Strays (2 page)

“Do you have to change diapers?” asked Sierra.

“I did last year. But Conor's three now. He's potty trained. I just have to give him a jelly bean every time it lands in the potty.”

“Eew! You have to watch him pee!” said Sierra.

“I'm just there to make sure everything goes where it's supposed to go,” I said.

“I am only having girls,” said Ashley, putting her uneaten lunch away.

Sierra laughed. “You don't get to choose!”

“I thought there were
ways
of making it go one way or the other. Like positions or some tea you could drink.” Ashley could be so naïve.

“Yeah, Make-a-Girl tea,” I said. “Saw that one on sale at the market last week.”

We all laughed.

“Okay, Ms. Biology Expert, so you tell us then. How is a baby's sex determined?” asked Sierra.

I hadn't really thought of it before. Just knew there was a fifty-fifty chance.

“Sorry, guys, I only do animals,” I said.

“People don't count as animals?” asked Ashley.

“Well, I guess humans are the one animal I don't understand,” I said, staring at Andy, who was still slobbering all over that freshman girl.
The waters began rising again.
It felt as though I were drowning a slow death and there was nothing I could do to save myself.

Sierra's phone pinged, and she looked down to read the text. “I can't believe this!”

“What?” I asked.

“I was supposed to drive to a concert in Berkeley this weekend to review a band for the newspaper, but now my mom's saying she needs the car because she just got invited to some spa getaway with
her
friends. I seriously hate her. I wish she were dead.”

Even though I was looking down at my sandwich, I could feel their eyes on me, waiting for my reaction.

“Sorry, Eye,” said Sierra.

There that monocle was, floating above me. Looking down on me. Singling me out.

Girl with the dead mother.

“It's okay!” I assured her. After all, it should have been okay, an offhand remark said in front of someone whose mom happened to be dead. Sierra hadn't meant to offend, I understood that—but, truth be told, whenever people mentioned their moms I ached a little inside. It seemed like a waste of time to want something I couldn't have. Dad was still single, always too busy with work for girlfriends, but even if he remarried and I gained a stepmother, whether good or evil, she'd never replace my real mom.

I did my best to smile and empathize with Sierra.

“My mom wants to take us on a girls' shopping trip to San Francisco next weekend,” Ashley said. “You ladies in?”

Sierra squealed. “Yes!”

“Eye?” asked Ashley. I knew she was being generous with her offer, but I was desperate for some time alone.

“Maybe,” I answered, unenthusiastically.

“Aw, come on. We need your dad's juice for the ride up!”

Dad was a manager at a juicing facility just north of Santa Cruz, and his one and only perk seemed to be a limitless supply of fresh-squeezed fruit and vegetable juices that filled our otherwise scant refrigerator to the brim.

“I'm totally going on a juice diet,” said Sierra. “Tell your dad we need a case for the car. You have to come.”

Did they only want me to go on the trip for my free drinks? I wondered if I put in a request like that whether Dad would bother following through—or even return my text, for that matter. He was always busy with work. When I was younger, he'd taken time off to go on vacations with me and my mom. We'd go camping in Yosemite or cross-country skiing in the Sierras. But after she died, Dad's workload seemed to increase, and I couldn't figure out whether he had actually been given more work or whether he had chosen to take it all on in order to avoid dealing with Mom's death—or dealing with me.

A wadded-up paper lunch bag hit Ashley in the face.

“Seriously?” she said. She picked it up and threw it back toward three boys at another lunch table, laughing. We didn't know their names but referred to them as Mutton Chop (the guy was always growing his sideburns), Streak (he had a streak of blond bleached at the front of his hair), and Hoodie Boy (who always wore the same hooded sweatshirt pulled tight so you could hardly see his face). All of them were troublemakers. They had been kicked out of class more times than I could count, and once in a while I'd see one of them sitting outside the principal's office, waiting, no doubt, for another stern warning. They were from a whole other world of kids who didn't listen, kids who had no college ambition, kids who would end up in the same place doing the same thing twenty years from now. Or worse: in jail.

“Here comes Principal C.”

Principal Cagle was on the prowl again. Close to the end of the school year, he had a mission to bust anyone he could get his hands on, like he had some quota to fill. With the paper-bag delinquents only a table away, I didn't even question his steady pace toward us. Also, he and Ashley's dad were friends, and once in a while, just to make everyone feel awkward, he'd have a seat with us and start making small talk.

Sierra said, “Ashley, hide under the table, so he doesn't see you…”

Ashley was getting ready to squeeze under the laminate when Cagle leaned down toward me and said, not quite in a whisper, “Iris Moody, please meet me in my office in ten minutes.”

My cheeks flushed as Cagle turned and walked away.

“He's so creepy,” Sierra said, once he was out of earshot.

“What in the world was that about?” asked Ashley.

I shrugged.

“He probably just wants to tell you you've won some super-genius science award and they're etching your name on a plaque that will sit on the gym wall for all eternity,” said Sierra.

The paper-bag boys were staring at me and laughing, still probably shocked that they weren't the ones Cagle was after.

“Want to walk around Pacific after school?” Sierra asked us.

Ashley nodded. “You'll come, too—right, Eye?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said, less than enthusiastically. I really just wanted an afternoon to myself.

“Is everything okay?” Ashley asked.

“Peachy,” I said in my perfected sarcastic tone.

Ashley rolled her eyes.

“You don't have to be rude about it,” said Sierra.

“You guys have a good lunch,” I said and grabbed my things. I just felt like being alone, wallowing in my funk. I told myself that once summer break officially started, I would emerge from hiding, ready to face the world.

As I walked toward Mr. Cagle's office, a nagging feeling took over my body that this meeting was going to be anything but congratulatory.

W
aiting outside Principal Cagle's office was more nerve-racking than waiting at the dentist for a cavity to be filled. I had been seated on the same padded bench numerous times before, but always in anticipation of receiving some sort of accolade. In the middle of last year, I was ushered into his office so he could announce that I had been nominated for a science achievement award. And then, at the end of last year, my grades in science were so high that he sat me down and told me I could take AP biology in eleventh grade. This was the first time the school had made that sort of accommodation; it was a really big deal.

I thought about all of the reasons he could have summoned me. Did he know that I had tried to see Ms. Kaminsky, the school counselor, the day Andy dumped me? Had they been spying on me since I'd left her office pissed off because she had been too busy to make time for me? Had they been scrutinizing me, checking for signs of depression, studying the way I walked or which friends I hung out with? Or maybe it was my recently dipping grades. I wondered if it was Mrs. Schneider who had rallied for the meeting. I thought about the last time I had been in her class and I'd had the audacity to ask, “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Surely you mean,
may I
?'”

My bladder couldn't have cared less about proper grammar.

Each time Mrs. Schneider called on me and I gave an incorrect answer, she would get this crazy look in her eyes, like she was longing for the days when she could whip out her switch and beat me across the top of my hands.

I sat on the bench in front of Mr. Cagle's office, staring at the big pot of coffee with a stack of paper cups next to it. It had obviously been put out for faculty or parents, but I pretended to be oblivious as I got up to help myself to a much-needed cup. But just as I brought the steaming liquid to my lips, the secretary, who looked like a recent college graduate, shook her head. I should have thrown it away. Instead, I downed it. It wasn't like she could send me to the principal's office.

“Mr. Cagle will see you now,” squeaked the secretary.

Gathering my heavy messenger bag filled with books and binders, I turned the cool handle on Mr. Cagle's door.

I was greeted by an entire welcoming committee: Straight ahead was Mr. Cagle, sitting in his leather swivel chair; to my right was Ms. Kaminsky, the school counselor; and to my left—my biggest fear, old Mrs. Schneider.

Sabotaged.

The waters rose
and the rage gathered in my throat. Had I been forced to speak at that moment, the words would have come out as a gurgle. Time seemed to slow down as I looked around the room at these people who had apparently been preparing my demise.

“Hi, Iris. Come on in and have a seat,” Mr. Cagle said, as though he were inviting me to a garden party.

The only thing that possibly could have made this worse was if Dad had been there. I sat down.

“We've also asked your dad to join us. Any ideas where he might be?”

I couldn't believe this was happening. I should have studied more. I should have kept my grades up.

There was only one place Dad ever was.

“Work,” I said.

“He confirmed his attendance, so hopefully he'll be joining us soon,” said Mr. Cagle.

Dad had known about this meeting and had failed to tell me? I felt mortified. Betrayed. A little heads-up might have made this cozy get-together a little less shocking.

“So, Iris,” began Ms. Kaminsky. She was young and wore a lot of eye makeup, like she had mistaken her day job for a beauty pageant. “I want you to know that this, right here, is a circle of safety, and anything that is said will be held in strict confidence.”

Mrs. Schneider started coughing out of control. Maybe she had a tickle in her throat. Or maybe she was trying to hold back the laughter triggered by Ms. Kaminsky's comments. Schneider didn't seem like the type to believe in
circles of safety
—
circles of syntax
seemed more up her alley.

“Let's see here.” Ms. Kaminsky riffled through a thick file. “It's been a rough few years for you.”

Tears began welling up. It was the first time someone had publicly recognized that I'd been struggling, even though I had tried so hard to keep it all inside.

Ms. Kaminsky read through her paperwork. “Your parents divorced, your family moved, and then you had to deal with a pregnancy. Not easy things for a teenager.”

What in the world was this woman talking about?

“Um, that's not me,” I said. My tear ducts, which had threatened to flood like a broken levy, clamped shut.

Ms. Kaminsky flipped the file and checked the name on the front.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “This doesn't say Iris.”

I shook my head.

“I am
so
sorry,” she said. “I must have grabbed the wrong file.” She looked at Mr. Cagle, embarrassed. His face remained stoic.

No, I'm the one with the dead mom, the boyfriend who dumped me, and the sinking grades,
I wanted to say but didn't.

“Let's try to stay on track,” said Mr. Cagle.

On track? Was this guy kidding? We were at two completely different train stations.

Mrs. Schneider looked like she couldn't stand any of this any longer. We'd obviously intruded on her lunchtime, which she probably spent crocheting miniature nooses that she would secretly wrap around voodoo versions of her students.

“The bottom line is, Iris, you're on the brink of failing English. You're no English scholar, but you have a good GPA, especially with all those accelerated math and science classes. But your grades are slipping, and we need to stop this downward spiral before you put your academic future at risk.”

My heart hammered in my chest. I had just aced my bio final, and now this? Who had I become? How did I let this happen, and why did this trio suddenly care? I wondered what their real motivation was behind this meeting—genuine concern, or worry that their public funding would drop if they didn't have as many stellar students to boast about?

“Thank you, Mrs. Schneider.” Mr. Cagle looked relieved that someone else had taken over. “Do you have anything you'd like to say, Iris?”

I wanted to tell him that English 3 was the most boring class I'd ever taken, that Schneider looked at us as though she wanted to kill us. How could I tell him that my heart was still broken after Andy had ripped it out and stomped on it with his surfboard? Or that Dad and I moved through the house, day in and day out, barely speaking a word to each other? How could they know what it was like to feel as though everyone always expected perfection from me, but I wasn't always able to deliver and was terrified of turning out to be a disappointment, and angry that I couldn't do anything to feel better?

They wouldn't understand any of it.

Just then, Dad breezed in, deep in conversation on his cell phone.

“Did you fix the problem with the time clock? Nah—it's an LCD display. Amano PIX-200. We need a new ribbon. And get some extra time cards while you're at it. We have a couple of busy weeks ahead of us before the conference.”

Putting his long index finger up to the rest of us in the room, he signaled that he'd be off the phone in a minute. He finished the conversation with his back to the circle, the rest of us looking at one another, not quite sure how to handle the situation.

“There's really no cell phone use allowed.” Mr. Cagle explained the policy to me as though it were my job to enforce it with my dad.

I put my hands up, resigned.

Dad finally finished his conversation, put his phone in his pocket, and sat down.

“Sorry about that,” he said, but I didn't believe him.

Mr. Cagle explained the situation to my dad this time, mostly by plagiarizing Schneider's speech, causing Schneider's lips to purse as her hands formed into fists on her lap. When he finished and there was space in the air to talk, Dad looked at me and said, “I know Iris can do it. Right?”

What was I supposed to say to my dad? To the group?
I will memorize my prepositions. Cross my heart. I will learn to diagram sentences forwards and backwards
. What else was there to say but yes?
Yes, I will try harder. Yes, I will smile more. Yes, I will pretend that everything is all right just to make you people happy.

“Yes,” I said, to everyone but myself. Everyone seemed satisfied.

“Remember to use the study guide I handed out in class.” Schneider reminded me of the fifteen-page document outlining all of the grammatical rules we were supposed to have memorized.

“We all believe in you, Iris,” Mr. Cagle said.

He knew nothing about me.

Ms. Kaminsky then promised me that I could come by her office “
anytime
if you want to talk about
anything
.”

Yeah, right.

Then there was Dad, sitting there scrolling through e-mails on his cell phone, probably thinking the same thing that was swimming through my head:
I'd rather be anywhere but here
.

*

“I have to rush back to work,” said Dad after the meeting.

We were standing outside the administration building, and I had a paranoid feeling that every student who passed by was staring at me. I convinced myself that only Ashley and Sierra knew about my meeting with Mr. Cagle. And the paper-bag boys.

“You'll be okay,” Dad told me with his fully clueless confidence.

I decided to skip out on afternoon choir. Nothing like trying to sing when you feel like all you want to do is cry. You end up sounding like a dying duck. The good thing about choir was that if you lost one player, it didn't really matter. According to Mr. Ortiz, our choir teacher, our voices were supposed to blend together. He wanted us to lose our identities. They wouldn't miss me.

Checking my cell phone at my locker, I saw that I had three texts. One from Ashley:
Are you still meeting us on Pacific at four?
One from Sierra:
Win another award?
And another one from Ashley:
What's going on?
Without responding, I deleted them all.

After gathering the necessary books, I unlocked my bike and rode to the one place I went when I wanted a retreat from my life: the beach.

*

The wind whipped through my hair as my bike picked up speed. I had forgotten to apply salve, which meant my lips would probably be cracked and peeling by the end of the ride. But I didn't care.

I took a left on Water Street and sped down the hill. Every sixteen-year-old was dying to get behind the wheel of a car because it equaled freedom, but I'd had my independence for years with my bike.

I flew past a slew of old, colorful Victorian buildings, standard in this city, and past even more VW vans—the most popular car choice for locals. The city's campaign to “keep it weird” was evidenced everywhere—from the wacky street musicians on Pacific to the regular display of dreadlocks, body piercings, and tattoos on pedestrians.

It wasn't just the people who were different; the beaches maintained a vastly distinct personality from the ones I had grown to know in Southern California. Down south, they spanned and stretched—wide beaches that felt endless. In Santa Cruz, beaches were more like little enclaves between jagged rocks. But I quickly learned how to access all of them.

Just like sea turtles who could swim hundreds of miles in the ocean and always returned, year after year, to the exact spot they were born, I could have been plopped anywhere in this city on my bike and I could find my favorite beach spot.

I whizzed past the Boardwalk on my left. This had been one of Dad's selling points to get me to agree to the move, but after I had been a few times I lost interest in going. Tourists and families with kids too small for school flooded the pier, and it only got worse as schools started letting out for vacation. The Giant Dipper, a wooden roller coaster, whooshed and creaked as riders screamed, ascending down the first dramatic dip. Taking a right, I headed toward the water and then took another right onto Cliff, which spit me out onto the bike path at the ocean's edge.

I knew the curves on this trail better than any other road in the world. I sailed along past a smattering of ocean-view hotels; people throwing Frisbees on the grassy knoll in front of the Surfing Museum; and the huge, million-dollar beachfront houses until I hit a view of Seal Rock.

Some college couple was making out on the bench I usually occupied. Guess I wasn't the only one who appreciated the view.

I faked a hacking cough to ruin the mood. Their lips unlocked, and they turned toward me. I didn't budge. Sensing my refusal to leave, the guy gave his partner's hand a “let's go” squeeze, and they got up and made their way back up to the walking path.

The bench, the view, the beach were
mine
.

Out in the water on a lone, large rock, about a hundred seals all huddled together. This was my favorite time to watch them, when they were taking their afternoon siesta, tired from a morning of hunting and playing. Along with the seals came the threat of great white sharks. The surfers sometimes spotted them, and, once in a while, there would be an attack, most likely a shark mistaking a surfboard and its occupant for a seal; they have notoriously bad vision. Over the past two weeks I had wished on numerous occasions that a shark would accidentally mistake Andy's surfboard for a seal. I was never afraid of what lurked in the water. I used to swim as far out as I could. Mom taught me how to hold my breath and dive down deep.

It had been almost two years since I'd set foot in the ocean, but I was still constantly drawn to it, even though the thought of my body actually being in the water was utterly overwhelming. So instead, I'd watch from a distance, sometimes imagining myself swimming, sometimes pretending Mom was there, hidden among the waves. It was impossible to escape the water, especially living on the West Coast. When I thought about it, even my own body was more than 70 percent water.