Shifting (7 page)

11

The bus pulled into the school parking lot. I stared at the tan brick school through the rain-streaked window and wished I could shrink down into my seat and disappear. When all the students had filed off, I dragged myself to the exit and stepped into the rain. My feet refused to take another step.

The parking lot was awhirl with students. They hurried past me so intent on themselves that I was invisible again.

By the time I mustered up enough courage to make my feet start walking, I was soaked clean through. My bra was visible beneath my thin, sopping wet black T-shirt and my drenched hair looked blacker than black despite that it wasn't black anymore. I hugged my sodden jacket closed over my shirt and trudged forward.

As I pushed the school door open, the tardy bell rang and students evacuated the halls. My shoes squeaked and squelched on the linoleum. I turned a corner toward the gym and my feet screeched to a stop before the rest of my body. Hands clamped down on my shoulders and held me in place. I took a step back and glared up at Bridger.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“I need to talk to you. I tried calling your house yesterday, but Mrs. Carpenter said you were grounded from the phone.”

“Yeah, I was grounded. Leave me alone.” It was easier not getting attached to someone. Because that way, I couldn't get hurt. I turned toward the locker room, but his long arm came up, hand resting on the wall, barring my way.

“Something really important came up,” he said.

“Something so important you didn't have the decency to give me a freaking ride home?
What
came up?”

“I can't talk about it.”

“Whatever. Just leave me alone, Bridger. As far as I'm concerned, we never met.” I shoved his arm away and strode into the girls' locker room.

The locker room was empty. I wiggled out of my drenched jeans and jacket, then pulled the soaked T-shirt over my head. From my locker I got dry running clothes and yanked them on, shoving my jacket and backpack inside.

Instead of stuffing my jeans and T-shirt into the locker, I laid them out over the bench to dry.

I stood tall, wiped the smeared mascara from under my eyes, and walked into the gym.

It was hard, but I did not let my eyes wander, did not allow myself to scan the gathered students for any sign of Bridger.

“We'll hold class indoors today because of the rain,” Coach bellowed as he entered the gym. “All girls, line up for sprints. Boys, stretch.”

I followed Ginger to the far end of the gym. We were the only girls in track that day.

“Hi,” Ginger said as we lined up.

“Hey.”

“All right, ladies, to the other side and back twenty times. And hustle,” Coach said and blew his whistle. As I sped past the bleachers where the boys stretched, I couldn't help but search for black hair. He was there, as studiously avoiding my eyes as I had been avoiding his. All the other guys, though, stared at me. I looked straight ahead again and ran.

The whole class passed that way, with me straining to avoid any type of contact with Bridger, even eye contact. A wall of tension loomed between us. The students must have sensed it. No one spoke. No one smiled, even at each other. And everyone seemed to be glaring at me. Except Ginger. And Bridger, who acted like I was nonexistent.

When Coach excused us to shower and change, I practically ran from the tension.

“Maggie Mae,” someone called when I was only a step from the freedom of the girls' locker room. My heart thudded in my chest as I turned to see what Coach wanted. My track mates pushed past me a little too roughly, jostling me with their shoulders. Bridger was last in line. As he brushed by, his eyes flickered to mine and he paused.

“I think something might be up,” he whispered, glancing toward the boys' locker room. “Be careful.” His fingers touched mine and I had to fight the urge to jerk my hand away. Then he was gone.

“Maggie Mae?”

I blinked.

“I need to speak with you,” Coach explained. “I'll give you a late pass for second period.”

I followed him to his office, a small room next to the locker rooms, decorated with trophies and ribbons of years past.

“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a metal folding chair squeezed into the corner. I sat. “You're the best sprinter I've ever had,” he said as he sat behind the desk. His chocolate eyes, with their thick caterpillar brows, studied me. “I'd hate to lose you.”

“What do you mean, ‘lose me'?” I asked, though I pretty much knew what he was going to say.

“We can't be a team if two of our members are trying to kill each other.” I raised my eyebrows, wondering if he was referring to Bridger and me, or Danni and me. “It would be a darn shame if I had to kick you and Danni off the team for fighting. This is the only warning I'll give you.”

So he meant Danni.

He stared at me for a long time. Could he tell that I didn't care if I was on the team or not? Running track had never been an ambition of mine.

“Do you realize that with your fifty-yard dash time, you could get a track scholarship to any major university?” he asked. “You are planning on going to college, right?”

“Not really.” Everyone seemed to make such a big deal about college, like if I didn't go, I'd be a complete failure.

As if to convince me of the importance of gaining a higher education, Coach told me all sorts of stories about when he ran track at Arizona State. It wasn't until the dismissal bell for second period rang that we realized how much time had passed. He scribbled an excusal note for me to give to the attendance office and I hurried out of his office.

Back in the girls' locker room, I began to tremble with cold, as if the rainy morning had made its way to my bones. I stripped out of my gym clothes and grabbed a towel from my locker, then darted to the deserted showers.

The water, even when turned to full hot, was barely warm enough to feel good. It did nothing to melt away the ice that coursed through my blood and made my teeth chatter. The third period tardy bell rang, but I ignored it, standing under the tepid water, letting it spray the top of my head and trickle over my body.

Long after my skin had turned prunelike with wrinkles, I turned off the shower, wrapped the towel around my freezing body, and went to my locker.

My clothes were exactly where I'd left them—draped over the bench and dripping puddles on the locker room floor. I put my jeans on first, hardly able to get my legs into the cold, stiff fabric. Then I grabbed my black T-shirt and paused. Something had caught my eye—a burst of color. I held the shirt up.

My heart dropped to my stomach and seemed to explode. On the front of my T-shirt was a giant scarlet letter
A,
paint fumes oozing from it. I thought of Hester Prynne from
The Scarlet Letter
, thought of the
A
that marked her as an adulterer for everyone to see. I had been marked, too. I studied the
A
on my shirt and my blood started to boil.

Absolutely furious, I threw the T-shirt onto the bench. There was no freaking way I was going to wear it. I'd wear my smelly gym shirt because, seriously, it's not like anyone got close enough to smell me.

I opened my gym locker and gasped. It was empty. Nothing—not even my gym shorts, not even my backpack—was in it.

I sat heavily on the locker room bench and stared at the empty locker, thinking maybe I'd opened the wrong one. I double-checked the number—117. Nope, I had the right locker. My things had been stolen.

I looked down at myself, at my damp, dingy white bra and low-rise jeans. I couldn't go out into the halls wearing that, so I grabbed the black shirt and turned it inside out.

As I pulled it over my head, I cringed. The paint had soaked through. Even inside out the
A
was visible. I felt branded.

My shoes and socks, still soaked, sent a shiver through me as I pulled them on. With nothing to carry, nothing to cover my scarlet letter, I folded my arms over my chest and crept from the gym, out into the cafeteria-food-scented hall. I stared at my feet, my wet hair shielding the sides of my face, and slunk toward the front doors. I was going home.

My shoulders sagged with relief as the doors came into view—until I realized someone was standing beside them. Mike Williams from track stepped in front of the doors and folded his arms over his thick chest. I knew the look in his surly brown eyes all too well. He was not going to let me get past him without a fight.

My steps slowed and I let my arms dangle at my sides. Could I fight my way past him and then sprint home? I was a faster runner, and if I got a solid punch in before he did … I perched on the balls of my feet and gritted my teeth. But there was a problem. If I fought him, I'd be expelled and I was so close to graduating that I could almost taste it.

A bell blared.

Bodies filled the hall. A horde of hungry students stood between me and the freedom of those front doors.

People started noticing me and the chatter in the hall died down to the swish of whispers. Everyone stopped walking and stared, pointing to the scarlet letter on my shirt. As if they had been waiting for me. As if they had been told what to look for.

A shrill laugh pealed through the quiet hall, sending a fresh shiver down my spine.

“Didn't I tell you?” a female voice said. “She's a prostitute. Has been picked up by the police for streetwalking more times than I can count on both my hands.” Danni strutted down the hall toward me, smirking in spite of the black bruise circling her eye. My hands balled into angry fists. “Yep. She is a whore. A parentless, streetwalking, professional whore who can't keep her clothes on. Just look at the letter on her shirt.” Danni smiled and started laughing.

“Leave her alone, Danni.” Yana pushed through the crowd, her eyes locked on mine. Danni stepped in front of her and blocked her way.

“Get out of here, little squaw. This has nothing to do with you.”

Yana shoved Danni, but a guy I didn't know grabbed Yana, yanking her into the crowd. It didn't matter. If Danni wanted me to fight, she was out of luck. Not even the satisfaction of pounding her face in again could induce me to jeopardize graduating.

Danni slid through the crowd to stand in front of me, and that is when I saw what she held snug under her arm. A rectangular, dog-eared file folder bulging with papers. The sight of it made my ears ring and my knees knock together. I pinched myself, hoping I was in a nightmare and about to wake up.

She raised her hand and slapped me across the face. My cheek flamed with pain and I knew this was no nightmare. It was something worse.

“That's for giving me a black eye. I couldn't get prom pictures because of it,” Danni said.

“You're so full of crap,” I snarled. “You couldn't get pictures because you didn't have a date. Your
ex
-date was with me.”

“Yeah, only until I told him about your police record!” she replied loud and clear, taking the folder from under her arm. “Maggie Mae has been arrested at least a dozen times. Listen—” Graduation at risk or not, I couldn't let her read what was in that file. I lunged for her, fists primed for some serious damage.

Hands cinched in a death grip on my shoulders before I could swing. I turned, expecting to see a teacher, and looked right into the eyes of Mike Williams, Danni's brother.

A paper rustled. I looked back at Danni. She scanned the sheet of paper in her hand and started reading. “June 24, 4:37 a.m., Albuquerque. Magdalene Mae Mortensen found nude in an alley with homeless man. Picked up by police.” She flung the paper aside and pulled out another from the file. “December 3, 3:17 a.m., Albuquerque. Magdalene Mae Mortensen found nude wandering city street. Picked up by police.” She threw that paper aside and got another. “This one's from a month ago,” Danni announced.

I lunged for her again, fighting against the fingers digging into my shoulders, but couldn't get away.

Danni looked at me and smirked. “Looks like you already know what it says.” She cleared her throat and read, practically yelling, “March 26, 5:55 a.m., Albuquerque. Magdalene Mae Mortensen found nude on city street, assaulting a prostitute for possession of a jacket. Picked up by police.” She looked at me. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?” she asked, tossing the paper aside. Someone caught the paper—someone I didn't know—and started reading.

“No way, man! It's true,” the someone said, passing the paper to someone else.

“Slut,” Mike said. “I bet that's why you left prom. You had to go out and make some money!” Wetness splattered my face and something thick and warm slowly slid down my cheek. I touched the warm goo, pulled my hand away to look at it, and almost gagged. Mike had spit on me.

Someone else spit, this time hitting me on the ear. Then everyone started spitting. Mike let go of me, running for cover. The halls might as well have had rain clouds in them for how much moisture was flying through the air, all aimed at me.

“Leave her alone!” Yana yelled. She was pinned against the white tiled wall, thrashing against the guy holding her there.

I turned to leave, but my way was blocked. I shoved someone aside, a guy from my English class, but he grabbed my wrist and flung me back into the middle of the riot. Well, I wasn't going to stand for that. I turned and socked him in the nose and strode past him, but he grabbed the back of my shirt and flung me down onto my butt in the center of the students. That's when things went from really bad to freaking horrible. Everyone started throwing things at me—pencils, crumpled paper, a banana from someone's lunch—anything they could get their hands on.

I jumped to my feet and shoved through the tightly circled mass of bodies imprisoning me in my own personal hell. But Mike shoved me back into the frenzy.

Panic and anger swirled in me, making me feel too big for my body. My animal instincts kicked in and I started attacking Mike, scratching, kicking, hitting—anything to get away. Until my nails pricked into fine claws and I heard the underlying throb of hearts. I was about to change into an animal, right here in front of everybody. For the briefest flash of a second, I debated what would be worse—to turn into an animal and fight my way free, or give up?