The Inside of Out (7 page)

Pre-calc. Fourth period. The Beck sat in her usual spot in back, auburn ponytail hanging perfectly vertical, posture erect, notebooks and pencils arranged in perpendicular rows on her desk. Nothing new. But her mouth was welded shut and her blue eyes focused ahead, like she was trying to drill a hole into the whiteboard with her brain.

Natalie had two underlings in this class, both longtime high-ranking officials in the We Hate Daisy Army. Madison Speiss was a dyed-blond, five-one terror whose father owned a Jaguar dealership or seven, while Dana Costas was a more muted shade of awful, the kind of girl who might have been gorgeous if she weren't constantly fidgeting with her curly hair and her clothes. On more than one occasion, I'd walked into the girls' room to catch her staring sadly at herself in the restroom mirrors and had to fight the urge to whisper, “The problem is with your
souuuuuuul
.”

Today, in her normal back-row seat, Dana was more fidgety than ever. Instead of talking to Natalie—her best friend—she kept exchanging Meaningful Glances with Madison, who had moved two rows up, abandoning the back of the room for the first time in her academic career. Judging by her smug
expression, Madison was making some sort of a statement.

No wonder Natalie refused to look at them—or anybody else in the class. Everyone knew. But knowing wasn't enough. They had to crane their necks to stare at her, lean over to whisper between aisles. Even when Mr. Thornton started the lesson, I saw three people sneak out cell phones to message each other under their desks, barely stifling snickers.

The second class broke, Natalie walked briskly to the door, only to face down a hallway crammed with students. At the sight of her, everyone fell conspicuously silent. Natalie pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, Anne Boleyn walking to the scaffold. Then I saw her hands clench and unclench at her sides, and we might as well have been seven again, daring each other to knock on the door of the haunted old McLaren house—Nat-Nat in front, willing herself strong.

I touched her arm. “Are you all right?”

She turned to me, impassive as a saint. I waited for her to answer, and so did the rest of the hallway. Instead, her eyes slowly lowered until they were power-drilling into my hand. I flinched, let go, and she walked away. And suddenly, I was the one everybody was goggling.

Served me right. I'd walked directly into this. But as I gathered a shaky breath and huffed away, it wasn't myself I felt disgusted with. It was Hannah.

I'd slipped for five seconds, just long enough to treat Natalie Beck as though she had anything other than Xenomorph acid pumping through her veins. But Hannah? She'd been slipping for the past month. Maybe more. How could she have
fallen
for this person?

My path didn't connect with Hannah's until lunchtime. Once I'd purchased an especially greasy grilled cheese sandwich with an extra plate so we could share, I searched the room for her, wondering how she was coping with all this.

It was an easy room to scan. Hardly anybody was at the tables. At least half the people here had assumed mob formation on one side of the cafeteria, faces crammed against the windowpanes.

The squirrels must be mating again,
I thought.
Seems early, but who am I to judge? Maybe they're just enjoying a little off-season friski—

“Take my seat.” I turned to see Jack Jackson gallantly dusting a chair with his napkin. “I was just leaving.”

“Oh! Thanks,” I said, craning my neck to see past the wall of students, who were, annoyingly, also blocking my view to the steps. “I'm actually looking for . . .”

“Hannah's outside. With Natalie Beck.”

Oh, no. Not squirrels.
Of course not. This was a much bigger draw.

They were staring at the stoop.

Every cell in my body urged me forward, to join Hannah, to shield her from view—but no. After this morning's altercation, I knew better than to reenter the Beck's ballistic range.

Right. Of course she's eating with Natalie. Natalie's been outed. There's no reason not to. She could eat with Natalie every day from now on.

Which left me with a dizzying array of new dining options. I glanced around, feeling extremely small.

Peppering the room were tables informally reserved by
people I'd barely spoken to, except maybe to ask what the teacher had just said the homework was. A bunch of the Parapsychology Club kids hung out at the table just behind me. We knew each other, yeah, but after the “You're all so
freaking smug
. It must be nice to know
everything about the universe
!” incident that ended my affiliation with the group last year, I doubted they'd clear me a space when they returned from gawking out the window.

To my left was the table where Dan Sawtuck and Mara Thomas usually sat. I'd done an English class project with them last year and we were still sort of friendly, I guessed, but they'd started dating since then and pretty much spent the whole lunch hour making out, so my presence at their table would probably be awkward for all involved.

I spotted some other options that would place me alongside people whose birthday parties I'd gone to, whose jokes I'd laughed at in class, who'd held the door for me on their way out of the restroom. But it felt too weird to walk up and invade their space without Hannah to provide the social niceties. Me by myself was tantamount to, “Hi, I'm Daisy, will you please be my friend?” and I was
so
not up for that today. Or, you know, ever.

Jack had already slipped out of the cafeteria and there was nobody else at the table, so I fell into his seat and picked at my lunch, sliding Hannah's extra plate under my own. It felt disorienting sitting here, like switching from map mode to first-person POV in a video game. I thought I knew the exact social layout of this room, but now that I was fully ensconced, I could make out so much more.

Along the far wall, I saw Raina eating at a table where everyone's heads were ducked, doing homework. A few tables down, Sean was laughing along with his bevy of devoted drama girls. And close to the door, I spotted Sophie carrying on a quiet conversation with a group of classmates in competing earth-toned outfits.

From what I could tell, the Alliance members barely acknowledged one another outside their weekly meetings. But now I saw one thing binding them together—out of everyone in the cafeteria, Raina, Sean, and Sophie were the only three whose faces didn't turn to the windows every few seconds. There was something focused about the way each of them sat in place, refusing to look. A form of respect.

As I polished off my lunch, four gawky guys broke from the window, nudging one another with leering expressions, like they'd just watched a peep show instead of two girls eating sandwiches. At the sight of them, Sophie's serene smile disappeared. I watched them motion toward her, and then, as if drawn in by her discomfort, veer to her table.

For a second, I hoped they were just going over there to set up a pot deal for later, but then one of them said something I couldn't make out and they all started laughing. Sophie's face went pale. A shaggy-haired boy at her table half stood, jaw clenched, then sank again, defeated by their numbers.

One of the four douchenozzles leered over his shoulder, so I got a look at his face—as Slytherin-snide as it was in eighth grade. Seth Ross.

Sophie was fighting to recover a smile and I was steeling myself to march over and slug him again if need be, when
somebody slapped a folded piece of notebook paper down on my plastic tray, startling me back into my seat.

I whipped around to see QB striding away, trailing Darius. QB had been getting more than his share of negative attention in the wake of today's bombshell, but right now, Darius's glower seemed to have opened a path in front of them, allowing them to escape without overt mocking. Football had its perks—even if you never won a game.

I unfolded the page they'd left me, expecting to find some taunt, or threat, or accusation about my own sexuality, but it was something far more disturbing.

Please meet me after class. I'll treat for pizza. Need to talk.

~ Chris
.

First, I marveled that he'd signed it Chris. Was it because I'd called him that this morning? It wasn't the oddest thing in the world to sign your own name on a note. But QB had been “QB” since sixth grade. His friends would correct teachers on his behalf when they called roll with the standard “Chris Saunders.”

But what was I thinking?
Chris
was not what was insane. What was insane was that “Chris” had left me a note imploring me to get pizza with him.

Either this was an elaborate practical joke or QB had been body-snatched.

Hannah had time to give me only the quickest of whispered rundowns before we sat for bio.

“She came out to Madison and Dana over the weekend.
Madison quoted the Bible, said that she was uncomfortable that Natalie was ‘choosing this path.'”

Hannah paused for effect, but I could see the irony all on my own. Madison was not the purest lily in God's garden. Not that
I
had any issue with the percentage of the junior and senior class she'd worked her way through, but if you're gonna talk righteous paths . . .

“Dana promised to support her,” Hannah went on. “She seemed great about it, apparently. And then she went home and emailed half the school.”

“Oh God,” I said, and thankfully got shushed by the teacher before I was forced to recite
“Poor Natalie,”
my next expected line.

This situation was horrible. No question. But the Beck wasn't exactly a defenseless victim. She chose her friends a long time ago and set the tone for the way they treated other people—including me. If the situation had been reversed, who's to say she wouldn't have behaved exactly the same way?

I knew better than to expect a Natalie-free ride home from Hannah today, so after the last bell rang, I hid in the girls' rest-room and called my mom approximately one million times, getting only voicemail. Dad too. Same result.

The sharp corner of QB's note was digging into my jeans pocket. He was seventeen. He probably had a car. He could give me a ride home. After we ate pizza. And talked. And flew to the moon on giant papier-mâché butterflies.

I was leaning against the bathroom's windowsill,
calculating the cost of a taxi, when two girls came in, holding each other up between bursts of debilitating laughter.

A pang scrunched my stomach. Hannah and I always got into giggle fits over the stupidest things—the gym teacher running all over the basketball court trying to catch a possum, the “phallic oak” lecture in English after we'd read
Jane Eyre
.

Then I heard what the two girls were saying.

“Who is he waiting for? He's just standing out there like an idiot.”

“He
is
an idiot! How can you not know your girlfriend's a dyke?”

“Maybe he turned her.” Giggles galore.

I shoved myself away from the window and past the two banshees, managing to shoulder-check both of them like a cowboy leaving a saloon. Then, ignoring their “
Excuse
me?”s, I slammed the bathroom door behind me, not stopping until I reached the exit beside the arts wing—where QB Saunders was, in fact, standing there like an idiot.

His sad orphan face lightened a fraction when he saw me. Oh God.

I felt sorry for him. For QB Saunders.

“Pizza,” I barked. “Let's go.”

People were staring, so I walked, hoping he'd have the sense to follow. Mario's Pizzeria was only three blocks away. I had to assume that's where he was planning to take me. It was The Place, full of the very people Hannah and I went to the Moonlight Coffee Shop to avoid.

I had to stop when a minivan blasting death metal rounded the corner, inches from my face. QB caught up beside me.

He up-nodded lasciviously. “You look really—”