Young Writers Society

Madison

Today, as summer faded from the trees like aging ink, I had the curious notion to reinvent myself. There was nothing wrong with me, nothing so shameful I had to bury it beneath layers of lies, like a four tiered wedding cake celebrating my marriage to insincerity. It was just more convenient to be someone else that year.

I trailed my fingers over the warm flesh of my arm, baked by the sun, and knew I was going to miss my summer skin. Every winter I felt as though I were being wiped clean, a fresh slate to cover with new bruises and new scars: like a map of reference by which to remember the year. Except I never felt new. The wandering world goes on with its games, throwing in new voices with which to shout at the void, and I? I'm just me.

I laid my head in my hands, letting the sun creep up my neck. I suppose I was being dramatic, like any other teenager who believes no one in the world understands them. But that afternoon, as a breeze rippled Morgan Lake and made the tips of my unkempt hair dance, I needed an epiphany. People were asking questions. They wanted to know me. But just the thought of getting that close to someone, spilling my guts like an upended teapot, made me want to bury my head in the sand.

Like I said, there's nothing wrong with me. The problem is other people wouldn't think so, if they really knew me. High school is fine as long as you don't stand out in the wrong ways. Rather, you've got to find exactly the right way to blend in. Two gay mothers and five adopted siblings, meshing together to make a patchwork of ethnicity, stand out in the worst way possible.

I pondered the person I would become as I trailed my fingers over the picnic table, where someone had etched the question, "Who are you?" I had traced its angles into memory. Now I took the time to pull a sharpie from my backpack and scribble a messy reply.

"Do you have an answer, because I'm looking."

As I examined my response I was filled with a small sense of satisfaction. Then I realized anyone who tries to be clever is never clever and I rolled my eyes. It was time to go, before I began carving obscure riddles in the tree bark.

Slinging the strap of my bag over my shoulder, I headed for the park boundaries. The school campus was just on the opposite side of the path, which wound its way through a narrow wood. Luckily it was only the morning of the first day so there was minimal chance I'd run across any students lip locking.

The Windsor Woods were their own world. Stepping inside was like entering a brand new dimension, where everything was peace. I stopped in the shade and placed my hand against a birch tree. I didn't want to leave. Everything smelled fresh here: like summer and heat, dirt and pine. The dark soil beneath my feet made me want to remove my shoes and run as far as I could. But, unfortunately, there was no where to go. Nothing but Bairnsdale for miles. And after that, who knows what? So I kept walking, strolling dismally onto the athletic field.

The field spanned the length of the school, complete with a track and two sets of massive bleachers. The high school itself was run down and far too small. With only a single story, twenty five classrooms, and about four hundred thousand students, it sometimes felt like we were sardines: all of us forced to coexist in a tin can. Everything in our city of twenty thousand centered around that field and that high school. That's why I had to move away after graduation. I knew if I stayed I'd never escape them.

Two girls were sprawled on the grass several feet away, giggling hysterically. They had the same blue eyes and dark skin, the same pointed noses. But while one of them kept her hair screwed in a cloud of thick brown curls, the other wore it pin-straight down her back. They were both utterly and ridiculously gorgeous.

I dropped down next to them.

"Hey Maddy," they said in unison, rolling onto their elbows.

I flinched.

"You've got to stop doing that. It's so weird."

"Doing what?" They asked innocently.

I made a face and they dissolved into laughter. Elena and Darcy Copenheim were identical twins: the only African American pair in our school. They were also the only ones who knew about my past. My goal that year was to keep it that way.

"Do you think Reichard's class is as killer as everyone says it is?"

I'd been stressing about it for days. But that's what I did. I stressed.

"Nah," said Elena. "He's yummy." She blew an enormous pink bubble and giggled as it burst over her face.

Darcy wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Ew Elena, he's like thirty."

"I don't care. We're eighteen in like three months and then..." She flashed a wink at us as she trailed away.

Elena's fantasies did nothing to relieve my stress. Although, if Mr. Reichard dated Elena I might get an A...I shook my head. Even I wasn't that desperate.

"Alright, see guys you later." I hopped to my feet.

"Where are you going?" said Darcy.

"To class."

"Bummer," they said.

I laughed. I doubted I would be seeing them in school any time soon.

"Are you guys coming today?"

"Sure, sure," said Elena, blowing another bubble.

Darcy sighed and stretched out her arms. "The sun is calling me."

I took that as a no, which meant I'd be facing Reichard alone.

It was only seconds after the first bell rang and the hallway was already congested. Soon I was being buffeted along like a fish on the rapids. Barely reaching five foot two, I constantly felt like I was getting tugged beneath the surface.

Fortunately I was able to find Reichard's class before I underwent any real damage. But the second I walked through the door I wished I hadn't: it smelled like black licorice and a nasty mixture of vanilla and chocolate perfume. There were a few others already seated: a girl with a floral dress and big doe eyes, who I assumed was partly responsible for the toxic stink, a boy wearing signature Bairnsdale plaid, and Victor. Victor liked chess.

That is all you need to know because that is all Victor liked.

"Hi Vic," I said, claiming the seat next to him.

Victor grinned, revealing two rows of braces.

"Hey. How was your summer?"

I shrugged. "Fine." When he didn't look away, I manufactured a smile. "Hey, you got braces!"

He nodded and set off on a story about how he'd convinced his dad to buy them instead of a life sized storm trooper. I nodded along, just relieved we weren't talking about me.

But my eyes traveled to the boy sitting two rows across from me. I'd seen him around before, he hung out with a large crowd, but had never talked to him. He was cute, in a cookie-cutter sort of way. His dirty blond hair was thick but cut short, giving him that classic country look. He had a sharp profile, defined and muscular. I imagined he spent his weekends helping out on the family farm and attending church for a mind numbing three hours, before he and his football buddies chased local tail. Except he never played around for long. He wanted a stay at home wife who would stick around Bairnsdale for the rest of her life and father his four children. He wanted a forever marriage.

I know they say you shouldn't judge a book by its cover but once you've seen the same books year after year you know what's inside before you even open them.

Out of nowhere, the boy turned to look at me. I jerked my head away, blushing red from my chin to my collarbone. But there had only been the faintest spark of interest in his brown eyes. I'm certain that if he really was looking at me, he hadn't found the view intriguing.

That's what you get for staring, I told my inner stalker.

"So, how do they look?" Victor gave me a smile so big it nearly ripped his face in half.

"Great."

By that time most of the class had trickled in and I was relieved to see familiar faces. Victor and I fell into easy conversation with a few other seniors, including the girl who smelled strongly of perfume. I suspected she was trying to cover up bad body odor but smiled politely as her scent invaded my personal space.

Mr. Reichard glared at us with closed lips after the final bell rang, not saying anything but waiting for us to fall silent. As can be expected, we took longer then Mr. Reichard wanted and he was finally forced to release a single, dry cough.

The view voices still talking cut off.

"Hello students. I'm Mr. Reichard, pronounced Ry-kard for those of you that are inevitably going to mess it up. I'll be you teacher for the semester."

Mr. Reichard was a thin, short man. His hair was rapidly abandoning his head, leaving nothing but a dark ring around the back, and his face was perfectly round and perfectly, frighteningly stern. He wasn't standing, like most teachers when they introduce themselves, but sat in a big brown desk, where he could easily glare at us over his glasses. The desk also contained a jar of black licorice, which explained the smell.

"I don't think I should have to introduce myself. I'm sure you've already heard a lot about me." There was the faintest hint of humor in the curve of his mouth. "I assure you, it's all true. So be afraid, very afraid."

He lifted a pile of papers and shuffled them against his desk.

"Here are your syllabuses. I'm not going to pass them out so please, pick one up yourself."

We did as he said, in a painful row by row process that took at least a few minutes. By the time it was over I looked at the clock, half-expecting class to be nearly finished. I was sorely disappointed.

"As you can see on the top of the sheet, I like to start each class by having every student say a little about themselves. Then some of us may ask a question or two if we please."

I felt the blood leave my face. I hated it when teachers made us talk about ourselves. It was always either excruciatingly awkward or excruciatingly competitive. My gaze traveled over my classmates. My bet was on excruciatingly awkward.

"I like rare cheeses and wearing mismatched socks," Mr. Reichard listed off somberly, with little change of expression. He then picked up a clipboard and read it for a moment.

"Macy Atkins," he said, "you'll go first."

Macy, the one with all the perfume, told everybody she had seven cats and then Mr. Reichard continued alphabetically down the list. I half listened to what everyone said as I tried to come up with a response of my own, one that wouldn't sound too lame. Of course I didn't want to say anything that would spark questions--but I also didn't want to seem boring.

I scoffed inwardly. I wished my life was a little more boring. What could I tell them? My parents died in a fire but I miraculously survived, leaving me so haunted by guilt I still turn up at their graves sometimes, during my drive home or trips to the grocery store, without remembering how I got there?

Hmm...Best not to brand myself a total freak on my first day as a senior. This, after all, was the year of reinventing myself.

"Madison Hugh," he read.

Shit. My turn.

"Umm...I'm adopted?" I said like it was a question.

Oops. That was a tad deeper than I wanted to go.

Victor's eyes widened. I forgot he didn't know.

"How old were you?" Victor said.

"When I was adopted?" My throat grew dry. "I was a baby," I lied.

"Do you remember your parents?" Asked Macy.

I shook my head and made a small sound of dissent. Another kid I knew pretty well, James Honeyman, shot his hand in the air. Mr. Reichard raised a disgruntled eyebrow but called on him anyway.

"Do you know where they live? Have you ever contacted them?"

"No."

"Why not?" He said.

I shrugged.

"I don't want to."

"Oh."

He frowned and went back to phone.

"Don't you want to know the people you owe your life to?"

My eyes shot to the boy in plaid. He was looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to answer his question. I gulped. Of course I wanted to know them. I wanted to know them more than I'd ever wanted anything in my entire life. I wanted to know them so much it hurt.

"No. I owe my life to the people who raised me."

He gave a small shake of his head.

"Doesn't it bother you that one choice a pair of strangers made changed your life forever? Don't you want to know why? Don't you want to know who you are?"

My skin flushed red. Instead of answering, I stared straight ahead and waited for Mr. Reichard to call the next person. He must have sensed my discomfort because he rambled it off as quickly as possible. After that I zoned out, remembering days spent playing in a checkered flower bed and the smell bedroom curtains make when they burn.

I checked back in just long enough to learn the boy's name was Shayne Williams and he'd been a scout for eleven years.

Didn't I tell you?

Cookie-cutter.