Pretty Crooked (2 page)

“I’m sorry. It’s just—no one really rides bikes around here. I just wasn’t expecting—I didn’t see—”

I shook my head and tried to smile. “It’s okay, really.”

“Do you want me to take you to the nurse?”

“No worries,” I said, doing my best impression of someone who, like, hadn’t been hit by a car. The last thing I wanted was to go to the nurse’s office on the first day of school.

“Are you sure? Because you could be in shock or something.” She leaned in and stared into my face, as if examining me. Her brown eyes were earnest, and subtly emphasized with silvery shadow. “I’m a doctor’s daughter. I know about this stuff.”

“Seriously.” I smiled and wiggled my fingers so she could see. “I appreciate it, though.”

She shrugged, holding out her arms helplessly. “If you’re sure… Well, I guess I should just go park my car then.”

I waved her on. At that point I was more embarrassed than anything else. Did my entrance need to be so dramatic? Did the very first person I meet here have to be the one who almost killed me?

Smooth, Willa. Really smooth
.

I secured my bike against the rack, where it was, as the girl had noted, the only one. I patted the seat, as if to reassure it that I would be back soon.

On the curb, I adjusted my favorite sleeveless black top, straightening its row of mother-of-pearl buttons. My fingers prickled with nerves—my usual first-day jitters spiked with a surge of fight-or-flight adrenaline.

Never mind. I’d escaped the Jetta unscathed. Onward and upward. Right?

Entrance, take two. And, scene…

I took a deep breath, trying to regain my composure before joining a swelling flow of students on the brick-paved walkway. I could hear kids greeting one another excitedly, talking about their vacations.

“We did the Maldives,” a tall, tanned girl to my right was saying. “You should totally come with us next summer.”

The nodding girl next to her was carrying a Chanel purse and wearing a white silk blouse, her blond hair tied back in an elaborate knot. “I heard that yacht race was amazing.”

I followed them through a gated archway into a central courtyard where bougainvillea flowers spilled out of hanging planters, a fountain gurgled cool water, and students were standing around in twos and threes, probably waiting for the bell to ring. I’d been to a lot of schools over the years, sure, but none that seemed quite this
rich
. It was just dripping off of them—not just their clothes and jewelry and bags, but their teeth and skin and hair.

Even the kid lying on a bench at the courtyard’s far end looked perfectly groomed, like his tattered henley shirt and longish mop of surfer hair could’ve come from a catalog or something. Preppy hobos—could that be a trend?

For the second time this morning, I felt out of place, and now it wasn’t just the bike. It was the way I looked. I cared about fashion as much as the next girl, but I’d
always bought vintage and sewn whatever needed updating myself. My style was my own—after all, not just anyone could rock a shoulder-padded faux-fur jacket. And, well, in public school, where there were all sorts of fashion statements and disasters on a daily basis, no one had ever seemed to care what I wore. But now I could feel eyes on my nondesigner skirt as I crossed the courtyard. Eyes of the very worst kind.

Girl eyes.

Okay, maybe I was a little afraid of girls. Most of my friends at the other schools had been guys. It was just easier, as a new person, to find dudes to hang out with. The girl cliques were almost never looking for new members, while guys were like social ShamWows—they could just keep absorbing new kids into the fold. There was no jealousy, no hating, no jockeying for status. No questions, either. I suspected it would be the same here, so I was keeping my eyes open for any obvious dude-friend candidates.

I continued on through the double glass doors to look for my locker. Though the campus stretched over two hundred acres, Valley Prep was small, especially compared to my last school. The website said that there were only 150 students in every grade, so everyone knew everyone, or at least it seemed that way as I dodged around more girls hugging and squealing, “Oh my God!”

I opened my lonely, hollow locker and stared into
it, trying to stay positive. The first day was always the hardest, but it was only one day. Right now this was a bunch of strangers, but eventually I would know who they all were, I reminded myself. Their names, their siblings, who hooked up with who, and which of them made freshmen cry. Eventually, all the unfamiliar pieces would come together like little pixels to make a picture.

This thought calmed me, as did a quick swipe of lip balm. I checked myself in my compact mirror. My hair still looked good, artfully tousled, even after the fall. Cheeks, still freckly. The touch of mascara I’d flicked on to set off my hazel eyes was still unsmeared.

Okay, now get on with it
.

I allowed some girls to pass, then looked both ways before crossing the path.

The one thing I’ve learned is that starting up at a new school is kind of like a stealth operation. You watch. You wait. You look for your opening. But only then do you make any moves.

“Hey, hang on,” called a voice from behind me. At first I assumed it was meant for someone else, but when she called out again, I turned around. It was the girl from the parking lot. She was listening to her iPod and carrying a brown leather backpack. “Where are you headed?”

“Homeroom, I think?” I unfolded the schedule I’d gotten in the mail and read from it. “Davenport.”

“Me too.” Matching dimples framed her pink-glossed
smile. She gestured for me to follow her. “I’ll take you there.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I do. It’s kind of a rule with me.” I could see now, as we fell into step, that it wasn’t just the smile—her entire face radiated openness and warmth. “After I almost kill someone, I like to offer my escort services. Besides, if you’re not careful you’ll end up in the Claymation lab or the robotics team headquarters. The tech geeks will eat you alive.”

I laughed. “I
do
have recurring robot nightmares.”

“You see?” We rounded the corner into another wing of the building and I was immediately glad she was with me—I knew I would be totally lost otherwise, walking around with that dreaded new-kid squint. A stream of people greeted us—well, her, really—as we walked past, and she was friendly to everyone. She held the door open for me in the stairwell. “So you’re new.”

“Is it that obvious?” I asked.

“No offense or anything, but, yeah. When you’ve been here forever like I have, you can spot ’em pretty easy. And that bike is kind of a giveaway.”

“How long is forever?”

“I’m a lifer. I started Prep in kindergarten.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s a long time in one place.” I was thinking, of course, of my own North American tour of educational institutions.

“No joke.” She sighed. “We had to wear those little
skirts and everything. Glad
that’s
over. Now it’s just the stupid dress code—no T-shirts, no hats, no slutwear. But I can work around that.”

She unbuttoned her blazer to show me a T-shirt with the words
Hella Kitty
on it.

“Crafty,” I said. Maybe this was a girl I could actually get along with.

We found the classroom and sat down at an oblong table. She pulled out her earbuds.

“What were you listening to?” I asked her.

“Old school.
Midnight Marauders
by A Tribe Called Quest. Q-Tip is an effing god. Wanna listen?” She handed me the headphones and I slipped them in my ears. Involuntarily, my head started to swivel.

She pulsed her own head with approval. “That’s my jam. It’ll colonize your brain. When I DJ, it’s the first track I play to get it started.”

I looked around, feeling self-conscious about dancing in homeroom. “You better take these back,” I said. “I might do something I regret, like pop and lock.”

She laughed, throwing her head back as she wrapped her headphones around the iPod and deposited it into her bag. “Hey, we need some b-girls in here.”

The homeroom teacher came in, a stout woman with short, graying hair and round glasses. She introduced herself as Ms. Davenport. Then she started going over the rules of homeroom: official policies on lateness, gum-chewing, hat-wearage.

“Sorry again about the whole parking-lot thing,” the girl whispered. “I’m Cherise Jackson, by the way.”

“Willa,” I said. “Willa Fox.”

And then the alarm went off.

When I say “went off,” I mean full-scale audio assault. Like the chimes of the apocalypse.

Mass pandemonium followed as everyone in the classroom stood up and ran for the doorway, including a panicked-looking Ms. Davenport, who was calling after us, “This was not scheduled, people. This is not a drill.”

I stumbled out into the hallway, where the lights were strobing and the parade of moving feet made a thunderous sound. The line was anything but single file, which made me wonder if they’d ever done a fire drill in the history of the school.

Cherise was beside me and we were practically jogging to the exit to avoid getting stampeded. “All of our parents’ tuition money … up in flames!”

“You think this is it?” I panted. “But I just got here.”

“Well, it was good while it lasted, right? At least you didn’t have to write any papers.”

Eventually, we spilled out into the front parking lot. Already two cop cars had pulled in, lights flashing, followed by an ambulance and three fire trucks. More sirens wailed in the distance. Apparently, Valley Prep was pretty well protected. Not that I would have expected any less. Ol’ Weston A. Block knew what was up.

In the crowd, people were chattering and peering back at the building nervously. There were no obvious signs of fire, but if it wasn’t a drill, something had to be going on. A lab explosion? Poisonous gas? A bomb threat? That had happened at one of my old schools and we’d all gotten two days off.

“I heard someone lit up a tree in the auditorium,” a kid behind me said.

“Man, how come I wasn’t invited?” his friend said.

I craned my neck to catch sight of Cherise. I’d been trying to follow her but she’d disappeared into the crowd. Someone grabbed my elbow. I whipped around, thinking it was her.

“Looking for me?” the guy attached to the hand on my elbow asked.

It was the shaggy-haired kid with the polo shirt I’d noticed that morning in the courtyard. “Uh, do I know you?” I said.

“I don’t know. Do you?” he said, breaking into a grin and flicking his hair out of his face. I could see now that his eyes were a greenish-gray color, accentuated by his blue henley. He had strong features, a not-quite-straight nose, and a soft-looking mouth that contrasted with a geometric jawline you could cut ice on.

Utter hotness.

I inhaled, without really breathing.

C’mon, brain
. “Well, I’ve heard a few things.”

“What kind of things?” His voice was deep but also
round at the edges, like melting caramel.

“You know. Things,” I said, trying to be mysterious while desperately trying to summon up some wit.

Seriously, Willa? Is that the best you can do
?

“From who? The Glitterati?” he asked, tilting his head to gesture behind me.

I followed his gaze to two pretty, perfect-looking girls. They had their phones out and were laughing with the air of people who know they’re the center of attention.

“Forget what they say about me,” the hottie added. I turned my gaze back to him. “It’s all vicious lies.”

“Whoever they are,” I said, disoriented by the alarm, by the strange place, by this specimen in front of me. “Whoever
you
are.”

“Well, you’re definitely new to VP if you don’t know who the Glitterati are,” he said with what looked like an ironic smile. “Everyone knows who they are.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m pretty famous, actually.” He flashed his baby greens at me.

“And you are…?”

“Aidan.” He stuck out his hand, which was firm and dry. Unlike mine, which I was sure felt like a sponge at this point. “Wait. Let me guess. You’re Chloe? No, Samantha. Jasmine?”

“Willa,” I said, trying to ignore the fluttering in my chest. This Aidan character was having some sort of
weird impact on my nervous system. I snuck another glance in his direction. Maybe he could be a friend … or something.

“Well, Willa, welcome to my party,” he said, grinning.

“Your party?” I squinted at him in confusion.

He gestured all around us. “Exactly.”

Perhaps the radioactive rays of Aidan’s hotness had scrambled my neurons, because I apparently no longer understood the English language.

“Here they come,” he said, watching the three policemen that were now running toward the building. A fire truck had pulled up to the Upper School entrance and a fireman hopped out, approaching the doorway. “Right on schedule.”

I looked at him and pointed to the ambulances and cop cars. “Wait a minute. You mean,
this
is your party?”

He grinned, looking proud of himself. “Isn’t it magical?”

Hold the phone, hormones
.

Was I supposed to be impressed? By a fake fire alarm? What was he, in third grade? Because I’d seen that hot-paper-towel trick before. “Isn’t that illegal?”

He shrugged. “Senior year only comes around once in a lifetime, you know? I’ve gotta find a way to make a mark.”

“Which is to get yourself suspended?”

“I won’t. That’s the pathetic thing. My dad is one of
the biggest donors to the annual fund.” Again with the dashing grin.

“And your message is what, exactly?”

“I don’t need a message. My actions speak for themselves.”

I gave him a sarcastic thumbs-up. “Way to stick it to the man.”

“Hey, I got everyone out of their boring classes.”

Ugh. Only a grade-A narcissist wouldn’t care that he was making us all look like idiots for his own thrills. Knowing that he’d never get in trouble because Daddy could buy his way out of it.

“You can thank me later.” He winked and walked away.