So Not Happening (5 page)

My eyes take in Budge, who regards me with nothing less than bored disgust. I limp down the aisle, every blister on my foot tempting me to scream, and settle into the desk.

“Nice walk?” Budge whispers behind me.

“Perfectly enjoyable. I was glad to catch some fresh air.” I also caught some bugs in my teeth on that last two miles, but I won't give him the satisfaction of those details.

Fifteen minutes later the bell rings, and I pull the schedule from my purse to check my next destination.

“Can I help you find your class?” I look up from my seat and find a blond guy from two rows over standing near. “I'm Jared Campbell.”

I smile, suddenly aware that any lip gloss I had on was probably slobbered off by cow tongue. “I'm Bella. And I would love some help.”

His dark eyes glance at my schedule. “Right this way.” And we walk down the crowded hall.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“New York.” I feel the ever-present pang of homesickness. “I guess you're a hometown boy?”

He laughs. “Nah, a lot of us are transplants. Many of us have parents who work in Tulsa but don't necessarily want to live there, so here we are. I'm originally from Chicago.”

I sidestep a boy wearing saggy pants and a nose ring. “Do you ever get used to it? Is this ever home?”

Jared pats me on the shoulder. “Sure. It takes awhile. I've been here three years, I guess.”

We come to an abrupt halt at room 202.

“Thanks, Jared. I appreciate the help.” My first kind soul at Truman High. Well, besides the secretary wielding the baby wipes.

“Why don't you eat lunch with me and my friends? We sit in the corner of the cafeteria next to the vending machines. I'll be looking for you.”

A pound or two of weight dissolves from my burdened mind. I have someone to eat lunch with—a total new-kid score.

I leave my second-period art class completely high on paint fumes. Stepping into the ladies' room afterwards, I find a stall and text my mom the location of the truck.

Taking a deep breath, I open the small door and w o r m y way through the crowd of girls, all of us waiting to look at ourselves in the row of bathroom mirrors.

The girl beside me gasps. “Oh my gosh. Max Azria, right?”

I turn to see she's staring at me.

“Your skirt—Max Azria.”

I smile in relief. She's speaking my language. “Yeah. I love his stuff.” Though my outfit is now a total wrinkled, wilted mess. “I've had kind of a bad morning. I'm not exactly at my best.”

“I'm Emma Daltry. I'm a junior.”

“Me too!” I pull out some gloss, finding a spot at a mirror. “I'm new—Bella Kirkwood.”

“You must sit with me at lunch. We can talk clothes.”

“Oh, I'd love to. But I already have a lunch commitment. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Definitely. I'll see you around.” Emma tosses a limp good-bye and flounces out. I guess it was wrong of me to assume everyone here would be wearing Wranglers and cowboy boots.

After chemistry, I move on to something I'm fairly decent at—math. In AP Calculus I'm given a textbook that probably weighs more than Robbie. Mr. Monotone teaches that class, forcing me to count the seconds until the blessed lunch bell finally sounds.

Following the herd, I locate the cafeteria. I wait ten minutes in line for a shriveled-up burrito, then maneuver through the crowd to Jared's table.

“Hey, Bella!”

I smile at the small gift that he remembers my name.

“This is Bella, everybody.” Jared proceeds to introduce me to his friends. And finally, this is Brittany Taylor.” The girl beside him gives me the most pitiful excuse for a smile.
She
totally needs a French kiss from a cow.

“Well, hey.” Emma, the girl from the bathroom, grabs a seat and sets down her tray. “Bella, right?”

“Yeah. Jared and I have AP English together, so he invited me to join you guys.” I'm on the verge of babbling. There's an undercurrent here I can't quite put my finger on. My eyes drift to Brittany again. She stares at me like I still smell of barnyard. Maybe the powder-fresh scent of the baby wipes has worn off

“So what do you think of your first day so far?” Emma pops a fry in her mouth and leans in.

Oh, how
to put this tactfully?
“It's fine.”
Like eating nails is fine.

“Bella's from New York.” A murmur of appreciation goes round the table at Jared's announcement.

I fill them in on a brief synopsis of my life.

“You went to an all-girls school?” Brittany asks this in the same tone one would say, “You pick your nose?”

I smile. “Yes.”
Sister, you do not want to knock my life as a Hilliard
Girl. I will recite our pledge, yodel our fight song, and break out the
secret handshake if necessary.

“Has to be a lonely place without any guys around, eh?”

I laugh at Jared. “Not exactly. There's a nearby private school for boys.” I feel a pang of guilt for not mentioning Hunter. But these people don't need to know my entire life story yet. “What do you guys do for fun around here?”

Emma sighs prettily. “Not much, I'm afraid. I'm originally from Seattle, and I have yet to adapt to the total lack of things to do in Truman. We go into Tulsa a lot. Shop, eat, hit some hot spots.”

I watch the cafeteria crowd as my table enters into a conversation about kids I have yet to meet. I'm living a fashion nightmare. Jeans of every color and style. Shoes that do not match outfits. A blatant disregard for root maintenance. Is this what I'll look like in a year?
You will not suck me in, Truman!

“So ... Brittany...” Girl who is still staring me down like a rabid schnauzer. “How long have you lived in Truman? Where are you from?”

Emma giggles. “Oh, our Brit's not a transplant. She's an original.”

“But we let her hang out with us anyway.” Jared nudges Brittany with an elbow. Her face breaks into a reluctant smile.

“Maybe you can help me learn my way around here, then.”

Brittany steals a fry off Jared's tray. “Right. Hey, Emma, are we still going shopping Wednesday night?”

“I know! Bella can go shopping with us, right, Brit?” Emma doesn't wait for her answer. “We'll show you Tulsa, then top off the evening at our favorite burger place.”

My spirits lift at the magical, therapeutic mention of shopping. “I would love that.”
Than You, God, forgiving me friends on day one.
Especially friends who appreciate a night out with the credit cards.

We rush through the rest of lunch, and the gang fills me in on local gossip, pointing out the troublemakers, the shady characters, and the wannabes in the room. I laugh at all their stories and file away the information.

Things learned at Truman High so far:

One, do not get on this group's bad side.

Two, avoid the burritos.

chapter seven

H
ow was school?” Mom closes her book,
Parenting a Teen
Without Being Mean,
when I open the car door.

I shut myself in the Tahoe and dissolve into the seat, tired but grateful to be alone with my mother without the Finley men.

“I arrived a sweaty mess. The school secretary wouldn't let me into my classes until I passed a smell test, and I have English with Budge.” I sigh and rest my head on the door. “I'm just a fish out of water here. A Jimmy Choo in a sea of Payless BOGOs.”

“We both have to adapt. You thin I'm not struggling?” She holds up her book. “I haven't had a six-year-old in the house in a long time. And when I did, I had help.”

“I miss Luisa.” My nanny would listen to my sad Oklahoma stories, fix me a cup of homemade hot chocolate, and tell me everything would get better. My mom used to be so busy with working out, charity events, and a collection of other random hobbies that I only saw her an hour or so a day. This new version of Mom is kinda freaking me out.

She drives us to the crumbling Victorian I am now forced to call home. The farm truck sits in the front yard, hoisted up on blocks. Two legs stick out from beneath it.

I reach for the door handle. “The day a toilet seat appears on the front porch, I am so gone.”

“Give this a chance.”

“Hey, guys!” Robbie tears out of the house, barefoot and wearing his usual cape. “Look what I did in school today. Guess what it is.”

He holds up a finger-painted blob of red, white, and blue.

“Oh ...” My mother frowns, clearly searching for words. “Is it a . . . ball?”

“Nope.” Strike one for Mom.

“A puppy?”

“Get real, lady.”

“A self-portrait?”

“It's a symbolic representation of my patriotic feelings.”

I can only nod.

“I watch a lot of CNN.” And Robbie pivots on his bare heel and runs back into the house.

“You probably ought to order some more of those books, Mom.”

Jake slides himself out from under the rusted blue heap, wipes his sweating head with a handkerchief, and moseys our way. He wraps his trunk-sized arms around my mom and plants one right on her lips.

Ew.

“Did your day get any better, Bella?”

I give him my best plastic smile. “It was lovely. Can't wait to do it again tomorrow.”

The screen door opens and smacks shut again, with Robbie squealing and running. “Oh, Daddy! Oh no, Daddy!” He tornadoes in our direction, running right into his dad. “She's gone!” His eyes are huge and serious, his breathing ragged.

“Who's gone, Son?”

“Betsy. She's run away. After all we've been through, she left me.”

“Who's Betsy?” Mom asks.

“His cow.”

My stomach does a strange flop. “What does Betsy look like? ”

Robbie raises his head and pins his eyes on mine. “Like a cow.”

“I'm sure she's there. Let's go grab her a little snack, and we'll find her.”

Jake and his hysterical son disappear behind the house.

“Don't worry, Bel. This is just part of farm life.” Mom wraps her arm around my shoulders and guides me inside. “Why don't you come and talk to me while I start dinner.”

“You don't cook, Mom.”

“I do now.”

An hour later, I'm peeling carrots for Mom's secret recipe when Jake and Robbie return, followed by Budge. Jake hangs his ball cap on a peg in the kitchen, Robbie runs upstairs like his pants are on fire, and Budge lurks in the doorway, his face drawn.

“Did you find Betsy?” Mom stirs at the stove, reading from her cut-out recipe.

“No.” Jake's gray eyes land on me. “Did you shut the gate when you drove the truck out this morning?”

I swallow. “No.”

Budge sneers. “Didn't you see the cow?”

“Yes, Budge, I did. Not only did I see it, I was totally violated by it, in case anybody cares. I could've been seriously hurt.”

My stepbrother laughs and shakes his head. “Afraid she'd lick you to death? That cow wouldn't step on an ant, let alone iwther you.”

I jerk the peeler over a carrot. “Like I'd know that!” I turn my attention to Jake. “I'm sorry. I was late for school and . . . stressed.”
And nobody gave a crap.
And then the cow wouldn't leave me alone. I've never even
touched
a cow before, and then he, er, she, was all up in my business, and—”

“She's Robbie's pet. He got her from his mama's parents when he was born.” The room silences at Jake's statement.

I stare at the pile of orange in the bowl. “I'm sorry. I didn't know. But there was that cattle guard thingy, and—”

Budge smirks. “Cows can jump that.”

“How could I know your magic cow could hurdle something
made
to keep her in? Does that make any sense? I mean, what is the purpose of having a cattle guard if it doesn't
guard
the cattle?”

“That's enough,” Jake says.

“Your son leaves me stranded here this morning, and I'm the one in trouble?”

Jake holds up a hand the size of a tractor wheel. “Nobody said you were in trouble. I'm just trying to piece this all together. If she's been out since this morning . . . well, we'll have to widen our area of search.”

Budge looks at me like I have peas for brains. “He means we might not find her. She could be caught in something and hurt by now. Good job.”

My cat takes that moment to appear at my ankle and curls herself around it, purring.

Budge sneezes and wipes his eyes. “Get that cat out.”

“She can't go outside. She doesn't have any claws.” I pick Moxie up and pull her close.

Budge sneezes again and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Hon, maybe you could take her out of the kitchen.” Mom shoots me a warning glance. “Please.”

Clutching my cat, my only piece of home, I stomp up the stairs and slam my bedroom door.

I put my iPod earbuds in, fire up my laptop, and log on to the
Ask Miss Hilliard
blog. I need to touch base with normal. Reconnect with real.

Dear Sisters of Hilliard,

Greetings from the heartland!

Miss Hilliard texted me today and said she has been getting
lots
of queries as to my situation. I am so humbled by your
concern. What true friends you all are. And believe me, I could
use the support.

I will spare you most of the details, but this morning I was
expected to ride to school in a hearse. I refused, of course. Then
I was accosted by a wild animal in a field. This beast clearly
could've used a session of Mrs. Harbinger's Manners IOI.

Next I was forced to drive an old, unreliable truck to
school, but of course, it left me stranded on the side of the road,
forcing me to walk for miles and practically ruin my heels. And
it's not like I can just run downtown and replace them, right? In
fact, if these people have a place to shop in this city, I have yet
to see it. Unless you need a part for your John Deere.

Ta-ta for now, ladies. I appreciate the thoughts and
prayers passed my way. I need them. These are troubled times
we
live in—the crisis in the Middle East, the decaying environment,
and me stuck in cow town.

Inhale some smog for me,
Your former
Ask Miss Hilliard