© Copyright 2011
All work is property of Leah Crichton, any duplication or reproduction of all or part of the work without explicit permission by the author is illegal.
Disinclination: (dis-in-cli-nay-shun)
that toward which you are inclined to feel dislike
certain degree of unwillingness
In the weeks that followed, I single-handedly unearthed the recipe for absolute madness: Mix equal parts solitude and confinement, top with endless stretches of time, and sprinkle with a bit of tedium. You get a batch of good old crazy. I spent the entire month a prisoner, held captive by the same walls. My world consisted of home or rehab, and neither did much for my social life. Sadly, the only thing that kept me sane was fantasizing about coffee-shop boy. Life, I’d learned, didn’t offer much by way of certainty, but one thing I was sure of was that I would never lay eyes on someone like that again anywhere other than the pages of a magazine. That, and if I was being honest with myself, he made for very intriguing daydreams.
I used my confinement as an opportunity to master the art of the crutches, to become familiar with the hindrance I'd been saddled with. They went from necessary and intolerable to necessary and bearable. I watched terrible daytime television, which resulted in my IQ dropping and my brain acquiring a phenomenal amount of useless knowledge. I read eleven books that I'd found in the library and developed a fear that I was turning into Luke because I actually enjoyed them.
As impressive as the house appeared to be, there were flaws. The kitchen had state of the art appliances and water stains on the ceiling. In the hallway precisely seventeen scratches marred the otherwise flawless floor, and under a cabinet in the bathroom, there was cracked slate tile. The doorknob to the library was loose and rattled. I spent hours in my room dissecting it, trying to find its imperfections, but there were none.
By the grace of God (or my mother's impatience with my growing boredom) the day finally arrived when she decided that I was well enough to start school. I thought this would make me happy, but the night before my nerves were getting the best of me and rather than eat, I stared blankly at my plate and pushed peas around with my fork, spearing them individually on the prongs. Luke was gone, probably to a Nerds Anonymous meeting or something equally geeky, and my mom observed my pea stabbing spree in quiet consideration. “Honey,” she finally said, “are you alright?”
“I’m fine, Mom, just not that hungry.” Total lie. Nothing was fine. The thought of going to school and the reality of getting there were two very different ideas. I hated being stuck in the house but it was almost preferable to being the new kid.
My mom was at a loss for what to say next so she rose to her feet and placed her hand on mine. “If you need to talk, darling, you let me know.”
“Yeah,” I said, “sure will.”
The next morning my pace could barely keep up with a snail. It wasn’t all because I was still immobilized. Somewhere in the depths of my broken brain, I reasoned that the longer I could avoid going to school, the less horrific it might be. I shuffled around our kitchen gathering a bowl, milk, and corn flakes. With my own personal Breakfast of Champions, I alternated between eating and stirring my spoon around in the milky mush. I had high hopes the food would get rid of the butterflies in my stomach, but so far no dice.
Luke sat across from me, coffee in hand. “How ya doin’, I.Q.?” He took a sip and cringed. It must have been too hot or too strong.
“Nervous,” I said.
“Don’t be nervous. Things will be just fine. Besides, if anyone causes you any problems, your big brother will come and save you.” He grinned and flexed a non-existent bicep.
“Wow, thanks, Superman. That's impressive, but I think I’ll take my chances.”
“I’m just saying people will have big problems if they mess with you,” he said with confidence.
Luke? A threat? Not likely. He was five years older and at twenty-one, it was safe to say he had finished growing. He was tall but incredibly lean, and I’d be surprised if he weighed much more than I did. “Thanks, Luke.” I placed my spoon in the bowl and stuck it in the dishwasher.
He downed the rest of his coffee and scooped my backpack up from the ground. “Ready, kiddo?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” The butterflies in my stomach had evolved into intense nausea. When we got outside, the sun shone so brilliantly it was nearly blinding. Luke’s glasses were the kind that darkened and lightened with his surroundings, and already they were the darkest shade of black. His car was a recently acquired Honda Civic. He got it while I was still in the hospital as a way to get to and from school. He was enrolled at the University of British Columbia, but he insisted that his schedule be conducive to dropping me off and picking me up every day. Best big brother ever.
My new school was nestled behind a forest of evergreens, poplar, and spruce trees. It was a colossal structure of red brick with butter yellow doors and flagstone pathways. To the side of the main building was a courtyard that looked like it had been designed more for a Tuscan villa than a school, with a fountain and picnic tables scattered around. I blinked. Was this place for real?
On first glance, the student body wasn’t any different than the one at home, with the notable exception that there were hundreds more of them. They loitered in the parking lot in clusters, almost all of which were distinguishable.
There were the jocks: good looking, toned, all sporting tee shirts with propaganda for their favorite teams, accompanied by cheerleader-type girls painted with heavy makeup and oversized sunglasses perched on teased hairdos. There were the academics, the nerds, holding books which I was sure detailed the laws of quantum physics or something. I couldn’t help but smile. They reminded me of Luke. There were rich kids in designer clothes with laser-whitened teeth and impossibly tanned skin, talking and texting on cell phones.
Studying at the parking lot further illustrated the diversity of the school, a third of it filled with rusted out old clunkers on doughnut tires, a third with sensible four-door family vehicles, and the remaining third must have belonged to the rich kids. On quick surveillance, I spotted three BMWs, one Audi, two Cadillac Escalades, one Corvette, two Range Rovers, and a Lotus. There were probably more but the initial count was shocking.
In Churchill, one person possessed a nice car: Dr. Young. He drove a Saab and thought he was pretty special. People were envious of him; here, it seemed, he would be a second class citizen next to a bunch of spoiled teenagers.
Oh God, I wasn’t going to fit in. Self-consciously I wrapped my spring coat tighter around myself, as if it would provide some sort of protection from scrutiny. I sat in Luke’s car, surveying my new classmates, and I noticed a foursome of two boys and two girls—couples, maybe. I studied them, trying to pinpoint what was different, to decide why my eyes were drawn in that direction like magnets, but I was unable to settle on any clear conclusion.
Luke broke my fierce concentration by opening my door and extending his hand to help me out of the car. He put my backpack on my shoulder and handed me my crutches. “Well, I.Q., have a good day okay? I’ll see you later. Call if you need anything.”
My eyes remained glued to their current focus as I steeled myself and shuffled toward the school. “Okay, see you later.”
My efforts to remain anonymous vaporized with my inability to stop gaping like a star struck school girl. One of the boys, the tallest one, caught me ogling and held my gaze for a beat before turning to his comrades and saying something. My stomach flipped as I mentally chided myself. Get a grip and stop staring. Don’t make these people any more aware of you than they probably already are. Dumbest inner monologue ever. I was a ginger on crutches, it’s not like I could blend in. In fact, I may as well have been sporting a flashing neon sign around my neck.
The office was far from institutional. It reminded me more of a posh hotel lobby than a high school. Solid oak desks and slate tiles made me think it should have been a private school or something you’d see on a long running TV drama about the life and times of picture perfect teenagers. The woman behind the reception desk was robust, with grey hair and rosy cheeks. The small Mylar sign behind her said Mrs. Poole. I walked up in a daze, still trying to take in how surreal this whole place was.
“Hi,” I said, hobbling forward. “I’m Ireland Brady.”
Mrs. Poole looked up from behind the glasses that sat perched on the end of her nose, which was too big for her face. “Ireland?”
“Yeah,” I said.
Perplexed, she started flipping through a stack of paper on her desk. “Ireland. Ireland.” she fumbled clumsily through her papers, repeating my name as if that would make it appear. Her head snapped up as she pushed the bridge of her glasses. “I have a Quinn Brady,” she said. “Is your birthday April ninth?”
Luke told me he’d volunteered for the task of my high school registration. He'd given the school an alias. Quinn was strange for a girl too, but it didn’t hold a candle to Ireland. This was a benefit I hadn’t thought of until now. I wouldn’t have to be Ireland anymore. I could be Jane or Lucy the anorexic waif waitress, and nobody would be the wiser. I clamped down on my lower lip with my teeth to stop my smile from spreading too big. “Yes, Quinn, that’s me.”
Her eyebrows pinched her features severely.
“My first name on my birth certificate is really Ireland, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to go by Quinn.” Why was I explaining all of this? “I’ve never had a choice between the two until now.”
I could tell Mrs. Poole cared about the dribble of spilled coffee on the collar of her shirt more than the topic of my name. Being in her position probably put her on the receiving end of a lot of high school drama, so I could imagine something as petty as this held little interest for her. She didn’t even look up as she handed me my class list and said, “I don’t blame you. I’d go by Quinn, too, if I were you, given your options.”
Nice.
I took the schedule from her. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy your first day, Quinn.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Poole.” I hesitated a moment, took a deep breath, and pushed my way through the door.