The auditorium groans. Last year's assembly ran over two hours because of a skit where a student pretended to need the principal's help reading Thomas Jeff's code of conduct. Some people get annoying pop songs stuck in their heads; I get dialogue from "The Code and You." ("Gee, but is copying off Wikipedia really plagiarism, Principal Morgan?") She's obviously recruiting the new students early.
But Principal Morgan doesn't seem to be in on the skit. "What are you doing? Go back to your seat this instant!" she snaps, clutching the head of the microphone, but the boy doesn't stop until he reaches the podium. Ignoring the principal's stuttering, he covers her death grip on the microphone and catches her gaze with a smile.
"May I have the floor?" he asks, the microphone picking up enough that the question echoes. There's a precise quality to his speech that sharpens each word.
Principal Morgan sputters something about this being First Day Assembly, and the boy smiles encouragingly. Disconcerted, I look to Neal to see if he is registering the weirdness, but he is occupied with taming the wiggling bump in his lower pocket.
"Everything's fine," Principal Morgan says suddenly, and the few teachers who had pushed forward in anticipation of being backup retreat as she folds her hands in front of her and gives him the floor.
The boy's lips quirk as he eases behind the microphone. "I'd like to introduce myself," he says smoothly before another echoing rap of footsteps comes from the side stairs. His smile falters when he sees that a willowy girl has taken the stage and is now crossing to stand by his side. She is gorgeous in a dark, moody way, with thin black brows and long chestnut hair that breaks into a natural wave at her shoulders. If ever there were a girl meant to sit in a smoky café and tell you about the guinea pig that died tragically when she was four, it's her.
The boy clears his throat. "Yes, well," he begins, but then stops to glare at her when she tugs on his sleeve. His jaw tightens as he turns back to the microphone. "We'd like to introduce ourselves. My name is Vlad, and this is my . . ." He pauses and tilts his head to the side. "This is my stepsister, Marisabel. We hope that you'll welcome us to your charming state of Michigan. I know some of us will become fast friends."
Vlad and Marisabel-two of my interviewees. I confirm it with my list just as he winks at the front row, executes a stiff bow, and hops off the stage. Marisabel follows a few seconds later, looking suddenly glum. At first no one is sure how to react. There is a surge of whispers, a smattering of applause, and then, finally, a few admiring whoops. When he gets back to his seat, two guys in football jerseys lean over and pat him on the back like he's just pulled off the ultimate prank. At first he seems affronted, but when he sees that they are smiling at him, he matches it with a sly grin.
"Well, yes. Okay. Thank you," Principal Morgan says, her voice shaky as she moves back behind the podium. She clears her throat a few times as her hands flit around the microphone. "Assembly is dismissed," she says finally. "No running in the halls."
"That was weird," Neal remarks from beside me, his hand on the pocket of his khakis to calm the creature that is now visibly doing a wiggle dance, most likely agitated by the din of five hundred student bodies barreling toward the cafeteria.
"I think he broke her," I say, my eyes still on Principal Morgan. Teachers have surrounded her in a protective circle. She's shaking her head and waving them away, and while I can't tell what she's saying, she still looks a little vacant.
"That's not a totally bad thing," Neal muses. "Maybe we're due for a kinder, gentler regime at Thomas Jeff. Pointy shoes for all!"
"Maybe," I say and start to ask him what he thought of Vlad's performance when I see a pink nose emerge from beneath a khaki flap. "Your, um, friend is escaping."
"Oh crap, he's hungry. Check ya later," Neal says, and scoots out the back auditorium doors in an awkward run.
Figuring out where to sit for lunch is always a tricky process. Sometimes I sit with Lindsay, but most of the time she's saving the whales or forests or last season's winter coats. Caroline will always make room for me, but only on the condition that I don't speak to anyone. She doesn't like it when I ask her friends questions like "Don't you think wearing a shirt that says ‘I Brake for Boys' is laying it on a little thick?" and follow it up with "I think it's generally illegal not to." Most of the time, I end up picking a quiet corner to read or work on upcoming articles.
But after the assembly weirdness, insider access is too good to pass up. I make my way to the sea of school colors that signifies Caroline's table, where she immediately scoots over to make room for me. Her eyes are glued across the middle aisle, where Vlad, Marisabel, and a few other students I don't recognize huddle around one of the central tables. Is this new-kid solidarity, or do they all know one another? Before I can mention it, Caroline demands my attention.
"Oh. My. God. Sophie, he winked at me! I mean it was at me, right?" Caroline looks around the table with an appraising eye. "Yeah. It was totally me. It was, like, so electric. I've never felt anything like it before in my life, not even when Tommy gave me his jersey after the homecoming game."
"I imagine that felt sweaty."
"You know what I mean. Amanda, tell her."
I look at Caroline's three best friends, sitting in a row across the table. They all look like the same person with different haircuts.
"Oh yeah, electric," the middle one says, bobbing her head until her dangly earrings swing in agreement.
That adds nothing, Amanda. Before I can ask for clarification, or even decide if I want clarification, Caroline grabs my arm and hisses my name.
Vlad is making his way across the cafeteria. He moves silently and with an easy grace, an achievement when you take into account the cheap tile that makes everyone in sneakers sound like farting mice. When he stops at the end of our table, his handsomeness is more apparent, even if my discount view only gives me a direct shot of nicely defined nostrils. Reaching across my chest, he picks up Caroline's hand.
"May I have your name?" he says, bending over and kissing a knuckle.
Caroline's close to hyperventilating, but she manages to croak it out.
"A lovely name for a lovely girl," he says, politely ignoring the fact that his "lovely girl" is acting lobotomized. "I wonder if you would do me the honor of showing me around your school."
The lines are corny and dated, like excerpts from the failed script of Pride & Prejudice: The High School Years, but that doesn't seem to bother Caroline.
"Yes," she blurts. "I would be delighted to chauffeur you around."
My sister has a tendency to lose her powers of vocabulary when nervous. I'm guessing she was going for "escort," but the rest of it's strangely formal, too, even for someone who's not her.
"Wonderful," Vlad says, and then probably follows it with something else ridiculous ("Your hair is like sunlight in space" or "Let's greet the dawn with kisses"), but I'm distracted by a loud huff, followed by a smacking sound and the swing of a lunchroom door. I sneak a peek at Vlad's table. Marisabel has disappeared. Either she thought too hard about the "Surprise!" part of "Lunchmeat Surprise!" or she does not approve of Vlad wooing Caroline.
I want to ask Vlad about his stepsister, but the bell rings, sadly bringing an end to our twitterpated weirdfest. After another strange little bow, Vlad strides back to his table, and I realize that this is probably as good a time as any to talk to him about getting that interview, which I have to admit is looking more interesting. After grabbing my stuff, I dump my tray and approach, annoyed to find that he's already in the middle of a group conversation with two beefy, athletic-looking guys and a boy with coppery hair who can't seem to decide whether or not to put his hands in his pockets. I slip into a seat at a nearby table and pretend to be searching for a worksheet as I wait for an opportunity to jump in.
"They already like me, Neville," Vlad says. "Did you see how many of them congratulated me afterward? Look, this is called a ‘fist bump.' It is more accepted now than a handshake."
Neville-or, as I like to call him, "Interview Subject Three"-ignores Vlad's proffered fist. "I still think that it is unnecessary attention," he says and then pulls a crumpled schedule out of his khaki pocket. "What do you think one studies in ‘Basic Skills'? I do not think I will attend that."
"You must go to everything," Vlad snaps. "Everyone goes to everything."
For a moment Neville looks as though he might protest, but then thinks better of it. "Very well," he says, looking around the cafeteria. "Where is-"
"I do not know. I will deal with him later. Go to class."
Neville's mouth tightens, but he complies, and I'm a little disappointed that I won't get the chance to knock two interviews off at once. After he's disappeared through the cafeteria doors, Vlad turns to the two quarterbackesque boys with a look that suggests he finds Neville's attitude unbelievable. They say nothing, just respond with matching smiles. Except for a chin dimple and their hair color-one black, one a dirty blond-they're almost identical.