Instinct (2 page)

I don’t know
how, I don’t know why, but I can’t help feeling that somehow that boy just
nearly killed me with a look.

I’m not sure
how long I remain standing there, staring down the street where the boy
vanished, but finally the door opens again and a familiar face peers out, voice
strident in greeting.

 “I want
another Vicodin and I want a divorce,” she says, unwittingly revealing a hidden
truth instead of a simple ‘hello.’

I shudder and
refocus. I don’t know who the boy was or what just happened, but he isn’t here
now and I have a major life change to get through. Mrs. Hayworth, the secretary
I talked to when I registered, looks at me expectantly and I nod and force a
smile.

I’m sorry, I
didn’t hear you,” I say, wishing I didn’t know how miserable the woman in front
of me is.   

“I said I
wondered if you’d gotten here yet. Come on in, let’s get you settled.” She
gestures for me to follow and I enter the school unceremoniously. There is no
turning back now.

“Ok, so we’ve
got your schedule finalized and I’ve got a map for you. I’m going to show you
your locker and give you your books, and then you’ll be on your own. Any
questions?” Mrs. Hayworth asks briskly, her low-slung heels clicking
emphatically on the linoleum. I shake my head and frown. In all the movies, new
students get assigned mentors or helpers their first day. Usually a nerd or
someone impossibly good-looking. Guess that’s the first inconsistency between
my research and reality.

I’m about a
half-hour early, mainly because I thought there would be more orientation to
get through and I didn’t want to be late for my first class. But within a few
minutes Mrs. Hayworth shows me my locker and gives me the combination, asks one
last time if I need anything, and then disappears into her office, presumably
to take another Vicodin. I stand next to my locker, reeling from the speed and
indifference with which everything is happening. None of this matches my notions
of what today would be like. Disappointment begins to bubble under my skin.

I shake it off
and scold myself for being so sensitive. Did I really expect the whole school
to shut down and people to line up waiting for me? Well, maybe a little, but
that’s not important now. At least I’ll have a chance to figure out where my
classes are while the halls are empty. So I stash the books I won’t need until
after lunch in the locker and hang a Georgetown University sticker on the
inside of the door to personalize it. Once I see what everyone else puts in
their lockers, I’ll make some adjustments. With a frisson of excitement, I look
at the map and try to figure out which of the circled rooms is my first class.

The school
isn’t big. Mrs. Hayworth said there were only about a hundred students in each
grade, so it doesn’t take me long to formulate a plan for the day. I glance at
my watch. It’s still only seven-forty. Most of the buses aren’t due to arrive
for another ten minutes. I chew on my bottom lip and begin to doubt that I have
any idea what I’ve gotten myself into.

Needing to
find something that fits my expectations, I take off in the direction of the
journalism room, where my fourth period class is held. The day is broken into
four periods, each an hour and a half with a forty-five minute lunch in the
middle. Part of the reason I was able to convince Mom to let me undertake the
great experiment was because of the opportunity to work on the school
newspaper. Since my major is going to be print journalism, I argued that I
needed the experience of working with other students on a paper.

I peek through
the window of the room and see the teacher sitting at his desk, staring with a
vacant expression at something on a laptop. He is younger than I expected,
probably in his early thirties, and slim with tufty, non-descript brown hair.
He has the furtive air of a mouse, with quick movements and eyes that never
seem to stop roving. Screwing up my courage and reminding myself this is one
thing I can feel confident about, I knock on the door. The teacher looks up and
waves me in, closing the lid of his computer as he opens his mouth to speak.

“I look at
porn while I’m in school.”

I halt and
stare at my feet in to hide my blush, thankful I have had so many years of
practice schooling my features not to reflect my reaction to whatever unwelcome
truths I have to hear on a daily basis.

“Can I help
you?” the teacher says impatiently, probably repeating his original statement.
I force myself to start walking again and to smile at him normally, like I
don’t know that he has naked pictures on his computer screen.

“Hi. Um, I’m
Derry MacKenna. I’m new, and I’m signed up for your fourth period,” I explain,
rapidly beginning to rethink the wisdom of bringing myself to this man’s attention. 
There is no mistaking the appreciative gleam in his eyes as he looks me over
with more than professional interest. I am very aware of the dim lighting in
the room and how silent the halls are as he stands and comes toward me, hand
outstretched. Swallowing my unease, I shake his hand, noting with disgust that
it is slightly damp.

“Derry, it’s
nice to meet you. I’m Mr. Shockey. What can I do for you?” he asks, perfectly
naturally. Maybe I’m imagining things.

“I just wanted
to introduce myself and talk to you about joining the paper,” I say, shoving my
misgivings aside, trying to focus on the task at hand.

He frowns and
tilts his head. “Well, I don’t usually let students on the paper until they’ve
spent a semester in journalism, learning the basic rules and how we do things
here. I don’t really think I can let you skip that.”

I clear my
throat and lift up my chin. This is where I can make the right impression. “I
understand, but I have a lot of experience writing freelance for newspapers. I
just want to get the opportunity to work with other people, get a feel for how
a newsroom operates,” I reply, digging into my bag to pull out the portfolio I
prepared. I hand it to him and he raises an eyebrow as he takes it, his eyes
darting over me again. “These are a sample of some of the stories I’ve done.”

 I wait while
he flips through the folder, his eyebrows rising higher with each page. Finally
he closes the folder and looks at me with a different light in his eyes, one of
bewildered respect.

“It looks like
you have quite a lot of experience. I see stories for at least three different
papers, all of them very professional. How long have you been doing this?” he
asks with real interest. My smile is genuine now as I explain.

“Since I was
fourteen. One of my mother’s friends was a newspaper editor in our old town,
and he let me work as an intern for a few months in the summer, and then I
started writing little stories and it just kind of grew from there. One of my
articles was picked up by the Associated Press this fall,” I say, opening the
folder and pointing to the page in question. Mr. Shockey nods and then laughs.

“I read this
article. I remember being impressed that the reporter managed to get a city
councilman to confess to selling utilities contracts to the lowest bidder for
kickbacks. That was you?” He grins with a boyish amusement that makes me more
comfortable.

“Yeah. He
couldn’t believe he was telling me either,” I inform him, smiling at the memory
of the councilman’s shock when I changed the subject of our interview from his
upcoming campaign to the corrupt practices he’d been covering up during his
tenure. It’s hard to hide something like that from me.

“This is
fantastic. Yes, I think in your case we can definitely make an exception.”

I begin to
hear voices in the hallway, the first of the students going to their lockers
and taking care of the business of morning. “Well, we can talk more in fourth
period. Usually I divide up the class and have the students on the paper meet
in the computer lab or work independently. My editor this year is Jake Wise.
I’ll get you started with a beat and he can show you the ropes, okay?”

I nod
vigorously, thrilled to have something go the way I’d hoped. Mr. Shockey puts
his hand on my shoulder and squeezes lightly. I tense and my smile dims.

“See you
fourth period, Derry. I’m looking forward to it.”

I smile
nervously and back away, trying to head to the exit without looking like I’m
running away. I can feel Shockey’s eyes on me as I walk out the door.

The hallway is
teeming when I emerge. For a moment, I am frozen in shock at the vibrant eddy
of students that streams past me. Eyes glance up to meet mine and then flash
away, lost in a sea of faces that have an alarming uniformity. Four hundred
students may not seem like much for a high school, especially one near D.C.,
but the reality is overwhelming.

I shift the
bag on my shoulder and enter the fray, finding it more difficult to locate my
class now that the halls are filled with the clanging of lockers being slammed,
bodies pushing past me uninterestedly, and the swelling din of voices that
bounces off the white concrete walls and reverberates in my brain. The halls
are nearly empty before I find the correct room, and I pause outside the door,
drawing in a deep breath before the plunge.

“I’m terrified
of everyone,” a harsh female voice declares.

I swing around
to see a girl with a pinched face staring at me with irritation. “Didn’t you
hear me? Go in or get out of the way,” she barks, knocking past me.

“Oh, sorry,” I
mumble and step to the side to let her pass. She rolls her eyes and slips
through the door. Not wanting to look stupid, I follow into the room. About
half the students are there, most standing around their desks chatting, some
sitting quietly in their chairs looking through textbooks.  No one looks at me.
The teacher is writing on the whiteboard, so I wait patiently by her desk,
casting surreptitious glances at the rest of the room.

More students
file in, calling out to others, unwittingly revealing their honest impressions
as each voice strikes me for the first time. I have spent so many years tuning
out accidental revelations from strangers that I am able to keep my
concentration on appearing normal with relative ease. The students are
clustering together and putting their heads close for whispered conferences. I
worry that there won’t be a chair left for me and wonder exactly how I planned
to make friends with people who have probably been grouped together like this
since childhood.

“I’m not
really making a difference anymore.”

I smile
hesitantly, unsure of what the teacher actually said. “Hi, I’m Derry MacKenna.
Mrs. Hayworth said to give you this to sign,” I say, handing her the sheet of
paper that will prove I am responsible enough to get to all of my classes and
make myself known to the teachers. She gives me a friendly smile and takes the
paper, signing it with a flourish as she looks me over.

“I heard
you’ve been homeschooled up until now, so if you have any questions about the
way we do things here, feel free to ask. You have your textbooks?” she asks
kindly. I nod and glance down at the nameplate on her desk.

“Yes, Ms.
Sullivan. Um, where should I sit?”

She looks out
over the room and points to an empty desk near the back. “That should be fine
for now. I usually start out the semester with free seating, but depending on
behavior it may change later. Would you like me to introduce you?”

I bite back
the immediate yes that springs to my lips and think it over. So far nothing has
gone the way I expected it to. Maybe identifying myself as the new girl in such
an obvious way if I don’t have to isn’t such a great idea.

“No, that’s
ok. I’ll just take my seat,” I say quietly and Ms. Sullivan nods.

“That’s fine.
See me after class if you have any questions.”

I slip through
the aisles to take my seat. A few curious glances are sent my way, but on the
whole, I am ignored. To my left sits the pinched-face girl who was so rude at
the door. She doesn’t look at me. I might think it is because she is
unapproachable or important if I hadn’t heard the truth already. That she’s as
terrified as I am.

“Um, hi,” I
whisper and her head jerks slightly. “I’m sorry about being in the way before.
This is my first day, and I wasn’t sure where I was going.”

The girl’s
shoulders relax infinitesimally. Maybe she thought I was going to tell her off
or something.

“It’s ok,” she
whispers back, but doesn’t turn around. My spirits sink a little. Fantasies of
being the cool new girl that everyone wants to know are quickly disintegrating,
and I’m left with a void that’s both unnerving and a relief at the same time.

I lean back
into my seat and pull out my notebook and text. One of the reasons Mom never
put me back into school was because of my difficulty reading. If I had been in
school, I probably would have been put in a class with learning disabled
students, my odd ability mistaken for dyslexia or slowness. The first time I
read something, like with the signs over the stores in Georgetown, I see the
truth behind the statement. Reading fiction doesn’t bother me, mainly because
there isn’t a true reality behind the words, just a perceived one the author
creates. The same thing goes for movies and TV meant for entertainment value
only.

But reading a
textbook presents a challenge since the information is meant to be authentic
and factual. People would be shocked to know how many lies their children are
being taught, how inaccurate textbooks really are.

I look at the
U.S. History book in my hands and sigh. History books are full of falsehoods. I
just hope Ms. Sullivan doesn’t ask her students to read out loud.

I hear the
desk behind me shift as someone takes a seat and a tone sounds, like the
warning on the Emergency Alert System.  I glance around, but no one else seems
surprised. As Ms. Sullivan rises from her chair and faces the class, I realize
the tone must be the signal for classes to start. Guess they don’t use bells
anymore.