all over again, only up close and personal this time. I walked into the classroom and everybody clammed up. Just like that . . . deathly silence. I’ll bet Miss Trent would’ve liked that kind of power over her class. I couldn’t recall ever hearing so much silence. Eyes, accusing and cold, followed me. I sunk into my seat and tried to blend in with the desk.
Whispers . . . stares . . . dirty looks. A paper ball landed in my lap. I ignored it. Something hit me on the back of the head.
I could feel their eyes burning through me. It was like someone had thrown a million watt spotlight on me. I felt like an animal in the headlights right before it was hit. Distain soiled the air. I wanted to melt into my seat. In a heartbeat, I had lost my elite status at this school. I felt filthy—like I was the scum of Mount Olympic High. There was nowhere to hide. I was in full view and the butt of everyone’s anger.
Lesson one: never mess with Seattle’s upcoming hockey stars. Lesson two: popularity is fleeting. Lesson three: If you mess up like I did, stay home.
The morning dragged. I changed classrooms twice. Same thing happened each time. As I hurried down the corridor, accusing angry eyes glared at me. I glimpsed Brenna walking toward me. Our eyes met and she turned away. Behind her was Lisa McDowell. We’d known each other for years and had shared ice time since first grade. We were both on the precision skating team. Our eyes met for a second before she looked away. All those years I believed we had a solid, pleasant friendship.
I heard a male voice, “Hey, there’s the hotshot who took out Ledger.”
A girl answered, “Where?”
“Over there.” They pointed at me and my world tipped. I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out of there. Right now! I caught sight of the exit doors and bolted through them. Racing down the concrete steps, I ran for all I was worth across the grounds, breathing in the cold winter air, and heading for…for what? Where was I going to go? I couldn’t go home. I would have to explain myself and this was way too humiliating to discuss with my parents.
A guy called Delta was leaning against a tree half a block from the school. I slowed to a jog and swerved to avoid him. He was one of the losers—a kid to be avoided at all costs. A Tarantula. They were all big trouble.
He took a drag of his smoke and blew it at me as I passed by. “Hey, Cameron, looks like you’ve lost snob status. How about I make an application for you to join the Tarantulas?” He chuckled. “You’d fit in great right now, being a newbie loser and all.”
Reluctantly, I glanced at him and then down at his hand. Smoke drifted up from what was left of a self-rolled joint. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it to his lips and took a long drag. He held his breath for a minute and then smoke escaped from his nose and mouth into the chilly air and formed a cloud around him. “Want to give it a try?” he asked, holding the joint out to me.
I stopped in my tracks. Pot? Never given it a thought. I was captain of our swim team. Team leader of the senior precision team. Lung capacity was everything.
“Come on,” he taunted. “Just one little puff. Won’t hurt ya. You won’t fall over dead or anything. You don’t know what you’re missing. Here.” His hand brushed mine.
I stared at the joint. I had never even tried to smoke a cigarette, not to mention one of these limp looking appendages. But right now, I needed something. One puff probably wouldn’t hurt. Might even feel better. Couldn’t feel worse. In fact, I couldn’t stand how I felt. I was a bundle of crackling nerve endings. Jumpy. Confused. Bitter. Angry with myself. I felt dirty. I’d done something awful and I didn’t know how to process that.
I didn’t know who I was anymore.
One thing was for sure, I knew who I wasn’t. I wasn’t the Ashla Cameron who could do no wrong, who was respected by teachers, coaches, and family. I wasn’t the Ashla
Whispers . . . stares . . . dirty looks. A paper ball landed in my lap. I ignored it. Something hit me on the back of the head.
I could feel their eyes burning through me. It was like someone had thrown a million watt spotlight on me. I felt like an animal in the headlights right before it was hit. Distain soiled the air. I wanted to melt into my seat. In a heartbeat, I had lost my elite status at this school. I felt filthy—like I was the scum of Mount Olympic High. There was nowhere to hide. I was in full view and the butt of everyone’s anger.
Lesson one: never mess with Seattle’s upcoming hockey stars. Lesson two: popularity is fleeting. Lesson three: If you mess up like I did, stay home.
The morning dragged. I changed classrooms twice. Same thing happened each time. As I hurried down the corridor, accusing angry eyes glared at me. I glimpsed Brenna walking toward me. Our eyes met and she turned away. Behind her was Lisa McDowell. We’d known each other for years and had shared ice time since first grade. We were both on the precision skating team. Our eyes met for a second before she looked away. All those years I believed we had a solid, pleasant friendship.
I heard a male voice, “Hey, there’s the hotshot who took out Ledger.”
A girl answered, “Where?”
“Over there.” They pointed at me and my world tipped. I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out of there. Right now! I caught sight of the exit doors and bolted through them. Racing down the concrete steps, I ran for all I was worth across the grounds, breathing in the cold winter air, and heading for…for what? Where was I going to go? I couldn’t go home. I would have to explain myself and this was way too humiliating to discuss with my parents.
A guy called Delta was leaning against a tree half a block from the school. I slowed to a jog and swerved to avoid him. He was one of the losers—a kid to be avoided at all costs. A Tarantula. They were all big trouble.
He took a drag of his smoke and blew it at me as I passed by. “Hey, Cameron, looks like you’ve lost snob status. How about I make an application for you to join the Tarantulas?” He chuckled. “You’d fit in great right now, being a newbie loser and all.”
Reluctantly, I glanced at him and then down at his hand. Smoke drifted up from what was left of a self-rolled joint. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it to his lips and took a long drag. He held his breath for a minute and then smoke escaped from his nose and mouth into the chilly air and formed a cloud around him. “Want to give it a try?” he asked, holding the joint out to me.
I stopped in my tracks. Pot? Never given it a thought. I was captain of our swim team. Team leader of the senior precision team. Lung capacity was everything.
“Come on,” he taunted. “Just one little puff. Won’t hurt ya. You won’t fall over dead or anything. You don’t know what you’re missing. Here.” His hand brushed mine.
I stared at the joint. I had never even tried to smoke a cigarette, not to mention one of these limp looking appendages. But right now, I needed something. One puff probably wouldn’t hurt. Might even feel better. Couldn’t feel worse. In fact, I couldn’t stand how I felt. I was a bundle of crackling nerve endings. Jumpy. Confused. Bitter. Angry with myself. I felt dirty. I’d done something awful and I didn’t know how to process that.
I didn’t know who I was anymore.
One thing was for sure, I knew who I wasn’t. I wasn’t the Ashla Cameron who could do no wrong, who was respected by teachers, coaches, and family. I wasn’t the Ashla
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