Carrie Jones - Need

I take the computer printout with my shaking hand. The whole paper shakes with it. God.

"It'll be okay, dear. First day's the hardest!" She turns to Evil Announcement Girl. "Megan, you want to show Zara to her first class?"

Megan. What an absolutely perfect name for Evil Announcement Girl. Megans always hate me.

This Megan isn't about to break my record.

She turns and glares at me. "I have announcements."

Mrs. Nix smacks her head. "Oh, that's right."

She calls behind her shoulder. "Ian. How about you bring Zara to her homeroom?"

Megan smirks and points at my jeans. "Nice peace signs, hippie freak."

I smile at her and mutter in my head, "Nice shoes made by child slaves in Asia, materialistic Barbie."

After she turns her back on me, I cover my mouth to make sure I don't actually say my come-back out loud. Mrs. Nix bounces on her heels, watching for Ian.

"Here he is," she sings. "Show Zara to her class, dear?"

The boy in the back of the office unfolds his long legs from behind a computer and smiles at me appraisingly. "Sure thing."

He saunters over and stands so close that I have to crane my neck to look up at his long, pale face crowned with out-of-control reddish blond waves. Are all the boys in this town tall? My step-dad wasn't that tall, although I'd always thought he was, especially compared to me.

"Pullman, Easy. Mine too." Ian slings a pack behind his shoulder, smiles at me, and grabs my paper.

"You have her locker number, Mrs. Nix?"

Mrs. Nix smacks herself in the head again. If she keeps that up, she'll bruise. "Sure, right here. How could I forget?"

She shakes her head at herself and smiles at me.

"Sorry. Age."

"It's okay,"I say. "Thanks."

I shoot a look at Megan, amazed by how much she hates me already, and scurry out of the office with the loping Ian picking up speed ahead of me. He notices and slows down.

"Sorry." He blushes. "Long legs.”

I smirk. He blushes harder and starts stumbling over his words. "I didn't mean that you were short or anything. I just meant that my legs are… well… they're long, you know, and…"

I touch his arm "It's okay."

"Really?"

He smiles at me, one of those little boy smiles, like he's just been offered a chocolate chip cookie even though he spilled coffee grounds all over the Persian carpet.

"Really." I take in a deep breath. "You a runner?"

"You could say that." He grabs my elbow, "I won All-State in the I600 last spring and I was All-New England in the-" "Bragging competition," someone grumbles as they bump me, jolting me away from Ian, whose hand tightens on my elbow in a way that is way too protective to be normal. MINI Cooper guy waves and says, "Excuse me."

I stare after massive MINI Cooper guy. His shoulders are huge inside his sweater, not that I'm looking or anything. And the sweater looks cashmere, which is pretty hoity-toity for Maine. They must have Big and Tall stores around here, or maybe he ordered it off the Net.

Ian makes a little growling noise. I pretend like I don't hear it but I touch his arm again, trying to calm him down.

"Who is that?"

He shudders and leans down so I can hear him. "That is Nick Colt, otherwise known as bad news."

I laugh. "Otherwise known as bad news?"

"What?" lan's big eyes turn sad in his banana-long face.

"It's just everyone around here sounds like they're fifty years old: otherwise known as bad news." He puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me through the hall. "Don't people say that where you're from?"

"In Charleston?" I've come across a lot of interesting ways of speaking while traveling with my parents outside the U.S., but Maine stillis in the United States, last time I checked.

"You're from Charleston." He nods. "No wonder."

"Mo wonder what?"

He stops outside a door. "Nothing."

"No, really." I hope he doesn't think I'm a hick or a bigot, which is what some people think about anyone who lives south of New York City.

"You just seem different."

"Hollow?"

"What?"

I drag my feet for a second, horrified that I said that out loud. "Nothing. Sorry."

He doesn't seem phased. "So if you need any info about anything, just ask me. I'm on cross-country and basketball, and I'm in key club and I'm the junior class president, and some oilier clubs too, so if you want to join anything, just let me know. I'll get you in like that." He snaps his fingers. "Sorry. Corny."

"No. It's… good. You're a little bit of an overachiever, huh?"

"There's no point in blending in, you know? Got to grab the power where you can." He shakes his head at himself. "That sounds awful. I just mean… you've got to do what you can to get ahead, to get into college, that stuff. Well, we're here."

He gives a little lopsided grin as we face a classroom doorway. Beyond it people are shuffling their stuff around, cramming themselves into seats, gossiping about all sorts of tilings I don't understand. They all have Gap clothes and that sort of almost-designer, mall-casual look, except all the guys wear work boots. There are a few guys wearing flannel and black sweatshirts. And here I am in my holey jeans with peace signs. I take a deep breath. I have no chance of fitting in, transferring in the middle of junior year.

It's hopeless.

The ache inside me grows and grows.

Auroraphobia, Northern Lights creep you out.

Autodysomophobia, you are afraid of someone who smells vile.

Automatonophobia, ventriloquist's dummies terrify you.

Automysophobia, being dirty is the end of the world. Autophobia, you are afraid of yourself.

The evil Megan girl is not in my homeroom, but she is in my Spanish class. Ian drops me off at the door there too and she eyes us suspiciously. I swear, if she were a cat she'd be hissing.

"It really wouldn't be a big deal for me to come and walk you to your advanced chemistry class," Ian says for the fourth time. "I mean, I don't want you to get lost or anything."

"Okay. Yeah. Thanks, Whois that girl?" I nod at Megan.

"Oh, Megan Crowley."

I stand up on my tiptoes and whisper, "I think she hates me."

He laughs and nods while I go back to my flat feet. "Probably."

I wait for more. He just kneads at the top of his shoulder and yells hi to some guy in a soccer shirt who yells hi back to him.

My hands find their way to my hips. "Are you going to tell me why she hates me?"

His attention turns to me. His eyes flash. "Probably doesn't like the way you smell."

"What?" I step back. I thought he was nice, not slap worthy. Not like I go around slapping people, but whatever.

He raises his hands. "Just kidding. Just kidding. You're the competition. Megan hates competition. She has a tiling for Nick Colt. She saw you come into school with him. End of story, beginning of competition."

"Right, likeI'm competition. Mini me." I walk into Spanish class, where Megan whispers snide tilings as Mrs. Provost, the teacher, introduces me to everyone and finds me a place to sit. The girl next to Megan giggles behind her hand and looks at me. Great.

The last tiling I'm paying attention to is Mrs. Provost, who is saying, "Zara, what an unusual name."

She glances at my ripped-up jeans with the peace signs and her eyes shift into another thought. "Mice to have you here. Class, let's begin. All in Spanish."

I stare out the window, zone out, and wish more than anything that I'm back home with my dad and he's alive and my mom's all happy and we're eating eggplant smothered with mozzarella cheese and everything is normal again. But it can't ever be normal again.

Outside, a birch tree bends from the weight of the snow. It'll spring back up once the snow melts, back to its normal, upright self.

Could that happen to me?