Drink, Slay, Love Page 8

  Forcing herself to ignore Evan, Pearl clasped her hands in front of her and studied the words on the board. She committed them to memory, along with the other scrawled notes and a nonsensical pie chart. Every other student seemed to have a notebook, though she wasn’t sure why it was necessary for so few words. Perhaps human powers of retention were lesser, as well as their base intelligence level. She glanced around the room and saw that half the notebooks were empty and the other half were filled with doodles of hearts and stars or, in the case of a boy with hair flopped over his eyes, an intricate dragon with fingernail-size scales. Evan’s notebook—at least what she could see from here—was covered in words that filled every inch of the page in neat script. She wondered if it was poetry after all. He seemed like such the secret poet type. As Evan glanced over at her, Pearl looked away. She supposed she should track down some school supplies, complete this charade. Cousin Jocelyn might have some spare paper and pens to donate to the cause.

  Providing examples himself, Mr. Barstow added notes to the board.

  Behind her, Pearl heard a student whisper to another, “Going out tonight?”

  “Can’t,” a girl whispered back. “Parents.”

  All around her she heard soft clicks, so faint they could have been fingernails on flesh. But a peek to the left and right revealed the dance of fingers tapping on phones. Another student sneaked M&M’s from his pocket, popping them in his mouth like pills that he swallowed whole. Another lightly snored. Pearl imagined if these students were in one of Aunt Fiona’s classes. One banshee shriek and their attention would never wander again.

  Mr. Barstow seemed as oblivious to the students as they were to his lecture. “So if Phineas is the personification of innocence”—he scrawled, “Finny = innocent”—“you can see the obvious symbolic importance of the climactic event as a fall. It is a fall from innocence for all the characters. This fall transforms Gene as he moves from childhood to adulthood, but for Phineas—our personification of innocence—he is unable to accept his transformation, to release the innocent, guilt-free view of Gene, and so he is unable to complete his transformation.”

  One hand was raised. “So he, like, turns into a butterfly?”

  A few students in the back laughed. Others, like Bethany, were nearly quivering in their chairs. Pearl realized that some were listening to Mr. Barstow. She had the sense that they wanted to raise their hands. She wondered what kept them from speaking up.

  The boy said, “Seriously, there’s this one story where the guy wakes up and he’s this bug and it’s very deep.”

  A few others tittered. Mr. Barstow’s face tinted red. A vein in his neck bulged.

  Ugh, this could go on and on. Pearl interrupted, “Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Boy turns into cockroach. Accurate depiction of man’s position in the world.”

  Mr. Barstow raised both of his woolly eyebrows as he looked at her. His face began to return to its normal paper-pale shade. “Interesting,” he said. To the class, he asked, “Can anyone tell me what happens after Phineas’s failed transformation?”

  No one answered.

  A few shifted uncomfortably. Several glanced at their watches, the clock, or their phones. One looked at all three, as if by checking everything she’d find a more favorable answer. Again, Pearl noticed a few hands that trembled on the desktop, as if they wanted to reach up but extra gravity held them down. Bethany continued quivering in her seat. Evan was watching Pearl.

  Mr. Barstow sighed gustily. “Did anyone finish last night’s reading? Climax of the book, people. Even CliffsNotes should mention it.” He focused on Pearl, and she tore her attention away from Evan. She didn’t know why that human boy kept drawing her attention. It was getting annoying. “Have you read A Separate Peace, Ms. Sange? Can you tell everyone the spoiler that somehow evaded their keen reading comprehension skills?”

  She shrugged. “Anything that fails to transform, dies.”

  He exhaled a puff so loudly that it was like a whale spouting. “Finally, an insight. Welcome to my class, Ms. Sange. I pray that you leave here smarter than you enter and that your classmates do not leach intelligence out of you by their proximity.”

  She glanced around the class. That was a distinct worry. Still . . . “They’d be smarter if you hadn’t terrified them into silence.” She couldn’t comprehend how he had done it. His flabby arms couldn’t throw a punch. She could evade him with her eyes squeezed shut and one leg tied back so she had to hop like a flamingo, which she had tried once in training. Results had not been pretty.

  He arched his bushy eyebrows. “Here for less than a class, and you have analyzed the full dynamics already.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Yet you don’t seem to be terrified into silence.”

  Pearl shrugged. “That’s because I know I’m superior to you.”

  All the students froze.

  Keeping her appearance casual, Pearl readied for an attack. Her feet stayed crossed, but her leg muscles tensed in case she had to spring into action. Her fingers, twirling her hair, touched the steel barrette that she had filed to a point. She watched Mr. Barstow. It was better, she reasoned, to see what the dangers were at the beginning. If the teachers at this school were dangerous, she needed to know sooner rather than later.

  Bemused, Mr. Barstow blinked at her. Pearl thought she may have even seen a hint of a smile, but then she convinced herself she’d imagined it. “Since it’s your first day, I’ll be magnanimous and not hand out a detention. Consider yourself warned.”

  She wondered what kind of punishment constituted a “detention.” Mother had several holding cells, each a lightless nightmare. Pearl had been in one once for shoplifting at the mall. With all the security cameras, Mother had felt it was too high risk. After twenty-four hours in the cell, Pearl hadn’t been tempted to repeat the incident—at least not at that mall.

  Mr. Barstow proceeded to ignore her for the rest of the class.

  The other students, however, did not. She heard whispers buzz around her, while every student in the class shot her sidelong glances. She used the opportunity to study them as well. A few boys in the front wore button-up shirts and had their hair carefully combed out of their eyes. A few in back wore strategically ripped jeans and T-shirts with random slogans that she wasn’t convinced would make sense even in context. One girl wore a miniskirt so high that it nearly morphed into a blouse. The center of the classroom was occupied by a swath of boys and girls in unmemorable outfits. She studied the power structure by watching body language. For nearly all the students, it was easy to peg their place in the hierarchy: A glance here, a shift there, and she could tell who wanted approval from the teacher and who wanted approval from a nearby student. Only Evan proved difficult to read, but that was primarily because he kept glancing at Pearl. Staring back at him, she decided his expression looked a lot more like amusement than adoration.

  A bell rang, and she jerked in her seat.

  All the semicomatose kids leaped out of their chairs. Backpacks were slung over shoulders, and notebooks and textbooks were shoved into bags. Pearl stood. In seconds, Bethany and Evan flanked her like bodyguards.

  In his deep silky voice, Evan said, “That was impressive. You alienated your first teacher in your first class of your first day.”

  “Are you kidding?” Bethany said. “She’s, like, a hero!” With shining eyes, she turned to Pearl. “You are exactly what this school needs.”

  “How convenient,” Pearl said, “since this school is exactly what I need.”

  Chapter

  EIGHT

  A few classes later Pearl joined the salmon stream of juniors heading for the cafetorium—honestly, that was the dumbest name for a room that she’d ever heard. She let the chatter ebb and flow around her and wondered if she would become used to the cacophony of sounds and smells.

  She was aware that some of the students were chattering about her. She’d managed to keep her mouth shut in her other classes, but she’d supplied en
ough fodder by the end of first period to entertain the masses. By third period, her exchange with Mr. Barstow had blossomed in the retelling to become a full-out screaming match, during which she had supposedly insulted his ancestry and his prize Maltese. By fourth period, news of her run-in with Ashlyn’s car had spread as well. One variant of that tale involved explosions. If Daddy and Mother expected her to keep a low profile, she was failing. Luckily, Daddy and Mother were zonked out underground.

  Pearl let herself be swept with the other students into a line. Kids clustered in front and behind her. She watched as they selected orange plastic trays and then proceeded through the food line. Choosing her own tray, she followed. Newly washed, it dripped water on her hands. Mimicking the other students, she held it away from her to avoid dampening her sweater.

  As she reached the front of the line, her nose was assaulted by the sweaty stench of grease. She noticed some of the students were bypassing the line altogether, carrying bags and the occasional knapsack. Next time she’d pretend to bring lunch.

  She pursed her lips as she read the scrawled signs above each congealed food item: vegetarian, kosher, lactose-free, low sodium. . . She bet there wasn’t a vampire-friendly option. She’d have to fake eating. Pearl selected a salad that looked as though it would make some rabbit ecstatic and a container of red fruit juice that at least reminded her of something edible.

  She wondered if anyone would notice if she packed a thermos of blood. It would be stale, of course, but at least she wouldn’t have to worry about hunger pangs at awkward moments. So far she hadn’t had a single opportunity to feed. Her stomach growled, and she eyed the neck of a boy in a gym shirt as she followed him to the cashier. Peachlike fuzz covered the back of his neck. She snagged a piece of fruit from a basket.

  “Student lunch account number?” the cashier asked.

  Pearl frowned at her tray. She was sure her parents hadn’t made arrangements for this. They wouldn’t have thought of lunch as something she’d need to participate in. “I’ll return these.”

  A voice behind her said, “I’ll cover her.”

  She knew without looking that it was Evan. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.” Last thing she needed was to be beholden to any of these humans, especially Evan. His knight-in-shining-armor act shouldn’t be encouraged.

  “No one eats alone on their first day,” he said. “Ought to be an official rule.”

  Lousy rule, she thought. She couldn’t eat in a crowd, at least not without inspiring a lot of screaming.

  He swiped his student ID, and the cashier nodded them through.

  “Keep this up, and one of these days you’ll be nice to the wrong person,” she said. Her Good Samaritan warning of the day delivered, she swept by him.

  Following her, he said, “Is it overstepping if I tell you where to find the forks?” He pointed at a display of utensils and napkins right before the entrance to the cafetorium.

  Pearl was reasonably certain that he was laughing at her. Glaring at him, she selected a fork and knife. For good measure, she also picked up a spoon. She hoped she remembered how to use them—she’d had training once in a human etiquette class, but she hadn’t practiced since then. She brushed past Evan and entered the cafetorium itself.

  The noise was nearly deafening, as if several flocks of seagulls were fighting over a whale carcass. It also smelled not unlike a whale carcass.

  It took Pearl a second to adjust to the sound and smell before she looked properly at the cafetorium. It was large enough to fit all four hundred students in the junior class. One wall explained the “auditorium” part of the name: It featured a stage with a blue-and-red curtain across it. The red blotches looked more like ketchup stains than an intentional design choice. Two other walls were the same greenish concrete blocks that filled the rest of the school. The fourth wall, however, was a bank of windows. Glorious sunlight spilled from the windows to cover all the tables.

  Each table had a flock of students at it. Interestingly, each flock member matched the others, as if they were birds that had congregated based on plumage. But the groups weren’t distinguished so much by physical appearance or ethnicity as they were by clothing choices, hairstyles, and mannerisms. One table featured guys in mostly buttoned shirts. Another table held students in T-shirts and torn jeans. Another brimmed with an overabundance of pink. Perhaps Cousin Antoinette’s movies weren’t so far off.

  “Our table is there,” Evan said, nodding at a table in the corner.

  Bethany hopped up from the table and waved.

  As Pearl took a step forward, the bottle-blonde Ashlyn slammed down her lunch bag at her table of shiny-haired girls and then marched across the cafetorium toward Pearl. Her entourage of four brunettes trailed behind her in a V formation like geese. Students fell silent in her wake.

  Tray in her hands, Pearl waited.

  She studied Ashlyn as she approached and confirmed the impression she’d made outside. Ashlyn wasn’t overly pretty. Her makeup was stark against her washed-out skin. Her arms were so skinny that her elbows looked like knots in a tree. She lacked the muscle tone to be exceptionally strong, and she hadn’t been in any of the honors classes this morning so she couldn’t be particularly intelligent. So what made her queen bee? Every head she passed turned to watch her. She clearly had power, though Pearl couldn’t detect its source.

  Ashlyn leveled a finger at Pearl’s chest. “You dented my car!”

  “Yes, I did,” Pearl said. She tensed in case the girl flew toward her. After all, Cousin Jocelyn didn’t appear to be strong either, yet she could chuck a motorcycle a hundred yards. (She’d done it once. Pearl never knew what the poor bike had done to offend her, except perhaps fail to recite a sonnet in iambic pentameter.)

  Ashlyn was momentarily speechless. Whatever response she’d expected, that wasn’t it. Her entourage exchanged glances and shifted uneasily. Pearl guessed that she’d veered from the standard script.

  Cocking her head, Pearl waited to see what the girl would do next.

  “You’ll pay for the repairs,” Ashlyn said. “I’m having my parents call your parents. They’ll make you pay to fix it.”

  It couldn’t be intelligence that fueled Ashlyn’s power. Pearl detected nothing superior about her wit. So far, she seemed no more articulate than a cat spitting its fury at a rival. She also lacked the common sense to know she was spitting at a tiger. If Pearl wanted to, she could break the girl in half. “I have a better idea,” Pearl said. “How about I send my parents over to your house tonight to discuss it?”

  Ashlyn blinked. Again, Pearl obviously hadn’t responded as expected. She heard students at nearby tables whisper and titter. “They’ll bring a check for the damage?”

  “Of course,” Pearl said.

  “Well . . .” Ashlyn glanced behind her at her entourage. The four brunettes fidgeted, clearly confused about the direction of the conversation.

  “Can you tell your parents to expect mine?” Pearl said. Once Ashlyn’s parents invited Pearl’s parents inside, then they’d be able to come and go as they pleased. This one incident could provide them with multiple meals, as well as contribute to the king’s dinner. “What’s your address?”

  “One fifty Mount Grey Road,” Ashlyn said. She seemed a bit dazed, as if trying to figure out when she’d lost control of the conversation.

  “Splendid,” Pearl said. “Are we done?”

  Pearl watched Ashlyn draw her scattered confidence into herself as if drawing breath. It filled the girl as she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. Ashlyn plastered a smile on her face, and Pearl could tell it was the sort of smile meant to project out to adoring crowds. Every eye at the nearby tables was riveted to the two of them. Some students had quit walking to their own tables to watch. “I accept your apology,” Ashlyn said in a voice that carried. “And please try not to be a bitch again. That’s my job.”

  “You do it well,” Pearl said sincerely. She meant it. She didn’t know how Ashlyn was commandi
ng the attention of the other students, but they were focused on this girl with all the intensity of mice who had noticed a hawk. Pearl found herself impressed—perhaps not as impressed as she was by, say, Uncle Felix, who once reportedly scaled the outside of the Empire State Building in a late-night, blood-drunk reenactment of King Kong, but she was at least as impressed as she was by the mangy, flea-bitten cat that ruled an alley downtown.

  Ashlyn laughed, a real laugh, as if she were delighted with Pearl’s response. “I can’t decide if you’re stupid or crazy. Time will tell, I guess.” She tossed her hair and turned back toward her table. Over her shoulder, she said, “Welcome to Greenbridge High.”

  The brunettes fell into position behind her as they trooped back to their table. The students erupted into chatter again. Pearl hadn’t realized how quiet everyone had fallen during their exchange. She watched as Ashlyn strode across the cafetorium with all the confidence of a vampire . . . and Pearl wondered if that was it, if it was the confidence that she radiated that was the source of her power.

  If that’s all it takes, Pearl thought, then I’m going to rule this place.

  Softly, Evan said in her ear, “You didn’t actually apologize.”

  “I do try not to lie,” Pearl said. “It’s bad for karma.”

  She swept forward into a swath of sunlight. As the sun spread over her face, she let out a happy sigh. As if pulled by the light, she turned toward the bank of windows. Formica sparkled from the nearby tables. Young faces glowed with a pinkness she never saw in her relatives.

  “Pearl, our table is in the opposite direction. No pressure, of course. . .”

  Ignoring him, she crossed to the door to the courtyard.

  A teacher’s voice said, “If you take your tray outside, remember to return it. No one will pick up after you. We aren’t your servants.”

  “Pity,” Pearl murmured as she pushed open the door and then stepped into the midday sun. As the breeze swept past her, it lifted her hair and tousled it. She felt the sun touch her neck, warm despite the not-quite-spring air. She stood still for a moment as the rays spread over her. The courtyard held a semicircle of picnic tables with graffiti gouged so deeply that the wood looked ready to split. Straggly trees ringed the tables, half blocking the classroom windows. One end of the courtyard opened onto the school parking lot.