Someone Like You (6 page)

“Let's go then,” she said grudgingly, getting out of the car and slamming the door behind her, hitching her backpack over one shoulder. I followed, merging into the crowd that carried us down through the teachers' parking lot to the courtyard in front of the main building. The first bell rang and everyone moved inside, suddenly thrown together in front of the doors and causing a major traffic jam of bodies and backpacks, elbows and feet, a tide I let carry me down the hallway to my homeroom, keeping my eye on the back of Scarlett's red head.

“This is it,” I said as we came up on Mr. Alexander's door, which was decorated with cardboard cutout frogs.

“Good luck,” Scarlett called out, pulling open the door of her own homeroom and rolling her eyes one last time as she disappeared inside.

Mr. Alexander's room already smelled of formaldehyde and he smiled at me, mustache wriggling, as I took my seat. The first day was always the same: they took roll, handed out schedules, and sent home about ten million different memos to your parents about busing and cafeteria rates and school rules. Beside me Ben Cruzak was already stoned and sleeping, head on his desk, with Missy Cavenaugh behind him doing her fingernails. Even the snake on Mr. Alexander's counter looked bored, after eating a mouse for the audience of science geeks who always hung out before first bell.

After about fifteen minutes of continuous droning over the intercom and a stack of memos an inch high on my desk, Alexander finally handed out our schedules. I could tell right away something was wrong with mine; I was signed up for Pre-calculus (when I hadn't even taken Algebra Two), French Three (when I took Spanish), and, worst of all, Band.

“Have a good day!” Alexander yelled above the bell as everyone headed toward the door. I went up to his desk. “Halley. Yes?”

“My schedule is wrong,” I said. “I'm signed up for Band.”

“Band?”

“Yes. And Pre-cal and French Three, and none of those are my classes.”

“Hmmm,” he said, and he was already looking over my head at the people streaming in, his first class. “Better go to your first class and get a pass to Guidance.”

“But...”

He stood up, his mustache already moving. “Okay, people, take a seat and I'll be sending around a chart for you to fill in your chosen spot. This will be the seating chart for the rest of the semester, so I suggest you choose carefully. Don't tap on that glass, it makes the snake crazy. Now, this is Intro to Biology, so if you don't belong here...”

I walked out into the hallway, where Scarlett was leaning against the fire extinguisher waiting for me. “Hey. What's your first class?”

“Pre-cal.”

“What? You haven't taken Algebra Two yet.”

“I know.” I switched my backpack to my other shoulder, already sick of school. “My schedule is so messed up. I'm signed up for Band.”

“Band?”

“Yes.” I stepped aside to let a pack of football players pass. “I have to go to Guidance.”

“Oh, that sucks,” she said. “I've got English and then Commercial Design, so I'll meet you after, okay? In the courtyard by the soda machines.”

“I'm supposed to be in Band then,” I said glumly.

“They can't force you to take Band,” she said, laughing. I just looked at her. “They can't. Go to Guidance and I'll see you later.”

The Guidance office was packed with people leaning against the walls and sitting on the floor, all waiting for the three available counselors. The receptionist, whose phone was ringing shrilly, nonstop, looked up at me with the crazed eyes of a rabid animal.

“What?” She had the kind of glasses that made her eyes seem wider than platters, magnified hundreds of times. “What do you need?”

“My schedule's all wrong,” I said as the phone rang again, the row of red lights across it blinking. “I need to see a counselor.”

“Right, okay,” she said, grabbing the phone and holding one finger up at me, like she was pushing a pause button. “Hello, Guidance office. No, he's not available now. Okay. Right, sure. Fine.” She hung the phone up, the cord wrapped around her wrist. “Now, what? You need a counselor?”

“I got the wrong schedule. I'm signed up for Band.”

“Band?” she blinked at me. “What's wrong with Band?”

“Nothing,” I said as a kid carrying a clarinet case passed me, scowling. I lowered my voice. “Except I don't play an instrument. I mean, I've never been in Band.”

“Well,” she said slowly as the phone rang again, “maybe it's Introduction to Band. That's the beginning level.”

“I never signed up for Band,” I said a little bit louder, just to be heard over the phone. “I don't want to take it.”

“Fine, well, then write your name on this sheet,” she snapped, losing all patience whatsoever with debating the merits of musical training and grabbing the phone again in mid-ring. “We'll get to you as soon as we can.”

I took a seat against the wall, under a shelf with a row of teenager-related books on it, with titles like
Sharing Our Differences: Understanding Your Adolescent and Peer Pressure: Finding Your Own Way.
My mother's second book,
Mixed Emotions: Mothers, Daughters, and the High School Years, was there
too, which just put me in a worse mood. If I'd really felt like torturing myself, I could have picked it up and read again how good and strong our relationship was.

It was hot in the room, and everyone was talking too loud, crammed in together. A girl next to me was busy writing Die Die Die in all different colors on the cover of her notebook, a stack of Magic Markers beside her. I closed my eyes, thinking back to summer and cool pool water and long days with nothing to do except go swimming and sleep late.

I felt someone sit down beside me, leaning back against the wall close enough that their shoulder bumped mine. I pulled my arms across my chest, folding my knees against me. Then I felt a finger against my shoulder,
poke poke poke.
I opened my eyes, bracing myself for hours in Guidance Hell with Ginny Tabor.

But it wasn't Ginny. It was Macon Faulkner, and he was grinning at me. “What'd you do?” he asked.

“What?” The
Die Die Die
girl had switched to the back cover, methodically filling letter after letter with green ink.

“What'd you do?” he said again, then gestured toward the front desk. “It's only the first day and you're already in trouble.”

“I am not,” I said. “My schedule's messed up.”

“Oh, sure,” he said slowly, faking suspicion. He had on a baseball cap, his blond hair sticking out beneath, and a red T-shirt and jeans. He didn't have a backpack, just one plain spiral notebook with a pen stuck in the binding. Macon Faulkner was definitely not the school type. “You've probably already gotten into a fight and been suspended.”

“No,” I said, and I don't know if it was just the day I'd had or a sudden wave of Scarlett-like boldness, but I wasn't nervous talking to him.
“I got signed up for all the wrong classes.”

“Sure you did,” he said easily. He settled back against the wall. “Now, you know how to handle yourself in there, right?”

I looked at him. “What?”

“How to handle yourself,” He blinked at me. “Oh, please. You need big help. Okay, listen up. First, admit nothing. That's the most important rule.”

“I'm not in trouble,” I told him.

“Second,” he said loudly, ignoring me, “try to divert them by mentioning anything about your therapist. For instance, say, ‘My therapist always says I have a problem with authority.' Act real serious about it. Just the word ‘therapist' will usually cut you some slack.”

I laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“It's true. And if that doesn't work, use the Jedi Mind Trick. But only if you really have to.”

“The what?”

“The Jedi Mind Trick.” He looked at me. “Didn't you
ever see Star Wars?”

I thought back. “Sure I did.”

“The Jedi Mind Trick is when you tell someone what you want them to think, and then they think it. Like, say I'm Mr. Mathers. And I say, ‘Macon, you're already pushing the limits and it's only the first day of school. Is this any kind of way to start the year?' And you're me. What do you say?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

He rolled his eyes. “You say, ‘Mr. Mathers, you're going to let this slide, because it's only the first day, it was an honest mistake, and the fire got put out as quickly as it was started.”'

“The fire?” I said. “What fire?”

“The point is,” he said easily, flipping his hand, “that you just say that right back to him, very confidently. And then what does he say?”

“That you're crazy?”

“No. He says, ‘Well, Macon, I'm going to let this slide because it's only the first day, it was an honest mistake, and the fire got put out as quickly as it started.'”

I laughed. “He will not.”

“He will,” he said, nodding his head. “It's the Jedi Mind Trick. Trust me.” And when he smiled at me, I almost did.

“I'm really not in trouble.” I handed him my schedule. “Unless that trick works on getting out of this stuff, I don't think I can use it.”

He squinted at it. “Pre-calculus.” He looked up at me, raising his eyebrows. “Really?”

“No. I barely got through Algebra.”

He nodded at this; obviously we now had common ground. “French, P.E.... Hey, we're in the same P.E, period.”

“Really?” Macon Faulkner and me, playing badminton. Learning golf strokes. Watching each other across a gymful of bouncing basketballs.

“Yep. Third period.” He kept reading, then reached up to take off his hat, shake his hair free, and put it back on backwards. “Science, English, blah, blah.... Oh! Looky here.”

I already knew what was coming.

“Band,” he said, smiling big. “You're in Band.”

“I am not in Band,” I said loudly, and that same kid with the clarinet looked over at me again. “It's a big mistake and no one believes me.”

“What do you play?” he asked me.

“I don't,” I said. I was trying to be indignant but he was so cute. I had no idea why he was even talking to me.

“You look like the flute type,” he said thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “Or maybe the piccolo.”

“Shut up,” I said, surprising myself with my boldness.

He was laughing, shaking his head. “Maybe the triangle?” He held up his hand, pretending to hold one, and struck it wistfully with an imaginary wand.

“Leave me alone,” I moaned, putting my head in my hands and secretly hoping more than anything that he wouldn't.

“Oh, now,” he said, and I felt his hand come around my shoulder, squeezing it, and I wanted to die right there. “I'm just razzing you.”

“This has been the worst day,” I said as he took his arm back, sliding it across my shoulders. “The worst.”

“Faulkner.” The voice was loud, quieting down the entire room, and as I looked up I saw Mr. Mathers, the junior class head counselor, standing by the front desk, a folder in his hands. He didn't look happy. “Come on.”

“That's me,” Macon said cheerfully, standing up and grabbing his notebook. He tapped the side of his head with a finger, winking at me. “Remember. Jedi Mind Trick.”

“Right,” I said, nodding.

“See ya later, Halley,” he said. He took his time walking over to Mr. Mathers, who clamped a hand on his shoulder and led him down the hallway. I couldn't believe he'd even remembered my name. The
Die Die Die
girl was staring at me now, as if by my short encounter with Macon Faulkner I was suddenly more important or worth noticing. I definitely felt different. Macon Faulkner, who before had said less than seven words to me total in my entire lifetime, had just appeared and talked to me for, like, minutes. As if we were friends, buddies, after only one day of knowing each other formally. It gave me a weird, jumpy feeling in my stomach and I thought suddenly of Scarlett, standing at register eight at Milton's, blushing down at a kiwi fruit.

“Hal—Hal Cooke. Is there a Hal Cooke here?” someone was saying in a bored voice from the front desk, and whatever elation I was experiencing screeched to a halt. It is times like the first day of school that I curse my parents for not naming me Jane or Lisa.

I stood up, grabbing my backpack. The counselor by the front desk, a huge African-American woman in a bright pink suit, was still trying to make out my name. “Halley,” I said as I got closer. “It's Halley.”

“Umm-hmmm.” She turned around and gestured for me to follow her down the hall past two offices to door number three. As I passed the middle door I thought I heard Macon's voice from behind the half-shut door, the low rumbling of Mr. Mathers mixing in. I wondered if his trick was working.

I had almost forgotten him altogether when I finally emerged, bruised and tired, with my new schedule in my hand, standing dazed outside the Guidance office as the bell ending second period rang and people suddenly began pouring out of classrooms and hallways. I went to the Coke machine to find Scarlett.

“Hey,” she called out to me over the crowd of people pushing forward with their quarters and dollar bills, mad for soda. She waved two Cokes over her head, and I followed them until I found her against the far wall, the same one Michael Sherwood had his picture snapped against for the slide show.

She handed me a Coke. “How's Band?”

“Great,” I said, opening my can and taking a long drink. “They say I'm a prodigy already at the oboe.”