Made You Up(7)

“Dollars?”

“You can get a spare for free from the janitor, but it won’t have the school crest. And don’t expect it to fit. Or have been washed.” He looked over my head at the clock on the wall. “If you could please take a seat.”

I sat down with my back to the wall. The PA system crackled to life.

“Students of East Shoal, welcome back for another year of school.” I recognized the weedy voice of Mr. McCoy, the principal. My mother and I had talked to him before. She loved him. I was unimpressed. “I hope you all had a great summer vacation, but now it’s time to get back in the swing of things. If you don’t have a school uniform, one can be purchased from the bookstore for a minimum fee.”

I snorted. No bike rack, seventy-dollar uniforms, oblivious principal—this place was just rainbows and unicorns.

“Also,” McCoy continued, “this is the yearly reminder that our beloved scoreboard’s birthday, the anniversary of its donation to the school, is coming up in just a few short weeks. So everyone get ready, prepare your offerings, and be ready to celebrate this great occasion!”

The PA system went quiet. I stared at the ceiling. Did he say “offerings”?

For a scoreboard?

“ROLL CALL!”

Mr. Gunthrie’s voice jerked me back to Earth. The talking of the other students in the room ceased. I got the sinking feeling that Gunnery Sergeant Hartman would be teaching us this year. I slipped my camera over the lip of the desk and began taking pictures.

“WHEN I CALL YOUR NAME, I WILL POINT TO A DESK. THAT IS YOUR DESK. THERE WILL BE NO SWITCHING, TRADING, OR COMPLAINING. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?”

“YES, SIR!” came the united reply.

“GOOD. CLIFFORD ACKERLEY.” Mr. Gunthrie pointed to the first desk of the first row.

“Here, sir!” A burly kid stood up and moved to his new seat.

“GOOD TO SEE YOU IN AP, ACKERLEY.” Mr. Gunthrie moved down his list. “TUCKER BEAUMONT.”

Tucker stood from somewhere on the side and went to sit behind Clifford. He saw me in the back and smiled. To my dismay, he looked even more hopelessly nerdy here—his school uniform starched straight, his arms full of textbooks and already-scribbled-on papers—the sort of nerdy that gets picked on by guys like Clifford Ackerley.

But I couldn’t help giggling a little. It happened every time I heard Tucker’s last name. It always reminded me of Chevalier d’Eon, full name Charles-Geneviève-Louis-Auguste-André-Timothée d’éon de Beaumont, a French spy who lived the second half of his life as a woman.

Mr. Gunthrie called a few more people before getting to Claude Gunthrie, who gave no indication that his father, barking orders at him, bothered him in the least.

I took pictures of everyone. I could analyze details later—I didn’t plan on getting close enough to anyone to do it in person.

“CELIA HENDRICKS!”

Celia Hendricks had been assaulted by a cosmetics store. No hair was naturally that shade of yellow (and that was me talking, ha ha ha), and her real skin was locked inside a makeup shell. She wore a black skirt instead of pants, and it rode dangerously up her thigh.

Mr. Gunthrie didn’t miss this.

“HENDRICKS, THAT SKIRT VIOLATES THE DRESS CODE ON SEVERAL LEVELS.”

“But it’s the first day of school, and I didn’t know—”

“BULLSHIT.”

I stared, wide-eyed, at Mr. Gunthrie, praying nothing about him was a figment of my imagination. Either he was badass, or I was dreaming.

“GO CHANGE, NOW.”

With a huff, Celia stomped out of the room. Mr. Gunthrie sighed and returned to his list. A few more people shifted places.

“MILES RICHTER.”

Miles yawned as he dragged his tall self across the room. He fell into his new seat. There were only two people left—me and a girl who’d been talking to Clifford before class had started. Maybe, just maybe, her last name would be between Ric-and Rid-.

“ALEXANDRA RIDGEMONT.”

Damn.

Everyone turned to look at me as I sat down behind Miles. If they hadn’t noticed me before, they did now—and the hair. Oh, the hair . . .

Stop it, idiot! It’s fine, they’re not looking at you. Okay, they are looking at you. But they’re not coming after you. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.

“Alex is fine,” I said weakly.

“MARIA WOLF.”