The Beginning of Everything(5)

A balloon arch and butcher-paper sign decorated each section of the bleachers. I sat directly beneath the R in “GO SENIORS!” and watched the leaders of the Student Government Association huddle together in the center of the basketball court. They wore plastic leis and sunglasses. Jill Nakamura, our new class president, was dressed in a bikini top and denim cutoffs. And then the huddle broke apart and I caught sight of Charlotte laughing with her friends in their short Song Squad skirts. Her eyes met mine and she looked away, embarrassed, but that one moment had told me all I needed to know: The tragedy of what had happened at Jonas Beidecker’s party was mine and mine alone.

And then a small miracle happened and Toby Ellicott sat down next to me.

“Did you hear about the bees?” he asked cheerfully.

“What?”

“They’re disappearing,” he said. “Scientists are stumped. I read it in the newspaper this morning.”

“Maybe it’s a hoax,” I said. “I mean, how can you prove something like that?”

“A bee census?” he suggested. “Anyhow, I’m going to buy stock in honey.”

Toby and I hadn’t really spoken in years. He was on the debate team, and our schedules rarely overlapped. He didn’t look much like the pudgy, bespectacled best friend I’d lost somewhere in the first few weeks of seventh grade. His dark hair still flopped all over the place, but he was a lanky six two. He straightened his bow tie, unbuttoned his blazer, and stretched his legs way out in front of him, as though the teacher bleacher was a choice seat.

“You should get a sword cane,” he said. “That would be badass. I know a guy, if you’re interested.”

“You know a sword-cane guy?”

“Don’t sound so surprised of my shadowy connections, Faulkner. Technically, he deals in concealed weaponry.”

The music started then, a deafening blast of speaker static that gave way to the opening bars of an overplayed Vampire Weekend single. SGA began clapping in that cheesy let’s-get-the-party-started way, and Jill squealed into the microphone how super psyched she was for the best school year ever.

Inexplicably, SGA launched into some sort of coordinated hula dance in their sunglasses and leis. I couldn’t get over how wrong it was, doing the hula to the African drumbeats of an East Coast prep rock band.

“Please tell me I’m hallucinating,” Toby muttered.

“SENIORS, WHERE’S YOUR SCHOOL SPIRIT?” Jill called.

The response was deafening.

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Jill challenged, cocking her hip.

“Kill me now,” moaned Toby.

“I would, but I seem to be lacking a sword cane,” I told him.

Mrs. Levine, who was sitting next to Toby, glared at us.

“Behave or leave, gentlemen,” she snarled.

Toby snorted.

When the song finally ended, Jimmy Fuller took the microphone. He was wearing his tennis warm-ups, and I couldn’t help but notice that the team had gotten new uniforms.

“What’s up, Eastwood?” he boomed. “It’s time to meet your varsity sports teams!”

As if on cue, a side door to the gym opened and the football team poured out in their pads and jerseys. Behind them was the baseball team, then tennis, then water polo, but by that point, I’d stopped paying attention to the teams and their orders. My former life, in its entirety, was standing in the center of the basketball court while I sat on the teacher bleacher, and there was no way in hell that I was going to clap for them. Mostly, I just wanted to get out of that pep rally, and away from all of it.

“Hey, Ezra,” Toby whispered loudly. “Got a nicotine patch, buddy?”

“Get out!” Mrs. Levine demanded. “Both of you—now!”

Toby and I looked at each other, shrugged, and shouldered our bags.

It was bright outside, the sky cloudless and impossibly blue. I winced and hung back in the shade of the stucco overhang, fumbling for my sunglasses.

“A nicotine patch?” I asked.

“Well, it got us kicked out, didn’t it?” Toby said smugly.

“Yeah, I guess it did. Thanks.”

“For what? I wanted to get out of there. Mrs. Levine has awful breath.”

We wound up passing the time in the Annex, this study room that connected the debate and newspaper classrooms. Everyone else was at the rally, and we could hear muffled screams coming from the gym at regular intervals.

“It sounds like Disneyland or something,” Toby offered with a grin.

I was surprised he’d mention it. “Have you been back?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? I’m there every single day. They gave me a free lifetime pass. I’m like the mayor of Adventureland.”

“So no, then,” I said.

“Have you?”

I shook my head.

“You could get a handicapped pass,” Toby pressed. “Skip all of the lines.”

“Next time I ask a girl on a date, I’ll be sure to mention that.”

For some reason, I didn’t mind Toby giving me crap about the cane. And I was generally pretty sensitive about it. You would be too, if you’d spent most of your summer vacation trying to get your well-meaning but overbearing mother to stop hovering outside the bathroom door every time you took a shower. (She was paranoid that I’d slip and die, since I’d refused to let her install those metal handrails. I was paranoid that she’d come inside and catch me, uh, showering.) “What are you doing for Team Electives?” Toby asked. We had a four-year requirement.