Part 3 (2/2)

”Mom, it only starts at eight. Can't you pick me up at ten thirty?” I plead.

”Ten o'clock. No later, Cora. I mean it. If you're not in my car by ten, I'll come and get you,” she warns.

”Fine!” I snarl, contrition and guilt and concern to the wind. I stomp upstairs to call Rachel and wait for the awkward dinner that is bound to follow.

35.

Chapter Three.

The air is thick with falling ash, black-and-gray snow.

As the sun slowly sinks, the sky turns as orange as the bonfire itself. All around, kids, their faces painted red and black with the school initials, whoop and dance around the fire. Voices rise in a crescendo, chanting, ”LGH! LGH! LGH!”.

Rachel and I arrived early, and until more people came, we hovered several feet away from the pyramid of sticks, looking on as a teacher, Mr. Cross, flicked match after match, trying to start the fire. He kneaded his brow with soot-stained fingers and wiped away the sweat. Finally the match caught, and the bits of gra.s.s and paper lit, and the flames grew and billowed. We watched as students trickled onto the field, and dusk fell, bringing with it the chirping song of crickets and the blinking flickers of fireflies. Cliques seem to gather their members, the way a magnet will draw filings of iron. Soccer guys find soccer guys, drama kids find drama kids, and even though I don't know all of these people, each group is pretty much

36.

distinguishable on sight. The football players shuffle their feet and stand in a crooked line, uniform in their black leather team jackets with the red sleeves and the fighting badger on the back. The stoners stand off to one side, baggy pants and dreadlocks their own kind of uniform. The cool kids are easy to spot, the girls dabbing at their sparkling lip gloss, fluffing their manes of hair, dressed perfectly, while hangers-on orbit around them like they are caught in a gravitational pull. These kids glow.

I cannot figure out for the life of me how to put together an outfit like these girls do. I can never seem to find that adorable top or the perfect pair of jeans. And even if I do have the ”right” clothes, forget about wearing them the way these girls do. I simply cannot carry it off. Rachel says it's about att.i.tude. Clearly I have an att.i.tude problem.

I study them, each and every group in turn, and wonder, how do these kids find one another? How does someone decide, I'm going to be a stoner or a goth or a princess or a jock? Why haven't I found a place, a definition? Would being a part of the group chase the loneliness away? Or does everyone feel as scared as I do?

A part of me aches to be in one of those cliques, laughing easily, knowing exactly where I'm supposed to be, knowing exactly who I am. Categorizing, cla.s.sifying is so easy, so certain. Yet, I'm here on the fringe, on the outside, a watcher.

Soon the field is crowded with students from all four cla.s.ses,

37.

and the chanting, singing, shouting is echoed by the rattle of waving gra.s.ses and chirruping crickets.

Rachel squeezes my arm tightly, her fingernails like a hawk's talons. ”There he is! He's here! How do I look?” she squeaks. I follow Rachel's gaze to see Josh with his baggy jeans and unlaced sneakers shuffling up to the fire.

”You look fine,” I tell her, shaking my head, feeling lame.

”Just fine?” Rachel asks, her eyes filled with panic. ”Do I look fat?” She really looks scared now.

”You look great,” I say. I smile and nudge Rachel's shoulder. ”You should go talk to him.”

”Really? You really think so?”

”Yeah, why not?”

”I don't know....” Rachel looks down. She seems so vulnerable, so frightened. And I see her, really see her, probably for the first time since school started, and I realize -- sort of surprised by my own surprise -- that she looks good. Rachel has always been a little bit plump, but the suntan she cultivated over the summer and the blond streaks in her hair give her a pretty glow. ”I just want this year to be great, you know?” she says softly.

”Yeah. I know. Just go on!”

”What if... He's so cute. He probably won't want to talk to me. Don't you think?” Rachel says doubtfully.

”Rach, you're cute! I bet he'll be happy if you go over to him!” I am trying to sound cheerfully confident.

38.

”Well...” Rachel pauses. ”All right. Will you be okay here by yourself?”

”I'm fine,” I reply. ”Just flash him your gorgeous smile.”

”'Kay, wish me luck!” Rachel sings out and starts off toward her target.

I watch Rachel blend into the thickening crowd. As she disappears, I wonder if I'm weird for not liking any of the boys in our cla.s.s. If Nate hadn't died, would I be as carefree as Rachel and all the rest of them? Would I be able to jump into the fray and dance and laugh and be happy? Why does this thing mark me, anyway? It's like the other kids can sense it -- well, I figure most of them know, anyway. But it's not just that they treat me strangely. It's me, too. Acting different. Feeling different. Nate hardly even talked to me anymore.... Why has his absence, his death changed everything?

I keep to the edge of the crowd, listening to the jocks singing fight songs and the murmur of conversations and the crackling of the flames. Suddenly, a tingle creeps down my spine, and I look up. Like I've been shocked, my eyes meet another pair, across the field. In the graying light, I can just make out who it is. And as the realization sets in, I step back in surprise. Datnian. He lifts his chin slowly in greeting and begins to move toward me, deliberately weaving through the throngs of students. My knees quiver and my stomach takes a turn. I look around, as if help was going to arrive (which it's not), but I can't stir from my spot.

39.

Feet, let's go, I plead with myself. They won't move, though; they are firmly rooted to the gra.s.sy field. Why does Damian do this to me?

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