Looks Page 4

  The bell rings for A Period and Meghan emerges, nameless now, faceless, neither absent nor present, neither in class nor skipping class. Having bypassed homeroom, she is a nonperson. She is shimmery around the edges. She can go where ghosts go.

  Who is Aimee Zorn?

  8:05 and Guidance is still a madhouse the second week of school. Everybody wants to switch their photo elective to study hall, advanced Algebra II to standard Algebra II, Self-Defense to Individualized Fitness. The waiting area is a mob of kids clutching their schedules in inky triplicate, craning their necks to see Mr. Weil, who stands in the doorway to his claustrophobic little office signing off on changes, reaching over kids’ heads for other kids’ forms, rolling up his plaid sleeves as the room heats up. Meghan has no interest in Mr. Weil; Meghan wants what’s behind Door Number 2: Ms. Pestano’s desktop computer. Ms. Pestano may be the ninth-grade class counselor but she thinks of herself as an Artist, and she’s managed to convince the Instructional Director that she should teach Ceramics I during A Period; at this moment she should be up to her elbows in slippery terra cotta at the far end of the art hall, leaving her office empty and unguarded. Ms. Vaughan at the reception desk has the phone clamped between her shoulder and her ear and is scribbling something down on a sticky note; as Meghan edges through the mob toward Ms. Pestano’s open door, Ms. Vaughan stares right at her and doesn’t even see her.

  Into Ms. Pestano’s office—why do guidance counselors always decorate with houseplants and tapestries?—and across the room to the desk where the computer’s already on, already logged in. Meghan happens to know that the Guidance password, as of yesterday, is ACHIEVEDREAMS123, but how thoughtful of Ms. Pestano to leave it all up and ready for her.

  “Z-O-R-N-space-A,” and up comes the schedule in neat rows and columns. U.S. History I, World Lit I, French II—your basic ninth-grade day at school. To see is to remember for Meghan Ball—she casts her eyes over the list of classes and it instantly becomes part of the structure of her brain.

  Enter to clear.

  Escape to exit.

  Who is Aimee Zorn?

  10:40, dead center of C period, the time of day when, if she’s sitting in front of J-Bar in Geometry, Meghan usually starts wishing she had never been born. But this morning is different. She is pressed into the L where cinder block meets vinyl siding, permanent building meets temporary classroom, and she is breathing in the smell of cut grass that comes billowing off the lacrosse field as Mr. Guilbault growls over it on his red monster mower.

  Through the window of C25 Meghan has an unobstructed view of Aimee Zorn and the rest of the inmates of French II. In front of them Madame Mitkiewicz dances heavily at the blackboard, all beaded necklaces and stiletto heels and belted sweater dress, waving her plump, bejeweled hands in circles in front of j’écrivais and j’ai écrit. Aimee Zorn is writing something rapid and smooth, looking up periodically at Madame Mitkiewicz in a decent impression of Girl Taking Notes, but whatever it is she’s actually writing has nothing to do with imparfait or passé composé. Amazing how her whole body gives off a so-freaking-bored vibe—slumped down in her seat, left arm dangling off its shoulder, head dropped like a sack of sand to one side—while down on the desk in front of her that right hand crawls steadily back and forth across the paper, ballpoint pen gripped in its mouth. As if her hand is its own creature, possessed of its own wild, urgent thoughts.

  Who is Aimee Zorn?

  12:20, beginning of second lunch, and no investigation, even this one, is compelling enough to induce Meghan Ball to enter the cafeteria. Amnesty International should investigate the human rights violations that get perpetrated on people in this cafeteria every day. Meghan Ball hasn’t been in this cafeteria since the first day of ninth grade, and if she has anything to say about it, Meghan Ball will never enter this cafeteria, or any other cafeteria, again as long as she lives.

  But on her way past the door to the lunch line, heading to the art hall, Meghan spots the crimson hat bobbing through the throng of haircuts. The hat disappears—Meghan cranes her neck—then flashes again by the art-hall door, ducks through it and out of sight. Meghan moves, invisible, around the edge of the crowd till she reaches the art-hall door, opens it in time to see—excuse me?—Aimee Zorn give the doorknob to Music Practice RoomDapair of practiced tugs. Just the right combination; this can’t be the first time she’s done it. The door swings open, and Aimee Zorn lets herself into Meghan’s secret place.

  At first Meghan feels a flash of anger: Get your own secret place! But then she imagines, over time, them sharing the space, learning to speak the same secret language, becoming the only two people in school who know the code of Music Practice Room D.

  She edges down the deserted art hall until she’s within watching range of the practice room door, positions herself at an angle to its narrow window so she can see through it without being seen. The window is so long and thin that she can only see a slice down the center of Aimee Zorn, who sits cross-legged on the dirty carpeted floor, holding a paper lunch sack in both hands. Extremely carefully, extremely painstakingly, Aimee reaches into the sack and draws out first a bright green single-serving Jell-O cup and then a tiny silver spoon.

  As Meghan watches, Aimee Zorn peels the foil top off the Jell-O cup and places it, sticky side up, beside her on the floor. She peers down into the little cup, lifts the tiny spoon and, precisely as a surgeon, slips it into the green substance. As the tip of the spoon passes through the Jell-O’s taut surface a slight pang seems to move through Aimee Zorn’s whole body. She twists the spoon once in the center of the cup and extracts a perfect miniature spoonful of lime, so small and tightly carved it doesn’t even jiggle as she brings it up carefully, carefully to her face. Aimee Zorn parts her dark, narrow lips, inserts the silver spoon into her mouth, and pulls it out slowly, her lips bared around it so that they never touch the metal, her teeth scraping the drop of green Jell-O from the spoon.

  After this elaborate bite is finished, Aimee Zorn holds the spoon up in front of her eyes. She examines first one side, then the other, until she’s satisfied that the instrument is perfectly clean.

  Who is Aimee Zorn?

  2:45, first-string buses gone for the day, jocks like jerseyed birds out on the distant playing fields, flapping back and forth in flocks. Halls empty, the long, waxy floors shining like marble in the afternoon light. Meghan is haunting the temporary hallway outside the temporary classrooms tacked on at the back of the building like an insincere apology, so cheap your footsteps on the carpeted floor sound like footsteps on a lakeside dock: hollow underneath.

  Through the long, narrow window of temporary classroom D12, crisscrossed finely with safety wire, Meghan watches Aimee standing stiffly amid the girls gathering for the first literary magazine meeting of the year. You might expect literary magazine to be filled with Goth kids and weirdos, but at this school lit mag attracts the best of the good girls, awkward nerdettes who care about Emily Dickinson and dream of the day they’ll get their letter from Swarthmore, girls who part their flat hair down the middle and wear their shame and shyness out where everyone can see it: in boxy pink sweatshirts and high-waisted jeans, chunky white sneakers, backpacks with first names embroidered on them in cursive (LAURIE—BECKY—ANNE MARIE). Harmless girls. National Merit Semifinalists. What could sharp-tongued Aimee Zorn, with her combat boots and her flinty eyes, possibly have in common with these kitten-girls?

  Meghan watches as Aimee sinks into a chair at an empty desk, drops her head down so the velvet brim of her hat is all she shows to the world. She won’t last ten minutes in there, Meghan is sure. She’s more alone in that room full of pastels than she has been all day long. Meghan plans to retreat around the corner from the temporary classroom, to position herself perfectly to run into Aimee as she leaves the meeting.

  Meghan’s heart pounds as she imagines saying, “Hi.” Imagines Aimee smiling—surprised but pleased—and saying back, “Hi.”

  But as Meghan watches, into the seat ne
xt to Aimee slides a long, creamy girl, a sweet concoction of freckled skin and pink halter top and red, curly hair. The girl blazes in Meghan’s vision like a burn spot on a frame of film. She unfurls a creamy, freckled forearm onto Aimee Zorn’s desk—pink leather watchband, pink beaded bracelets—and lets her rosy fingertips brush Aimee’s black spider arm. The crimson hat pops up. Aimee’s hard gaze meets the eye of the creamy girl and softens, just for an instant: opens. No, Meghan murmurs in her mind. Oh no. The creamy redhead says something to Aimee, accompanies it with a ravishing, white-and-coral smile that drenches the whole room in sweetness and light. No, Meghan pleads silently, don’t listen. Please don’t listen to Cara Roy.

  Creamy Cara leans in to Aimee a fraction of an inch, adds something quick and clever to her last remark. A small, flattered smile detonates like a tiny bomb across the lower half of Aimee’s face, then clears again quickly, like smoke.

  Deep in her chest, Meghan feels her heart swerve and thump against a wall. She blinks twice, zeroes out her eyes, and goes.

  4

  “It is my privilege and my pleasure to call to order the first meeting of the year of the Photon editorial collective.”

  Cara Roy, founder and head facilitator of the literary magazine, looks like a Miss America contestant, dresses like the spunky heroine of a romantic comedy, and talks like the Secretary of State. She smiles out over the group of ten girls gathered in a circle in temporary classroom D12 and they beam back at her, ten moons reflecting her radiance. Cara’s desk is next to Aimee’s and Aimee is trying not to stare, but Cara Roy exerts an almost gravitational pull on her attention. Aimee unhooks her eyes for a moment, tries to look past Cara, to pick out titles on the bookshelves behind her red head, but finds her gaze dragged helplessly back to rest on Cara’s brilliantly symmetrical face.

  “We had a triumphant debut year last year—Becky and Moira and Anne Marie and Edith, you guys can vouch for this. We put out three gorgeous issues, and five pieces that were originally published in Photon went on to win prizes at the National High-School Literary Awards in D.C.”

  A ponytailed girl in a sea-foam green sundress raises her thin hand. Cara acknowledges her with a thousand watts of graciousness.

  “Becky Trainer?”

  “Yeah, I just want to say?” asks Becky. “That that’s really all because of you, Cara?”

  “Oh no, please.” Cara smiles bashfully, like she’s accepting an Oscar.

  “No, totally, because three of those pieces that won were your poems? And it was totally your idea to bring in the photo kids, which is totally what made that last issue so great?”

  “See, the thing that’s so rewarding about working in a collective,” Cara explains, “and I think this is really important to mention up front, so thank you, Becky, for reminding me, is that all our ideas belong to all of us. An idea might be generated by one individual, but once it’s embraced by the group mind of the collective it becomes part of the, like, creative ether that we work in together, and everyone responds to it and strengthens it and ultimately owns it. So it’s really impossible for any one person to take credit for any specific thing that ends up in the magazine, because we’ve all contributed to it by the time it gets there. Does that make sense? New people, does that make sense to you?”

  The room nods in vigorous unison. Abruptly, Cara turns to Aimee, who flinches involuntarily.

  “Does that make sense to you? Aimee, right?”

  Aimee feels the movement of ten heads swiveling in her direction. Cara’s face is a light source, blinding her. Aimee opens her suddenly leathery mouth and nothing comes out.

  A furrow of concern darts Cara’s forehead. “I’m sorry, is that wrong? I thought you said your name was Aimee.”

  Long seconds go by as Aimee works to send enough spit to her dry flap of a tongue to use it to speak. Twenty bright, questioning eyes stay focused on her, blinking, waiting.

  “Aimee,” she says finally, blurrily.

  “Oh good, I thought so.” Cara bathes Aimee in smile. “So do you get what I’m saying about the collective? Because it’s really different from working on other extracurriculars, like Yearbook or something, where all the tasks are divided up completely separately.”

  Aimee nods. “No, yeah.”

  “We all work together on Photon.”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “Wonderful!” Cara lays her fingertips lightly on Aimee’s arm, a confirmation of some kind. The touch of another human being makes Aimee shrink back inside her own skin, and she has to fight herself to keep from shaking Cara off. At last, at last, Cara lifts her hand away. “Well then guys, let’s not wait another second to get started. Let’s jump right in with Volume Two, Number One!”

  From under her desk, Cara hauls out a burly black three-ring binder, the kind team managers use to track statistics in baseball. She whaps it open on the desk with businesslike determination, starts paging through the six-inch-thick ream of papers it contains. Around the room a current of giggly, excited murmurs travels, girls leaning their glossy heads together to confer, to anticipate, with mouselike glee.

  “Editorial issues first,” Cara pronounces, and the general tittering falls silent. “I suggest we have posters up around school announcing the call for submissions for the first issue by Monday, September twentieth, at the latest.”

  A round of nodding. Cara consults a three-month calendar printout, pointing to dates with her pen as she speaks.

  “I mean, working back from our printing date, which we figured out last year had to be November fifteenth in order to get the issue out before Thanksgiving, we want to set a deadline for submissions of, like, no later than October fifteenth, so we have at least a month to make editorial decisions and ask for rewrites if we need to and stuff, which means no later than September twentieth for the posters announcing the deadline, is that right? Does that sound right to everyone?”

  A short, chubby girl with a brown bowl cut and zealous green eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses sticks her hand straight out in front of her and waves. Cara acknowledges her with a patient smile.

  “Moira Dahlquist? Yes?”

  “I move that we vote on making Monday, September twentieth the deadline for poster distribution,” Moira enthuses, lisping her Ss sweetly against her teeth.

  Cara grins. “Great idea. So moved. All in favor?”

  Ten hands shoot up simultaneously. For a second Aimee forgets that she’s not just a spectator at this event, and leaves her own hand splayed out on the desk in front of her until Cara turns to her again, face shadowed with distress.

  “Aimee? You vote no on the September twentieth deadline?”

  “Oh no, sorry, I—sorry.” Hasty, embarrassed, Aimee hoists up her arm. Cara grins again, surveys the unbroken circle of eleven raised hands, and nods with finality.

  “Good. So resolved.” All eleven hands drop from the air, as if they’d been held up by the same cut string. “Okay, so September twentieth is Monday, next Monday, people. This poster has to be done, like, yesterday. So who wants to be in charge of designing it?” Cara turns her focus on a thoughtful-looking girl with a long head of straight black hair sitting directly across the circle from Aimee. “Edith Ting, you’re a super talented artist. Remember, guys, what an amazing job Edith did on the cover of Volume One, Number Two last year?”

  From around the circle, a chorus of cooing affirmation rises up. Across the room, Edith Ting blushes a blotchy red, looks around the floor as if she’s trying to find a hole to dive into. Cara smiles down on her with affectionate reproach.

  “Don’t be modest, Edith, everybody knows you’re an artistic genius. Don’t we, guys?”

  Everybody swears that they do.

  Becky in the sundress sends her hand rocketing skyward.

  “Yes, Becky?”

  “Yeah, I nominate Edith Ting to design our call-for-submissions poster?”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” says Cara. “So moved. All in favor?”

&nbs
p; The door to temporary classroom D12 swings open and a shortish man with half-glasses and a close-clipped white beard hurries in.

  chest. “What are you all doing in my temporary classroom?”

  “Mr. Handsley, this is the Photon meeting!” Cara cries, mock shocked.

  A wicked smile spreads over Mr. Handsley’s elfin face. “Ah yes,” he intones. “How could I forget that today was the literary coven’s first meeting? You’ll pardon me.” He bows curtly, like a butler, and begins to back out the door.

  “Mr. Handsley, wait!” Cara calls out. “New people, this is Mr. Handsley, our faculty advisor from English. Mr. Handsley, don’t leave—talk to us.”

  “About what, dearest? Shakespeare’s tragedies? Current events?”

  Cara laughs and rolls her eyes. “Mr. Handsley is an indispensable part of our organization.”

  “It’s true,” Mr. Handsley says, growing serious. “Putting out a literary journal is a mercilessly dull business for which I provide indispensable comic relief.”

  “He’s teasing,” Cara explains, shaking her head at the English teacher as if he were a cute but naughty child. “Mr. Handsley does tons of important stuff for us, like liaise between the editorial collective and the school administration, and help us distribute the magazine around town once it’s printed. He also has final veto power over every piece we select for publication.”

  “A power which I very rarely am forced to invoke, to my great regret,” Mr. Handsley sighs.

  “Oh and he also administers Valley Regional’s Autumn Poetry Competition, which is coming up soon, and which I totally forgot we also need a poster for.”

  Cara turns back to her binder and begins flipping fervently through its pages.

  “Clearly there are life-or-death decisions being made here whose outcome I cannot hope to influence. If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have some crucial top-level liaising to do.” Mr. Handsley bows again. “I leave you in your facilitator’s capable hands.”