The Princesses of Iowa (5 page)

“Yes?”

“I just remembered that you forgot to mention DIEDD at the student council meeting!”

“Oh, sorry,” Lacey said, sounding anything but. “Next time, okay?”

“What’s DIEDD?” I asked.

“It’s a group to raise awareness about drinking and driving,” Nikki said. “I spent the whole summer working on it. After . . . you know.”

After last spring. After the first cracks that split into canyons between us, sending me spinning across the ocean, Nikki down the Crazy Diet Rabbit Hole, and Lacey into the Land of Crippled Martyrdom. “DIEDD?”

Nikki nodded. “It stands for Don’t let frIEnds Drive Drunk.”

“D . . . LF . . . DD,” I said, sounding it out.

“The IE comes from friends,” Nikki said.

Jake covered his mouth with a hand, turning away and coughing. Lacey tugged on her necklace, staring off into space. “Um,” I said. “That’s not really how acronyms work.”

“There’s a double meaning,” Nikki explained. “Because it stands for Don’t let frIEnds Drive Drunk, but it spells DIEDD, because if you drive drunk, you could have DIED. Like we could have DIED.”

It was still ridiculous, but I no longer felt like laughing. “Oh. A double meaning. Yeah, I get it now.”

“It’s really important,” Nikki said. “Lacey, don’t forget to remind me to remember it at the next meeting, okay?”

Lacey stood, grabbing her half-eaten apple. “The bell’s about to ring.”

“Laceeeeeeey . . .”

She sighed. “Fine! But I’m not explaining your acronym.”

By the second week of school, Jake and I had a routine. Every day, he was there when the bell rang, waiting to walk me to the English hallway. Every day, he’d wind his arm through mine and steer me through the crowded hallways, waving and calling to his friends as we walked. And every day, Jake’s friends waited until the last possible minute to walk into the classroom, preferring instead to stand outside and harass people.

Chris Jensen saw me and called, “Ten! Definitely a ten!”

Jake pretended to misjudge the distance and walked into Randy, catching him with an elbow. “Oh sorry, dude, didn’t see you there!”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m so flattered.” The halls opened up around us as people wandered into classrooms, calling back over their shoulders, giggling, sighing. A gross goth guy pushed a skinny, pale girl up against the cold concrete brick, stealing one last black-lipstick kiss before the bell rang.

Brian Sorenson turned to scold Chris. “Paige is an eleven, at least!”

“Thanks,” I said flatly. Sometimes I got tired of putting up with Jake’s friends, but I knew I needed to keep their favor if I wanted to be on homecoming court at all, much less become queen. I kissed Jake goodbye and walked to take my seat. I wasn’t even supposed to be in this class. I had planned to take film appreciation as my elective, but Jake and his boys heard that creative writing was the easiest A and talked me into switching. So I did, reluctantly, only to find that over the summer Lacey had talked Jake into switching out of creative writing to be in class with her — in film appreciation!

“She was so nervous about taking it alone,” Jake explained after I’d sat through an entire class without him. “She didn’t know how people would react to her, you know, now. She was worried they might make fun of her.”

“So you ditched me?” I pulled on a strand of my hair, wrapping it around my finger. Over at our usual table, Lacey was laughing and threatening to hit Chris with her cane.

“Babe,” Jake said, “I knew you’d be fine on your own.” He kissed me on the nose and I gritted my teeth. “You’re such a strong woman, you don’t need me.”

“But Lacey does?”

“She would do the same for you or I if our places were switched.”

“You or me,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He frowned. “Are you mad? Don’t be mad.”

“We should have just signed up for film appreciation in the first place. I don’t know why I listened to you.” I had already tried to switch back to film appreciation, but the guidance counselor wouldn’t let me. Apparently, it was a very popular class. As was creative writing, she reminded me. I was lucky to get in at all, she said, but she could always switch me into another elective if I wanted: business math, or ag.

“Because creative writing is easier,” Jake explained patiently. “That should make you feel better! I’ll be busting my ass while you coast through.”

“Watching movies,” I said, but dropped it. I already felt like Jake and I were fighting all the time. I didn’t need to add to it.

And that is why I was now wasting seventh period watching Mrs. Mueller chatter and flirt with the football players when I could have been slouched in the back of film appreciation, napping to the sound track of
Citizen Kane.

Behind me, Randy whistled. “Now there’s a ten.” The boys around him erupted in laughter as a tall freshman hurried into the classroom. He ignored them, keeping his gaze on the girl he always sat with, as if he were so intent on talking to her that he didn’t even notice the guys hassling him. At the base of his hairline and just before his ears, though, his skin turned slightly pink, giving him away.

“You wanna come to our kegger, Freshman?” Chris asked loudly, laughing before he even finished the question, as if the idea of the Freshman coming to the kegger was just too, too hilarious.

Randy drawled lazily, “Dude, he can’t come. He probably has a date with his boyfriend.” More snickers.

The class was a joke. Every day, Mrs. Mueller fluttered her hands as Randy and the guys did whatever they wanted. According to Nikki, all they’d done so far in film was watch some black-and-white movie where soldiers stabbed people with bayonets, and a bunch of Ku Klux Klan members galloped around on horses. All Nikki could think as she watched it was,
What if a KKK guy rode under a tree with low branches? Wasn’t he worried he’d lose his hood?
Other than that, she said, it was pretty boring.

Still, it sounded better than creative writing. In a week of class, we had spent an entire day listening to Mrs. Mueller explain what a journal is and why we should keep one, read and discussed a poem called “Theme for English B,” and watched
Dead Poets Society.
Literally, we spent three entire class days watching Robin Williams yell “Carpe diem!” while in the back of the room Randy and Brian snickered about the faggy kid who wants to play Puck. Maybe film class would have been equally lame, but at least I would have been with Jake.

The Freshman was becoming a daily target of Jake’s friends’ teasing. He hunched over his notebook with an air of extreme concentration, attempting to convey the message, I assumed, that he was so engrossed in his writing that he didn’t even hear the taunts of the jocks. His floppy brown hair fell across his eyes, and he brushed it away with an absent wave. I probably wouldn’t have noticed him at all if Randy and Brian hadn’t singled him out. We were on opposite ends of the social spectrum. I was a senior and he was a freshman. I was popular and he was an unknown. I was going to be a princess, and he was going to stay a nobody.

I sighed, watching the clock. A minute and a half before the bell would ring to start class. Only two weeks in and I’d already memorized the exact position of the second hand for each period’s bell.

Behind me, Randy pretended to sneeze into his fist.
“Faggot.”

The Freshman’s friend, a pretty Indian girl with thick black hair, whipped around in annoyance. “Why don’t you go eat some more steroids, dickhead?” she snapped. “Another week or two and you’ll grow out of your training bra.”

Randy’s face turned bright red and his nostrils flared. It was true that his man-boob problem was growing out of proportion, but we all knew better than to say anything to him about it. “Better watch your back, Tonto.”

“Yeah,” added Brian, “or you might get scalped!”

A look of amused disbelief moved across the girl’s face. “I’m Indian, geniuses, not Native American.”

Randy crossed his arms smugly. “Same thing.”

“No, it’s not. My family’s from Chennai.” She paused, waiting for a reaction she didn’t get. “In
India.
” She laughed. “You stupid asshole.”

I knew her, I realized suddenly. Shanti Kale. I had a random memory of her punching Danny Abbot in the solar plexus during a flag football game in sixth grade. Her family had moved the next summer. In my memory, she looked like a little boy, with super-short hair and baggy clothes. She must have moved back over the summer; I was surprised I hadn’t heard anything about it.

Randy’s face turned bright red. “What did you just call me?” He slammed his meaty hands on his desk, but the ringing of the bell kept him from descending fully into one of his ’roid rages.

Mrs. Mueller bustled into the room, looking like a monstrous sparrow with her puffed-out chest and her beady little eyes. She stood behind her overly large podium and clapped her hands. “Class? Class . . .” Almost too short to see over the dais, she grabbed its wooden sides and pulled herself up on her tiptoes. “Class?”

Under the low murmur of “Chill out, man” repeating itself in the back of the room like a jock mantra, Randy’s breathing quieted until he sounded less like an angry bull and more like an asthmatic pug. The whispering and giggling dulled to a low hum, and Mrs. Mueller chirruped in gratitude. “Thank you, class, thank you.” She pushed her glasses up her shiny nose and checked her notes. “For your assignment today, class, I’d like you to pair off with each other —” Everyone started murmuring, securing their preferred partners. I saw Shanti give the Freshman a quick head nod.

“Okay,” Mrs. Mueller said. “Listen first, okay? What you’re going to do is, in partners, you’re going to interview the other person, and then you’re going to write some kind of creative introduction to them, okay? And then you’re going to introduce your partner to the class, by reading your creative introduction. Does that sound good?”

People started to stand up, shoving desks around to be closer to their friends. I scanned the jocks in the back row, looking for an odd man out, but there was an even six.

“Hold on a moment!” Mrs. Mueller called. “Hold on one moment, everyone! I forgot one thing!” It got slightly quieter, and she announced, “I want you to count off by twelves!”

Everyone groaned. Count off? What were we, kindergartners? I bet I wouldn’t be counting off in film appreciation. We did it dutifully, though, and of course we had to find our partner number. I was one. Across the room, I saw the Freshman holding one finger to his lips, as if shushing someone. Behind his finger, he was almost, but not quite, smiling. He raised an eyebrow at me, and I held up one finger.
One?
He shrugged and nodded.

I reached down and grabbed my bag, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear as I headed over to where the Freshman was half sitting on the edge of his desk. His friend — the girl, Shanti — had paired up with my sister’s friend Jeremy Carpenter. They settled themselves on the floor near us, leaning against desks. Jeremy said something that made Shanti laugh. She swatted at him as if they were best friends.

“Hey,” said the Freshman. “Paige, right?”

I stared at him curiously. His voice was different than I’d assumed it would be, deeper and far more confident. It was the voice of a radio announcer, an NPR reporter maybe, but not a freshman.

“That’s me,” I finally said.

“Ethan. Ethan James.” He held out his hand and lowered his voice, speaking quickly. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am, my pleasure.”

“Thanks.” I allowed my hand to be shaken, then looked around to see if anyone was looking. I’d gotten so used to being alone all summer, I still wasn’t used to being home, where everything you said, and everyone you said it to, was noticed. “Well? Should we . . . ?”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “Step into my office.” He gestured to the desk facing his.

“Okay, everyone!” Mrs. Mueller called. “Remember, you’re going to interview each other, and then write a creative presentation introducing that person to the class!”

Ethan leaned over his notebook like a cub reporter. “Okay, Miss Paige. I’m ready. Spill it all.”

His cheeks showed a hint of shadow, suggesting that if left to their own devices, they’d sport a beard worthy of a coffeehouse rocker in no time. It made him look older than he was, and for a second I saw what he might look like in five or ten years, sitting in the back of some city council meeting with a notebook perched on one knee, a serious look in his dark eyes. If you could ignore the fact that he was a freshman, he was almost cute.

“What do you want to know?”

“The five Ws,” he said. “I’ll start with the easy ones: Who is Paige Sheridan? What lies beneath the surface? When are you most yourself? Where do you go when you need to get away? Why are you here?”

I shifted uncomfortably in the school-issue chair, determined to keep my face blank. “You forgot
How.
”

“Forgive me, miss. You’re absolutely right.” He smiled slightly and looked off behind me, speaking lowly. “The dame had class, I’ll give her that. You couldn’t slip a thing past that razor-sharp mind.”

“Has anyone ever mentioned the fact that you’re kind of strange?”