Shifting (2 page)

I don't know how long I stood in the doorway, staring down the hall and feeling empty. It wasn't until Mrs. Carpenter came bustling toward me, speaking as if she and I had been holding a conversation, that I snapped out of it.

“School starts at seven forty, so I recommend you get to bed as soon as possible,” she said, pressing a soft, fresh-smelling bundle into my hands. I stared at it. “It's an extra blanket. In case you get cold. The cot's not all that warm,” she explained. “You act like you've never seen a quilt before.

“My room is upstairs. If you need anything, just holler. I'll hear you.” She stared at me for a minute. “ 'Night,” she finally said.

I shut my bedroom door behind her and undressed. From the top drawer, I got my nightshirt—an old oversized Michelin Tires T-shirt that used to belong to Jenny Sue's husband. I slipped it over my head and padded across the hall to the bathroom.

I washed my face and brushed my teeth with lukewarm water, used the toilet, and then stared in the mirror. Without makeup covering it, I could still see the faintest shadow of gray beneath my left eye—the last evidence of the fight with the prostitute. I looked older than seventeen. When did I begin to look so old? So tired? So hopeless?

I flipped off the light, crossed the hall, and eased onto the rickety cot.

2

I jumped awake. Years of living with strangers will do that.

I think I terrified Mrs. Carpenter as much as she terrified me. She cowered in my doorway, staring at me with wide eyes.

“We had better get you an alarm clock,” she said shakily. “You nearly stopped my heart. Did you sleep well, child?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You know, you are allowed to speak in my home. I appreciate the respect, but I wish you'd talk a bit.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I replied out of habit. I bit my tongue.

“Well. We need to leave for school in twenty minutes, so you'd better get ready. And dress warm. The wind's still blowing.” Mrs. Carpenter turned and strode away with her hands on her hips.

Twenty minutes to get ready for my first day at a new school? I ran to the bathroom and took a shampooless, soapless shower. I brushed through my sopping hair, dabbed concealer on my black eye, and put a layer of black mascara on my pale lashes. In my room I put on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, pulled on socks with holes over both my big toes, then slipped my feet into Jenny Sue's old running sneakers, which were a size too big. I got my jacket out of the closet and pushed my arms into the thin sleeves. There were three minutes to spare.

Mrs. Carpenter stood waiting in the kitchen. “Here you go, Maggie Mae,” she said, holding out a plate with two slices of bacon and two fried eggs shimmering with grease. I took the plate and sat at the table.

“Have you been raised with any particular religion?” she asked, sitting across from me.

“Yes. I've been preached to by everyone from Baptists to Catholics to Buddhists. When I was five, I lived with the Sharpwhites. They were Wiccan, or astrologists, or something.” I could hardly remember a thing about their religion, except on clear nights we would dance under the stars. Mrs. Sharpwhite always told me that when my stars lined up, my life would be in harmony. I'm still waiting for my stars to line up.

“Well, in this house I like to say grace at every meal. Do you mind?” Mrs. Carpenter asked.

I closed my eyes, clasped my hands, and bowed my head.

“Dear Lord, thank you for this glorious morning. And thank you for blessing me with the chance to foster this child. But please, Lord, let her keep her clothes on while she's in my care. Because if she doesn't, I might be tempted to spank her bare butt. And bless this food we are about to partake of. Amen.”

I unclasped my hands and stared at Mrs. Carpenter. She winked and grinned.

I ate like I was going to die—I
was
starting a new school. At least no one at my new school knew my past.

“We need to go,” Mrs. Carpenter said as I stuck the last bite of egg into my mouth. She grabbed her keys from a holder by the front door. I grabbed my empty duffle bag and followed her outside.

She was right about the wind. It tugged at my clothes and whipped my wet hair into my face. I hugged the jacket to my body and shivered. And that is when the quiet morning filled with snarling and baying.

“There must be a fox in the barn.” Mrs. Carpenter gasped, running toward a dark building on the far edge of the gravel driveway. She threw the door wide and the barking grew louder. Two shadows streaked out of the dark building and ran straight at me. A solid mass hit my chest and I was thrown to the ground. Muzzles snarled and snapped at my face, their breath hot on my cheeks.

I threw my arms over my head and rolled onto my side. The barking turned to whining and two slick, hot tongues began covering every inch of my exposed skin with slobber.

“Shash! Duke! Get off of her before I tan your hide!” Mrs. Carpenter demanded. She dragged the dogs from me, but I was too shaky to get up.

“Maggie Mae, I apologize!” Mrs. Carpenter said. “I don't know what's gotten into my dogs. They usually only bark like that around a wild animal. I thought they were going to eat you for breakfast, but it seems they like you well enough now.” One of the dogs, hardly more than a fluffy black-and-white shadow in the gloomy morning, slunk over and licked my face from my jaw up to my hairline.

“Shash, get back here!” Mrs. Carpenter ordered. The dog took a second long lick of my face, then turned and sat at Mrs. Carpenter's feet, beside a long-eared, copper-colored dog. Finally able to move, I wiped the slobber from my cheek and pushed myself to a sitting position.

“My second husband was part Navajo. He taught Native American culture at the university, specializing in Navajo religion. He always said animals can sense a person's true nature,” Mrs. Carpenter said, her shrewd eyes studying me. “If my dogs take a liking to someone, that is a sign that I should like them, too. I can see why my son sent you to me.”

“Your son?” I asked, baffled.

“My son, Dr. John Petersen, child psychiatrist and social worker. Your counselor. He called me up at the crack of dawn yesterday morning and asked if I'd take in someone special. Said he didn't trust anyone else with this particular girl and wanted to give her a chance to graduate from high school and get her feet under her so that she might make something of herself.”

“Mr. Petersen is your son? But you have different last names.”

“That's because John's father died when John was a teenager. Years later I married ‘Bob' Bidziil Carpenter. He died, too, a few years back,” Mrs. Carpenter explained. “Anyhow, Maggie Mae, let me lock the dogs back in the barn and we'll go.”

I nodded because I couldn't talk. Mr. Petersen had handed me over to his own mother in spite of all my flaws? I felt a funny ache behind my eyes.

After the dogs were locked up, we got into a baby-blue Ford pickup truck that looked older than me. Mrs. Carpenter leaned toward me and plucked something from my hair. “A stick,” she said, showing me a twig with a strand of black still attached.

“So, tell me, Maggie Mae—what happened to your mother and father?”

My hand froze on the seat belt and I looked at her. “I don't know. They died before I can remember.”

“What about your grandparents?”

I hooked my seat belt. “They're dead, too. Child services couldn't trace a single person who I was related to. That's how I ended up in foster care.”

Mrs. Carpenter studied me for a long moment before starting the truck engine.

“John told me that you didn't enter the program until you were five years old. Who did you live with until then?” We bounced down the long gravel drive.

A child's face flashed before my eyes—brown hair, blue eyes, bright red freckles on her full cheeks—the face of Lucy Reynolds, my cousin. But Lucy didn't have freckles.

“I lived with my aunt and cousin.” My voice was barely audible above the truck engine.

“What happened to them?”

“They … died.”

“Well, Maggie Mae, you and I are alike. Seems that those closest to us die. I lost two husbands; you lost your parents, your cousin, and your aunt. We're two peas in a pod.”

3

“Now, the kids in this town are different from city kids. They have been raised right, for the most part.”

Mrs. Carpenter pulled into the Silver High School parking lot and bounced into a parking space. She shut off the truck engine, left the keys hanging in the ignition, and got out. I pressed my back against the seat and closed my eyes.

“Well? Aren't you coming, Maggie Mae?” she asked after a long moment. I opened my eyes. She was staring at me from her open door.

I thrust my chin forward, took a deep breath, and opened my door.

Every single person in that parking lot—student, parent, and teacher alike—stopped what they were doing and stared. I tried not to make contact with any of those eyes, but somehow my eyes locked on his. I couldn't help it. He was staring right at me and his eyes were as dark as his inky black hair. By his suddenly raised eyebrows, he was very aware that I was gawking at him. He blinked and walked past.

“Bridger O'Connell, wait!” Mrs. Carpenter called out. My heart seemed to freeze as he stopped and faced her.

“Yes, Mrs. C.?” he asked, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.

“Would you mind showing Maggie Mae around the school while I get her registered?” Mrs. Carpenter nodded toward me.

Bridger glanced from Mrs. Carpenter to me, eyeing me from my stringy wet hair to my shoes, and hesitated.

He wore all the right things—name-brand jeans that fit him like they'd been tailored to his tall body, a tan leather jacket over a button-up shirt—even his backpack looked brand-new. I looked down, hating the fact that my jeans were too long and bunched up over Jenny Sue's old running shoes, hating the rips over both my knees, hating the black T-shirt that was faded to more of a reddish gray, hating the duffle bag I used in place of a backpack. I wouldn't want to be seen with me, either.

“I don't need any help, Mrs. Carpenter. I can show myself around,” I said, not taking my eyes from Bridger's.

“I don't mind,” Bridger said halfheartedly, running a hand through his hair.

“I don't want to be seen with you. It might tarnish my image,” I replied, tucking my hair behind my ears. It was easier to go to school when everyone thought you were a loner because you chose to be, not because you were dirt poor and dressed all wrong. “I'll meet you in the office, Mrs. Carpenter,” I said, glancing at her astonished face before pushing past Bridger O'Connell. He smelled amazing.

For a small town, the school was big, with white tile walls that made it feel antiseptic. I'd been in enough new schools that finding my way around another was second nature. The students stared as I wandered by. Their conversations stopped—until I walked past. And then the halls filled with voices.

After a quick self-guided tour, I made my way to the front office and found Mrs. Carpenter talking to a short, plump woman sitting behind the front desk. The plaque on the desk read S
HAUNA
W
INSLOW
. She held a piece of paper out to me.

“Your new schedule,” she said. “Your transcripts arrived this morning and I took the liberty of basing your new classes off the old. Welcome to Silver High.”

“Thanks.” I took the paper and scanned my new schedule. Chemistry, then Algebra II, and then twelfth-grade English followed by lunch and a free period. After that I had Animal Medicine, Health and Wellness, and Agricultural Studies. Animal Medicine sounded interesting, but everything else was just day-filler till I could get my diploma and be done with school forever.

“I'll show myself to my first class,” I said, looking at Mrs. Carpenter.

“All right, Maggie Mae. I had Shauna write your bus number right here.” She touched the top corner of the schedule. “It'll drop you off about a quarter mile from my house.”

“ 'Kay,” I replied.

“She's sure an independent thing,” Shauna Winslow said as I walked out the door.

I wandered down the deserted hall, scanning the closed doors for room 3. When I found it, I put my hand on the icy knob, took a deep breath, and turned.

The smell of rotten eggs and perfume greeted me—lab day.

I scanned the room as I closed the door behind me. Everyone was neatly paired at individual lab tables, doing an experiment with sulfuric acid or some other fragrant chemical.

“May I help you?” the man at the front of the room asked.

“I'm Maggie Mae Mortensen. I'm new to this school and was assigned your class,” I explained. My mouth went dry as every pair of eyes in the class shifted to me.

“There must be some mistake,” the teacher said, shaking his glossy bald head. “Only the brightest students who took my biology class last year are eligible for my advanced chemistry class. And besides, you won't have a lab partner.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, I just got a schedule from Shauna and it says I'm in this class.”

The teacher strode over to me, yanking the schedule from my fingers without a word. He scanned the schedule and frowned. I focused on his tacky brown tie. “Well. Have you taken chemistry before?”

“Yes, junior year.”

“That solves it. You don't need to take it again. I'll go to Principal Smith's office and get you switched to a more … appropriate class.”

He squeezed past me and out the door. I stood, silent and miserable, and returned the stares of the students.

What felt like a year later, the teacher came back and handed me my schedule.

“All fixed,” he said smugly. Where my chemistry class had been listed was a black line. Written above it in permanent marker were the words “Track and Field—Gym.” I guess I'd just joined the track team.

“Where's the gym?” I asked.

“I'll show her, Mr. Guymon!” a female voice piped out. A short, dark-haired girl hurried out of her seat.

“Thank you, Bonnie,” Mr. Guymon said. I could see the relief wash over him as I turned to leave.

“I'm Bonnie Schuler,” Bonnie said, holding her hand out to me as we walked. I placed my hand in hers and shook.

“Maggie Mae,” I replied.

“So, where did you move here from?” she asked, voice as sweet as honey.

“Albuquerque.”

She gasped and grabbed one of my hands in both of hers. “You're from the city?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I love the city. My family goes there every fall for back-to-school shopping. I got this shirt there.”

I looked at her Abercrombie T-shirt and nodded as if impressed.

“Did you know Albuquerque is the thirty-fourth largest city in the country?”

“No. Didn't know that.”

“Oh my gosh! And you lived there? How could you not know?”

I shrugged.

“Well, anyway, here we are. The gym. So, do you like running?”

Do I like running? Not particularly, I thought, recalling the grueling days in ninth-grade gym class where the teacher made us run three miles. “Sure,” I answered.

Bonnie started laughing. “I can totally tell you're from the city.”

“You can?”

“Yeah. You're so aloof. And your freaky black hair. You totally look Goth.”

I nodded. “Well, thanks for showing me the way, Bonnie,” I said as I pushed the gym door open.

“Sure. And Maggie Mae—” I turned to look at her. “Sit with me at lunch if you want,” she said as she hurried down the hall.

I walked into the silent gym and stared at the hall of fame jerseys tacked to the wall.

“Where are you supposed to be?”

I whirled around.

“I said, where are you supposed to be, young lady?”

A barrel-chested man in his midthirties stared me down from a door leading into what I assumed was the locker room.

“Hi. I'm new. I have Track and Field first period,” I explained, walking over to him and waving my schedule.

He eyed me and frowned. “Did you bring your gym clothes?”

I didn't own gym clothes. “No, sir.”

“Well, at least you wore tennis shoes,” he said and motioned me to follow him.

We walked down a hallway and through a door that led outside to a football field surrounded by a track. In spite of the sun being up, a thin fog clung to the field.

“I'm Mr. Fergusson. The students call me Coach. We're doing the fifty-yard dash today, followed by hurdles. You ever done hurdles?”

“No, sir. Never done the fifty-yard dash, either,” I informed him, eyeing the barely visible hurdles set up on the far side of the misty track. My stomach started to flutter.

I turned to Coach, prepared to explain that I had most definitely been dumped into Track and Field by mistake, but as I opened my mouth to speak, he blew the whistle that hung around his neck.

A small group of students dressed in gym shorts, hoodies, and sneakers materialized out of the mist hovering around the bleachers. They began lining up at a line painted across the track.

“Maggie, put your bag down and join the other students,” Coach said gruffly.

I slipped the empty duffle from my shoulder and lined up with the other students. They studied me, their eyes lingering on my jeans. I felt more out of place here than I ever had before. One pair of eyes caught and held mine. It was the boy from the parking lot—Bridger O'Connell. He nodded as if to say hello. I swallowed and looked away.

Coach hustled fifty yards down the track, put the whistle to his lips, and fiddled with a stopwatch. The whistle pealed out and the students burst into action, leaving me in their dust. I blinked, realized I was supposed to be running, too, and dug my toes into the rubbery track.

Mist clung to my face, coating it with a sheen of moisture. My feet pumped, barely touching the ground, and within two seconds I had caught up to the track team. Then I passed them. All of them. I breezed by Coach—and the finish line—and kept following the curve of the track, my feet light as feathers. A grin lit my face. Running, when bullies weren't after me, felt like flying. And I
liked
it.

As the first hurdle solidified out of the mist, I leaped and soared over it. The second hurdle was the same. I glided over, hardly impacting the ground when I landed, took a step, and leaped over the next. And the next, until I'd gone all the way around the track.

I couldn't stop grinning as I skidded to a stop a few yards from Coach and the team.

“Show-off,” someone murmured. “We're doing the fifty-yard dash, not hurdles.” My smile faltered.

“That was … impressive,” Coach said, eyeing my sneakers. “Have you ever done any type of sprinting before?”

“No, sir.” I panted. “Except when I'd run away from the mean girls at my old school. They couldn't catch me.”

He studied me for a minute with curious brown eyes. “All right. Maggie, let's have you and Bridger go to the start line and race the fifty-yard dash again.”

I looked at Bridger and caught the tail end of a scowl scurrying over his face.

“You afraid she's going to beat you twice, O'Connell?” Coach taunted.

“Not likely,” Bridger said, running a hand through his glossy black hair.

As Bridger and I walked to the start line I studied his long, muscular legs.
Not likely
was right. I don't know how I beat him the first time around.

Bridger positioned his toe just at the start line, touching his fingertips on the track, and stared straight ahead. I stood with both my toes on the line, my arms hanging at my sides, and listened for the whistle. And when it blew, I took off.

I never saw Bridger, even in my peripheral view. As I approached Coach I saw the stopwatch in his hand, heard the rhythmic sound of the watch's ticking until I crossed the finish line and his thumb clicked down on it. But of course that would have been ridiculous, hearing the stopwatch, with my heart pounding in my ears.

Coach started jumping up and down and hollering, punching the hand holding the stopwatch into the air over and over again. “You set a new school record!”

“Are you serious?” I asked, completely dumbfounded. I knew I was fast, had learned to be out of necessity, but setting a new record?

“She beat the school record! She beat your dad's thirty-year-old record, Bridger!” Coach hollered. “I can't believe it!”

Bridger stood just past the finish line with his hands on his knees and his head down, breathing hard and studying me out of the corner of his eye. The rest of the team hovered around Coach and his stopwatch. A couple were smiling, but the others were frowning, looking between Bridger and me. I guess they weren't hoping I'd lead the school to victory.

We never raced hurdles that day. Instead, Coach had me individually race the fifty-yard dash with every person on the team. Twice. I beat them all.

“You're a natural,” Coach said, slapping a hand on my shoulder as we walked back to the lockers. “Tomorrow, bring your gym clothes. We'll do hurdles. I promise.”

I nodded, trying to catch my breath.

News of my running traveled fast. In my next two classes, the students were whispering about it before I sat down. And most of them were scowling at me, as if setting a new school record was like infecting everyone with head lice.

At lunch, I looked for Bonnie and found her looking for me. I sighed with relief. There's nothing more embarrassing than sitting alone at lunch while everyone stares at you.

“Hi!” Bonnie chimed. “Are you buying lunch or did you bring something?”

I scowled. Mrs. Carpenter and I had completely forgotten about my lunch and I didn't have a dime I could call my own. “I'm not hungry,” I lied, eyeing her tray. The cafeteria was serving tacos, applesauce, Jell-O, and cookies. My stomach grumbled.

“Not hungry? After all your running this morning, you don't even want a Sprite or anything?”

“No. I'm good.”

I followed her to a long row of noisy tables where the seniors sat. Bonnie sat on the second-to-last seat at a narrow rectangular table, and I filled the last. Everyone stopped talking and turned to stare at Bonnie and me.