Revived

five

Omaha Victory High School is brand-new and modern, sharp angles and manicured grounds, high-tech and functional. School starts at 7:45, but Mason, Cassie, and I arrive at 7:00 to check in and pick up my class schedule and locker assignment. We follow signs through the new-smelling and nearly empty corridors. A surprisingly young-looking, dark-haired woman in jeans and a blazer is waiting for us at the reception area.

“I’m Vice Principal Erin Waverly,” the woman says, hand outstretched.

“Mason West,” Mason says with a smile, shaking Ms. Waverly’s hand.

“I’m Cassie West,” Cassie says. “So nice to meet you.” Her voice is sugary sweet like a doughnut this morning.

“And this must be Daisy,” Ms. Waverly says, looking at me with a friendly smile. “Welcome to Victory.”

“Thanks,” I say.

We follow Ms. Waverly back to her office. Mason, Cassie, and I sit on a small couch across from Ms. Waverly’s desk while she reviews my real but slightly altered birth certificate, government-manufactured school transcripts, forged yet accurate immunization records, and totally falsified proof of residence.

“You were in honors classes at your last school,” Ms. Waverly observes before setting aside the transcript.

“Yes,” I say.

“She’s a little smarty-pants,” Cassie teases as she smoothes back my hair.

“Mom!” I protest quietly, rolling my eyes at her and feigning embarrassment.

“I can see that Daisy’s a good student,” Ms. Waverly says to Cassie. “Unfortunately, we’ve got a larger than usual sophomore class this year due to some renovations at one of the magnet schools, and our honors classes are full.”

Mason shifts in his seat. “But can’t you make room for one more?” he asks.

Ms. Waverly holds up a hand. “Before you get too concerned, I think I have a solution.”

“Oh?” Mason asks.

“Yes. I think based on Daisy’s test scores, she’ll keep up fine in junior math, science, and English.”

I get a funny feeling in my stomach: a tinge of nervousness. Victory is grades nine through twelve, so I’m already starting high school a year after everyone else my age; now I’m about to be thrust into junior classes, too? But at the same time, it’s better than the regular sophomore curriculum.

That’s the equivalent of being held back.

Everyone agrees to the compromise, and soon enough, we leave the office, all smiles and optimism. I part ways with Mason and Cassie at the main doors. When they’re gone, I set off for my assigned locker in the math wing, navigating multiplying students as I go. A professional new girl, I check out what kids are wearing and note that my hip-length red T-shirt and faded skinny jeans were the right choice this morning.

Like a chameleon, I blend in.

“Sweet TOMS,” a voice says, presumably to me. I step back from my locker to investigate. A pretty girl a few doors down is pointing at my silver glitter slip-ons.

“Thanks,” I say, wiggling my toes inside the canvas shoes. Thoughts of birthday party invitations fly into my brain, and I decide to try to keep the conversation going. “I like your hair.”

The girl runs a hand through her two-toned tresses—golden blond on top and jet black underneath—and smiles with her whole face, from her Hollywood chin to her dark brown eyes. She’s wearing a turquoise sundress and low cowboy boots, and I’m positive she has to be the most popular girl in school. Everything about her is cool.

“Thanks,” she said. “My mom hates it.”

“My mom hates these shoes,” I say, shrugging, which is mostly true. Cassie doesn’t like anything remotely flashy or attention-getting.

The girl laughs.

“I’m Audrey McKean,” she says.

“Daisy West.” I smile.

“You must be new; I know everyone.”

Yep, she’s popular.

“Today’s my first day,” I say. “We just moved here from Michigan.” Another student approaches one of the lockers between mine and Audrey’s, blocking our view of each other. Audrey peeks around him and makes a silly face at me, then slams her locker door and moves around the guy.

“So, what’s your first class?” she asks.

“English,” I say. “With Mr. Jefferson?”

“You’re a junior?” she asks.

“Sophomore,” I say.

“No way.”

I raise my eyebrows in question.

“You look older,” she explains. “You must be a huge nerd.”

I look at her, surprised.

“I’m joking!” she says, hitting me lightly on the arm like we’ve known each other for ages. “I’ll walk you to your class. I’ve got Spanish in the next wing over.”

“Wow, thanks,” I say. “That’s really nice of you.”

“It’s no big deal,” Audrey says. “Come on: It’s this way.”

Audrey and I talk about our mutual love of casual footwear the entire way to first period. She raves about a new pair of laceless runners and I babble about pointed versus round-toed flats. It reminds me a little of the effortless way I chat with Megan, and honestly, I’m bummed when we arrive at my classroom.

“Hey, do you want to go off-campus for lunch?” Audrey asks.

“I…” I begin, confused by the attention from someone who has to have friends lining up to hang out with her. I channel a little of Cassie’s paranoia and eye Audrey suspiciously. “Um…”

“Oh,” Audrey says, her face falling so slightly I barely notice it. “That’s okay if you have other plans. I just thought since you’re new and all…”

“No,” I say quickly, snapping out of it. “I don’t have other plans. I’d love to go. Should we meet at the lockers?”

Audrey smiles brightly. “Perfect. See you then!”

Mr. Jefferson welcomes me to Victory, hands me a textbook that smells like soup and a syllabus printed on yellow paper, and directs me to an open desk on the side of the room farthest from the door. I smile at a girl who’s watching me; it makes her look away. Happy that I get to sit by the window, I slide into my chair, which has been warmed by the morning sun. I grab a notebook and pen from my bag and start reading over the syllabus while the classroom fills up.

I can tell when the bell’s about to ring because Mr. Jefferson stands up and walks to the podium, then clears his throat a couple times. I set aside the syllabus and scan the room, finding, happily, that no one looks too intimidating.

When the bell starts to ring, I jump a little: It’s different from the ones in Frozen Hills. Here, the tone is like a longer version of the lowest beep in a hearing test. When it stops, I sit up in my seat a little straighter and pick up my pen, ready to take notes. Mr. Jefferson clears his throat once more, making me wonder if he has a cold or something, then opens his mouth to speak.

Just then, a guy darts into the room and slides into the open desk near the door. Curiously, I watch him until Mr. Jefferson clears his throat once more. Maybe it’s a tic. I look at the teacher’s podium and Mr. Jefferson is giving the late arrival a look, but he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he introduces me.

“Class, we have a new student joining us today,” he says, gesturing my way. Like dominoes, each triggered by the one before, heads start to turn in my direction. Mr. Jefferson continues. “This is Daisy West, and she comes to us from Michigan. Let’s all give her a warm Victory welcome.”

A few people mutter “hi”; a handful smile or wave. I smile politely and wait for the spotlight to move off of me. After a few seconds, Mr. Jefferson clears his throat for what feels like the hundredth time and begins class. The dominoes reverse themselves and I quietly exhale.

Except that I have that prickly feeling, like someone is staring at me.

Warily, I search the classroom. Everyone in the row next to me and the next one over is paying attention to Mr. Jefferson. But when I get to the row by the door, I see that the late arrival is eyeing me. And that’s when I realize what I hadn’t before:

The guy is flat-out, undeniably, unbelievably hot.

He casually sweeps the front of his shaggy hair to the side with his thumb. The back of his hair flips out from behind his ears in that adorable way that makes it impossible to tell whether he needs a haircut or just got one. He’s got dark eyebrows—the kind that sexy TV villains have—and almond-shaped brown eyes that make him look like he has a secret. He’s slouching ever so slightly in his faded green T-shirt and worn jeans, and he smiles at me in a way that looks almost… familiar. Then he faces front and I feel like I’ve been dropped back to earth from the clouds.

I watch the guy for the rest of the period, but he never looks at me again. When the bell rings at the end of class, I lean down long enough to put away my stuff and pick up my bag, and when I sit back up, he’s gone. I’m disappointed until I realize that I’ll see him again tomorrow, and every day for the rest of the year.

And for that, I silently thank Vice Principal Waverly.

At lunchtime, Audrey and I meet up at our lockers as planned.

“Hi!” I say as I approach.

“Hey, Daisy!” Audrey says back, matching my broad smile. “How’s it going so far?”

“Pretty good, actually,” I say. And then I look away, embarrassed.

“What?” she asks, reading me.

“Nothing,” I say. “There’s just a cute guy in my English class.”

“Ooh, really?” she asks. “I want to hear all about him—but save it for the ride. We only have forty-five minutes.”

We shut our lockers and turn to leave as two girls walk by. They look at me quizzically, then offer Audrey a pair of anemic waves, like they’re being forced to say hello but aren’t feeling it. Audrey shakes her head at them and refocuses on me.

“Hungry?” she asks.

“Always.”

“Follow me.”

Audrey expertly leads us through the crowded halls and shows me a few shortcuts on the way out to the student parking lot. Soon we’re buckled into her bright yellow Mini Cooper.

“I love your car,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says. “I love it, too. I spent two summers’ worth of babysitting money on the down payment, but it was worth it.”

“You must have worked a lot,” I say.

“My parents matched what I earned.” Audrey looks a little embarrassed.

“Nice parents,” I say.

“What do you drive?” Audrey asks as she pulls out of the student lot onto the main road.

“Nothing… yet,” I say. “I won’t be sixteen until next month.”

“No way,” Audrey says, shaking her head.

“Way,” I say, and we laugh.

Audrey reaches over and turns on the radio. She pushes a couple of buttons and lands on an alterna-song. She puts her right hand back on the wheel and taps her thumbs in time with the beat.

“This okay?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say, smiling. “Hey, have you ever had Mrs. Chang?”

“Geography or art?”

“Geography. There are two Mrs. Changs?”

“Yep,” Audrey says, rolling down her window. The breeze flits through the car; I scratch at a spot where a tiny hair is tickling my forehead. “No, wait, I think maybe art is Chung, not Chang,” she says.

“Anyway,” I say, “she seems tough.”

Audrey shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never had Chang or Chung.” She gives me a funny smile and I can’t help but laugh again.

Audrey cranks up the volume when a popular song comes on and we ride without talking, bobbing our heads and tapping our fingers to the music. We arrive at a pizza place and Audrey whips the Mini into a spot like she’s racing someone for it. Inside, we both get the special: a slice of pizza and salad from the buffet. After we eat we have a little extra time to spare, so we play a quick round of lunchtime trivia and beat a trio of cocky businessmen wearing pleated Dockers that went out of style before I was born.

“I can’t believe you know that Iowa is the hawk state,” Audrey says as we walk to her car, full of pizza and giddiness.

“The Hawkeye State,” I say.

“Oh, excuse me, Iowa expert!” Audrey jokes.

“You should talk! You know Eddie Vedder’s full name!”

“Edward Louis Severson the third,” we say in unison before breaking into giggles.

“Seriously, how did you know that?” I ask. “Are you a closet grunge head or something?”

“My mom has a crush on him,” Audrey says, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “She tells us about these amazing Pearl Jam shows she went to as a kid.”

“Us?” I ask. “You have brothers and sisters?”

“Just one brother,” Audrey says. “He’s a junior at Victory. You’ll meet him sometime.”

“Oh, cool,” I say, flattered by Audrey’s assumption that I’ll meet her family.

We climb into the car and the second she turns the key, we both lose it again: An acoustic version of Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” is playing on the radio. Audrey breaks into song and I can’t help but join in; of course I know the lyrics. With the windows down, startling pedestrians walking by, we scream/shout/sing at the top of our lungs the whole way back to Victory like we’re part of the Jamily.

Like we go way back.

Not until that night, after I’ve posted on the blog an analysis of Pearl Jam’s record Ten—which is super old but still rocks—do I step back and consider the day.

I accepted the metaphorical birthday party invitation with Audrey: I went all in. And ultimately, I have to admit that it was fun. But being raised undercover, I can’t help but question my own motives. Did I make a true friend today, or was Daisy West only pretending?

My text alert chimes: it’s Megan.

I smile and type:

Even when she agrees with me, Megan strives to be contrarian.

Pause. Then she asks: