Don't Expect Magic (4 page)

“I made them.”

“Really?” He’s circling me now, and I can tell he’s impressed. I almost smile but I catch myself in time. I don’t want him to think his opinion matters.

There’s another weird silence, like at the bedroom door last night. It’s kind of hilarious: Dr. Hank, the man who always knows what to say, saying nothing. It would be funnier if I were watching it instead of living it, if I didn’t keep feeling so trapped.

Once again, it’s up to me to make the first move, so I spin around and shove my chair under the table. “Is school right or left?” I ask, pointing an index finger in either direction.

Hank perks up, in charge once more. “It’s five blocks west.”

“I’m not a compass,” I say, and wave my fingers so he’ll pick one. He points to my right.

“You pass Poinsettia and then Orchid. There’s a light at Rosewood and then two more blocks …” He falters as I glide by him to the dining room, backpack on my shoulder, on my way. “It’ll be on the corner—” My skates clack and whir on the wood floors, through the front hall to the door, drowning out his final words. “—on your left!”

Outside, it’s pure solar torture. I can’t see the sun, but it’s definitely up there, dialed to maximum wattage, turning the sky an insane crystal blue. You need industrial sunglasses and I don’t even have ordinary ones. It’s not helping my jet lag, my Category 5 headache or my mood.

I slowly start to feel more awake as I soar down the street. The air is cool and smells honey-sweet, and there’s a fruity scent too, like a tangerine that’s just been peeled. It cuts through my brain haze and clears my head.

In the daylight, I notice there are slight differences in the houses. Bay windows that are curved on top and others that are square. Front stoops or flat walks. A bunch of the houses have big bushy vines draped over one wall, with flowering bursts at the ends—fuchsia on one house, blood-red on the next, and then orange, lavender, pale pink—colors so bright they look painted on. It’s pretty, I guess, but it’s still too perfect, like a doll town for giants.

Clusters of kids appear, in cars or on foot, heading to
the end of the block. The noise builds, chatter and laughter and yelled greetings, and I feel stupidly excited. Maybe I’m light-headed from too little sleep, but I’m actually looking forward to school. It’s the one thing that’s familiar.

I sail around the corner—and then skid to a stop.

Up ahead, beyond a dazzling green treated-with-carcinogenic-chemicals front lawn, stands the high school, all pinky-red brick and sandblasted white stone. Palm trees loom and sway like mop-topped giraffes. It’s another movie set, this one from one of those idiotic TV “family” films. The kids are even dressed in pastel colors, like walking Easter M&M’s.

The green snakes on my boots are the only color in my outfit, other than the silver on my chain belt and on my dog-collar bracelet. To say I stand out from the crowd is the understatement of the millennium. There’s not a speck of black anywhere.

Two quasi-Goths slump against the wall near the entrance, but even they’re dressed in violet, with matching lilac eye shadow and lipstick. They glance over at me, wary and semi-alarmed. I guess I do look like I just beamed down from Pluto. They don’t realize that
they’re
the ones who are the pod people.

My earlier idiotic eagerness is officially dead. I can already tell that inside it’s going to be all gung-ho teachers and pep rallies and National Honor displays and seasonal hall decorations. Ugh. I should just head back to Hank’s and hide outside until it’s safe for me to sneak into his office
and grab the money I know is in that desk drawer. If he doesn’t go out, I’ll wait until he’s in the kitchen making lunch or something and then climb in through the window. I don’t have to go back to my bedroom. Everything I need is in my backpack: my sketchbook and my music. It’s better to travel light. And if I have money, I can buy stuff along the way. I’ll take the train instead of a bus. I’m a pro at that. Mom and I used to take the train all the time. What am I waiting for? Would anyone even know if I never showed up to class? Or care?

CLICK CLICK CLICK
.

I turn around to see a guy my age a few yards away, in an oversized army jacket, pointing a camera the size of a truck at me. He’s got a dozen more cameras slung around his neck as he click-click-clicks away.

I shoot daggers into the lens and he finally lowers the behemoth. “Hey!” he shouts, like he’s just noticed me. “You’re new, right? Mind if I take a couple of pictures for yearbook?” He raises the camera again and adjusts the focus.

I skate up to him and put my palm over the lens. He pulls the camera away and frowns. “Uh, you shouldn’t actually touch the glass,” he says. “The surface is very sensitive.”

He takes a small square leather case out of his jacket pocket, opens it and lifts out a tiny squirt bottle and an even tinier gauzy white cloth. He carefully cleans the lens like he’s performing brain surgery on a mouse. Definitely a dork.

I feel something bearing down from above. I gaze up and then shield my eyes. The sun has risen enough to see now, like it had to prove its existence. Or maybe it just wants to torment me, like everybody else.

“What’s with the sky here?” I ask Camera Boy. It’s actually bluer than it was earlier—I didn’t even think that was possible. It’s the definition of deep blue, and I don’t mean dark blue. I mean like you could drown in it if you let it suck you in.

He glances up and smiles. “Oh, it’s always like that. Pretty sweet, huh?”

I shudder, horrified. “How can you stand it?” He turns back to me, confused, but I’m done with the chat. I need cover from all this sunshine, from the bright colors and beautiful smells that scream “Be happy!” The closest indoor space is the school, so I decide to stick it out for now. I’ll get the money tonight, after Hank goes to sleep, and sneak out at dawn. That’s a better plan.

I push off and skate toward the entrance. Behind me I hear Yearbook Guy clickety-clicking, but I’m in motion, so he’s going to end up with nothing but blur.

As I feared, the halls are painted a cheerful baby blue and there are exclamation-point-heavy posters everywhere, praising the latest Green Warrior of the Month and cheering the all-state coed tetherball team, and urging everyone to say “No!” to nonrecycled paper and “Yes!” to sunscreen. The kids are way too awake and upbeat for pre–eight a.m. incarceration. I’m used to grumbling and hunching and
pale pillow-creased faces. And where’s the washed-out green glare of the fluorescent overheads? I glance up to the ceiling. I can’t believe it. There are actually skylights. Even inside, the sun shines here. It’s not natural.

At least the office is right next to the front door, so I don’t have to ask any of the pastel-clad natives for directions. The secretary smiles at me as she hands me my schedule and locker assignment, but her eyes flick from my belt to my boots and I can tell the smile is only barely covering a “what some parents today let their children get away with” frown. Whatever.

“You must be Delaney!” A freakishly tall ponytailed man in black jeans and a Hawaiian shirt bounds out of the back office. He grabs my hand and shakes it. “I’m Principal Rosenthal, but you can call me Lee.” He waves to one of the chairs against the wall and then takes the seat next to me, the smell of cigarettes plus spearmint wafting off him.

“So sorry to hear about your loss.” His face droops in super-sadness, like he’s donned the Mask of Tragedy. A quarter of a second later, Comedy’s back, though: huge beaming smile, eyes curved into delighted half-moons. “But we’re
so
glad to have you here at Allegro. You’re going to love it. And I want you to feel free to come in and see me anytime, Delaney, whether it’s to get advice on making friends or help in adjusting to a different way of life. I think you’ll find that we’re a little more laid-back here.” He leans back as if to demonstrate, and then glances at my crossed arms and at the heel of my boot, which I’m tapping
on the floor impatiently. “We operate at a slower pace.” I unfold my arms, stop the tapping and try leaning back like Laid-Back Lee, but it just makes me more anxious.

I refold my arms and go back to tapping. I want to get to class already, get on with it. Principal Lee continues with the welcome speech anyway. “We have lots of fun electives to choose from,” he says, and forces a typed-up list on me. “They’re all wonderful opportunities to interact and blend.” Blend? What am I, a fruit smoothie? “You can go to the library for seventh period until you pick one.” He leaps up from his seat like a giant grasshopper and reaches out for my hand again. “Don’t forget: my door is always open. ‘Principal’ is just a long way of saying ‘pal.’ So stop by whenever the mood strikes. Will you do that for me, Delaney?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Great!” Principal Pal Lee beams, relieved. I’m relieved too, to get out of here. I never thought I’d miss Mrs. Buckston, aka the Hornet, our bitter, teenager-hating principal at East Lombard, my school in New Jersey. She may have operated at nonstop-scream level and handed out unfair punishments like confetti, but at least she never tried to be your “friend.”

My first class is AP Chem I: Room 135, Mr. McElroy. I’ve only got like a minute before it starts, but I lower my wheels and zigzag easily through the stragglers, skidding up to the door just as the bell rings. Perfect timing.

Except some idiot steps in front of me before I’ve
stopped and—
SMASH!
—we collide. I clutch the doorframe for balance as the moron tumbles backward. Cameras spin around his neck like a pinwheel and crash down on top of him.

It’s the blue-sky-loving dork from yearbook.

“Watch where you’re going, photo freak,” I tell him. He struggles to gather up his cameras before they’re crushed underfoot by a couple of tanned lifeguard types, who shoot an amused look down as they enter the room. Their gaze shifts to me, but it doesn’t stay long, just long enough for me to catch the “whoa, you don’t belong
here
” vibe. Tell me something I don’t know.

“I’m not the one breaking the law,” Yearbook Guy snaps at me. “No Rollerblades inside the school. It’s a safety hazard.”

I slam the toes of each boot on the floor so the wheels retract and I’m no longer committing a deadly school-hallway felony. I toss Camera Boy an “are you satisfied?” smirk, but he’s gone back to detangling and isn’t paying attention anymore.

In the classroom, the disapproving stares from the hallway have multiplied. Everyone’s wearing one except the teacher, Mr. McElroy, a short guy with a pudgy face and droopy eyes, who has no expression at all. “I’m a transfer,” I tell him, and hand him my admission slip. Out in the hall, Mr. Paparazzo’s still having trouble untangling his camera straps. “From a distant, more highly evolved culture.”

“We’re honored to have you among us, Ms.…” Mr. McElroy glances at the slip. “… Collins. I’m sure your presence will enlighten and enrich us all.” I give him a look. Is he mocking me? It’s hard to tell with that face. “You can partner with Flynn Becker. Table six.” Mr. McElroy points to a lab table at the back of the room. “Fittingly, we’re studying acidic properties today.” Okay, that was sarcasm for sure. I meet his eyes, but he keeps a straight face. I like this guy. He’s got an edge. He’s definitely not from this sugarcoated land of smiles and sunshine.

I mentally brush away the curious stares and whispers as I walk back to my table, which I’m relieved to find is empty, even though it’s meant for four people, two on each side. Whatever the other three are out sick with, I hope it’s chronic.

Camera Boy finally enters, his camera straps now slung over each shoulder like climbing ropes. He holds up his palm, warding off a scolding from Mr. McElroy, who is frowning at his watch. “I was involved in a major collision,” Camera Boy says. “Property damage
and
personal trauma.”

Mr. McElroy shakes his head, unimpressed. “Take it up with your insurance agent. I’d like to start class.” Camera Boy shrugs and heads to the back. “Oh, by the way, Flynn,” Mr. McElroy calls after him, “you have a lab partner now. Delaney Collins.”

Camera Boy freezes; then his eyes shift to me, his look filled with dread.

“Great,” I say to myself.

“Great,” I hear Flynn say under his breath at the same time.

He trudges over next to me and gently sets down his cameras on the ledge under the cabinets that line the wall. This takes about five hours as he carefully lines each one up and makes sure none are touching. I expect him to pet them next, or kiss them on the top of their little black plastic heads. Instead he shoots me a wannabe lethal glare. “The fish-eye lens on my SLX 4700 is cracked.”

“Sue me,” I say.

“I might.” He starts to get worked up. “I have physical evidence
and
witnesses. I could take you to any court and—”

I lean in close to his face. “Here’s the deal: you don’t talk to me, I don’t talk to you. You don’t get strangled with one of your camera straps, I don’t have to listen to your whining.”

Flynn blinks. He opens his mouth, closes it. I’ve made my point. But then he opens it again. “We
have
to talk,” he protests. “We’re lab partners. We have to write up our reports together and—”

“I’m not going to be here long. This is just a temporary stopover.”

Flynn pulls his notebook out of his backpack. “Too bad you had to set your broom down at all,” he mumbles. He might not have wanted me to hear him, but I did.

So I say, in a voice even softer than his but clear enough
so he’ll get every word, “You better watch out or your fish-eye isn’t going to be the only thing that’s cracked.”

Flynn doesn’t say anything or even glance in my direction, but he carefully takes several tiny steps away from me, cramming himself closer to the corner of the table with his cameras.

I get a sour feeling, like I’ve stomped on a spider that really didn’t do anything wrong except be alive where I could see it and smush it without stopping to think first. It’s not like me to feel remorse for no reason, and I try to shake the feeling off. Flynn will be fine, I tell myself. I’ve actually done him a favor, because now he’ll stay far, far out of my way, where it’s safe.