RE: Trailer Trash 55, Misery, tedium, and despair. (Patreon)

/// The complete chapter 55.

Tabitha was going back to school today, Mrs. Moore thought as she stared down at her hands folded in her lap. Hope she’s having a better time of it than I am here.

She had to hold her hands together to still them, because otherwise they would shake.

The sterile light of the Food Lion’s break room this morning was ominous and terrifying, and half a dozen polite good mornings had been exchanged with the other employees there as they started their day. Everyone on this shift seemed curt and for the most part the niceties offered seemed particularly hollow—Manager John explained that these regular coworkers took time to warm up to new hires, because it was rare that new people lasted longer than a few days.

His joke—if that was supposed to be a joke—was not comforting to her in the slightest, and though Manager John chuckled to himself at it, she was unable to muster up anything more than a wincing smile. Manager John read off parts of her welcome packet to her while skimming past entire swaths of paragraphs as ‘legal mumbo jumbo,’ and skimmed through the sections detailing her ‘first week of training’... as if standing near Tracy yesterday while she ran a register was more than good enough to cover those basics.

So, she was now outfitted in her collared blouse tucked into slacks, over which a Food Lion apron had been donned—the way it tied around her waist made her feel extra fat and exposed and grotesque, but she shoved all of those feelings deep down inside of herself before she could vomit. The break room she was sitting in felt even more tense than a hospital waiting room, and she was sure she stank of fear.

The clock read 8:42, and the scant minutes until the actual start of her shift now seemed an agonizing length of time.

Tracy arrived and took a seat, ignoring Shannon’s presence completely, and the stout old woman promptly began instead leafing through pages of newspaper advertisements. Then two more people in aprons arrived through the doors; the chatterbox young lady from yesterday—Cindy—and an older man with a stubbled face. To Shannon’s surprise, they both immediately came and sat near her.

“Hi! I’m Cindy, we met yesterday,” Cindy waved. “This is Frank, he’s in deli.”

“Shannon,” Shannon offered her hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Frank grunted, accepting her hand for a clammy handshake. “You started yesterday?”

“Um,” Mrs. Moore swallowed. “I was observing for a little bit, today’s my first actual day.”

“Whew,” Frank shook his head in apparent dismay, but his tone was light and humorous. “My condolences to you, then. No one cared enough to scare you off?”

“I… really needed a job,” Mrs. Moore said with a helpless smile. “Nowhere else would even call me back.”

“Yeeep, right there with ya,” Frank gave her a sober nod.

“I’m in the same boat; no qualifications or experience,” Cindy revealed with a chipper smile. “Dropped outta high school soon as I found out I was pregnant with Damien. Yeah, the pay here’s the absolute worst and the hours are terrible and the conditions are pretty bad, but, well—they really will hire anyone.”

“That’s… something, at least?” Mrs. Moore tried to laugh, but one didn’t come out.

“Yep,” Frank laughed. “This is all I can do. Larceny and D.U.I. charges, I’m on probation.”

“You’re kidding,” Mrs. Moore said. It was hard for her to put this young man in the same mental box she kept her brother-in-law in. “Really?”

“Oh, don’t let that fool you!” Cindy hurried to assure her. “He’s one of the nice ones!”

“Yeah, thanks,” Frank said with a roll of his eyes. “Now, the mean ones around here are in meat department, couple of them have done hard time. Those bakery crones are nasty, too. Everyone in produce and deli are real nice and friendly, though, can’t go wrong there. Hah, just… maybe don’t bother rememberin’ too many people’s names, around here.”

“Hahh, yeah. Don’t get too attached to anyone!”

To Shannon’s dismay, this Food Lion store’s high turn-over rate seemed to be a recurring conversation point that would keep popping back up, and both Cindy and Frank had a lot about it to say. Sometimes it felt like they were trying to warn her away, and at other times it was as though it was meant to put her at ease. After all, if she was worried about the blank fields she was forced to leave on her application, and the resume that was more gaps than substance… she could apparently put those fears to rest.

They hired anyone.

Springton Food Lion didn’t pay well enough to retain the good employees, it was forced to fire or suspend the worst ones, and everyone in-between seemed to be just any old warm bodies management could muster up to fill empty positions. Naturally, those folk would put in their two weeks notice the instant they found a better job, though most didn’t even give Food Lion that courtesy—they simply disappeared, no-showed for their scheduled hours, or quit and walked out in the midst of their shifts.

Thus, company culture here seemed like a bizarre atmosphere of cynical cheer and semi-repressed loathing. The abnormally high attrition rate of new hires turned things into an endless training montage for the regulars who did stick around, and any and all of the positions that paid even slightly better than average, such as the department heads, were described to her as a viper’s nest of nepotism and crony politics. Which of course resulted in personal drama, grudges, and long-running feuds between sections that apparently became downright Shakespearean.

“We don’t even have a seafood department at all, anymore!” Cindy added. “When someone jokes about ‘getting transferred to seafood,’ they just mean getting fired.”

“Yeah, they all got axed a year or two back,” Frank nodded. “Justin there got into one screaming match too many with Manager Phil, and finally took a swing at him. Big mistake, an’ they had to call in the cops. Apparently it’s a real bitch to pass food safety certification an’ inspections for all that anyways, and Springton here wasn’t ‘xactly clamoring for fresh seafood in the first place. Not at those prices! All that stuff’s just in with frozen, now.”

“Dairy and frozen’s all a bunch of dumb kids,” Cindy chuckled. “I think they’re all teenagers there. Bakery department is…wellll…”

“Um, if I’m a regular cashier, what department does that fall under?” Mrs. Moore asked. “Manager John just—skipped past all the stuff with the store areas.”

“Ah, you’re in with front end, for now at least,” Frank explained. “All that sales and service stuff up front, that’s called front end. Lot of churn in front end.”

“But, you might not be stuck there!” Cindy tried to sound optimistic. “If you were hired on seasonally, they might have you as a floater for a while. Pass you around to whatever department needs you most. Hopefully not bakery! Then, if one of the managers likes you, they’ll transfer you over into their area.”

“You ever run a slicer?” Frank asked. “Meat slicer?”

“Er—I actually have no job experience at all,” Mrs. Moore admitted in embarrassment.

“Well, no worries there,” Frank shrugged. “S’not exactly rocket science in the first place. Could teach a five-year-old to run that stuff. They’d probably do a better job, too! Some of these knuckleheads I get stuck with…”

“We’ve also got no floral department at all,” Cindy spoke up. “That’s what I wanted to be in when I started, I would’ve loved to work with flowers. We’ve got a pharmacy, but none of us peasants are allowed to step a toe inside—all that’s strictly lock and key. Since stuff at the Food Lion pharmacy in Elizabethtown kept getting nicked. We’ve got no beer and wine department, either—that one’s the real bummer.”

“Semi-dry county,” Frank grunted. “Municipality’ll only sell so many liquor licenses for Springton, an’ the beer distributor places gobble ‘em all up every year.”

“Ah, I did know that,” Mrs. Moore nodded in understanding. “We have a liquor store just here right at the end of our neighborhood.”

“Oh, do you live here in town?” Cindy’s eyes lit up with interest. “Where at?”

“I’m… I’m just living in the trailer park,” Mrs. Moore said with difficulty. “The one right here in town.”

“No kidding? Do you know Mary?” Frank asked.

“Mary?” Mrs. Moore blinked, thinking for a moment but then shaking her head. “No… I don’t think so?”

“Think she said she lives in that same trailer park,” Frank said. “The one back in behind that gas station, right? Gas station and the liquor store right there.”

“That’s the one,” Mrs. Moore blushed. “Sorry, I just—I don’t really know any of my neighbors.”

“Mary’s nice,” Cindy commented. “You might see her today, she’s in produce.”

“She won’t see her,” Tracy spoke up from across the room, wearing the same bulldog frown from yesterday. “They’ll have new girl stuck on register the whole day.”

“Well, someone should at least show her around, first,” Cindy said with a pout. “This is why we can’t keep anybody!”

“Bakery lost two more people just over Christmas,” Frank grunted. “Doug, and then that other new guy, what-was-his-name. The tall one.”

“Bakery’s awful! Claudia is the fucking worst, steer clear of that rotten old bitch,” Cindy swore, surprising Mrs. Moore with her sudden change of demeanor. “She tried to write up Doug for coming in two hours late, when he was only two hours late because she kept fucking around with the schedule there without letting him know. The rule is, they’re always supposed to call or give you notice if they change your hours on the fly like that. But nope, not her, she don’t care. Nobody cares.”

“Anything to keep the minimum wage pissants from ever getting our ten cent raise,” Frank muttered under his breath. “If Manager John tried to sell you on gettin’ bumped up ten cents every three months—you can forget it. That’s just flat out not happenin’, not no way, no how.”

“Not a chance,” Tracy agreed with her dour expression. “They’ll write you up for not havin’ yer smile big enough.”

“Hah! Ask me how many write-ups I’ve got,” Frank laughed. “They’re supposed to let you go once you’ve got three—I’m on eleven. Got written up for going over the hours I’m supposed to have, and I say—well, look here, John, I don’t write the fuckin’ schedules. Quit calling me in to cover people’s shifts if you don’t want my hours to go over. Nope! Suspended. During my suspension, guess what they do? They call me back in to cover someone’s shift! You can’t make this shit up.”

“I’d have hung ‘em out to dry,” Cindy growled. “They don’t want you comin’ in, then don’t come in!”

“No can do,” Frank said, shaking his head. “Got child support to pay. I’m takin’ all the hours I can get.”

“Do you have kids, uh—sorry, what was your name, again?” Cindy asked.

“Shannon,” Mrs. Moore said, feeling her throat constrict again. “I have a teenage daughter. We’re… separated, right now. We don’t live together.”

She didn’t want to lie to them while they were all being so forthright with her, but at the same time Shannon found herself hesitant to volunteer too much information. Her gut feeling told her that she was rubbing elbows here this morning with the gossip grapevine of the store, and anything she said would be repeated around to others the moment her name was brought up.

“Shannon, right,” Cindy nodded. “And—sorry, that sounds rough. I’m lucky, my little one’s just three. He’s not goin’ nowhere from his momma. Not ‘til he turns twenty-one!”

“I’ve got two boys,” Frank grunted. “They live with their mother over in Sandboro. Five and eight.”

“Mine are all grown up and gone off ‘cross the country,” Tracy snorted. “Good riddance to ‘em. Bunch of bums.”

“She don’t mean that,” Cindy confided in a loud whisper. “She’s just bein’ stubborn.”

Shannon was too ashamed to reveal her daughter was only fourteen and should still be living with her. She didn’t know how she would ever go about explaining the catastrophic circumstances of her home life, and simply prayed that saying they were separated was a strong enough hint that she didn’t want anyone prying for more details. It seemed plausible that some of the workers here would be either parents of high schoolers, or even high schoolers themselves! In a small town like Springton, everyone was connected, and word about who was related to who would get around fast once it was leaked.

Almost wish I’d just said I was new in town.

“Here we go—clockin’ in time for us, I think,” Frank quirked his chin in the direction of the clock. “Shannon—was nice meetin’ you. I’d say I hope you stick around, but hell. I’m not sure I’d wish that on anybody.”

“Oh, stop,” Cindy guffawed as they rose from their seats and shuffled one by one in front of the timeclock computer. “Shannon hon, are you on at nine? Did Manager John get you all set up so you can sign in too?”

“I sure hope so,” Shannon said with a nervous laugh, double-checking the hazy screen when it was her turn.

A big boxy monitor with a black screen and rows of white text upon it awaited her, and it was difficult to shove down the raw dread she felt when she approached it. There was a monitor and a mouse, but no apparent modem or keyboard or even a little mousepad for the mouse—simply a depressing worn smudge on the tabletop, where hundreds of people before her had shifted the mouse the same several inches. She did so, moving the jittery little cursor across the dark pixels towards a column full of names on the right, clicked on hers, and then clicked it again to sign in when the black and white box her name was in inverted colors to white and black.

“I-I just clicked it there, and then there, and—like that?”

“Well then, now you’ve done it—welcome to the jungle!” Cindy said, patting her shoulder. “Just be sure an’ holler over my way if you need anything, alright? Let’s go and get our drawers assigned.”

Shannon Moore nodded gratefully in response, but found herself unable to speak.

She was now officially on the clock and working, she was employed. She was committed to six hours of whatever it was Food Lion wound up tasking her with doing. There were a million rules to remember, a weight of responsibility crushing down now, and the very real possibility that she would make a mess of things and be screamed at by customers, by bosses, likely even by her fellow coworkers. She would surely be subject to all manner of abuse here, and the prospect of withstanding it all twisted and tightened her guts and quickened her breath until she nearly hyperventilated.

I’m going to do this. I’m GOING to do this. Even if I can’t do this, I’M GOING TO DO THIS.

SHANNON MOORE | TIME IN _9:00 AM 01/04/1999 | TIME OUT __:__ 01/04/1999 MONDAY

*     *     *

Because Springton High was on the way of her Aunt Kimberly’s morning commute to work, Ashlee had been driven to school and dropped off on eerie, vacant schoolgrounds just after sunrise. Wandering the unfamiliar areas before the buses arrived with everyone made her feel like some sort of forgotten ghost. It was cold, and her embarrassing teal and mauve kiddie winter jacket from when she was younger not only didn’t fit—she was embarrassed to be seen in it, and was of a mind to take it off and shove it in her bag the moment high schoolers started showing up.

Entering into ninth grade here was a little terrifying, because the last grade Ashlee had finished was seventh, having been pulled out of Laurel Middle just a few weeks into eighth grade there. She hadn’t been completing her assignments and had been ignoring her homework, and when her furious mother had threatened to just pull her out of school entirely and ‘homeschool’ her instead, Ashlee jumped at the chance. None of the adults had seemed to realize that that was not a punishment for her, or what a miserable existence Ashlee was in school—no, everyone assumed she was like her sisters. Social, popular, thrilled to be there every day and be immersed in everyone’s attention and envy.

Nope. I’m weirdo Ashlee with the lazy eye.

Testing for placement to return to school had been a farce. She knew she flunked each of them, because for most of it she didn’t even understand the questions. Apparently everyone but her had spent eighth grade learning impossibly difficult equations and conjugative English syntaxes or some such, because Ashlee didn’t have a clue what any of the stuff even meant. Mrs. Cribb had bulled on regardless of her results with sickening cheer and those same old platitudes Ashlee had heard time and time again.

If the stupid ‘no child left behind’ thing means I get put into ninth grade even when I don’t pass their tests, then WHAT’S THE POINT of all the tests and grading and such in the first place? Because, I really don’t get it.

Instead of being held back a grade as she’d expected, Ashlee would go to high school, but be in mostly the ‘developmental education’ versions of classes. Remedial english instead of english 1, pre-algebra rather than algebra 1. Rather than starting in normal freshman biology or marine science, she was tracked onto a primer course simply called ‘life sciences.’ Ashlee knew that she was entering ninth grade here in the second half of the year and already way behind, taking courses with those who’d already tried the real classes and flunked out.

And, if that’s the case—what’s the POINT of it all? Ashlee stared out across the school grounds with a sullen expression. Do they imagine the DRIVE TO SUCCEED will magically just appear within me? When I HATE school, I hate EVERYONE IN IT, I don’t understand why they want me to learn all of the stupid, pointless bullshit, and I don’t care anymore.

My parents aren’t paying for college anyways, so why am I wasting time here? This isn’t GOING ANYWHERE. It’s a stupid charade, so they can pat themselves on the back and say ‘well, at least we TRIED to give her opportunities, and that’s all we can do!’ I’d have rather stayed home! FORCING me to be here just because DURR-HURRR, STUDENT TRUANCY BAD is just so… STUPID!

Everything and anything was irritating her today. Her bra didn’t fit correctly, but she’d been told she was wrong when she complained, that it was actually the right size, because she was going to grow into it. The shirt hidden beneath her ugly jacket was an oversized and slightly discolored white Spice Girls tee—a hand-me-down from Brittney, who had in years past used it as a night shirt. On Ashlee’s bony frame, she felt like she was swimming in the thing. Beneath that she then had on a pair of black sweatpants, but they weren’t really black anymore, they were that certain ashy ‘black’ of black clothing perpetually mottled with lighter shades from lint and cat hair.

Which sucks, because her stupid cat Huey won’t even let me hold him! Ashlee scowled to herself. Yet, I still have to deal with having his fur all over everything. Not fair at all, if you ask me. Not fair at all. I just wanted to have him sit in my lap so I could pet him. Is that really so much to ask?

All in all, Ashlee felt completely wretched. She wasn’t educated enough to be here, her self-image remained at rock bottom where it always was, and when buses showed up and started disgorging tall, handsome high school teenagers who all seemed to know where they were going and what they were about, Ashlee wanted to just disappear. She scurried down one of the walkways away from that rush of arrivals until she spotted cafeteria tables through one of the glass double-doors of the buildings. There were a few kids sitting in there already, so she entered and quickly walked the rest of the way down the row of tables until she was sitting at the very far end corner.

Away from everyone, as far away as she could manage for now.

The flight of panic had her heart pounding and her eyes watering, but she was afraid to lift her trembling fingers and wipe away tears, because she’d very carefully arranged her bangs to cover over her bad eye this morning—the unsettling pupil that drifted, perpetually pointed outwards in the wrong direction. Hiding her deformity was her top priority, and keeping it secret from everyone for as long as humanly possible was her only distant chance of ever hoping to survive high school. Putting her bag up in front of her on the table and hugging it against herself as tight as she could hid how her hands were shaking.

I hate it here. I hate it here. I hate it here.

She couldn’t afford to show anyone how terrified and furious and intimidated and close to a complete mental breakdown she was—all of those things attracted attention, and any tiny bit of attention was social suicide and would begin the slow but inevitable death of all hope. It would strangle any future here where she might manage to eke out her miserable existence.

People from the buses were filing into the cafeteria, and the large open space began to echo with their voices as they sat here and there to grouse at each other about the cold or chat about this and that before classes started. Ashlee went rigid whenever she imagined one of the kids walking in glanced in her direction, feeling like she was cowering made her furious, and having no outlet for her anger made irrational ideas sprout throughout her fourteen year old mind like mushrooms.

I should just—run away, Ashlee deliberated. Erica just took off and left once when she was younger, why can’t I? I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE. Imagining literal YEARS more of THIS, just IMAGINING it makes me feel like I’m already going insane.

Her entire body was stiff with tension, and though her overactive mind leapt from one idea to another in search of possible solutions, nothing was coming to her. She hated schoolwork, and Springton High promised to be several degrees more difficult and tedious than anything that had been forced upon her before. There weren’t going to be friends or fun times here, just humiliation and agony as she was forced out to the periphery where she would watch her betters enjoy their fulfilling high school lives.

Just when she suspected she couldn’t possibly be any more demoralized, however, someone to lash out on finally approached her distant corner table.

“Um… hey?” A weak, uncertain girl’s voice asked, and for a moment Ashlee thought Tabitha had found her—the real Tabitha, not that imposter.

It wasn’t Tabitha. Instead, a girl her age with strawberry-blonde hair was fidgeting within an oversized hoodie. She was slightly pretty, which at first put Ashlee on edge, but staring for another couple seconds revealed that the girl was also kind of chubby. Not quite a social outcast, but definitely she had been outed, because sloppy eyeliner failing to conceal bags under her eyes, and suspiciously baggy clothing would make her the runt of the litter in any group of real popular girls.

“What,” Ashlee snapped.

This girl flinched slightly at her voice, which did put her at ease—Ashlee couldn’t help but start to imagine her circumstances. An army brat maybe, that had transferred here as a new student and failed to integrate into new friendships? No, the baggy clothing definitely indicated body issues. But, she was only heavyset, not fat or tubby like Tabitha had been. Teen pregnancy leapt first to mind, then victim of abuse was always a possibility, and finally Ashlee settled on deciding that this girl had probably been caught fooling around with a boy and publicly ostracized. Maybe had evangelical parents and was sent to some Christian rehabilitation summer camp for more shaming and punishment.

Unaware that Ashlee had already attributed an entire dramatic backstory to her, the strawberry-blonde turned and cast a nervous glance back across the scattered kids throughout the cafeteria in indecision, then finally worked up the courage to speak again.

“Uh… you were at that party, right?”

Party? Ashlee almost scoffed. No. I don’t go to house parties or drink or any of that kind of stuff—you’ve CLEARLY mistaken me for some kind of—

“Like—the roller skating thing?” The girl continued. “I think you were there?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Ashlee froze. “‘Tabitha’s’ birthday thing?”

“Yeah,” The girl frowned at the unusual emphasis on the name. “‘Tabitha?’”

“She’s a fake,” Ashlee gave a small shrug as she continued to size this girl up. She didn’t feel the need to explain it further—you either understood that Tabitha was a fraud, or you didn’t.

“Oh,” The girl said. “Well—yeah, I was there too. Clarissa.”

“Ashlee,” Ashlee said, continuing to stare.

“Um,” Clarissa seemed to flounder. “Is it cool if I sit over here? Nobody, uh—I don’t have anyone to sit with.”

“Do whatever you want,” Ashlee scowled in excitement and relief. “I don’t care.”

“Okay,” Clarissa paused again, hesitant to sit with her.

“So, what’s your deal?” Ashlee asked.

“Nothing, I guess,” Clarissa’s words were evasive but she did finally sit down, her posture both awkward and defensive. “You?”

“Everything,” Ashlee scoffed. “I hate it here. I really hate it here.”

“Yeah,” Clarissa said, staring off towards the far wall.

“You’re one of ‘Tabitha’s’ friends?” Ashlee tested. “In with them?”

“Not really,” Clarissa shrugged, or rather—her shoulders hunched up and then never really relaxed again. “I was just kind of… there?”

“Yeah, me too,” Ashlee agreed. “She told me to show up for the movie at like, this exact time, and I even get dropped off early, and then of course no one’s there. Waited in the lobby there for hours, and then when they get out after the movie she’s all ‘whoops, sorry we all forgot about you.’ Yeah, right.”

“Really?” Clarissa turned to look at her with wide eyes. “Like, on purpose?”

Once again Ashlee felt a sliver of distrust—because despite being a little chubby and the whole battered housewife or damaged goods or whatever act this girl was playing out, Clarissa still seemed a little too pretty and perfect to comfortably confide in. So, for a long moment Ashlee simply stared at her in that disquieting way she was so good at doing. Even with her lazy eye still hidden, Ashlee was just too well-practiced at giving people uncomfortable glares.

“Sorry, uh,” Clarissa chickened out first, lowering her head and instead examining her hands as she grasped for whatever missing subtext that stare was supposed to imply. “I guess… I don’t know. Surprised they didn’t all, uh… exclude me, too. Considering everything.”

“Nah, it’s this whole game they play,” Ashlee didn’t even try to keep the venom out of her voice. “You can’t exclude two people, not at the same time. You have to pick them off one at a time. To make them feel the most, like, alone and vulnerable and all that. It’s stupid popular girl mind game stuff. That time, it was me. Maybe next time, it would be you. S’always like that.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Clarissa nodded along.

“Really can’t stand them,” Ashlee continued to rant. “Elena went to Laurel with me, we had classes together in sixth and seventh grade—she’s the worst. ‘Tabitha’ is a complete and total fake. I don’t know what they were telling the others there, but like the moment they saw me, everyone was just extremely hostile. It’s like—I’ve never even met most of these people. If you really didn’t want me at your birthday, don’t invite me, then.

“What’s their problem, even? I didn’t even really want to go in the first place, but the moment my aunt got word from some school board lady, it was like they just were gonna make me go whether I wanted to or not. Even when I showed up with birthday presents for her, afterwards ‘Tabitha’ singled me out and had all sorts of issues with them. I hate them.”

“I got her a, uh, a Britney Spears CD,” Clarissa said. “A single. I didn’t know what else to bring. I don’t really know them that well.”

“Okay, I remember you now,” Ashlee said, thinking back. “You were all like, ‘this is brand new and like it just got released,’ and then ‘Tabitha’ is all playing it down, like everyone had already heard it before and it was old news. Fucking faker. God, I can’t stand her.”

“You were the one who brought a… purse? Right?” Clarissa asked.

“Yeah, and it was a Vera Bradley,” Ashlee snorted. “They’re expensive, so it should’ve been fine for her. But, nope—she comes up to me later and is all like, ‘you must have stolen this, because people like you can’t afford nice things, and now I’ll have to return it and blah blah blah.”

“Oh, wow,” Clarissa regarded her with wide eyes again.

“Yeah,” Ashlee said, embarrassed to realize she had overshared. “So—yeah.”

“Sorry,” Clarissa said. “I really had no idea.”

“It’s just how they are,” Ashlee scowled. “She’s supposed to be back in school this semester here, too. Tabitha the fake. She’s got everyone wrapped around her little finger—the school board lady wanted me to be all buddy buddy with her, pretend like we’re friends. We’re not.”

*     *     *

“Hah, I recognize those patches,” A voice from behind Elena called out with a snort. “Do si do?”

Though they’d been given a simple Introduction to Functions worksheet, during the last few minutes of third period algebra 1, the room filled with quiet chatter as everyone started donning their coats again in preparation to head out for lunch. Adjusting her army jacket and then swiveling sideways in her seat, Elena turned to face the girl—because this class had alphabetical assigned seating, Smith was situated right after Seelbaugh.

“Vanessa,” Elena greeted the girl in a neutral tone.

The two had long since been acquaintances and were cordial enough with one another, but they’d never really been close. They had been in the same girl scout troop together in town, but back then they hadn’t gone to the same middle school—Vanessa being one of the Springton Bulldog kids, and Elena being a Laurel Lion. When Elena left scouts as a cadette just before eighth grade, she’d only kept in contact with Carrie, generally falling out of touch with her other friends from back then.

I don’t remember us having problems, but we didn’t really get along, either, Elena thought back. But, in scouts I was one of the ‘go-getters,’ and the only real memories I have of Vanessa that stand out are of her complaining.

“Are you still in girl scouts?” Vanessa asked, giving her a peculiar look.

“Nah,” Elena gave her an expressive shrug while she looked out across the room. “My mom pulled me out to do soccer, instead. Last year.”

“Right, right,” Vanessa nodded. “Think I must’ve left around the same time. It was fun, though.”

“Sure,” Elena said. So… what is it that you want?

“You know Tabitha, right?” Vanessa wasn’t going to beat around the bush. “Tabitha Moore?”

“So what if I do?” Elena decided to immediately go on the defensive and wear a scowl.

“I remember back at the start of the year you were like, flipping out on people who were talking about her,” Vanessa continued to probe as if not recognizing Elena’s hostile look. “So—what is her deal?”

“What do you care?” Elena asked.

“I just wanna know,” Vanessa pressed. “I have first period with her, now. Personal fitness.”

“Okay,” Elena used a more measured tone but continued to give the shorter girl a glare. “Well. She’s probably gonna take it seriously. She got real into exercise and stuff over the past summer, was running every morning and such. Being active. She’d still be super active if not for people injuring her all the time.”

“Right, the Chris Thompson thing,” Vanessa nodded. “I heard about that.”

“Don’t you still talk to Carrie?” Elena pointedly asked, fighting the urge to scowl again. Everyone heard about the thing with Chris Thompson. Just like everyone knows about the Erica Taylor thing, too. Can you not be so transparent about it when you’re obviously just fishing for gossip?

“Carrie can choke on a bag of dicks,” Vanessa instead shook her head in curt refusal.

“Oh yeah?” Elena arched an eyebrow. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Vanessa shrugged. “I never liked Carrie. To be honest, I thought you were like her, or still in with them. Right up until you went all… goth.”

“Carrie fell in with the sophomore crowd first thing, and they were all out to get Tabitha,” Elena tried to sum things up with just a few words. “Tabitha didn’t get liposuction, or talk shit about Chris Thompson, or mess around with a teacher to get her grades fixed like the sophomores were trying to spread around. All of that was bullshit.”

“I figured,” Vanessa said. “Just—like, okay so if all the rumors were made up, then what did really happen? What was their beef with her in the first place?”

“It’s a long story, and a lot of it gets personal, so,” Elena shouldered her backpack and looked towards the door. “Not my place to say. Not really everyone’s business.”

“No, but like—did she do anything wrong?” Vanessa asked. “In your opinion?”

“I don’t think she did anything wrong,” Elena shook her head.

“Elena—for real, I need some details,” Vanessa stared. “Please.”

Elena gave her a long, searching look before deciding to continue.

“She… bailed on a friendship when it got abusive,” Elena finally divulged. “Someone got pissy about that, and tried to make her the scapegoat for a bunch of petty nonsense, tried to keep needling—well, keep getting under certain people’s skin about it. Certain people that turned out to have bipolar disorders. When Tabitha finally speaks up about how abusive things were—cops get involved, whole bunch of bad shit comes to light, this whole family gets separated by social services. Drama.”

“Okay, wow,” Vanessa’s expression went blank as she tried to process all of that.

“Tabitha was fat back in middle school, and real… not popular,” Elena shrugged again. “So, over the past summer she pulls away from everything and just focuses on losing weight and turning her life around, and—yeah. Certain people didn’t like that, or maybe didn’t like seeing her try to grow out of being their punching bag. I guess. Or were being egged on to hate on Tabitha because of… reasons.”

“So the Tubby Tabby part was true, then?” Vanessa asked. “She just lost all of the weight?”

“She lost all the weight.”

“Okay,” Vanessa said. “I’m cool with her, then. I just—yeah, I wanted to know what was going on, first. Erica and a bunch of those sophomores got suspended, right?”

“Yeah,” Elena said. “Carrie’s still here. But, if she tries to start up that whole rumor mill again, I think she’s gonna get shut down, hard.”

“Good,” Vanessa glanced up as the bell tone for lunch resounded across the school’s intercom. “Cool. Thanks, Elena. Sorry for bein’ such a stranger for the past while, you know?”

“No big deal,” Elena said as they rose out of their seats and joined the crowd heading for the door.

*     *     *

“Hold up there, l’il lady!” Bobby called out. “Fancy havin’ a sit with me, for lunch? My treat, I’m buyin’.”

“Bobby!” Tabitha paused in a school hallway full of streaming passerby and allowed him to catch up to her. “Um—sorry? I don’t eat lunch.”

“You don’t eat lunch,” Bobby couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “Then—what do you have for lunch?”

“I… don’t?” Tabitha giggled. “I don’t eat lunch. I skip lunch.”

Though she’d been so highly strung that she was feeling downright skittish all morning, the past two class periods had slowly drained the tension out of her with several hours of monotony sitting at desks scribbling away at papers or listening to teachers drone on. That Marisa girl who was getting a locker room locker with their group happened to share third period with her, and they chatted there for a bit, but otherwise there had been no one else Tabitha knew in her new classes.

Having a chance to talk to Bobby now was a bit of a relief—back there in first period it had felt like if they were to speak to one another they would be doing so with an audience hanging onto their every word. Ironically, it was here in the relative anonymity of Springton High’s busy corridors where they had ‘privacy,’ as everyone else was occupied heading this way and that in search of lunch. He was cute, and sported a rather contagious smile that was hard for her not to respond in kind to. All in all, she was thankful that they hadn’t attempted this conversation several hours ago, when she would have been either on edge and clamping up or stammering out words and a total mess.

“You… what?” Bobby laughed. “You don’t get like, hungry?”

“Oh, I do,” Tabitha said. “I just ignore it? I’m trying to watch what I eat.”

“Tabby—girl, you must weigh like, ninety pounds soaking wet,” Bobby took the opportunity to give her figure a once-over. “C’mon, now.”

“I weigh a hundred and five, thank you very much,” Tabitha sniffed in an imperious tone, putting her nose up in the air.

“Hell, I’m just shy o’ one-sixty m’self,” Bobby said. “You gotta eat to get y’self through these kinda days, ya know?”

“What, ya can’t muster up the gumption to get all ah yer school-learnin’ on an empty stomach?!” Tabitha teased him in an exaggerated Kentucky drawl.

“I don’t sound like that,” Bobby scoffed. “Now yer jus’ pokin’ fun at me.”

“Well boy howdy, I do apologize,” Tabitha kept it up. “Yer redneck accent kept lapsin’ away into full-on cattle rustler. ‘L’il lady?’ Really?”

“I was jus’ fixin’ to mind my manners, that’s all,” Bobby said. “So—whereabouts do you sit fer lunch, anyhow?”

“Oh, jus’ tryin’ to look chivalrous, huh?” Tabitha borrowed liberally from lines she remembered from season one of Westworld. “Hah. I keep forgettin’ you may look like a cowboy, but that’s ‘bout the extent of it.”

It suddenly occurred to Tabitha that maybe this was why she always found herself so comfortable around Bobby—the way his goofing around was like play-acting. It was easy for her to do that, or at least easier. In the same way she fit herself snug and cozy into a certain persona when she was with her cousins, or with Hannah. So much of her time spent at high school felt like she was fighting to tear away her own defenses and pretenses so that she could bare her real self to the world—and that was exhausting.

What a strange facet of the teenage SELF-DISCOVERY process, Tabitha mused to herself. I strain so hard to BE MYSELF, when all of the ‘cool’ people here are in fact putting on acts. I don’t even know which route takes more mental gymnastics to work though—why is putting on a facade for everyone sometimes easy, and sometimes just so tiresome and aggravating? Likewise, why is being REAL sometimes exhausting, and sometimes effortless?

“Whew. Wheww buddy!” Bobby clutched at his heart as though he’d been shot through. “This is why I like you, Tabitha—none of them other girls ‘round here have the least bit of a sense of humor. Buy you lunch?”

“Hmm,” Tabitha smiled but shook her head, dropping the accent. “Not today, handsome. Do you always play around and talk like this when you’re at school?”

“I’m jus’ havin’ fun,” Bobby professed, giving her a big grin. “Where you headed? So hey, you think I’m handsome?”

“I’m gonna find my friends and sit with them,” Tabitha dodged the question, but couldn’t stop her smile from growing. “Alicia drew me a cool picture for a Christmas present!”

“Cool, awesome,” Bobby nodded along, following her cue and losing the accent as well. “Merry Christmas, by the way. Was yours okay?”

“It was—rough,” Tabitha admitted with a wince. “But, it’s over with and behind me.”

“Rough?” Bobby frowned. “You alright? What happened?”

“Just family nonsense,” Tabitha shook her head. “You know how it is.”

“I’ve just got my mom and my brother, but we get along okay.”

“I’m not good with family,” Tabitha said, pausing again as she realized something. “Bobby—why aren’t I nervous when I talk to you?”

“Could it…could it be that I’m just rather disarming?” Bobby grinned.

“It is rather difficult to take you seriously,” Tabitha giggled. “Maybe that’s it? Normally I don’t think I could just compliment a boy or call one handsome. But, since we’re just joking around, I can—”

“Well, of course it’s—wait a minute, so you weren’t serious?!” Bobby groaned. “I’m handsome. Look at me—just look at this mug. I know I’m handsome. My grand-nan said so, and she wouldn’t lie to me.”

*     *     *

“Hey, how you holdin’ up so far?” Cindy asked, opening up a blue cooler bag in her lap to reveal a sandwich wrapped in plastic wrap and a baggie of baby carrots. “Thinkin’ you’ll stick around?”

Returning to the back break room to punch out for her mandatory break was strange and surreal—only a scant few hours had passed, but the time spent on register for her shift felt like literal days had elapsed. Her feet ached until they were throbbing because she was so unused to standing, and Mrs. Moore felt physically, emotionally, and mentally spent beyond her capacity. Her first day as a Food Lion had carried her the whole way across the breadth of the entire human experience, from the unexpected joy of discovery, realizing she’d figured something out on her own… to the raw horror of a customer snapping at her with—“Uhh—hey, you never gave me my change?”

“Yeah, um,” Shannon fidgeted with her hands upon her knees. “I think so? I’m—I’m just so nervous.”

She was understating her anxiety—her first day on register was so nerve-racking that she’d been moments away from tears for the past three hours. The front end of the Food Lion was so bright and open she felt constantly exposed, and customers were all coming and going so fast that it was overwhelming. Whenever someone was checking out in her aisle, tension bordering on panic rose up just beneath her skin, even though for the most part the average transaction was extraordinarily simple and straightforward.

Scan the items, put them in the bag, tell them the number. Take the money, punch it in and put it in the drawer. The computer tells me what change to give them back, always give them the largest coins I can. Remember the receipt. Give customers the bag.

Just when the tedium and monotony of that began to calm her down, something would inevitably go wrong—the digital display would error code 11, whatever that meant, or have bagged fruit that needed to be weighed and input into the computer some way she was doing wrong, or sometimes the drawer simply wouldn’t spring open when she expected it to, jumbling up her terrified mind into a scramble to figure out what she was doing wrong.

“Looked to me like you were doin’ just fine,” Cindy remarked, peeling bag the wrap on her sandwich. “I was a mess, my first day. But you, you did great!”

Cindy’s sandwich looked to be a peanut butter and jelly one, and the sight of it made Mrs. Moore’s stomach twist into knots. She hadn’t been able to force down breakfast, and now hunger pains and nausea were combating one another, because spending all morning on edge had her sure she would throw up. The idea of getting home to where she was safe and free from the stress and obligation of all of this had her entire body longing to simply not be here in the store anymore.

Today was even a slow day, or so she was told—manager John had remarked that she was lucky they had enough slack to let her take her fifteen along with Cindy. Mrs. Moore was realizing that Cindy was basically her minder today, and the chipper girl had walked her through the basics of clocking out for break on the computer with a patience that Mrs. Moore found embarrassing. After all, Cindy was young, just a twenty-something that looked like she should be some fresh face in college.

“N-no, no, I messed up so many times,” Shannon’s face tightened into a wince when she attempted to smile. “That time, um, when that old lady wanted to pay with a check, and I, I just had no idea what on earth to do…”

“Ah, yeah, you’ll get that,” Cindy nodded in agreement around a mouthful of her sandwich. “Checks’re a pain! Hey… were you rememberin’ to ask for their Food Lion MVP card?”

“I—” Mrs. Moore froze up in horror. “I haven’t—oh my God, I haven’t asked anyone even once, all day long—!”

“Hey! Don’t sweat it,” Cindy smiled and shrugged. “It’s just… yeah, one of the times I was glancin’ over your way, I saw this lady was holdin’ out her reward card for you to scan it for her, and you didn’t seem like you were noticin’?”

“Oh my God—!” Shannon’s face fell as her vision filled with tears.

“Hey! Hey, no big deal, seriously—no big deal,” Cindy hurried to comfort her. “Like, it probably woulda only saved her seventy cents or somethin’. I just wanted to let you know, ‘cause that’s one of those things the floor managers’ll get up your butt about if they see it.”

“I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—!” Shannon sobbed, hunching over in her seat and covering her face with her hands.

“Hey, no no no—you’re fine, it’s fine!” Cindy rushed in to take her shoulder. “No big deal! The lady didn’t even speak up about it or anything, she didn’t care that much. It was no big deal, okay? Okay, hon?”

*     *     *

“Tabs—awesome,” Alicia wore a huge grin as she waggled the pair of anime VHS tapes that had been her Christmas present—Trigun episodes, and Fire Emblem. “Watchin’ these like, the second I get home.”

“Japanimation?” Bobby remarked, slipping into the table’s bench seat beside them uninvited. “Nice.”

“Are you into anime?” Tabitha asked, giving him a quizzical smile that seemed to stun him.

“Uhhh—I guess so?” Bobby laughed.

“Pokemon?” Alicia pressed.

“Ehh,” Bobby hedged. “I’m more into Dragonball Z?”

“Dragon Ball Z. Do you know Dragon Ball Z?” Alicia checked its future relevance with Tabitha.

“Oh yeah, it’s real big,” Tabitha chuckled. “Well, I’ve never watched it, but it’s always had lots of memes?”

“Memes?” Bobby looked perplexed.

“Yeah, like—Vegeta,” Tabitha said. “He’s the one with the crazy hair, right?”

“Well uhh—they all kinda have crazy hair, but Vegeta’s definitely—”

“Vegeta?” Alicia asked, giving them an incredulous look at the absurd name. “Seriously? Is this like a Veggie Tales thing?”

“Hey, watch it—I love Veggie Tales,” Bobby shot back with a huge grin. “Ohhh wheeere—is my hairbrush? Ohh wheeere—is my hairbrush?!”

“Stop! Stop. No,” Alicia pointed a finger at him. “We are not singing Veggie Tales here. This is the cool kids table.”

“And yet, here you all are, watching Japanime. Interesting,” Bobby put on a faux-judgemental tone as he examined one of the VHS tapes. “Yes, hmm. Very interesting.”

“Hey! Yoink,” Alicia grabbed Trigun back from him in a huff. “This was a Christmas present from Tabitha. And besides, just look at it—dude looks totally rad. S’like uhhh, like if Michael Jackson and the blond Russian guy from Rocky had a baby, and then gave the baby a big Clint Eastwood handgun. It’s gonna be awesome!”

“How ‘bout instead of watchin’ all that Japanimated nonsense, you guys check out Willow?” Bobby suggested. “Tabitha—did you watch it yet?”

“I… have not!” Tabitha admitted with a sheepish look. “It looked too, um, too scary to sit down and watch with Hannah.”

“Well—what are you doing after school?” Bobby grinned.

“Spending time with Hannah,” Tabitha retorted with a sly smile. “Of course.”

“Hey guys,” Elena approached them with a small wave, dropping her bag on the table. “Alicia. Tabitha. Bobby.”

“Hey!”

“Yo.”

“‘Sup.”

“So, hey,” Elena fished the pocket notebook out of the breast pocket of her army jacket and gestured it towards Tabitha. “Are all of these…?”

“Yes! All of the Evanescence lyrics I could remember,” Tabitha sat up straight. “Definitely all of their hit songs. There were a few others I could only remember some of the lines for. So, you having that—that’ll be proof.”

“They’re neat,” Elena gave her a respectful nod. “But… I might have to have you sing them out a little, so that I can kinda get the full idea of how they sound.”

“Oh, sure,” Tabitha eagerly agreed. “Yeah. Definitely!”

“Guys—” Alicia interrupted, slapping her sketchpad on the tabletop. “Art club. You’re all joining, right? Bobby, art club? Tabitha? C’mon.”

“I’ll go,” Tabitha said. “Do I need a shirt?”

“What day are the meetings?” Bobby asked. “I can draw. I’m probably the best draw-er I know.”

“You can draw?” Alicia arched an eyebrow at him. “Alright then, show me.”

With a flourish, she turned her artbook to a blank page and then slid it across the table towards him in challenge, dropping a mechanical pencil atop it. Bobby shifted forward in his seat, laced his fingers together and then stretched them out as if he was a piano maestro preparing for a lengthy concert, and even picked up the pencil daintily between his thumb and forefinger and gave it experimental taps on the edge of the table as if he was a conductor preparing to launch a symphony.

“Ahem, ahem ahem ahem,” Bobby cleared his throat with theatrics. “So, this is gonna be Larry from Veggie Tales, and—”

“Wait, no, no,” Tabitha perked up. “Draw… the Mandalorian.”

“The Mandalorian?” Bobby looked at her in surprise. “You mean Boba Fett?”

Boba Fett… wasn’t that Mando’s creepy bald uncle? Tabitha tried to sort out her tangled recollection of Star Wars lore. It might have been. But, Mando and Grogu were for sure NEW characters made up after Disney bought out Star Wars, so…

“Yeah, sure,” Tabitha nodded, sharing a small smirk with Alicia. “But… I want you to draw him with a baby Yoda.”

“A baby Yoda?” Bobby paused, already partway through drawing a T-visor shape. “Hah, why a baby one?”

“For… no particular reason at all,” Tabitha giggled. “I want you to draw the Mandalorian, and then a baby Yoda with him—and then I want you to sign and date the drawing.”

“Okay? Sure,” Bobby chuckled, creating the outline of a helmet with a swoop of the pencil. “Hey—for you, Tabitha, anything you want. Whatever floats your boat.”

“Boba Fett and a baby Yoda?” Alicia gave her a peculiar searching look.

“The Mandalorian and a baby Yoda, yes,” Tabitha fought to keep a smug look off of her face. “Then, we’re gonna sign and date that January 1999, and put it in a picture frame. For posterity.”

“Yeah, cause I’m that good,” Bobby chortled to himself in a self-satisfied way as he drew out an ‘artful’ rendition of Boba Fett with all of the apparent skill of a second-grader. “Hell yeah.”

“Draw baby Yoda in a um, a floating egg, please,” Tabitha advised him. “It’s like a floating egg?”

“You got it,” Bobby agreed with gusto, scribbling in more lines. “Baby Yoda; over-easy.”

“Yoda’s the frog guy, right?” Elena asked. “The one that talks backwards?”

“Talk backwards, I do—hm hn hmm hnn hmmm!” Bobby imitated Yoda’s laughter with surprising accuracy.

“‘Lena—he’s not a frog!” Alicia chastised her friend. “C’mon Tabs, tell her.”

“Then, what is he?” Elena shrugged. “He’s like a puppet, right? Or, a muppet?”

“He’s a Jedi Master,” Bobby said in a grave tone. “A great warrior.”

“Ah—but, wars not make one great!” Alicia lit up with excitement, offering up her fist for a fist bump.

“Please tell me you’re not all gonna start talking like that,” Elena made a face at seeing the pair bump fists. “Just—no. Don’t even start. Tabitha, no. No. I recognize that look, you’re trying to think up some backwards muppet-talk line right now, well, just—don’t.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” Tabitha burst into laughter. “I, I was still thinking!”

*     *     *

Although her first day back to school was packed with experiences, the hours were also elapsing on by fast, because somehow or other Tabitha still felt conditioned to work shifts at the line safety plant. When you spend a good portion of your life working a monotonous eight hour shift, transitioning back to a mere five and a half hour school day and changing up locations for classes and seeing all the new faces every few hours—this day was just flying by.

So, after lunch, she sat through a world history class incredibly distracted by wondering if it was taught by the same person from Mrs. Moreno’s gossip, and then there was biology. Biology happened to also have Gary’s loud friend from the bus in it, and although they didn’t sit near each other, Tabitha and him acknowledged each other with solemn nods of respect. Which felt cool! His name turned out to be Jacob at roll call, and she was able to mentally file that information away for later. Like world history before it, biology was taught by a no-nonsense teacher who didn’t allow much of anything in the way of commotion or socializing, so that was that.

Her final period for the day, art 2D, turned out to be the most interesting of all of her classes. Mr. Peterson the art teacher defied all of her expectations and turned out to be a brawny, wild-eyed man with a buzz cut and a toothy grin, wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt that couldn’t quite contain his biceps—stark upon one of which was a prominent US Army tattoo; framed within laurel branches was the emblem of a military tank atop crossed sabers.

The art room itself was a chaotic mess of tall tables and barstools, each battered and beaten and spotted with paint from what must have been decades of accidents and spills. The walls and surrounding cabinets were a riot of shapes and color, because paintings and sculptures of every kind were jostling with one another for attention from every available surface. After stepping inside with the other students, some of which were familiar with the place already, and some of which like her were gawking, Tabitha filed around the tables on one side and chose a nice seat at one corner of the room.

To her surprise, this time a number of familiar faces appeared to be sharing class with her. Olivia’s boyfriend Michael was sitting at one of the other corner tables, and over there she also spotted Amber, a somewhat mean girl from last semester’s marine science class who had exchanged barbs with Elena over her. Vanessa—still sporting her poofball hat from this morning—put on a satisfied smirk upon entering and catching sight of Tabitha, immediately moving to join her table, and finally Clarissa trotted in just before the bell rang to start class, scanning the room with a panicked expression before Tabitha waved her over in invitation.

“Welcome! Welcome,” Mr. Peterson stood up from his desk near the door to address them. “Good afternoon ladies and gentleman, this is Art 2D—if your sixth period is not supposed to be Art 2D, speak so now or forever hold your peace!”

Nervous laughter sounded across the room and Mr. Peterson’s grin widened as he turned, surveying his newest crop of students here. His eyes lingered on Tabitha’s for a moment in clear recognition, but his gaze continued on across everyone without comment. He was a very handsome un-handsome man, with rugged unattractive features that became interesting to look at and maybe even attractive simply by the raw unbridled charisma he seemed to possess.

“Alright then, looks like you’re stuck with me,” Mr. Peterson clapped his hands together loud enough for nearby kids to flinch on their stools. “Alright! Easy there, partner, easy. Hah. In any case, I am Mr. Peterson, I answer to Mr. Pete, Mr. Petey, Mr. Peterson, and Staff Sergeant Peterson! For starters, let’s get the good news and the bad news out of the way. Good news! This class will not have a textbook or tests, and I do not give homework, so if you can gimme a round of applause—!”

A hearty round of applause answered out, with some kids even loudly cheering, and with a wry smile Tabitha found herself exchanging glances with Vanessa and clapping along.

“Thank you! Thank you. Then… for the bad news—” Mr. Peterson’s cheshire grin seemed to deepen with every sentence. “While you’re in my class, you have to work!” Give me some boos!”

His classroom eagerly complied with boos, moans of complaint and exaggerated groans sounding out one after another.

“Yeah, yeah, shuddup—it’s called artwork, alright?!” Mr. Peterson raised his arms in a helpless gesture. “Alright, shuddup, shuddup, settle down, now. The cheers are always the same but the boos get louder every year, hah. Kids these days!”

“Mr. Peterson?” Vanessa’s hand shot up into the air.

“Yes, little lady—what’s your name?” Mr. Peterson pointed.

“Vanessa, sir,” Vanessa was just about to continue when he cut her off.

“Great! Keep your questions to yourself,” Mr. Peterson grinned, pointing instead towards a guy at the front table with his arm raised. “You, you in the red.”

“Staff Sergeant Peterson, are we—” The boy began.

“What’s your name?” Mr. Peterson pressed.

“Uhh—Kevin, but—”

“Outstanding! Next question,” Mr. Peterson cut him off to point to someone else as more and more hands started to go up.

It appeared to be a regular comedy routine he did at the start of semesters, because Mr. Peterson eagerly called on one student after another just to brush them off or inform them—one by one—that he would not be answering questions right now. With a pout, Vanessa slumped down in her seat, crossing her arms, while Tabitha caught Clarissa putting on a weak smile.

“Okay, great! Thank you, everyone, that was illuminating. Let’s move on,” Mr. Peterson continued. “I’m sure you’re all wondering to yourself—how in the heck does this guy grade this class? Well, allow me to enlighten you! In this class, art 2D, you draw. Every day in here, you’re going to be practicing and working to improve! And, I’ll be moving around amongst you, checking on each of you and helping you out here and there however I can. You are free to talk quietly amongst yourselves at your tables during class!

“But. You do have to be working on your art! If I happen to notice one day you’re doin’ a lot of talkin,’ but not a lot of workin’? I put down a bad grade for you, and that’s that. It is very easy to do well in my class, and it is likewise very easy to do poorly!

“We have seven big tables in here, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,” Mr. Peterson pointed out each of the broad surfaces in turn—Tabitha, Vanessa, and Clarissa were sharing table six with one other girl and a single guy. “You there sitting at eight, move on over to other tables. “Eight there will be the kiddy table; if one day you’re late to class, if you’re talkin’ too much, if you annoy me, or hell, if I just don’t like the way you look—you will be sitting in time out at eight for the duration of that class.”

They paused while the three people who’d happened to sit at table eight grabbed up their coats and backpacks and found other tables to squeeze into. Tabitha hadn’t noticed earlier as she was coming in with how distracting all of the art on display was, but that table was set further apart than the others and somewhat isolated—if the entrance and teacher’s desk was to one side of the room and the chalkboard was the ‘front,’ the now empty table eight was near the front while all of the other tables were arrayed around it.

“Great! Outstanding. Now, I’m gonna give you all a couple minutes to get to know your table, or switch up seats to wherever you want, I don’t care—and at the end of… let’s say five minutes—each table is gonna have a leader elected for me. What’s this leader gonna do? Your leader’ll be the one who collects assignments and puts them in the table folder for period six, they’ll be the one you go to if you need more paper, or if you need something from the store room, or if you have questions, or anything like that.

“Delegation! Delegation is key. Table leaders, you’re allowed in and out of the store room for stuff, we don’t need everyone in the whole class goin’ in and out of there all the time. You’ll also be the ones to come talk to me if your table has a problem, and if I see your table has a problem, you’re gonna be the one I ask about it. You understand me? Okay guys; go, get to it.”

“Uhhh, alright,” Tabitha started things off for their table. “We’re table six, right? I’m Tabitha, or you can call me Tabby. I um, I don’t know much of anything about drawing.”

“Vanessa. I can’t draw,” Vanessa introduced herself with a proud look. “Like, at all.”

“Stacy Campbell,” the other girl gave them a sheepish look. “Uhh, I can do stick figures? Does that count?”

“Eric,” the guy said, unable or unwilling to make eye contact with their group.

“Um, I’m Clarissa?” Clarissa said. “I can like… I can doodle, but that’s about it?”

“Eric, can you draw?” Vanessa asked in a blunt tone. “Do you want to be table leader?”

“Uhh,” Eric all but cowered. “Kinda, but… no? I don’t want to be leader.”

“Then…” Tabitha spoke up. “Vanessa has my vote?”

“Thank you,” Vanessa gave her a grateful nod. “Unless anyone else wants it…?”

“Nah,” Stacy shook her head.

“No,” Clarissa said. “No way.”

“Okay, cool,” Vanessa was satisfied, and sat up straight on her stool. “Except… like, what if we’re the dunce table, ‘cause we don’t have anyone who can even draw, here?”

“Well, we’re here to learn, right?” Tabitha shrugged. “Otherwise what’s the point?”

“I can draw some,” Eric muttered. “Just, it’s all like—you know.”

“Well, if you friggin’ want to be in charge, just say so,” Vanessa shot him a venomous glare, daring him to refute her. “Okay, mister bigshot? You have some problem with me being leader?”

“No! No,” Eric sputtered. “I just—”

“Hey, um,” Clarissa addressed Tabitha in a low voice while Vanessa continued to tease and harass—or possibly flirt—with Eric. “You know Ashlee, right? From the—from your party.”

“Oh,” Tabitha blinked in surprise. “Of course, yeah.”

“She uh,” Clarissa paused. “So, I was going by this morning and saw her and like, sat with her—just because there wasn’t anybody else to sit with, really—and she was, she was going on and on and on about you. Saying all sorts of stuff behind your back. She really doesn’t like you. Was uh, was saying you’re so fake, or that like, that you’re out to get her, or gave her the wrong times for the movie on purpose so she’d miss it and stuff. That you were saying she must have stolen that purse she gave you, or uh, that—well, all kinds of things.”

Stacy pretended not to listen in with interest as Tabitha let out a deep, heavy sigh at the news.

So, Ashlee is back in school finally. I had wondered. And, I guess it means—drama. Because, of course it does. This must just be what it’s like to be IN THE LOOP on things for once, so… yay. This is definitely new. Normally I feel like I’d just find all of this stuff out days or weeks or MONTHS later, after the fact. Yay! YAY. It’s actually not at all as nice being in the know as I imagined it would be, kinda just feels like it’s a bunch of more sudden problems to deal with. Dousing my enthusiasm for today.

“I was listening and like, nodding along with her and everything, but I want you to know I don’t like for real think that way or anything,” Clarissa hurried to clarify. “I just thought like, that someone should hear it all so that they can let you know right away. I’m not really friends with her, she was just like, going off.”

“It’s okay!” Tabitha gave her a pained smile. “I can… yeah, I can see why she’d feel that way about me. And it… it sucks, sure, but. She’s entitled to her opinions, and they’re not right or wrong or anything. I do hope I can patch things up with her—we used to be friends.”

“What’s going on?” Vanessa seemed to realize their conversation was even meatier than haranguing the lonesome boy at their table. “Someone’s talking shit about you?!”

“No, no, it’s—” Tabitha tried to say.

“She totally was,” Clarissa reported with a serious face. “Ashlee. Like, Ashlee Taylor.”

“Taylor as in like, Erica Taylor?” Vanessa was quick to connect them. “Sister? Older sister, younger sister?”

“I think younger,” Clarissa nodded. “Yeah.”

“Holy shit,” Vanessa turned for a moment to silently read Tabitha’s expression. “So—”

“It’s not a big deal!” Tabitha assured them. “She just—”

“Wait,” Stacy remarked. “So… you’re like… that Tabitha? The one from all of the stories?”

“Stories? The one from all of the myths, the legends,” Eric added in with manufactured reverence. “Tabitha Tabby Moore. They say she—”

“You are not going to repeat slander and hearsay right in fucking front of Tabitha herself,” Vanessa stamped down on that with a furious scowl. “Seriously? Seriously?”

“I was just playing around,” Eric retorted, shrinking back. “I mean—c’mon.”

“Wow,” Stacy seemed to look at Tabitha with new eyes.

“Yeah,” Clarissa nodded with excitement. “Erica Taylor tried to murder her. I was there. Tabitha almost died.”

“It—it wasn’t that bad, and Ashlee wasn’t even involved in that, really,” Tabitha winced. “Well, not technically. Reports of my death, were, ah, were greatly exaggerated! And, well, ‘Tabby’ is… it’s just a nickname, Eric, not a middle. My middle name is actually Anne.”

“Oh, cool,” Eric stared at her. “You just… you just remembered my name…”

“I think I have heard someone say it as Tabitha Tabby Moore, before,” Stacy said. “Late last year, when all the buzz kept going around.”

“But, for real Ashlee has it out for you,” Clarissa warned. “Ashlee with her messed up eye. I thought that, if you want, I can stick by her in the mornings. Pretend to be her friend, so that you know in advance beforehand all the things she’s saying, and can like, get ahead of all of that.”

“Ooh, that’s smart,” Vanessa said. “Yeah.”

“I um, I appreciate the sentiment,” Tabitha said as what felt like a stomach ulcer crept into the pit of her tummy. “But… please, don’t. I—if I’m going to be your friend, for real friend, I… I just don’t want you to do that.”

“You don’t?” Clarissa blinked. “Okay? Okay.”

“I don’t want to ever feel like I’m using you,” Tabitha made a point to clarify. “I’m sure you feel like maybe your past uh, friends, that they were using you, and when you found yourself in trouble and it wasn’t convenient to be your friend anymore, they just weren’t your friends anymore. I don’t want that. And also—I don’t want anything like that for Ashlee. I don’t want to play games, or be part of that, or have anyone resenting anyone if I can help it.

“I think… that yeah, maybe Ashlee is lashing out, and maybe she’s gonna lash out at me, but… Ashlee really needs a friend, right now. If you can be real friends with her, then yeah, please do so. You totally have my blessing, even if that means both of you wind up… disliking me, or whatever. That’s okay. If not, if you can’t really be her friend, then I don’t want you to pretend, or uh, go along with whatever just to fish for information, or play games or anything like that. I wish I could still be friends with her, just. Things happened, and… yeah.”

“Okay,” Clarissa’s brow furrowed in confusion as several different emotions clambered and tumbled across her features but she nodded along. “Okay, yeah.”

“No, but like—you can’t just let this Ashlee girl talk shit about you,” Vanessa disagreed with a scowl. “I don’t care who she is or what she needs. Doesn’t give her the right to just… piss all over everyone else, right?”

“Yeah,” Stacy nodded along, invested in the apparent drama. “Yeah.”

“It’s whatever,” Tabitha gave them a shrug. “Last semester everyone was talking bad about me, too. I’m used to it, or—I’m getting used to it. I can’t force everyone to like me! No matter what, there’s always gonna be… yeah.”

“I can’t be friends with both of you if you hate each other,” Clarissa said.

“I don’t hate her,” Tabitha shook her head. “I do wish her and I could be friends again. But, I think maybe she just needs to vent, or needs some time. Maybe we both need some time. To sort everything out before we can even really talk to each other properly again.”

“Wow,” Stacy said.

“Nice,” Vanessa gave her a nod of approval. “Yeah, smart—acting this way, you’ll always just make this Ashlee look like she’s just being super petty all the time. Smart.”

“I’m—no, I’m being serious, here,” Tabitha winced again. “For real.”

“Well, whatever,” Vanessa waved the issue away. “Same difference. She can go choke and die, for all I care.”

“Table six,” Mr. Peterson loomed over them. “Who’s leading, here?”

“Vanessa is,” Tabitha volunteered her new friend with a gesture.

“Outstanding,” Mr. Peterson grunted. “Table six leader, follow table five leader over there on in and grab drawing boards and sheets of paper for your group. Can’t exactly draw right on these cruddy old tables, anymore.”

He rapped an enormous knuckle on their tabletop, which was indeed terribly pitted and scarred into an uneven surface from years upon years of neglect.

“Yes, drill sergeant!” Vanessa gave him a mock salute as she dropped off of her bar stool and into a standing position.

“Staff sergeant,” Mr. Peterson corrected, swatting Vanessa’s shoulder in the direction of the storage room as he moved on past them. “Go on, six, get. Table seven, what’s the holdup, here? I see a lot of arguin’ back and forth, and not a lot of electin’ a leader. Democracy, people. Democracy.”

“Tabitha—hey!” A voice from across the room called over the indistinct noise of chatter that filled the art room. “Tabitha!”

When she turned to look, it was Michael way over at table three who was trying to get her attention, both of his hands raised up. The moment he saw her looking, he grinned and pointed with both hands in the direction of the far wall behind the teacher’s desk.

“Hey, that’s you, right?” Michael yelled.

Above a large January calendar and a cork board with notices tacked up to it was an enormous blown up photograph that was all too familiar to her—the dingy colorless landscape of the road just beyond the Lower Park. A police cruiser with its lights on and door ajar, a crumpled figure laid out beside the weeds and gravel of the median. In the foreground, Tabitha saw herself running towards the officer, the frozen motion of her movement embellished across her fine blouse and the tangle of red hair trailing behind her.

“Holy shit, that’s her?!” One of the students exclaimed.

*     *     *

“Shannon—there’s no two ways about this,” Manager John shook his head in dismay. “Your drawer is fourteen dollars short. Fourteen dollars and seven cents. That’s—hah, this is on your first shift, even. Definitely uh, definitely not a good start, here. I think we need to stop and think about what happened, and what went wrong, and, yeah—I’m gonna have to write you up and put it on your file.”

They were in the back office area next to Food Lion’s safe, and although the ones, fives, tens, and twenty dollar bills were stacked up in rows across the manager’s desk and had been counted and recounted, somehow or other money was missing. The subtle strings of fear Mrs. Moore had been aware of all day in the background of every thought were now pulled so tight she couldn’t even breathe.

“I—I don’t—” Mrs. Moore managed to stammer out, blinking through her tears. “I’m so sorry, I—I don’t even know what might have happened, or, or—”

“I mean… can you check your pockets?” Manager John seemed to trying not to sound patronizing, but it crept into his tone of voice anyhow. “Maybe—I don’t know, maybe it’s just like, out of habit, you meant to put it in the drawer, but you weren’t thinking about it and just, I dunno, jammed one of the sales into your pocket. That’s, uh, that’s happened before. It happens.”

“No! No,” Mrs. Moore was frantic to turn out her pockets. “No, nothing like—I would never—”

“What’s the holdup?” Tracy’s voice was gruff with impatience. “New girl have a problem with her drawer?”

“Hahh, a problem?” Manager John laughed. “Yeah, it’s fourteen dollars short. Hate to say it, but I’m gonna have to write her up.”

“Oh, surprise, surprise,” Tracy chuckled.

When Mrs. Moore dared to look in the woman’s direction she saw that Tracy was waiting with her own drawer propped up on one hip, and likewise Cindy and another Food Lion woman behind her were holding their drawers—it seemed as if the whole rest of the morning shift cashiers were held up from doing their final counts because of her. Everyone was peeking through the doorway into the back office, and it made Mrs. Moore wish she could just crawl into a hole in the ground and die.

I don’t know what went wrong! Shannon felt like she was having a mental breakdown from the stress of the situation. I didn’t STEAL anything, I don’t think I LOST anything, I-I just don’t know what happened at all! Maybe one of the sales just didn’t get punched into the computer correctly? I don’t know!

“But, y’know what,” Tracy continued on in her mirthful rasp. “Betcha I know what happened, if it’s ‘round fourteen dollars…”

“Well, she says she’s sure she didn’t accidentally pocket any, and—” Manager John blew out a breath of frustration and leaned over to open cabinet drawers in search of the forms he would have to fill out now.

“Probably didn’t key in the coupons right,” Tracy finished with a smirk. “Does she have coupons?”

“No, no, she doesn’t have any with her drawer, so—” Manager John glanced over the sheet he’d been filling out and shook his head.

“Oh!” Mrs. Moore jolted upright in her seat. “I, no, I do have coupons! I, I thought I was supposed to tuck them in beneath my drawer. T-to lift up the drawer, and put them in underneath. That’s uh, that’s what I saw her do yesterday, is it—is it not what I was supposed to be doing?!”

“Well,” Manager John scowled. “Where are they now? It—you know what, it doesn’t even matter, because we’ve already done the drawer count, and in any case the computer’s gonna say your register didn’t have any coupons put in.”

“Them coupons’re probably still sittin’ up there in the register,” Tracy chuckled. “You’ll have to go through ‘em, match ‘em up and fix each of the transactions. So the computer don’t think there’s s’posed to be more money in there than there is.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Moore tried to apologize again.

“No, it’s—we don’t have time to go through and do that,” Manager John denied. “I’m going to have to write her up. If she didn’t key the coupons in correctly, then that’s her fault, because she signed that she’s responsible for the drawer.”

“Still can’t write her up,” Tracy sounded downright smug. “She don’t have her mandatory trainin’ hours in, so she can’t even sign for her own drawer in the first place! Not by Food Lion’s rules.”

“She was on register with you yesterday,” Manager John seemed to be growing genuinely angry, and Mrs. Moore shrank back into her seat and tried to hide herself from their notice. “So—yes, she went through her training hours. She—”

“She weren’t on the clock, so no, she didn’t get any trainin,’” Tracy countered. “For her to be through her trainin’ period, she has to be on the clock, gettin’ paid.”

“Then, I can put it in that she has those hours yesterday, and she’ll get pay for them, because she was there shadowing you yesterday,” Manager John tried to reason. “I had her there with you, learning. That’s the whole reason—”

“Nope!” Tracy intended to be stubborn about it. “I had her there and was givin’ her some sorta basic overview, but it weren’t nothin’ like proper trainin’ and she didn’t learn nothin’ bout keyin’ in coupons from me ‘cept seein’ the clippings go in beneath the drawer.”

“I—I can go get the um, the coupon clippings?” Mrs. Moore offered. “If—if they’re, I’m sure they’re still there in the drawer, if that, if that helps…?”

“Well, Tracy, if that’s the way you wanna play it, then I’d have to write you up instead of her, ‘cause she was supposed to be training with you, and you’re saying you neglected to have her go through—”

“Oh nuh-uh, I don’t think so,” Tracy chortled. “You go an’ introduce me to a new girl, yeah okay, but when I asked her, she said she wasn’t on the clock, so she got no ‘official’ trainin’ from me! And, you can’t be puttin’ her out there in her own checkout yet, or cookin’ the books after the fact to make it seem like she was on the clock, when she wasn’t! I been sayin’ and sayin’ and sayin’ it—you can’t do that.”

“That’s all I can do, Tracy—” Manager John held up his hands in a helpless expression. “I mean look, listen, if you—”

“You go through with them coupons and fix the transactions one by one—or you write yourself up for fourteen dollars or whatever the hell it was, ‘cause you were responsible for this shift, kiddo—that’s why you make the big manager bucks, here. But me, I been working here sixteen years, and if Mister Kay asks me what’s goin’ on with this, he’s gonna hear what I have to say about it.”

“We’re—look, now we already have her going over her time,” Manager John scoffed, waving towards the clock on the office wall. “Listen—hey, Cindy! Help make sure the new girl gets clocked out, and then we’ll see if Bob has time during his shift to sort out this mess with the coupons on his drawers, maybe. If you think I have time to—”

“Oh nuh-uh, there’s no way you’re—”

“Well, what do you want me to do? I’m running late already, morning shift all needs signed off and deposited so that—”

“Shannon! Here, come on,” Cindy squeezed past the angry Tracy continuing her tirade to motion her over. “C’mon girl, lemme get you all clocked out and outta here.”

With a jolt of relief, Mrs. Moore abandoned her chair and hurried to escape the room, tears streaming down her face and still wringing her hands in sheer terror. She wanted out of here, and if anyone were to ask her at this moment, she was sure she would tell them she simply wasn’t cut out to work this job, here. Still cradling her own drawer against herself, Cindy patted her on the back and helped her over in the direction of the timeclock computer so she could punch out—the moment the sniffling Shannon managed to maneuver the mouse over to her name and click CONFIRM to end her shift, she let a sob slip out.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay—you’re okay,” Cindy assured her in a whisper. “Just—yeah, just Manager John tryin’ to throw you under the bus. Typical! If, when you come in tomorrow, if he tries to get you to sign anything sayin’ you’re at fault for somethin’, you ask for one of us to come give it a look, okay? You’re… are you still thinkin’ ‘bout comin’ in, tomorrow?”

“I—” Shannon tried to smear her wet face on her sleeve and let out a laugh. “I-I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Well, hey, if you do—we’ve got your back, okay?” Cindy patted her shoulder again for emphasis. “Tracy seems like she likes you. I like you! I do hope you’ll stay with us. Just—yeah, don’t trust Manager John far as anyone can throw him, he’s just sittin’ in that office all day playin’ around with the timesheets to keep labor cost under some stupid line so he can get his big fat bonus from Mister Kay. He don’t care ‘bout none of us actually gettin’ all the work done around here.”

With a growing sense of dread, Mrs. Moore realized that she would return for her shift tomorrow. As her watery eyes filled with clarity, she knew she would be here. Not because of the money even, but because she had to. Because—if she didn’t show up, she’d never be able to look Cindy or Tracy or any of these people who were actually nice and friendly with her in the eye ever again. Tracy especially, Tracy who she’d thought was just a miserable old grump, even stuck her neck out on her behalf!

It’s such an awful mess, here! Mrs. Moore thought to herself as she started to undo her apron. I really do hate it. But—also the actual work isn’t as bad as I thought, once you get into the swing of it, and, and—there’s REALLY good people, here. People that cared, or, or stood up for me, or—I don’t know, but that, that MEANS SOMETHING.

“I’ll be here,” Shannon promised with a weak smile. “Same time tomorrow, I guess? I’ll… be here.”

*     *     *

The bus ride home was much more rowdy than the trip to school had been, but Tabitha had apparently already earned her in—after picking a vinyl bus seat for herself, Jacob and then Gary came and chose seats across from her.

“‘Sup, Tabby,” Gary said, tossing her his basketball.

To her credit she managed to catch it—barely—grabbing at it with one hand and managing to trap it against the front of her camouflage hunting jacket. It seemed like Gary was about to laugh at her near fumble, but she smirked at him and cradled the ball in her lap for a moment, rapping her knuckle against her opposite sleeve to reveal a knocking sound.

“...Sup.”

“Ah, shit—I forgot your arm’s broke,” Gary looked genuinely apologetic. “My bad, my bad. Here.”

“Smooth,” Jacob scowled at him, spreading his hands for her to throw the ball his way. “Hey girl, here!”

“Tabby,” Tabitha corrected him.

“Tabby, right,” Jacob said, flicking his fingers with impatience. “C’mon.”

With a scooping motion, Tabitha got one palm beneath the ball and then managed to lob it in an underhand throw that should have gone right to him. Instead, Gary intercepted in a smooth motion, swiping the basketball out of the air and stealing it back just as it was passing over the aisle. Tabitha couldn’t help but be impressed, but when the pair of teen boys saw her big smile, they both looked away and had that caught in the act body language going on, as if a teacher was about to reprimand them.

Oh, wow. RIGHT. Teen boys, and a halfway cute girl smiling at them—that’s gonna be SUPER EFFECTIVE and do CRITICAL DAMAGE. Gotta watch where I point this thing.

With conscious effort, she schooled her expression down a grade to a look of mild bemusement, and aside from a subtle second glance Jacob sent her way, they were past that awkward hiccup. Small talk while other kids were still boarding the bus progressed as far as new classes suck and you have homework? Yeah me too, it sucks. By the time the bus engine rumbled to life and they were underway, Gary twisted in his seat to deliver an elaborate retelling of the basketball match he’d played during lunch today to Jacob. Although since Jacob had apparently also been there playing in that same game and was offering corrections and commentary, Tabitha suspected the story was more intended for her to overhear.

She kept her small smile up, but was too distracted in her own thoughts to really follow the court slang of what they were talking about.

Because—she’d done it. Tabitha had experienced her first day as a semi-popular girl, rather than an obese nobody or even an isolated thin social pariah. Unlike her attempt at the very start of the school year, this time it felt like things were working. She was getting to know people, maybe making friends, and perhaps most importantly, she was taking the initiative to talk to people herself.

It’s still a little terrifying sometimes, sure, Tabitha thought as she watched Jacob and Gary heckle each other with a wry smile. But—it’s not THAT bad. This was a success, a big success! Feels like a huge step forward for my whole life. It was stressful and SUPER taxing at first, but it’s like I invested a fair bit of thought and a whole lot of courage, and then the returns are all just… confidence?

Feeling this confident among her peers was honestly intoxicating.

All of the sudden SO MUCH of all of this nonsense makes so much more sense, Tabitha thought. If THIS is what popular girls are feeling, no wonder it gets them creating madhouse hierarchies and battlefields of drama and all of the absurd vain focus on image I used to pretend I could scoff at. It’s all in pursuit of this CONFIDENCE HIGH, these teenage SUCCESS ENDORPHINS. The ones that surge through like adrenaline saying YES YES YES, the ones that make you feel validated. Powerful.

If she could be popular, but without it going to her head and making her petty or cruel or a bully, Tabitha decided that it would be just about the best thing ever. Elena and Alicia were great friends and could maybe help keep her ego in check if it ever started to grow out beyond her kindness and compassion. She would be popular but not mean to anyone, she would be cute, but not play with boys’ hearts!

Except maybe like, I could PROBABLY tease Bobby some, and that’d be okay, Tabitha told herself. Because… he maybe wouldn’t take it all THAT seriously anyways!

*     *     *

Like a true latchkey kid, Tabitha produced her own key upon arriving at the Macintire home and let herself in. Though the neighborhood here was just as nice as the Williams, Sandra wasn’t so comfortable that she would allow the doors unlocked here, and it was a sentiment Tabitha agreed with in full. Better safe than sorry!

The borrowed hunting jacket with its orange highlights was removed and, and when the left sleeve turned inside-out attempting to follow her cast, Tabitha held the collar in her teeth and managed to find the errant cuff and turn it rightside-in again with her good hand before hanging the coat on the hooks in the entryway. It was warm enough that her hoodie soon followed, and she struggled her way out of it in an exhausted—but contented daze as she walked the rest of the way inside and cast a vacant look across the empty living room.

The elementary school day here was a half hour shorter than the Springton High’s school day, but the elementary also started an hour later, so there was still plenty of time before Tabitha would walk back out to the bus stop to pick up Hannah. Mrs. Macintire would be at work for another few hours, and since she couldn’t hear the TV playing over in the master bedroom it meant that Officer Macintire was likely taking a nap.

It had been a great day, but presenting herself as an extrovert for that long was also just plain tiring, and it was an enormous relief for Tabitha to drop her bookbag and then simply fall face-first across the length of the couch. Here with the Macintires it was actually a home, it was a bastion of comfort that could wick away her stress and help her decompress in a way that her actual family’s battered old mobile home never could.

After all, Tabitha hummed to herself, groping across the couch for a spare cushion to hug against herself. They have the HEAT on here. They just—KEEP it on, practically at full blast. All winter! I’m getting so spoiled, here.

Reminding herself that she didn’t have a bracelet-PC or a smartphone, Tabitha made herself as comfortable as she could, and instead kept an eye on the digital clock readout on the VCR. She’d met so many new people today that it was difficult to sort out all of their names! But, mentally sorting through them all now would be for the best, because for once in her life it was the good kind of overwhelming.

Vanessa. Gary. Marisa. Uhhh… Jacob. Stacy. Eric. Coach Baylor, and Mr. Peterson—I want to get to know them both better, Tabitha decided. For Cheerleading and art club. I… don’t remember the names of those other two girls from personal fitness who were talking with us. The one had glasses, the other was a bit more stocky. And then… there was that older girl Alicia tried to introduce me to? I’m totally blanking on her name. It was… Jenny? Jessie? Maybe… um. Nope, I lost it. Jay-something, I think? Or maybe—

“Tabitha?” A male voice almost startled her off of the couch and onto the carpet.

“Oh! Sorry,” Tabitha blushed as she flailed. “I—uhh—I kept my shoes off the sofa! They were hanging off. I’m, um, I’m just getting off my feet for a bit, before I head back out for Hannah.”

“Hey, it’s cool, it’s cool,” Officer Macintire chuckled, holding up his hands. “Just wanted to check on ya.”

He was wearing just pajama pants and an undershirt, and although he was either a lot older than her or a lot younger or both, the man had a pretty nice physique… and Tabitha had to admit to herself that he looked pretty good. Or, at least he did when he had a shirt on—whenever he was bare chested, Tabitha found herself focusing in on the bandages and remembering the bullet wound and unable to think of much else.

It was strange being around a guy, living in the same house as one. In the past week he was up and about more and more frequently, and Tabitha had no idea how to treat him. Darren Macintire was like some sitcom fantasy father figure, and she had a lot of trouble reconciling that with her own ideas of what a dad was to her personally. For one, he was attractive, but despite Sandra’s smug looks and personal assumptions, Tabitha had never fantasized about him or anything like that.

I’m more just—jumpy around him, or intimidated? Tabitha thought to herself with a sheepish smile as she sat up straight and tried to straighten out what felt like her slovenly appearance. I DO NOT know how to act around a ‘proper’ father figure. At all.

“Heard you come in,” Officer Macintire remarked, opening up the fridge and taking a long, idle look at the contents without seeming to decide on anything before letting the door swing closed again. “Was worried that—I dunno. Kids that age are mean, guess I was jumpin’ at shadows and thinking you mighta had a bad first day back or something. But, you seem okay?”

“Oh! Yes,” Tabitha nodded. “Thank you, but—yes, today was fine. It was better, much better.”

“Good! Good,” The man nodded, giving her a thoughtful look. “Well, hey. Don’t want to impose, or nothin’, but if it’s cool, I’ll walk down to the stop with you? Been cooped up for too long without any exercise and I’m startin’ to go a bit stir-crazy, here.”

“Of course!” Tabitha agreed. “And—yeah, I understand what you mean. Soon as I can get this cast off, I’m getting right into jogging again, and I want to try out for cheer, and—and be active again.”

“Ooph, yeah, I’m used to keeping up with PT,” the Officer shook his head in dismay. “Didn’t ever want to be the cop people’re makin’ donut jokes about all the time, you know?”

“I-I think Sandra would make those jokes just regardless,” Tabitha said with a wincing smile.

“Hah, yeah—well, even worse, comin’ from her,” Officer Macintre laughed. “My uh, home stay here is no reason to let myself start gettin’ love handles. And then, having you in here cooking full meals every day sure hasn’t helped!”

“I cook healthy meals!” Tabitha protested with a smile. “More or less. Those cookies… well, they just sort of happened!”

“Yeah, yeah,” He chuckled in response. “Holiday season, and all that.”

Damnit, Hannah! Tabitha felt her face heat up. Your dad has your eyes! He’s supposed to be a DAD, he’s not supposed to be A CUTE GUY! I absolutely, positively REFUSE to let Mrs. Macintire be right about me crushing on him, ever. I refuse! Because, I’m not. That’s just too—weird! So, that’s not happening, period. I’m FOURTEEN, and he’s… I don’t know, THIRTY-SOMETHING.

I should… I should get Bobby’s phone number, or something—it’s SAFE for me to crush on Bobby, because we’re both young enough that obviously none of that will go anywhere, Tabitha decided, oblivious to the torment and suffering that mindset might inflict upon boys in the near future. And, there’s that WILLOW tape! We can maybe watch it together this weekend. Definitely. It’s a plan.

( 54, Return to Springton High | RE: Trailer Trash | 56, The vagaries of adolesence. )