She’s old, and mean, and looks like cross between frog and pit bull. The old Lena would have been terrified of teacher like Mrs. Fierstein gives me final stare-meant to intimidate me, guess-and turns back to the board, returning to her lecture on the divine energy of electrons. I’m pushing aside the memory of my nightmare, pushing aside thoughts of Alex, pushing aside thoughts of Hana and my old school, push, push, push, like Raven taught me to do. “Do you understand?” “It won’t happen again,” say, trying to look obedient and contrite. “This is your final warning, Miss Jones,” Mrs. People avoid me like have disease-like have the disease. I’ve been enrolled at Edwards since just after winter break- only little more than two months-and already I’ve been labeled the Number-One Weirdo. “Since you seem to find the Creation of the Natural Order so exhausting,” she says, “might suggest trip to the principal’s office to wake you up?” “No!” burst out, louder than intended to, provoking new round of giggles from the other girls in my class. This is the third time I’ve fallen asleep in her class this week. Fierstein, the twelfth-grade science teacher at Quincy Edwards High School for Girls in Brooklyn, Section 5, District 17, is glaring at me. “Alex,” say, and then, short scream: “Alex!” “Lena Morgan Jones!” snap into awareness, to muted chorus of giggles.
hysterical feeling is building inside me, shrieking voice saying wrong, wrong, wrong, and sit up and place my hand on Alex’s chest, as cold as ice. “Look at me,” say, but he doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t blink, doesn’t move at all. He is staring at the leaves without blinking. “Come on, I’m cold.” “I’m cold,” he parrots, from lips that barely move. try to move into the space between his arm and his chest but his body is rigid, unyielding. “Give me your arm,” say, but Alex doesn’t respond. My breath comes in clouds, and press against him, trying to stay warm. And again realize he’s right: It is snowing, thick flakes the color of ash swirling all around us. We are staring at the web of leaves above us, thick as wall. There’s basket at the foot of the blanket, filled with half-rotten fruit, swarmed by tiny black ants. “It probably wasn’t the best day for picnic,” Alex says, and just then realize that yes, of course, we haven’t eaten any of the food we brought. The leaves are almost black, knitted so tightly together they blot out the sky. The trees look larger and darker than usual. Lex and are lying together on blanket in the backyard of 37 Brooks. Dedication To my parents: Thank you for all the books, phone calls, free meals, endless patience, and boundless love.
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