WELCOME TO MERRYWEATHER HIGH

It is my first morning of high school. I have seven new notebooks,a skirt I hate, and a stomachache.

The school bus wheezes to my corner. The door opens and Istep up. I am the first pickup of the day. The driver pulls awayfrom the curb while I stand in the aisle. Where to sit? I'venever been a backseat wastecase. If I sit in the middle, astranger could sit next to me. If I sit in the front, it will makeme look like a little kid, but I figure it's the best chance I haveto make eye contact with one of my friends, if any of themhave decided to talk to me yet.

The bus picks up students in groups of four or five. As theywalk down the aisle, people who were my middle-school labpartners or gym buddies glare at me. I close my eyes. This iswhat I've been dreading. As we leave the last stop, I am theonly person sitting alone.

The driver downshifts to drag us over the hills. The engineclanks, which makes the guys in the back holler somethingobscene. Someone is wearing too much cologne. I try to openmy window, but the little latches won't move. A guy behindme unwraps his breakfast and shoots the wrapper at the backof my head. It bounces into my lap?a Ho-Ho.

We pass janitors painting over the sign in front of the highschool. The school board has decided that "MerryweatherHigh?Home of the Trojans" didn't send a strong abstinencemessage, so they have transformed us into the Blue Devils.Better the Devil you know than the Trojan you don't, I guess.School colors will stay purple and gray. The board didn't wantto spring for new uniforms.

Older students are allowed to roam until the bell, but ninth-gradersare herded into the auditorium. We fall into clans:Jocks, Country Clubbers, Idiot Savants, Cheerleaders, HumanWaste, Eurotrash, Future Fascists of America, Big Hair Chix,the Marthas, Suffering Artists, Thespians, Goths, Shredders. Iam clanless. I wasted the last weeks of August watching badcartoons. I didn't go to the mall, the lake, or the pool, or answerthe phone. I have entered high school with the wronghair, the wrong clothes, the wrong attitude. And I don't haveanyone to sit with.

I am Outcast.

There is no point looking for my ex-friends. Our clan, thePlain Janes, has splintered and the pieces are being absorbedby rival factions. Nicole lounges with the Jocks, comparingscars from summer league sports. Ivy floats between the SufferingArtists on one side of the aisle and the Thespians on theother. She has enough personality to travel with two packs.Jessica has moved to Nevada. No real loss. She was mostlyIvy's friend, anyway.

The kids behind me laugh so loud I know they're laughingabout me. I can't help myself. I turn around. It's Rachel, surroundedby a bunch of kids wearing clothes that most definitelydid not come from the EastSide Mall. Rachel Bruin, myex-best friend. She stares at something above my left ear.Words climb up my throat. This was the girl who sufferedthrough Brownies with me, who taught me how to swim, whounderstood about my parents, who didn't make fun of mybedroom. If there is anyone in the entire galaxy I am dying totell what really happened, it's Rachel. My throat burns.

Her eyes meet mine for a second. "I hate you," she mouthssilently. She turns her back to me and laughs with her friends.I bite my lip. I am not going to think about it. It was ugly, butit's over, and I'm not going to think about it. My lip bleeds alittle. It tastes like metal. I need to sit down.

I stand in the center aisle of the auditorium, a wounded zebrain a National Geographic special, looking for someone, anyone,to sit next to. A predator approaches: gray jock buzz cut,whistle around a neck thicker than his head. Probably a socialstudies teacher, hired to coach a blood sport.

Mr. Neck: "Sit."

I grab a seat. Another wounded zebra turns and smiles at me.She's packing at least five grand worth of orthodontia, but hasgreat shoes. "I'm Heather from Ohio," she says. "I'm newhere. Are you?" I don't have time to answer. The lights dimand the indoctrination begins.

    THE FIRST TEN LIES THEY TELL YOU IN HIGH SCHOOL

1. We are here to help you.

2. You will have enough time to get to your class before] the bell rings.]

3. The dress code will be enforced.

4. No smoking is allowed on school grounds.

5. Our football team will win the championship this year.

6. We expect more of you here.

7. Guidance counselors are always available to listen.

8. Your schedule was created with your needs in mind.

9. Your locker combination is private.

10. These will be the years you look back on fondly.

My first class is biology. I can't find it and get my first demeritfor wandering the hall. It is 8:50 in the morning. Only 699days and 7 class periods until graduation.

OUR TEACHERS ARE THE BEST ...

My English teacher has no face. She has uncombed stringyhair that droops on her shoulders. The hair is black from herpart to her ears and then neon orange to the frizzy ends. Ican't decide if she had pissed off her hairdresser or is morphinginto a monarch butterfly. I call her Hairwoman.

Hairwoman wastes twenty minutes taking attendance becauseshe won't look at us. She keeps her head bent over her desk sothe hair flops in front of her face. She spends the rest of classwriting on the board and speaking to the flag about our requiredreading. She wants us to write in our class journalsevery day, but promises not to read them. I write about howweird she is.

We have journals in social studies, too. The school must havegotten a good price on journals. We are studying Americanhistory for the ninth time in nine years. Another reviewof map skills, one week of Native Americans, ChristopherColumbus in time for Columbus Day, the Pilgrims intime for Thanksgiving. Every year they say we're going to getright up to the present, but we always get stuck in the IndustrialRevolution. We got to World War I in seventh grade?whoknew there had been a war with the whole world? Weneed more holidays to keep the social studies teachers ontrack.

My social studies teacher is Mr. Neck, the same guy whogrowled at me to sit down in the auditorium. He remembersme fondly. "I got my eye on you. Front row."

Nice seeing you again, too. I bet he suffers from post-traumaticstress disorder. Vietnam or Iraq?one of those TV wars.

SPOTLIGHT

I find my locker after social studies. The lock sticks a little,but I open it. I dive into the stream of fourth-period lunch studentsand swim down the hall to the cafeteria.

I know enough not to bring lunch on the first day of highschool. There is no way of telling what the acceptable fashionwill be. Brown bags?humble testament to suburbia, or terminalgeek gear? Insulated lunch bags?hip way to save theplanet, or sign of an overinvolved mother? Buying is the onlysolution. And it gives me time to scan the cafeteria for afriendly face or an inconspicuous corner.

The hot lunch is turkey with reconstituted dried mashed potatoesand gravy, a damp green vegetable, and a cookie. I'm notsure how to order anything else, so I just slide my tray alongand let the lunch drones fill it. This eight-foot senior in frontof me somehow gets three cheeseburgers, French fries, andtwo Ho-Hos without saying a word. Some sort of Morse codewith his eyes, maybe. Must study this further. I follow the BasketballPole into the cafeteria.

I see a few friends?people I used to think were my friends?butthey look away. Think fast, think fast. There's that new girl,Heather, reading by the window. I could sit across from her. Or Icould crawl behind a trash can. Or maybe I could dump my lunchstraight into the trash and keep moving right on out the door.

The Basketball Pole waves to a table of friends. Of course.The basketball team. They all swear at him?a bizarre greetingpracticed by athletic boys with zits. He smiles and throwsa Ho-Ho. I try to scoot around him.

Thwap! A lump of potatoes and gravy hits me square in thecenter of my chest. All conversation stops as the entire lunchroomgawks, my face burning into their retinas. I will be foreverknown as "that girl who got nailed by potatoes the firstday." The Basketball Pole apologizes and says something else,but four hundred people explode in laughter and I can't readlips. I ditch my tray and bolt for the door.

I motor so fast out of the lunchroom the track coach woulddraft me for varsity if he were around. But no, Mr. Neck hascafeteria duty. And Mr. Neck has no use for girls who can runthe one hundred in under ten seconds, unless they're willing todo it while holding on to a football.

Mr. Neck: "We meet again."

Me:

Would he listen to "I need to go home and change," or "Did yousee what that bozo did"? Not a chance. I keep my mouth shut.

Mr. Neck: "Where do you think you're going?"

Me:

It is easier not to say anything. Shut your trap, button yourlip, can it. All that crap you hear on TV about communicationand expressing feelings is a lie. Nobody really wants to hearwhat you have to say.

Mr. Neck makes a note in his book. "I knew you were troublethe first time I saw you. I've taught here for twenty-four yearsand I can tell what's going on in a kid's head just by looking intheir eyes. No more warnings. You just earned a demerit forwandering the halls without a pass."

SANCTUARY

Art follows lunch, like dream follows nightmare. The classroomis at the far end of the building and has long,south-facing windows. The sun doesn't shine much in Syracuse,so the art room is designed to get every bit of lightit can. It is dusty in a clean-dirt kind of way. The floor islayered with dry splotches of paint, the walls plasteredwith sketches of tormented teenagers and fat puppies, theshelves crowded with clay pots. A radio plays my favoritestation.

Mr. Freeman is ugly. Big old grasshopper body, like a stilt-walkingcircus guy. Nose like a credit card sunk between hiseyes. But he smiles at us as we file into class.

He is hunched over a spinning pot, his hands muddy red."Welcome to the only class that will teach you how to survive,"he says. "Welcome to Art."

I sit at a table close to his desk. Ivy is in this class. She sits bythe door. I keep staring at her, trying to make her look at me.That happens in movies?people can feel it when other peoplestare at them and they just have to turn around and say something.Either Ivy has a great force field, or my laser vision isn'tvery strong. She won't look back at me. I wish I could sit withher. She knows art.

Mr. Freeman turns off the wheel and grabs a piece of chalkwithout washing his hands. "SOUL," he writes on the board.The clay streaks the word like dried blood. "This is where youcan find your soul, if you dare. Where you can touch that partof you that you've never dared look at before. Do not comehere and ask me to show you how to draw a face. Ask me tohelp you find the wind."

I sneak a peek behind me. The eyebrow telegraph is flashingfast. This guy is weird. He must see it, he must know what weare thinking. He keeps on talking. He says we will graduateknowing how to read and write because we'll spend a millionhours learning how to read and write. (I could argue thatpoint.)

Mr. Freeman: "Why not spend that time on art: painting,sculpting, charcoal, pastel, oils? Are words or numbers moreimportant than images? Who decided this? Does algebra moveyou to tears?" (Hands raise, thinking he wants answers./"Can the plural possessive express the feelings in your heart?If you don't learn art now, you will never learn to breathe!!!"

There is more. For someone who questions the value ofwords, he sure uses a lot of them. I tune out for a while andcome back when he holds up a huge globe that is missing halfof the Northern Hemisphere. "Can anyone tell me what thisis?" he asks. "A globe?" ventures a voice in the back. Mr.Freeman rolls his eyes. "Was it an expensive sculpture thatsome kid dropped and he had to pay for it out of his ownmoney or they didn't let him graduate?" asks another.

Mr. Freeman sighs. "No imagination. What are you, thirteen?Fourteen? You've already let them beat your creativity out ofyou! This is an old globe I used to let my daughters kickaround my studio when it was too wet to play outside. Oneday Jenny put her foot right through Texas, and the UnitedStates crumbled into the sea. And voilà?an idea! This brokenball could be used to express such powerful visions?youcould paint a picture of it with people fleeing from the hole,with a wet-muzzled dog chewing Alaska?the opportunitiesare endless. It's almost too much, but you are importantenough to give it to."

Huh?

"You will each pick a piece of paper out of the globe." Hewalks around the room so we can pull red scraps from thecenter of the earth. "On the paper you will find one word, thename of an object. I hope you like it. You will spend the restof the year learning how to turn that object into a piece of art.You will sculpt it. You will sketch it, papier-mâché it, carve it.If the computer teacher is talking to me this year, you can usethe lab for computer-aided designs. But there's a catch?by theend of the year, you must figure out how to make your objectsay something, express an emotion, speak to every personwho looks at it."

Some people groan. My stomach flutters. Can he really let usdo this? It sounds like too much fun. He stops at my table. Iplunge my hand into the bottom of the globe and fish out mypaper. "Tree." Tree? It's too easy. I learned how to draw a treein second grade. I reach in for another piece of paper. Mr.Freeman shakes his head. "Ah-ah-ah," he says. "You justchose your destiny, you can't change that."

He pulls a bucket of clay from under the pottery wheel,breaks off fist-sized balls, and tosses one to each of us.Then he turns up the radio and laughs. "Welcome to thejourney."

Copyright © 1999 Laurie Halse Anderson. All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-374-37152-0