Chapter 7

"Momma, who's Jeremy?"

"Huh?" Momma says with her back to me, hands buried in a sink full of soapy water, hips swayin' to the music playing from the radio.

It's stormin', so I'm stuck inside. Dad had to go work, and couldn't take me with him this time. It's a grown-up day, he told me. I shrugged, and ran off to my room, pulling out my favorite Captain America action figure from where I hid it in a rolled up sweater.

I whirl around our small yellow kitchen, pretending Captain America's my microphone. "The boy in the song. Jeremy the WickEDDD!" I belt out at the top of my lungs, whipping Captain America out like a sword.

Momma turns the faucet off, and looks over her shoulder, blowin' a piece of brown hair out of her eyes. She blinks a couple times, lookin' like she's concentration' reeeeal hard.

"You probably shouldn't be listening to this," she murmurs, and then quickly dries her hands, before going over to the radio.

"NO!"

I jump in between her and the radio, shaking my head. "Please, Momma. I like it," I whine.

She sighs. "Why don't you listen to KIDZ BOP like other kids?"

I make a face. "What the hell's a kid bop?"

"Mason Dean Wyatt."

I bulge my eyes, making a cringe face and hunch my shoulders. "Sorry, Momma," I say quickly.

Her lips purse and she shakes her head. She turns around, heading back for the sink, mumblin' something like, "bad influence," under her breath.

"So who is he?" I demand after a moment.

"Who?"

"Jeremy."

She runs a hand through her hair, shaking her head. "I-I don't know. It's just a song, baby. Lots of songs have names in them. Roxanne, Layla, Jack and Di?—"

"But I wanna know who Jeremy is."

Twisting my lips together, I look up at the ceilin', listenin', mouthin' to the words.

A bolt of lightning cracks loudly, shaking the walls. The room flashes.

I spin and I spin and sing and sing and?—

"You'll put this on a CD for me, right Momma?"

"Yes, Mason."

I don't getin trouble, but I do get a warning.

Principal Gibson said she won't call Momma this time, so long as I promise not to do it again. That if I see bullying, I should get a teacher and let the grown-ups handle it.

"Violence doesn't solve anything, Mr. Wyatt."

I wanted to tell her it's weird she calls me that, but instead I just nodded and promised her what she needed to hear, and then she sent me on my way.

Now I'm not only starting my first day of first grade a whole week into the year at a new school, but I have to walk into homeroom after class already started.

I wish I still had my music. Principal Gibson made me put it in my bag, headphones and everything.

An aide walks me down the hall and knocks when we reach the door to my classroom.

A lady answers. She's old, older than Mrs. Linda. She smiles down at me and says, "Well, who do we have here?"

The lady who walked me down hands her a slip of paper, introducing me, and they talk a bit, but I don't pay them any attention.

That twisty feeling has come back, and my neck feels sticky and itchy. I squeeze the straps around my backpack and peek at the heads turned my way from behind the teacher.

Mrs. Chase, I remember Principal Gibson telling me. That's my teacher this year.

I'm nudged inside the classroom, and the door closes behind me. A hand on my shoulder guides me toward the front of the room, and my eyes widen, my throat growing all tight.

It feels like my skin is buzzing.

"Class, before we continue, let's give a warm welcome to our new student. Would you like to introduce yourself? Maybe tell everyone where you're from."

I gulp and meet the gazes of a couple students.

Despite knowing he's not here—I saw which classroom he went into—I can't help but search for Jeremy, wishing he was here. Maybe then I wouldn't feel so alone with all these strangers.

"Hi, um, I'm Mason," I mutter. I duck my head, and twist the straps of my backpack, rocking back on my heels. "I moved here from New York."

"New York City?" a girl asks, calling out excitedly, and I shake my head, flicking my eyes up to search the room.

"No," I answer, stopping on a girl with long, messy brown hair, and a gap-toothed grin. She sits in the back corner, next to the window. I know it was her who asked, because she meets my gaze and smiles wider. "Buffalo," I tell her.

She slumps like maybe that was the wrong answer—except it's not—and my eyes drift to the boy next to her who's shaking his head. His black head of hair is tipped forward as he doodles something on the paper in front of him, making it so I can't see his face. He's the only one not staring up at the front of the room. At me.

"Do you like the Bills?" This time it's a boy from the front row calling out.

I shrug and look down. "I guess. It's my dad's favorite team."

"Cool," he says.

After that, it's quiet, and I chew on the inside of my cheek, hoping I can sit down now.

"Any more questions for Mason?"

No one else says anything, so Mrs. Chase clutches my shoulder in a cold, bony hand, and points with the other toward an empty seat in the back row.

"You can have a seat back there with Zachary. We were just about to start working on our spelling, so you arrived just in time. Keep your bag on you for now, and later I'll show you to your cubby." She gestures to the back corner, across from the windows, where everyone's hung their coats and bags.

I head down the aisle between desks. There's three rows of two facing the board. Only one desk left empty for me.

The boy sitting right next to my seat—Zachary—says nothing, but flashes a small smile at me. I nod, and murmur hi. Dropping my bag, I kick it under the chair, and sit down.

A glance around shows everyone with sheets of paper out that have big dashed lines across it.

Mrs. Chase appears, setting some down on my desk along with a #2 pencil.

"Okay, class," she says, returning to the front of the room. She rounds her desk, and grabs a piece of chalk. On the green chalkboard, there's already dashed lines running across it that match our worksheets. She starts writing in big capital letters. "Can anyone tell me what this spells?"

A couple hands shoot up, and I bite my lip.

DOG. This one's easy. But I keep it to myself.

I pick up my pencil, and carefully start writing the letters between the dashed lines on the page as she calls on someone.

Muffled whispering reaches my ears while Mrs. Chase moves onto the next word, and I peek over out of the corner of my eye.

On the other side of the aisle from me, just a step away, is the boy with the black hair, and on his other side, next to the big windows, the girl who asked me if I was from New York City.

The girl is scribbling something on a piece of paper, and the boy huffs. She giggles and says, "Shh."

I look back up at the board, and quickly catch up on what I missed. So far I know every word—how to read and spell and write them.

"Do it," I hear whispered.

"No."

"Pleas—"

"Isobel. Waylon," Mrs. Chase says, turning a stern gaze on the back of the room.

I follow it to the two sitting next to me.

"Enough with the chatter, or I will separate you."

"Sorry, Mrs. Chase," the girl, Isobel, says, fighting a giggle.

The boy, Waylon, just slouches down in his chair. He says nothing.

Now that I'm next to him, I can see the side of his face. He must sense me staring, because he looks over and glares at me from greenish-yellow eyes.

I quickly look down at my sheet, holding the pencil so tight, it creaks.

"Stop it," I hear whispered.

Waylon mutters something I can't make out, but I feel my cheeks heat up like they're on fire.

For the rest of the lesson, I force my attention on Mrs. Chase and my worksheet, ignoring the whispers and looks coming from the desks next to me. Though it's mostly just the girl staring, I think. The boy doesn't seem to like that, because I keep hearing him say, "Stop."

When Mrs. Chase claps her hands and says it's time for snack, I frown when everybody gets up all at once, all but running for the cubbies.

Back in New York, the school gave us our snack. We didn't bring our own.

Grabbing my bag, I look inside, checking to see if maybe Mom packed me something. I spot my MP3 player and headphones, and wonder if snack time is like recess.

But then I remember Principal Gibson said I can't listen until the end of the day.

They let me in New York…

I angrily zip up my bag and shove it back under my chair. Crossing my arms over my desk, I put my head down, grinding my teeth, feeling heat take over my eyes.

I hate it here. I hate it so much. I want to go home. I want my dad.

Lifting my head, I rest my chin on my arm, and peek around the room.

The rest of the class spreads out in groups to eat their snacks. Cookies. Chips. Crackers.

Mrs. Chase is sitting at her desk, reading through a book, chewing on the end of a pen. Her glasses have been shoved up to sit on top of her gray hair.

Sucking in my cheek, I wonder what Jeremy's doing. I wish we were in the same class. I hope no one else is giving him a hard time.

Does he have friends? Everyone else seems to.

Duh. They had a whole week to make friends, I remember. And they probably know each other from last year too.

But Jeremy seemed really shy and quiet, so maybe not.

Oh, maybe he's new too! Not today, but maybe it's his first year here too.

I'll be his friend. We both like comic books, so I know he won't be like those jerk faces back home who called me a nerd for it, or like those bullies picking on him earlier.

We can be nerds together.

"Be nice," I hear hissed, followed by a, "Whatever," pulling me out of my thoughts.

Footsteps draw closer, and then a finger taps me on the shoulder from behind.

Sitting up straight, I turn my body, confused when I find that girl and boy who got in trouble for talking standing there.

The girl has crazy brown hair almost down to her waist, and big brown eyes that look almost red from the sun coming through the windows. They're kind of cool. Reminds me of Cyclops. Maybe they're red because they turn into lasers when she's mad.

She grins, reddish-brown eyes big and bright. "Hi."

"Hi," I mutter.

"I'm Isobel, but everyone calls me Izzy. Except teachers, because teachers are lame." She whips her head around, frizzy hair flying everywhere, and tilts her head at the boy slumped next to her. They're about the same height, but that might just be 'cause he's got his head down, and his shoulders up near his ears. "And this is Waylon. He's my best friend. We're thicker than thieves. Sometimes I call him Way, but that gets confusing sometimes, 'cause people say that word all the time, even when they're not talking to him."

The boy looks up at me through dark lashes, mouth pursed. He says nothing.

"I'm Mason," I say quietly.

Izzy chirps, "We know." And then she takes the seat next to me—Zachary's seat; he's across the room, eating his snack with another boy. She takes out a bag of pretzels and those strawberry wafer things Mrs. Linda has in her cupboard, and says, "Waylon, bring a chair over."

There's a huff, then a squeak across the floor. He brings it between my desk and the ones in front of me, taking a seat directly across from Izzy.

My hands feel all sweaty, so I sit back and drop them in my lap, rubbing them together.

"Here," she says, sliding the bag over to me.

Waylon has the same snack, except he has the chocolate wafers, and he digs into those immediately, keeping his gaze down while he eats.

I grab a couple pretzels, and say, "Thanks."

"You're welcome!"

She's…really happy. Nice too.

Feeling her stare at me while I eat, I look over and say, "What?"

"You have really cool eyes. They're like…really light. Almost see-through. Do they glow in the dark?"

My cheeks get all warm and I sink in my seat. People always like to say things about my eyes. It makes me feel weird. "I-I don't think so." I bite my lip. "Your eyes are cool too. They're, like, red."

She nods. "Right? I'm like a vampire! And you're like a ghost!"

Waylon snorts.

"And you're…" She drags the word, frowning deeply, like she's thinking real hard.

He scowls, glaring up at me, like it's my fault she can't come up with anything.

I shrug, and look down, nibbling on my pretzel.

"You're a demon!" Izzy blurts. "Like that scary one in Buffy. The yellow-eyed demon."

"My eyes aren't yellow."

"They're gold-ish," she says, reaching for his snacks. "Close enough."

He bats her hand away, and she laughs. To me, she says, "Don't ever touch his food, especially if it's chocolate. Mom says he Hulks out." She laughs.

Waylon mumbles under his breath, his cheeks turning red.

I tilt my head. "The Hulk? Do you…do you guys like superheroes?"

"They're okay. My brother loves them. Do you wanna sit with us at lunch?" she rushes out, changing the subject.

I shrug. "Um, sure?" is all I say.

Again, I can't help but think of Jeremy, wondering who he sits with at lunch.

I don't know why I keep thinking about him. Especially now when this girl is talking to me, and inviting me to sit with her—them—at lunch. I won't have to sit alone.

The desk rattles, like maybe Izzy kicked her foot under the desk, and I look up to find Waylon glaring up at her, his eyes narrowed.

He moves that glare to me, and I scowl. He clearly doesn't like me, or want to be my friend, and it's making me mad. I didn't do anything. I didn't make him sit here.

"What?" I huff.

His jaw moves around like he's grinding his teeth.

"He's just being cranky today," Izzy says like it's nothing.

Waylon looks to her, and blinks a couple times before looking down, his hair falling down over his eyes. It's not nearly as long as Jeremy's, but definitely longer than mine, his curly bangs covering his eyes like mine do when it gets too long.

"So, do you like music?"

I glance over at Izzy and nod. "Yeah."

Her face brightens. "Do you play an instrument? I play piano. I'm gonna be a famous pi-a-nist," she says, carefully exaggerating each syllable, "like my mom when I grow up."

I clench my hands together in my lap, feeling something sort of…open in my chest. Like that feeling I got when Mr. Gavin gave me the MP3 player last week, already full of my favorite songs, and even more I never heard of, and I didn't have to use my old CD player that was always dyin' anymore. Now I can have all the music in one place, instead of having to decide on just one CD. When I find a new song, Momma or Mr. Gavin upload it from a computer right to the little player.

"I don't. I just listen," I tell her.

"Do you wanna learn? I have pianos at my house. Come over after school!"

I blink. "I-I don't know if…"

"My mom can call your mom—or dad," she quickly adds with a shake of her head. Her gaze flits to Waylon, and she frowns.

I look over, and I'm surprised he's not still glaring at me. If anything he seems zoned out, like my momma says I get when I watch TV or listen to music.

"It's just my mom," I whisper.

Waylon lifts his head. "Did your dad die?" he says in a weird sort of flat tone.

My eyes widen, and I shake my head at the same time Izzy says, "Way, you can't just ask that."

His eyebrows come together, face crinkled, like he doesn't understand.

"No, he's not dead," I tell him, annoyed. "He's just…away right now."

"Where'd he go?" Waylon asks.

Again, Izzy kicks him under the desk. He scowls at her, but looks back at me like he's waiting for an answer.

I shrug, feeling all warm again suddenly. "I don't know. Mom—my mom won't tell me. He's probably back at our house in New York. He's comin' to get me soon."

He frowns, nodding, then looks down, and goes about eating his pretzels now that the wafers are gone.

I look over to Izzy, and she says, "I hope you get to see him soon."

"Me too."

"My parents are really cool. They're both musicians. My dad's in a band! They play at bars all around the state."

My eyes widen. That's so cool.

"I wanna be in a band too one day. But I wanna play all over the world."

"I-I thought you wanted to play piano," I say.

"I'll do both!" she says happily. Then she throws a hand out toward Waylon. "And his dad's a cop. He's up for chief this year! But Waylon doesn't want to be a cop. Or a musician. He doesn't know what he wants to do yet."

"Your dad's a cop?" I say, looking at Waylon. "That's cool. My dad said cops are like real life superheroes, putting away the bad guys and fightin' crime."

Waylon looks up at me, and cocks his head to the side. His mouth opens, but he says nothing, just blinks a couple times like he's confused again.

I frown. He's…weird.

Be nice.

Wincing at my mom's voice in my head, I look down, and bite my lip.

"You'll have to meet my brother," Izzy says excitedly. "He got held back this year—he's in transition, so he's not with our grade anymore. Hopefully next year. He's really shy, but?—"

"Okay, class, time to wrap it up, and throw away our garbage," Mrs. Chase announces, ringing a little bell.

Grumbles and sighs fill the room, along with the rustling of bags, papers, and footsteps. Izzy blows a raspberry, and shoves away from the desk when Zachary appears. "See ya later, Mason!"

"Later," I whisper.

Waylon quietly picks up his trash and his chair at the same time, moving it back to his desk. Our gazes meet, and he scowls.

So I scowl back, feeling my fists clench in my lap.

He sits down and turns away, glaring at the front of the room.

Izzy returns, but when she goes to sit down, she pauses and looks over my head, then meets my gaze and comes over. Mrs. Chase calls everyone to sit down, but it sounds very far away.

"Mom says he requires patience," she says very seriously, sounding way older than she is.

And then she flashes me a smile and whirls around, skipping back over to her desk. She cups a hand around Waylon's ear, and leans down to whisper something to him. He grins at whatever she says, and his cheeks do this thing where two spots sink in. Dimples, I remember they're called. Dad has one in his right cheek. I'm like Mom, I don't have any.

Waylon glances up, meeting my gaze like maybe he sensed me staring. He presses his lips together until they blend in with his skin, hiding his dimples once more.

Forget Izzy being Cyclops—it's him with the laser eyes.

I narrow my eyes right back.

Steve Rogers could sooo take lame old Scott any day.