Judge's Daughter

Billie's P.O.V.

The first day of senior year, or better yet, the last first day in this god-forsaken place. To me, school is just a get-out-of-jail free card Monday through Friday; an excuse to leave the house without questions from my step-dad. Of course, I’m only actually here about 50% of the time.

A gravely sigh escapes my lips as I slump against the brick wall, feeling the cool grit dig through the back of my shirt. God, first days always leave a bad taste in my mouth, this year especially.

Strewn across the parking lot were small flocks of teenagers, pooling around their friend’s cars, excitedly awaiting all the vacation gossip. It all smelled sleep-deprived summer nights, sloppy kisses, poor judgment calls, new school supplies. There was something nauseating about it all, something I couldn’t relate to, but maybe I secretly wish that I could.

“So, when the fuck are we busting out of here, Bill?” a voice rang from my left. I peered over to see Tre, sliding to the ground next to me. I furrowed my brows, flipping open a cigarette carton, sliding one out and placing it between my lips.

“The sooner the better. Teachers can’t miss a face they haven’t met,” I mumble, cupping my hand over the cigarette and lighting it. Tre looks off toward the crowd of ever-growing people, pushing a hand back through his hair.

“Can’t argue with that logic."

We sit in silence, musing over the tepid, morning air as I take another drag. I don’t love a lot of things about California, but of the parts the appeal to me, the mild weather definitely makes the ranks. With the amount of time my friends and I spend outside drinking and playing music, it would be damn near unbearable to do it just about anywhere else in the world.

“Look at this fuckin’ idiot,” Tre snickers in amusement, grabbing my attention and directing it towards a small white Acura that was repeatedly trying to straighten out their shitty parking job in the spot next to Tre’s car. After several painstakingly pathetic attempts, the operator finally gives up, leaving about 3 inches between their passenger door and Tre’s car.

The car door swings open and a girl inches out, nervously slouching a burgundy backpack over her shoulder. Her messy blonde hair curls beneath her chin, a baggy, mud green jacket hanging from her skinny torso, nearly covering her fraying shorts. She looks up, narrowly missing the gazes of bystanders who now pretend like they didn’t spend a solid 2 minutes gawking as she attempted to park.

“I don’t recognize her… is she knew here?” Tre asks quietly as she approaches the building. She nervously looks up, making awkward and clearly unintended eye contact with me in the process. I smile, offering a small nod, to which she returns a half-smile before ducking her head back toward the ground.

“Must be, can’t say that I’ve seen her before,” I say in a breath, watching as she passes through the front doors.

“Just what I need, sharing a neighboring space with another gal who’s gonna ding up my car,” Tre sighs. I roll my eyes, taking a final drag off my cigarette as I eyeball his beat-up dump of a car.

“I’m sure you don’t need any assistance with that. How many mailboxes have you hit so far this year?” I ask snidely, blowing smoke out of the corner of my mouth. “Four?”

“Only two, actually.”

“Ah, so you’re down two from last year. I’m proud of you.”

“Okay, okay, dick nose, I get it.”

I flash a shit-eating grin as I stub out my cigarette, flicking it into the trashcan as we hike toward home room.

* * *

I don’t fancy myself a particularly popular or unpopular fella, so escaping into the back of the classroom to people-watch usually goes over without much notice. I prop my head on my hand, watching idly as people begin trickling in. A disembodied head of curly blonde hair appears in the doorway, before vanishing. The head of hair appears again, this time attached to the new girl, as she scans the available seats. Her eyes flicker to mine momentarily and leave just as quickly. She smiles faintly, shifting in my direction and slinking into the chair next to mine.

I open my mouth to say hello, but stop short. I was hoping she might look up, mutter a greeting, maybe tell me her name, but instead she just starts digging through her bag like she’s on a mission.

She pulls out a small, square piece of paper covered in little stars and begins folding it, but not in a nervous kind of way. There was a clear, methodical intention to her movements. Her brow creases in focus, her jaw tightening, tendrils of hair dangling and partially obscuring her face. It wasn’t hard to recognize that she was making some type of origami. Not that half-assed shit that some 5th grader tries to give to their mom, but an actual, intricate design. I watch in awe as she relies on memory to breathe life and two-dimensional structure into what was previously a one dimensional nothing.

“Did you teach yourself to do that?” I ask quietly, tilting my head to the side to better see as she puts the finishing touches on what appears to be a turtle. She glances up at me, her blue eyes taking pause, scanning mine, clearly deliberating something in her head.

“Ah, not exactly. I wish I had, though,” she says simply, looking down as she spins the turtle beneath her ring finger.

“Sounds like the cliff-notes version of the answer.”

“It sounds that way because it is. Can’t just start spilling my secrets with a total stranger,” she says with a grin, moving the turtle to sit at the corner of her desk.

“Touche.”

We sink back into a comfortable silence as Mr. Felton circles around the classroom, greeting all the girls. This marks year three of home room with him and his antics are beyond predictable at this point. He’s one of those creepy fucking weirdos that toes the line of inappropriate relations with students. His favorite past time is collecting portraits of his “favorite” students on his front desk and trying to talk romantic literature to any girl that will listen.

I’m not saying he’s done anything with a student, but I’m also not saying that he wouldn’t if given the chance. Mr. Felton slinks our direction, drumming his fingers on the new girl's desk.

“What’s up, Roselain? You liking it here so far?”

“I mean… we’re 5 minutes into homeroom, so I haven’t exactly made any definitive judgements yet.”

“Ha – judgements. I see what you did there,” he chuckles with a wink. “Well, let me know if you need any help finding classes. Also, I’m going to need you to make me one of these paper footballs for my desk,” he says, picking up the turtle and assessing.

“What are you, twelve? It’s clearly a fucking turtle, not a football,” I grumble, rolling my eyes. He pauses, glaring at me with his jarringly vacant gaze. Arrogance radiates from every pore of his smug, blocky face as he gently places the origami back on the desk.

“Ah, Two Dollar Bill. Ever the glowing light of my mornings. Try to tone it down this year, dude.”

“Sure thing, dude,” I sneer, watching as he moves on to the next target. The blonde girl now known as Roselain clears her throat. I turn my attention to see her eyebrows raised, a coy grin playing on her lips.

“I’m sorry… I gotta ask. Two Dollar Bill? Is this how I find out my homeroom neighbor is turning tricks for a couple George Washingtons?” she pokes. I stifle a laugh, shaking my head.

“Ah, not exactly. But we’re sticking to the stranger danger cliff-notes version, remember?”

She rolls her eyes, a small puff of laughter passing between her teeth.

“Touche."

“You know, if you’d like to be a little less of a stranger, then you can call me Billie.”

“Well, Billie. I can’t make any promises, but a ‘little-less-of-a-stranger’ sounds like pretty interesting territory," she says cooly, her cobalt eyes suddenly appearing so warm and inviting.

And pretty interesting territory, it would definitely turn out to be.