Renny Boy

It was always weird at the beginning of a new school year. I was always like a lost cat, I had no clue where in the heck my classes were, I didn’t know the teachers, and this entire school was just a nuclear explosion waiting to happen. I was lucky I didn’t suffocate in the crowds of all five billion students.

Picture, like, a crammed interstate road that was jam-packed with Hummers as far as the eye can see. And they were all moving slower than a 1984 computer, just dragging along the road at an astonishing pace of half a mile an hour. And among this cluster was a tiny little Smart Car desperately trying to squeeze among all the SUVs but getting crushed in the process.

Those were exactly what the hallways of Claymore Middle School felt like for me. Well…at least I was taller than a lot of those idiots.

For first period, I had math class. My teacher was an ex-army guy, so I was expecting some tough dude that didn’t tolerate kids who misbehaved. Oh man, was I wrong - the guy was like a student, bouncing off the walls with a big stupid grin plastered on his face. Teachers are weird.

There were a few kids from my elementary school last year, so that was kind of a relief; not that I felt the need to talk to them, though. Silently, I rejoiced when I saw two or three of them pile through the door. Ah…people I recognized!

None of them stopped to say hi to me, except for this dude Luke, which didn’t surprise me. Even then, all he did was smile a little and wave. I gave a halfassed little twitch back. It didn’t surprise me; throughout elementary school he was the friendliest kid I knew.

Other than him and the few others who mostly regarded me as that silent kid who looked vaguely familiar, most of the other kids came from different places. I was expecting maybe two or three other elementary schools to be in the picture, but yet again I was wrong. Try ten schools. (Okay, not that much, but you get the idea.)

When I took a seat as far away from civilization as possible, I started people-watching. That’s when you just start darting your eyes around the vicinity until something catches your sight. The key is to do it in an incognito fashion – something I was exceptionally good at.

Mission accomplished. Something grabbed my attention almost immediately and soon enough my brain was confused.

It was one girl’s shirt. It was a solid black tee with a cherub’s head on it, and underneath the head was a banner with the words “Hey Mercedes” on it.

It’s flashback time, kids:

I was sitting at the computer desk as a mere ten year old, gazing into the vast world of cyberspace at one in the morning. I was half asleep, but I couldn’t go to bed. Yeah. I know. Weird. I was surfing Yahoo music looking for random crap, bands that probably came up out of absolute nowhere, when I typed in ‘hey’ into the search engine. And here came Hey Mercedes, this little unknown band from Illinois that I’d never heard of. But within a few minutes I had liked what I heard, even though I couldn’t quite pinpoint the sound, and over the next few years they grew to be one of my favorites.

Alright. Point is, I was kinda stopped in my tracks by that chick, whoever she was. It’s not often a musically-pretentious seventh grader finds another soul who seems to know of some obscure band. What the hell are the odds of that? Pretty slim, I’m sure. I’m convinced it was sheer luck that it happened.

The teacher seemed cool, for being the first day of school and all. He started off with student introductions, which he made completely optional. As you can probably guess, I didn’t participate. Other kids did, and I observed that a lot of them came from a ton of different schools. Some were sports stars, some were actors and actresses, some were artists. But every student had a distinctive trait.

“Are you ready for some serious mathin’?!” he chanted. Nobody said anything until he moved his hands like he was trying to pump up a concert crowd, and this was no concert.

“Yeah…” the class moaned with, like, no energy at all. Duh. First day back from summer vacation.
Once he got the picture and stopped trying to make us any happier that another year of school had started, the bell rang and second period began.

Ah, what I thought would be my least favorite period.

- - -

Gym class.

I’d overheard from the eighth graders that the teachers make you do a hundred push-ups if you misbehave even slightly. Now, I wasn’t too gullible, but I got nervous when it comes to physically exerting myself.

That day, a flood of kids pushed through the double doors to get inside the gym. Well, I guess flood wouldn’t be the right word for that - if it were a flood, they’d be moving fast. These people trickled in like syrup, probably getting lost in measly corridor that led to the gym.

After, like, a year of trying to get inside, I finally got through. And once I did, the smell of polyurethane and rubber pelted my senses and the biggest indoor space I’d ever set foot in stared me right in the face.

A year ago, my idea of gym class didn’t involve a real gym. We just played around with rubber balls and staged unrealistic basketball games. But in junior high, we actually had to buy gym uniforms. Did people get that sweaty?

Red bleachers sat on the other side of the room, accompanied by signs with the coaches’ names over them. I was assigned to Coach Someone-Or-Other (I forget her name), so I sat at her section.

And Hey-Mercedes-shirt-girl was there too. How’d I know?

I parked my butt a few feet away, one bleacher up. She had her attention set on a pocket-sized book in front of her, never bothering to look up or even brush the pale blonde hair out of her eyes.

Coach Someone-Or-Other walked up in front of us, holding a clipboard. She looked like the type of teacher who was fresh out of college, and when she opened her mouth to speak, she only proved my theory right.

She took attendance just like any other teacher would, and then explained the rules as the other coaches were. “You need gym clothes and a locker, so buy them by Friday. We’ll be doing physical fitness testing next week, so wear tennis shoes…” she lectured in a monotone. I stopped paying attention real quick.

When she was done going off on a tangent, she raised her voice a few octaves and let us know that we were free to play with dodgeballs and basketballs and crap.

A stampede of kids erupted from the stands to the supply closet, eager to find a ball before they were all taken. Me, the Hey-Mercedes-shirt-girl, and a few other kids were the only ones in the bleachers. She was still reading, and I was bored as hell.

After about five minutes, my mind was set – darn it, I was a loser in elementary school, but here was my chance to make up for it and actually have something to talk to someone about. I was gonna start a conversation with her. It wasn’t like I had anything to lose.

I scooted one bleacher down, and she glanced at me for half a second. “So…um, I noticed your shirt…” I mumbled, a little flustered. All I could hope was that she knew I was talking to her. “Where did you get it?”

She smiled a little, raising an eyebrow. “I got it for Christmas, I dunno.”

I nodded, causing exactly what I didn’t want to happen - a silence. She then stuck her nose back in her book, stared at the double doors for a split second, and then did a double-take.

“Hold the phone. You like Hey Mercedes too?” she asked.

“Anything Bob Nanna does is awesome, really,” I replied. It actually took me a second to realize I was actually talking and not cowering in fear.

“True that,” she added, sighing, “it’s a good thing I’m not the only one at this school who knows who he is. I was scared to death I’d be a hipster again.”

I was at a loss for words, not knowing what to do next. What was a hipster…? Never mind. I’d take my question to the Internet later.

“Aren’t you in my math class?” she said again.

“Yeah,” I simply said.

“You’re, like, the only one who didn’t do the introduction thing. I didn’t even know who you were when you started talkin’, but then I recognized you,” she said jokingly. “Kinda. Talk more.”

“Well, there’s not much to say sometimes,” I explained.

“Then make something up. That’s what I did at my old school,” she said, winking.

“Are you new here?” I asked.

She nodded, taking a second to brush some hair out of her eyes. “I moved here from Santa Monica just a couple weeks ago.”

“That explains the hat that says ‘SoCal’,” I pointed out, thinking it was a dumb thing to say until I caught her smiling back at me, the tiny word giving away her home etched in graffiti letters on her beanie.

“Hey, wait. What’s your name?” she asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Ren.”

“Ren. Cool. Is your last name Hoek by any chance?”

“No. And don’t ask where Stimpy is.”

She pursed her lips but still grinned a little.

I smiled, copying her. “How about you, what’s your name?”

“Soria.”

I beamed, going off in thought. “That’s a song, isn’t it?”

She cocked her head. “Cap’n Jazz?”

“Yup!”

“Yeah, but I don’t think my parents had any clue who they were when they named me,” she laughed. “I think they came up with that stupid name all on their own.”

“No biggie. I’ve got a stupid name too,” I shrugged.

I was not expecting her to get such an obscure reference to a band that most people have never heard of. And for the first time that entire day, and in my entire life, I didn’t feel alone. It was a good day.

“So what’s your favorite song by Hey Mercedes?” I asked, desperately wanting to carry on the conversation.

“I’m gonna go with…‘Quality Revenge.’ It’s the first song I learned to play,” she replied.

“Play what?” Curiosity kicked in, and I’m so glad it did.

“Guitar,” she spoke, nodding. My heart skipped a beat – Holy crap, a real-life guitar player besides my dad. A girl one, too! “D’you play?”

“Well, no,” I said, “but I sing a little.” Looking back, I’m amazed – no, shocked - at how early I actually told someone that I sang. To others, they’d probably never figure it out. It was just one of those things I was so amazingly awesome at keeping secret. Well, unless someone found out about it without my approval.

Soria grinned. “Awesome, are you in that chorus thing?”

I tilted my head, blushing since I just spilled maybe my biggest secret. “Yeah, I’m in the chorus class, but don’t tell anyone. I’m…kinda the only guy.”

She laughed a little. “No problem. Some of the greatest singers are dudes.” I gulped, organizing the next thing I was going to say. Before I could stop myself, I was asking her a huge question.

“Um…er…would you ever wanna, you know, like, get together, and, like, um…do music or something?”

“That depends,” she deadpanned.

“On what?”

“Do you have any Boys Like Girls on your SkyPod?” she asked skeptically.

“Uh, no,” I spoke. I didn’t even know who they were.

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I might have had to kill you if you did. Anyway, I’ll chill with you sometime if my dad’s cool with it.”

- - -

“Fresh meat, woo hoo!”

Ah. Frickin’ elementary school nightmare, Peyton Brady, at his worst. I guess he didn’t change at all during summer except for gaining a few pounds, acquiring a terrible taste for headbands, and changing his already-godawful hairstyle into an even worse one – a dyed fringe. I guess he didn’t get the memo that stated that he was in seventh grade as well, meaning that he was also “fresh meat.”

I hate people.

This goofball kid cowered in fear from Peyton, whimpering and sobbing. “D-don’t hurt me! Please!” he panted. SLAM! His face crashed into the locker.

A crowd gathered, chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!” until a teacher broke it up. Students passing by continued through the hallway. A collective disappointed grunt sounded from the crowd, everybody’s hopes simultaneously falling at missing a first-day-back fight.

I happened to eye Soria standing at her locker, which was, unfortunately, next to Peyton.

He took one look at her. One freakin’ look.

Just as I thought…. he wasn’t able to keep that big mouth shut.

“Hey, sexy.” The words dripped with sarcasm.

Soria glared the crap out of him like she was shooting lasers out of her eyes. She didn’t say anything; she just gave him this insanely dirty look.

And that boy got his nose on the tile.

Don’t ask how or even why, but I stuck my foot right in the middle of his backpack and pushed with every ounce of courage I had. She gasped and stared in bewilderment like I’d just eaten a live frog, along with tons of other kids.

However, Peyton leaped up and lunged at me. His eyes flashed with fury, his hands pulled into fists, and he gritted his teeth. I stood still and let out an inaudible squeal just before Luke (that kid from math class) came up behind him and pulled him back.

For a second I was in disbelief. I didn’t have the faintest idea why the heck I just did that, or what compelled me to do it. Something was wrong with me that day.

Well, whatever - I still had to go to third period: science. I didn’t even have time to think about what I had just done.

- - -

Science was just like math class - same kids, except of a group of even more people I didn’t know. This time I could have said I didn’t recognize anyone and actually mean it, with the exception of Luke and Soria, of course. Even then I couldn’t say I knew Luke real well, though. Or Soria, for that matter. The seating was basically the same, so it wasn’t some drastic change. The teacher, an aging southern woman, greeted each student with calming blue eyes and a warm “hello.”

This one kid who looked like he just rolled outta bed came in with Luke, tripping with a huge thud – and being in a portable, the sound echoed, too. People laughed, but they didn’t care for too long. Apparently no one knew him either except Luke. “Hahaha! Sweet!” he snorted. Luke scrunched up his face in laughter and helped him up.

Soria walked in after being greeted by our teacher, a look of comfortable curiosity on her face. I shot her a little smile from across the room and due to the lack of a seating chart, she sat next to me.

Once class began, the teacher smiled sweetly at the class and introduced herself, disregarding the group of idiots in the back of the class making fart jokes and giggling.

“I’m Mrs. Vexerlourg, but I go by Mrs. V. Welcome to life science,” she welcomed after the bell rang. “It’s also lunch period.”

She did the same thing as my math teacher - we each said our name and one thing about ourselves, and since most of the kids from my math class were in this class, a lot of it was old news. I said my name was Ren and I liked Aerosmith. Go figure.

Before long, it was time for lunch. It was pretty stupid, having to line up again just like elementary school and go together, but once we got our lunches Soria and I sat together and I asked her about Santa Monica, desperate for a friend.

“Living by the beach was amazing,” she said, stabbing at the mystery meat nuggets on her tray, “I went there, like, every week. And the boardwalk was just freakin’ awesome. So beautiful.” She paused to drink her milk. “There were a ton of local bands where I lived, all high school bands, and they were just garage bands, but they were so awesome.”

“Did you ever join a band?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Nah. All the good bands were way older than me, so they just wrote me off and called me a kid. Dunno why it matters, though,” she remarked, breaking out into a wicked grin. “It pissed me off. But I figure once I get on TV being a rad guitarist they’ll regret it.”

“Okay then,” I added, laughing a little. Soria grinned just as some other students sat down around us, among them Luke and that other kid who tripped, whose name I figured out was Brendan. He sure as heck didn’t look like a Brendan, though.

I counted my blessings that I knew Luke from before, since we were a rare kind in this school; he ended up hanging around me for the day along with Soria.

Luke looked around the cafetorium (that’s a cafeteria with an auditorium built right in, folks – budget cuts) like he was expecting someone to be there. Then he raised an eyebrow and smiled at me sheepishly. “There’re too many people here,” he finally declared.

“No kidding,” I chuckled.

“You’re shitting me,” Brendan jumped in. “Ya’ll guys come from the same-name elementary school. I can’t go two feet without bumpin’ into a kid who comes from Claymore Elementary.”

“How do you know they’re from Claymore Elementary?” Luke objected.

“’Cause all of you guys got this thing about you. It’s just instinct to me,” he shrugged. “Ya’ll are lucky. I had ‘bout sixty kids in my sixth grade class, tops.”

“That’s poop, I’ve been to Fireside! There’re more than that,” Luke denied, palms facing upward.

“Whatever,” Brendan rolled his eyes. Then he turned his attention to Soria, who had stayed quiet during this heated little discussion on our elementary schools. “Hey. I’m gonna talk to you now since everyone else can’t take the truth,” he said, spitting the last word in Luke’s direction.

Soria and I glanced at each other like it was a natural reaction.

“So what school’re you from?” Brendan interrogated.

“Wooderson,” she replied, not clarifying that she came from out of state.

“Wooderson? Never heard of them,” Luke added.

“Me neither,” Brendan agreed.

“I think we got a new girl on our hands,” Luke grinned, cocking his head. “Where’re you from.”

“Santa Monica,” Soria answered, shrugging.

Luke’s eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”

She nodded. “Born and raised.”

“Marry me,” he gasped. Brendan looked at him funny. “I always wanted to go to southern California. That’s where my favorite band comes from.”

She smiled a little. “What band?”

Luke smirked like he was telling a proud little secret. “Reel Big Fish.”

Soria stuck her tongue out and gagged. “Oh my God…”

“What’s up with you?” Brendan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I hate them so much...I mean I can take the old stuff, but all the new ‘ska’ sounds the same.”

And…boom. The line of air between Luke and Soria could have been just a thin streak of lightening. Never during elementary school had there been a kid who knew what the heck ska was (besides me, but I don’t think I count here), here we were in junior high, and Luke just didn’t know a kid who knew what it was – she hated what he loved. How does that even happen? How were we all already so “underground” with our tastes in music?

Still, he managed a crooked smile. “Oh well.”

Man, I had to try so hard not to laugh. I had a feeling he was pretty irked in reality, even if he was terrible at showing it.

Brendan leaned across the table and whispered something in her ear. At first, she flinched.

“You’re talking about me,” Luke said, just a twinge of paranoia in his voice.

“What? No, of course not, buddy ol’ pal!” he grinned, patting Luke on the back.

Soria made a face like she was trying to not smile. “Nah, he didn’t say anything.”

“And if I did say something about you, it most certainly wouldn’t be about that big-ass Dicky Barrett poster hanging above your bed you make out with every night,” Brendan added.

Luke folded his arms. “I dislike you sometimes.”

“Whatever you say. C’mon, you know you love me, brah.”

I could see shades of pink crawl across his cheeks as he desperately changed the subject. “So tell me…” he trailed off, pointing at Soria, blanking out.

“Soria,” she told him.

“Soria. Okay. What’s some of the stuff you listen to,” he questioned.

She looked at the ceiling for a minute. “Uh, folk-punkish stuff, cowpunk…”

“The hell is that?” Brendan cocked his eyebrow.

As if she’d answered it a thousand times, she grunted through an answer. “The Gaslight Anthem, Lucero, Two-Cow Garage, Bouncing Souls…okay, that wasn’t really either of them, but…”

Luke almost choked on his drink as he held a finger up to tell her to stop. After struggling with some coughs, he absolutely gushed. “Dude, ‘How I Spent My Summer Vacation’ is like one of the best albums ever.”

She smiled. “All right. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“It’s probably one of my most listened-to CDs.” He paused and bit off half of his roll, stuffing it in his face. “D’you like Social Distortion?”

She cocked her head. “I know ‘Story of my Life.’ That’s it. I never got the chance to really check ‘em out.”

“You should,” Luke nodded. “They’re really good.”

Brendan looked at the two disappointingly. “Ya’ll suck. Anybody here like old rock?”

I finally had a chance to speak up; when I was a kid my dad would always play ancient records (he still does) and that kinda gave a soundtrack to my childhood, basically. I was glad I wasn’t the only kid who had a background in classic rock, but I grew up and branched out. I didn’t know about this kid.

“Right here,” I said, smirking.

“All right! Now we’re talkin’,” he boasted, reaching across the table to give me a high five. “Favorite song?”

“Um…I could name off the top ten played songs in my SkyTunes,” I answered, speaking the truth. That list was dotted with Journey, Cap’n Jazz, Boston, American Football, The Doors, the mandatory Rolling Stone tune (“You Can’t Always Get What You Want”), and the top two spots were Aerosmith.

“Now that don’t mean nothing, kid. I asked you what your favorite song was, not which one was played the most,” he clarified.

“Favorite song of all time, or favorite classic rock song?”

“Uh…the first one. Why not.”

I cracked a smile and proudly said, “’Sweet Emotion.’”

He raised his eyebrow. “You like Aerosmith?”

Luke gave him a really “duh” look. “Dude, he’s got their shirt on. What do you think?”

“Well, I don’t know! Some kids just wear shit like that and listen to Nickleback!” Brendan defended.

All of us gagged simultaneously at the mention of them.

That was a pretty good sign, if you ask me.

Luke stared at Soria and me for a minute before speaking up. “Wait a sec. How do you two know each other if she comes from a different state, and…”

“And what?” Soria asked.

“And…you guys are like totally different,” he finished, furrowing his brow.

We shared a “what do we say” glance. Finally she brought attention to her shirt by pretending to pop the nonexistent collar. “We both like Hey Mercedes,” she explained.

“What the hell’re they? They sound like poppy…shit,” Brendan grimaced.

She chuckled like he was the dumbest idiot on earth. “They’re…um…” she trailed off, confident at first, but then confused. “Like, alternative…noodly…old emo?” She looked up at me as if to get my okay.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” I smiled.

“Emo? Ah shit, man, you can do better than that!” Brendan exclaimed. Luke was just having a good laugh next to him. Brendan paused to look around the room. “I swear to God I wanna punch every little prick here wearing a ‘My Chemical Romance’ shirt…”

“Man, they were emo before emo was emo,” Soria defended. And that pretty much summed it up. With the death-look she was giving Brendan, he didn’t dare object.

“It still don’t make no sense for this kid,” he added, pointing to me.

“You know, he has a name,” Luke told him, finishing off his milk.

“Ah yeah yeah, I’ll learn names later. What I’m sayin’ is that he likes a whole shit ton of good stuff and then comes this ‘emo’ crap. What’s up with that?”

I shrugged. “I got bored one night and typed ‘hey’ into Yahoo Music,” I explained, another truth that came out that day.

Brendan nodded, not adding anything else. A silence fell upon us until he caught sight of Luke’s empty tray.

“Jesus Christ, why don’t you just eat the tray?!” he teased. “Fatass.”

Luke turned away. “You’re one to talk.”

“That ain’t fair! You surf and burn it off,” he continued.

Soria raised an eyebrow and smirked knowingly at me. After a while we tuned them out. “Do you know them?” she whispered as if the world would explode if she said it out loud to me.

“I know Luke. Not the other kid,” I said.

“…a freakin’ sewage tank and still be skinny as shit!” Brendan fumed, flailing so bad that we almost got hit by his swinging arms.

Luke wasn’t listening. He was leaned back in the blue plastic chair, propped up on the back legs. Finally, Brendan gave up.

“The poop is this crap? Cat litter?” Brendan laughed, spitting in his grits, completely changing the subject, his attention span that of a lamp.

“The ‘Back-to-School’ special,” Luke snorted. I couldn’t have said it better.

“Eh. Whaddya expect?” Soria muttered, taking a moment to pour some milk over her chicken nuggets nonchalantly. Luke stared at her concoction in curiosity.

“Havin’ fun there?” he smirked, pointing. She nodded with a goofy smile.

“Someone should totally eat that,” Brendan slurred. All of a sudden, three pairs of eyes were fixed on me, the only one who hadn’t really opened their mouth in a while.

“What? Er…no thanks,” I stammered, fidgeting in my seat.

“C’mon, Renny boy, do it!” Soria heckled, giving me a really really stupid nickname that would stick with me for a lifetime. Seriously. I hate it. Everybody calls me that now.

And so I took it, sniffed it, and gagged.

- - -

“SILENCE YOUR SNOUTS.”

Mr. Lipshitz, my fourth period language arts teacher, forever burned the image of a small, goat like man into my brain. And that’s exactly what he was. (And I swear on all that is good, ‘Lipshitz’ was his real name.)

The guy was creepy, awkward, and funny in a weird way…basically, a mad scientist. Only he taught more English than science.

I had this class alone. Well, not literally - there was Brendan, but I guess I didn’t know him well enough to call him a friend. Soria and Luke were in geography for fourth period, so, yeah. I had to deal with this beast single-handedly.

“What’s his problem?” Brendan had whispered over to me. I, too scared to speak, just shrugged.

Fifth period chorus class wasn’t too bad; besides the obvious fact that I was the only guy, the teacher was nice. It was a complete girl-fest, though. Full of scene chicks and church girls. I nearly got a contact high from all the estrogen circulating around the room.

After chorus, I met up with Soria between classes when she came out of the Home Economics classroom. Now that the first day of school was almost over, my nerves weren’t as rattled as they were at the beginning of the day.

“Lost your voice yet?” she joked.

“Sew me a pillow yet?” I laughed back. We headed to the portables for our sixth period classes - she had Mr. Lipshitz, and I had geography.

“So what’s Mr. Lipshitz like?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Creepy, that’s all,” I replied.

She shuddered, glancing at his room with a look of fear. “The geography teacher’s weird too, but he’s just pathetic-weird,” she said. “He tries to be funny.” Oh, I’d had those teachers before.

The teacher, was everything she told me he’d be. He laughed at his own jokes and was kind of stupid, but he seemed pretty cool.

And once that last bell rang, every student shot straight outta their classes and ran straight to the busses, only to get stopped by the teachers and organized into a crowd that wouldn’t be able to trample a herd of elephants.

My bus was friggin’ crowded, man. Everyone had to sit with somebody. If they didn’t, they were dubbed “lucky bastards” and someone put their backpacks there anyway. The hot August sun beamed in through the windows, almost making me wish I were back in the air-conditioned portables. Almost, but not quite.

I trotted along the street after hopping off the bus, silently humming to myself and feeling a buzzing in my ear from everything tossed at me that day. The clouds in the sky had parted to let the sun beat relentlessly down on the neighborhood, and I could feel the sweat pooling in my palms the second I got off the bus. Then, I came home to my dad giving his bi-weekly guitar lessons to some kid who couldn’t have been out of kindergarten.

“Hey Ren,” he greeted, waving the three fingers that weren’t holding a pick. “How’d your first day go?”

“Eh, alright,” I mumbled, shrugging off my backpack to unload all the papers my parents needed to sign. Why they give us all that crap on the first day, I’ll never know.

“No, no, no, kid, you’re flat,” Dad instructed, helping his student get his fingers straight.
Mom pranced over to me, grabbing my shoulder with enthusiasm. “And did you make any new friends?”

“Kinda,” I said, instantly thinking of Soria.

“Any cute girls in your classes?” she squealed, elbowing me.

“Mom…”

I sped up to my room, thinking about what to make of this new school, Claymore Middle School. Black and blue and silver streaks danced on the backs of my eyelids when I closed them, reminding me of the school’s colors and everything I never needed to know about it.

And I wondered if it could become home.