The New Guy (13 page)

Thatcher grabs the note from me. He reads it, grins, and then passes it on to Marisa.

“Marisa, what is that?” Mr. Wheeler asks her. “You guys can talk freely in here, you know—you don’t have to pass notes.”

“It’s nothing.” Marisa tucks the note down the front of her shirt. “You can’t make me show it to you now.”

“I… I wasn’t going to make you show me.” Mr. Wheeler sighs. “Can we all maybe take a step back? I know you all feel like you have some kind of rivalry with TALON, but can’t you see how you guys are all on the same side?”

“We most definitely are not on the same side, Mr. Wheeler,” I say. “It’s insulting to even say that.”

“Guys, there’s no need for retaliation,” he says. “I want to make it very clear that you’re not going to steal anything from TALON, deface any of their property, or anything along those lines. If anything happened right now, it would be pretty obvious who’d done it. Okay?”

We all murmur our agreement, though I’m actually working harder brainstorming vandalizing possibilities than story
pitches for this week. All of this delinquent behavior is new to me, and there’s no part of it that seems to come naturally.

“Don’t worry about it, Jules,” Carlos tells me after the bell rings and we’re headed out to the hallway. “I’ve got it handled.”

“Do you need my help? What are you doing? It doesn’t spell
The Crest
, does it? Is it illegal?”

“I’ve got it,” he says. “Trust me?”

“Just promise me it won’t spell
The Crest
, okay?”

“Jules, I’m not an idiot.”

I spend the whole week waiting to see what Carlos has planned. At first, every minute where TALON hasn’t been publicly vandalized feels like wasted time. But then it begins to seem like the smart choice to wait; a little distance from the dumb and obvious keyboard prank will make us look less like the clear suspects.

On Friday morning, the classroom TV turns on at the usual time for TALON. But Natalie only has a few perfect newscaster-style words out of her mouth before her face cuts out and something else appears.

No, not a butt.

It’s Alex’s face. Well, technically, it’s five faces. It’s Chaos 4 All.

“Hey!” the Alex in the video says. He’s so small. The size of a freshman. His voice is a little higher too. “We’re—”

And then they all yell together “Chaos 4 All!” while leaping into the air in sort of a kung fu way. Then it cuts directly to the “Want 2 B Ur Boy” video. I haven’t seen it since that night Sadie and I watched all the videos. At first it felt somehow too personal, as if I’d stumbled on Alex’s old diaries and shouldn’t have gotten a glimpse. And then once he wasn’t mine anymore—
mine?
Jules, oh my god, you didn’t
own him
. But once he was out of my life, I didn’t want to watch the videos. It hurt too much.

Now, though, it doesn’t hurt.

At first, everyone in the classroom just stares at the TV. But someone giggles during the kung fu jumping, and then, well, this is the closest thing to
all hell breaks loose
that I’ve ever witnessed. Some people gasp when “Want 2 B Ur Boy” starts. More people laugh. A few voices sing along, including Sadie’s.

I give her a look.

“What? It’s catchy.
Maybe U C all the looks I steal
…”

“Stop it,” I say, but more people are singing, and I laugh. Soon, whoever isn’t singing is laughing. Even Ms. Cannon, for the moment, doesn’t look too annoyed. The song is on the bridge (
Girl, U just don’t know how gr8 U R
/
U R a shooting star
) when the feed cuts out, and somehow it segues seamlessly back into TALON. Natalie’s serious face puts every single person over the edge, and I realize Carlos must be to thank for all of this.

Oh no. Does that mean last year’s butt was Carlos’s? It’s nothing personal against Carlos. I just don’t want to have seen my fellow staff members’ butts.

“This is their best episode yet,” Sadie says. It’s not even a Sadie-style whisper. She just flat-out says it.

“That’s enough, Miss Sheraton-Hayes,” Ms. Cannon says, but it’s with the hint of a smile. “Let’s finish this and then get back to Rome.”

When the bell rings and everyone floods into the hallways, it’s much louder than usual. I spot Alex making his way through, staring straight ahead. He’s either ignoring or isn’t noticing how many people are staring at him. The general attention paid to Alex has cooled down a lot since his first couple of weeks, but right at this moment, it’s reached that level again. Maybe it’s even surpassed it.

At lunch he’s already at the table when the rest of us arrive with our food. His eyes are focused straight down at the tabletop, even when Justin and Sadie start tossing Skittles back and forth. Em pushes half of her sandwich toward Alex, but he shakes his head. Even Sadie’s lunchtime poll (this one is a new question: “Which fruit looks the weirdest?”) doesn’t get an answer from him. (The rest of the responses are fairly evenly split between star fruit and kiwi, with one vote for dragon fruit.)

I’d feel sorry for Alex if I thought he was someone still deserving any of my nice emotions.

I don’t go out on Friday night because our first chance to take the SAT in senior year is first thing on Saturday morning. Of course, I took SATs last year and got great scores, and I’ve been taking more practice tests since then. There’s no reason based off my current scores that getting into Brown shouldn’t be a reasonable possibility, but I can always aim for better. Of course, there are also my essay answers, which I’ve been rewriting whenever I’m caught up on homework and the
Crest
duties, and my letters of recommendation. Mr. Wheeler still owes me his—and considering he’s overseen me as a staff member of the
Crest
throughout high school, his seems extremely important—but I’ve already secured letters from Ms. Guillory and Mr. Cagan, who was my social sciences teacher last year, plus Santiago and Tricia’s boss at Stray Rescue. The Brown website’s frequently asked questions state that if your counselor and teacher letters are submitted, it’s not necessary to send any others unless they show unique
knowledge of strengths and skills. But there’s nothing I do at school that’s like my work with the dogs, so I figure that it can’t hurt.

I’d feel settled about all of these facts if not for another one: Brown University takes only 8.6 percent of its applicants. And of course I work hard, all of the time, but so do a lot of people. Just in our school, I know off the top of my head that Natalie, Thatcher, and Carlos work as hard as I do.

So I’m not worried about the test when I show up, because even if I can’t raise my scores, I know I’m already in a great place. And maybe because I practiced so much since last year, or even because I’ve always been decent at taking tests, it goes just like I’d hoped—even more smoothly than last year. My scores are barely on my mind as I finish and leave the school for a later-than-usual shift at Stray Rescue. At some point soon I’ll have that final number. And hopefully by then I’ll have Mr. Wheeler’s recommendation letter—not that I think that’ll happen without some hounding on my part. Everything will be lined up and ready to submit online and through the mail.

And then I just wait, for six or seven terrible weeks, until I find out. There are other schools on my backup plan, but I’ve wanted it to be Brown for as long as I can remember.

Yes, it’s Ivy League, and if I’m honest with myself, that means something to me. But at Brown, I’ll be responsible for helping to shape my own future. I’ll have to design my own undergraduate program—with help from professionals, of course—and I’ll make sure everything lines up so that I learn
how to lead others and achieve goals. I like that a school as historic and respected as Brown also respects its students that way. I’m ready for more responsibility, and to carve out the tracks toward the future I’ll have.

Last year, Mom and Darcy took me to Rhode Island to tour the campus, which was a big deal not just because it was Brown, but because we don’t get to take a lot of family trips thanks to Darcy’s job. They stayed at a bed-and-breakfast they still occasionally rhapsodize over (apparently the brunch was superb), but I got to stay on campus, in a sleeping bag on a dorm-room floor.

In some ways, being on campus reminded me a lot of being home. The girl who hosted me, her roommate, and their friends seemed fun and laid-back in a way that wasn’t so different from my group of friends. They’d earned it, though; they’d already achieved so much by being there. And our conversations weren’t about weird fruits or which sodas were the worst. We talked about life and our futures and the kinds of change we hoped to see in the world. Now, of course, it sounds cheesy, looking back on it, but I have a feeling that Brown is the kind of place where I can give rousing speeches and get away with it.

On Monday, Mr. Wheeler doesn’t say a word about “Want 2 B Ur Boy” during fourth period. Tuesday’s class passes without
incident too. At this point, more than a full week has passed since the keyboards incident, and more than a full weekend since the boy-band one. It makes sense that we’re in the clear. If this were another teacher, every moment since Natalie’s face cut into Alex’s singing might be packed with the scariest type of anticipation. But Mr. Wheeler and I walked by each other several times over the weekend in the neighborhood, and I didn’t even feel mildly nervous.

“So, guys,” he says once everyone has arrived for our Tuesday after-school meeting, “let’s talk about what happened Friday.”

I do my best not to look guiltily around the room. Has Carlos concocted a cover story? Technically we’ve never discussed the specifics, and outside of him assuring me that retribution would be taken care of, I have no details. I have no proof. It’s almost as if I could claim ignorance to the whole matter.

Almost.

“What happened Friday?” Marisa asks in a very good innocent tone. I make a mental note to work on cultivating one myself.

“Let’s cut out the shenanigans, guys,” he says. “I waited until after school so we could discuss this freely.”

“Discuss what freely, Mr. Wheeler?” Carlos asks. His innocent voice is far more sarcastic than Marisa’s, and I worry the whole operation’s going down.

“Never mind.” Mr. Wheeler shakes his head. “I hope someday you guys all look back on this and see how silly you were
being. There are so many great ways to use your time and efforts and brains!”

“I think the
Crest
is a great use of our time, efforts, and brains,” I say, and even though I was striving for
sincere
, my voice rings out with just a little sarcasm. People laugh, so I’m a little glad it happened. Maybe more than a little.

“Everyone, just get to work,” he says. “Jules, come on up.”

I take over to organize this week’s stories and photography assignments, and already it feels like a regular week again. Everyone snaps into action because, TALON or no TALON, we’re professionals.

We run out of printer paper while we’re passing around student submissions for the guest column, and since I don’t think it’s fair for a leader to escape all administrative duties, I volunteer to get a new box.

The light’s on in the supply room when I walk in. It isn’t a surprise, because other groups need things in here too. But the fact that the other person is Alex, well, that part’s a surprise.

It isn’t just that I’ve hated all the surprises this year: Natalie’s departure from the
Crest
, TALON, and Alex. I’ve never been a fan of surprises. On my tenth birthday, we went over to Sadie’s for what I was told was just a regular dinner, and everyone I knew leaped out of the dark and yelled
Surprise!

I spent the next hour of the party curled up on Sadie’s bed between my parents. Crying.

“Hi,” Alex says. “I’ll get out of your way as soon as I can. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say, and lean against the wall while he collects dry-erase markers from a bin. Whoever orders the markers dumps all of them in one plastic bin, so you have to be really careful you’re grabbing something erasable, and not a permanent Sharpie or a highlighter. I can tell Alex hasn’t been informed of the dangers of this bin. Obviously many of my goals this year revolve around TALON’s destruction, but I don’t mean
their whiteboards
. So I step over to help him.

Our hands keep accidentally touching as we’re digging through the bin. I laugh to myself that if this were a movie, we’d start making out. But then my fingers entwine with his while we’re after the same red Expo marker, and fingers entwining is basically holding hands, and then—oh my god. It
is
like a silly movie because then we
are
making out.

“I missed this so much,” I say, of course, because when have I managed to keep a thought from Alex once kissing’s involved?

He reaches past me to lock the supply room door, and I take advantage of how close and overlapping our bodies are to pull him back toward me. It’s a move I seem to have borrowed from a slick sophisticated movie character.

I don’t move to kiss Alex immediately, because I just want to look at him while he’s so near to me. Everything’s the same, of course. His brown eyes radiate gold in their magical way,
he’s gotten a haircut, but that wavy lock still flops down perfectly, and I’m convinced, the longer I know him, that I will eventually be able to read his mind via his eyebrows. His eyebrows are everything.

Jules, don’t say “Your eyebrows are everything” aloud in this moment of weakness.

“Do you know when I knew I liked you?” Alex slides his hands down my sides, holding me where my waist curves in. “My first day. When your skirt got stuck in the door.”

“Oh my god.” I close my eyes and shake my head. “I felt like such an idiot.”

“You made this amazing face,” he says. “Also you had, like…” He laughs softly. “Crazy underwear. I thought, there’s more to this girl.”

“Oh my god, Alex!” I laugh against his chest. I haven’t touched him in weeks, but it’s like he’s all mine, again, already, immediately. “My
mom
bought me those.”

“You’re ruining my fantasy,” he says, but I don’t think that’s true because he kisses me again. I hold his face in my hands because it’s hard to believe he’s real and that this is happening. In the movie of this moment, he’d be a close-up on the screen. On-screen for TALON he’s this bold and brave guy, but inches away from me he’s just
Alex
, and in the movie I’m imagining now he’s just Alex too.

“How much time has gone by?” I ask. “I completely forgot that I came in here for a reason.”

“A good reason,” he says with a grin.

“Stop being cute,” I say. “I have to bring paper back to my staff.”

“Your staff,” he murmurs in my ear. “You’re really powerful.”

I don’t
decide
that the printer paper can wait, but I do wrap my arms around Alex’s shoulders again. I kiss his forehead and I kiss his cheeks and I kiss his lips over and over and over. I try to make up for lost time, kissing for all the days we didn’t. A montage plays in my head, all the moments without Alex that now I wish that I’d been kissing him again.

“I have to go,” I say once the montage has ended and there’s, somehow, a break in the kissing.

“Your staff,” he says.

“They really are my staff,” I say, and he pulls me close, not into another kiss but a hug. I hug back with everything I have.

“What are you doing after your meeting?” he says.

“I have another—I have something else.” Oh my god, a few minutes of kissing and I’m ready to give away all of the
Crest
’s secrets. I’d never make it during wartime if captured by the enemy.

“After that?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Can I text you? Can you drive yet?”

“You can text me,” he says, “but, no. I can’t drive yet. You’ll have to come get me.”

His voice sounds warm and husky on
come get me
, and I can’t help myself. I’m not sure how I’ll ever actually stop kissing him and leave this room.

“Alex?” Someone pounds on the door. “Are you getting thrown by the Sharpies? Someone should have warned you!”

“I’m good!” he calls, then drops his voice. “Text me later, when you’re done doing what you’re doing.”

I hide in the corner until Alex is out of the room, and then wait a few moments before leaving the supply room. I try to rush back toward Mr. Wheeler’s classroom without looking like I’m rushing, even though there’s no one around.

Until there is.

“Hello, Julia.” If I hadn’t been focusing on the perfect non-rushing speed, maybe I would have noticed Natalie appearing seemingly out of nowhere. “I’m sure you’re very proud of yourself.”

“For—” I cut myself off, even though it was on the tip of my tongue to say,
For kissing Alex?
“Wait, for what?”

“For your little broadcast interference,” she says. “Targeting one of our staffers.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” I say as I remember what Mr. Wheeler was lecturing us about today. I think about Alex’s face on Friday and worry that he’s still wounded, but then it morphs into his close-up face from only minutes ago. I feel myself smiling with no chance of holding it back. Alex couldn’t mind too much if what just happened just happened.

“You look very guilty,” Natalie says, which is true, just not of what she’s thinking. “We aren’t idiots.”

“How did you know that I was in the hallway?” I ask,
because even though I don’t think Alex would use me, the timing is suspicious.

“I was on my way to the restroom,” she says. “I’m hardly
stalking you
, Julia. There’s no one on TALON who would find that worth the effort. While your ‘team’”—she uses air quotes—“spends their time and energy trying to keep us from being seen, it isn’t as if the student body and beyond can’t watch the entire extended broadcast on VidLook.”

“Really?” I ask, trying to adopt an innocent tone. “Because someone thought it was ‘worth the effort’”—I use air quotes too—“to vandalize our keyboards, and that seems like it would take more time, energy, and planning than following me in the hallway.”

“It’s a pretty cheap tactic to attack the personal life of one of our staffers,” she continues as if I haven’t spoken. “Of course a boy band is easy to laugh at, but Alex achieved a great deal at a young age. That’s hardly comedy.”