A few kids glance up and whisper when I make my way to my computer. I drop my backpack and parka at my feet and sink into my chair. I hide behind my monitor. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
Thankfully, when Mr Pence, our Advanced CADD teacher, starts class, everyone snaps their attention to his glistening bald head. Mr Pence is one of the few teachers I actually like at SVH. He’s huge, like a professional football player, built like a tank with biceps bigger than my head, and yet he’s total Computer Geek to the core. We understand each other. We speak the same language. I try to show him some respect and pay attention while he marks the steps for this week’s AutoCAD project on the whiteboard at the front of the room, but when his dry erase marker squeaks out a number four in Roman numerals, my mind wanders.
IV.
The letters on my Polygon stone. My name from my most recent past life. When I worked with Blue. When we were partners.
I pull the stone from my pocket and run my fingers over the letters again. The little boy in the wire-rimmed glasses is Blue. He must be. No one else could make me feel such strong déjà vu, the kind that pulls me into Limbo so easily. Porter said something about Blue looking very different at AIDA. Maybe that’s why I remember him having blond hair and dark eyes. Not dark hair and blue-green eyes.
What did he look like now in Base Life? Like the Blue from Chicago? Or like the Blue from AIDA? Either way, that little boy who played Polygon with me at AIDA, who watched as Gesh hit me, was no longer my friend.
I had to remember that.
I trace the L, V, and I on the other side of the Polygon stone. Fifty-six in Roman numerals. The exact number of soulmarks I had hidden in my garden in Limbo. Fifty-six lives lived. Is that why that number was carved into my stone? Or did it represent a name, like IV did?
That train of thought leads me back to 1876. The Descender asked me a question as I lay covered in my own blood.
Who handed you that load of bull? Was it Levi? Are you still working with him?
LVI. Levi. That must’ve been Porter’s name before he changed it and went into hiding.
I push the stone back in my pocket. I dig my cell phone from my backpack and hide it in my lap while Mr Pence explains the steps of our project one-by-one. He wants us to draw a 2D model of a bicycle wheel using the Array command we learned last week, which sounds simple enough. I pull up Porter’s number and shoot him a text: Who’s Levi?
A few minutes later, my phone lights up. Where did you hear that name?
So I was right. The letters did represent a name.
I wait for Mr Pence to turn back to the whiteboard before I type out my response. The Descender asked if I was working with “Levi.” He meant you, didn’t he? That was your name at AIDA.
It makes sense. Porter was the one who taught me how to play Polygon. He probably taught Blue too. Maybe Blue has his own stone, a black one, with III carved on one side and LVI on the other. Fifty-six. Porter’s number at AIDA.
It takes a while for Porter to respond this time, like he’s hesitating. The class is almost ready to start working with the dimensions Mr Pence wrote on the board. If Porter doesn’t write back soon, I won’t be able to check my messages until the end of class.
Mr Pence makes his way around the room to check on our progress. I keep my phone on my lap, glancing down every two seconds while I fire up AutoCAD and start my project. My knee bounces. I chew on my thumbnail. Mr Pence nears my station.
My phone lights up.
We’ll talk about this later.
My knee stops bouncing. I drop my hand in my lap. Of course we’ll talk later. That’s what people say when they’re avoiding something. It took over six months for Mom and Dad to finally tell me what was going on with Audrey. And those were some of the worst months of my life. All that waiting. All that heavy unknown.
I fist the phone in my hand, so tired of Porter always choosing what I should and shouldn’t know. He wasn’t protecting me by leaving me in the dark. When would he understand that? Besides, what was so dangerous about knowing his real name? It’s not like I would tell anyone.
“Cell phones away, Miss Wayfare,” Mr Pence says, patting me on the shoulder as he walks by. “Let’s get to work.”
I drop my phone in my bag, my cheeks tinged red.
The first straw lands softly on the camel’s back.
STRAW NUMBER TWO
When I head to second period French, everyone still stares at me. Some swap whispers behind cupped hands. I duck into a restroom just to make sure I don’t have something stuck to my forehead.
I run a hand through my hair, wondering what the heck everyone’s problem is. I guess I do look a little strange without glasses – I’ve worn them since first grade – but I don’t look hideous. I actually think I look pretty good. My hair’s doing this layered thing that frames my face and makes my eyes pop. They look more blue than gray today.
I actually look normal for once. More like them.
So what’s the problem?
It isn’t until I grab my seat in French class that I figure it out. Two freshmen behind me whisper a little too loudly behind their textbooks.
“I heard she was with him all Friday night.”
“Stacy said Tabitha caught them together.”
All at once, everything clicks together. Friday night. When I gave Jensen a ride home from the library.
Oh.
My.
God.
Are they talking about me and Jensen, and the social atrocity he committed last Friday? It completely slipped my mind after traveling back in time, robbing a train, and, you know, getting shot.
Twice.
I glance at the door. I can make a run for it before Madame Cavanaugh comes in if I bolt now, but I’m not fast enough. Madame Cavanaugh swoops in wearing one of her usual flowered dresses, her arms outstretched, and gives the class a jubilant, “Bonjour!” Her dark hair is permed in a perfect helmet shape around her head. Her pink sneakers squeak on the floor.
I sink lower in my chair and ride out the rest of class as quietly as I can. I should’ve stayed home sick.
STRAW NUMBER THREE
My next period is gym with Tabitha and her friends. I’m fairly sure life can’t get much crueler than that.
I contemplate ditching school all together, but something inside me refuses. Call it Shooter Delaney’s stubbornness. If I can hold my own against five gun-wielding outlaws like the Carters, I should be able to stand up against five of the most popular girls in school.
Theoretically speaking.
When I enter the locker room, there’s already a crowd of girls gathered around Tabitha like a support group. They all turn to look at me, eyes wide. I make my way to my locker, ignoring them, hoping they’ll leave me be, but they follow me like a gaggle of ducklings. They stand behind me, a united front of school colors, blue and gold gym shorts and white shirts. Arms crossed over sports bras.
“Tell them all you did was give him a ride home,” Tabitha says, standing at the front of the group. I can feel her glare on my back. Like the point of a blade right between the shoulder blades.
I don’t turn around. I stuff my backpack and parka into my tiny gym locker and parrot what she says. “All I did was give him a ride home.”
“But she doesn’t drive,” one of the other girls blurts out. I think her name is Sally. She’s standing off to the side, trembling like she might burst from all the gossip she has stored inside.
“Yeah,” someone else says. “I thought people who had seizures weren’t allowed to drive.”
“It was a rumor,” Tabitha says. “She doesn’t have seizures. And she can drive. Isn’t that right, Wayspaz?”