Only the Good Die Young

Chapter 2.3

"Pray continue," says Freud, leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

I do my best to keep a straight face as I recite the next verse and its lyrics about Snow White, war, and flaming dragon's breath. Muffled titters escape my classmates. Several of the guys are trying not to laugh. Is the joke on me or Freud? I set my jaw and finish.

Dead silence.

A clock ticks. Mister Foster grins from ear to ear and looks vindicated. I jam the piece of paper into the pocket of my jeans. J.J. winks at me as I dash past him for my seat. What have I done?

"What would you say is the poem's theme?" says Freud, leaning forward in his chair.

Theme? I have no idea. I was so nervous I barely recognized the words. "Uh, well – "

"Autonomy," interrupts Mister Foster. "Self-sufficiency, independence. It's from a father to his son, telling him that he can't protect him any longer, and that he has to grow up."

"Exactly," chimes in J.J. The class turns to him. It's the first thing he's said since his arrival. "The father wants to warn his son about the evils in the world. It's a rite of passage, like Hyllus and Heracles in Sophocles's Trachiniae."

An awkward silence fills the room. Miss Lee turns to J.J. with an expression that reads Say What?

"Right," I say, lost. "That's what I was going to say." I look at Freud, anticipating the worst. But instead he smiles.

"Miss Lockhart, well done. Mister James, splendid analysis. Mister Foster, perhaps I judged you too quickly." I steal a glance at Mister Foster. His anger has dissolved and he is sitting contentedly. "Who would like to go next?"

My pulse drops below a hundred. Several students are called to the front of the room, and they fumble their way through works by Wordsworth, Keats and Tennyson, but all I hear are people whispering about me. Then the bell rings and we're dismissed. I make my way into the hall. I stand as people throng around me like fish, trying to remember which direction my next class is in when J.J. taps me on the shoulder.

"Hey, Miss Lockhart," he says. "What's your name?"

"Rebecca," I say, relieved that one of them is talking to me. The fact that it's the goldfish in a tank of guppies doesn't hurt, either. As he speaks, the odd smell of burned chocolate wafts into the air.

"Way to stick it to Penderton, Rebecca. That took some real guts. I'm J.J. and this is Alex, my girlfriend." He grins at me and gestures to Miss Lee who is consulting her cell phone for text messages. Apparently there's a message on her phone that's not to her liking, because her face hardens. She types out a reply with her thumb and gives me forced smile when she finishes.

"That was quite the stunt you pulled in class, Miss Lockhart," says Alex, her voice completely neutral. She's even more beautiful up close. Her blonde hair looks soft enough to stuff a pillow. She has long, articulated eyelashes – she's not even wearing mascara – a pair of dimples in each cheek, sky-blue irises and lips that belong on the cover of Vogue. Her waist is slim and her hips arch gently into a pair of long legs that belong on the body of a Las Vegas showgirl. She must have heard me say my first name to J.J., so I'm not sure why she's calling me "Miss Lockhart."

Then I realize what was bothering me earlier. Alex's sweater is too big for her and it's pilling from age. The hems of her jeans are frayed and torn, there's a tiny stain on her left knee, and her shoes are scuffed. It's odd that a girl this attractive would wear clothes in this condition. Maybe I'm overanalyzing. Or maybe I should just mind my own business.

"I couldn't really help it," I say. "But I guess I should thank, uh, Mister Foster."

"His name is Kyle," says Alex. Her smile is thin and forced.

"Right, Kyle," I say.

"See you tomorrow, Miss Lockhart," she says, sweetly, but I can tell she doesn't mean it. She pulls on J.J's arm. The two of them walk down the hall together, holding hands, their fingers intertwined.

Why is she being so cold?

"Rebecca?" says another voice. I turn around to see Mister Foster, standing in front of me, his guitar case slung over his shoulder. "Hey, I'm Kyle."

"Hi, Kyle," I say. "Thanks for bailing me out back there."

"No problem," he says. "Some of the teachers wish this was a private school and take it out on the new students."

"What was that you wrote for me?" I say. "Did you make it up?"

He grins. "Nope. There's no way Penderton listens to rock. I wrote out a song by Metallica."

"Metallica? You're kidding." I stare at him in disbelief. I've heard of Metallica, of course, but I don't know any of their music. They're just a bunch of long-haired, drugged-out rock stars who scream into microphones and call it music. A friend played me some of their stuff back in Toronto, but I couldn't make out the lyrics over the rest of the garbage. I hear songs like that in the mall and on the radio. Tuning them out is a skill I've developed over the years.

"They're one of the best bands in the world," says Kyle. "Lars Ulrich is a god."

"Uh, I guess." I want to fit in, so I try to hide my rock ignorance. "I think the only rock song I know by heart is that 'dick with a glove' one," I say. It's a catchy piece that's bored its way into my head like musical cocaine. You hear it once and it's with you for life.

Kyle gives me a strange look. "Which one?"

"Uh, you know." I hate my voice, but I try to sing it for him anyway. "You're a dick with a glove.'"

Kyle bursts out laughing. "That's 'you're addicted to love.' It's by Robert Palmer!"

I flush all the way to the tips of my ears. I need to stop talking about things I know nothing about. "Sorry," I mumble. "I thought it was about Michael Jackson."

Kyle clutches at his stomach and laughs so hard that he slides down the side of a locker. I'm glad to be so funny.

"That's hilarious," he says.

"Thanks," I grumble. Before I can say anything further, the intercom crackles and a voice says, "Rebecca Lockhart, please report to the office."

As word of what happened in English spreads through the corridor, grinning students point me to out their friends. A blonde girl approaches me. As I brace myself for a second Miss Lee, she says, "Hey, that was fantastic. Penderton's had that coming for years. See you tomorrow." Then she walks off. Kyle looks up at her from the floor and tries to quell his laughter, but tears roll down the sides of his face.

And this is just my first day.