Speak
WELCOME TO MERRYWEATHER HIGH
It is my first morning of high school. I have seven new notebooks, a skirt I hate, and a
stomachache.
The school bus wheezes to my corner. The door opens and I step up. I am the first pickup of the
day. The driver pulls away from the curb while I stand in the aisle. Where to sit? I've never been a
backseat wastecase. If I sit in the middle, a stranger could sit next to me. If I sit in the front, it will
make me look like a little kid, but I figure it's the best chance I have to make eye contact with one of
my friends, if any of them have decided to talk to me yet.
The bus picks up students in groups of four or five. As they walk down the aisle, people who
were my middle-school lab partners or gym buddies glare at me. I close my eyes. This is what I've
been dreading. As we leave the last stop, I am the only person sitting alone.
The driver downshifts to drag us over the hills. The engine clanks, which makes the guys in the
back holler something obscene. Someone is wearing too much cologne. I try to open my window, but
the little latches won't move. A guy behind me unwraps his breakfast and shoots the wrapper at the
back of my head. It bounces into my lap--a Ho-Ho.
We pass janitors painting over the sign in front of the high school. The school board has decided
that "Merryweather
High--Home of the Trojans" didn't send a strong abstinence message, so they have transformed us
into the Blue Devils. Better the Devil you know than the Trojan you don't, I guess. School colors will
stay purple and gray. The board didn't want to spring for new uniforms.
Older students are allowed to roam until the bell, but ninth- graders are herded into the
auditorium. We fall into clans: Jocks, Country Clubbers, Idiot Savants, Cheerleaders, Human Waste,
Eurotrash, Future Fascists of America, Big Hair Chix, the Marthas, Suffering Artists, Thespians,
Goths, Shredders. I am clanless. I wasted the last weeks of August watching bad cartoons. I didn't go
to the mall, the lake, or the pool, or answer the phone. I have entered high school with the wrong hair,
the wrong clothes, the wrong attitude. And I don't have anyone to sit with.
I am Outcast.
There is no point looking for my ex-friends. Our clan, the Plain Janes, has splintered and the
pieces are being absorbed by rival factions. Nicole lounges with the Jocks, comparing scars from
summer league sports. Ivy floats between the Suffering Artists on one side of the aisle and the
Thespians on the other. She has enough personality to travel with two packs. Jessica has moved to
Nevada. No real loss. She was mostly Ivy's friend, anyway.
The kids behind me laugh so loud I know they're laughing about me. I can't help myself. I turn
around. It's Rachel, surrounded by a bunch of kids wearing clothes that most definitely did not come
from the EastSide Mall. Rachel Bruin, my
ex-best friend. She stares at something above my left ear. Words climb up my throat. This was the
girl who suffered through Brownies with me, who taught me how to swim, who understood about my
parents, who didn't make fun of my bedroom. If there is anyone in the entire galaxy I am dying to tell
what really happened, it's Rachel. My throat burns.
Her eyes meet mine for a second. “I hate you,” she mouths silently. She turns her back to me and