Hate List (7 page)

Because Mrs. Tate had kept me in her office for so long I missed the first period bell and walked in right in the middle of
Mrs. Tennille’s First Day of School speech. I know Tate had done it to keep me from having to brave the pre-first period hallways,
but I almost would have preferred that to the eyes boring into me when I walked into class. At least in the hallways I could
sort of walk in the shadows.

I opened the door and I swear the entire class stopped what they were doing and looked up at me. Billy Jenkins dropped his
pencil and just let it roll off his desk. Mandy Horn’s mouth flopped open so hard I thought I heard her jaw crack. Even Mrs.
Tennille stopped talking and stood motionless for a few seconds.

I stood in the doorway, wondering if it would really be all that noticeable if I just turned around and walked out. Out of
the classroom. Out of the school. Back home to bed. Tell Mom and Dr. Hieler that I was wrong, that I wanted to finish high
school with a tutor after all. That I wasn’t as strong as I originally thought.

Mrs. Tennille cleared her throat and put down the marker she was using on the whiteboard. I took a deep breath and shuffled
to her desk, holding out the hall pass Mrs. Tate’s secretary had given me on my way out.

“We’re just going over this year’s syllabus,” Mrs. Tennille said, taking the pass. Her face remained stonelike. “Go ahead
and take your seat. If you have any questions on something we’ve already covered, you can ask me after the bell.”

I stared at her for a beat longer. Mrs. Tennille had hardly been one of my fans to begin with. She always had a problem with
the fact that I wouldn’t participate in labs and with the fact that Nick sort of “accidentally” set fire to a test tube in
third period once. I can’t even count how many times she’d landed Nick’s butt in detention, and she’d always glared at me
when I loitered on the sidewalk in front of the school waiting for him to get out.

I couldn’t imagine what she must feel for me now. Pity, maybe, for not seeing in Nick what she always saw? Did she want to
shake me and shout, “I told you so, you stupid girl!”? Or maybe she felt loathing for what happened with Mr. Kline.

Maybe she, like me, replayed that scene over and over in her head a million times a day: Mr. Kline, the chemistry teacher,
using his body to literally shield about a dozen students. He was crying. Snot running out of his nose, body shaking. He had
his arms held out to each side, Christlike, and was shaking his head at Nick, defiant and scared.

I liked Kline. Everybody liked Kline. Kline was the kind of guy who’d come to your graduation party. The kind of guy who’d
stop and talk to you in the mall—and none of that “Hello, youngster,” Mr. Angerson the Principal kind of crap, either. Kline
would say, “Hey, what’s up? Keeping your nose clean?” Kline would turn a blind eye if he saw you sneak a beer at a restaurant
and get away with it. Kline would give his life for you. We always kind of knew that about Kline. Now the whole world knew
that about him.

Thanks to impressive TV coverage of the shooting, and that annoying Angela Dash writing for the
Sun-Tribune
, pretty much everyone in the world knew that Mr. Kline had died because he wouldn’t tell Nick where Mrs. Tennille was. So
I suppose it wasn’t news to Mrs. Tennille. I also suppose that’s why she looked at me like I was a plague set free in her
classroom.

I turned and scuffed to an empty chair. I tried to keep my eyes rooted solely to the chair, but found it was impossible. I
swallowed. My throat felt too thick. My hands were so sweaty my notebook was slipping out. My leg throbbed and I felt myself
limping and silently cursed myself for doing it.

I curled into my desk and looked up at Mrs. Tennille. She stared at me until I was settled and then turned back to the whiteboard,
clearing her throat again and finishing writing her e-mail address on the board.

Slowly the heads of my classmates turned back toward the front of the room and I felt myself begin to breathe once again.
Eighty-three
, I chanted in my head.
Eighty-two, if you don’t count today.

While Tennille talked about the best ways to contact her, I concentrated on my hands, trying to slow my breathing the way
Dr. Hieler had taught me to do. I stared at my nails, which were chipped and ugly. I’d never found the energy to file them
smooth and now I was oddly self-conscious about them. All the other girls would have prepared for the first day of school
by doing things like painting their nails, picking out their best clothes. I’d barely even washed. It was just another way
that I was different from all of them, and somehow, oddly, it was just another way that I was different from the way I used
to be.

I tucked my nails into my palms. I didn’t want them to show, afraid that someone would notice how ugly they were, but found
myself strangely calmed by the feeling of them jabbing jaggedly into my palms. I lowered my hands to my lap and made hard
fists, squeezing until the nails dug into my palms and I could take a breath without a wave of nausea rolling over me.

“E-mail me any time you have a question,” Mrs. Tennille was saying, pointing to what she’d written on the board, and then
she stopped short.

There was some commotion going on to my left. The kids were rustling around, one girl stuffing books and papers into her backpack
quickly. Tears were streaking down her face and she was hiccupping, trying to keep it inside.

A few other girls were hovering over her, rubbing her back and talking to her.

“Is there a problem?” Mrs. Tennille asked. “Kelsey? Meghan? Is there a reason you’re not in your chairs?”

“It’s Ginny,” Meghan said, pointing at the crying girl, who I now realized was Ginny Baker. I’d heard on the news about all
the plastic surgery she’d had, but hadn’t really realized how much it had changed her face until now.

Mrs. Tennille placed the dry erase marker into the tray at the bottom of the board, then quietly and steadily folded her hands
in front of her. “Ginny?” she said in a voice so soft I wasn’t sure at first it had come out of Tennille. “Is there something
I can do to help? Do you need to go get a drink maybe?”

Ginny zipped her backpack and stood. Her whole body was shaking.

“It’s her,” she said, without moving. Everyone knew who she was talking about, though, and they all turned to look at me.
Even Tennille glanced in my direction. I put my face back down toward my hands and squeezed my fingernails into my palms even
harder. I sucked my lips inside my mouth and bit down on them hard from the inside, clamping them shut. “I can’t sit here
with her without thinking about… about…” she sucked in a breath and then let it out with a stream of anguish that made the
hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Why did they let her come back?”

She grabbed her backpack with both hands in front of her, hugged it to her belly, and rushed up the aisle, pushing both Meghan
and Kelsey backward into desks.

Mrs. Tennille took a couple steps toward her and stopped. She nodded slightly and Ginny rushed out of the room, her contorted
and ragged face pulled up into a grimace.

Everything was completely still for a minute and I squeezed my eyes shut and silently counted backward from fifty—another
one of those coping methods I’d learned. From Mom or Dr. Hieler, I couldn’t remember. I heard bells in my ears and I felt
twitchy. Should I leave, too? Go after Ginny, tell her I’m sorry? Go home and never come back? Should I say something to the
class? What do I do?

Finally, Mrs. Tennille cleared her throat again, turned back to the whiteboard, and picked up her marker. Her face looked
unsettled, but her manner remained stoic. Good old steady Tennille. Couldn’t charm her nor faze her.

“As I was saying,” she began, and then she launched back into her lecture.

I blinked away the little white lights that were dancing in front of my eyes and tried to focus on what she was saying, which
was hard because pretty much nobody stopped staring at me.

“The next unit will focus on…”

There was more restlessness and once again she turned and stopped. I glanced to my left and saw a couple kids talking heatedly
among each other.

“Class,” Mrs. Tennille said, her voice still stern but losing its grip on authoritative. “May I have your attention now, please?”

The kids stopped talking but remained restless.

“I would like to get on with this so we don’t fall behind before the year even begins.”

Sean McDannon raised his hand.

“Yes, Sean?” she said, a little exasperation creeping into her voice.

Sean coughed into his fist the way some men do when they want to change their voices from regular to super-powerful and manly.
He looked at me, then looked away quickly. I tried a weak smile, but it was wasted because he’d already turned back.

Sean was an okay kid. Never a problem with anyone. Nobody really liked or hated him. He sort of flew under the radar most
of the time, which can sometimes be the difference between getting along in high school and getting picked on in high school.
He didn’t get picked on that I ever knew about. He got good grades, joined academic clubs, kept his nose clean, had an unassuming
girlfriend. And he lived about six houses down from me, which meant we’d played together as kids. We hadn’t really talked
much since about 5th grade, but there was no hostility between us. We said hi to each other if we passed in the hallway or
at the bus stop. No big deal.

“Um, Mrs. Tennille, Mrs. Tate told us that we should talk about… um, about these things, and—”

“And it’s not fair that Ginny should have to be the one to leave,” said Meghan. While Sean had been pointedly not looking
at me ever since that first glance, Meghan made an effort to swing her head around and glare at me. “It’s not like Ginny did
anything wrong.”

Mrs. Tennille twisted the dry erase marker between her hands. “Nobody asked Ginny to leave, Meghan. And I’m sure Mrs. Tate
meant that you could come up to her office to talk about these—”

“No,” said a voice at the desk behind me. It sounded like Alex Gold, but my body felt frozen and I couldn’t turn my head to
be sure. My fingernails dug deeper into my palms, leaving painful purple crescents across them. “No, when the school had that
trauma guy here he told us we should feel free to talk about stuff whenever we need to. Not that I need to or anything. I’m
so over this.”

Meghan rolled her eyes and shifted her hateful stare from me to a spot over my shoulder . “Well, good for you. But you didn’t
have your face blown off.”

“Well, maybe that’s because I never ticked off Nick Levil.”

“Okay, that’s really enough,” said Mrs. Tennille, but by then the conversation had gotten well out of control. “Maybe we should
get back to our discussion…”

“Neither did you, Meghan,” Susan Crayson said, sitting just to Meghan’s right. “Your face didn’t get blown off either. You
weren’t even really friends with Ginny before the shooting. You just like the drama.”

And that’s basically when all hell broke loose. So many kids were talking on top of one another, it was almost impossible
to tell who was saying what.

“… all a bunch of drama? My friend died…”

“… not like Valerie shot anybody anyway. She just had Nick do it. And Nick’s dead, so who cares?”

“Mrs. Tate said arguing wouldn’t solve…”

“… bad enough that I have to have nightmares every night about it, but to come to class and…”

“… you saying I liked that Ginny got shot because it was good drama? Are you seriously saying that?”

“… had been nice to Nick, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Isn’t that the whole point of…”

“… ask me, he deserved to die. I’m glad he’s gone…”

“… what do you know about friends, anyway, you loser…”

It was kind of weird because eventually they were all so busy hating each other, they forgot about hating me. Nobody was looking
at me. Mrs. Tennille had even sunk into the chair behind her desk and was just silently staring out the window, her fingers
playing around her collar, her chin quivering just a little.

To hear the reporters on TV tell it, these guys were sitting around in the cafeteria holding hands and singing “Give Peace
a Chance” every day. But it wasn’t like that at all. They were at one another’s throats. All the old rivalries, the old jokes,
the old sour feelings were right there, festering under the plastic surgery and sympathetic head nods and crumpled Kleenex.

Finally my neck seemed to loosen and I felt able to look around—really look around—at the kids, who were yelling and waving
their arms. A couple crying. A couple laughing.

I felt like I should say something, but I didn’t know what to say. To remind them that I wasn’t the shooter would make me
sound defensive. To try to console somebody would be beyond weird. To do anything would feel like overload. I wasn’t ready
for this yet and couldn’t believe that I’d ever thought I was. I didn’t have answers to my own questions; how could I possibly
answer any of theirs? My hand involuntarily drifted to the cell phone in my pocket. Maybe I should call Mom. Beg to go home.
Beg to never come back. Maybe I should call Dr. Hieler; tell him that, for the first time, he was wrong. I couldn’t make it
eighty-three minutes, much less eighty-three days.