class were arranged in pairs, each set sharing a single table. The tables were scattered about the room without rhyme or reason, and the ceiling sloped downward so that it felt like the entire room was being pulled by the corner. Advanced English was one of those classes that nobody took except the super-achievers, so even though first period didn’t start for a full ten minutes more, most of my classmates were already inside and settled. Fortunately, because of the claustrophobic nature of the room, the table that I favored—the one tucked farthest in the back corner—was still empty. I made my way back to lay claim, pausing only to greet the handful of people I knew.

  When the bell rang, a portly man sporting a goatee and a billowy dress shirt that was coming untucked from his slacks came inside and took his station at the head of the room. Mr. Williams was one of my favorite teachers. I’d taken his classes several times before, and I knew that it usual
ly took him at least ten minutes to even begin his lesson. So as usual, I passed the time reading. I’d recently bought a hardcover copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and was just about finished with “A Scandal in Bohemia.” It was my favorite Holmes story because of Irene Adler, a character that, in my opinion, should have been featured far more often.

  Fifteen minutes came and went. Amongst the chatter, I heard Mr. Williams speaking softly to someone. “Welcome to Advanced English,” I picked up, “Let’s see if we can’t find you someplace to sit.”

  I didn’t look up to see who he was talking to, just automatically started nudging my things onto my end of the table. The chair next to mine was the only empty one in the room by now; whoever it was would undoubtedly be sent my way.

  “There you are, Ms. Fitzwilliam. Next to Elliott, there.”

  Fitzwilliam? What kind of last name was that? I looked up to see who would be joining me.

  It was Darcy.

  Whatever laws governed chance and random happenings, I loathed them for bringing Darcy and I into each other’s company so soon after I had decided that was where I didn’t want to be. Our eyes met for the barest of seconds, and she huffed. Clearly, she was looking forward to our sitting together as much as I was. Not that it mattered to me. She slumped into her chair and emptied the contents of her bag onto the desk. There was an assortment of pens, pencils, and neon highlighters, a graph paper notebook, a hardcover edition of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, and, lastly, a large, leather-bound sketchbook.

  “Great,” she mumbled. “I can see how this year is shaping up already.”

  I’d decided before she’d even sat down that I wouldn’t talk to her. But for some reason, I couldn’t help it. “What do you mean?” I asked, doing my best to ask the question with an air of disinterest.

  “The only reason I’m in this class,” she muttered, “is because there were no other advanced placement courses to take, and the thought of wasting away in study hall was utterly disgusting.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I said in a bored monotone.

  “I don’t doubt it,” she sniffed.

  Mr. Williams clapped his hands twice, and every head jerked up to look at him. He treated us all to a wide smile. “Well, it’s the first day of our new year,” he announced giddily, as if this were something he’d just found out about. “Looking at all of you, I see several familiar faces and a few new ones. To those of you new to our school, welcome. My name is Mr. Williams, and this is Advanced English III, or the sequel to the sequel, if you will.”

  Most of us laughed. Darcy did not. I was not surprised.

  Mr. Williams took attendance and continued his introduction, passing out the syllabus and explaining what we could expect this semester and how much more challenging this course would be compared to Advanced English II. All the while I couldn’t help but notice Darcy beside me, sitting still as a statue, listening to Mr. Williams with a blank face I couldn’t read.

  The first day of school was usually full of a lot of nothing, but with the so-called advanced nature of this class, Mr. Williams gave us not one, but two homework assignments. We were to choose a literary work and write a paper on its author, then we were to write yet another paper on how the life and upbringing of said author affected their work. I chose Frank Herbert, author of the quintessential sci-fi classic Dune, hoping Mr. Williams wouldn’t remember the last three essays I’d written about him.

  With ten minutes left in the period, Mr. Williams finally ran out of wind and allowed us time to “chat,” whatever that meant. I elected to spend the remainder of class doing my best to ignore Darcy but failed completely. I kept looking at her from my peripheral, trying to make sense of her. She was drawing what looked like a flower, her face scrunched up in a frown. Why was she so . . . so . . .

  She glanced my way. “What?”

  I came out of my thoughts to see she was watching me with a guarded expression. “Excuse me?”

  “You look like you have a question that you’re afraid to ask.”

  I glared at her for a moment, then tried even harder to ignore her. Thirty seconds later, she broke the silence. “Why did you come to our house last night?”

  “To make sure my cousin was alright.” Had that not been clear?

  She frowned. “Your cousin?”

  “Yes, my cousin, Jake. He wasn’t returning my calls.”

  “So you braved a dust storm just to check on him?” She seemed legitimately confused.

  “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

  She frowned again, bit her lip, and was silent for a while. Then, “Why did you introduce yourself to me at Lucas’s party?”

  “Just being friendly.” Something I was sure she knew nothing about.

  Her brow knitted together, like it was a concept she didn’t quite grasp. “Friendly?” she repeated. Was she for real?

  “Yeah, friendly. I was trying to befriend you. But that seems to be a lost cause at this point.”

  “Friends typically have something in common with one another,” she said matter-of-factly.

  I groaned and turned back to my book. Darcy, whoever she was and wherever it was that she’d come from, was insufferable.

  “What’s on your shirt?” she asked suddenly.

  “Darth Vader,” I answered briskly. For someone who held me in such obvious contempt, she asked a lot of questions.

  “So you’re a Trekkie.” This was a statement rather than a question.

  I cringed. “Not exactly.”

  “I think Star Trek is silly.”

  “Not as silly as Shakespeare,” I retorted, glancing at her book. I didn’t necessarily think Shakespeare was silly, but it seemed the only retort I had at my disposal. I searched for something else to comment on. Today, along with her jeans and slip on sneakers she was wearing a Beatles shirt. She also had a different Louis Vuitton bag. I was beginning to notice a motif. “Do you even listen to the Beatles?” I asked.

  She frowned, looking offended. “I wouldn’t be wearing this shirt if I didn’t.”

  I rolled my eyes, and there was another long pause.

  “So, you skateboard,” she pointed out after thirty more seconds.

  “What of it?”

  She shrugged. “I hear head injuries are pretty common. Such a stupid thing to do—hurtling yourself around on some flimsy piece of wood with wheels. Most of you don’t even bother with helmets, but I suppose that’s a moot point.”

  “You don’t like sports much, I take it?”

  “Sports are fine. The problem is the type of people they attract.”

  “Oh? And what type is that?” I knew I was inviting an insult, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “Impulsive, reckless ego-maniacs who think they’re special because they haven’t killed themselves yet.”

  I could play this game, too. “You know what type of people irk me?”

  “Intelligent people?”

  “People who think they’re intelligent. Because it makes them arrogant. It makes them think they’re better than everyone else.”

  “Who says they aren’t? Intelligent people make better decisions. Like choosing not to risk life and limb all for the sake of some meaningless pastime.”

  “That’s not always true. I mean, I’m sure you consider yourself to be intelligent, but an intelligent person would probably be able to tell the difference between Star Wars and Star Trek.”

  Her eyes narrowed. At last, I’d broken through that contemptuous veneer.

  We didn’t say much to one another after that, and when class let out, she silently scooped up her things and rushed out of the room as if she couldn’t breathe until she was free of me. I rolled my eyes and took my sweet time packing up my stuff.

  Outside I bumped into Lucas, who immediately snapped a picture of me with the camera that he had dangling around his neck. “What’s with the paparazzi act?” I asked as I tried to hide my face while he circled me,
snapping picture after picture.

  “I need candids,” he said after he’d taken his last picture. “I am a photojournalist, after all.”

  “Since when are you a photojournalist?”

  “Since forever, bro. Which reminds me—you should think about joining the paper. We’re really short-staffed; we could use a good writer.”

  “Aren’t candids supposed to be a yearbook thing?” I asked, purposefully ignoring his suggestion.

  “Yearbook committee and school paper merged. Budget cuts. Hence the short staff. Really, bro, you should check it out. We’re having our first meeting today.”

  I thought about it. I’d never really paid much attention to The Quill, the student paper that they handed out every week during first period. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to visit. I wasn’t committing to anything.

  “I’ll get back to you on that,” I told Lucas.

  “Good stuff,” he said. “Later.” Then he was unslinging his camera and dashing off into the sunset. Me, join the school paper? I thought as I went on my way. I wasn’t sure I belonged. Deadlines and editing and teamwork didn’t sound like my cup of tea.

  My next few classes were what I called “Groundhog Day” classes, because everything just repeated over and over and over again. Roll call, introductions, passing out syllabi, passing out books, reading the syllabi, staring at the ceiling, and having the last ten or so minutes left to talk about absolutely nothing with my classmates while waiting for the bell to ring.

  My last class before lunch, Theater Arts, was another of Mrs. Haggerston’s brilliant ideas. It was one of those classes that I’d only agreed to take because I didn’t want another free period.

  Kyle and Liam were hovering by the door when I arrived at the theater, a round room that reminded me of the movies, except there was a stage that jutted out where the screen should be. “How goes it?” I asked the pair as I moved past them into the room.

  Kyle shrugged, Liam said nothing at all. Kyle wore a shirt the same color as a traffic cone, and Liam wore his greaser get-up. Neither were really listening to me, which I knew was because they were both on the prowl. They were doing their pre-class sweep of the attendance list, watching for girls to arrive so they could spend the entirety of the period staring at the backs of their heads. I left them to their pastimes and went inside. To my surprise, Jake was sitting at one of the seats toward the back.