Mikaela Martin | Present (September, Senior Year)
"What do you think, Miss Martin?"
I think that class participation requirements are going to be the death of me. "Um, yeah. I think impeachment was the right way...the right way to go."
The right way to go? Seriously, Mikaela?
"Why do you think that?" Mrs. Payne, whose last name is painfully fitting, presses.
"He lied, but there were tapes," I answer. I'm blushing so hard my cheeks might combust. Why me? Why must I be the one to answer this incredibly awkward question? Plenty of students in Mrs. Payne's second period American history class would love to allude to the blowjob William Jefferson Clinton received in the Oval Office.
Give me an essay about the Clinton impeachment. I'll write double the minimum word count. Ask me to share my thoughts in front of thirty judgmental high school seniors? Nothing intelligent is going to come out of my mouth. This is my third year in a row having Mrs. Payne for history; you'd think she would know by now.
"Correct. Anyone else want to share their thoughts? What about you, Mr. Warner?"
Peyton Warner shifts uncomfortably in his seat. A couple of his friends snicker while he responds, "Uh, yeah. I agree. He perjured himself."
I could strangle myself. Why didn't I mention perjury? That would have gotten Mrs. Payne off my case. It's the keyword she was looking for. I sigh internally. I'm supposed to be the smart one, not Peyton. I'm shy and awkward, so I've got nothing else going for me. Peyton, on the other hand, is the stereotypical popular jock, except he doesn't seem like much of a jerk.
What an unfair, cruel world we occupy.
Mrs. Payne moves onto Trump's impeachment trial. I already know everything she's teaching because my mom loves politics as much as she hates the forty-fifth president of the United States, which is to say a lot, but I take furious notes anyway. Mrs. Payne is the type of teacher to call you out if you aren't scribbling down her every word, and I cannot handle more second period history eyes on me today. I think I've hit my weekly quota, and it's only Wednesday.
A soft scratching noise grabs my attention. I stare at a crumpled piece of paper sliding across my notebook. When I look up, I see Peyton's shoulders turning towards the front of the room. Did he seriously just throw a piece of paper at me? Was my answer so dumb that one of the nice popular kids has to mock me?
Slowly, I uncrumple the college-ruled scrap. In messy script, it reads, "Good teamwork. -Peyton :)".
This has to be a joke, right? He's making fun of me because my answer wasn't as coherent as his? Because I forgot the word perjury? Shame and anger converge in my chest. Can't he just leave me alone? I could beat him in a written test any day. Public speaking doesn't come easy to everyone, and I wish that people like Peyton would understand that. Just ignore me and let me live my pathetic, embarrassing life.
Finally, the bell rings. Mrs. Payne shouts a reminder about the essay I already finished as we shuffle out the door. Well, as most of the class shuffles out the door. I linger behind, pretending to organize my bag, so I don't get caught in the crowd. I always end up crashing into people when the hallways are at capacity.
As if the note wasn't enough, and it really was, Peyton remains in the classroom while everyone else takes off for third period. He pushes a lock of thick blonde hair from his temple and shoots me a taunting smile, the left side of his slightly chapped lips curving upwards. His green eyes, the color of emeralds, practically sparkle under the dusty overhead lights.
Rub your perfection in my face some more; why don't you? I want to scream.
I feel the prickle in my eyes that means my tear ducts are preparing themselves for an onslaught of sobs. I swallow and return my attention to my bookbag. Enough students have left the classroom by now that I think I'm safe to enter the bumper car arena that is Ramsey High School's hallways. With a deep breath, I hastily shove the note into my bag. I'd prefer not to keep it with me because it's just another reminder of what a socially inept peasant I am, but I don't want to piss Peyton off by blatantly dropping it into the garbage can on my way out.
That's the thing about being a loser. Whatever you do is wrong. Your very existence pisses off the popular kids. Answer a question correctly in class? Know-it-all. Don't answer any questions in class because you have crippling social anxiety? You're a waste of space. Or, worse, you're the new subject of a game called 'make the shy girl talk'. React angrily when they make fun of you? You should be grateful that they spent their precious time talking to your lowly self. Don't react when they make fun of you? 'Make the weird girl cry' challenge accepted.
Peyton opens his mouth, but his friend Jake Anderson, who is a stereotypical mean jock, smacks his shoulder and asks, "You going to the woods Friday?"
The woods is exactly what it sounds like. Forest. There's an area on the outskirts of our small town where high schoolers and college kids too young to legally drink congregate and get drunk on weekends. They sit on overturned logs and foldup chairs and drink cheap alcohol. I only know because my friend Sarah went once over the summer when she had a fling with Robbie, one of the nicer guys on the football team.
"Yeah, after the game," Peyton answers in his deep voice. He's a senior like me, so he has to be seventeen or eighteen, but he's sounded like a thirty-year-old since middle school. "You going, Mikaela?"
Jake doesn't bother to mask the surprise that leaps up onto his face in response to his friend's question. He furrows his orange brows and scrunches up his freckled nose, clearly wondering if Peyton has received one too many head injuries. What else could lead him to think that weird girl Mikaela would be allowed to so much as set foot near the woods?
Little does he know, Peyton's just humiliating me. Again. He's forcing me to acknowledge how uncool I am. I can't believe I ever thought this guy seemed nice.
"Um, no," I mutter.
"Oh," Peyton pretends to sound surprised, maybe a little disappointed. It's almost convincing. Almost. If football doesn't work out, he should move to Hollywood and become the next heartthrob movie star. He definitely has the looks for it. And the pompous personality, apparently. "You should," he adds.
I don't know what to say to that. I wish I were brave enough to stand up for myself, but I'm as wimpy as I am uncool, so I swallow the lump in my throat, force a weak smile, and rush out of the classroom, grateful that my next class is math. My teacher, Mr. Hernandez, is awkward and quiet too. I don't know why he went into teaching, but he doesn't make anyone answer questions if they don't want to.
Just the mere fact that math is a respite from the nightmare that is my day at Ramsey High School really proves how pathetic my life is.
After math is lunch. I eat with my tiny group of friends at the end of the goth table in the back of the lunchroom. We aren't goths, not by a longshot, but there aren't enough of us to claim an entire table for ourselves, and the goths leave us alone.
Liam's already halfway done with his daily ham and cheese by the time I sit down. Sarah and Annalise are still waiting in line to buy food. Like Liam, I always bring lunch. He prefers his own food to the garbage RHS serves. For me, packing my own meal means I don't have talk to the cafeteria staff, and I try to limit interactions as much as physically possible. Even on pizza day.
"Hey, Micky," Liam says, grinning. We've been friends since elementary school, and at some point in our decade of friendship, he decided that 'Mikaela' is too long and I must share my nickname with a famous mouse.
"Hey, Liam. Did you get a haircut?" His thick brown hair appears shorter somehow. No, not shorter. Styled. "No, you gelled it," I guess.
"Uh, yeah." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Maybe he's unhappy with the way the gel looks? I think it's nice, but before I can inform him, he's speaking again. "So, I should warn you. We're starting tennis in gym today," he says, barely suppressing his smile.
Liam's a tennis prodigy. He spent all summer away at tennis camp, and his coach thinks he has a real shot at the Olympics if he keeps training. I appreciate how hard he's trying not to look happy, even though he's doing a pretty bad job of it.
Unlike Liam, I'm awful at tennis, mainly because I'm incapable of anything that requires hand-eye coordination. Or balance. Or any sort of movement. My favorite gym class activity is—believe it or not—dodgeball, because I just have to run away and feebly toss the ball when Coach Howland looks in my direction. Tennis requires skill, and I have absolutely no skill when it comes to physical education.
"Did you have to pair up?" I ask, my stomach sinking because I already know the answer. Coach Howland loves partner activities.
Liam nods. "We're just hitting the ball back and forth."
Just. It's not just for me. I don't have any friends in gym class, which means I'll have to play with someone who doesn't find my lack of coordination cute or endearing. Whoever I end up partnered with is going to waste half the period standing around impatiently while I chase the ball around the gym. I should probably pretend to be sick, but I have physics after, and I don't want to miss my favorite class.
"Lovely," I grumble.
"What's lovely?" Sarah asks, plunking her tray down across from me. Annalise's clatters onto the table as she clambers into the seat to Sarah's right.
"Gym," I tell her. I'm still grumbling. I hate today. "We're playing tennis."
"Ew," she sympathizes.
I nod and, deciding that now is my chance to get the history class disaster off my chest, blurt out, "Guys, Peyton Warner passed me a note in class today."
His weird behavior been weighing on my mind since second period. I desperately need a pep talk before my self-esteem plummets even further in gym. If I feel like I have people on my side, I'll be okay. Well, I'll be okay-er. I'm never really okay.
"What did it say?" Liam asks, scowling.
He doesn't like the football guys much either. One of them went out with his sister last year. Nolan dumped Olivia—literally dumped her—out of the blue, leaving her on the side of the road after saying he didn't want to be tied down. He's in college now, but Liam still holds it against the team. I can't say I blame him. A bunch of them drove past Olivia while she was walking home in the rain.
"Mrs. Payne asked us both the same question, and we gave the same answer, except his sounded better–" I pause to sigh "—and he threw a note at me that said 'good teamwork' with a smiley face."
"That sounds like flirting," Annalise says loudly, slamming her water bottle against the table to emphasize her point.
Every goth's head whips around to glare. They're a quiet bunch, not that I'm one to talk (some pun intended). Liam and I grimace. "Shh!" I hiss. "No, it definitely wasn't."
"That's just weird," Sarah chimes in, frowning. "Did he say anything else?"
"Yeah, after class he asked me if I'm going to the woods Friday." I roll my eyes.
Sarah's frown deepens before she asks, "What did you say?"
"I said no. Like, obviously I'm not going," I reply. "I don't know what he has against me. I've never spoken to him in my life."
"Weren't you guys lab partners once?"
I shudder at the memory I spent an entire year suppressing. On the first day of chemistry last year, Peyton arrived to class late. The only open spot was next to me. He sat down, ignoring me as I expected him to do, and texted the whole time Mrs. Everett was talking. Then, she told us to pair up with the person beside us to conduct a mini experiment.
Peyton looked to his right, saw that the girl beside him was already working with someone, and turned to me, asking, "Want to be partners?" with so little enthusiasm in his voice you'd think he was Harry Potter gearing up to brew a potion with Draco Malfoy.
I mumbled, "Yes," and did the entire lab myself. Except the stirring. Peyton oh-so-generously offered to stir.
"Besides that," I acquiesce.
"He's an idiot," Annalise says. "Guys like him get off on being assholes to other people. It's pathetic."
Liam and Sarah nod in agreement. "He's just jealous because you're smarter than him," Liam adds, bumping his shoulder against mine.
"The woods are boring anyway," Sarah remarks with an eyeroll.
"He probably found a new person to bother already," Liam assures me. "Don't worry about him."
Liam is just as big a nerd as me, so he's usually right. Not today. Today, he's wrong.
- - -
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Thoughts on Mikaela? I think she has a bit of a chip on her shoulder...