What We Saw(15)

“We’ll be taking a field trip to the Devonian Fossil Gorge in a couple weeks,” he announces. There are groans and moans as Mr. Johnston holds up his hands and waits for things to quiet down, pausing at a shot of the reservoir spillway just outside of Iowa City.

“The floods of 1993 and 2008 stripped away fifteen feet of sediment left by glaciers in the last ice age,” he explains. “I know you all find this thrilling, but it finally gave us a horizontal plane where we could observe fossils. It’s actually pretty cool. I’ll have permission slips for you on Friday.”

He clicks to a close-up of the bare limestone at the base of the reservoir. I catch my breath as the outlines of a hundred different fossilized organisms pop into sharp focus on the screen. It’s beautiful. The floodwaters that carried away Miss Candy’s studio and my dad’s job left behind the outline of an ancient world, evidence of the way things used to be.

“Remember,” Mr. Johnston says, “nothing is exactly as it appears. The closer you look, the more you see.”

There are still ten minutes of class to go, but something outside the window catches my eye. A hawk circles the trees at the back of the parking lot. She soars out of sight over the school, then appears again and perches on a nest lodged at the highest branches of the tallest oak. Is that what Stacey is always staring at?

Nothing is exactly as it appears.

The closer you look, the more you see.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE


HarperCollins Publishers

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nine


IT WOULD SEEM there’s an epidemic in our cafeteria today, and its only cure is interaction with a smartphone. Everyone is staring at their screens, strangely muted, eyes open, mouths closed, like the whole student populace decided it was a good idea to take it down a few decibels.

Usually this place requires earplugs, especially at the farthest tables by the big glass doors where the Buccaneers gather to graze. Leave it to our landlocked alumni association to come up with a pirate-themed mascot. Maybe it was a subconscious connection to our ancient history—the same reason our French class got such a kick out of conjugating all of the verbs a la plage (“to the beach”) with Ms. Speck last year:

Iowa was once an ocean.

Most days the varsity Buccaneers live up to their name—swashbuckling through lunch at full volume, but there’s an eerie, quiet urgency about their table today. Dooney and Deacon exchange terse whispers with Greg Watts. Randy Coontz is trying to convince them all of something, but seems to be failing.

I leave the food line with a tray but before I walk down the three stairs to the level with the tables, I pause to scan the decks from this crow’s-nest view. Not too long—or everyone might stare at me—but enough time to chart my course.

Lately, I’ve been hoping I’ll catch Ben’s eye from this top step and see that he has saved a seat for me right next to him, across from Phoebe and Dooney. This hasn’t happened yet. It’s one thing to talk to somebody. It’s another thing to eat lunch with them. The basketball Buccs keep tight ranks.

Today, I don’t see Ben at all—or Phoebe for that matter. Ben may have snuck off campus with a couple of the seniors. Juniors aren’t supposed to leave for lunch, but the varsity players get a free pass on most of the little rules like that.

Christy waves me down toward our usual table with Lindsey and Rachel. I am about to join them when I see a flash of long dark hair and bright red nails at the Coke machine. Something loosens in my chest—a knot I hadn’t realized was there. Stacey is here after all. I turn toward her as she grabs her Diet Coke and spins around—but it isn’t her after all. It’s a freshman I remember from JV tryouts when I helped Coach Hendrix time the hundred-meter dash. She was fast, but afraid of getting kicked. I knew she didn’t stand a chance once scrimmages began.

There are two types of team hopefuls: those who pull up short, close their eyes, and brace for impact, and those who race toward the ball almost longing for the possible pain of a collision.

Only the latter makes a good soccer player.

I walk down the stairs with my taco salad and sit across from Christy, who is finishing off everyone’s fruit cup. I hand her mine without a word and begin fishing the tortilla strips out of the lettuce. Every other Monday, I ask them to put the tortilla chip strips on the side. Every other Monday, I am ignored. As I quickly as I pick them out, Christy crunches them down. This is our system.

Lindsey and Rachel are both staring at their phones. We only have these scant twenty minutes to tap and tweet and text before fifth period begins and our blinking handheld portals to Anywhere But Here must be switched to silent in our lockers for another fifty minutes.

“What’s with everyone today?” I ask Christy.

She shrugs, chewing. “Whadayamean?”

I point my fork toward Lindsey and Rachel. “Everybody with their faces buried in their screens. Is everyone looking for clues to find the horcrux? What’s so interesting?”

“Just catching up on Dooney’s party,” says Rachel, without looking up. “Hashtag ‘doonestown.’ Some crazy pictures.”

“As long as none of them are of me.”

Rachel laughs it off, but it makes me nervous.