August 1998
We exit the office, and my mom smooths my shirt. “Have a good day, sweetie. New school, fresh start.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She hugs me before fixing my hair. “All the girls are going to go crazy over you. Have I told you lately that you’re handsome?”
I shake my head and smile. “Twenty times a day.”
“Call me if you need me.” She passes me my schedule. “Good luck, honey.” With that, she turns, her heels clicking against the tile as she heads for the front doors, bracelet jingling as she swings her arms in that stuck-up way she sometimes does.
I glance at the paper. First period is Archibald, room 201. Once I find it, I knock. The teacher is expecting me, the secretary had said. He opens the door—chubby and … bald, just like his name. Funny. And he’s wearing a thick sweater, and it’s Georgia, and it’s August.
“Brooke Jansen, right?” he whispers, his breath reeking of eggs and onions.
“Brooks, sir,” I reply, tucking the schedule into my back pocket and breathing through my mouth.
He clears his throat and walks to the middle of the classroom. So many kids. I feel a little bit sick. “Class,” he says, approaching the front row. “We have a new student today. I want everyone to make him feel comfortable and welcome here at J. Stewart.”
Great, now I’m really embarrassed, I think, as he motions toward me. The kids start whispering to each other as I step closer to him. Everyone is staring at me, but whatever. I got this. So what, I’m new? Big deal.
Mr. Archibald bends down to whisper to me again. It’s really weird how he keeps doing that. “Go on and introduce yourself to the class.”
I don’t want to, but it’s not like I have a choice. I move even closer to the desks and decide to pretend I’m only talking to myself. “Hi, guys. My name is Brooks Jansen, and I’m new here.” I smile.
“Tell us where you’re from, Brooks,” Mr. Archibald says, “and what types of things you like to do, so we can all get to know you better.”
“Oh, I’m from here—Atlanta. I’m just new at J. Stewart. I like playing football.” I shrug and look back at the class again. Everyone is still staring at me. The boys don’t seem to care much, but most of the girls have that weird kind of smile they get when they like you … or, me.
Mr. Archibald tells everyone to take turns introducing themselves to me now, instructing them to go by row, and I half-listen as each kid says their name and something they like or like doing. I think it’s over, but I missed the girl shrinking in her seat at the back of the room. She’s staring blankly at me, mouth half-open.
“Ivy?” the teacher says loudly.
“Um...” she says, but then her mouth stops moving. She’s obviously nervous or something.
“Ivy!” Mr. Archibald yells.
I look up at him. The way he shouted her name sounded pretty mean, like he doesn’t like her. What a dick! I’m not supposed to say that word, but whatever. I can think it, because he is one. My head turns back to her, and I smile. She sits up straight, and I notice something—a big, faded stain on her shirt near the shoulder. And then I realize she isn’t wearing one of those hair bow thingies like the other girls, either. It’s hanging straight and messy, medium brown. I peek at one of her shoes, which is jutted out in the aisle. It’s white, but not bright white. Dirty and old. She’s different, not like the other students in the room. She’s … poor.
Just like I used to be.
Her eyes are stuck to mine. They’re dark, but I can’t tell what color from this far away. I feel naked, like she knows I used to be poor, too, but I think she just—
“Ivy,” she says, her voice shaking like she’s scared of Mr. Archibald, or like maybe she doesn’t wanna talk to me. “My name is Ivy. Ivy Hobbs. I like … I like school.”
Everyone laughs. Some stop after a couple seconds, and some keep going. I smile because I don’t know what else to do. I have to find a desk to sit in, and there are three I can pick from. One is right next to her. I walk to the back and sit down in it—next to Ivy. These kids all seem like jerks, and she looks lonely. Or maybe she is the jerk and hates everyone, and that’s why she doesn’t talk. I can’t help but stare at her as I set my backpack down on the floor.
She’s been looking down at her paper, but now her eyes turn to me. My mouth turns up in a grin, and hers does, too, but then it disappears, and twists into something else. Anger? Do I gross her out? I don’t know what I could have done.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I whisper.
She turns to me, her eyes big now. “Nothing. Forgot my homework.”
“Sorry. Homework sucks.”
“Yeah,” she says back, and then she reaches into her backpack.
I swear I think she just balled up her homework, but maybe not. Or maybe she did. She seems nice, but she is kind of weird. Maybe she just … likes me? Maybe that’s why she was looking at me and couldn’t get her words out. Mom said that’s what some girls do—get all embarrassed and shy when they like someone.
The girl—Ivy—is tapping her pencil on her notebook paper, and I spy something familiar on it.
I point to her notebook. “Did you draw that?”
“No!” She rips out the page, and shoves it in the back of the book.
I jerk it from her desk before I really think about what I’m doing. She looks at me, the notebook clutched in my hand. Her eyes glare at me for a second. She looks mad—really mad. I smile at her like I’m sorry, because I am. I didn’t mean to make her mad. She smiles back—whew!—and I jiggle the notebook until the paper falls out. The page floats down to the floor, blank side up. She lunges for it, but my hand gets there first, and then our eyes are glued together, the paper in my hand, and hers empty. She smells good, like that cherry-almond shampoo my brother’s girlfriend uses. Her eyes are, like … whoa. They’re deep blue, like the water at Myrtle Beach. They’re the prettiest ones I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m only twelve, so it’s not like I’ve seen a billion, but they’re the best. The rest of her face is pretty, too. Not like the normal pretty girl or what a lot of other guys would say was pretty, but a unique kind. A shy kind.
I ask if I can look at her drawing without realizing I’m even talking. I’m not sure if she heard me because I barely heard myself, but then the teacher yells at us to stop talking, so I guess it wasn’t that much of a whisper.
“Ivy! Brooke!” Mr. Archibald scolds. We’re still bent over the aisle, staring at each other like freaks.
I start pulling myself back into my seat, page still in hand. “It’s Brooks, sir,” I tell him, turning the paper over to stare at it—a panda mother and her cubs. I can’t believe she drew this. It’s awesome, and the detail is amazing—so realistic. “This is really good. You have talent,” I say to her.
“Thanks.”
I ask her why she drew pandas as I give it back to her, because seeing them in Chengdu when my family and I went to China was one of my favorite things I’ve ever gotten to do.
“I just like them.” She shrugs, my eyes moving to that stain on her shirt again.
“Me too.” I tell her about the trip we took and how I got to hold them and feed them.
She smiles again, and this time it’s a real one, because her eyes crinkle at the corners. She says she has only seen them at the zoo and didn’t get to touch them.
I explain how my parents are starting a coffee shop, and that’s why we travel so much. “But your drawing is really good,” I say. “Will you draw me one sometime?”
She smiles, her eyes looking surprised since they’re open a little too much. “Sure.”
Okay, she’s definitely not a jerk. She’s just dealing with stuff … stuff like I used to deal with, too. I know how she feels. I need to help her. And I think I like this girl.
A lot.