Goddess in Time (17 page)

“Grace Whitfield?”

I look up from my spot on the bench across from the guidance counselor's office. The counselor, the woman who just called my name, gives me an encouraging smile.

She looks nothing like the balding, middle-aged, tweed coat–wearing counselor in Orangevale. The one who'd rubber-stamped all my advising sessions and handed me the appropriate papers about SAT prep classes before checking off my name and moving on to the next kid on the list. Not that I needed his help—I know what I have to do to get into a good school and earn a scholarship—but it might have been nice if he'd looked up from his computer for two seconds.

My new counselor has all of her attention focused on me, and commands my attention in return. I can't help but study her immaculate appearance. She's tall and graceful, like a ballerina, and wears a sharply tailored skirt suit in a soft, warm gray that matches her high heels. A petal-pink blouse ruffles out around her lapels. Although her image says poised and elegant, I get the feeling that beneath the surface she is a woman of extraordinary strength.

She seems like she could run a billion-dollar company in her spare time. She would never let anyone plow over her and march off without a word. I'm an eco-geek who can't even walk into my new school without getting trampled by another student.

I stand, feeling awkward and underdressed in my recycled jeans, organic green tee, and hot-pink Chuck Taylors. Not only because of the counselor, but also because of confident girl and the few students who've trickled in through the office while I've been waiting. They look like they walked out of a department-store window display.

Too late to change now. Besides, it's not like I have high levels of fashion hiding in my closet. Mostly more of the same.

“I'm Grace,” I say, extending my hand.

I expect her to shake it, formal and businesslike, but instead she holds it gently and presses her other palm over mine. Her smile positively sparkles. She gives me a squeeze as she says, “I'm Ms. West. I recommended you for the scholarship here at Alpha. You shone above all the other applicants. Your computer skills were especially impressive.”

“I—” I swallow over the strange feeling of tightness—of pride, maybe—in my throat. A good feeling. “Thank you.”

“After reviewing your admissions exam and your previous school records, I have prepared a preliminary class schedule for you,” she explains as she motions me into her office.

I rub my hands against my jeans as I follow her inside.

Other than the small acrylic sign on her desk that says S
TEPHANIE
W
EST
, G
UIDANCE
C
OUNSELOR,
the sleek gray surface is virtually empty. In fact, the office is pretty much empty. Only the desk, chairs, a pair of tall file cabinets, and, on the wall behind her desk, a massive framed photo of a beautiful white sand beach and a turquoise sea. No clutter, no color other than the water in the picture. It's very calming. Which is, I suppose, a good quality in a counselor's office.

Ms. West lowers herself gracefully into the big black leather office chair, indicating that I should take a seat in one of the armchairs facing her desk. I choose the one on the right, swinging my backpack to the floor as I sit.

“Considering your plans to attend a top-tier college,” she says, handing me a sheet of paper, “I thought you might be interested in adding a second foreign language.”

“Do you think that's necessary?” I ask. “Will it help my admissions chances?”

“It certainly doesn't hurt.” She looks me in the eye as she speaks. “But I think your transcript is strong already.”

“Then I think I'll stick with Spanish.” I appreciate her honest answer.

“All right,” she says. “What about a physical education class? We offer a broad selection, including virtually all sports, as well as kickboxing and Tae Kwon Do.”

My records must not have been too enlightening, because she clearly doesn't get me at all. Give me a laptop or a smartphone, and I'm an all-star, but athletics is a bit beyond my skill set. I'm not a superklutz or anything, I'm merely lacking in the finer points of hand-eye coordination beyond basic keyboard functions.

When I shake my head again, she pulls out a folder from her desk drawer and opens it, turning to a sheet of green paper near the back.

“Alpha is dedicated to providing our students with a well-rounded education in a variety of disciplines, not focused exclusively on rigorous academics.” She smiles as she scans the paper. “The elective opportunities are truly astounding. I'm sure you will find something to your liking.”

The green sheet she hands me must have almost fifty classes listed.

The choices are a little overwhelming. At Orangevale High we had your standard math, language arts, sciences, history, foreign languages (Spanish or French), and one elective. Our elective choices were limited to art, choir, band, or study hall. It's hard to wrap my public-school brain around the array of private-school electives. “I don't know. I guess, maybe—”

“You don't have to decide right now,” she interrupts. “Orientation and convocation will take up most of today. Why don't you take the list home and decide tonight? You can come by before school and let me know what courses you've chosen.”

“Great,” I say as I slip the paper into my backpack.

We spend the next few minutes going over the schedule for today, my core class schedule for tomorrow, graduation and extracurricular requirements, and things like dress code and attendance policies. Mom, Dad, and I already filled out a mountain of paperwork over the summer—hasn't this school heard of electronic forms?—but there are still a few for me to sign.

I wonder if my brother, Thane, is going through the same thing at his school.

“Are you ready for your first day at Alpha?” Ms. West asks with an enthusiastic smile.

I take a deep breath.
Am
I ready? New home, new city, new school, new friends. Hopefully. New life. New me.

I feel equal parts fear and anticipation. But one look in Ms. West's sharp eyes and I feel a jolt of confidence. I feel strong and invincible. How can I let myself be afraid of change, when it's what I want? The chance to become the strong, confident young woman I've always dreamed of being.

This is the first step.

“Yes,” I say, gathering my courage. “Ready.”

“Do you have any questions or concerns before I send you to class?”

I square my shoulders and shake my head. I'm ready for this.

“If you need anything,” she says, “my office door is always open.”

I nod, trying to mimic the same air of self-assurance she exudes, as if I appreciate her offer but will never need the help because everything will work out in no time. The facade makes me feel a little more sure of myself, of my future at Alpha and in San Francisco.

The power of positive thinking.

She leans out into the hall. “Miranda, would you come here please?”

When Miranda shows up at Ms. West's door, my false confidence quivers and that sense of dread plops into my stomach again.

“Yes, Ms. West?” asks the girl who plowed through me in front of the school.

“This is Grace Whitfield,” she explains, gesturing to me. “She's new at Alpha. Since you two have the same homeroom, I thought you might give her a quick tour and then show her to class.”

“Of course,” Miranda says with a blinding fake smile. “It'd be my pleasure.”

Think positive,
I tell myself. Maybe I misinterpreted her earlier comment. Maybe she's a really nice person. Maybe she'll be friendly, now that she knows we share a class. Hitching my backpack up on my shoulder, I smile and hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Miranda.”

She smiles and shakes my hand. For a second I believe this positive thinking thing really works. Then, as soon as Ms. West turns back to her desk, Miranda drops my hand like it's a plague-ridden rat, rolls her eyes, and stalks out of the office.

My shoulders sink.

“Have a wonderful first day,” Ms. West says.

“Thanks,” I say, turning to give her a quick wave before following after Miranda's retreating back.

As I stand outside the girls' bathroom, waiting for Miranda to emerge, I'm pretty certain this isn't what Ms. West had in mind for a school tour. After throwing me a look that said she'd rather eat glass than lead around a loser like me, Miranda stalked off into the hall outside the main office and made a beeline for the bathroom.

She's been in there for over five minutes.

I glance at my schedule. Every day at Alpha begins with homeroom, an hour-long period for finishing up homework, going to the library, or seeking help from other teachers. Nothing like the twenty-minute roll call and stay-in-your-seats-for-announcements madness that passed for homeroom at Orangevale. Homeroom here sounds useful.

Around me, the hall is starting to fill with students. The typical first-day-of-school insanity. Girls are shrieking, diving into group hugs with friends they haven't seen all summer. A few couples are taking advantage of the chaos to engage in some pretty inappropriate kissing and groping. Some kids, probably freshmen, are wandering around looking slightly lost and terribly frightened. That won't be me—I won't let it. I'm a junior now, an upperclassman, and I'm not going to let the unfamiliar environment make me feel like a lowly freshman again. No thank you.

I've never been a Girl Scout, I don't even know their motto, but I still believe in being prepared. I swing my backpack around and dig through the pile of papers Ms. West gave me until I find the school map printed on the back of the “Welcome to Alpha!” letter. According to my schedule, I have Mrs. Deckler for homeroom in room 117.

After tracing my finger over most of the ground floor, I find room 117 in a back corner. I squint at the map—it's no 3D-rendered interactive virtual environment, but it'll do—and then scan the hall, deciding that if I go to the end of the main hall and turn left, I'll find my classroom.

Miranda's still in the bathroom though. And, as much as I think she'd be overjoyed to find me gone, I don't want to pull a disappearing flake act on the first day.

I continue studying my map, trying to get a feel for the layout of the school, mentally extruding the walls and creating an image of the building in my mind. There are four floors, with the upper levels reserved for grades five through eight. All of my classes will be on the first two floors, so I focus on those maps. It's when I'm scanning over my current location that I see what—after waiting ten minutes—I should have already guessed. The girls' bathroom has two entrances.

With a groan, I zip my backpack shut and head down the hall toward room 117, clutching my map and schedule. I don't need to pop into the bathroom to know that Miranda's long gone.

I follow the gleaming white hall past open classrooms and walls of lockers. At the end, I make a left, proud of my map-reading skills. Four doors later I find Mrs. Deckler's class.

And I'm not at all surprised to find Miranda already in her desk when I walk into the room.

Pausing for a second in the doorway, I give myself a little pep talk.

This is it,
I tell myself.
This is the moment to leave doormat Grace behind and become . . . fearless Grace.
Confident
Grace.
If I take the offensive, I can turn this moment around. I can make sure that my time at Alpha isn't spent feeling powerless. I take a deep breath, form the words of a biting, witty comment in my mind, and open my mouth.

“Did you get lost?” Miranda asks before I can utter a sound. “I waited outside the bathroom for like ten minutes.”

“I—” How do I respond to that? A complete and total lie. “What?”

She leans forward, as if to say something confidential, but her whisper is anything but quiet. “Are you constipated? Nurse Callahan probably has some laxatives or something.”

Most of the dozen or so kids in the half-full classroom erupt in barely concealed snorts and giggles. Whatever reputation-establishing comment I'd been about to make completely evaporates into abject humiliation. My cheeks burn to the point of combustion. My ears quickly follow. Every life-changing
hope I had bursts like a bubble hitting concrete. There is no recovering from a comment like that. Ever.

Tales of my digestive distress will probably circulate throughout the school by lunchtime. Even freshmen will feel sorry for me, while being thankful it's not them being thrown under the social bus.

I do the only thing I can do; I duck my head and hurry to the back of the classroom. Slipping into an empty desk, I make myself as small and invisible as humanly possible.

“Miranda is a vortex of evil.”

I look up from being preoccupied with my backpack—aka pretending to be too busy to notice the stares and snickers—to find the girl in the next desk over studiously doodling on her spiral-bound.

“I'm sorry?” I ask, not sure she actually said something.

She jerks her head, sending a wave of black hair with white tips in Miranda's general direction at the front of the room. “Never apologize for Miranda bashing. It's my favorite pastime.”

“Oh.” Looks like I'm not the only person on the receiving end of Miranda's bad attitude.

“I see we're trying out a new hairstyle to start the school year, Vail.” The teacher behind the big wooden desk smiles at the girl next to me. “Shall we expect new colors weekly?”

Vail shrugs and goes back to her drawings.

As Mrs. Deckler enlists Miranda's help to hand out some paperwork, I lean slightly to my left and say, “I'm Grace Whitfield.”

The only indication that she hears me is a momentary pause in the motion of her pencil. A hesitation over the next eye socket in a sea of skulls and crossbones. Then, as Miranda passes between us and
accidentally
drops my paper onto the floor, my neighbor mutters, “Suck a lemon, Sanders.”