When I get to the journalism room, Mr. Amado's busy writing his name and an "inspirational" quote in small, spiky letters on the whiteboard. The room is a haphazard jumble of desks, article clippings, and computers, many of which are so old that their keys have only the ghosting of letters. I love this place. I take in a deep breath and then start to cough. It also smells like rubber cement, even though they switched to electronic layout years ago.
Mr. Amado drops the marker in the tray and turns around. "Sophie! Nice to see you."
"Lindsay said that you wanted to discuss the welcome-back issue?" I say when I've recovered.
"Right!" he says, clapping once as he moves behind his desk. "But first, have a seat in the front row and let's go over what our goals are for this year."
He points toward a desk in the front row. I sit, taking a moment to study the deranged art scratched across its top, including a sketch of what is either Mr. Amado in drag or an attractive female Bigfoot. I'm still debating when he rolls over in his chair, brow furrowed like he's going to tell me I have brain cancer.
"I hope that you know what a great journalist and writer I think you are," he says. "Your work last year was exceptional. If my grade book didn't tell me otherwise, I would have thought you were a senior. I'm honored to have you back on my staff."
Well, this is a step up from cancer. "I know that you want me on the new-student thing, but I actually had a great article idea for the first issue," I say, tugging at my backpack's zipper and pulling out my story notebook. "Have you ever wondered how many of our library's books have never been checked out? I bet if we compare our percentages to the state average you'll see just how illiterate the student body really is. I mean, you can already see it, but just think-"
"Sophie," Mr. Amado interrupts gently and then tells me to listen. "Like I said, I love everything you're doing, but our school paper is generally supposed to be less investigative and more . . ."
"Fluff?"
"Celebratory."
"Oh."
"It's not that your article on the health code violations committed by lunch ladies in the cafeteria wasn't stellar-it was-but I think we are ruffling too many feathers. I also think they spit in my soup when I'm not looking."
I have a snappy comment ready about progress and how it can't happen if you're afraid of lunch ladies, but I swallow it. Seeing that no response is forthcoming, Mr. Amado sighs, rolls over to his desk to grab a folder, and rolls back.
"We have a lot of new students this year. Eight in the junior and senior class alone," he says, handing over the folder. "I want you and Lindsay to handle them for the ‘Getting to Know Our New Tigers' feature. You have four; she has four. Frame the profiles however you like, but just make sure it's a human interest piece." The corners of his mustache lift in amusement. "You're not trying to get them to confess their innermost secrets. If they shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, good for them. We don't want to know about it."
This assignment sounds about as fun as naked paintball. A part of me thought being a junior would mean that I could stop scouting out the mall's best frozen yogurt or asking random students if they liked the new Saw movie.
"Everything okay?" Mr. Amado asks.
"So we're talking favorite foods, hobbies, colors, movies, pets, and hair products, right?" I ask, doing my best to stop sulking and fake excitement.
"It's up to you," he says just as the warning bell rings. As he walks me to the door, he tries to be reassuring. "You'll do great, don't worry. And hey-I promise that your next story can be about how the members of the Green Team don't recycle."
One can only hope.
Chapter Two
A few years ago the administration suddenly realized that forty-five minutes isn't enough time to teach the history of Roman civilization or complex math. Now we still have eight classes, but we only go to four of them in a day. This means that savvy planners can finagle days without vectors, formulas, equations, decimals, or any other mathematical things designed to crush one's spirit. This year I've arranged it so that I have two art classes in a row, then English, then back to Journalism with Mr. Amado. First up is Drawing II with Mrs. Levine, a perpetually unhappy woman who is rumored to have dated all three of the gym teachers at once. No one knows the whereabouts of Mr. Levine. Some say that she ate him.
She gives us the usual first-day speech-don't eat, don't shout, and don't knock over any of the expensive paints or your parents will pay-before she plops bowls of pinecones on our tables.
"Still Life with Pine Cones. Go," she barks and then slams her office door.
Not surprisingly, the glamour of drawing pinecones wears off quickly. After glancing back to check that Mrs. Levine is still hiding, I slip out the folder from Mr. Amado and find a list of the new students' names and a copy of their schedules inside.
Marisabel JonesViolet MartinNeville SmithVlad Smithson
Drunken baby naming is a very serious problem, I think as I flip to their schedules. I half expect to find them signed up for Defense Against the Dark Arts, but their classes are normal. I have English with Vlad and Violet, and French with Marisabel. It's a start. The schedule I'm sketching is just starting to take shape when a shadow falls over my page.
"Pinecones, Miss McGee?" asks Mrs. Levine.
"Yep. Abstract ones."
"Cute. But this one's a realistic still life, okay?" she says before wandering back into her cave.
Five minutes before class is scheduled to end, the intercom begins to crackle, and Principal Morgan's voice reminds us that next period will be replaced by First Day Assembly. When the bell rings, I grudgingly gather my things and trudge to the auditorium.
By the time I push my way through the heavy wooden doors, most of the seats are taken. The back rows are dominated by the students in oversized band T-shirts who try without much success to hide earbuds beneath their shaggy hair; Caroline and crew hold court in the front. Usually they are the center of attention, laughing about nothing and jumping back and forth over the rows while the rest of us watch.
Today, however, their heads are turned to the side. I follow their gaze to the auditorium's right wing, where a tall blond boy is leaning against the stage. His features are sharp-a long nose, highly arched eyebrows, and slicing sideburns. Every so often he uncrosses his arms to tug fastidiously at the cuffs of his tailored black shirt. It's a strange gesture, as is the way he tilts his head whenever someone in the front row speaks to him. He must hear the whispers, now at a fever pitch, and yet he keeps his gaze trained on the row of students before him, seemingly oblivious to the five hundred pairs of eyes dissecting his every move. But now and then the corner of his mouth twitches as though he's fighting off a smirk.
Ten to one he's a new student-hopefully one of my new students. Editor in chief, here I come.
The heavy curtain begins to ripple, and Principal Morgan backs onto the stage, still barking commands at a helpless AV Club hopeful. Realizing that the show is about to begin, I slip into the nearest open seat a few rows back before anyone can point me out to Ms. Kate, the terrifying teachers' aide, who may or may not be 137 years old. I still have nightmares about the day she stood behind me in the lunchroom until I finished all of my peas.
The seat happens to be next to Neal Garrett, who's nice enough in an "I went to space camp this summer" way, but who brings his hamster to school at least once per year. The way he's murmuring to the left pocket of his khakis right now makes me think that today is the day.
"Good morning, students," Principal Morgan says from on high, and then sets to smoothing her hair as she waits for the microphone to cease whining. Satisfied her bun is scraped high enough to pull the edges of her eyebrows up demonically, she continues. "I'd like to welcome you to another year at Thomas Jefferson High and to remind you that it's time to put away your summer brains and bring out your thinking caps." She mimes putting on a hat. I hope that Neal's hamster bites me and gives me a strain of rabies that will kill me quickly.
The rest is familiar stuff: our sports teams are great, good grades are great, cleavage is bad, short skirts should be burned immediately. By the time she gets to the evils of graphic tees, most of her audience has checked out, either staring blankly ahead or studying their crotches with great interest. I glance at the new kid to see how he's taking it, expecting to find the same glassy-eyed condition that has infected everyone else around me, but instead he's bravely sitting on the arm of an aisle seat and scribbling furiously in a small bound notebook. Every so often he looks up as though afraid he's missed a stray word. One of the teachers tasked with policing the crowd approaches, face stern, and says something in his ear, but he just waves her away impatiently. The teacher tries again, and this time he turns to look at her directly. I can't see what he says, but after a few seconds she backs off.
"So, in conclusion," Principal Morgan drones on, causing my ears to perk up in the misguided hope that she's reaching the end of her speech, "pointy shoes will no longer be allowed due to an unfortunate incident at the end of last year. I will determine what is pointy and what is not." She clears her throat and shuffles a stack of note cards. "Now, please be aware that we have a bumper crop of new students this year, and I hope you will welcome them and help them learn our rules." She moves on to the next card and announces that she will be recapping proper lunchroom decorum, but stops when something in the front row catches her eye. The new boy is taking large, purposeful strides up the staircase onto the stage.