Everyone in first-period PE is laughing at me. Some try to hide it; others are actually pointing in my direction. Jerks. I struggle to get back on my feet, but my senses are still off, and it’s a lot more difficult than it should be. I feel a little drunk, and, yes, I know what that feels like. I remember it.
Once I finally make it to my feet and the crowd begins to scatter, my eyes catch Page Thomas’s. There’s a nasty smirk on her face as she quickly looks away. Before I have too much time to dwell on it, a shrill whistle blows. Ms. Martinez commands the room, and I grudgingly join one of two teams.
For the rest of the period, I try to defend myself as best I can through an excruciating “game” that should be banned from high school and general play forever.
It is nothing but pain and humiliation.
It should be avoided at all costs.
It is the reason this morning’s note warned: stay alert first period.
It is hell on earth.
It is dodgeball.
Hours later, during Ms. Harris’s lecture on the hippocampus in Human Anatomy, Ryan Greene keeps glancing at me from across the aisle. My face and ego still sting from this morning, but I’m smiling and I can’t stop. It hurts my cheeks, and Ryan is gawking—probably because the hippocampus isn’t that exciting—but I don’t care.
I saw Luke before class.
“Something funny, London?” Ms. Harris interrupts. She’s stopped writing midsentence and is holding the blue dry-erase marker in midair. One of her perfectly curvy hips is popped to the side, and a manicured hand rests there, waiting.
She looks a little like one of the cheerleaders did earlier today. That’s concerning, seeing as how Ms. Harris is a teacher and all. Shouldn’t she reserve judgment?
Though I’m fairly certain that the majority of them are as bored by the anatomy of the brain as I am, the students in my line of sight now look annoyed at the interruption. More likely, they’re just annoyed Ms. Harris turned around.
“London? Is there a joke?” she asks again when I don’t speak. She tosses her dyed red hair and I wonder if she’s jealous that mine is real.
“No, Ms. Harris,” I say quietly. I try to think of something depressing, but the smile hangs on.
Ms. Harris stares at me, unblinking, for what feels like days. When she seems convinced that I’m either a bad seed or insane, she sighs and turns back to the whiteboard.
The rest of the students right themselves on their stools, and I relax, too. I take a deep breath of stale science-wing air and loosen my grip on the metal table.
My happy moment ruined, I focus on what Ms. Harris is saying, most of it completely snore-inducing. But then, she says something that grabs my interest.
“… possible that we store different types of memories in different parts of our brains.”
Intrigued, I sit up a little straighter. I need to hear what she’ll say next.
She turns and writes “Types of memories” on the whiteboard. Just as she’s underlining her header, the bell rings.
“Class dismissed.”
A little over an hour later, Mom is driving in the opposite direction of home, looking determined.
“Where are we going?”
“Out for a snack,” she says.
“I’m not hungry,” I protest.
“I don’t care,” she says. “You don’t have to eat. But I think we need to spend some time together.”
Uh-oh.
Mom pulls into a diner and parks, and we walk inside and seat ourselves as the sign instructs. Once the waitress has taken our drink orders—diet for Mom, regular for me—Mom strikes up a conversation.
“Good day?” she asks.