If You Find Me(41)

“That would be correct,” the woman agrees. “But neither of you girls strikes me as the troublemaking sort.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Girl, I stand out enough,” Pixie says with a wave of her hand.

“I’m Ms. Phillips, by the way. Mr. Alpert’s secretary. If you have any questions, or if you need anything, I’m your go-to person.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Isn’t she so polite? Not like some of the girls in our class. Not like Del—”

Ms. Phillips’s face folds into a frown, but Pixie stands defiant.

“I’m just sayin’—” She catches sight of the wall clock. “Dang. I’m going to be late for AP physics, again. Later, ladies!”

She rushes out the door in a blur of striped leggings and a knapsack almost as big as she is.

“Here’s your locker number, your lock, and your combination.” Ms. Phillips places a slip of paper and a cold metal lock in my hand. “No contraband, or we’ll have the authority to search your locker. That means no meds without a prescription, no weapons, no illegal drugs, paraphernalia, or objectionable materials.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looks me over, satisfied. I still don’t know what a locker is.

“You’re going to do fine here, Carey. Just get to your classes on time and mind your teachers.”

She hands me one of those half slips of yellow paper.

“It’s your late pass. You’re late for second period.”

She gestures for my schedule, which I give to her.

“Economics. First door on the right, second floor. Go up the big staircase and make a right.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t worry,” she says as she ushers me into the hallway. “Most of us don’t bite.”

Even a backwoods girl like me knows better than to be the new girl in a large gathering of teen folk. Food smells waft out from under the glass doors as I peer down at the round tables, the people milling about, hear the clatter of dishes tangled up in words, music, laughter. It reminds me of a pack of wolves celebrating a kill.

I reckon the talk with Delaney this morning didn’t help matters, none.

“You’re brown-bagging it?”

“Why?” I say.

“You’re such a goober.”

I listen through the window as Melissa warms up the SUV. A goober is slang for peanut, according to a book I’d read on Georgia, USA, exports. But I’d probably sound like a goober, telling her so.

Delaneys waves a twenty-dollar bill in my face.

“This is how you do lunch in the civilized world.”

I stare at the riches. I’ve never even held a twenty-dollar bill, although I touched a five once, rolled into a tube Mama used to snort with. I couldn’t see the pictures too good.

[page]Twenty dollars. Twenty dollars bought a half hour with me, with Mama taking the money first, before shoving the men with the fat fingers into the camper and shutting the door behind us. I hated getting undressed. It was so cold, you could see your breath.

“You’re clueless. Positively clueless, Blackburn. Take your bag lunch. Be a goober on your first day. Just don’t sit anywhere near me. Got it?”

I glower at her. She’s about to say more, and then her eyes train on my feet.

“I know my mom bought you brand-new boots. Why are you wearing those old things?”

“I just am.”

I think of Jenessa and her thumb. Me and the violin. Me and these boots. Even better if they piss off Delaney.

I decide to bypass the cafeteria altogether. My skull throbs with the buildup of noise, people, sights, scents. I discover the door to a barren courtyard hosting a huddle of maple trees, and stone benches, cold but dry. I sit, my violin next to me. I stare at it. It stares back.

Occasionally, a student walks by, eyeing me through a glass hallway that makes up one of the courtyard walls, but, other than that, the space is mine.

I sit on my hat for added warmth and replay the morning. When I hadn’t seen Pixie again, I’d finally broken down and asked a tall, gangly girl if she could lead me to my locker. The lockers are ingenious; so much easier to carry around books for a class or two, instead of the knapsack, which weighs a ton.

Delaney and her friends wouldn’t be caught dead lugging around a knapsack.

Delaney shares two classes with me so far, English lit and American history, and she gives me a wide berth in each, as do her friends.

“Birds of a feather stick together,” Mama said.

It’s even more true here.

I exhale, long and straight, no wiggles for the first time today. The woods were a luxury of sorts, I reckon, cut off from the rest of the world. The peopled world is so fast, so loud and busy. Always things to do, with none seeming all that important. I’ve taken to popping aspirin most afternoons, my head punching back at all the hustle, bustle, and noise.

I watch a phoebe land on the cornice and characteristically pump its tail. Nessa healed a phoebe of a broken wing in the Hundred Acre Wood. The fledgling’s feathers were a silky grayish brown, with its stomach a happy yellow surprise. I pretend the phoebe followed us here, seeing how it’s such a sturdy, resourceful critter.

Fee-bee. Feeeeee-bee.

The bird sounds like it’s calling itself.