I’m in the middle of mindlessly cross-checking names on two lists when I overhear Becky, perched at the cluttered front desk, utter on the phone: “… new senior who’s a heaping bag of trouble. A transfer. Doesn’t know Eve from Adam.”
My highlighter hesitates, hovering in place as I listen.
“Yes, a big, big bag of trouble, that’s what I said, Nadine. Oh, he caused a headline-making ruckus at his old school, knocked some poor kid out, sent some other kid to the hospital, and now he’s been transferred over here to our very own Spruce High!” Becky lets out a dramatic sigh, toying with a white feather pen between her long, ring-adorned fingers. “No, I can’t believe it either. As if we need someone like that here in our precious town, stirring up trouble and making us worry. Oh, yes, they’ll hear a word or two from me. Mm-hmm! You bet. I wouldn’t be surprised if this new kid was a devil worshipper. Or listened to the Marlin Manson! Marlin Manson, yes, that’s what I said. Am I sayin’ that right? Marlin?”
I bite my lip as I resume highlighting, wondering who the hell this “bag of heaping trouble” is. I sure haven’t heard anything.
It’s an ugly twist of fate that after the bell rings and tosses me out of the office, I head down the long main hall, take a turn, and arrive at my second period English class to find none other than Hoyt-freakin’-Nowak in the back row. The cocky ringleader of the football douchebags, he’s got a foot up on the desk in front of him, an arm slung over the back of his own chair, and he’s twirling a pencil skillfully between his fingers. He’s wearing gray, stylish skinny jeans, a varsity letterman jacket, and big athletic sneakers, and his hair is always an annoyingly perfect model-boy sweep that never seems to be disturbed, no matter if it’s wet, dry, or caught in a tornado. Even by himself with none of his lackeys around, he’s wearing a smug, satisfied smirk like he’s just won someone over. I’m not convinced that tool wins anyone over.
Hoyt spots me right away. “Yo, Tobes!” he shouts out over the otherwise quietly murmuring students who have also gotten here on-time. “Lucky you! I saved a special seat in case my best pal was in this class! Right here, buddy boy!” He taps the chair of the desk in front of him with his big, obnoxious foot. “Come on! Let’s be a pair of English pals this year, you and me! Don’t be scared!”
Anxious eyes and faces turn my way, awaiting my reaction.
Everyone knows we’ve been basically mortal enemies since middle school. That’s how this wicked little town works: everyone in all of Spruce knows every damned thing about everyone.
I don’t give Hoyt the satisfaction. I ignore him outright and make way for the only other available seat—which is at once taken by a faster girl with curly hair and braces, who dives right into conversation with a nearby friend of hers.
A frown darkens my face. Can anything go right today?
The bell rings. Ms. Bean, who seems to have materialized out of thin air, clicks her tongue impatiently at the chalkboard, and I am resigned to tramping my way to the back, where I grudgingly sit at the desk in front of Hoyt. No, he doesn’t remove his feet from the back of my chair, and I give the self-important punk no indication that I’m bothered in the least by it. All of English period is spent with Hoyt innocently inching his big feet closer and closer to the side of my head, at one point daring to prop one of them on my shoulder. When he gets bored of that, he starts giving the back of my chair intermittent kicks, distracting enough for me to miss several things the teacher says. Once or twice, I even hear Hoyt snickering privately to himself, entertained by his childishness.
Ms. Bean never tells him to put his feet down. And she likely won’t; I doubt the poor lady can see anything past the second row.
It’s when Ms. Bean has her back turned to the class that I hear the girl across the aisle from me whisper to her friend: “Did you see him? The new guy?”
“I did, right outside the cafeteria before first period. He’s so hot!”
“And scary! I heard he’s from a big city, I forget which one, and he killed one of his classmates, so now he—”
“No, you’re makin’ that up! He didn’t kill nobody. He’d be in jail!”
“But that’s what I heard! And also he rode a motorcycle to school, but I didn’t get to see it myself. It was probably a Harley. Did you see it?”
“Nope. I saw that sleeveless leather jacket he was wearing, though.”