Fated (The Soul Seekers 1)

“I’d say I agree.” She lowers her head, tries in vain to hide the grin that sneaks onto her face.

I fidget. Heave my bag high onto my shoulder as I try to drum up some kind of reply. But before I can gather the words, the bell rings, and a swarm of students burst into the hall, while Xotichl stands in the middle, with an army of students careening around her.

“Do you need help?” I ask, not wanting to offend, but they all veer so close, it’s like they don’t even see her.

“Don’t we all?” She laughs, tapping the tip of her cane against the toe of my boot. “But in this case, I’m pretty sure you need way more help than I do. So, if you’re looking for the office, it’s straight ahead. Fifty-two steps from where we now stand. Though for you, it may be as few as forty-five—forty-seven tops—considering how much taller you are. And your legs are much longer too—lucky you.” She laughs again.

I squint, wondering how she could possibly know all that. Is she mocking me? Having fun at my expense? Is she not really blind? Is anyone in this town who they present themselves to be?

But before I can reply, she’s gone. Cane sweeping before her, heading down the hall as a path clears all around her.

twenty-five

I wish I’d prepared.

Wish I’d taken the time to do a little research by watching a weekend’s worth of high school–themed movies.

Because this—this school—this insane social scene—feels as foreign and chaotic as the day I got lost in the Moroccan medina.

It’s all about the bells. Bells are in charge around here—they rule everything. They usher us to class, scold us when we’re late, then prod us again when it’s time to move on. The sequence repeating over and over—until I’m just like everyone else, numbly reacting to that abruptly shrill sound.

Except, I’m not like everyone else. I’m not like anyone I’ve seen so far. And despite my attempts to blend in, thanks to the events in the hall between the mean girls and Cade, I now stand out in the very worst way.

Nothing in my life has prepared me for this. Not one single thing. I feel like a lab rat stuck in some horrible experiment meant to measure how I adapt to brutal forms of social segregation and weirdness. And the sad news is, I’m producing way below average results.

I stand to the side of the lunchroom, or cafeteria, or whatever they call it. The vegetarian lunch Paloma packed with great love and care tightly clutched in my fist, though I’ve no clue as to where I’m supposed to go eat it.

Having already committed the most heinous crime of all by sitting at the wrong table, I’m not sure I’m up for trying again. I’m still shaken by the way those girls acted—so self-righteous and territorial, so burdened by my presence at the end of their bench.

It’s the seniors’ table, I was told. I have no right to sit there. Ever. And that includes holidays and weekends.

“Duly noted,” I replied, grabbing my lunch and standing before them. “I’ll do my best to steer clear of it on Christmas. Easter as well. Though Valentine’s Day is a wild card I just can’t commit to.” And though it felt good at the time, I’ve no doubt it was a reckless act that only made things worse.

I heave a deep sigh and survey the room, wondering how Jennika might’ve handled such a thing back when she was my age. Barring the fact that she was already in her first trimester of carrying me, she’d probably head straight for the table where the bad boys sit, making them fall madly in love with her during the first five minutes.

And while the bad boys’ table isn’t all that hard to spot—just aim your dart for the guys dressed in leather jackets, trying too hard to look dangerous and jaded—and you’ve got yourself a bull’s-eye—I’m not the least bit like Jennika. I could never pull it off.

Besides, there’s only one true bad boy here, and as it just so happens, he’s the one no one suspects. He’s too pretty, too popular, too charismatic, too athletic, and smart, and alluring. Praised by both teachers and peers, he’s pretty much the king of everything. Class president, the star quarterback, a sure thing for prom king, no doubt. As far as I can tell, I’m the only one who remains unimpressed.

I take another glance—noting how the tables are systematically segregated. There’s the cowboy table, filled with kids wearing jeans, Western-style shirts and cowboy boots; the hippie table, where they all sport tie-dyed T-shirts, bandannas, and ripped jeans; the Native American table, where the majority wear flannel shirts and faded denim—all of them talking and laughing but clearly keeping to themselves. And after seeing all that, well, I finally understand the true meaning behind the sayings: Like seeks like.

And: Water seeks its own level.

They were talking about high school.

Or maybe just life in general.

The point is, people will always cling and conform in order to belong to something they want to be part of.

Even the fringe group, the ones who think they’re so arty and different, so outside the mainstream—no matter how outrageously indie they strive to be, it only takes one informed glance to see that they’re all conforming to each other. Without even realizing it, they’re keeping within their own defined boundaries.

That’s just the way it is. It’s never gonna be any different. And even though the day’s half over, I’ve yet to see anyone who’d consider sitting with me.

Well, Cade might, judging by the way he’s smiling and waving and gesturing for me to join him, but I know he’s not serious. It’s all a big show, designed to make him look funny and make me feel awkward and bad about myself.

As far as Xotichl goes—I can’t quite get a handle on her. Besides, I have no idea where she is. Haven’t seen her since that weirdness in the hallway this morning.

I turn my back on it all, push through the door, and slink down the hall. In search of a nice, quiet place where I can eat my lunch in silence and wait for yet another bell to tell me where to go.