My father did a weird grunt-huff thing. “I’ve done high school. Nothing romantic about it. Just a bunch of kids with too much money and not enough to do. Been there, Skylar, and it’s not something I want you anywhere near.”
I resisted an eye roll. Daddy was a bad boy turned good. A rock star who spent his weekends with his only daughter and never drank anything stronger than black coffee. His constant traveling forced the homeschool thing, but sometimes I wondered if Daddy would have insisted on it anyway.
“Madison has the highest academic ratings in the county,” I reminded him.
“It also has the highest median household income. I know these kind of kids.”
We stared at each other, hoping we could change one another’s mind. “I’m not leaving until you’re better. If you won’t let me stay home and help, then I’m going to Madison. It was our compromise. Remember?”
His long sigh told me I’d won. “You’re so much like your mother. Stubborn.” A shadow passed over his face, and his eyes stared off into an old memory. “Sometimes I look at you and think she’s standing right there.” Sadness coated his voice.
I slipped into his arms, squeezing him as tightly as his pain threshold would allow.
My mom died in a car accident when I was ten. She’d been the love of his life, the reason he gave up partying and became the father I knew. It took a year after her death before he smiled again. But we survived that tragedy, and we’d survive this one. We were fighters. And we had each other. Nothing else mattered.
E
veryone deals with
chaos differently. My way was music. So, pulling up to the radio station Monday night was the only thing that salvaged my foul mood. Every senior in our class was skipping tomorrow, along with half the juniors on our wrestling team. I wouldn’t let myself think about the retribution that would come at practice.
The station halls were quiet, the offices empty—a reminder that my nine o’clock gig was not the prime spot whatsoever. I didn’t care. The anonymity I had behind the microphone gave me a small taste of freedom every week.
I waved at Joe in the booth next to mine. He had the eight to nine hour and represented the metal heads. I was more classic rock, with only a few current artists. I preferred the obscure songs. The ones that never made it onto billboard charts. But, then again, I knew all about existing in someone else’s shadow.
Twenty minutes flew by as I put together my digital playlist. That was the other thing I loved about working at a small station. The producers let us pick our songs.
A knock on our shared window told me I was up next. Joe took off his headphones and my “on air” light flashed.
I pulled the microphone forward and let my troubles melt away. “It’s CJ your Monday night rock wizard, playing all those songs you won’t hear anywhere else. Tonight’s theme is one that rock legends have used to change the world. Resistance. From protesting wars to social injustice, these men and women have made their mark on American culture. First up is a band you all know I love, Skylar Wyld with their 1983 hit, “Going Nuclear.” Don’t forget, phone lines are always open. Tell me your best story of resistance, and I might just put you on the air.”
I hit play and sat back while Donnie Wyld’s electric guitar blazed out one of the best song openings I’d ever heard.
The phone line popped red and I smiled. My audience was growing every week, with more and more people calling in with their stories.
“This is CJ. Who am I speaking to?”
A male voice filled the line, and I could tell in the first sentence he was flying high. “Hey, Dude! That was a killer set you played last week. I downloaded every song.”
“Nice. Glad you enjoyed it. Are you calling me with a story?”
“Nah. But since we’re talking about resistance, I wanted to see if you’d play that song ‘Fight for your Right’ to p-a-r-t-y.” He sang the title and burst out laughing.
I rolled my eyes as he continued to crack himself up. Stoners were stupid. I’d never get the appeal. “Sorry, man, that song spent way too much time in the top 20 to be on my radio show. But I’ll do you one better. Here’s ‘Dying Inside’ by Saint Vitus.”
The guy was likely too jacked up to get the message behind the song. But maybe someone out in my air space would hear the pain in lead singer Scott Weinrich’s words even if he or she couldn’t always hear it in mine.
The phone light popped red again, and this time it was a seventh grader who staged a running of the pigs down her school’s hallway in protest of bacon in the lunchroom. I laughed so hard I had to run a commercial and gave the girl two tickets to Six Flags.
What could I say? I was a sucker for those who stood up for their beliefs.
Maybe one day I would too.
I
fingered the
small silver locket I never took off. I wore it for courage, maybe. But mostly because it reminded me of my mom—Brianna Da Lange. Inside, her picture was next to mine. Two redheads with big green eyes. Only hers were fearless. A supermodel at fifteen, she blazed down every runway from America to Paris, and here I trembled as I stared at Madison High.
My heart fluttered with a mixture of anxiety and adrenaline. A real school. Filled with teenagers and drama and the unknown. But it was also the first genuinely normal thing I’d ever done. And for some reason, normal brought peace. The idea that life could exist away from the flash and glamour of the band. Where maybe I could have two living parents, and a dog named Spot. Where no one was sick and pushing me away.
I flipped the locket, turning it over to read the inscription for the hundredth time.
Soar like wings of eagles
I could still hear her voice in my head.
Make every day count. Make every moment matter.
If my mom had the courage to move to America alone with a three-year-old until my dad wised up and quit drinking, then I could face a building full of strangers.
Forcing my feet to move, I left my car and pushed through the metal doors. They creaked and closed behind me with a loud click. A click that echoed through eerily empty halls. There were no crowds mingling or running to class. No gaggle of girls huddled in a circle telling the latest gossip. Just rows and rows of untouched maroon lockers, and a linoleum floor so shiny the fluorescent lights seemed to bounce off its surface and into my eyes.
With shaky hands, I pulled my wrinkled schedule out of my bag and walked over to the locker I’d been assigned. My dad and I had come two weeks ago on a Saturday to meet with Principal Rayburn. We’d asked for complete anonymity with the faculty and students, and he assured us no one would know. It was a promise I desperately hoped he could keep.
It took two attempts with my combination, but the door finally budged. My school supplies consisted of one massive five-subject notebook, a handful of pens, and three folders. I almost bought one designed with a picture of my dad’s guitar and Skylar Wyld etched in script across the bottom but decided I was tempting fate.
Metal slammed against metal, and my gaze shifted toward the sound. He was far away, almost to the end of the hall, but I could tell he was struggling. He juggled three books while attempting to shove his giant backpack into the locker.
Nerves prickled my skin, but I walked toward him anyway. This was it. My first interaction. “I can hold those for you.”
His chin jerked upward, and the books went sprawling. Wiry glasses nearly followed, but he quickly pushed them back in place.
I’d always wondered if stereotypes existed in schools the way they were portrayed in books and movies, and now I was staring right at one. His button up, short-sleeved shirt had two pens sticking out of the top pocket and was tucked into jeans that didn’t quite reach his ankles, which was odd, because he was shorter than I was and almost as skinny.
My internal makeover fairy begged to intervene.
Reaching down, I picked up the scattered books one by one, and held them out to him with a nice-to-meet-you smile. He stared like I was carrying razor blades and not textbooks. I pointed to the backpack jammed halfway in his locker. “You can finish that now.”
“Huh?” The guy turned back to his locker. “Oh, yeah.” He shoved and pushed until the backpack disappeared.
“I’m Skylar, by the way. This is my first day here.” I looked down the hall, hoping he was the first of many to suddenly appear, but no one else walked up. “Where is everyone?”
“Like you don’t know,” he said without turning.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Mr. Friendly reached for the books in my hands.
When I pulled them away, he scowled. “Just get on with it. I’d like to actually make it to class on time today.” Under his breath I heard him murmur something about senior skip day.
“Did you say senior skip day?” I handed him the textbooks, and he put two in his locker before slamming it shut.
“Who did you say you were again?”
“Skylar.” I pulled out my new schedule and handed it to him. “See, first day.”
He skimmed the information and passed it back to me. “You have Yarnell for first period. She’s a stickler on tardiness, but I doubt it will matter today. Come on, I’ll show you.”
I sensed he still didn’t believe I was new, but I followed him anyway. “What’s your name?”
“Henry Watkins III.” He came to a dead stop. “Did Blake put you up to this?”
“Blake?”
“Senior class president? Teenage heartthrob? King of the school?” He asked each question as if I’d crawled out from under a rock.
“I don’t know who Blake is.”
Henry’s yeah-right snort had me pushing down a spark of irritation.
I grabbed his thin arm, careful not to squeeze too hard. “I really am new here. I moved to North Carolina a month ago.” His eyes locked on my hand. I released the grip and held my hand up. “Girl Scout’s honor.” I’d never been in Girl Scouts, but it sounded good.
He tilted his head, his lips making a tight line across his face. “Where are you transferring from?”
“Nowhere. I’ve been homeschooled my whole life.” He didn’t seem surprised by my admission. Instead he seemed to get more agitated.
“So, tell me, Skylar from nowhere, why are you talking to me?” His sarcastic tone could have frozen fire.
“Why wouldn’t I talk to you?”
He clutched the massive calculus book to his chest like he needed protection from me. “I’ve been banished.” He looked in both directions. “If anyone sees you talking to me, you’re finished at this school. Even if you do look like, well…” Henry’s hand gestured the length of my body, “that.”
If he’d meant “that” as a compliment, his social skills needed serious improvement. My feet itched to walk away and forget this small, strange guy, but my stubborn will trumped. Plus, my gut said he needed a friend. “I don’t see how talking to you will do anything but help me get to class. Please? If nobody is here, what does it matter?”
“People are here, just not on this hall. Principal Rayburn likes to keep the grades separated.” He stopped like there was more to that explanation but didn’t want to say so.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s a safe thing.” Henry lifted his chin toward an empty classroom. “This is you.”
Me. A classroom. Empty or not, it was still the first one I’d ever sat in. I touched my locket. “I’m nervous.”
Henry’s guarded scowl loosened. “Don’t be. Ms. Yarnell is the coolest teacher here.” I didn’t miss that his voice had softened, too. “If you want, I can meet you after and show you where to go next.”
My gut was right. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Yeah, sure.” He scurried off, leaving me to enter alone.
I stepped in and surveyed the room. Spicy incense hung in the air tickling my nose. The walls were a stark white, but greenery lined every shelf and windowsill. Six empty round tables filled the small room. I picked one near the back and sat, fidgeting, while my new teacher ruffled papers on her desk.
“Give me one second,” she said without turning. Even from the back, I could tell she had a weird affection for vintage wear. Her long skirt stopped above leather sandals and swayed while she searched.
She found the paper she was looking for, grabbed a textbook, and slid into the chair next to me. “You must be Skylar.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Ms. Yarnell.”
She stuck out her hand, and the tension began to drift from my shoulders.
You can do this.
“I apologize for the lack of students. Seems our senior class decided to skip today.” She looked my dad’s age, but dressed like she’d grown up in the sixties. Her long brown hair was parted in the middle and hung straight as a board. She spent a few minutes explaining her policies and assignments and then sat back as if she’d finished a ten-course meal. “Now that the business is taken care of, tell me a little about yourself. I imagine you’ve had quite a unique life up to this point.”
My face must have paled because she quickly laid her hand over mine.
“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. I’ve listened to your dad’s music for over twenty years now.” She sighed and looked off as if watching a movie I couldn’t see. “Skylar Wyld in Times Square was my first concert and ruined me for any other rock band. I had just graduated from high school. My girlfriends and I loaded up a SUV and drove 500 miles to see them play. Best weekend of my life.”
She must have realized she was still holding my hand and quickly removed hers. “Anyway, I’ve been a fan ever since. Been to seven of his concerts.”
Her words pulled the plug on my bucket of hope. There were only a handful of pictures of me online, most from after my mom died and the paparazzi hounded us. But die-hard fans knew her face, which meant they knew mine.
M
y parents were
seated at the table sipping their morning coffee when I walked in the kitchen. Classical music played lightly in the background, and the serenity almost made me forget I was about to lie to them.
“Hey, Bud. You’re up early.” My dad was usually gone when I came downstairs, my mom close behind, but she liked to at least see me before she left. Our five-minute catch up session in front of the refrigerator had become a tradition.