|Chapter 5|
≡ Mackenzie Ryder ≡
“Cute Buddha statue,” I look up at the jade figurine of the fat, laughing man in the corner of the room, and the oranges that are in a neat little pile on a plate in front of it. Least it gives me an excuse to look anywhere besides Mrs. Dillon’s face, “But I’m not sure if a painting of Jesus being crucified goes well with the décor…”
I hear her laugh, and my eyes slew to my hands, which lie demurely folded in my lap. Don’t look at her, don’t look at anyone. Just listen hard to the voices, like the doctors had advised. So I just listen to her laugh for a while, then her breathing. For some reason it calms me down a little, like watching those cottage videos on television do. Goddamn, did I just say that?
“I know it doesn’t, though I think it’s a masterpiece,” the guidance counselor replies, and I can barely see her put her hands together, fingers linking, “Anyway, we aren’t here to discuss spiritual artwork today. Maybe we can do that some other time. You’re here because it’s your first day at OxfordAcademy for the Arts, and because you’ve been labeled as…a special case.”
God, it’s funny how three words can make me feel even more like a freak. “A special case, huh.”
I sneak a glance at Mrs. Dillon, and see her purse her lips tightly at my remark, though she pretends she hadn’t heard it and continues. “So, Mackenzie, tell me about how your morning went.” She pauses, looks at me. “Well, start from first period. I heard you’re majoring in music arts. Congrats for getting the remaining spot left. I heard that there were nearly ninety applicants for grade eleven this year.”
I swallow. “Thanks. And it was good. Mrs. Timmons did a lot of the talking.”
My guidance counselor nods, as if I had said something extremely deep and revealing of my current psychological state or whatever, and she jots something down on a pad of paper in front of her. I try taking a quick peek at it, but it’s so messy and unreadable I don’t even want to try deciphering whatever she’s written about me on that goddamned page.
“Second period?”
“English. Mr. Bushnell was nice.”
“Third?” Mrs. Dillon’s beginning to look a little disappointed.
I shrug. “Economics. Boring.”
The woman scribbles down God-knows-what in her notebook, humming some old tune while she’s at it. Hey Jude. I try to stay as still as I can in the seat, but the song brings back so many bad memories I shift uncomfortably in my seat. She keeps humming it, oblivious to my discomfort. I don’t have anything against The Beatles or anything—in fact, I used to love them—but then after what happened this summer…
“Baby, come back.” I can still hear his steady voice say as his strong hands had circled my arm and pulled me off of the lawn, which I remember had been wet with spilled drink. The Dubstep blasting from the speakers changed to something more… mellow. Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better… Wiping off grime and some blades of grass from my face, I had turned and looked at him. I tried jerking my arm out of his grip, but he was so goddamned strong. So I had just looked at him. Messed up hair, even more messed up than usual. And with this stupid face-blindness, I can’t even remember what his stupid face looked like then. All I know is that he hadn’t looked drunk at all. That’s why it made things more depressing. It sobered me.
Hey Jude, don’t be afraid. You were made to go out and get her, The Beatles sang, and as much as I had loved them then, in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to smash the speakers and make the song go away. Because—it’s crazy, I know, but I promise I’m completely sane—I heard things with that song on at that party, even though his lips weren’t moving, but I heard him singing. Goddamned singing. And it was his voice, I was sure of it and thinking back on it I am sure right now. It was all in my head. Singing along to it. I must have been pretty drunk, I guess. And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain. Don’t carry the world up on your shoulders…
“Mackenzie? Mackenzie?” My head jerks up instinctively at the sound of my name, and I meet Mrs. Dillon’s eyes, which look concerned.
“Stop it,” I say suddenly. “Stop humming.”
“I stopped minutes ago,” she says, now looking utterly puzzled, “But I apologize if it bothered you.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
“You don’t look so well,” notes Mrs. Dillon, “You’re pretty pale.”
“I…woke up late so I didn’t get to eat breakfast,” I stammer weakly, “I’m really hungry.” Lie. If anything, I feel like ejecting whatever’s in my stomach. The thought of that makes another wave of nausea hit me and I fight back a groan.
The counselor glances at the clock. “Oh, my! Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I’ve cut into nearly ten minutes of your lunch break already! I’m so sorry.” I manage to stagger to my feet. All businesslike, Mrs. Dillon leads me to the door and opens it for me before shaking my hand with a small smile. “I hope you feel better. Do you know where the commons is?”
I nod, even though I really don’t, and hurry out the door and the office. The secretary—a nice middle-aged woman—throws me an anxious look but before she can ask what’s wrong I’m out and sprinting down the hall to my locker, covering my mouth with one hand as if it would fight back the queasiness rising in my throat. Don’t think about it, I urge myself, making a sharp turn to the right, Just have some water and some fresh air and you’ll be fine. Stop overreacting. It’s just a Beatles song, goddamn it.
Thoughts racing in my head, I blindly dash down the nearly-deserted halls, about to turn left on the next corner when I slam right into some guy head-on. There’s a thump before I feel myself stumbling backwards, feet shuffling quickly, one footstep after another, dizzy. But before I can fall—embarrassingly—on my butt, the boy reaches out and grabs my shoulders. Tightly but not too tightly. It somehow calms me down a little and I just stare at his chest, breathing hard from the exertion.
I stand there like a fool for about three second, just staring at his OxfordAcademy polo before looking up to find him staring at me. His hands are still placed on my shoulders, though with a lighter grip than just before. Deep blue eyes that passively canvass me, pale skin, black hair that swoops softly across his forehead, lips pressed into a thin line. He smells like a mixture of chocolate and Drakkar Noir. There doesn’t seem to be any sort of recognition in his expression—though I can’t get anything from his face—so this is probably my first time meeting him as well.
“T-thank you,” I manage, blinking fast and exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I’ve been holding.
At the sound of my voice, the boy removes his hands from my shoulders and gives me a boyish smirk, taking a step back. “Watch yourself,” he says softly before calmly sidestepping me and continuing to stroll down the hall, whistling loudly. I watch him as he leisurely strides past the rows of lockers for a while before turning away embarrassedly. I really should stop watching guys walking away from me.
Still a bit out of it by the awkward encounter, I lean against a locker for support, head spinning in faster three-sixties now. I shut my eyes, hand passing over my forehead. Breathe in through your mouth, out, in, out. Again. After a few seconds, I open my eyes. Everything’s settling down now. Nausea somewhat chased away, I calmly walk the rest of the way to my locker.
I spin the dial on my simple white Dudley. Thirty-two. Fourteen. Fifty-fi…
“Mackenzie!”
The voice breaks the silence of my deserted corridor so suddenly that I drop all my books with a start, whirling around to find a tall young man with tousled light brown hair, matching eyes and a huge grin on his face.
“Um…”
“It’s Cam, remember?”
My eyes drop down from his face, past the cute blue scarf, and to the sticky note with the words Cam Fairchild on them, in exactly the same spot as I remember seeing this morning. Oh. I return his smile at the sight of the nametag.
“Hey, Cam,” I turn around, redoing my locker combination. Thankfully it unlocks on the first try and I quickly bend down to retrieve my books and place them on the top shelf. I pull my locker door closer to me so I can examine myself in the mirror for a while, smoothing out my hair. He’s still standing behind me, with that sticky note in sight. “Still got that nametag on, I see.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you were going to take it down. Wouldn’t people start saying things?”
“No. And I don’t really care. Everyone would love me either way.”
I grab a bottle of Dasani and screw open the cap, bringing it to my lips and drinking as much as I can. I quickly wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, still looking at him from my mirror. The dizziness is almost completely gone, thank God. I don’t want to vomit in front of Cam. “Suure. Still, thanks. I think a nametag’s pretty cute.”
Cam just looks thoughtful all of a sudden, changing the subject. “Hey, I saw your little…collision back there. What was up?”
I don’t answer at first, bending down again and pretending to rummage through my already-messy locker for something to hide the blush that creeps to my cheeks at the mention of it. I’ve already forgotten his face, but I still remember those hands on my shoulders, steadying me, the crooked little half-smile he did after he heard me stumbling over my thank-you. Watch yourself.
“I was just running down the hall and I bumped into him.”
“Bad luck that he was the one who caught you, huh?” Cam raises his eyebrows, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Why? What’s wrong with him?”
He shrugs. “This is your first year here, you don’t know him.”
“Well, I can know him now. Who is he?”
“Alistair Beaufort. He’s a drama major and sort of a legend around here, I guess,” Cam begins to explain.
“That’s not so bad. That’s great, actually.”
“I know. You should have seen his performances. He’s snagged the leads for our huge theater productions every year. And he’s a great actor—he really is. Once you’ve seen him act, you can imagine him one day, out there in Hollywood, performing next to the big names. I’m talking Ryan Gosling, Matt Damon, the like.” Then Cam frowns. “But then something happened this summer.”
I turn around at the mention of summer, though I don’t look at him. My eyes flit to the ground. I guess I’m not the only one with summertime incidents. “What?”
“No one really knows. And I wouldn’t really know, anyway. The only thing we have in common is the parties we’re invited to, really. Anyway, something happened to him during those two months and he sort of went…bad. Mid-July he went to his first party. He was invited and all, as usual, but no one expected him to come. But he showed up. And started drinking anything with alcohol in the entire house, and he lost his v-card, and got a bit high. You wouldn’t be surprised, ’cause you don’t know him, but Alistair was a good guy before that. I mean, before, instead of going to parties and all he would stay home and study or practice his acting or whatever. He was real serious about his acting career. And then…all of a sudden it all went out the window. He went to a party nearly every week that summer, I hear. And he got really smashed at every single one of them.”
I don’t answer, just grab my lunch money and slam my locker door shut. My lock clicks shut and I turn back to look at Cam again. And I think of that calm, sure voice he had used when speaking with me, and the confidence with which he walked, and then I try to imagine—as best as I can—him at a party, drinking away the night. Getting smashed or whatever. I wouldn’t know the feeling. I’ve only been to one party, and I had drunk so much I forgot that entire night. Bummer.
“That’s…pretty depressing.”
“I know,” Cam says, though he doesn’t sound sympathetic at all, “I hate judging people, but I don’t like this new Alistair.” There’s an awkward silence and he manages another one of his cute, I’m-not-even-trying smiles. “Well, I’m starving. Won’t you accompany me to lunch?”
I nod, and follow him as he turns and we begin to walk down the same strip of hallway that I had seen that boy Cam had just described and had just saved me go down. But as we turn the corner—and I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed—I realize that Alistair Beaufort is gone.