eyes are on me, including Mr Model’s. He appraises me from the electrified ends of my hair to the tips of my Mary Janes, which are just barely visible beneath the acres of cord. He lingers on my leather-bound toes for a beat or two then lifts the cuff of one pant leg at the back and sighs all weary-like. The sight of my heels pains him.
‘She’ll need new shoes,’ he informs Pony Girl disapprovingly.
‘There weren’t any shoes in the bag.’
‘Whose problem is that?’
Pony Girl’s jaw tightens. ‘Mine.’
Next, he assesses my chest, looking down at where my cleavage would be showing if I weren’t wearing this stupid tunic. ‘Did you check out her bra, too? Did you remember about the underwire?’
‘Yes,’ claims the girl, even though she and I both know that’s a lie. She checked a lot of things, too many things, with those kitchen-gloved hands of hers but my bra wasn’t one of them. Mr Model ogles my chest, unconvinced, as he should be. Will he grab hold of my boobs and check for himself? Maybe he’ll just shoot one of his own hands right up under my shirt and have a grope? Instinctively, I tighten my arms across my chest, shrink back into the crook of Pony Girl’s elbow.
‘It’s imperative not to forget the underwire,’ he chastens.
Pony Girl’s arm solidifies against me. ‘Yes, Dwight, imperative.’
Dwight, his name’s Dwight, dismisses her with the wave of a hand. She releases my belt loop and shuttles off to assume a standing position at the back. Beneath the cover of my oversized trousers, I clench and unclench my buttocks, try to jiggle the wedgie she left behind loose, but Hilary snatches up the loop position again before I can.
Dwight turns back to the rest of the group. ‘Who of y’all wants to remind us what the rule is on footwear?’
The phasers go mad at the question. They bounce in their seats and wave their arms. At first, their reaction reminds me of Norman Macalister, the brainy sycophant of second grade (and third, fourth, fifth and so on) whose hand would always shoot straight for the ceiling every time the teacher asked the class a question. Couldn’t stand for one minute not to be teacher’s pet, the little nerd. You hated him.
This lot, though, they make Norman’s eager-beaverness look like indifference. As Dwight strides around contemplating who to call on, their gesticulating grows wilder. They’re waving in different directions at slightly different speeds but all getting faster and faster and harder, their wrists snapping in the air as they pump their arms up and down, side to side. Elbows fly in neighbour’s faces and no one slows. Several brows start to redden and bead with perspiration and still they don’t stop. They wave, flap and pump like…like wild birds or I don’t know what.
‘What the heck are they doing?’ I say, to no one in particular, not expecting anyone to hear me over the din anyway. But Dwight hears, fires daggers in my direction, and everyone else hears too, the flapping stopping as suddenly as it started. The phasers stare at me aghast.
‘Did someone ask me a question? Did I just hear a fucking question asked out of turn? I’m sure I did.’ He sucks in air loudly so no one in the room can mistake his astonishment. ‘But let’s take things in order, shall we?’ Dwight points to an exhausted-looking boy in the front row. ‘Jim P, tell us the rule on footwear.’
Jim P jumps to his feet. ‘Shoes should be used for walking purposes only! No brands or druggie images allowed! No heels allowed! No shoelaces allowed!’
‘Thank you, Jim. You may sit down,’ and Jim P sits. ‘And because a question has been asked, let’s deal with that too. Who wants to tell this little newcomer –’ and he says the word like he meant to say cretin, scumbag or something worse ‘– what it is ya’ll are doing?’
Again the flapping until Dwight points this time to a girl. ‘Beth C.’
‘Dwight. We are motivating for the privilege of answering your questions!’
‘And?’
Beth C hesitates. ‘And?’
‘And what else?’
‘Um, um, a-a-a-and sh-sh-sh-sharing with the group?’
‘Yes, and sharing with the group. Thank you, Beth.’ She sits down. ‘Now, who will explain the rule about talking to superiors which this person has so blatantly transgressed?’
Flip, flap, flop. The chairs scuff loudly against the floor as the group motivates. ‘Louise.’
‘Newcomers must never speak directly to a staff member unless called upon to do so!’
‘Thank you, Louise.’ Dwight comes to a halt in front of me. ‘I think since our new arrival is so very new we’ll overlook her error. For the time being.’ He pauses dramatically for full effect. ‘Hilary, over to you.’
Hilary yanks me forward by the loop and, not expecting it, I nearly lose my balance. ‘This is Justine. She’s fifteen and was a student at Kennedy High School right here in Carrefort.’
Was a student at Kennedy High. I don’t like that one bit. I am a student at Kennedy High, I want to shout. I’m a near straight-A student, as a matter of fact, a sophomore, on the honour roll semester after semester, secretary of the student drama society, member of the pep squad and the JV girls’ basketball team and pretty damn popular too. And I don’t fucking belong here.
‘Does anybody know Justine?’ asks Hilary.
Only one arm flaps in response to this question. It’s a big beefy arm playing the piston from the far end of the boys’ arc. ‘Earl,’ calls Hilary. And Earl lumbers to his feet. Very familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen his face before, but can’t quite place where.
‘I know her,’ reports Earl. ‘I got high with her once.’
‘Liar!’ I shriek and am rewarded with a thump on the back from Hilary and another tug of the belt loop.
‘I did,’ counters Earl. ‘We smoked some joints in the back seat of my druggie friend’s car.’
Chubby! He’s lost the earring, gained a lot of weight but it’s him, it’s definitely him. So that’s how they knew about that time, that one time.
‘She came out with us one night with her brother, her twin brother.’
Dwight studies me more carefully. ‘Joshua Z,’ he realises.
There’s a collective drawing-in of breaths. At mention of your name, everybody else examines me anew. Some curious, some confused. They hunt for signs of you in my face, try to decipher your features in mine. Make the connection, make it fit.
‘My, my, little Joshua Z’s other half,’ Dwight tuts.
I don’t like the way he says your name, like he’s chewing on it or something. And I don’t like the way he says ‘z’ apostrophe ‘s’, ‘zeez’, like disease without the ‘di’.
‘Right,’ Earl confirms. ‘I got high with her and her druggie twin.’
‘It
