Chapter One
I was not amused. Not even in the slightest. Someone had taken a picture of me and Photoshopped my face onto a Dr. Phil poster. They'd even given me his bald head with the little tufts of hair over each ear. And they'd made a ton of copies and plastered the walls up and down the hallways with them. Underneath the picture was the caption: "The Dr. Jill Show."The freshmen boys were laughing about it, but I wasn't.
After suffering through chemistry (and believe me, I mean suffering), I pushed my way through the door leading to the school's newspaper office and plopped my backpack in the corner. Colby, the editor-in-chief and the guy I happened to have a huge crush on, even though he didn't know I was alive beyond my place on his staff, glanced up from his desk. "Got that article for me yet?"
"Of course. Punctual as always." I handed him the printed version and explained, as I always did, that I'd e-mailed over the exact same article in question the night before. He absently took the printout and went back to what he was doing. No "thank you," and certainly no "You're the most reliable staff member I have. Thank you so much for your continued dependability. Can I show you my gratitude by marrying you in a totally lavish ceremony with gardenias and doves?"
I suppose I should have been grateful that he noticed me at all. He had a one-track mind: Graduate top of the class, get a scholarship, become a world-famous journalist and novelist, win a Pulitzer. Oh, and change the world through the medium of the written word. Anything that didn't fall in line with that goal track wasn't worth his time. Like me. Sigh.
"I'll see you after math."
No response.
"That Mr. Kramer sure is tough, isn't he?"
Not even a grunt.
"I had a big hands-on test in chemistry today. I started a fire and burned off my eyelashes." Okay, that was a lie, but it would get his attention, right?
Nothing.
See what I mean?
I grabbed my backpack and threaded my way through the crazy labyrinth that was my high school. Students leaned up against their lockers, creating clogs that hampered the flow of traffic for other students who actually cared if they were on time for their next class. It was like the gunk that builds up on the side of pipes and slows down the flow of water. Or like arterial plaque that inhibits the proper circulation of blood. If people would just keep moving in the hallways, we'd all have a better chance of being where we were supposed to be, now, wouldn't we?
I slid into my seat just before the bell rang. That was a relief-it would not do to have Mr. Kramer unhappy with me. Let' s just say that math was not my best subject. I'm sure you can tell from my astute comment above (the one about arterial plaque. You saw that, right?) that I do pretty decently in stuff related to anatomy. And English? Piece of cake. (I use words like "astute." Properly. And I know how to punctuate. And spell.)
But while all of that is great and I'm sure is the main reason I'm on the newspaper staff, it does not help me when it comes to winning over the irascible Mr. Kramer. (I'm not going to keep pointing out all the long words I use. I just want to establish a pattern here and make sure you're aware of my coolness when it comes to things like that.) He thinks that I'm just some flaky blond teenager who takes up chair space in his class and steals oxygen from his more deserving students.
"Glad you could join us, Miss Gray," he said from the front of the classroom. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd make it."
It was just another variation on the same old greeting he'd used every morning since school began. I hadn't been late once-not even once-all year, and yet he had this idea firmly embedded in his wee little brain that my attendance was somehow this nebulous thing to be commented on whenever he felt like it.
"As always, Mr. Kramer." I pasted on my brightest, most cheerful smile. He was not going to win this battle of wills.
He lifted his head and gave a little snort. I'm serious-he looked exactly like a horse. You know how they toss their heads and act like they're trying to blow their noses-yeah. I almost started to laugh, but I didn't. That would have been bad.
He started right in with a recap of everything we'd discussed in our last math class. Apparently we'd been attacked by brain-sucking zombies over the weekend and had no recollection of those facts for ourselves. Bless his heart for reminding us.
Then he launched into today's discussion, which was, creepily, almost word-for-word of the recap. In fact, I couldn't tell where one left off and the next started, and it was a good thing that he announced that he was now presenting the next lesson or I never would have figured it out.
At this point, I started to zone out. I wanted to pay attention, I really did, but my brain had other ideas.
See, I'd gotten some really intriguing e-mails the night before and I couldn't wait to get started on my next column. The one I'd just turned in was awesome-some of my best work-but this batch was going to challenge me in new ways. One girl wanted to know if she should dye her hair in order to get more attention. And a guy asked how he should tell his girlfriend that he'd fallen for her sister. We were getting into the stuff I loved-the relationship stuff. Not that I had a whole lot of personal experience, but I watched the talk shows. I considered myself pretty well versed in what to say.
I stayed entertained for the rest of the class period by plotting out my advice to these poor lovelorn individuals, and then escaped the torture chamber as soon as the bell rang. It was time for lunch, thank goodness-nothing made my blood sugar drop like listening to Mr. Kramer drone on and on. And on.
"Hey!" Amanda, my best friend, came up to me in the hall and tucked her arm through mine. She was like that-cute and a little cuddly. Sort of like a puppy. "Did you get your column turned in?"
"Of course. Right on time."
"I can't wait to read it this week. From what you said, it sounds great."
The problem with being the advice columnist for a high school newspaper is that you can't share everything with your best friend, even when you really want to. It's not like I knew the names of the kids who sent in their questions-they weren't supposed to sign their letters, and all the e-mails were forwarded to me by my student adviser, who stripped out the personal information-but even the stuff I did know, I couldn't share. I could only drop hints like, "Wow, I gave the most amazing advice today." And while that's fun, it's not as fun as it could be. If you get what I'm saying. So everyone knew who I was, but I didn't know who they were. That seemed a little unfair. Oh, well-she could read the final results in the newspaper, just like everyone else.
"Yeah, I think it'll make for some good reading." I tried to sound noncommittal, like I was supposed to. "And as usual, Colby barely looked at me when I handed it in."
"I'm sorry. You know what-someday that dork is going to realize how wonderful you are and then kick himself for ignoring you."
"And by then, I'll be off to college, and his chance will be gone. There's some poetic justice in that, I guess."
We had reached the lunchroom, and I paused before going in. This was where the major bulk of the teasing would take place. It was like an arena where all the cool kids would pick on all the not-cool kids and everyone else would gather around to watch, like the Romans and their chariot races and throwing Christians to get eaten by lions and stuff like that. The things people did for entertainment . . .
"Hey, it's Dr. Jill," one of the jocks called out, and I smiled. There was only so much teasing and tormenting a person could take before it was old. I was about there.
"Hey, Bruce. I saw you trying out that new meditation thing before the game the other night. How's that workin' for ya?" I called back in my best Dr. Phil drawl.
"Ooooooo." The crowd seemed appropriately impressed by my acumen. I nodded and made my way to the lunch line. It would take Bruce a minute to come up with a snarky response, and by then, I hoped to have my tray. I'm a multi-tasker like that.
Amanda and I found seats and began eating. A second later, a shadow fell across my food. I looked up and saw a new guy standing over me, holding his tray with both hands and looking a little awkward.
"Hi," he said. "My name's Dylan. I'm told that the best way to make friends is to walk right up and introduce myself. May I sit here?"
"Sure," Amanda said. "Knock yourself out."
I would have responded, but my mouth was full of food. Low blood sugar, remember? I needed to shovel it in there fast before I went into some sort of diabetic coma. Not that I was diabetic, but Kramer could put anyone in a coma.
"So, I just moved here from Denver."
"I've been skiing in Denver," Amanda replied.
I still wasn't talking. Chewing was my first priority.
"And you are . . . " he prompted.
"Oh, sorry. I'm Amanda, and she's Jill. She's eating. She probably won't talk, or even acknowledge that we're here, for another five minutes or so. She's got this thing with food."
"Low blood sugar," I growled.
"I think it's an avoidance mechanism," Amanda stage-whispered behind her hand. "That's the excuse she gives whenever she wants time to emotionally withdraw."
"And now look who's giving out advice. I'm not withdrawing-I'm hungry." I turned to Dylan, giving him the full benefit of my attention. "Welcome to our high school. We're glad to have you."
He seemed a little taken aback by my formality. I admit, I did that on purpose. It was mostly to annoy Amanda-I didn't mean to catch the guy in the crosshairs. "Thanks, Jill," he said. "So you're the one in the flyers I've been seeing all over the place today."
"Yeah, every so often someone decides to poke fun at my column. What they don't understand is that dispensing advice is at the very heart of our culture. Mothers have advised their daughters, sons have looked to their fathers-we all rely on each other for the benefit of our shared wisdom. Don't you agree?" I ignored Amanda. She was shooting daggers at me with her eyes. I didn't care.
"I do, actually. From an anthropological standpoint, without the sharing of experiences, where would we be? Our young wouldn't know how to hunt or fish or make their own huts. We need to pass on these lessons or we will die out as an entire breed."
I blinked. I had not expected that response from this fresh-faced, good-looking-in-a-mild-way, slightly dorky kid. "This is what I'm saying," I finally replied.
"It looks like I chose the right table. This is turning out to be a really great first day after all." Dylan picked up his tray. It was empty now-I have no idea how he managed to clean it so fast-and headed toward the trash to throw away his milk carton.
"Why did you have to be so tough on the guy?" Amanda asked as soon as Dylan was out of earshot.
"I was doing it to bug you. I didn't know he was so . . . bookish and stuff."
Amanda rolled her eyes. "Well, it's about time someone knew what to say to you and all your weirdness. Come on, we'll be late for English."
English. Sigh. The one class I shared with Colby . . . the class I dreamed about (literally-I dreamed about it), prepared for, dressed my cutest for. I was definitely going to be on time for English. Those artery-clogging students in the hallway had better not get underfoot.