his arms over his chest. I hover in the middle of the room, wondering what he could possibly want with me. I’m pulling an overall B in his class, despite the C I received on the last exam. I would be an utterly unremarkable student if it weren’t for my so-called narcolepsy.
“Sylvia, is everything okay?” he asks, his voice full of concern.
“Yeah,” I say, racking my brain for any reason for him to think things are not okay. I must be sending out some really not okay vibes today. “Why?”
“It’s just that I noticed you got a C on the test last week. The work you turned in prior to that test was of much higher quality. I don’t mean to pry, but is there something wrong? Did you not study for the test?”
If I wanted to, I could probably play the narcolepsy card and say I wasn’t able to concentrate on my studies. I’ve been having such a rough time, I tried my best, really I did . . . but that would be a lie. And there’s something about Mr. Golden that makes me want to be honest with him.
“Sorry, Mr. Golden. Guess I just forgot to study. I’ll try harder.”
He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Listen, Sylvia, if you ever need some extra help, I’d be happy to oblige. Why don’t you come in after school some night?”
I look down and shuffle my feet, trying to think of a polite way to say I don’t really need his help—the problem was that I didn’t open my psychology book for like a month.
“Oh, um. Thanks, Mr. Golden. I’m usually pretty busy after school, though. I’m sure I’ll do better on the next test if I just study a little more.”
Mr. Golden straightens up. “Well, just keep it in mind. I’m here for you, after all.”
I smile and nod before turning to leave. He follows me to the door and closes it behind me with a firm click.
After school, Rollins stands waiting at my locker, holding a stack of xeroxed booklets. “So what did Goldy want?”
“Oh,” I say, waving my hand. “He just wanted to know why I’m such a slacker. I told him I’m naturally lazy. Can I have one?” I gesture to the zines.
He pulls out a copy wrapped in plastic. “I know what a germaphobe you are,” he says teasingly. That’s Rollins’s explanation for why I don’t like to touch things other people have handled—I’m totally OCD.
I unwrap the zine and examine it. On the cover, it says, Fear and Loathing in High School No. 7. There’s a hand-drawn picture of a grotesque dog making its way down a hall lined with lockers, bags of weed and capsules hanging from its drooling jaws—a reference to Jimmy Pine’s arrest, I’m guessing.
“Nice artwork,” I say, admiring the cover.
He does all the drawing and writing in Sharpie, then goes to Copyworld to make dozens of copies. Every couple of months he comes out with a new issue. He sells them for a dollar apiece at the record store where he works, Eternally Vinyl, but more often than not he hands them out for free. Sometimes he rides the bus and sneaks them into people’s bags or pockets.
Looking over the table of contents, I see there’s an article about how the administration had no right to search Jimmy Pine’s locker without a search warrant; a concert review for a local band, Who Killed My Sea Monkeys; and an article about the hypocrisy of the kids in Wise Choices, the student group against substance abuse.
I turn to page five and scan the article entitled “Dumb Choices: City High’s Goody-Goodies Exposed.” Rollins cut out Samantha Phillips’s yearbook picture from last year and drew a beer can in one hand and a joint in the other. Samantha, along with being head cheerleader, is also the president of Wise Choices. I’m sure it’s only for her college applications—or to throw her parents off her boozehound trail. She’s been drinking wine coolers since middle school.
“We on for tonight?” Rollins stuffs the remaining zines into his backpack and zips it up, looking at me expectantly.
“Damn straight,” I say, trying to hide the surprise in my voice. It’s been our tradition to watch horror movies and order pizza on Friday nights, but he hasn’t made it the last two weeks. “It’s Friday Night Fright, isn’t it?”
I’m trying to decide what I’m in the mood for—The Ring or The Exorcist—when I remember that Mattie’s invited Amber over tonight. Shit. I’m so not in the mood to babysit a couple of cheerleaders.
“Hey, Amber Prescott is spending the night at my place tonight. Can we go to your house instead?” I mentally cross my fingers, already knowing what his answer will be, but hoping I’m wrong.
Panic rolls over Rollins’s face, then disappears, so quickly I’m not even sure I saw it. “Uh, my mom’s . . . painting the living room. The place is a mess. Drop cloths everywhere. Sorry.”
Since I’ve known him, Rollins has never asked me over to his house. Every time I suggest a visit, he makes up some excuse about his mom redoing the bathroom or putting in new cabinets or something. By now, his house must be a freaking palace, with all the remodeling they’ve done. I’m pretty sure his mom is really an alkie or a hoarder or something.
I shrug. “That’s okay. We’ll just banish Mattie to her room.”
His lips curl into a grin. “I’ll see you tonight then.” He slings his backpack over one shoulder and walks away.
After transferring my textbooks to my backpack, I slam my locker door and spin the knob. A couple of girls I used to be friends with pass me, whispering and giggling. They’re not laughing at me, though. They don’t even look my way. It’s like I’m a ghost to them, like I don’t even exist. I watch them hurry away, probably to cheerleading practice. Sighing, I head in the opposite direction.
When I walk by Mr. Golden’s room, I see something strange. A girl is sitting on a couch, and Mr. Golden is leaning over her. I can’t see her face—only a bit of long, black hair. It sounds like she’s sobbing. He looks over his shoulder and catches me peeking. Embarrassed, I look at the floor and bolt away.
I rush toward the exit, staring at my shoes and wondering what a crying girl is doing in Mr. Golden’s room after school hours.
As I push open the door, I plow into someone entering the school. At first, all I see is green T-shirt. My cheeks become warm as I realize who I’ve almost knocked over on my mission to put distance between myself and Mr. Golden.
Zane beams down at me. “In a rush to start the weekend, eh?”
I return his smile. “Isn’t everyone?”
“God, yes. My friends from Chicago are coming to see my new house, and we’re going to a show. You doing anything fun this weekend?”
“Oh, you know, the usual—cow tipping,” I say.
“Nice. Have fun with that. And try not to run anyone else over.” He winks.
“Just try to stay out of my way,” I toss back, grinning, and step out into the fading afternoon sunlight. The air smells of burning leaves. Only a few cars are left in the student parking lot. I wonder which car is Zane’s as I pop my headphones into my ears and trudge toward the sidewalk.
As I walk home, my mind keeps returning to the scene in Mr. Golden’s room. I wonder who that girl on the couch was and what happened to her to make her cry so hard.
A curious piece of paper is taped to our front door, flapping in the wind. As I get closer, I realize it’s a little square from a desk calendar. I rip it off the door and carry it inside to examine more closely. The date is circled several times in red marker.
October 19—today’s date.
Weird.
I remember Sophie in the bathroom earlier, saying Mattie must have forgotten her birthday. Is