What You Always Wanted (3 page)

I sink into my seat in relief. My old theatre teacher and I didn't always see eye to eye. I pushed for musicals while he preferred the straight plays—not that I discriminate. It's just looking like this year I might have a chance to really learn something that's more in line with what I want to do.

“Well,” I say, crossing my arms, “the star stays.”

“Hey, I wasn't telling you to take it off.” Angela's silent for a few seconds before she asks, “Do I get one too?”

Fernwood High School is a beautiful two-story giant of red brick and cream-colored stone. It looks quite prestigious with a grand entrance of archways, tall windows, and an inset clock overhead that reminds me of the movie
Back to the Future
, which depresses me because time machines aren't real. If they were, I'd zap myself to 1930 and rewrite Hollywood history, with me in it.

Angela's a saint and walks me through my schedule, dropping
me off at my homeroom with just enough time for her and her own star-face to make it to hers. Papers are passed out, rules are recited, lockers are assigned, much yawning occurs. Things are pretty uneventful until third period English. Just like I do in any classroom or theatre, I look for an open seat in the middle of the middle.

And I see him.

Tanned skin, green eyes, thick black hair perfectly spiked forward with a slight lean to the left. Angela's brother. It has to be. And there's an empty desk next to him. Maybe I should take it. I mean, I practically already know him.

“Jesse, my man.” A thick guy with blond hair does a handshake finger-snap thing with Jesse before plopping down right where I was considering.

“What's up, Red?” Jesse's voice is smooth, no hint of excitement.

I wonder if maybe they aren't friends at all, or if he's relaxed about everything. I also wonder if the guy's name is actually Red, or if I misunderstood. I thought that was a nickname for redheads.

Before I make a spectacle of myself, standing in the middle of the classroom staring at the boys, I sit at the empty desk in front of Red. Soon all the seats are filled as students trickle in, followed by an older man in a worn gray suit and glasses nearly as big as his face. The name at the top of the dry-erase board tells me this is Mr. McCaffey.

There are still a few minutes before class starts, but Mr. McCaffey scans the room and says, “Mr. Lyle and Mr. Morales, you seem to think I've forgotten about last year
already. I won't have you two talking baseball strategies over my lessons.”

Baseball? Gag.

“One of you needs to relocate before the bell.”

Red lets out a shocked puff of air. “But Mr. Mc—”

“I'm going to get my coffee,” Mr. McCaffey says. “When I come back, you should be sitting somewhere else.”

He leaves and I relax in my seat as if I were the one who was just scolded. My teachers have been pretty okay so far, so I guess I was bound to get a persnickety one in the mix.

Red makes a bunch of noise gathering his things, and I hear his requests repeatedly denied to change desks with people farther back. Before I realize what's happening, I'm staring at the hem of his blue-and-white-striped shirt.

“Um . . . can I help you?” My eyes travel the rest of the way up, delaying a second on each of his biceps before meeting his eyes, which are a light blue.

“You can if you trade desks with me.”

I turn to look at his desk. It does have a view out the window, while mine is next to a book-cover poster of
To Kill a Mockingbird
. And it's next to the brother of the only friend I have in Texas, so why not? With a nod, I reach for my purse and scoop up my notebook.

“Thanks,” he says. “I'm Curtis, by the way.”

I open my mouth to introduce myself but remember there's a slight chance Angela may have mentioned me to them as Maddie. I'd rather see how they act around me as someone they know nothing about.

“I'm Madison.”

I slide into my new seat, accidentally slapping my notebook on top of the desk with too much force, and it thuds to the floor. I hurry to retrieve it but see that it landed on a pair of boots.

“Eeek! I'm sorry, Jesse,” I say in a hurry, bending down to grab it.

He beats me to it and I pause, hunched over, arm extended, as he hands it to me. We both raise our heads until our eyes find each other's. The green of his irises transitions to amber near the pupil, as though they couldn't decide on being green or brown.

“Steel toes. Didn't even feel it.”

We sit upright and I busy myself by opening my notebook to the next blank section and writing the date on the top. I want to die. My very own meet-cute. Well, the way we just met might not really be that cute, but
he
sure is.

“So you've heard of me?” he asks, resting his elbows on his desk and leaning toward me. “Been to any of my games, or have we had a class together before?”

Great. He's one of those.

Pressing my eyebrows together in an attempt to look distressed, I say, “We've had at least one class together every year since we were eight.”

He sinks into his seat. “What?”

I blink, not ready to break just yet. I want to see if he'll pretend to recognize me or tell the truth even if it makes him look like a jerk.

“I—I'm sorry.” He shrugs, looking genuinely confused. Maybe even a little embarrassed. “I don't remember.”

Good boy.

“I'm kidding. I'm new. I heard your name when he came in.” I motion toward Curtis or Red or whatever his name is. “Jesse, my man,” I say, imitating him and offering my hand.

I hold my breath and watch Jesse instinctively take my hand. He smiles when I finish out the handshake with a snap using both of our thumbs, just like the guys did. I may or may not have just initiated myself into some sort of guys club.

Which is fine, I guess, but I have to admit I'm disappointed our touch failed to cue fireworks. No one burst into song. This is just another first day of school, like every other year before.

Reality has a lot to learn from the movies.

CHAPTER THREE

There are four lunch periods over a two-hour span, but Angela and I have the same one. It's typically my policy not to eat cafeteria food, so I'm halfway through my ham and cheese before Angela and a girl sporting a super-high ponytail get their food and sit across from me.

“Maddie, this is Tiffany. One of my friends from volleyball.”

“Hey.” Tiffany smiles and wastes no time digging into her meal.

“Good to meet you,” I say, but honestly my mind's swirling with all the new people I've met. Tiffany should be easy enough to remember, given my love of
Breakfast at Tiffany's
. Though this girl is far from an Audrey Hepburn type.

Angela scoops her mashed potatoes with a chicken tender. “Tiffany's a sophomore like me, but she already plays varsity.
And
she's been looked at by a few colleges, including Duke. How crazy is that?”

“Gee, thanks. You're leading with
that
now?” Tiffany's accent is definitely Texan.

“Impressive,” I say, sipping on my bottled water.

Pulling a shoulder toward her ear, she says, “I eat, sleep, and breathe volleyball. Momma's orders.” She doesn't completely close her mouth when she chews, and it makes me cringe inside.

“When Tiffany was little,” Angela adds, “her mom went to the Olympics for volleyball. They got bronze, can you believe that? Her mom medaled in the freaking Olympics!”

“Wow. Is that a goal of yours too?” I ask Tiffany. “To go to the Olympics?”

“I dunno.” She tears out the middle of her wheat roll and shapes it into a cube with her fingers. “Momma would love it, but . . .”

“But?” Angela prods.

Tiffany shrugs again. “I'm not sure yet. Let me make it through high school first.” She laughs. “One thing at a time.”

“One day at a time,” Angela adds, raising her can of pop in the air like a toast.

Tiffany rushes to lift her Gatorade bottle, and after they tap them together, they take a swig. I don't ask.

“You're from Chicago, huh?” Tiffany asks after a few minutes of silence. “I went there once. It was freezing.”

“Yeah, it gets pretty cold back home.”
Home
. I stifle a whimper and shove the remains of my sandwich back in my lunch box, appetite stolen from me. “I don't suppose it snows this far south?” I brace myself for the answer. I love my snow.

“Maybe once every couple of years, but it doesn't stick,” Angela says.

“That's so depressing.”

“I'll tell you what's depressing,” Tiffany says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “That no one told me we were wearing stars on our cheeks today. Who's got the marker?”

A smile spreads over my face as I reach into my purse for my liquid eyeliner pen. I think I just made my second friend.

The school's theatre is massive. Not just the stage, which is complete with state-of-the-art lighting and sound equipment, but the seating too. It must seat over five hundred people. Back at my old school, the theatre was cramped and way past its prime. It reeked of mildew, sweaty costumes, and the teacher's stinky old-man cologne.

A circle of black folding chairs takes center stage and some kids are already seated, a few of them getting a head start on their homework load. There's nothing signifying the teacher's seat, so I sit among a group of empty chairs and take a quick survey of faces. I recognize one girl from Spanish class, but I only know her by the name she picked out for herself: Anita. Now that I see she's into acting, I wonder if she named herself after the character in
West Side Story
. I chose Manuela, Judy Garland's character from
The Pirate
.

Two boys—the only ones in class?—slip in just before the bell rings, and Mrs. Morales appears from backstage, taking the seat to my left. My heart soars. I
am
the teacher's pet already!

I fight to rein in the pride. That's exactly the type of thought that precedes a major ego-kick, and I don't want any of that. No. It's only a coincidence.

“Another school year,” Mrs. Morales begins. “There's something promising about a fresh start, isn't there?”

Murmurs come from the class, which seems worn down from a very long first day.

“And most of you are upperclassmen this year, one step closer to breaking free, setting out on your own, and leaving your mark on the world.”

“Anita” sits taller at this, the corner of her mouth hitched, eagerness in her eyes. Oh, yeah. She definitely got her name for Spanish class from
West Side Story
.

“I'm Mrs. Morales, for those of you who don't know me, and this”—she spreads her arms wide as if to encompass all her surroundings—“is the big stage. I like to begin the year here, but we'll meet in the black box theatre starting tomorrow. While most of you are familiar with one another, we're adding some new talent to the group this year.”

Several of the girls across the circle exchange nervous glances.

“But don't worry, they're all transferring highly recommended from their former programs, and I'm confident everyone will get along famously. This is going to be the best dramatic year Fernwood High has ever seen.”

The boys let out a whoop and the girls nearest them giggle. Seriously, there should be more guys in here. These two don't look to be very promising romantic counterparts, with their graphic T-shirts and bright-colored sneakers.

Mrs. Morales reviews some of the highlights from last year, then outlines what's to come this semester, as well as what she's considering. She even mentions
Barefoot in the Park
and I squeal inside, wondering if I had anything to do with that idea until she winks at me. Now I adjust to sit a little taller too.

“So let's play an icebreaker game with the few minutes left of class, shall we?” she says. “Any suggestions?”