He ducked behind Dad’s car. “I’ll tell Mom if you do it, Amara.”
“It’s Ara-Rose!” I stomped my foot.
“Well, that’s a stupid name.”
“Not as stupid as your face.”
“Really?” He stood up, holding his hands out. “That’s all you could come up with?”
I huffed, stomping once in his direction; he bolted behind the tree, cackling. “You’re such a pain, Sam.”
“Rather be that than whiney and melodramatic.”
“I'm not melodramatic. I'm expressive. There’s a difference.” I let my voice quiver a little and squatted down with my face in my hands, tucking my dress in first so my underwear wouldn’t show. He was about to see how melodramatic I could be.
“Aw, sis, I didn’t mean’ta make ya cry...” he said, making the stupid mistake of touching my shoulder. I grabbed his wrist, calling on three years’ worth of self-defence training, and jammed my shoulder into his chest—flipping him onto the grass in front of me.
“Ah!” He coughed out, rolling into a ball on his side. “How do you do that?”
“Call me Amara again and I’ll be happy to demonstrate.” I dusted my hands off, stepped over the pile of Sam and walked to the curbside. But an invisible barrier stopped me; I merely watched the students across the road, filing up the stairs to my future daily obligation.
“Bell’s gone, Ara-Rose. We’re late.”
I shrugged.
“Well, you might like after-school detention, but I don’t.”
“You don’t have to babysit me, Sam. You can walk ahead.”
He went quiet for a second; the call of teens laughing and a whistle blowing somewhere on the football field seeming suddenly really loud. “It’s not so bad there, you know.”
“I’m sure it’s not. I still don’t wanna go.”
“People’re really nice,” Sam offered. I looked up at him—all the way up. His height shaded me from the morning glare, leaving the simple, easy-going smile he inherited from my dad to warm the moment.
“I don’t want them to be nice. I want them to leave me alone.”
“That’s easy.” He shrugged, readjusting his backpack, then wandered onto the road. “If you want them not to like you, just be yourself.”
“That’s it! I’m going to kill you this time, pest.”
“You have to catch me first.”
I charged after him, my sudden movement making him squeal like a girl, though it kind of sounded like a bumblebee. “I used to run track, Sam, remember? You won’t get away.”
“Yeah, used to. But I doubt those twig legs could even catch a renegade granny with a walking-stick.” He took off again when I glared at him, and I bet he thought he’d escape, darting so gracefully over the grass, but he hadn’t counted on me being a little fitter than I let on—until I grabbed his shoulder. “Oh no, don’t kill me, I take it back.”
I reached past his shielding hands and punched him. “Jerk.”
“Ouch.” He rubbed his arm as I walked away. “You punch like a girl.”
“I am a girl.”
“Yeah, well, you owe me.” He caught up to me, grinning.
“Why?”
“Because I got you to school—without all the tears and fuss.”
I stopped walking, turning to smirk at Sam.
“Have a good day, sis.” He skipped off with a wide stride and disappeared into the building—now only a few steps in front of me.
I stood staring up at it like some kid who found a wall of broccoli with their name on it, ignoring the increasing volume of Dad’s house calling my return. I refused to even give it a backward glance. If I did, I’d surely run back across the grass, screeching like Sam, and hide under my bed for the day.
Instead, I bit my lip, considering the mundane scene beyond the glass doors with a bit of disappointment; it was nothing like American high schools on TV. Everything was plainly coloured and all the kids looked normal; no glamorous groups of girls walking down the hall, flicking their hair while guys parted for them. No one was dancing or singing and, thankfully, no slushies. There were lockers, though—greyish-brown ones. Not big enough to be stuffed inside.
A few boys ran past me in a tight, sweaty group, tripping their way up the cement steps, ignoring my neon sign, despite the word ‘New’ having grown so big now it was making my shoulders sink. When the doors slammed behind them and the crowd parted, I braved step one, then step two, stopping dead at step three, catching sight of two heavy black boots—beyond the glass. My eyes traced them up the denim jeans to a black shirt, rolled up over the elbows of a guy. The head, however, was gone. Or rather, hidden behind the doorhandles. But one thing was for sure; he was looking this way—perhaps at me, standing dead still while people moved all around him, laughing and acting normal. And my nerve-wracked brain concluded one thing, practically screaming out loud, Sweet mother of all things inhumanly awkward, please do not let him be planning to greet the new kid.
I dumped my bag on the step and grabbed my cardigan to cover my arms—hopefully to hide my face in too. Then, with my chin tucked toward the concealment of my collarbones, I threw my bag over one shoulder and continued with the inevitable.
By the time I reached step seven, Mr Black Boots, with his hands in his pockets, had progressed forward as well. I closed my eyes and, praying he’d just disappear, pushed the door open, waking with a gasp when a hand grabbed my arm.
“New?” said a girl with a very bright smile, her blonde ponytail bouncing behind her.
“Ur, no.” I looked to where the boy had been standing and, thankfully, my prayers were answered.
She giggled. “I’m Emily Pierce.” Her extended hand shook mine; I drew it back quickly. “Cheer Captain and—” she tilted her head, “—your self-appointed tour guide.”
Self-appointed tour guide? I considered this bouncy girl for a second, forming an opinion on her that probably wasn't fair. But, as far as I was concerned, it really should be illegal to wear skirts that short to school and, so, maybe her perfect skin and confident disposition was a little threatening—maybe it forced a pang of jealousy in me, but I think I really just didn’t like this girl.
The door swung closed behind me then, pushing me into the school with a whack on the butt. “I uh—” I moved out of the way for another group of people coming in. “I really don’t need a tour guide.”