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“First bell rings in five minutes,” she announces. “I wouldn’t wander too far…alone.”
The last comes out under her breath, amusement playing in her eyes but still a little serious too.
I push through the door and head into the hallway, students milling around. I look at the paper she gave me and then follow the numbers on the lockers.
Why did Hunter come here? There was logic in him transferring to St. Matthew’s, even if I knew he only did it to get away from Shelburne Falls.
St. Matthew’s is a superior school. It’s a pipeline to Northwestern, Notre Dame, and the University of Chicago, any of which Hunter could easily get into. His grades were always exceptional.
But Weston is a wolf’s den. Like literally, the Rebel symbol is a wolf. I’ve never met a person who went to school here who actually went on to college. It’s simply a recruiting station for the Green Street gang.
These people can’t challenge Hunter. Thank God Aro got out.
I spot my locker—number two-sixteen—and realize I don’t have anything to put in it yet. I press my hand to the cold black steel and check the time on my phone.
My dad hasn’t called or texted.
Of course, I haven’t reached out to him, either, but he’s the dad. My mom undoubtedly told him she spoke to me, and that I’m fine, but still.
Kade hasn’t texted, either.
A guy drifts behind me slowly, and I hear laughter down the hall. The exaggerated feeling that everyone’s attention is on me sits on the back of my neck.
Noticing a stairwell ahead, I dive through the doorway and escape down the steps.
I can leave whenever I want.
I have no friends here.
But no one wants me to be at home, either.
I’m here by choice. I can leave anytime.
Homemade posters decorate the walls as I descend to the ground floor, clever little slogans like, “Your town. Your field. Our Game.” and “The only protection we bringto the Falls is a condom. Go hard, Rebels!” painted in blue and black block letters. I snort, unable to stop the laughter. That last one’s pretty clever, but damn, I can’t believe the principal allowed it. Ours wouldn’t.
Jack-o’-lanterns and witches adorn advertisements for the homecoming dance, and a cork board hangs on the wall at the bottom of the stairs, pictures of St. Matthew’s and Shelburne Falls players pinned with rusty nails.
Not thumbtacks.
Nails.
To their faces.
In the center of the board, it reads “Sniff, sniff, sniff. Smell the privilege.”
I find Kade’s picture, but only because of the number on his jersey. There’s one nail in his face, several in his chest.
I keep walking. No one is down here, though. Any laughter, looks, or whispers fade away as I stroll down the hall and pass an art room, a few offices, and a kitchen with about eight stoves. But then I stop, peering through an open door, seeing classic cars in a high-ceilinged garage with their hoods up and racks of parts, tools, and motor oil along the walls.
I start to smile.An auto shop.
One of the large, red bay doors is raised, letting daylight spill in, and I see a ’90s stereo with a dual tape deck and CD changer on the worktable against the far wall.
Paint splatters everything, and dirty work cloths lay over toolboxes, discarded car seats, and the old Army green metal desk in the corner.
I walk in, not seeing any teachers or students yet, and draw in the smells that are as home to me as my mom’s perfume. Dank, dark, musky. Dirty oil and leather seats and… I inhale deep.And tires.
That smell feels like a blanket. My dad always smells like that.
