Bringing Me Back Page 2

Mr. Anderson lowered his hands, still staring at me. Mr. Anderson, you should know, has this strange ability to make kids just sort of spill out their troubles, scattering them across his desk for him to rearrange into something better. I used to do that. Last year, when Jeff made me go to school the day after Mom was convicted, Mr. Anderson had called me into his office. I spluttered like a baby, honking my nose and everything, while Mr. Anderson listened. But you know what? He wasn’t able to do a thing with the messed up puzzle pieces I gave him. Couldn’t turn anything into a better picture. When I left his office, all I had were eyes as red as my stupid sneakers. So I wasn’t going to fall for it this year.

  “How are things with your stepdad?”

  “Jeff isn’t my stepdad.” I sat on my hands.

  “But you are living with him, right? Until your mom finishes her time?” The until seemed to bounce around the room. Mr. Anderson didn’t seem to notice. “When is your mom’s sentence up?”

  Mr. Anderson loved football. He had trophies from when he was a high school quarterback all over his office. I wondered if maybe that’s why he was a principal—like maybe the best moments ever happened when he was in his school so he picked a job that would keep him in school forever. No wonder he couldn’t understand someone like me, who’d rather spend all day scraping the crusty black tar from the recycling bin than spend an hour in these halls.

  I stared at one of his trophies, of a golden football, and shrugged.

  “It’s in a few months, right?”

  I lowered my chin a fraction. “November fifth.”

  Mr. Anderson shifted. He leaned a little closer. This was his signature move, the one he always made right before smoothly pricking a kid’s resistance to sharing all the details of his sorry life. Here it comes. Softly, Mr. Anderson asked, “Will you be staying in the district once your mother is out of jail?”

  My head jerked toward him even though I didn’t want to. Mr. Anderson continued, “Or will you be moving to a more … neutral area?”

  I swallowed and shrugged again. No one had talked with me about moving. Jeff’s engine repair shop is downtown. He wasn’t going to move. No “For Sale” sign in the front yard. But everyone hated me here. They hated Mom even more. Jeff’s shop was barely hanging on, even though the newspapers had pointed out again and again that he had left the party hours before Mom. How Mom and I moved in with him a month before she went to jail. The Ashtown Press even put him on the cover once, lauding him as a hometown hero for stepping up and taking me in so I wasn’t shuffled into foster care, despite my “troubled behavior” following Mom’s arrest.

  A smaller article had printed beside that one on Jeff. It was all about the League announcing Coach Abrams wouldn’t be coming back from leave. That he was too ashamed for serving so much alcohol at the playoffs party, which resulted in a player’s mother being arrested for drunken driving. The League went on to drop Ashtown Bruins altogether, thanks to “lapses in judgment” prior to the championship game and “excessive violence” during the game. The “lapse in judgment”? That was Mom. The “excessive violence”? All me. And no one was going to forget it.

  Since Ashtown School District is too poor to maintain a school football team without the League, that meant no one was playing ball this year. Because of me. Because of Mom.

  My face flamed and eyes stung for a stupid second. Once Mom got home, Jeff would be free, too. Free of me. I never had thought about it that way before, but maybe the calendar he kept in the Shop, the one counting down days until Mom’s release, wasn’t for her freedom but his, when he could stop being a fill-in parent and go back to being himself.

  “Jeff hasn’t said anything about moving,” I mumbled.

  “What does your mom say about her future?” Mr. Anderson asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It might be helpful to ask.”

  I snorted.

  “Well,” Mr. Anderson continued, his voice heavier. “I think we need to assume you’ll be sticking around then. I want you to feel like, no matter what, Ashtown Middle is a safe zone. A steady home.” He leaned forward, hands flat on the desk. Again, my eyes left the trophy and faced my principal. Mr. Anderson’s eyes locked me in place. “You need to know something, Noah.”

  Here is comes, the I’m-here-for-you-my-door-is-always-open speech, the one that ends with him putting out his fist for a bump and me having no choice but to do it. I sucked in my breath.

  But Mr. Anderson’s eyes were hard as stones. This was new. “I’m an understanding guy. Many of the students here view me more as a buddy than their principal. That’s because I’ll give you as many chances as you deserve, Noah. But you need to give a little back. Those stunts you pulled, they might not have all happened on school grounds, but that doesn’t mean I’m not holding you responsible while you’re here. Filling your pockets with candy bars at the pharmacy. Yes, I heard about your foray into shoplifting this summer. And what you did to Micah Hardell—a boy you know to be intellectually challenged … ” Mr. Anderson shook his head, eyes never leaving mine.

  “I told you last year that my door is always open to you, Noah. But I want you know that I’m going to be watching you. I have a responsibility to protect all Ashtown students.”

  Yanking my backpack off the floor and onto my shoulder, I stood. “Can I go to class now?” I whipped around, knocking three years of Rina’s narrative essays to the office floor.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I pulled my schedule out of my back pocket. I’d missed homeroom. First period, life science with Mr. Davies. The door to his classroom was closed, but I could hear a deep voice seep out from under the door. “… the study of all components of life, from microscopic to observable …”

  For a second, I just stood there listening to him. Jeff was way into science, always watching Discovery Channel specials. He’d gotten me into it, too, I guess, because I suddenly felt lighter than I had all morning. I eased open the door.

  I thought through my play to get into class without anyone noticing: don’t make a sound and don’t look around for anything except an empty seat. Mr. Davies didn’t pause his lecture, and I didn’t stall by the door. I kept my head down and made my way to the back, where there was an empty desk in the corner. “… examining what motivates organisms to behave as they do …” I pulled the zipper on my backpack as slow as I could so it wouldn’t be loud and reached for a notebook and pencil. “… For example, what pushes a student to think I’m not going to notice him sneaking into my classroom five minutes late for class?”

  My heart thumped as twenty-four people turned in their seats toward me. I didn’t look up, keeping my eyes on the faint blue line of my notebook. “I was called into the office.”

  “And your excuse is where?”

  I swallowed. “Mr. Anderson didn’t give me one.”

  “Here’s another example, class, of what we’ll be studying this year.” Twenty-four bodies shifted toward the front again. I kept my eyes on the blue line. “Organisms capable of anticipating their own needs—such as a seventh grader able to realize he needs an excuse slip to interrupt a class—evolve and thrive. Those who lack that capability … well, they struggle.”

  I swallowed again, trying to ignore the crunch as my teeth mashed together.

  “We’ll give you a pass this time, Mr….”

  “Brickle,” I muttered.

  “Brickle.” Mr. Davies strolled toward my desk. He paused beside it. “Noah, right?”

  I nodded, still not looking up.

  “Where have I heard your name before?” I did glance up then, wanting to see if he really didn’t know all about me already. Weren’t teachers given files with everything bad about a kid before school started? You know, the permanent record Mr. Anderson was so fond of reminding us not to blemish. But as soon as I looked up, I wished I hadn’t.

  The corners of Mr. Davies’s eyes crinkled as he scanned the other students and their whispered hissing about me. He was long and lean, thick bl
ond hair slicked back and a skinny dark tie down his button-down shirt. Mr. Davies’s hands were clean, nails neatly trimmed. I could see them well, as he leaned against the corner of my desk. His lips twitched. “Where have I heard that name before?” he murmured again. And I knew he knew. His brown eyes latched onto mine, daring me to snap or cry or react in any way.

  A flash from the front of the room distracted me. Rina’s hand shot in the air. Mr. Davies turned to see what caught my attention. “Do you need something, Rina?” Mr. Davies asked.

  “I wanted to answer your question.” Rina lowered her arm and folded her hands on her lap, waiting for Mr. Davies to give her the go-ahead, even as a few kids in the class groaned.

  You deserve this, I reminded myself, closing my eyes to the image of Micah stained on my eyelids. I concentrated on breathing in and out, ducking my head and gripping my pencil so tight I felt it bend under my grasp.

  “Go on, Rina,” Mr. Davies said. “Why is Noah Brickle’s name so familiar?”

  “You probably read his name in the paper a year ago. When he won the math triathlon.”

  My jaw dropped almost as fast as my head jerked up. Rina’s eyes floated toward mine for just a second, but her serious expression didn’t change.

  “No, I’m pretty sure that’s not it.” Mr. Davies rocked back on his heels. A couple guys laughed.

  Rina nodded. “Okay. Then maybe you read his name in the paper all the times he made honor roll. I saw it there, next to mine.” Rina’s last name is Beltre, so we’re always near each other in alphabetical listings. Last semester was the only time I hadn’t made honor roll.

  All around us, kids stared at Rina. Was she really standing up for me?

  Leave it to Mike to ruin it. “Or, Mr. Davies, you read about his mother getting trashed and going to jail.”

  Chuckles broke out all around, the kids covering their mouths with their hands even worse than the ones, like Landon, who laughed outright. Rina’s heavy sigh weighed down the room.

  “I’m sure it was one of those things.” Mr. Davies went back to the front of the room, and I went back to slouching over my desk.

  Finally, I had just one class left. I gave myself a little pep talk. No way it could be worse than lunch.

  Last year, lunch had been awesome. I had known no matter how late I got to the cafeteria, there’d be an empty seat next to Landon, who always packed and so got to our table first. This year, I dragged my feet. Someone must’ve gotten their locker mixed up with mine and dumped a bunch of papers and wrappers in it. By the time I had fished them all out and found the ticket with my lunch number on it, no one else was in the lunch line.

  That was cool—the lunch lady gave me an extra serving of tater tots since it was the last lunch—but it meant all of the round tables in the cafeteria were already claimed. Trying to hold the tray, keep my head down, and zero in on empty seats sucked. I asked three different tables if I could sit with them. Each said no, they were waiting for someone. Even though I was the last person to the cafeteria.

  Finally I found a table in the back, full of other would-rather-be-alone eaters, and each of us spent the last few minutes staring at our phones and pretending we were anywhere other than middle school.

  At my locker again (and again clearing out scraps of paper—whoever thought they had my locker was a slob), I checked my schedule: advanced math with Miss Peters.

  Great. Now I’d have to make another trip to the office to fix this mistake. I stepped it up so I could get to the class before the bell. I was lucky—no one else was in the room but Rina, already stationed front and center. At first I thought Miss Peters was another student, until I saw that she was wearing a staff badge and key around her neck. Her shiny brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and, aside from red lips, I didn’t think she was wearing any makeup. She smiled hugely when she saw me, which stopped me mid-stride.

  “Um, Miss Peters? There’s a mistake. I shouldn’t be in advanced math.” I handed her my crumpled up schedule, which she smoothed across her desk.

  “No mistake, Noah.” She smiled again. Seriously, if teaching doesn’t work out, Miss Peters should sell toothpaste. “I reviewed your test scores and work from last year. You belong here.”

  I shook my head. I had failed every quiz the third quarter of school. I hadn’t opened a book the whole month of April while Mom was in rehab, and barely managed to pass by June. My grades had tanked. I practically lived in Mr. Anderson’s office. “But last year—”

  Miss Peters’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a new year, Noah. Mr. Anderson and I both feel this is where you belong. Please take your seat.” Though there were four empty rows of desks, Miss Peters gestured toward the one right beside Rina. I took the one behind her instead.

  The room filled up. Brenna, this girl who had been on the cheerleading squad, was decked out in a too-short dress and about five extra layers to her face thanks to makeup. It was like now that the cheerleading squad had been disbanded, she morphed into a stereotype of what a cheerleader should be, like she was reminding us all of what she lost thanks to me. When she had been an Ashtown cheerleader, she actually had been kind of cool. Now, though, she hated me.

  She stood in the doorway, rooted out some lipstick from her backpack, and smeared it on her lips. When she glanced up, she saw me watching and rolled her eyes. “Not a chance,” she sneered. Mike laughed from his seat across the room. Another kid bumped her from behind, sending a line of cherry red up Brenna’s cheek and scuttling her phone across the floor. “Jerk!” she snapped. She spent another minute staring into the makeup mirror, smearing at the lipstick streak with a tissue. When she finally looked up, the only seat left was right next to me.

  “How are you in advanced math?” Rina hissed to Brenna.

  “Mom made a few phone calls.”

  “I’m not sharing my notes.” Rina turned toward the front and crossed her arms. A couple years ago, back when Brenna used to wear sports shorts and oversized T-shirts, Brenna and Rina were best friends. Then Rina called Brenna a sellout for sitting with the cheerleaders, which made Brenna start making fun of Rina, calling her snob. I wasn’t sure who Rina was friends with now.

  “I don’t need your help,” Brenna snapped. A little lower, she added, “That’s what my tutor is for.”

  I kept my head down until class started, then did a quick sweep of the room. Looked like Landon didn’t make the advanced math cut, making this the one and only class my former best friend and I didn’t share.

  How awesome this schedule would’ve been a year ago, the two of us sitting in the back of every classroom, passing paper rolled up like footballs, goofing off just enough to have fun but not get into trouble. Landon made the teachers laugh; I made sure our grades kept us off their radar. Landon had this way of charming even the bitterest teachers. Take Ms. Edwards, the English teacher, whose chair had to be molded to her massive frame, considering she never moved from behind her desk or looked up from her computer screen through eight months of classes. But last year, this tee, tee, tee of laughter tumbled out of the old toad when Landon recited a haiku about his toddler brother’s potty training (“Splash! Fall into bowl/Aiming and standing is tough/When you’re two years old.”) I smiled into my fist, thinking about it.

  “I’m telling you! I had it a minute ago!” Brenna suddenly squealed. She scattered lipsticks, pens, notebooks, and papers across her desk as she rooted through her bag. I had been so zoned out, I hadn’t noticed the end of Miss Peters’s waxing on about multiplying mixed numerals and the beginning of Brenna’s freak-out.

  “Someone must’ve taken it!” Brenna hissed.

  I ducked my head again.

  “Ask Noah,” Mike shouted from the back row. “He’s over there smiling right next her.” A year ago, Mike had been on the outskirts of me and Landon, latching on to whatever we were joking about and bringing it up as we passed him the hall. Always trying to be in on whatever we were doing.

  I slouched lower in my seat, feeling
the prickle of everyone’s gaze.

  Miss Peters stood in front of my desk. “Noah, have you seen Brenna’s cell phone? She’s misplaced it.”

  “No,” Brenna snapped. “I didn’t misplace it. I had it in my backpack. Right here!” She pointed to the space between us.

  I shook my head.

  “Yeah, right,” Mike muttered.

  Miss Peters stayed put for another few seconds. I didn’t look up, but I’m sure she was watching me, waiting for me to do something. Confess, I guess. I didn’t move.

  “I’m sure it’ll turn up.” Miss Peters finally turned around. “If Noah says he didn’t take it, he didn’t take it.”

  “But—” Brenna yelped.

  “Enough.” Miss Peters sat behind her desk. “I’m sure it will turn up.”

  Brenna groaned. “My parents are going to be so pissed.” Somehow she made it sound like a threat. Rina sighed.

  After the bell rang, I wasn’t surprised when Miss Peters called me to her desk. I was sure she’d ask me to give her Brenna’s phone, that whole innocent-until-proven-guilty thing an act for the rest of the class. But, just like Mr. Anderson, she surprised me. “Noah? Are you okay? Must be tough having everyone accuse you like that.”

  I bit my lip, but couldn’t stop from saying, “Not like I don’t deserve it.”

  “We all make mistakes, kiddo.” She opened her laptop in a see-you-later sort of way. “Hope the rest of your day gets better.”

  I nodded, even though she wasn’t looking. “Miss Peters?” I pointed to the classroom door, where just the edge of Brenna’s cell phone peeked out.

  “Noah!” Miss Peters clapped. “Why didn’t you say something during class?”

  I shrugged. Even if I had pointed out where the phone lay by the door, no one would believe me that it fell out of Brenna’s bag when she had been pushed coming into class. They would’ve thought I had planted it or kicked it over there or something if I were the one to point it out. “I just saw it now.”

  “Oh, I’m glad!” And then I knew: she had thought I had taken the phone all along.