Pieces

Chapter Two - Kathy and Peter's Fragile Daughter

I'm not sure if the way I feel is carsick or nervous. Maybe a combo. I try to keep my eyes forward and breathe through my nose, but I can't help looking out the window. The closer we get to the school, the more kids I see walking, shifting backpacks, smiling, and giving high fives. This is what having friends looks like, I guess. Something else I'm going to have to learn.

The car slows down as we pull into the Ingolstadt High School parking lot and my heart is nearly beating out of my chest. I think this is why people can't remember being a baby. The brain wants to save us from the trauma of literally every effing thing being new. My whole world is a giant Jack-in-the-box whose song is the Ingolstadt High Marching Band playing a horn heavy version of the latest Arianna Grande single on the practice field. When I open the car door, what kind of spring loaded terror is going to pop out?

Kathy and Peter (I'm trying to remember to call them Mom and Dad, but I don't have the feels yet) are staring at me from the front seat. I'm used to this level of constant examination. Do I look pale? Is my breathing ok? Am I having any pain, but playing it off so they won't get worried? So, I smile and do my best to be reassuring, and then I offer them some typical teen sass when they threaten to walk me into school, because I've noticed that it makes them feel better- you know, to think, "Oh, our girl is just like any normal, hormonal teen experiencing the pangs of establishing her autonomy." They read a LOT of parenting books. But I won't let them come in with me. There's an end to how much humiliation I'm willing to suffer in one lifetime.

They watch me walk up to the school, snapping a few pics on their phones and smiling through the fear. I offer them the consolation prize of throwing up a peace sign and promptly get plowed into by a dude in a football jersey and baseball cap. He mumbles sorry and keeps going.

And I brace for it. The pain. For something to break loose and render me a quivering pile of nothing on the sidewalk. I hold my breath and see my parents gasp from the car, frozen in fear. Seconds pass like days...

But the pain doesn't come.

I've survived my first crash test with flying colors. I move my arms and legs to prove to Kathy and Peter that I'm ok. And we all finally start breathing again at the same time. Peter holds Kathy from jumping out of the car to check me over up close, but she still yells for me to remember to take my meds. As if the alerts on my phone, smart watch and pillbox digital alarm would let me forget. Every three hours I sound like one of those ride on grocery carts that old people use backing up in the adult diapers aisle.

It's hot as hell in Texas in September. I'm the only person wearing a jacket, but I like the extra layer of cover. Cuz every time I pull my shirt down over the scars on my stomach, the ones on my neck peek out. I've perfected that thing where you put your head down and your hair sort of covers your face to camouflage the red welt that snakes across my left cheek. My parents were terrified I might damage myself playing badminton or something so I'm luckily spared from the P.E. locker room, but one of the other things I learned from watching Dawson's Creek is that teenagers have a way of finding out your weaknesses and using them to destroy you. Perhaps I shouldn't base my entire world view on the musings of Kevin Williamson. Or maybe I should at least update to something a little more modern and relevant. Also, I'm pretty sure I look like an idiot frozen on the first step of the school while I check out the décor in this rabbit hole I'm going down. So, come on Anna, take another step. This is the hard part, the part before the thing. Doing it is never as bad as thinking about it.

What did I expect when I walked through the front door of high school? I think I wanted to watch from up above like an invisible drone. I'd pick my way around all the neat little groups defined by their uniforms of color, pattern, and matching haircuts. And once I'd figured out the predators and prey, I'd vaporize into existence and start ruling the school. Instead I'm blasted by color and sound and PEOPLE, everywhere. I've spent months with just Kathy and Peter, and they're in their lab half the time. This is A LOT. My impulse is to put my fingers in my ears or climb into the nearest locker, but that probably wouldn't help with the weird factor I'm bringing in hard as the new girl.

People notice me. And they whisper. And I tell myself they aren't looking at my scars. They're trying to figure out who I am, or rather who I'll be once they slot me into one of their groups.

Oh shit. I accidentally made eye contact with someone. A guy. Black hair, same football jersey as the guy who ran into me, but with a different number on the front, and beautiful, green eyes. Did you know green eyes are the rarest color? Only about 2 percent of people on earth have them and actually they don't have any color at all. We just perceive them as green because of their lack of melanin. Oh my gosh, I'm still staring at him while I'm thinking all of this, and he's staring back at me, and he just smiled at me, and now I have to go die in a hole.

I settle for the school office instead.

The secretary's name is Abigail Crisp which sounds like she's among the original WASP's who came over on the Mayflower. In reality, she's a dark-haired, olive skinned woman who I'm pretty sure is cursing at her computer in Spanish. I don't have to introduce myself because lucky me! I'm the only new student in all of Ingolstadt High.

My schedule is already set except for my elective, which I get to choose. When Ms. Crisp sees my eyes fog over with panic at this unexpected twist, she suggests I just sign up for what I took at my old school. Unfortunately, I don't remember. I assume she's going to think I'm being a smart ass. But then I see that sympathetic head tilt that lets me know she's had more than several conversations with Kathy and Peter regarding the state of their fragile daughter's mind. She asks if I have a hobby. Nope. Or if I know someone in a class, so I'll have a friendly face. Nope. In the end, we decide to go with the first class on her list that has space left, and it looks like I'm taking Drama. Ms. Crisp thinks I have the face of a budding starlet (I told you I was good at covering my scar), but I insist I'm more of a behind-the-scenes type girl.

She writes the class in on my schedule (apparently the printer doesn't work any faster than her computer), and I'm on my way to the first class of my sophomore year- my first class ever ATA (After the Apocalypse if you've been paying attention).

I need to find room 118-B. This implies there is a room 118-A, but I can't find that either. Maybe the room number is covered by one of the roughly 800 spirit posters declaring that the Ingolstadt Bulldawgs (they literally spell it like that) are going to go "straight to state." Or maybe it's like the Room of Requirement in Harry Potter and it won't show up until I need it for something really important. I could ask someone, but that would mean more eye contact and I think I'm fresh out of that for the day.

Once the bell rings, the hall goes amazingly quiet. I like it here now. Maybe I'll stay. But then I get a tap on my shoulder. I turn expecting Ms. Crisp ready to steer me in the right direction. Instead I find myself looking straight into the number 15. That's what his jersey says in golden yellow numbers. I remember it from before. And I know if I look up, I'm going to see those incredible green eyes again. So I cover my face with my hair and mumble a hello.

His name is Jet. He doesn't know me, so I must be the new girl. He's in room 118-B too, English. And Mrs. Prentiss doesn't take kindly to tardy students, so we better hurry.

He used showing the new girl around as an excuse. When he said my name, I looked at him. And he smiled. Then Mrs. Prentiss gave me that sympathetic head tilt (guess she's talked to Kathy and Peter too) and asked us to take a seat.

And I really, really want to look at him again.

I've never seen a boy I wanted to describe as beautiful.

I probably had crushes BTA. There must be some kind of emotional muscle memory involved in the chemical reaction of liking someone. But knowing you'll know someone, having absolute certainty about a future, when you have no touchstones to your past, this is unchartered territory. And it's the first time in a long time I've been excited for something to feel new.