“Mr. Petersen is your son? But you have different last names.”
“That’s because John’s father died when John was a teenager. Years later I married ‘Bob’ Bidziil Carpenter. He died, too, a few years back,” Mrs. Carpenter explained. “Anyhow, Maggie Mae, let me lock the dogs back in the barn and we’ll go.”
I nodded because I couldn’t talk. Mr. Petersen had handed me over to his own mother in spite of all my flaws? I felt a funny ache behind my eyes.
After the dogs were locked up, we got into a baby-blue Ford pickup truck that looked older than me. Mrs. Carpenter leaned toward me and plucked something from my hair. “A stick,” she said, showing me a twig with a strand of black still attached.
“So, tell me, Maggie Mae—what happened to your mother and father?”
My hand froze on the seat belt and I looked at her. “I don’t know. They died before I can remember.”
“What about your grandparents?”
I hooked my seat belt. “They’re dead, too. Child services couldn’t trace a single person who I was related to. That’s how I ended up in foster care.”
Mrs. Carpenter studied me for a long moment before starting the truck engine.
“John told me that you didn’t enter the program until you were five years old. Who did you live with until then?” We bounced down the long gravel drive.
A child’s face flashed before my eyes—brown hair, blue eyes, bright red freckles on her full cheeks—the face of Lucy Reynolds, my cousin. But Lucy didn’t have freckles.
“I lived with my aunt and cousin.” My voice was barely audible above the truck engine.
“What happened to them?”
“They … died.”
“Well, Maggie Mae, you and I are alike. Seems that those closest to us die. I lost two husbands; you lost your parents, your cousin, and your aunt. We’re two peas in a pod.”
3
“Now, the kids in this town are different from city kids. They have been raised right, for the most part.”
Mrs. Carpenter pulled into the Silver High School parking lot and bounced into a parking space. She shut off the truck engine, left the keys hanging in the ignition, and got out. I pressed my back against the seat and closed my eyes.
“Well? Aren’t you coming, Maggie Mae?” she asked after a long moment. I opened my eyes. She was staring at me from her open door.
I thrust my chin forward, took a deep breath, and opened my door.
Every single person in that parking lot—student, parent, and teacher alike—stopped what they were doing and stared. I tried not to make contact with any of those eyes, but somehow my eyes locked on his. I couldn’t help it. He was staring right at me and his eyes were as dark as his inky black hair. By his suddenly raised eyebrows, he was very aware that I was gawking at him. He blinked and walked past.
“Bridger O’Connell, wait!” Mrs. Carpenter called out. My heart seemed to freeze as he stopped and faced her.
“Yes, Mrs. C.?” he asked, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
“Would you mind showing Maggie Mae around the school while I get her registered?” Mrs. Carpenter nodded toward me.
Bridger glanced from Mrs. Carpenter to me, eyeing me from my stringy wet hair to my shoes, and hesitated.
He wore all the right things—name-brand jeans that fit him like they’d been tailored to his tall body, a tan leather jacket over a button-up shirt—even his backpack looked brand-new. I looked down, hating the fact that my jeans were too long and bunched up over Jenny Sue’s old running shoes, hating the rips over both my knees, hating the black T-shirt that was faded to more of a reddish gray, hating the duffle bag I used in place of a backpack. I wouldn’t want to be seen with me, either.
“I don’t need any help, Mrs. Carpenter. I can show myself around,” I said, not taking my eyes from Bridger’s.
“I don’t mind,” Bridger said halfheartedly, running a hand through his hair.
“I don’t want to be seen with you. It might tarnish my image,” I replied, tucking my hair behind my ears. It was easier to go to school when everyone thought you were a loner because you chose to be, not because you were dirt poor and dressed all wrong. “I’ll meet you in the office, Mrs. Carpenter,” I said, glancing at her astonished face before pushing past Bridger O’Connell. He smelled amazing.
For a small town, the school was big, with white tile walls that made it feel antiseptic. I’d been in enough new schools that finding my way around another was second nature. The students stared as I wandered by. Their conversations stopped—until I walked past. And then the halls filled with voices.
After a quick self-guided tour, I made my way to the front office and found Mrs. Carpenter talking to a short, plump woman sitting behind the front desk. The plaque on the desk read SHAUNA WINSLOW. She held a piece of paper out to me.
“Your new schedule,” she said. “Your transcripts arrived this morning and I took the liberty of basing your new classes off the old. Welcome to Silver High.”
“Thanks.” I took the paper and scanned my new schedule. Chemistry, then Algebra II, and then twelfth-grade English followed by lunch and a free period. After that I had Animal Medicine, Health and Wellness, and Agricultural Studies. Animal Medicine sounded interesting, but everything else was just day-filler till I could get my diploma and be done with school forever.
“I’ll show myself to my first class,” I said, looking at Mrs. Carpenter.
“All right, Maggie Mae. I had Shauna write your bus number right here.” She touched the top corner of the schedule. “It’ll drop you off about a quarter mile from my house.”
“ ’Kay,” I replied.
“She’s sure an independent thing,” Shauna Winslow said as I walked out the door.
I wandered down the deserted hall, scanning the closed doors for room 3. When I found it, I put my hand on the icy knob, took a deep breath, and turned.
The smell of rotten eggs and perfume greeted me—lab day.
I scanned the room as I closed the door behind me. Everyone was neatly paired at individual lab tables, doing an experiment with sulfuric acid or some other fragrant chemical.
“May I help you?” the man at the front of the room asked.
“I’m Maggie Mae Mortensen. I’m new to this school and was assigned your class,” I explained. My mouth went dry as every pair of eyes in the class shifted to me.
“There must be some mistake,” the teacher said, shaking his glossy bald head. “Only the brightest students who took my biology class last year are eligible for my advanced chemistry class. And besides, you won’t have a lab partner.”
I cleared my throat. “Well, I just got a schedule from Shauna and it says I’m in this class.”
The teacher strode over to me, yanking the schedule from my fingers without a word. He scanned the schedule and frowned. I focused on his tacky brown tie. “Well. Have you taken chemistry before?”
“Yes, junior year.”
“That solves it. You don’t need to take it again. I’ll go to Principal Smith’s office and get you switched to a more … appropriate class.”
He squeezed past me and out the door. I stood, silent and miserable, and returned the stares of the students.
What felt like a year later, the teacher came back and handed me my schedule.
“All fixed,” he said smugly. Where my chemistry class had been listed was a black line. Written above it in permanent marker were the words “Track and Field—Gym.” I guess I’d just joined the track team.
“Where’s the gym?” I asked.
“I’ll show her, Mr. Guymon!” a female voice piped out. A short, dark-haired girl hurried out of her seat.
“Thank you, Bonnie,” Mr. Guymon said. I could see the relief wash over him as I turned to leave.
“I’m Bonnie Schuler,” Bonnie said, holding her hand out to me as we walked. I placed my hand in hers and shook.
“Maggie Mae,” I replied.
“So, where did you move here from?” she asked, voice as sweet as honey.
“Albuquerque.”
She gasped and grabbed one of my hands in both of hers. “You’re from the city?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I love the city. My family goes there every fall for back-to-school shopping. I got this shirt there.”
I looked at her Abercrombie T-shirt and nodded as if impressed.
“Did you know Albuquerque is the thirty-fourth largest city in the country?”
“No. Didn’t know that.”
“Oh my gosh! And you lived there? How could you not know?”
I shrugged.
“Well, anyway, here we are. The gym. So, do you like running?”
Do I like running? Not particularly, I thought, recalling the grueling days in ninth-grade gym class where the teacher made us run three miles. “Sure,” I answered.
Bonnie started laughing. “I can totally tell you’re from the city.”
“You can?”
“Yeah. You’re so aloof. And your freaky black hair. You totally look Goth.”
I nodded. “Well, thanks for showing me the way, Bonnie,” I said as I pushed the gym door open.
“Sure. And Maggie Mae—” I turned to look at her. “Sit with me at lunch if you want,” she said as she hurried down the hall.
I walked into the silent gym and stared at the hall of fame jerseys tacked to the wall.
“Where are you supposed to be?”
I whirled around.
“I said, where are you supposed to be, young lady?”
A barrel-chested man in his midthirties stared me down from a door leading into what I assumed was the locker room.
“Hi. I’m new. I have Track and Field first period,” I explained, walking over to him and waving my schedule.
He eyed me and frowned. “Did you bring your gym clothes?”
I didn’t own gym clothes. “No, sir.”
