The Lunacy Fringe

Two

I watched the sun continue to rise through the window of my dad's pickup. It was my first morning as an official citizen of California. I'd already been there for a few days, but I'd spent those days organizing my bedroom and getting comfortable in the new house. I'd only left once to go get groceries and to the hardware store so my dad could fix the creak in the stairs. We drove past my new high school on the ride, but it wasn't enough to make me feel anything. I didn't even feel like I was living there. I was just visiting.

But now, it felt real. And my dad could sense that the day was important. He took me to get breakfast early before the sun even came up. We sat together at an old diner. He nursed a cup of black coffee, and I picked at my waffles. We didn't speak. And he didn't push me. We left before the sun began to peek over the horizon. He wanted me to watch it from the beach even though it was rising from behind me. He thought it would inspire me. He stood beside me and took a deep breath. For him, this was returning home to his roots. He'd stood on that beach a thousand times. It meant something to him—more than it did to me. "New day; new horizon," he'd said.

The school was a single-story building of brick and mortar with open hallways and fresh-cut green grass. A tall flagpole clanged loudly in an ocean breeze. The sky was overcast. No sun. The chill of the night still clung to all the moisture in the air.

Most of the student body congregated out front. They mingled together in clearly defined groups. I watched them from across the street, wondering where I'd fit in. This part of the experience was the most frightening to me. I had no idea where I belonged. I'd made my friends as a kid. When we were still in overalls and pigtails. We'd grown together, our growing interests blending into each other, so it was difficult to tell who had the original ideas anymore. I went to school every day knowing I had a place I fit in and belonged. I knew where to sit and what to expect.

Now the thought of having lunch here terrified me. Would I sit alone? Mark myself a complete loser just by being found alone? Or would someone braver and kinder than me reach out and try to befriend me? Would it be out of pity or genuine interest?

There was Quinn, of course. My dad assured me that he'd be looking out for me. But I knew nothing about him. He could be a complete dork. I couldn't even guarantee that we'd get along. Let alone that we'd want to have the same friends. What if he didn't even have any? What if it ended up just the two of us? Two losers. Complete strangers. Eating lunch together and trying everything they could to avoid talking about all the things that still hurt.

"You'll be fine," my dad reassured me after catching me twisting my fingers in my lap. He tapped my paperwork against the dashboard to align them and then sent me one of his signature smiles. My dad smiled easily. The lines around his blue eyes would crinkle, and little dimples would appear on his cheeks. He was too young to be a father. But he took to the job with pride and determination.

The bell across the street rang loudly. All the students began to file toward the doors like a herd of obedient cattle.

"Are you ready?"

"I suppose so," I told him.

I wanted to go home. I didn't even care if we went to the old house with the pea-green carpet and cowboy wallpaper. As long as it wasn't here. I was anxious. More anxious than I'd been in a long time. And I was usually a friendly person. But someone who knew her place. I wasn't shy, and I really didn't actively seek out new friendships. But I'd never had to before. And now my throat felt sticky, and my heart was pounding. I couldn't come up with anything to say just in case someone new talked to me. I tried rehearsing things in my head, but I knew life never went as expected. They'd go off-script, and I'd be fumbling like an idiot.

"C'mon," my dad said, popping the door open and climbing out in one quick motion. It was always quick to him. He was absurdly tall and long, and the truck fit him like a glove. I wasn't short, but I still had to slide out and use the door to balance myself. He met me on the sidewalk to the sound of the now quiet schoolyard: nothing but nearby traffic and that annoyingly loud flagpole.

"Everything's going to be okay, Kid," he said, ruffling my freshly dyed red hair. I did my best to return his dimpled smile. "Your brother will look out for you."

I hated calling him that. I'd never met him. At least not for as long as I could remember. I had a few vague memories of playing with him on the orange grove. But it was nothing concrete. Nothing special. I'd spent most of my life an only child, and it had taken them fourteen years to track us down. But as soon as they did, my dad dropped everything so he could come back and be part of his son's life. I wanted to be angry at him for that. I didn't understand the lengths a parent would go to for their child. I was a teenage girl still, and the entire world revolved around me as far as I was concerned.

My dad was optimistic. He headed across the street, and I followed along behind him. He held the door open for me, and the scents of the school hit me like a wave of homesickness. It smelled exactly like the school I'd left in Detroit. Like cooking school lunches and some kind of universal cleaning agent. I took a deep breath, feeling a little nostalgic, and followed him in.

He led me to the office, and I spent most of the first period talking with a school counselor. We got my transcripts figured out, my classes scheduled, and then they sent me on my way. I followed a girl named Katherine around campus. She was friendly and vibrant. Already an expert in her customer service skills. Even with a fellow student she probably wouldn't give two shits about after the tour. She showed me where my locker was, how to get to my classes, and where to get lunch. But she made no other attempts at befriending me. There was no generous offer to sit with her and her friends. She did her job and left me alone outside the door of my first-period class.

I didn't know a lot about art. Not in the art history or painting kind of sense. My dad was a musician. He'd moved to Los Angeles at the tender age of seventeen to start a music career in the quickly growing rock scene. Only he ended up with twins and had to give that all up in favor of raising them. He had an appreciation for all of the arts. Still, his knowledge was pretty limited to "Picasso made silly faces, and Degas liked ballerinas." I'd never given painting a shot.

When I finally worked up the nerve to open the door, all eyes in the class immediately turned on me. I quickly ducked my head and hurried to the woman at the front of the classroom. She stood in front of a blackboard where a sketch was taking shape. She looked like the kind of woman who read slam poetry in smoky cafes and was dressed by Andy Warhol's personal stylist.

"Can I help you?" she asked, still holding a piece of chalk aloft. I held out the note from the office, unable to form words. "Ruby Emery." She looked back at me. "You wouldn't happen to be related to Quinn, would you?" That wasn't a good sign. Something in the way she said it.

"He's my brother, actually." She nodded slowly. As if this told her everything she needed to know about what kind of student I'd be. She folded the note up and handed it back out. She had no idea that I'd never actually met Quinn. And how would I explain that anyway? "I haven't seen him since I was three. And when we got here, my dad wanted us to meet immediately, but I begged him to wait because I wasn't ready."

Now I regretted that decision. She directed me to an empty seat at the back of the room, where a boy was fully immersed in whatever project she'd assigned. He was tall and lanky and hovered over a piece of paper, face hidden behind long dark brown hair. But the seat beside him was empty. So she directed me toward it and prattled on about the lesson as she handed me my paper and informed me that I'd have to pay a fee just to be in her class.

Then she left me alone, and I sat there staring at my blank sheet of paper, feeling like I was so in over my head that I was drowning. How was I supposed to jump into art when I'd left drawing behind in kindergarten? And I was supposed to do it today—of all days? We were halfway through the semester, and this was one of the only electives still available. I'd thankfully gotten music like I wanted. But I was already starting to wish I'd volunteered for French instead of art.

"How's it hanging?" the boy asked, finally tucking his dark hair behind his ear. It failed and flopped back into his face before I could get a good look at him. His long arms were taking up half my space. I was trying not to be rude, but I really wanted him to move.

"Um—fine," I replied. I rubbed my fingers over the charcoal stick but made no move to put it on the paper.

"So you're new?"

"Yep."

"Where are you from?"

"Detroit." Then his head shot up fast enough that I was concerned for his long neck. There was already a smile plastered on his boyish face. He'd clearly been expecting this. He had a long nose, crooked teeth, and warm, brown, familiar eyes, exactly like mine.

"What did you say your name was?" he asked. But I was pretty sure he already knew.

"I didn't. It's Ruby."

"Ruby, Ruby, Ruby." I just nodded and turned back to my paper. This time putting the charcoal to work was actually less agonizing than talking to him. I was nervous again. I shouldn't have been such a brat about meeting my family before now. I guess I was just sort of hoping to avoid it. It was easier to pretend everything was right in the world if I ignored everything I didn't like.

My dad said he knew from experience that this way of thinking would bite me in the ass.

The boy seemed to realize this was what I was doing. And he didn't seem the type to let me get away with it.

"So, what kind of music do you like, Ruby?" He returned to his ugly drawing, smudging charcoal all over his palms. But at least giving me more room now that he had to share the table.

"Um—rock, I guess."

"Cool. What's your favorite band? I'm an Aerosmith kind of guy myself."

"Queen. Maybe Pink Floyd."

"Both excellent. You should hang out with my friends and me at lunch today. My best friend's favorite band is Pink Floyd. You might like them."

"Yeah, okay." I should have been relieved. But I wouldn't be until I knew his friends actually wanted me there.

"Cool. I'm Quinn, by the way."

"Yeah, I kind of figured."

"Do you have a schedule?" I reached into the back pocket of my jeans and handed it over. "Well, this is the only class we have together," he decided after looking it over. "Which is a bit of a bummer. But you have most of your classes with my friends. So that's cool. You'll probably get along with them if you're anything like me."

I had no way of knowing that beyond knowing that we liked the same kind of music and—okay—dressed kind of similarly. We'd shared a womb once, but that didn't mean we'd be friends. I'd once known a pair of twins who'd been identical in every way except they traveled in different circles and absolutely hated each other.

He handed the schedule back over. It was now dirty and smudged with his charcoal fingerprints.

"I have my next class with Aaron. I'll tell him to bring you to our place for lunch. You have English with him. He's a redhead. You won't miss him."

"Okay." I looked over my schedule. I had History next. And then English with this Aaron person before lunch. Three classes to try and make friends. I guess getting to know Quinn first wasn't such a bad thing after all.

The class was nearly over by the time I got there anyway. So it wasn't long before we were told to clean up our spaces. I slid my drawing into the portfolio I'd been given, and Quinn showed me where to leave my supplies. He waited for me at the door and then walked with me out into the hall. I, thankfully, already had my History book with me. I couldn't remember how to get to my locker. I just remember we'd gone outside briefly.

"So," he started. "This must be kind of overwhelming." I nodded.

"Yeah, a little bit. Sorry I didn't meet you sooner. It was—a lot."

"It's not your fault. Rick—Dad, I guess—said you were taking this kind of hard."

"It's nothing personal or anything. It was just sprung on me unexpectedly. So I didn't really have a lot of time to come to terms with it before I had to leave everything behind. Plus, the trip was really long and exhausting."

"Understandable. But you know—he did tell me a bit about you. So I think we'll get along okay. But—it's cool if you take some time. I'd probably feel the same if I were in your shoes."

"Thanks for understanding."

"But you should still sit with my friends and me at lunch. At least then, you won't have to be alone." I nodded to agree. "Well—I gotta get to class. See you at lunch." He gave me a three-fingered salute and then mingled in with the rest of the crowd. I could see him towering over everyone before disappearing around the corner.

The hallway was stuffed to capacity. It no longer smelled like school lunches and cleansers. It smelled like people: body odor and sneakers with occasional whiffs of overpowering perfume or cologne. I jumped into the fray and let them take me along until I remembered where I was supposed to go. Thankfully, not very far from my art class. Close enough that jumping out of the current of students barely left any lasting damage.

My next teacher told me to take a seat wherever I wanted. I walked along the back row nervously. Sure, seats weren't assigned, but that didn't mean they hadn't been claimed. Teenagers were creatures of habit. We stuck to our comfort zones. And I didn't want to unintentionally piss someone off by stealing their seat accidentally.

Thankfully, a girl came to my rescue. She watched me agonize over this unwanted freedom for a moment before turning to the kid behind her.

"Scram," she said. He rolled his eyes and got up. Then she smiled at me and patted the desk. I sat down gratefully. Hopeful that the kid didn't hold a grudge against me for taking his place.

The girl was energetic. She told me her name was Billie and immediately started drilling me with questions. Where was I from? What was my name? Was I called Ruby because I had red hair, or did I dye my hair to match my name? Then she asked if I'd sit with her at lunch.

"Oh, um—someone already asked me. Someone from my first-period class."

"Your Art class?"

"Mm-hmm."

"What was his name?"

"Quinn." I left out that he was my brother. I didn't know why. Just that it felt easier to explain.

"Quinn Emery? Don't sit with him."

"Why—not?" I asked cautiously. She waved a hand. She was short. But not small. The kind of girl who could probably fit in a locker but made her presence known wherever she went. Sturdy somehow. Without taking up much space. She had long brown hair that she flicked over my desk when she spoke.

"He's a total weirdo," she said. I didn't know whether to be offended or concerned. Should I defend a boy I'd never known just because he was blood? "You should sit with me instead."

"Oh—well—where is that?"

"With Quinn." She grinned. Something cheeky and mischievous. "I'm just messing with you. He's like my best friend." She turned to face the front, swishing her long brown hair on my desk.

"Oh," I said. But then she turned back around.

"He is kind of a weirdo, though." But this time, when she said it, it was clearly said with affection.