I wrinkle my nose. “No thanks.”
“I didn't cook it. Just some bagels—like back home.” Mom smiles and runs her hand across my forehead, pulling the hair from my face. I always wished I had been born with her blonde hair. It fixes in seconds and makes her look all California chic. Instead, I got my dad's chocolate brown hair that, without highlights, is the color equivalent of mud. At least I got her height and long legs. Also, like her, I can't roll my tongue, but so far that hasn't been much of a problem.
After a shower, I lope down the stairs and join Mom in the dining room.
Robbie sits at the table, his elbows planted next to a cereal bowl. “But I like Chocolate Puffies.”
“Sorry, sweetie. I threw those out. They're all sugar. For your first day of first grade, you need something special. Like oatmeal!”
“Yuck.”
“But I put a raisin happy face on it just for you.”
Robbie levels his glass green eyes. “Lady, I could smell that trick before I even got out of bed.”
Mom tries again. “Raisins are good for you.”
“Look like rabbit turds.” He rearranges the red cape around him. Except for the wedding, I've yet to see him without it.
Robbie continues to argue with his new stepmom. His own mother apparently died when he was born, so it's just been the guys here. Living it up in the shag-carpeted bachelor pad.
I slide into a seat and close my eyes. I would think about the fact that Mom just fixed breakfast for the first time in my life, but I'm too wired over school. Today is my first day at Truman High. I'm so not ready. The first day of school is nerve-wracking enough, but being the new girl on day one? Vomit inducing.
I miss Mia and my friends. And Hunter. I've been so busy disinfecting my new room and avoiding Budge and Robbie, I haven't even had time to call him since I got in yesterday. Why is everything happening so fast? It's like my world is spinning, and I'm here hanging by a fingernail. A fingernail in desperate need of a manicure.
Mom places a bagel in front of me, followed by a container of flavored cream cheese. “Just like New York.” She waits expectantly. “Eat up.”
I pick it up. Doesn't feel like a New York bagel. I sniff it. Doesn't smell like a New York bagel. I crunch into it.
“I don't know what that is, but it's not a bagel.”
Mom stands up. “Well, I don't think you're going to pass any street vendors on your way to school, so eat now or forever hold your peace.”
Budge walks into the dining room, his large feet dragging. “Hey.” He warily takes in the scene before his eyes flit briefly to me. “You ready?”
I blink. “Um . . . no.”
“I have a gamers club meeting before school, so hurry up. We're discussing the newest version of Halo, and I can't miss it.”
I look at Mom.
“Logan is going to drive you two to school.” She pulls her mouth into a smile. “You know I'd love to take you, but Jake and I have to take Robbie. It's his first day of first grade, you understand.”
Robbie sticks his finger in his oatmeal. “Parental involvement is directly related to my success as a student.” He levels his eyes on me. “I don't think you want to mess with my future.”
Ugh. I have got to remind Dad that he was going to buy me a car. I'm one of those weird New Yorkers who actually has a driver's license. Just no car.
“Dude, I'm serious,” Budge says. “I have to go. My meeting is very important. We're electing officers.”
I take another bite of the cardboard bagel. “I would hate to keep you from your life's work.”
“The Halo hierarchy is not something to joke about. It demands respect.”
I laugh. “Get over yourself.”
“Whatever. The Budge train is leaving. If you want a first-class seat, you get up now. Otherwise . . . it's coach. Something you probably know little about.” He stands beside his brother and holds out his fist. Robbie hits it with his own. “Make me proud today, Robmeister. Keep your hands to yourself and remember rule number one above all things.”
“Don't discuss politics.”
“No, the other one.”
Robbie nods. “Don't eat glue.” He drops his chin. “It's my weakness.”
Budge slams the back door behind him.
I jump up, leaving the rest of my breakfast.
“Have a great day, honey. I'm praying for you. I know it's tough, but you will be a stronger person for it.”
I grab my purse and Dooney backpack and follow in the path of my stepbrother.
Outside, the Oklahoma sun shines on the Finleys' small farm. Somewhere in the distance, cows moo and roosters crow. I should find this all peaceful and quaint, but I don't. Gimme some smog and irate taxi drivers any day.
“Are you coming or what?” Budge steps out of an old, dilapidated garage that has seen better days. And those were probably around the World War II era.
I step inside and my breath hitches at the monstrosity before me. “No.”
“Get in.”
“No way.” I shake my head. “There is no power on earth that's going to make me climb into that . . . that...”
“Hearse.” Budge pats his car, his eyes clouded with love. “Ain't she a beaut?”
A 'beaut'?
She
used to transport
dead
people, and I am not stepping foot into it. I'd rather walk.”
“Driving your prissy self to school was not my idea, so I'm not going to sit here all day and wait for you.” He opens the heavy gray door and scoots in. The dead-people mobile starts right up like a Formula One race car.
At the sound of another engine, I turn to see Mom, Jake, and Robbie pulling out of the front driveway. They wave happily, like this instantly complete family. Dust plumes behind the Tahoe.
The hearse cruises by me. “Wait!” I run after Budge's car, my heels punching holes in the yard.
He brakes and cranks his window down. Screamo pours out the car and pounds in my ears. Not only does he have hideous taste in cars, but his musical choices are just as bad. Clearly a sign of mental disturbance.
“You can't just leave me here.”
He looks down at my heels and smirks. “Yes, I can. And will. Rich girl, there ain't room enough in my car for you, me, and your overbloated attitude. You can walk to school for all I care.”
I sputter. “I don't even know where the school is!”
“Use that nose you've got so stuck in the air—and sniff it out.”
And he drives away.
I stand in the driveway, torn. Do I run after him? I'd ruin my dignity. And my Marc Jacobs shoes.
Or do I just walk? Maybe skip school? Forget it all, kick back, and watch some daytime TV?
I rip my cell phone out of my purse and punch in my mom's number. In one long sentence, I fill her in.
“Bella, I can't come and get you. We're still five minutes away from the school, and we can't be late. We have a parent meeting.”
A
parent meeting!
Where's
my
parent?
“Why didn't you get in the car with Logan?”
“Do you honestly need an explanation for that question?”
I hear my stepdad talking in the background. “Jake says his farm truck is in the barn. Keys are on a hook in the kitchen. But be careful. You don't have a lot of driving experience.”
I sigh and consider bawling for the millionth time since arriving. “Fine. I'll take it.”
Mom gives me directions to the school, and we hang up.
Barn. I think I saw one of those.
I smooth down my skirt and head behind the garage, following the sound of cows. My feet are already protesting.
At the fence opening, I maneuver a latch and drag the heavy gate until it's wide open. I teeter across some railing in the ground, losing my footing only once, and just walk.
I head to a grove of trees, and just around the corner is my mecca. A barn. Red, of course, with a paint job so fresh the house would be jealous.
I jump at the bawling of a nearby cow.
Taking three steps back, I hold out my hands. “Stay back. I'm warning you. I have . . . um . . . hair spray and Tic Tacs in this bag, and I'm not afraid to use them.”
Big, blinking eyes lazily assess me, but the cow still walks closer. My heart doubles in tempo. Can cows smell fear?
“I'm not afraid of you.” I'll psych it out. “I just don't want to hurt you. So for your own good, I'm asking you again to back that thing up.” Nothing. “Shoo! Shoo!”
The black-and-white giant marches even closer, and I suck in my breath. New plan—I'll stand still as a statue. No eye contact. No movement. Isn't that what you're supposed to do when accosted by a wild bear?
The hairs on my arms prickle as the cow's heavy, warm breath settles over me like a blanket. Like a nasty, hideous, damp, gross blanket.
The beast smacks its lips.
It's going to eat me!
I give up on my plan to stay mute. “Oh, Jesus. Help me, Jesus. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” I'm totally fearing! “Yea, though . . . “ I can't think! “Something, something, something . . . uh . . . though you make me to lie down in green pastures.”
The animal's expansive, wet nose sniffs me.
Excuse me, hut if
anyone's the offensive one here, it's you.
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want—”
Slurp!
My scream pierces the sky.
I just got licked by a giant cow tongue! I swab at my face, breaking my frozen pose. “Ugh! Ewwww! You know what, that is enough!” I leap back. “Now you listen to me, you . . . you . . . bovine.” I roll my shoulders and straighten my spine. “You are totally violating my space here. I have had a really, really hard morning.”
The old thing blinks, and I notice its full, curvy eyelashes. What a waste of a feature.
“Now I am going to just step around you, walk into that barn, and get in a truck. But I'm warning you, if you try to follow me, I will not be responsible for my actions.” I lower my voice. “You should probably know . . . I eat burgers. You should
fear
me.”
Oh
yeah.
I turn on my heel and sprint away.
The truck, a blue thing born about the same time as the hearse, sits beneath a covered area adjacent to the barn. I swipe at the sweat and cow slobber on my forehead and climb into the cab.
Twisting the key, I offer up a prayer of thanks when it starts. I haven't been behind the wheel since I spent last month with my grandparents in the Hamptons. With shaky hands, I maneuver the truck into the field and wave good-bye to the lone cow. By the time I hit the first paved road in town, I'm singing some classic Beyoncé.
I signal to turn at the final four-way stop. I will not be embarrassed to pull into the parking lot in this truck. I am lucky God provided it. Even though God also provided me with a
jerk
of a stepbrother, making the truck necessary in the first place.
As I lift my foot off the break, the blue truck sputters and chokes. “No, you don't. Come on. Just a few more miles. You can do it.”
Break down later.
I turn left.
And the truck gives up. No more.
With the vehicle's last few breaths, I steer it to the side of the road. Smoke pours out from underneath the hood.
I pound my head on the steering wheel. This can't be my life. Am I on camera? A reality show, maybe, where they see how much I can take before I crack?
Barely stifling a few choice words, I call my mom again.
No answer.
Swinging the door open, I slide down to the ground, grab my bags...
And walk.
“You want a ride?” I jump at a voice as a truck slows down next to me. His bald head sticks out the window.
“No, thanks.” Creep. Who trolls down a road and asks girls if they want to get in his truck?
“You Jake Finley's stepdaughter?”
At this I stop. “Maybe.”
He looks me over, but the perv factor is pretty low. “I'm a good friend of Jake's. Recognized his truck. I'd be glad to give you a ride to school.”
“I'll just walk.” I pick up my pace, but he continues to drive along beside me. “I said
thank you,
sir.”
“Miss?”
Exasperated, I sigh. “What?”
“You're going the wrong way.”
Y
ou smell.”
This is how the school secretary greets me.
“Thanks.”
And your eau de Avon is just a total nasal delight.
“No, I mean, seriously, hon. You smell.”
I toss my backpack on ihe counter, drape myself over it, and launch into my sob story, emphasizing words like
hearse, altack cow, stalled truck, and two-mile hike in heels.
“You probably want to wash your shoes off. I think you might've stepped in it.”
And I'd like to step right back out and fly myself home to Manhattan.
“I've got some wet wipes and soap in the bathroom back here.”
I scrub down as much as possible, throw my once perfectly straight hair into a frizzed-out ponytail, and walk back into the office with as much dignity as I can muster.
The thirtysomething secretary smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. “Much better.”
“Thank you.”
“Now your mama's already registered you and everything, so I'll just have a student show you to your first class.” She snaps her fingers and a sleeping kid in a row of chairs lifts his head. “Josh, take Miss Kirkwood to her first class. It's Mrs. Palmer's room.”
With barely a glance in my direction, Josh leads me down a hall, around a corner, and to my first-period class.
He leaves me at the door, and I walk myself in. My already-queasy stomach twists itself into a pretzel knot.
The teacher stops her back-to-school spiel at the front of the room, eyes me, checks her watch, then motions me in.
I hand her my schedule and pray I washed off all the stink.
“Take a seat right over there, please.”
Aware of everyone's stare, I follow the direction of her pointing finger, then stop.
Budge.
Right behind the empty seat.
“Um ...” My voice is a croaking whisper. I check my schedule again, hoping I'm really supposed to be in another room. No such luck.
“Is there a problem?”
Lady,
we
don't have
time
to get into all my problems.