The class ripples with outrage and worry. Several students dash for the small row of books near Freud's desk and empty it of every volume. Others consult their friends or dive into their backpacks for textbooks, flipping pages for a poem that will save them from an F. But I don't have a textbook or a friend.
Only three are unconcerned: Miss Lee, the model-slash-Shakespeare expert up at the front who is touching up her lipstick; J.J., who's beating a different rhythm in each hand; and Mister Foster, sitting in his desk, smoldering. He looks my way and his fingernail stops scratching. The frantic terror in my eyes meets the anger in his.
"Give me a sheet of paper," he whispers, leaning into the aisle.
"What?"
"Quick."
The last thing I want to do is get into trouble, but I can't start off school like this. I open my spiral bound notebook and rip out a single sheet as quietly as I can. I make sure Freud isn't looking – he's angrily writing in a journal on his desk – and pass it over. The class is so busy flipping through textbooks that no one notices.
"What are you doing?" I say. Mister Foster clicks the end of his pen and starts scrawling rapidly.
"Four minutes," calls Freud, consulting a brass pocket watch on the end of a chain.
My heart is in my throat. I'm completely at the mercy of Mister Foster, the wannabe rock star. I have no poem, no friends, and what very much looks to be an F on my first day of school. Mom will kill me.
"Time," calls Freud, scraping his chair against the floor as he stands. Mister Foster waits until Freud puts his watch back into his pocket, then tosses the page on to my desk.
"Miss Lockhart," says Freud. He towers over me and I smell Old Spice. "Are you prepared?"
My mouth is dry, but Mister Foster nods. The paper is covered with scrawlings, legible, but only just, and an S in the second line is backwards. Freud escorts me to the front of the room. I stare at the sea of the faces and their prying eyes. My stomach is in knots. Freud stands to my side, impatient.
"Ready as I'll ever be," I mumble.
The class is silent. Most of the girls are sympathetic to the new student, but a few guys in the back lean forward over their desks and leer. Jerks.
"Very well, Miss Lockhart," says Freud. "What's the poet's name?"
The paper in my hands trembles, but I read the name off the page: "James Hetfield."
"I haven't heard of him," says Freud.
That makes two of us. This is great.
"And the name of the poem?"
"Enter Sandman," I read, hoping to God that Mister Foster's intentions are good, and he's not out to get a laugh at my expense.
"Nor have I heard of his work," says Freud. "What is the poet's nationality?"
Mister Foster has cautiously turned both of his hands into guns and is pulling the triggers of his thumbs.
"Uh, I think he's American."
"Very well," says Freud. "Proceed."
I nervously clear my throat and begin, trying to sound as regal and dignified as possible as I read about a parent tucking a boy into bed, trying to protect him from the evils of the world.
The class's reaction is mixed: Mister Foster's expression is a mixture of anger and satisfaction. Miss Lee's face shows disbelief. J.J. gazes at me with an expression of shock. Daydreaming students yawn and draw graffiti on their desks, but the ones who are paying attention gape in horror.
"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.