Chapter #92A Day of Something Like Firsts, Part 2 by: Seuzz   Second period is a history class. Andrea is in there, sitting off to the side with Bethany Lewis as her only company. She eyes you openly as you come in, but there are no open desks next to her, so you take a seat on the opposite side of the room. Besides, you should try to make some more friends.
It's a friendly group of girls--Vanessa Bailey, Molly Shaw, Elle Moore and Audrey Briscoe--but you're not able to talk long before class begins. Halfway through, you feel a fingertip in your shoulder-blade, and reach behind you to accept a note. "That's Derek Balaban in the back," it says in cursive writing. "You should talk to him." You take a look behind while pretending to search your backpack, and Vanessa grins as you look past her.
Like Laurent, Derek is on the wrestling team. He has platinum blonde hair trimmed in a tight brush cut, and he hunches over his desk, taking notes without looking around. You don't know much about him; what little you know suggests that few people know a lot about him. He usually sits alone, wrapped in his studies, and doesn't have any obvious friends. He's very good looking, with smooth, regular features and greenish-brown eyes, but he hasn't got a girlfriend. So why is Molly pushing the new girl at him?
You turn back around. It's almost certainly just a prank, but at whose expense? Yours? Pitch the new girl at the wooden wrestler and watch her bounce humiliatingly off him? His? Pitch the new girl at the guy who mulishly turns away all the interested girls, and humiliate him as he turns the newbie away? It's probably both.
You decide you don't much like Molly and her friends, and ignore the note. When the girls gather around you, grinning, at the conclusion of class, you politely ask about Derek. "He's on the wrestling team," Vanessa gushes, "so--"
"Oh, like Laurent Delacroix?" you insouciantly ask.
That catches their attention. "You've already met Laurent?" Elle asks.
"I sat behind him last period. We talked. He's got a really nice smile, don't you think?"
Mad glee--and maybe a little jealousy--shows in their faces, but you've blunted their scheme, and they take off without waiting for you.
Andrea is waiting, though, with a puzzled Bethany behind her shoulder. "Hey, you're the new girl," she says lazily. "What do you think of Vanessa and her friends?"
"They asked me what I thought of a guy named Derek Balaban. My name is Rosalie."
"I'm Andrea. Do you swim?"
"I can swim. Why?"
"I captain the school swimming team. You look built for it, thought I'd ask."
"You have a vacancy?"
"We always have vacancies."
Behind her, Bethany hops on the balls of her feet. "Are you on the swim team too?" you ask.
"Yeah, I'm Bethany." She puts out a hand, and you briefly shake it.
You don't know Bethany well, despite having used her personality to fashion your new one. She's small, with a toothy, chipmunk smile that would look goofy if she didn't have such bright, guileless eyes. She's very slim, with bright blonde hair that falls almost to her elbows. She likes to dress in jeans and flannel shirts that do a good job of hiding her figure. But she looks very warm--just the sort of adorable creature to cuddle with on a deep sofa on a cold winter's day while it's snowing outside.
"They were making trouble for you, you know," Andrea says bluntly.
"Who?"
"Vanessa and her friends."
"Mm. I had a feeling they were. You don't like them, Andrea?" you ask bluntly back.
"I don't have opinions. I'm not saying you should stay away from them. But you're new. You don't know where the tiger traps are."
Bethany bites down a smile.
"If you're interested in swimming, talk to me," Andrea says. She doesn't wait for a reply, and turns her back to leave.
"It was nice to meet you," Bethany says. "It'd be interesting to have you on the team." She scampers off after her captain.
* * * * *
Third period. Math. Advanced algebra. The heads of three football players turn in unison as you come in, and they nudge each other and snort. You ignore them, though. You're thinking the wrestling team is a more promising place to explore. Gloria Rea is the only other noteworthy person in the room; she is bent over her cellphone, but you can feel her eyes on you as you sit down.
About ten minutes into class, the door opens and someone comes in very loudly. You do a slight double-take: It's Chelsea, looking red and a little tousled. She plops down next to Gloria, pokes her in the arm, and in a hissing whisper asks for pencil and paper. She catches you looking at her, and peers back over a tight frown. "Who's that?" she hisses again at Gloria. Gloria jerks away, and mutters something back. "Huh? Really," Chelsea says in a slightly louder voice. Her eyes gleam as she stares at you.
You suppose she's in character. You dimple a pert smile at her. Her eyes narrow, and she smiles back.
You glance back at her a few times during class; each time, you catch her staring at you, drumming her fingers with a thoughtful expression.
When class ends, Marcus Johnston, one of the footballers, steps toward you, but Chelsea barges in front of him. "So you're the new girl," she says. "I'm Chelsea Cooper. I'm captain of the cheerleading squad."
"I'm Rosalie Martin. I don't do backflips for anyone."
Gloria gasps slightly, but Chelsea opens her mouth a wide smile of surprise. "Well, not everyone can," she says. "Come on, it's time for lunch. Have it with us."
"I think I have fourth period now." You fumble out your schedule.
"Skip it," Chelsea says firmly. "No one will give a shit. It's your first day and you can say you got lost or confused. Oh, this is Gloria," she adds.
"I'll just tell 'em I skipped," you retort. "I need to find the cafeteria anyway."
"That's the spirit," Chelsea says. She forces herself between you and Gloria on the way out.
* * * * *
She tries questioning you about your background, but you refuse to be drawn, and instead ask about classes and teachers and some of the people you've already met. "Westside's a great school," Chelsea gushes. "But you have to know who your friends are and who they're going to be."
"Andrea said something like that too."
"Andrea? Varnsworth?" She sounds nonplussed. "Andrea's smart. It's too bad she's not more popular."
"Are you popular, Chelsea?"
She just smiles enigmatically, and puts a little more swing in her hips.
Kids are swarming into the cafeteria already, but Gordon is waiting out front, and the crowds part for him as he leads your company in. Chelsea introduces him too, of course, accenting his captaincy of the basketball team and about what an awesome team it is too. "We're going to be the state champions, aren't we, pookie?" she says.
"Damn straight," he says. "Assuming fucking Patterson doesn't--"
"Oh, there's Maria and everyone else," Chelsea says, pointing at the table in the center of the room. "This is where we always eat. Me and the other cheerleaders, Gordon and the other guys. They'll bring you whatever you want, Rosalie. What do you want?"
"Whatever they're serving. Is it any good here?"
"It's pig slop, so I usually just have the Jell-O. Gordon?" At her implied order, he trudges off to get a couple of trays as you and Chelsea and Gloria slide into seats at the center of the center table. She quickly introduces you to the others: Maria Vasquez and Jessica and Eva Garner and Cara Fuhrman among the girls; Dalton Douglas and Luke Bennett and Seth Javits among the guys. You notice that the table seems a little thinner on congregants than you're used to seeing. Steve Patterson, of course, has decamped for Eastman; Jason Lynch is missing; and Seth is there without Cindy Vredenburg.
The boys are mostly silent during lunch, and talk only in low voices about topics you can't catch. The girls are more interested in you, and pepper you with questions. You're hard put to avoid definite answers, for they refuse to talk about anything that you put to them. Chelsea rides to your rescue a couple of times by jumping in to steer the conversation in other directions, but she spends almost as much time on her phone, peering down at the screen. Halfway through the meal, while she's thus occupied, your own cell phone rings. "Oh, you've already got a friend," she says without looking up.
Indeed you do: It's a message from Chelsea herself: Meeting after school? All of us? You send back a quick affirmative.
"What's your number?" Chelsea asks, clutching her arm. You give it to her. "Do you have to leave right after school? Gordon has practice after school--" She slides her other arm around him, hugging him tightly. "And sometimes I like to stay and watch."
"That sounds like fun," you say. "You have some good looking guys on the team." Seth, you notice, looks a little furtive as you say this, and hunches over his tray.
* * * * *
That's not the last you see of Seth, either. Right after last period, as you're rounding one of the wings outside, you catch sight of him in a familiar pose: He's pressed up against Keith Tilley--one of your old friends--and glaring down at him. Seth has had it in for Keith as long as you can remember.
In your new form, of course, you can interrupt this confrontation safely. But then you remember Will Prescott's attitude this morning: hunched and lonely and friendless in Walberg's class. Do you feel warmly enough toward Tilley to effect a rescue?
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