As soon as we were in the school building, Ollie said, "I'll catch up with you in a bit, all right?"
He lifted his arm from my shoulder, leaving a weird antitrace of him, cold and light.
"You going up to the common room?" I asked, knowing full well he was. It was supposed to be only for hanging out during free periods or after school, but that didn't stop some people.
"Pool tournament," he said. "I'll miss my slot if I don't go upstairs." A cheeky dimple played at the corner of his mouth. "Come with me?"
I wrinkled my nose. Skipping homeroom wasn't really okay, and let's face it, I was a fair-weather rebel—only likely to revolt if I was lost in a crowd. I might have moaned about things but I usually toed the line. Sad, eh? I said, "I'll come up later. I need to see Frankie."
"Off you go, then, like a good girl." He pulled me close so our noses were touching. "My bad-good girl."
He slid his hand over my butt before pulling away, grinning.
What had Fifteen said to him? Whatever it was, I could guarantee she'd have deleted the whole message thread so I'd never know.
"Later, then," he said and walked away.
"Yeah, sorry," I said to his disappearing back. Would Fifteen have followed him? Maybe. Probably not. She'd have made up a better excuse, though. Colored her reason with something important—definitely not because she wanted to see her homeroom teacher. I rubbed the back of my neck. Thinking about Fifteen sent a grinding ache up through my spine and into my head.
I shoved open the door to the textiles room, slung my bag on the floor, and flopped into the old patchwork armchair that Mads and I usually shared. It was a former student's project, and since our first day in the classroom, we'd made it ours.
I liked Miss Francis, Frankie, our homeroom teacher. She was my textiles teacher too—that's why homeroom was in her lovely, cluttered old hippie classroom. I loved spending time in there—the walls hung with students' work, cushion covers and tapestries, the warm smell of wool and creativity.
There were usually only a dozen of us there. All in various combinations of skirts and trousers topped off with the school sweatshirt—the only sort of uniform we had to wear. Lola and Barnet nodded at me. They were sitting on a long work surface under the window, joined at the head by shared headphones and Lola's iPod. I can't remember Barnet's real name, it was long forgotten in the midst of eighth grade, when she'd first tried out one of her crazy, ever-changing hairstyles. That morning, as I waited for Mads to come in, Barnet's hair was an astonishing pink bob, so bright it hurt my eyes, and shaved off completely over one ear. At the back of the class were the shadowy, quiet people whose names I only remembered when Frankie called attendance. Kevin, Whatsit, and the Skinny Girl. Maddy arrived with Miss Francis.
Frankie had her hair tied up in a 1940s headscarf thing; she gave it a tweak and the two ends flopped forward like droopy blue rabbit ears.
"You are rockin' that bunny look, Miss," Maddy said, perching next to me on the arm of the chair.
"Yes, I am rather proud of it, Madeeha. That reminds me, have you thought any more about joining the debate team?"
Maddy said, "Bunny ears reminded you about the debate team?"
"No. You being a smarty-pants reminded me about your personal statement. You should try for MIT, Maddy, you really should."
"God, I've already said, I'm not going to a fancy college with all its secret societies and legacy kids. I'll never fit in, and I don't want to. College is ages away anyhow." Whenever Maddy talked about going to MIT or one of the Ivies her accent went insanely rough, like some sort of antidote to any thoughts she had of actually going there.
Frankie went on. "Application deadlines are just a few months away."
"That's what I said," Maddy replied. "Ages."
I grunted as she slithered off the arm of the chair, onto my lap. "Get off, you lump. You're squeezing the breath out of me. Mads, move."
Frankie interrupted our wrestle for the comfiest spot in the chair.
"I have reminder notes for Alice and Teva."
Alice. That's what the Skinny Girl was called. Why could I never remember?
Frankie leaned around Maddy as if I wasn't being used as a human cushion and handed me the pale green slip of folded paper. I shoved it in my pocket, levering Maddy off my lap as I did.
Maddy said, "I never understood why you need tutoring. You're brilliant at English."
I shrugged. "Sally Gardner is dyslexic, Mads, and she won the Carnegie Medal—dyslexia doesn't mean you can't write. I just need a bit of extra help, that's all."
I was glad when the school bell split the air, marking first period. Outright lying to Maddy made my skin itch. The bit about Sally Gardner was true, but I was not dyslexic.
Frankie dismissed us with a wave of her hand. "Off you go, then, faithful gang. Have a good morning."
I fingered the little slip of paper in my pocket and absentmindedly picked up my bag. Frankie said, "Where are you going, Miss Webb? You're with me this morning, aren't you?"
"Oh yeah. Sorry."
"Well, get your work out, I won't be a minute."
Frankie slipped out of the room with everyone else. Alone, I unstapled the note: 10:00 Room 7 School Counselor.
I scratched at the inside of my left elbow. As soon as I did it, I was sorry. Within seconds my arms and shoulders prickled all over. My lurking itch flared to a screaming need to claw my skin. Why did I never learn?
"Dammit."
I raked at my arms and upper back until they flamed with delicious satisfaction, but as soon as I stopped, I burned. My soft school sweatshirt felt like it was lined with a thousand needle tips. I scrabbled through my bag for my cream. I was an expert at applying it under my clothes, and slowly the savage fire gave way to damp, cloying calm. I wound my hands together until the last of it had soaked in, covering my fingers with a greasy layer that would make it nearly impossible to sew. Brilliant.
I slapped the huge plastic folder full of my project work down on the desk in front of me. It was cracking where I kept folding it in half and shoving it in my bag. I was glad Frankie hadn't seen the state of it. I tried to smooth it out a bit. The rest of my textiles class trickled in, murmuring sleepy good mornings. Bags were thrown under chairs and more plastic folders were flopped onto tables. The desks were soon covered in an array of fabric and scribbled notes. I slid out the tweed corset I was making. It was British army khaki on the outside with a Union Jack silk lining. The tattered skin on my thumb snagged on the lining every time I worked it.
My corset looked all right, though. I was really pleased with it, actually. My job for that morning was making the scarlet poppies that would twist down the front and over the left shoulder.
Tommo dropped heavily into the seat next to me. He was the only guy doing textiles. Tall, broad, and with a six-pack he was always ready to show off, Tommo was not the kind of boy you'd expect in a sewing class. All his friends had made fun of him when he'd signed up, but he'd just smiled and said, "Girls, man—who's the fool?"
He laid his perfect black folder on the desk and then kissed me on the cheek, sparking a wild blush across my face.
"Morning, gorgeous," he said, oblivious to my bright pink cheeks. He held the edge of my corset between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the fabric, and said, "That's looking awesome."
I smiled, pleased.
"Now you've shown me yours, I'll show you mine."
From the smooth covers of his folder he slipped out the black-and-white Playboy bunny corset he was making. It was such a soft porn cliché, it made me laugh every time I saw it. You had to hand it to him, though—for a guy with the hands of a giant, he'd done a good job.
"You took care of those sequins around the top, then?" I said—he'd been having trouble securing them.
"Yeah, just call me Mr. Fixit."
"Looks good," I said as Frankie came bounding back into class with a big grin on her face. She clapped her hands excitedly.
"News, I have news! You are going to love it. Mr. Blackwell has agreed that you can model your corsets in the fashion show!"
Mouths dropped open all around the classroom. I could literally feel the shock waves. What was she thinking? I looked at her happy face. Was she insane? There was no way on god's earth I was standing onstage in my underwear.
Cold horror balled in my stomach. This was exactly what I'd been trying to avoid. Like I was going to put my hideous skin on display. I'd managed to keep myself hidden through the whole of school—and that wasn't easy in PE, I can tell you; Mom had to write notes pretending I suffered really badly with the cold and needed to wear base layers and tracksuit bottoms even on the hottest days. No. This was not happening. The woman really was insane. Didn't I have enough to cope with?
