PART 2: AVOID THE UNDESIRABLES

This part of the plan was harder then it seemed. I had no problems avoiding the Nerds, the Drama Kids, and the Potheads, but there was one person that would make this separation difficult. I would still wave at Val occasionally, but trying to avoid contact might be harder than it sounds. She was . . . stubborn.

I made it through lunch, avoiding her easily; she would be in the shade of the outside courtyard, where a towering tree enveloped half the space. The rest of the courtyard was paved with uneven brick, patches of grasses poked up between the bricks, long enough to wave in the wind. The courtyard had the flavor of an old abandoned castle courtyard, the foliage allowed to grow where it would, the tree’s braches brushing the roof and sides of the building, its owner no longer there to trim it back. Quite the attraction to the Goth crowd, Val included.

Last year, I would sit out with the Goth kids, drawing, only half-listening to their conversations. Val once said I was like a ghost with her friends; always there to listen, but never part of the group.

I was too different, didn’t fit in with their black makeup and chains; I didn’t fit in anywhere.

But not after this year.

I would become popular, no matter what.

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My mantra kept me smiling through my lunch period; where before I would have kept silent and doodled while someone else spoke, I forced myself to carry on a conversation, my smile plastered on my face.

Kelli chatted away about the summer: her eldest sister’s wedding, her trip to the beach, her teeny, tiny cousin, whom she got to baby-sit twice a week. Grinning through the whole of her discussion, I nodded, interrupting occasionally with questions and comments.

“Oh, man! I wish I had gone to the beach this summer! I should have, I really should have, but now it’s too late,” I pouted, a studied expression. I spent long hours watching shows like the OC, and reality TV, studying the way “popular” kids interacted. The pout was an especially hard trick to master, one I’d spent hours glued to my mirror trying to perfect.

Kelli was glowing again, “Me too, the beach is so wonderful!” I noted the way she put so much emphasis on the word “so” all the time. Did other teenagers do that as well? It would be a speech quirk easy to pick up . . . “So what did you do with your beach-less summer?”

I giggled a little at her choice of words (situationally appropriate), then waved the question off. “I spent most of it working; it was boring, and long.”

“Oh, where do you work?”

I crinkled my nose; wondering if I could redirect the conversation. I so did not want to talk about work (practice makes perfect, I thought, I have so little time to learn how so many teenagers so communicate with one another).

“I work at a hockey rink,” I admitted, casually, my mind racing to find an alternate conversation. “Actually, I lied! I did do some fun stuff this summer! I went down to see the Minnesota Wild practice! And Cal Clutterbuck signed a jersey for me!”

“Oh my God, that’s so amazing! I love Clutterbuck!” Kelli’s excitement bounced her around in her seat for a minute, and her eyes glazed over like a puppy gazing, infatuated, at its owner. “Did you see Mikku Koivu?” Her voice became breathy and quiet when she said his name; I wondered if Koivu was a popularly crush-worthy, or if it was just Kelli. I noted the possibility in my head, for later research.

I pouted again, shaking my head. “I would have liked to though.”

“He would be a like a mini home coming for you, eh?”

I blinked at her uncomprehending, for a second. “Oh, no. No. He’s Finnish, not Russian.”

“Oh, so sorry! His name sounds so Russian to me.”

I took a deep breath, a forced myself to giggle. ‘Being overly proud of the fact that I’m Russian? Uncool.’

I continued the conversation through the entirety of lunch, managing both to keep her attention, and to steer clear of any talk related to work. By the time we’d parted ways in the Hall of History, I was exhausted. I’d never spent so much time smiling before, and dammit, my face hurt.

I grumbled a little, rubbing at my jaw, my eyes passing over the familiar hallway without interest. The Hall of History was on the far side of school, far from the bustle of the main sections of the building; the traffic was lighter here, the hallways wider. This part of the building had been added about three years ago, giving our state-renowned history professors surroundings “worthy” of their stature.

This section of the building was done in gray stone, rather then the plain, red brick of the rest of the interior. Tiny, curved nooks held busts of historical figures on pedestals. As years of students walked by, they sat, silent and watching, bathed in the colored sunlight from the stained-glass windows. I walked through, but the feeling of being watched had long since passed. I ignored the statues, counting the doors down to my classroom, preoccupied with the progression of the Plan, and the ache in my jaw.

I hugged my pink polka-dotted (cool) binder to me, my arms wrapped carefully around it to cover the (uncool) little doodle Pasha had scribbled on it in Sharpie this morning, which I hadn’t noticed until (really uncool) it started to rub off a little on my hockey jersey.

I was studying the stain intently as I walked into the classroom. I took an empty seat, not in the front of the classroom (uncool), nor in the back (trying too hard), but in the middle, in the row closest to the door. I’d finished my analysis of the stain, and I think it was barely noticeable; luckily, my jersey was maroon, and the bit of red ink was hard to see. Lucky me. Pasha was going to get it later.

I looked around for the first time; the room was still half empty, but I noted a few familiar faces, a few of them had potential positions in the Plan. My first three classes of the day were all IB and AP classes, which unfortunately held none of the people necessary for the Plan. I was not completely an advanced student, which meant that regular kids would be in half my classes. I managed to straddle the gap between average and smart, which was a good balance and leant credibility to the probably of the Plan working out.

Excellent.

There was one factor, however, that had fluttered from my head completely, one unknown factor, one stray loose thread that had the potential to become a noose.

Jacob Morrison.

How had I forgotten? He strolled into the classroom like he owned it, and the low rumble of chatter picked up as rumors flew. Jacob Morrison, looking like a model walking out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad, with his fitted shirt and frayed, acid washed jeans. He had emo-length hair (so last year), dyed black, cut to slither becomingly over one eye. How he pulled off that style, I had no idea; it was like the clothes and hairstyle were custom-designed with him in mind.

The very sight of Jacob in my classroom raised the hackles on my back. He sat down in the seat directly behind mine, slouching, one knee resting on the back of my chair. I could feel it every time his weight shifted, and I hated him.

How had I forgotten?

‘Forget about him, Katchya. Forget.’

I would become popular, no matter what.

I would become popular, no matter what.

I would become popular, no matter what Jacob Morrison did.