CHAPTER SEVEN ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER by B. A. Linhares

First Day as a Senior.

 

 

I wait for Sean outside the Cafeteria, loaded down with books and my backpack and dying of thirst. I can't remember if he has first or second lunch. Still he has to walk by here between classes. I think I forgot to tell him that I'll probably be stuck in second lunch with the slackers until I have a chance to meet with my Career Counselor. After Mom died, my GPA suffered big time. Being on the swim team the past three years I know that as long as you keep a high C average you can be on a sports team. Sean may not know this. First lunch is for staff and students with a 3.0 GPA or better. I suppose his grades are up there. We never talk about grades or our future...all Sean wants to do is suck face...

I shake that thought out of my head and consult the pretty watch he gave me. I crane my neck, rising up on the toes of my sandals. Where is he? I move out of the way as a herd of football players plow past me and through the double doors. Well it's a given that Char and I will get to eat together. At least for now. Char could care less about her GPA or college. She plans to marry a rich guy and be a trophy wife. Good luck with that. Then I recall Billy’s new 'Char + Billy' tat. Huh, Mrs. Billy Brennan? My advice is to graduate from High School first. The sidewalk is empty again and there's no sign of Char or Billy. They’re probably out in the parking lot steaming up his Porsche’s windows. Whatever it takes to hold on to him, right Char? I haven’t seen or heard from Char since Sunday at the mall. What else is new? Used to be if we weren't together we'd be on the phone talking about school or whatever.

After ten minuets, I start to worry. I wonder what's keeping Sean and Char. Did I miss him? SIGH. Maybe I will be eating alone after all. I take a step toward the door and shift the load of books in my arms, check my schedule and consult the watch. Eh, no problemo, my next class is in thirty-eight minuets. Then someone touches my arm and I twirl around and see Sean’s mad face. I flash him a big smile. “Hey, there you are.”

“What’s the deal? Where the hell were you?”

I grimace. “Geez. I sorry. I guess I forgot to tell you that—”

I pause as a tight crowd of angry looking black students brush by us, give us the once over, and then push through the cafeteria door. I look at Sean and frown. He pops his neck. He does this when he's upset. I open my mouth to explain. Sean holds up his hand cutting me off. Stepping back, he glances at his wristwatch. “Just save it Cookie. I gotta go,” he says, sounding distracted.

“Why?”

“Because they called me to the office ten minuets ago. They’re switching my freaking classes.” He turns his back and rushes down the sidewalk.

“Whatev,” I mutter, and enter the school cafeteria—or Food Court as it’s called since the remodeling. The elevator music playing over round speakers in the drop ceiling is barely audible over the loud chatter. I'm sick of fighting with Sean.

I glance around at all the new faces and snicker inwardly. I'm a senior and this is my last year at Georgetown High. Okay, I’ll cut Sean some slack. He's not used to the system here at GHS. Besides, the first week of school is always so stressful. My gosh, his family only moved to Georgetown at the end of last year because his dad works in some capacity with the government. And as Mom always said, if you want to keep your job you go where you're needed.

I work my way toward the drink machines and hear a rumble. The football team pounds their fists on the tables as a gang of cheerleaders shoves though the crowd waving their pom-poms and shouting, “Georgetown Patriots rocks-rock-ROCK!” The football team pounds their fists on the tables again and everyone shouts, “Georgetown Patriots rocks-rock-ROCK!”

Lame-o. The first week of each year, the Football players and the Cheerleaders do cheers before school, between classes, and at start of each lunch period. Principal Bishop and the coaching staff hope this will raise school spirit and sell tickets to games. They repeat the cheer two or three times, and then a table full of black students answers by pounding on their table and yell, “Uh-uh, Georgetown Patriots suck-suck-SUCK!”

The Head Cheerleader shouts, “Hoo-kay ladies, we’re outta here!” Pushing though the crowd, she shakes her pom-poms and leads the rest of the Cheerleaders toward the exit. I follow behind their conga-line as it bounces toward the vending machines. “F-ing excuse us, please!” They raise their voices loud enough for anyone in the vicinity to hear. “Geez, I can’t believe how many f-ing black students are at Georgetown High this year.”

Meanwhile, the football players and the black students stand up and stare at each other. The air is thick with apprehension and attitude until the coaching staff comes over and defuses what looks likes a brawl in the making. Is it my imagination or is everything different this year?

Another Cheerleader laughs. “What? Isn't Afro-American P-C anymore?”

The Head Cheerleader shakes her head. “Ha! I can never f-ing keep up with that PC shit! I’m serious! The halls are full of jive talking losers. My dad works for FEMA. He said Hurricane Katrina caused an f-ing ghetto gathering in D.C.”

The girl in front of me flips her long blonde hair and says, “Yep, there goes the f-ing neighborhood.”

Geez, is this how our Cheerleaders talk normally? I pass the food line and check out the choices: Chinese cuisine, hot peanut butter cookies, greasy pepperoni pizza and yummy beef stew. Um *gag* everything looks and smells so f-ing gross, I lose my f-ing appetite. I stroll by the people lined up to buy something out of the vending machines. I shift my heavy books and step behind the last person in the line at the only machine advertising Pepsi. There are, like, ten people ahead of me so I pray it's not sold out.

Turning my head, I scope out the place looking for a familiar face. I spot Zak Shaw strolling down the chow line and shoving a tray filled to the max with food—that boy can eat and never gain an ounce. Brook's in the line a few feet down from him, at the salad bar. Those two are never far apart. They’ve been going together since sixth grade. Talk about your opposites attracting: Zak is already a champion surfer, but he struggles to pass even the easy classes. For what it’s worth, Brook tutors Zak. He would’ve dropped out and traveled the world surfing if it weren’t for his undying love for Brook. Brook is ultra smart; she can do pretty much whatever she likes and succeed with flying colors. Last I heard Brook wants to be a brain surgeon (really). She could be in college already, but she chose to stay in high school with Zak. Rumor is she’s already locked-in as school valedictorian, but Josh told me at my party that he plans to give her a run for her money.

Brook joins Zak, and when they’re in earshot I call, “Hey, Brook, Zak!”

They wave, then Zak picks up a plate with a large slice of pizza, pays the cashier, and they comes over. “Cookie, hey…great party,” they both say in perfect unison. Zak shifts the slice of pizza into his left hand and says, “Pinky swear!” They loop their little fingers.

“Speaking of, thank you guys for the awesome backpack and supplies.” I twist to the side, and lift my shoulder. “As you can see they’re coming to good use.”

Brook smiles then says, “Oh, damn look at the lines...quick Zak, get in line for drinks.”

“Right-o.” Munching on the pizza, Zak nods his long sun bleached dreads and steps in the closest line. “Yo, Brook, bottled water?”

“Yes, please…” She pauses and little wrinkle forms between her eyebrows. “Zak, did I mail Cookie’s dad the thank you note?”

He bobs his head and swallows a huge bite of pizza, making his Adam's apple bob. “Yes sir, little buddy. I saw you drop it in your maibox this morning...when I picked up at five-thirty.”

I nudge Brook, “Five-thirty? Wow, you are so on the ball. Me not so much, I was almost late today. I had to run to my first class, which is PE, so, who cares. Coach T was cool now that we're seniors.”

“Not really, she's changed her tune since this morning.” Brook Bailey crosses her eyes at me. “Long story. Anyway, my mom wrote the note and asked me to mail it. My brain is mush. Did I mention that I'm a T.A. (Teacher’s Assistant) again this year? I’ve been in the front office all day helping the staff shuffle in almost two hundred new students,” Meanwhile Brook passes Zak four singles and takes the heavy tray of food from him. My line moves forward and Brook stays with me. “Cookie, I'm sorry, do you want a drink?”

“Um...I'm okay,” I explain, craning my neck. “The machine Zak's in line for only sells bottled water. I'm jonesing for a Pepsi. I'm praying mine doesn't run out before I get there.” This is nuts," she whispers, turning her head left and right. “Principal Bishop is talking about adding a third lunch.” She balances the heavy tray in one arm and picks at her salad.

“Sorry. Go eat.”

“No, I’m cool. I’m waiting for a table to open up.” She waves a hand over the tray. “Please help us eat some of this food.”

I look at the food. My stomach is in a knot about the Sean issue. “I’m good, thanks." “Yo, Cookmyster,” Zak calls over his shoulder. “How’s that sweet ride of yours…wear out the rubber yet?”

“Almost,” I call back, and then turn to Brook grinning ear to ear. She smiles and winks at me. “Your Stang is all the chatter in Auto Mechanics class.”

“Really? I keep thinking of a million excuses to drive my Mustang. My dad says, take it easy on the petro, Lassie, you're going to break the bank. So, I’m currently looking for a job. I wanted to find one this summer, but I never found the time, or the inclination.”

“Yeah, Zak’s VW is pretty good on mileage, but gas is so expensive. On the way to school we drop Mom off at the Metro Station so she doesn’t have to take the city transit. It seems like he has to fill up every other day. I tutor and Zak works as a lifeguard. We're trying to save money, but it's hard.” She smiles tightly and I bug my eyes and nod keeping one eye on the line movement. “I'll keep my ears open for any jobs.”

“Thanks.” Brook’s parents aren’t ulta rich, neither are we however I (accidentally) noticed Pop's bank account on the Internet and saw the generous checks the government started depositing once a month after Mom died. I think we're okay. Still, I want to earn my own way.

Brook shifts the heavy tray and licks the salad dressing off her fingers. “It always amazes me how fast a whole summer flies by and how excruciatingly long one week of school feels.”

“For sure. It’s only Monday, will this week ever end?”

We laugh and then, she and I grow silent as the group of angry looking black students go by, strutting with their elbow out and pants hanging below their hips. One of them with a head full of long dreads stops and gives Zak a long look, and then says loudly, “Now why would a whitey wear his hair like a Rastafarian?” The others snicker, and then move on as a couple of the football coaches make their way over. Zak pokes the bills in the slot and seems oblivious that he's being bullied. He comes back and takes the tray from Brook, handing her the water bottles. He lowers his voice. “Is it just me or does it seem like there are way more students of color this year?”

“Oh yeah,” Brook, mutters. “Last year, Georgetown High Schools’ student ratio was approximately one Minority student to every twenty Caucasian students. Ten ‘new people of color’ that could hardly spell their own name, signed up to be tutored. I could use the cash, but sorry folks, I’m not driving to the ghetto.”

They look at me and I blink. “Hum? You know, I may need to hire you as a tutor. The teachers are piling on assignments. I already have a ton to do this weekend. I really want to get back on the swim team...if coach will have me...but homework and Sean will be taking up all my time…” Zak and Brook stare at me and I realize I’m babbling on and on and their food is getting colder. “Sorry, we can discuss later…”

“Um, Zak,” Brook says, pointing. “Go check over there for a table.”

“Right-o!” Zak heads over to the other side of the cafeteria with the tray of food.

Brook raises her eyebrows at me. “So, how goes it with Palmer?”

Brook is somewhat aware of my multiple issues. She and I talk. We've known each other since we were little kids. But we don't talk as frankly as Char and I used to, as best friends go. I'm just saying, Brook is great, eons smarter than moi, but I feel sort of lame-o discussing my personal problems on her. But who else?

I shrug. “Not so good. Most of the time our lips are locked or we just listen to music in silence.” I briefly explain our spat in the rain. “So, any more, we avoid talking too much...”

“Because you end up arguing.”

“Exactly. I’m seriously thinking about backing off from Sean. He’s really starting to get on my nerves. And lately he’s been acting really…I don’t know...”

“Pushy?”

“To put it lightly.”

I notice that I'm the last in line as Brook and I step closer to the vending machine (I’ve waited so long for), and the rest just bubbles out of me.

“Grrr! Sean is making me crazy! He wants us to be together constantly. If it were up to him...we’d be spending every waking moment together...like Char and Billy. He thinks their relationship is ideal. By my calculations, Sean and I have seen each other nearly every day since our first date, May 30, Memorial Day weekend, as you know we went with you guys to the parade on Wisconsin, and then Dumbarton Park Fair...yadayada. Anyway, now that I have a car I’ll be driving him to and from school. He’ll want to hang out at the house until dinnertime and I will never have moment to myself...that’s a given! Pop likes Sean. They talk sports. Bore me! Pop thinks Sean feels insecure because he’s a year younger than me.” I take a deep breath and roll my eyes. “If he only knew the truth.”

Brook barks a laugh of incredulity. “Sounds like Sean Palmer is borderline N.P.D.” She sees my blank look and adds, “Narcissistic personality disorder. Look Cookie––bottom line––don’t let Sean or Char, for that matter...pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do.”

“I don't. Char tries to make me feel like a prude.”

Brook squeezes my hand. “Char’s been a constant friend, but you have to admit that she has a strange way of showing her loyalty.”

“I agree. So, it’s still cool to wait?”

“Heck yeah! Zak and I are waiting until we’re married, and we’ve been together forever. If a person––male or female––respects you they won’t put demands on you.”

“I know.” I smile and feel better.

“When in doubt, listen to your gut.”

The boy behind me says, “Hey red, it’s your turn!”

I shift sideways and say, “Oh, go ahead of me.” I turn to Brook and speak softly. “Sorry to keep you Brook. I just thought if we double for the movie yesterday, Sean wouldn’t have a chance to get...you know...all hot and heavy. I hoped that he’d see that you guys have an awesome relationship…you know without having s-e-x.”

“Yeah,” Brook says, frowning, “I'm sorry about not getting back to you guys. Zak’s college acceptance letter came on Friday…and we had this celebratory thing with his folks and mine to on Sunday. I haven't even had a chance to tell anyone!” She sounds so excited. “Zak and I are going to college in Australia!”

“Get out!” We step up to the vending machine and I slide my two dollars in, and feel my chin drop as I absorb Brook’s news. “Wow, really, Australia is so far away from your family.”

Brook nods her head. “That’s the down side, but they’re really happy for us.”

I ask. “How? Why?”

“Well, first of all, it helps to have a Dad who’s a high powered attorney.” Brook's referring to Mr. Shaw, her father is a science professor at Georgetown University. “The World Wide Surfing Federation sponsors a lot of the surfing events and they actually contacted Mr. Shaw about Zak two years ago...”

While Brook fills me in, I halfway listen and push the button for Pepsi. The red ‘EMPTY’ light comes on. Crap! I hit the button several times hoping it’s just a glitch.

“...all summer, Zak and I did a lot of soul searching, research and discussed what it would be like to live down-under. But if it was going to happen, Zak had to write a solid essay explaining why he wanted a career as a legal representative for pro surfers, and send it to WSF and the University of Sydney. Of course I helped him a tad. Long story short, he received a full scholarship from the WSF to the University of Sydney. Of course he has to keep his grades up, but I’ll be there too!”

Zak shouts, “Yo, Brook-miester…over here!”

We look over and see Zak standing on a chair next to an empty table motioning for Brook to hurry up.

Brook shakes her head. “Gotta love him. Good luck with Sean. It’d be so much easier if our men weren’t so cute and we women folk had more chutzpah.” She turns her wrist and checks her wristwatch. “I better scoot…talk to you later Cookie. Anywho, be strong woman!”

“Yeah, sure, later,” I murmur, searching for a second choice, at least no one is in line at moment. Wow, Zak an attorney. If a space cadet can do it, there’s hope for me…

Char MacDougal slides in front of me and pops a large chunk of peanut butter cookie between her glossy purple lips. “Hey, what’s up buttercup?”

She startles me out of my thoughts and I almost drop my books. I roll my eyes. “You have impeccable manners and timing when it comes to butting.”

Char ignore me and buys some grape drink with my money. Then she stands in front of the machine, drains the bottle, and let’s go a colossal burp.

I fan my face. “I thought maybe you and Billy ran off and eloped,” I grumble, digging two more dollars out of my pocket, and smooth them out on my thigh.

“I wish!” Char gushes, and then holds the huge peanut butter cookie in my face. “Wanna bite?”

“No thanks,” I say, ducking around her. I slide my money into the slot. It’s difficult getting it in straight with one hand and the machine keeps spitting it out. I try again; getting something to drink has just become a mission. “Hey, what happened to the e.diet?” Char’s a crash diet junkie. I look over my shoulder and she screws up her face.

“How’d you know about that?”

“I overheard you raving about it at my party.” I stare up at the ceiling and recite, “For a mere twenty bucks e.Diet guarantees weight loss up to twenty pounds. All you have to do is sign up on their website and follow their eating plan. How easy is that?”

“It didn’t work so I wrote to the President and complained. So bite me!”

I roll my eyes and try putting the money in yet again, and it spits it out, both dollars flutter to the floor. I gawk as Char crams the rest of the cookie in her mouth. She makes her legendary bulldog face and growls at me as she jostles me for the money. It’s startling to see the transformation from beautiful girl to a psycho. “Stop it Char, you’re a freak! I push her away and retrieve my money. Rising, I shove my books at her. “Quick…hold these so I can get the freaking machine to take my money!” I refuse to give up!

Reluctantly, Char lays her empty drink bottle and wadded up cookie bag on top of my books, and takes them from me to free up my hands.

“Hey, Char, when are we going to see Madam Suzi?” I ask, putting a hex on the evil machine and carefully smoothing out each corner.

Char thinks a minuet then says, “Let’s go on Friday night. Billy and his folks have to attend a football meeting at eight and fork over money for uniforms and insurance—boring!”

“Cool. Call and make sure it’s okay.” I ask Char, “Should I pick you up?” I ease each dollars into the slot once more. Praise the Lord! It’s a miracle...the machine finally accepted my money!

“Hell yeah, you’re the one with the “sweet ride” sugar.” Char hip bumps me, knocking me into another person. People move away to avoid a collision.

“Sorry, she has Turrets,” I apologize. Then turn my attention back to the drink machine. Feeling lucky, I smack the Pepsi button, and hear a cha-chunk as my Pepsi falls to the opening. I snatch up the can. Jack pot! Three's a charm––or was that the fourth time? Anyway, isn't it funny how small victories can cheer you up. I slip my change in my pocket, step aside, and take back my books from Char. She wanders over to the food and buys a large slice of pizza. I join her. “Four dollars a slice and a buck seventy-five for a cold drink? What a rip off!”

“It’s only money honey.”

I smirk. “Sounds like something Billy would say.”

“Yeah, we're rubbing off on each other. Get it?”

I roll my eyes.

While in line to pay the cashier, Char munches on her pizza and thumbs through the first copy of the school newspaper. “You believe their sob stories?”

I glance at a picture of a pile of rubble. “Don't know, I haven't read them. I'm sitting. My head aches, but not as bad as yesterday.”

I walk over and plop down at an empty table to take a load off. The crowd in the cafeteria is thinning out and I can hear the obnoxious elevator music. It dies and the intercom crackles to life.

“Cookie Blakely please report to the administrative offices without delay.”

I drop my head and hide behind my hair. Having your name called over the intercom is so mortifying. Meanwhile they repeat the same message three times. Okay already! I polish off my Pepsi and Char bounds over shaking another plastic bottle of the same purple drink she had before.

“C, why are they calling you to the office?” She plops down next across from me, chewing on the smelly pizza.

I rub my nose. “I have no idea.” Stalling, I crush my can using both hands.

Meanwhile the office makes the announcement again, this time they add several other names to the list.

“Billy’s in there as we speak.” Char says with a shrug. She takes a long drink and sets the bottle on the table. There’s a purple ape on the label. Did I tell you that Char has a purple fetish? Everything she owns is a shade of purple. Even her favorite movie is The Color Purple.

I look at her. “And you don’t know why?”

Char raises her shoulder and washes down the rest of her food with the grape drink. She licks her lips and wipes pizza grease off her fingers with a paper napkin. “It could be for a number of reasons.”

I roll my hand. “Such as?”

“I’ll ask Billy, he just walked through the door.” Char tosses the wadded up napkin on the table and runs her fingers through her spiked hair, and then quickly applies fresh purple lip gloss, checking her teeth in a mirror.

I stand up and mentally prepare to go to the office.

Char twists side to side, trying to see around me, and then she stands on the bench, rising up on her toes. She rests a hand on my shoulder and cups her hand to her mouth and shouts, “Hey, Brennan, over here!”

She starts jumping up and down, waving her arm in the air. A nerdy guy with an overbite trips on his own feet. He stops and fixes his eyes on Char’s bouncing cleavage. Gross, it’s Bonehead Beal! He’s still wearing the same dork glasses and braces on his horsey teeth. Whoa, over the summer, his chin and nose grew out of proportion to his bony face, now covered with a fresh crop of acne. He raises his camera to his pimply face, about to take a picture.

“Ewe.” I hold up my hand. “Quick, Char get down!”

Char grabs my hand and jumps down. “Here’s the latest copy of The Parrot, it probably explains why they’re calling everybody to the office. Catch up with you later,” she says, walking backwards. “I have something important to tell you.”

“Wait what…you better not fink out on me Friday!”

“Later!” Char calls. She bumps into Beal, shoves him aside, and keeps going.

Jimmy Beal makes a face, and wipes at his shirt as if he’s repulsed.

I take a step and he smiles at me and blocks my path. I turn away and beeline it for front exit. I don’t need his crap. On the way, I see Char and Billy Brennan surrounded by a pack of large sweaty guys wearing Patriot football shirts, probably discussing the little interface with the black students. I think I mentioned that Billy's Georgetown High’s star quarterback and probably the most popular kid at GHS. I guess you could say Billy is good looking—for someone who weighs almost 300 pounds. Char loves that Billy makes her look petite.

At the door, I insert my crushed Pepsi can in the proper recycle bin. Then I pause to let a couple of adults exit and witness Char laying a big wet kiss on Billy, right in front of a couple of lunchroom monitors. PDA is frowned upon at school. One of them taps Char on the shoulder and says something to her. I’d like to stay and see what develops, but I’d better to bolt to the office and get it over with before they come and arrest me. Besides, my curiosity is peaked—in a nauseating way.

I amble through the noisy crowded hallways feeling like a pack mule and the fourth period bell rings. Oh well. I stop and open my new book locker and drop off my armload. I would’ve done this before lunch break if I hadn’t been in such a hurry to meet Sean. I head to the office with my purse slung over my shoulder and my new leather backpack on my back.

Hands finally free, I search for a clue on the front page of The Parrot newspaper Char gave me. The headline reads, Welcome Old and New Students. A color photo shows an extremely pale Goth girl with long burgundy dreads, wearing all black. She’s talking to a black girl by a yellow school bus parked in front of GHS’s redbrick walls. I recognize the Goth girl but I’m not sure why. I check the byline below the picture. Jezebel Indy interviews Keisha Jackson, a new student here at GHS. Photo by James Beal. I pause outside the office, and quickly scan what it says underneath the picture. It's 2006 and GHS is proud to have a more diverse student body. Increasing enrollments, new modular classrooms take up parking space, and … blah, blah, blah … So, bottom line, expect over-crowded classes rooms and long lines in the cafeteria. I scan over a few more pictures of Goth girl standing in the sunny parking lot next to row of 'modulars' talking to other kids. Now that I think about, Jezebel was always working in the front office last year. At the end of the year, she helped me fill out some forms so I could catch up over the summer. It’s just that I’ve never seen her outside in the sunlight.

I tuck the school newspaper under my arm, and open the door and step into the front office, shutting door behind me. It’s empty of souls and it takes a minute for my ears adjust to the quiet. Amazing, I thought the place would be packed. I must be the first one here. Not sure what to do, I stroll over to the long wooden counter and hear a faint clicking noise. A girl with long burgundy dreadlocks tied in a ponytail with black yarn and thick silver spikes piercing her pale ears lobes is sitting with her back to me, typing away on a computer with fingers tipped with black square fingernails. Ah, she has earphone in her ears. She can't hear me. Still she should sense my presence. If I were a snake...

I clear my throat loudly.

Either she’s ignoring me or she’s so enthralled by her work she doesn’t hear me. No problemo, I’m in no hurry to get to class. I’m pretty sure it’s the girl on The Parrot. Like I said, she worked in here last year—what’s her name? I glance down at the paper. Jezebel Indy. “Um, Jezebel?” I speak up. “Sorry to bother you…” Hum, I wonder if being Goth is a lifelong affliction. If so, will she dress her kids in black diapers and pierce their little bodies?

Finally, she pauses and a shoots a dagger look over her shoulder at me. I flinch. Her face is deathly white and her violet eyes are outlined in black pencil. Dark lipstick matches her burgundy hair. “Jezi,” she says dryly, and I get a glimpse of her sliver tongue stud.

I smile. “Ah, right...short for Jezebel. Cool name. I see you’re working in here again,” I say, conversationally and think all that makeup, looks like too much work to throw together at six am.

She goes back to her typing.

Just so she doesn’t forget me, I softly drum my fingers on the counter, and let my eyes trace the ornate black tattoos snaking down the sides of her neck. They vanish behind her shimmery black chemise top, only to emerge out of the sleeveless armholes, and then loop around her upper arms, then slither down her arms and encircle her wrist. Whoa, that masterpiece had to hurt. Last year—pre-Billy World—Char got in with the Gothy, Emo, whatever, crowd. Not that Char is anti-establishment she thought wearing extreme makeup and black outfits were hawt. I lean over the counter, narrow my eyes at the exposed porcelain skin on her neck, checking for two tale-tale bite holes. I recall Char telling me that some of the serious Black/Death metal followers were real vampires and actually drank blood. I was, like, gross. Anyway once it got out that Char was dating a rich football player, she was excommunicated, forever marking a poser.

Jezi turns around again, looks at me, and a shadow of recognition crosses her face. She studies me for a moment then speaks slowly and with zero inflection. “Look, I’m really busy here, what do you need?”

“Um, I remember you from last year.” I touch my chest. “Um, do you remember me? I’m Cookie Blakely.”

“Sorry.”

She does, I can tell by her expression. I shake my head. “Er…never mind. Who cares?” I point to the intercom system sitting on the counter. “During second lunch, somebody called my name and a bunch of others to the office over the intercom.”

“Just a sec,” Jezi mutters, and reluctantly pushes away from the desk and rises slowly out of her chair. Bending over, she pushes a few more keys. “Wait here,” she says, face expressionless. She'd make a great mannequin.

I rise up on my toes and lean over the counter to check out the rest of Jezi’s outfit: black pyramid heels, long filmy skirt in several shades of black and burgundy, made of scarf material. I can hear a faint clumping as she walks down the hallway leading to the staff’s offices and teachers’ lounge. When she turns on her heal and disappears around the corner, I look down and notice a stack of hall passes and flyers on the inner shelf. I consult my timepiece and help myself to one of each. I read about Parent’s Night next Tuesday. I'm sure Pop will want to attend. Not!

I’m alone for a few moments then a group of anxious looking black students come through the door. I recognize a few of them from second lunch. They glance over at me, I smile and they quickly drop their gaze, and slump down in a row of chairs along the far wall. I can see them in the corner of my eye whispering to each other behind their hands.

I silently smack the rolled up school newspaper in the soft of my hand and consult my watch, as if I'm anxious to get to class. Sure wish somebody would tell me why I was called in here. I mean, I can’t think of any school rules or regulations I’ve broken. My parking pass is stuck to the Mustangs windshield as instructed. I’m not showing any belly skin or wearing gang colors… Char’s words ring in my head and I frantically search every page of The Parrot. Several photographs of the devastation Hurricane Katrina did to the Gulf coast are plastered throughout the paper. A headline: I GET BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS. I glance over at the black students. This is a big deal.

Jezi comes back. Her eerie lavender eyes light on the row of anxious faces watching us from across the room. “Somebody will be with you in a sec,” she tells them, and then moves to the far end of the counter and opens the wooden gate. “Go on back Cookie, Mrs. Everett needs to talk to you. Third door on the right.”

Déjà vu.

My stomach does a little flip as I pass through the gate and move down the hallway. After Mom died, I tried to carry on with life as if nothing happened. Mom was rarely home so I thought if I just pretended she was on one of her extended work assignments I'd be able to deal with the grief. I didn't consider all of the media hype about her death. The news reported it as if it was a big FBI mystery. Anyway, it made attending school or even going shopping impossible. I wound up spending a lot of time in Mrs. Everett’s office, crying my eyes out. I wanted to quit school until things calmed down. Mrs. Everett was awesome. As the school psychologist, she was the one who hooked Pop and I up with Dr. Susan Hillman’s grief therapy group which after several visits, led me to believe that there was hope, and that time would help heal my grief and depression. Turns out Mrs. Everett was somewhat right—I haven’t given up hope. I'm still working on the other two things.

Mrs. Everett's door is wide open. She's sitting at a cluttered desk. Her eyes are down. I knock on the doorframe and she looks up smiling. Mrs. Everett is a slender woman with a new platinum helmet-hair-do that might be a wig. “Hi Cookie...come in and please shut the door. It’s good to see you again.” She holds out her hand and points at the chair beside her desk. “Please sit down dear.”

I smile mostly from shock and take a seat. I’m, like, what did she do to her hair and what is with all the pink blush and blue eye shadow? I drop my backpack on the floor and look at her, biting my lip to keep from giggling.

Her hands pat down the sides of her hair. “I decided to go blonde and my stylist talked me into a new short style and a make-up do over.”

I smile. “You look nice.”

Mrs. Everett frowns. “I have to get used to it. Anyhow, I hope you had a restful summer.”

“It was okay.” I avert my eyes and look at her laptop screen sitting in full view by her right elbow. My birth name is at the top of a computer generated class schedule form. “I'm just wondering why I was called here.”

“Well, Cookie, because you worked so hard over the summer, you qualify for an advanced science course recently added to our curriculum. Mrs. Everett says this as if it’s a good thing. “Due to—” Loud angry voices come from upfront, and Mrs. Everett stops talking and scrunches up her face. “What on earth?”

Someone raps on her door and I glance over my shoulder.

“Come in!”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jezi says tensely, “but there are several students out there upset about their schedule changes. What should I tell them?”

Mrs. Everett sighs then gets up with a huff and steps out into the hall with Jezi. I hear them whispering. During this, I sit quietly listening to the loud voices talking out front. It’s a little frightening.

Mrs. Everett closes the door soundly, plops back down in her chair. Her pink cheeks have turned a deep red. She picks up a walkie-talkie and pages security. “Frank, we have a ten-thirty-four… a possible ten-two-hundred.”

Frank says, “Roger that!”

I don’t have a clue what that means, but Mrs. Everett seems very uncomfortable dealing with the black students out front. I watch Mrs. Everett sit silently across the desk, twirling pencil in her fingers. “Uh, is everything alright?”

“Not exactly,” she mumbles crossly, and turns to face the computer monitor. She tucks shiny white strands behind each ear and slides on a pair of glasses with small, light-blue oval frames. Now her hair looks more like a cap than a helmet. Before typing she mutters, “Where was I?” and something else under her breath then clicks away at the keys. She pauses, lowers the glasses, and studies the open folder on her desk. She raises her chin and gazes over the top of her glasses at me. “Cookie, do you still live at thirteen-thirty-five Oak Lawn Lane, Georgetown 20007... Same emergency phone numbers and contacts?”

I tell her, “Nothing has changed.”

“Great.” She pushes the computer’s ENTER key, closes the folder and stands scooting her chair back under the desk. She folds her arms around the notebook and smiles sadly. “I wish I could say nothing has changed this school year. But Mother Nature isn't in our control and many hurricane Katrina refuges moved here with their children. Consequently we’ve had to process their paperwork and adjust class schedules for far too many students to count.”

“I heard that, but please don’t change my––”

The computer makes a little beep noise and Mrs. Everett holds up her finger, cutting me off. I'm begging her not to change my schedule. She presses a button on her phone and snatches up the handset. “Jezi––when it prints out––please bring me Cookie Blakely’s revised class schedule.” She frowns and nods her head then removes her glasses and consults her watch. “I suppose.” From Mrs. Everett's expression I’d say Jezi isn’t happy about dealing with the unhappy students either. “Well thank you for your input dear.”

She hangs up and I feel my eyes bugging. “Mrs. Everett I thought I was all set for this semester, you know, since we filled out my schedule four months ago.”

“Don't worry it’s just a teensy-weensy change Cookie. Moreover, you need the extra science credit to get into college. I conferred with Principal Bishop and your Career Counselor, Mrs. Hanson. Starting today, you'll be in Crime Sciences and Forensics taught by Mr. Jackson, instead of Basic Element Chemistry. It’s one of our newest advanced science classes in our new science wing.” She takes a breath. “We feel this change will better your chances for acceptance in an accredited college or university.”

“I’m not smart enough to take advanced classes. Plus, I may not even go to college.” The Pepsi I guzzled down at lunch is churning in my empty stomach, making my eyes water. I feel a huge air bubble working its way up my esophagus. I blink, press my lips together, and hard swallow. I’m almost afraid to open my mouth.

“Yes you are...” Mrs. Everett pauses and her eyes go to the door. “Oh, drat. I bet the printer is acting up again. Sit tight,” she says, walking over to the door. “I’ll explain further when I get back.”

Uh, I feel sick. I sit forward and place my head between my knees. How do I convince Mrs. Everett to put me back in the BEC class? I feel totally betrayed by one of the only adults I trusted to have my best interest in mind. Tears of frustration sting my eyes. This class sounds much harder. So, when I don’t graduate because I flunked this really hard science class, I won’t be able to even get into a college. Fine by me. But on the downside, I’ll probably end up working at Mickey D’s. Can you say do you want fries with that? I slump back in the chair and let the burp rip. I could care less if anyone hears me. I pat my stomach, ah that helped.

Mrs. Everett returns holding two sheets of paper. “Let's go over the changes, Cookie.”

It startles me when the opens the door again. I guess I'm on edge about all the changes. She sits down and passes me a copy. While Mrs. Everett goes line by line, I sit silently staring at the copy in my lap. I nod my head like a bobble head doll. I look up and she’s leaning against the air conditioning vent letting cold air blow up her top.

“The heat is getting to me this year,” she says, a thin smile twitches on her face then she whispers, “Menopause.” There are red splotches on her face and neck. Her eyebrows rise up on her forehead like two commas. “Any questions dear?”

I don’t know what to say. I look down at my schedule again. So basically all she changed is my last class and put me in first lunch. Hey, maybe this is a good thing.

When I don’t say anything, Mrs. Everett, picks up my folder and fans her face. “Look, Cookie, I’m sorry if I came across a little peeved. It’s just that every school district between here and Louisiana are inundated with new students––

“Because of Hurricane Katrina.”

“Yes. Georgetown High School is literally bursting at the seams! Matter of fact, the hurricane brought Mr. Jackson here as one of our new teachers. He’s a former detective from New Orleans. He tragically lost his poor wife and baby in Katrina’s devastation…homes and livelihoods were destroyed—”

Mrs. Everett chokes up on her last sentence. She covers her mouth with her hand, and then reaches across the desk, picks up a bottle of water and takes a long drink. She looks as if she could use something stronger. All the angst everyone is feeling makes sense. She draws in a deep breath trying to regain her composure and dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “Sorry, I let my emotions get away from me. It’s just so sad,” she tells me, putting the empty bottle on the window seal. She tucks in her top and smooths out her pink pantsuit front, and then sits down in her desk chair.

“I don’t understand why they came here? I mean, Louisiana seems so far away from Georgetown.”

“Many have family and friends living in the tri-state area.”

I recall images of the storm shown in the news and on the Internet. The devastation flashes thorough my mind. I watch Mrs. Everett’s thin pink lips form words, but I feel like I’m miles away.

Mrs. Everett’s gaze drops. “There are several rather sad stories in The Parrott. I see you have a copy.”

I glance numbly at the rolled up paper I’ve been twisting in my sweaty hands, and then back at her. “I had no clue, um, we’d be affected...”

“Wow, those poor people,” I say, feeling guilty about complaining.

“Fifty additional temporary classrooms were delivered just last month. Parking is a nightmare.” She gestures at the wide window behind her. “Thank goodness, they completed our beautiful new Science wing over the summer––it has twenty new classrooms with state of the art labs.”

New Science wing? All I see is a grassy strip and huge red brick wall. I am so out of the loop. Why haven’t I heard about this before today? You quit watching the news with Pop. I couldn’t stand seeing pictures of Mom.

“Is there anything else?” I look at Mrs. Everett with her perky new look.

“Nope.”

I fold my schedule in half, stand up and slide my backpack on my shoulders. The newspaper fits into a narrow side pocket on my backpack.

Mrs. Everett gets up and walks me to the front. “Have you been over to the new Science Wing yet?”

“Um, no not yet, where is it exactly?”

She gives me a pink hall pass and points out the new science wing on a Xeroxed map of the school.

Then she smiles at me, “Don’t worry, you’ll do just fine, Cookie. Detective Dolph Jackson is really neat-o. I think you’ll enjoy his class.” She picks up a list of names and then smiles wearily at the disgruntled bunch waiting to find out what to do. “Jerome Johnson?”

I mumble “thank you” hook my thumb in my backpack strap and turn to go. I begin my hike to the other side campus and the universe of brainiacs.

Dolph sounds foreign, I hope he doesn’t have strong accent. I won’t be able to understand what he’s saying. Where have I heard that name before? Maybe I’m thinking of Dolph Lundgren that macho Swedish guy in the action movies Sean watches all the time. I tell Sean he looks like a younger version of him and he always makes a face and goes, “ya think?” I’m sure I’m not the first to tell him that. I turn the corner and see Sean with his arm around some blonde chic.