“Hey, do you know Matt Haynes?” Alicia asked. “He’s uh—he’s the other, other Matthew. Apparently, he has a crush on you.”

“Uhh,” Tabitha froze in the action of setting her bookbag on the cold table of the quad. “Matt…?”

“Haynes,” Alicia repeated, sizing up Tabitha’s expression with a grin as if to determine whether or not Tabitha was faking her ignorance. “How do you know him?”

“I don’t think I do?” Tabitha gave Alicia a puzzled smile. “I just know, um, the only Matthew I know is… Matthew…”

To her embarrassment, Tabitha’s mind momentarily blanked on the last name of the Matthew she knew. For a moment she wanted to identify him as Casey’s Matthew, but that didn’t seem accurate. Those two were in a relationship, but she couldn’t speak on how close it was, and Matthew didn’t belong to Casey, per se. When she thought about describing him as Mrs. William’s son, she thought that was awkward, because Alicia wasn’t anywhere near as close to Mrs. Williams as she was, and might not know who she was talking about—but that made her realize that obviously the direct descending relation to Mrs. Williams also made Matthew’s last name Williams. Obviously!

“Williams!” Tabitha blurted out. “Ugh! Sorry, it’s early—and I’ve been trying to remember so many people’s names that it’s making my head spin.”

“Right, right,” Alicia appeared amused. “Well, there’s a bunch of Matthews all at Springton High—I know of Matt Gilbert, Matt Haynes, and Matt Williams. Matthew. But, rumor is, is that Matt Haynes is interested in you.”

“So—” Tabitha finally settled her bookbag on the table and clambered a leg over the seat so that she could drop down. “Who is he? Have I met him?”

“You tell me!” Alicia laughed. “Have you had any classes with a Matt Haynes?”

“Uhh—I dunno?” Tabitha shrugged. “You mean back from first semester, or just from yesterday with my new classes? Either way… I don’t know? Not that I remember.”

“Ooh, ouch,” Alicia teased. “You’re the apple of his eye, and yet you don’t even know he exists! Brutal, Tabs.”

“No, I mean—how can he like me, if he doesn’t even know me?” Tabitha countered. “I don’t imagine we’ve spoken to each other? Or, at least, I don’t think a Matthew Haynes has ever introduced himself to me. I would remember—because he has the same name as Matthew. Matthew Williams, I mean.”

“Hmmm,” Alicia narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Yeah, you got me. I dunno. Here’s Elena, let’s ask her.”

Tabitha turned to see Elena on approach to them, weaving her way through the morning crowds with her arms crossed. The camouflage army jacket from yesterday was decorated with additional safety pins today, and the bits of metal embedded throughout evoked the imagery of punkish facial piercings. It made Tabitha wonder if her friend would go that route and start getting those eyebrow ones, or maybe a nose ring. Seeming to sense Tabitha was looking at her strangely, Elena arched an eyebrow as she strode up to them.

“What?” Elena asked, sounding grumpy.

“Do you know Matt Haynes?” Alicia asked. “He has a crush on Tabitha.”

“I know of him, I don’t really know him,” Elena answered, climbing up to sit on the table, with her feet resting on one of the seats.

It somehow seemed like a bold and shocking move, and when Tabitha quickly glanced around the back quad to see if that would get Elena in trouble, she only found one other guy who dared to sit up on a table, way across towards the band room kids. It seemed like something the wandering dean might scold them for, but perhaps the dean only kept an eye on the quad during lunch, because Tabitha couldn’t spot her anywhere now. Tabitha wondered if breaking convention and sitting on top of the table was a rebellious cool kid thing, and was sorely tempted to climb up and join her friend.

“You know of him, meaning, what exactly?” Alicia pressed for details.

“Him and um, Craig something,” Elena frowned, rubbing sleep out of her eyes with her sleeve as she tried to remember. “They were fighting with Chris Thompson, back that day Chris pushed Tabitha. Like, right after Chris pushed her. Didn’t hear about it until way later afterwards, but. I guess they got called up to the office about it, and got a warning? Neither of them got a suspension.”

“Craig Myers?” Alicia asked.

“Maybe?” Elena shrugged. “I don’t know him. I had Matt Haynes in one of my classes like, years ago back in Laurel Middle. But, we didn’t talk or anything. I just knew of him, I didn’t really know him.”

“So he went to your same middle school with you guys!” Alicia smacked the tabletop as if having an aha moment. “He probably knows Tabs from there?”

“I… doubt it,” Tabitha made a face. “Back then, to them I was just Tubby Tabby. No one cared.”

“Yeah… basically,” Elena nodded in agreement before realizing that doing so made Alicia scowl at her. “What? It’s the truth, sorry. The only one I ever remember hanging out with Tabby back then was Ashlee Taylor.”

“Oof, Ashlee,” Tabitha remembered. “I need to talk with her sometime today. Guess I should find her at lunch. First bell’s about to ring.”

“Forget about Ashlee—what about Matthew Haynes?!” Alicia protested. “Sounds to me like he was your knight in shining armor, back then when Chris pushed you. Right?”

“Ehh,” Elena huffed. “That might be a stretch. Like, I heard him and Craig squared up against Chris back then, but it wasn’t like a knock-down brawl, or anything. Barely a real fight. From what Candace said, they were just shoving at each other and shouting, basically.”

“If anyone’s my knight in shining armor, it’d be Michael, right?” Tabitha quirked her lip. “Since he’s the one who tackled Erica off of me at the party. Saved my life. He’s in my sixth period class, he has art with me. We don’t have the same table, though.”

“Nice,” Alicia nodded. “I have Olivia in one of my classes. History. It’s the same, she sits across the way and we can’t really talk besides saying ‘what’s up’ right when we get into class. She’s cool. Her and Michael seem cool.”

“Vanessa was asking about you,” Elena mentioned. “So, I guess she has a class with you now?”

“Two, actually,” Tabitha nodded. “My first and last periods of the day. She seems… alright?”

“She’s alright,” Elena shrugged.

Once again Tabitha was struck by the sheer number of names and faces she had to try to remember when she was making efforts to be social and maybe someday popular. Their small town high school didn’t even have a huge student body, and yet already she was feeling overwhelmed trying to track everyone and all of the various associations between them. People’s names, what grade they were in, what individual classes one had, and with whom, which clique or group they hewed towards, who they liked. The loner life of hiding out in the school library once again called to Tabitha, because she had no clue how she was going to keep up with everything that was going on without taking extensive notes.

Is it weird that I might actually have to start studying for the NON-ACADEMIC aspects of the whole school life thing?! Cram sessions before I meet up with a whole big group? Or, maybe I could organize everyone into spreadsheets? Hah, does Excel exist, back in ninety-nine? How do the actual real popular kids manage to track everything?!

“Lame that we don’t have any classes together,” Alicia groaned. “We should like—match up our schedules, see if some of us can transfer or switch classes or something. You can do that, right? Oh, and—Tabitha! I almost forgot, but I watched Trigun last night!”

“How was it?” Tabitha was thrilled to see Alicia liked her Christmas present.

“Uhh, it was only friggin’ awesome!” Alicia bounced in her seat. “Ohmigod, I love it. Vash. One minute he’s this stone cold badass, and then the next, he’s just this total doofball! It totally got me with that, I was laughing my ass off! And, it’s so well animated! Like, the very first episode, with everyone’s bullets just demolishing that entire bar? I rewound it and watched that again and again. Like, holy crap.”

“I’ve actually only seen the other Trigun!” Tabitha admitted, embarrassed. “Way on years later, there’s a CGI one, it’s all computer animated. I actually haven’t seen the original hand-drawn animated one! I knew it would be good, though. Vash is great!”

“Whoa,” Alicia blinked. “They make a computer animated Trigun? So, I guess it’s kinda like Reboot? Or, Beast Wars?”

“Umm…” Tabitha searched her memory, but she’d never heard of those two before. “Maybe? If—”

Her sentence was interrupted by the bmmm bmmm bmmm bmmm tones of the bell for first period echoing out across the quad from the school speakers, and Tabitha gave Alicia a wry smile. That was another thing she would need to adjust to—the time before first class wasn’t anywhere near as long as their lunch period, but because their little group tended to sit in the same spot, she had been getting comfortable as if they had an entire lunch period to chat.

“There we go again,” Alicia stood up with a groan. “Catch you guys at lunch. Tabs, you bring your Gameboy today? Pokemon?”

“I, uh—no,” Tabitha admitted. “Tomorrow, maybe?”

“Alright, fine,” Alicia waved. “Later!”

“Later, guys,” Elena dropped down heavily from the tabletop.

----------------------------------------

Bobby was waiting expectantly by the bleachers for Tabitha to arrive for Personal Fitness, and when he made a beeline to come greet her she became aware of several of the other girls she’d spoken to yesterday standing by with stiff postures. Watching them, as if unsure to approach them now.

“Tabby! Hey, g’mornin’,” Bobby seemed thrilled to see her. “Yer lookin’ mighty fine this mornin’, li’l lady.”

“Dammit, Bobby,” Tabitha quoted in her best approximation of a Hank Hill voice.

Vanessa wasn’t here yet for the girls here to gather around, and from some of the crossed arms and exchanged glances, Bobby’s arrival had disrupted some unspoken rule of balance. Embarrassed at being so on the spot—and mortified at immediately being made to remember last night’s dream where she’d been planning to kiss Bobby—Tabitha gave everyone an apologetic smile and waved the girls over.

“Guys, this is Bobby,” Tabitha gave awkward introductions. “He’s… I guess you’d kinda say he’s like a class clown? Bobby, this is Marisa, and—”

“Class clown?!” Bobby protested. “Hold up, hold up—”

“Hi,” Marisa gave Bobby a skeptical look.

“Grace,” The girl from yesterday with thick-rimmed glasses supplied. “Hey.”

“Tiffany,” The heavyset friend joined in with a hesitant little wave. “Hi.”

I… never learned their names yesterday, did I? Tabitha tried not to blush. Marisa. Grace. Tiffany. Okay, with Vanessa too, we have our little morning group.

Coach Baylor moved through roll call at speed today now that she didn’t have to go through the do you want a locker room locker spiel with every single student, although Tabitha did notice half the girls here handed in money for a locker, while just about none of the guys did. To Tabitha’s dismay, after each individual was called up for roll, they were sent to jog around the track. Bobby took off, and then Marisa, followed shortly after by Grace and Tiffany.

Everyone except me, because my stupid note says I sit out from physical activity, Tabitha thought. ...Great.

Vanessa arrived along with a few latecomer stragglers and greeted Tabitha with wave, but was called up, warned about tardiness, and then sent packing right away to jog around the track. There, Tabitha watched the shorter girl hurried to catch up to Grace and Tiffany so that she wouldn’t be making loops alone. Everyone’s backpacks and a few jackets were laid out along the very first row of the bleachers, where Tabitha sat by herself while Coach Baylor paced back and forth with a slight limp, ready to blow her whistle at anyone goofing off.

“I could um, I could probably speed walk?” Tabitha spoke up, feeling terribly left out. “So long as it’s not actual jogging, it’s probably fine?”

“Sorry, Tabitha hon,” Coach Baylor shook her head in clear refusal, and then used her clipboard to tap her own knee. “Trust me, I know exactly how you feel.”

“Right, sorry,” Tabitha grimaced.

It was hard to complain about her situation when she would—hopefully—be allowed to run again just later on this week, while Coach Baylor here probably wasn’t going to be jogging ever again. The sobering reality of how injury could close the book on athletics for good put a damper on Tabitha’s mood, and although she did want to get to know Coach Baylor better now with this opportunity, it took her several long minutes of watching all of the scattered figures of the students slowly revolve their way around the track to find the words she wanted to say.

“Uh, if it’s alright to ask,” Tabitha cleared her throat. “What did you mean yesterday, with—with not wanting me to have anything to do with Coach Cooke?”

----------------------------------------

Because he’s a pigheaded asshole with shit-for-brains.

Coach Baylor’s shoulders drooped slightly because she couldn’t just say that to a student, and she tilted her head back to release a long sigh that turned to vapor in the cold air. When she turned to where Tabitha was sitting on the first row of the bleachers, it felt as though she was wearing the familiar pensive look of someone deliberating how best to break bad news to someone. It was hard not to notice Tabitha beginning to look alarmed, because the unexpected complexity that was making this topic so difficult to broach was beginning to fill even Coach Baylor with dread.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at all. No—no, I’m glad I did. What if Tabitha had just blundered over towards track tryouts without knowing about any of this?

“I’m… not sure how best to explain this,” Coach Baylor admitted, stealing a glance back towards her class running around the track. “How much do you know about the Kentucky academic situation?”

“The academic situation?” Tabitha appeared puzzled by the question. “For Kentucky? I, um. I think I’m very aware?”

“Oh, you do?” Coach Baylor tried not to sound too amused. “Then—let’s see. How would you describe it?”

“Kentucky education is in a state of crisis,” Tabitha explained with a strange air of calm. “Based on percentage of residents who go on to receive a bachelor’s degree, we are one of the least educated states in the country. We’re academically ranked either forty-fifth or forty-ninth out of the fifty states, erm, depending on which statistical sampling you hew towards. Either way, they all agree that the situation is severe. If I remember correctly, it was determined that in Kentucky ‘forty percent of working-age adults have low literacy skills, which are likely to impede their advancement.’ It may be anecdotal, but I’ve observed this in my own life—my father reads at perhaps a fourth or fifth grade level.”

Stunned, Coach Baylor could only stare at the young girl sitting on the long bleacher bench beside the haphazard row of backpacks and jackets. For a long moment she even forgot the students making the long circuit around the track behind her, even though groups of the huffing and puffing teens were beginning to pass by them now. It was one thing to hear the other teachers in staff meetings praise this Tabitha Moore as gifted—and another thing entirely to witness firsthand how monstrous this girl really was.

“You’re in advanced placement English, right now?” Coach Baylor recalled. “Is… all of that something that maybe Mrs. Albertson went over with your class?”

“No, no,” Tabitha answered with a bitter smile. “Though I certainly don’t blame the faculty for… glossing over those facts. Certain hard truths, and the um, the reality of the situation is hard to digest—I can see you not wanting to poison everyone’s perception with pessimism. To look at the larger state of things and feel like your uh, your individual day to day academic achievements are undermined. No one enjoys being last place. It makes you want to give up, to not bother trying at all.”

“Poison perception with pessimism,” Coach Baylor repeated. “Where did you hear that from? That phrasing. It’s clever.”

“Oh, um,” The redhead teen blushed as if she had just been asked to prom by her beau. “Nowhere, really? It’s just. You know, alliteration. It’s a habit, or um, a guilty pleasure, or… yeah. I want to call myself an aspiring author, but I’m not quite there yet. Before that, I thought I wanted to teach—so. Yeah.”

“You’re a very intelligent girl,” Coach Baylor remarked, sizing Tabitha up and still not feeling like she’d grasped her measure. “You would make an excellent teacher.”

“Sadly not,” Tabitha shook her head with a strange, out of place wistful look. A been there, done that expression that didn’t belong on a fourteen year old girl. One who was obviously not old enough to be as informed about the abysmal state of Kentucky education as she seemed to be.

“Did someone tell you that you wouldn’t make a good teacher? Coach Baylor asked in a calm voice, propping her clipboard up against her hip. “Or, well, discourage you from that?”

Because if so… I want their name and number.

“No, I did,” Tabitha gave her an apologetic shrug. “I… decided it for myself. I think I realized that my own love of learning doesn’t communicate well to those who simply don’t love learning. It’s difficult for me to understand why someone wouldn’t have a passion for reading, or an interest in writing—so, how then could I teach them?

“It’s naive to think I can just share my fascination and enthusiasm for a subject to those who are disinterested, apathetic, or even averse to learning about that subject, and um. And the reality is, that I just don’t have the interpersonal skills, or social ability, or ah, I guess charisma to build that connection with others out of nothing. To instill that love of learning in a whole class of people. Also, and uh. The pay is dogshit.”

Coach Baylor was so engrossed in the girl’s oddly captivating explanation that the punchline at the end caught her completely unprepared—despite every effort to retain her composure, she felt a wide smile appear, and a laugh slipped out. She wanted to ingrain this strange soliloquy into her memory now, because after school hours, when she could cuddle up with her boyfriend and retell this—beer in hand—this was going to have her doubling over with laughter.

Oh, honey. Here I thought that asshole coach Cooke was just being petty—no, he’s really just going to despise you.

“Hah, well,” Coach Baylor tried to rein her expression, but the smile was stubborn and kept worming back into place. “I hate to say it, but you may be right.”

Even with the constant pain of being up and about on her bad knee all day, Coach Baylor had always made a point to remain on her feet while instructing students who were exercising. When she found herself losing track of her class which was running laps, to instead walk over and sit down on the battered old bleacher bench with the one student who wasn’t participating today, Coach Baylor surprised even herself.

“I won’t speak ill of other teachers, because that’s not professional,” Coach Baylor found herself confiding. “But, let’s just say while some of us are fighting the good fight, there are plenty who are either indifferent or too jaded to care. Then, you also have a tiny tiny few, a little minority of teachers, who are part of the problem.”

“I…” Tabitha let out a small laugh. “I want to say that I think I understand your meaning—but then also, I really just don’t. I thought perhaps that there was maybe some sort of grudge Coach Cooke had against me, because he’s in charge of Springton Football, and that incident with me cost him his star running back. But, Coach Cooke shouldn’t be part of the problem.”

Oh?

“He’s as much involved in the academic side of school here as he is athletics,” Tabitha shrugged. “Isn’t he? I know he also teaches English, and I think he also moonlights over in the science building, doesn’t he? I know someone mentioned they had Cooke for chemistry. He shouldn’t be this, this one-dimensional character, who’s just being small-minded or ah, meatheaded about what happened.”

Once again though, even after already raising her estimation of this unassuming teen up several notches, Coach Baylor still found herself feeling a little speechless. Maybe it wasn’t just that this Tabitha girl understood way more than she let on—maybe it was that not enough people were sitting down with her to really ask how much Tabitha understood. To listen.

“Well,” Coach Baylor swallowed back as much of her amusement as she could. “I uh, again, I hate to say it like this, but. You may be attributing a bit more depth of character to him than he deserves? He might describe himself as both ‘warrior and scholar,’ but I think the reality is that… academically, Coach Cooke teaches many different remedial academic classes, and only out of a kind of… self interest.”

Tabitha regarded her with wide eyes, completely invested in her words, and Coach Baylor felt a pang of guilt, because she’d already said more than she ever should have.

“For his players to play, to compete, to meet athletic scholarship requirements,” Coach Baylor struggled with a kosher way to phrase what she wasn’t allowed to say. “His players then have to reach certain academic standards. All of his boys meet those standards.”

Whether they actually do or not.

“Oh,” Tabitha seemed to understand anyways with a small wince. “I guess that makes more sense. I—in my head, I think I was overcomplicating it. It does makes sense.”

“I wish I could say that it does,” Coach Baylor wanted to let out another laugh, but she held it in. “The fact of the matter is—Coach Cooke does produce students with outstanding athletic performance, his numbers look good, and he… yeah, the school here is willing to give him a lot of leeway with how he runs his courses, and he was used to getting his way with things.”

“I bet,” Tabitha chuckled. “So… in the end, it really was just about the Chris Thompson thing?”

“It’s a number of things,” Coach Baylor tried to be diplomatic. “From what I understand, your whole case was a very… special situation, and Coach Cooke wasn’t used to getting his toes stepped on there, and—you know. General politics between some different teachers with some different conflicting views, when we all start butting heads over some issue. Ordeals being blown out of proportion.”

Cooke’s attitude towards our more ‘academically inclined’ students was already downright appalling for a teacher, and in a sane world, he would have been fired the moment he voiced any one of his thoughts on all of this. Thing is—we don’t live in a sane world or one that makes sense.

Coach Baylor had thought herself very neutral on this whole controversial ‘Tabitha’ subject before today. After meeting the girl for herself and talking with her however, she suspected she had dropped completely out of the fence-sitting camp and would be spending lunch today instead gossiping with Mr. Peterson and some of the English teachers. After all, circumstances were completely different now that Tabitha was one of her girls, and if Coach Cooke wanted to be contentious about it—

Well, then he can go fuck himself. I don’t care. I’m genuinely mad about all the things he’s said about her, now.

“I see,” Tabitha nodded.

Coach Baylor wasn’t sure why she would ever expect a fourteen year old to understand workplace drama just like that, but for some reason, she just did. Something deep in her gut told her that Tabitha did understand, that she would get it. She’d mentally separated Tabitha as being a little divergent from the general student populace because she was in AP classes—advanced placement for college credits being on a national standard that was pretty far removed from ‘normal’ Kentucky classwork.

But no, Tabitha is special even among them, Coach Baylor decided. I’m absolutely not letting her go—she’s going places, and we need her.

“I’m sure that Coach Cooke would still be very… professional and treat you the way you deserve if you choose to join the track team,” Coach Baylor said with a wry smile and subtle amount of skepticism. “But, I’d really like you to consider cheer instead, if you had to choose between the two. You were interested in cheer team?”

“Um, yes—somewhat?” Tabitha looked abashed. “It was a bit of a spur of the moment decision, as um, as I don’t think I would have considered it, normally. My friend Elena said she’ll be trying out, and I want to do it with her—to support her in any way that I can.”

“Elena Seelbaugh?” Coach Baylor almost did a spit-take.

The girl who went ‘dark and weird?’ The one all of my girls unanimously told me in no uncertain terms is NOT cut out for varsity cheerleading? That this Elena girl was just sowing discord, trying to be intentionally disruptive, and would absolutely NOT be a team player? Everyone seemed to be in complete agreement on that—I remember everyone nodding their heads and voicing their collective affirmation to deny Elena Seelbaugh from being part of the team?!

“Is that, um, is that not a good reason?” Tabitha sounded unsure, now.

The slender teen seemed to search Coach Baylor’s conflicted expression, and so the coach schooled her features and made a rapid series of decisions.

After all, don’t I want to prove that I’m nothing like that asshole Cooke? Teamwork IS important among my girls, but that never meant I wasn’t going to give anyone honestly trying out their fair shake. Maybe I’ll just need to pull a couple of them aside and talk to them about this Elena thing, see if maybe they were considering things wrong. Making assumptions about her, or had the wrong first read on things. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Tabitha—I’m going to make sure you and Elena have your fair shot at try-outs.”

----------------------------------------

Despite having taken the Personal Fitness course in her previous life during a different grade and instead with Coach Cooke, Tabitha didn’t remember much in the way of exercises or activities, and she could barely recall the locker rooms at all. They may have been introduced to them in the first few days of a semester, but she certainly hadn’t revisited them after that—Coach Cooke’s version of the class was very hands off from what she remembered, with them either sitting in his classroom over by the quad doing ‘self study’ with barely any supervision, or them walking around the track at their own pace—again, with barely any supervision.

It was just a class for most kids to socialize, Tabitha recalled. I just kept to myself and read books in the corner, with some of the other quiet girls. I may not remember much, but I DO remember the final exam for that class, because not only was it an open book exam—we could work in groups. It would honestly be bizarre if anyone ever failed Cooke’s Personal Fitness class.

The beautiful Coach Baylor took things much more seriously, and after her class had warmed up doing laps around the field, she organized the students into three rows. There, everyone except for Tabitha were to do jumping jacks, squats, sit-ups, and finally push-ups. The first two exercises went off without a hitch, and Tabitha watched with a wry smile as everyone exchanged amused and exasperated looks.

Then came sit-ups, and everything went into a downward spiral from there.

The boys fared okay managing the prescribed ten sit-ups with just some minor corrections to bad form—the girls on the other hand all seemed to have their own ideas, and there were very few sit-ups executed that Tabitha would call an actual sit-up. Marisa was struggling mightily to sit back up and appeared to be straining her neck until Coach Baylor noticed her, Tiffany hugged her arms across her chest and tried to squirm back and forth to get up, several other girls were clearly doing crunches. Vanessa only made performative attempts at sit-ups when she thought attention was turned her way, and dropped pretense to simply sit and watch everyone else the moment Coach Baylor was looking elsewhere. Of the girls Tabitha was on a first-name basis with here only Grace did ten correct sit-ups, rested back on her hands in embarrassment at having finished before everyone else, and then even wound up doing five more just so that she didn’t seem to be the odd one out doing nothing.

Well. This is… a shameful display, Tabitha wanted to cover her face. Want to go and show off SO BAD. Ugh. On the other hand though, I really haven’t kept up with much of anything in months, and I wouldn’t manage my best. Still, though. SO FRUSTRATING!

Push-ups went even worse, and here the boys struggled as well. Bobby did his ten push-ups and then looked up to see if Tabitha was watching—she absolutely was—and he flashed her a huge grin when she smiled and looked away. Two of the other boys kept going after ten, loudly counting upwards against one another in clear competition, while the rest of the guys seemed to flag and falter right around the seventh push up. There, they would stop and breathe, laugh, look around and banter, perhaps make attempts at finishing the set that saw them teetering on shaky arms or collapsing onto their chests.

The girl’s push-ups went so badly that Tabitha almost couldn’t bear to watch, with Grace doing ten… and then with less than ten completed through the combined efforts of every other girl. An alarming amount of them couldn’t even finish one, and Tabitha watched with a mortified grimace as scowling and red-faced freshman girls tried and failed to push themselves back up off the ground and back into ready position. Coach Baylor walked amongst them and tried to bolster spirits with calls of encouragement, but no amount of words were going to suddenly give the students the strength to carry on.

That was—that was just atrocious, Tabitha found herself in honest disbelief. I guess I thought they would have difficulty or yeah maybe really struggle, but for so many to not manage ten? To not manage more than ONE?! I remember when I first started my exercises after transmigrating to the past they were really kicking my ass, but even with me being fat I could still do A COUPLE.

Perhaps worse yet, Tabitha now felt like her budding new friendships were under threat. Because, as soon as she had doctor’s go-ahead to work out again, she was going to be performing at a standard so much higher than the rest of her peers. She had imagined that doing her best would help her bond with the group. Now, it looked like the only one who might keep up with her was Grace—Tabitha might come off as a show-off or a try-hard..

Should I uh, hold back some? To fit in? Ughhh. Like, at first I wanted to really show off, but looking at the state of things now… doing my best might actually hurt some feelings or be some kind of social suicide? I didn’t think the average level of fitness for my cohort was THIS LOW.

But, as it turned out Coach Baylor had saved the very best for last, and afterwards the class of huffing and wheezing kids loitered around in a wide crescent and watched as people were called up two at a time to a pair of pull-up bars off to the side of the track. There, only the two bravado buddies who had been competing in push-ups earlier did well, with one of them dropping down after an easy ten, while the other guy—‘Tom’ apparently, from the boyish chant that started—appeared to be able to keep doing pull-ups indefinitely with little-to-no exertion. The baseline for the rest of the boys was right around three, with some not even managing that.

Three and a half, Bobby, sorry, Tabitha put on a wince. Good try! But that was DEFINITELY not four.

Once again Grace was the top performer for the girls, managing three, while two other girls managed to pull themselves up a single time. None of the other girls managed one, and for all that she seemed to be the de facto leader of the girls socially, Vanessa did the worst—needing help to get up to the bar, and then failing to even hang there for more than a few moments. As one of the exercises Tabitha hadn’t had the opportunity to do in the months previous when she was losing weight, this one had interested her the most. Seeing almost all of the girls in her class lack the upper body strength to pull themselves up was more than a little galling.

Cool your tits, Tabitha, Tabitha told herself, trying not to grit her teeth. I wouldn’t be able to do a single one, either. Not for at least a month while whatever my remaining arm strength is will be so… lopsided. As for how many I WOULD have been able to do, if not for the break and the fracture—I can really only guess. I want to say more than five, but I’m not sure if I’d be able to hit ten. Feel like I have a solid grasp of what I was capable of—somewhere between five and ten. Maybe.

“Alright! Great job everyone, catch your breath,” Coach Baylor called, striding back over towards Tabitha while making little notes on her clipboard. “Catch your breath. Water fountain’s right there on the side of the bleachers.”

“Is it—is it always this bad?” Tabitha asked in a whisper.

“Hah,” Coach Baylor shook her head. “Believe it or not, I’ve seen worse.”

“...Really?!” Tabitha felt a little shocked. It’s not just our academics that are in total crisis?!

“Two or three of the boys were sandbagging,” Coach Baylor remarked as she checked back down the numbers she’d marked beside the list of names. “Started seeing it last year—they hear from their friends about how I grade everyone, and just don’t try their best for the first half of the semester, so that later it looks like they’ve put in work and improved. I’m not blind though, I can tell—I just pencil in question marks beside their numbers.”

“Um, and the girls?” Tabitha blinked.

“Grace did well,” Coach Baylor chuckled. “Maybe a few of the others were afraid of putting in full effort here in front of the class like this? Everyone will improve. Like I’ve said—I have seen worse.”

“Still, just…” Tabitha didn’t know how to put her frustration into words. “I really could have done sit-ups with everyone, at least.”

“Sorry, Tabitha,” Coach Baylor shook her head. “Not after a surgery, not ‘til we have the go ahead. You’re in a recovery period right now, and you’d be surprised how straining even some simple things can be on your system while you’re supposed to be in recovery.”

“But—”

“Okay? So—you will not go home tonight and have the bright idea to see if you can do a sit-up or two on your own. I’m not even kidding, I’m being very serious. Look at me. I’m willing to work with you to get you back on your feet and exercising again, but you do not want to blow it and hurt your recovery because of a moment of impatience. Am I clear?”

“Crystal clear,” Tabitha answered with a wince. “Sorry, yeah. That would be stupid—I wasn’t even considering it.”

“Yes, you were,” Coach Baylor said.

“I mean, just a little,” Tabitha admitted. “It was an intrusive thought! I wasn’t going to act on it.”

“Good,” Coach Baylor nodded. “I think everyone’s already pooped with just that, so you can go ahead and join your friends there, again.”

“Oh—thank you,” Tabitha flashed her a smile.

“Alright, listen up everybody!” Coach Baylor called out to the class. “Quiet down, please. You all did great, but there’s also a lot of room for improvement—and that’s what we’re going to do over the semester. Everyone go ahead and take a breather, and in the next ten minutes or so Coach Cooke will be by with his class, and then we’ll all head over to go over the locker rooms together.”

There was a bit of trepidation at hearing that she was going to run into Coach Cooke so soon, but Tabitha pushed the thought aside and skirted her way around the kids milling about to reach her friends. It was cold out but everyone was sweaty from jogging and basic exercise, and as she passed some of the teenagers by she received a few strange looks from people.

“Hey, wait a second—” An unfamiliar girl made a face. “How come she didn’t have to do anything?”

“I’m not allowed to do anything physical, after recovering from surgery,” Tabitha explained. “I have a doctor’s note.”

“What, liposuction?” The girl scoffed. “As if you—”

“Jesus Christ, Amanda, chill,” Vanessa warned, stalking her way forward through the crowd. “Why do you always have to be up in everyone’s business?”

“Yeah, well why don’t you let her talk?” Amanda gave Tabitha a provoking smile. “So, was it liposuction?”

Seriously? SERIOUSLY? The liposuction thing, again? I thought we put that one to rest forever ago, Tabitha felt a vein in her temple throb at remembering how she had lifted up her shirt to show Carrie that there were no tummy scars from getting lipo. Is the process of actually starting to climb up the social ladder just going to be a constant montage of dealing with old rumors, over and over and over again?

“No, it wasn’t liposuction,” Tabitha said, putting on her most polite face. “Someone tried to murder me. With a baseball bat. Bleeding started up in my brain, and they had to open up my skull and reduce the build up with an endoscopic ventriculostomy. For some silly reason, they don’t want me running around or being too active, until they can take a look and confirm how far along my recovery is.”

“Plus, Amanda—her hand’s still in a cast, too, durr durr,” Vanessa sneered. “You expect her to do what, push-ups with one hand? To go grab the bar and do pull-ups, with one hand? Durr hurr hurr. Give the girl a friggin’ break.”

“Yeah, ease up on her Amanda,” Bobby scoffed. “Give ‘er a friggin’ break.”

“Shut up, Bobby,” Vanessa fumed. “Creep. You can—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Tabitha held up her hands. “Uh—Amanda, was it? I’m sure you may have heard some wild stories about me, but, chances are—they’re not true. Some sophomores with a personal grudge told Chris Thompson that I was talking bad about him—but, I wasn’t, I’d never seen him before in my life. Erica’s sister was telling Erica that I was stealing her stuff whenever I came over to their house—I wasn’t even going over there anymore. I stopped going by when they pushed me off their trampoline and I got hurt just before last summer.

“I’m really tired of getting hurt all the time. I didn’t sign up for this. I’m not sleeping with any teachers to get my grades adjusted. I haven’t taken anyone’s things, I’m not after anyone’s boyfriend. I did use to be Tubby Tabby from the trailer park. So, sure, that’s true—guilty as charged, there. But, I don’t live there anymore, I’m basically not even fat anymore, and I’m just, I’m just tired, really tired, because everything is exhausting.”

“You don’t have to flip out on me, I was just asking a question,” Amanda argued, attempting to look hurt. “And like, from everything I’ve heard, you were—”

“Great! Great,” Tabitha interrupted, stepping forward and holding out her hand. “Then—yeah, sorry, let’s just start over. Okay? Fresh start. Tabitha Moore.”

“Amanda Myers,” Amanda said, staring for a long moment before accepting her hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Tabitha said, shaking hands with the girl. “I’m sorry for going off like that. Really—I apologize. All of the uh, everything that’s going on, it has me wound up too tight. I want to just cry. I want to beat someone up. I don’t mean to uh, to take it out on you.”

“No, yeah! It’s okay,” Amanda shrugged, forcing on a smile. “Yeah—it’s whatever. Was my bad, my bad.”

Vanessa hooked her arm through Tabitha’s and guided her back away over towards where Tiffany, Marisa, and Grace were standing. Tabitha felt like she should be feeling embarrassed, because it was as if she’d just thrown a public tantrum or blown a gasket on someone, which had never happened before. True to what she’d said though, she just felt tired. She was so sick of dealing with it all, and she had no idea how popular girls ever dealt with the stress of constant confrontation.

“Geez, what was her problem?” Marisa leaned in to start what was sure to be a bunch of conspiratorial whispers. “Just because you were sitting out from stuff today? If I sprain my ankle or something and can’t participate some day, is she gonna do some big public bitch out all over again?!”

“Do you know her?” Grace asked with wide eyes.

“No, we really hadn’t met,” Tabitha tried to explain. “I think it’s just—from way back at the start of freshman year, Erica and Kaylee and a bunch of the sophomores were spreading a bunch of rumors about me. Just. I thought all of that was over and done with. I guess not?”

“Are you okay?” Tiffany asked. “Hug?”

“Hug,” Tabitha agreed, delighted. “Thank you.”

“I hope that bitch isn’t getting a locker,” Vanessa hissed. “We don’t need her in there with us.”

“But no, seriously—what was her problem?” Marisa asked. “Did she just think you were going to be easy pickings, or something?”

“I think I probably normally am,” Tabitha joked.

It didn’t feel like a joke, and she felt a little sick inside.

“She was just pissy and wanted to start shit over nothing,” Vanessa said. “She kept looking over at you and Ms. Baylor every time we ran around the loop. I saw her.”

“We saw her, yeah,” Tiffany agreed. “She was looking all pissy.”

“I… actually wish I could have run with you guys,” Tabitha sighed. “I was talking with Coach Baylor about signing up for either track or cheer.”

“Is Baylor in charge of track, too?” Grace asked.

“No, she said Coach Cooke is,” Tabitha shrugged. “I might just go for cheerleading.”

“Can you join cheer this late in the year?” Vanessa asked. “Like, it’s already second semester. We’re halfway through ninth grade.”

“We can, I’ll be joining even later because I still need to get cleared for physical activity again,” Tabitha sighed. “From what my friend said, Springton Varsity Cheer this year doesn’t actually have all that many people. Like as in, they might get classified as an ‘extra small team’ instead of a ‘small team’ for competitions if there’s even just one girl who can’t make it out on a trip, or if one of them has an injury or whatever. They’re tight enough on people that they’ll still recruit throughout the year.”

“Wait, really?” Vanessa’s eyes widened. “So like, basically anyone can join?”

“Well… somewhat,” Tabitha winced. “She said Coach Baylor wasn’t budging on the physical requirements, and… yeah, from meeting her it seems like she’d want you to take the training super seriously.”

“Oookay, nevermind then,” Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Lame. I want the cool uniforms and all that, but I’m not super into all the activity.”

“Yeahhh,” Tiffany winced.

“I can’t join yet anyways,” Tabitha sighed again. “I can’t even jog around the track or do simple exercises or anything. It’s frustrating. Oh—Grace, you did amazing, though! I was watching.”

“Really?” Grace blushed. “No way.”

“Yeah Grace, for real,” Tiffany agreed. “You were the only one who could do three pull-ups.”

“She did more sit-ups than she was supposed to, too,” Tabitha nodded. “You did ten and then looked like you were bored and just decided to go ahead and do more.”

“Really?!” Vanessa regarded Grace with surprise. “Like—why?!”

“Uhhh,” Grace seemed flustered. “I don’t know, really?”

“Are you in some kind of sports, already?” Tabitha asked. “Volleyball? Softball?”

“Not really,” Grace shook her head. “I uh, I have a swingset with monkey bars at home I mess around on all the time? But I don’t do anything like, organized.”

“Oh my God,” Tabitha blinked. “Grace, do you ever play tag? We should play tag, like, the second I’m allowed to do physical activity again.”

“...Tag?” Marisa looked confused. “Like, tag, you’re it?”

“Yeah,” Tabitha answered honestly. “I was super into it all summer, it’s a big part of how I lost so much weight.”

“By playing tag?” Tiffany looked like she couldn’t tell if Tabitha was joking or not.

“Tag like, hide and seek?” Vanessa laughed. “No way.”

“Yes way!” Tabitha grinned. “It’s super fast-paced and fun. I play with my little cousins.”

“Tag sounds fun?” Grace gave them an unsure smile. “We used to do tag and like, capture the flag and stuff when I was at summer camp years back. It was cool.”

“Wait, but with just girls, or like with boys?” Vanessa narrowed her eyes. “Because boys are like—you know. Grabby.”

“That’s part of the fun!” Tiffany joked. “No, no—I’m just kidding.”

After a few more minutes of their Personal Fitness class standing along the edge of the track and exchanging casual talk, the first period Weight Lifting class arrived, a procession of students who appeared annoyed at being led out into the cold. Leading them was Coach Cooke, a large, rather brawny man with a thick neck that led up to a shaved head. In Tabitha’s eyes he looked like one of the celebrity wrestlers her little cousins were so enamored with; perhaps one that had been retired for a few seasons and started letting himself go.

“Aw—Coach, Coach! Don’t be like that, now,” One of the weight lifting boys laughed. “Listen—”

“You’re fixin’ to get on my last nerve,” Coach Cooke blustered. “Simmer down, now.”

“Naw, naw Coach, listen—”

“Boy, I will put you through that fence here in a minute,” Coach Cooke joked. “Shut your trap, you’re gonna embarrass the whole class.”

Just as Coach Baylor was ostensibly well-liked by ‘the girls,’ Coach Cooke seemed to exchange in back and forth banter with ‘his boys,’ but there was a difference in dynamic that somehow didn’t sit well with Tabitha. Baylor was kind but also strived towards being a no-nonsense role model, while Cooke oozed machismo in a way that seemed off-putting. Maybe that was an unkind assessment after having only really taken a close examination of the man for a few moments and overheard this bit of talk—but, Tabitha felt inclined to go with her gut instinct on this one.

“Boys, if you will join Coach Cooke please,” Coach Baylor addressed her own class. “He’ll be going over everything with the men’s locker room with you.”

“Ladies, you’re with Coach Baylor,” Coach Cooke waved his girls forward. “Go on, now.”

Another stark difference became apparent—while the balance between girls and boys in Personal Fitness was roughly even, first period Weight Lifting was a class of twenty-some guys and only three girls, and these three had a harried look about them that suggested they would be heading to administration to file for a course change soon.

“C’mon guys, this way, this way,” Coach Cooke began to bellow, a note of annoyance now in his tone. “Everyone gather up. Move, move, move. Mister Wilson, Mister Martin, and Mister Anderson. Boys—front and center, over here. Now. Not gonna tell you again.”

In contrast, Coach Baylor seemed to gather the girls milling about just by directing her hand forward, and Tabitha felt a rather immature flash of satisfaction at being the first to queue up. Vanessa was quick to join her, and the others all hurried to follow suit. On the left side of the enormous concrete grandstand structure the boys were congregating in an unruly mass, and on the right side the girls quietly formed a single-file line after Coach Baylor like obedient ducklings. They were the first to enter, and Tabitha shot Bobby a teasing smile before following Coach Baylor inside the hallway beneath the stands.

“Really, Jenna?” Vanessa muttered under her breath towards one of the Weight Lifting girls joining them. “Weight Lifting? Are you for real?”

“That’s just what they put on my schedule!” Jenna grumbled. “I’m going to trade soon as I can, it sucks. They’re so freaking loud in there.”

“And it stinks,” One of the other new arrivals said. “Like, the whole weight room—it reeks in there. What’s the one you’re in called? Phys Ed? I’m switching.”

“Personal Fitness,” Tabitha answered, and the three girls eyes shot towards her and lingered there for a moment. “Coach Baylor is great, though.”

“This way, girls,” Coach Baylor ushered them forward. “This door here is ours.”

Even just the fact that Coach Baylor doesn’t even have to raise her voice with us girls seems like a massive flex over Coach Cooke, Tabitha thought. Is this weird? Is it weird of me to feel this way, all of the sudden? The childish BOYS VERSUS GIRLS thing I saw in Hannah and my cousins was always something I shook my head at, but now all of the sudden it’s like. YEAH. Okay. I feel it.

Coach Baylor opened the door and led them inside, and each successive girl lifted a hand to keep the door from swinging shut on the next person as they entered. It was brightly lit in here, and the furnishings were old and a little battered but clean enough.

After stepping inside Tabitha discovered that the footprint of the women’s locker room beneath the bleachers seemed to be a snaking series of back and forth turns, the shape of the room broken up with obstructions. Just as world war trenches zig zagged so that an enemy never had line of sight across an entire trench, so too was peeking in on undressed girls from the hallway door an overt impossibility; immediately upon entering, view was blocked by floor-to-ceiling wooden cubbies, currently all empty save for a waste bin with a plastic liner and a cardboard box with the words ‘LOST AND FOUND’ drawn upon it in marker in a cubby at the far end.

The cubbies were tall and there were coat hooks within, but as Tabitha exchanged glances with Vanessa, neither made a move to remove their jackets. The frigid air in here wasn’t much of an improvement over the outside, and that didn’t seem to bode well for the weeks to come. Vanessa was tilting her head back and her nostrils were flaring as she tried to judge what she was smelling as she continued on—behind her, Marisa briefly uncrossed her arms to give the wood of the cubbies a rap with her knuckles.

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There was no apparent smell of perspiration, because masking any chance to detect body odor was another assault on the senses entirely. What might have been jasmine and vanilla perfume, cocoa butter lotion, citrus shampoo and even the distinct acrid note of hairspray clashed with one another all at once in Tabitha’s nose. There was a certain unsubtle discordant sort of air unique to womens spaces as different scented feminine products competed with one another for attention, and though it was familiar, Tabitha wasn’t sure she found it comforting.

As they followed Coach Baylor to shuffle deeper inside, each of them peeked in the lost and found box, where a lone blue-and-white discarded nylon athletic garment of some kind with a Nike symbol on it rested at the bottom. Rounding the first bend past the cubbies, a partition of lockers was next—identical metal lockers like the school hallways featured, this time caked in the same white paint that was liberally plastered across the cinderblock walls and concrete floors here. New combination locks hung from each and every closed compartment, and each individual locker was numbered, but otherwise there was nothing much to see.

Winding single-file around the next turn, the back of that first section of lockers turned out to be the outside of a large ‘U’ shaped alcove of more lockers, with a low pair of long benches between so that girls could sit as necessary while they were changing or donning their shoes or—more likely—just socializing with one another. This would be the place to be, and Tabitha rather found herself hoping whatever locker she was assigned wasn’t one of those on the outside of the nook where there wasn’t any bench.

Finally, past the other arm of the ‘U’ shape of lockers, the rear of the room was revealed. On the right there were three toilet stalls, and then on the left it was a big open shower plan; an expanse of clean tile with space for six shower heads. Two shower heads were missing, instead sporting what looked to be a hastily-installed pvc stopgap, and overall the place looked rather… dingy. There were no privacy curtains, and though the concrete floor was textured enough for bare feet to tread without slipping and dipped down towards several drains, Tabitha imagined there would be wet footprints tracked everywhere back and forth between the showers and the locker area.

To make room for the rest of the girls, Tabitha and Vanessa filed in along the side of the room with the toilets, and within a minute all of the girls were casting skeptical glances around the rather spartan furnishings with crossed arms.

“Alright,” Coach Baylor sighed. “So—”

“There’s toilets but no sinks,” Vanessa was the first to interrupt. “So, we wash our hands—where?”

She’s right, Tabitha realized, finally able to identify what had seemed off. Surely that’s a code violation, or something?

“I didn’t see a mirror anywhere, either?” Amanda sounded annoyed. “How is there not even a mirror.”

“Three stalls, only one toilet,” Coach Baylor corrected them, easing open the cubicle doors one by one so that they could see. “We meant to keep all three even through the remodel, but, some girls were fooling around standing on one, and broke the bowl. As you can see. The middle one currently does not flush, so please do not remove the tape on the lid. I was warned by Principal Edwards that if the last toilet is broken or vandalized, it will not be fixed this calendar year, so if you don’t want to have to traipse all the way back out down the hall to use the public restrooms there, please treat it with extreme care.”

“We only have one toilet?!” Marisa exclaimed, and a murmur of concern went around in agreement.

“They were kept as a courtesy, and after constant vandalization, the boys’ side has had zero working toilets for the past three years,” Coach Baylor explained. “If it’s an emergency, you have the one toilet in here, and then you can wash your hands from the shower spigot—otherwise, please use the restroom down the hall. If you bring in a little container and a washcloth, you can fill up with water from the showers and wipe yourself down yourself in privacy in the stalls—drip water all runs down to the same drains, so that’s fine.”

Leaving the cubicle doors behind, Coach Baylor strode to the center of the room and reached up to reveal a thin piece of twine was running along near the ceiling from a hook in the far wall all the way back to a hook installed in the row of lockers. Upon closer inspection there were two lines, and once towels were hung up they would form a modest wall of privacy around the showers area.

“These are the lines for hanging up your towels. They are for towels only—you don’t hang on them, you don’t play on them, don’t touch them unless you are putting a towel up or taking a towel down. They will not support your weight, and bringing one down will bring everyone’s towels down into the wet mess on the floor—so just, please don’t. It happens just about every other semester anyways, but we’ve had a good year so far, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“But—but we paid five dollars for this,” Vanessa complained. “And this all is what we get?!”

“Five dollars goes towards replacing all of the combination locks every year, so there aren’t any incidents,” Coach Baylor said. “If there’s any money left over, I’ll see about getting a toilet tank kit and borrowing someone who knows what they’re doing to fix the middle toilet. The bum showerheads are a whole separate problem—the bit of cash we collect for locker fees each semester isn’t enough to cover a real plumber, yet. Believe it or not, the athletics department is not flush with money from the school—I’m sure you’ve seen Coach Cooke out there selling donuts in the mornings.”

“But…” Vanessa still looked aghast.

“I can see that we’re not impressed, and girls—I get it,” Coach Baylore said. “I like to think most of you are sensible, responsible girls—you cannot imagine how much better this locker room is, compared to the zoo over on the boys’ side. Broken lockers, lockers missing doors, marker graffiti. Damage from flooding, their drains are always backing up—actual turds or whatnot sort of messes left out in the open as juvenile pranks—trust me, we’ve seen it all.”

“Oh my God,” Grace covered her mouth.

“Don’t even get me started on the smell. Over there, Coach Cooke will be spending his entire spiel going over what will happen if they continue to act like animals,” Coach Baylor cast a stern glance around until she was sure she had met each and every set of eyes. “I shouldn’t need to go that far, here; my rules are simple. Keep your hands to yourself, keep your eyes to yourself, focus on getting in and out and getting yourself cleaned up for your next class.

“There’s no reason to be playing around, or roughhousing, I shouldn’t have to tell you that if you run around where it’s wet and you can obviously slip and fall. There will be no snide remarks about each other’s bodies, or bullying, or teasing in here. If there is, if it happens to you or even if you just happen to see it, you come speak to me about it and we’ll be resolving things immediately. You can chat with one another quietly and politely over by the lockers area if you feel inclined to do so.

“We have one knob for water beneath each shower head, and it will come out warm,” the coach continued, stepping to the side and out of the way to demonstrate.

With a twist of the knob, water sputtered and then shot out in a steady stream to darken the concrete and then flow towards the nearest drain. After a moment she turned the knob back again and everyone watched as the the spray became a weak dribble and then a slow drip.

“Not hot, warm, and don’t expect a lot of water pressure. I hate to have to state the obvious, but when you’re not using the water, you shut the water off. If for whatever reason I’m not in here myself and happen to find out the next class that the water has been left running, I’ll determine who was in here, and then everyone’s responsible. That typically doesn’t happen over here on the girl’s side, and again—I’d like to keep it that way. Yes, Amanda?”

“Can we get a mirror in here?” Amanda had her hand raised. “Like, for real.”

“Some of the locker doors have mirrors stuck onto the inside,” Coach Baylor revealed. “When I go through and clean everything out at the end of a semester, I don’t remove those. You can buy a small mirror at K-mart or some of the dollar stores around here if you’d like—you’ll want the five inch by seven inch ones, they should come with either a magnetic or an adhesive backing. I would also suggest bodywash, deodorant, either a shower cap or shampoo—a scrubbie or a wash cloth, whatever personal care items, pads or tampons you might like to have in case of an emergency. For everything else—cuts, scrapes, headaches, come see me in my office, I keep a medical kit and have a big bottle of Tylenol.”

“Um, do we have to be naked?” Vanessa raised a hand next.

“If you’d prefer more privacy, bring a cup or a container of some kind—I’ve seen girls bring tupperware—fill it with water from the shower, and then wash yourself in one of the toilet stalls,” Coach Baylor explained.

“But—what if the stalls are all gross?” Vanessa kept her hand up. “And—what do we do about if it starts to smell? I literally can’t be in here if it smells.”

“You said five inch by seven inch?” Amanda asked. “For the mirrors. How much are they?”

“It’s not that bad,” Tiffany said, giving the room an experimental sniff. “It’s really not that bad? It’s way worse out in the hallway.”

“I can still smell it,” One of the girls murmured. “Smells like tampons.”

“Chrissy—ew.”

“How many changes of clothes should we have here?”

“It will smell like sweat on busy days,” Coach Baylor held up her palms, helpless to prevent that reality. “I’m sorry, but that’s just how it is.”

“I could keep a can of Febreze in my locker?” Tabitha suggested. “Is that okay? Also I uh, I brought my towel.”

“You can go ahead and put your towel up,” Coach Baylor seemed pleased someone had remembered. “As for things like spare clothes—I don’t recommend you keep clothing in your lockers. Sweaty clothes you’re changing out of I would suggest you put into a grocery bag you can tie shut, and put right back in your book bag to take home.

“Likewise, fresh clothes from home should come out of your book bag and go on your body—there are no washing machines here and this is not a laundromat, so there is no reason to keep your musty clothes here. If you leave them, they will smell, and then they become everyone’s problem. Please don’t become everyone’s problem. If you need grocery bags to put sweaty clothes in, I’ll have a big bunch of them over by the cubbies by tomorrow. Any other questions?”

There were many, and in no time at all the enclosure was echoing with voices. The theme of the questions however began to tilt from honest inquiries about procedure towards probing ones in how much time they could get away with—because there was no wall-mounted clock in here, Amanda and the weight lifting class girl Jenna seemed to building an excuse to always be late for their next class. These weren’t new and untested boundaries however, and a large signboard of written rules was presented that left little room for them to exploit. Tabitha read them over in a single glance and found them all of the common sense rules variety, but all the same a small crowd of girls huddled up near the sign in search of loopholes or issues.

Her focus was elsewhere—Tabitha had shrugged off the strap of her bookbag and unzipped it to unfurl her snazzy red and white Coca-Cola Polar Bear towel, and most of the girls watched with interest as she stepped across the room, reached up, and began slipping it over the first clothes line. There it hung on proud display—the first towel up of the new semester. To her surprise, Marisa immediately joined her, pulling out a towel of her own and hanging it next to hers—while Tabitha’s was a larger beach towel, Marisa’s was a smaller but much more plush bath towel, light blue but with pink flowers tastefully adorning a decorative band.

“Nice,” Tabitha nodded in approval.

“No, no way,” Marisa grinned. “Yours is way cooler. I’m jealous.”

“I was gonna bring one, ugh,” Vanessa complained. “But, I need a new one. All the ones at home are either plain normal ones, or old disney ones from when I was little.”

“I just completely forgot,” Tiffany admitted. “Need to remember to bug my mom, dangit.”

“Miss Baylor—” Grace began to ask.

“Coach Baylor,” Marisa teased.

“—Coach Baylor,” Grace laughed. “Are we allowed to use the showers today? Since we were running? Or…?”

“Last ten minutes of class, yes,” Coach Baylor answered. “In the meantime—those of you who have already paid for lockers, I’ll be giving you your combinations now. Please write them down somewhere and keep that safe, and please do not trade lockers or let anyone else know your numbers. You are responsible for your locker, so just like with the regular school lockers in the halls, we don’t want you ‘holding a baggie of weed for a friend’ or sharing space or letting friends have access.”

A giggle of surprise went around the room—Coach Baylor was so straight-laced that joking about them having drug contraband in a locker came as a surprise. It made Tabitha wonder if their coach was more relaxed and personable with her cheer team girls. The prospect of being on more familiar terms with Coach Baylor seemed like it might be a sign of status in Springton High, but it was hard to tell how the social hierarchies really fit together.

In first period here, it seems like Vanessa and then I guess Amanda are the ‘popular’ ones, Tabitha stole a glance at each of the girls. Or, maybe not popular, that’s not the right word. Confident? Aggressive? But, then at the same time, they’re not ‘cheerleader’ girls, both of them seem the type to balk at doing anything that requires an ounce of effort or exertion. How do THOSE types of popular mesh with the, I guess, STEREOTYPICAL CHEERLEADER type of popular? I don’t know that I’ve ever seen those kinds interact with each other. I’ve been too busy hiding away from all of that.

“Tabitha Moore?” Coach Baylor called. “Locker number sixty-one. Have something to write down the combination with?”

“Um,” Tabitha jolted, scrambling to reach for her book bag. “Yes—one second.”

As she found a pen and piece of paper Tabitha was thrilled to notice Grace putting up a faded and slightly threadbare Scooby Doo beach towel up just beside Marisa’s on the line. With the breadth of the room their three towels took up a tenth of the first clothes line, and Tabitha was forced to wonder how many girls from each class wound up having towels at school.

“Mom said I had to take in this old one,” Grace seemed embarrassed. “In case it gets lost or stolen or something. It’s from forever ago.”

“It’s totally cool,” Vanessa assured her. “A towel’s a towel.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Tiffany nodded. “Get it? Sweat? Guys—I’m hilarious.”

Tabitha’s assigned locker was on the outside of the alcove rather than the inside, but it was a top one and pretty convenient to access—Tabitha spun the combination to the instructed 4-6-4 to reveal a bare metal box. She didn’t have anything to put in there just yet, having decided to bring her things in once she was cleared for physical activity again. One of the other girls she hadn’t been introduced to was given a locker in her row and they shared a polite smile.

When she closed her locker and fit the lock back into place several other girls were now surrounding Coach Baylor to sign up for a locker or digging out money to pay for one. Vanessa was inspecting the toilet stall with the broken bowl as if intending to reserve it for her exclusive use, and so Tabitha joined Tiffany, Grace, and Marisa as they stood nearby to chat.

“So, uh,” Tiffany said. “Grace and I are best friends, have been since we were ‘bout yea high. Kindergarten or so? We went to Springton Middle—Vanessa went to Springton Middle. You guys?”

“Laurel Middle,” Tabitha confessed.

“I’m from Indiana,” Marisa shrugged. “Mom got divorced and we moved, and uh—here I am?”

“You’re new to Springton?” Tiffany asked.

“Eh, kinda. Grandparents are here,” Marisa said. “Used to spend the summers here. It’s okay. Miss my old friends to death.”

“Aw, that really sucks,” Tiffany frowned.

“Where at in Indiana?” Grace asked.

“Lawrenceburg, it’s right on the Ohio river,” Marisa said. “And the Ohio river is—yeah, just imagine if like the boy’s locker room was a body of water. It’s super gross.”

“Ew,” Tiffany laughed. “Still, though. Do your friends keep in touch?”

“Kinda?” Marisa hedged. “I guess not really. Everyone’s starting ninth, so—yeah. Busy with their own problems.”

“I’m so sorry,” Grace said.

“As if high school isn’t hard enough to deal with as it is,” Tabitha agreed, nodding along.

“Well, I mean like—it’s not that bad,” Marisa laughed. “Like, not compared to all the stuff I hear about you. Compared to all that—hah—yeah, I just keep my head down? I’ve made a few new friends, at least.”

“I’m um,” Tabitha felt her face flush red. “I’m trying to do better? Turn over a new leaf? Again. Another new leaf.”

“You seem fine to me!” Grace said, adjusting her glasses. “Normal, I mean. I don’t see why everyone has to spread all sorts of nonsense.”

“Because they’re jealous,” Vanessa said. “Bunch of bitches.”

“Because—it’s entertaining!” Tiffany beamed. “I love all the gossip! I’ve heard your parents are dirt-poor druggies, or that they’re rich yuppie slum lords and own the trailer park in town. That you’re pregnant and that it’s Matthew’s, that you’re preggers and it’s Mr. Simmon’s, that you’re preggo and it’s Chris Thompson’s. I think current word is that you’re after Micheal Summers? No good news yet on the baby there, though, which is a shame. I’ll keep an ear out, though!”

“Tiff—please,” Grace looked mortified.

“I heard some of those,” Vanessa confirmed, returning from the stall with her arms crossed in front of her. “Elena was making a big deal about it, saying how sophomores were all just making shit up.”

“They say you were as fat as me, but go lipo!” Tiffany continued with a grin. “That you’re actually not really the real Tabitha at all, but like some kind of identity imposter. That there was some crazy police conspiracy or coverup or something you were involved in with the South Main Shooting. Where that officer died, back in October or whatever. That Erica Taylor and you had some crazy blood feud death match over one of the boys, story’s not set in stone as to who. I like to imagine it’s just all of them? Because that’d be the most awesome. Anywho, whole ton of people got expelled over all of it, but now you’re back, and—”

Oh my God, Tabitha covered her face with her good hand.

Against all of her expectations, the heavyset girl in their little group wasn’t shy and quiet at all once she got going—for some reason Tabitha had subconsciously assumed that Tiffany was more of a reserved type like her friend Grace. Instead, she was a talker, instead Tiffany grew more and more animated the more she spoke, and there was a certain glee visible on her face in revealing all of the things she had overheard.

“No officers died, and the one is making a full recovery!” Tabitha tried to correct Tiffany with a wince. “And, it was only two people that got expelled! Actually, I think Erica just got transferred to a special reform school, so just one expulsion! Technically. The Chris who broke my wrist. And, ‘that I’m not really the real Tabitha?’ Have you been listening to Ashlee?! Ashlee Taylor?”

“Erica’s sister?” Vanessa asked. “The one Clarissa said was talking shit about you?”

“Yes,” Tabitha sighed.

“Yep! She’s a hoot,” Tiffany chuckled. “Hah, listen to you, ‘but no officers died, and the one’s makin’ a full recovery!’ That’s gold. But yeah, I have Ashlee in my English class, with Coach Cooke? Sits on the one side and just glowers at everybody. She’s for real just not having any of this school life. Me? I love it.”

“I uh, well I do think that she could use a friend—” Tabitha started.

“Oh, I can tell, but yeah I dunno if I fit the bill,” Tiffany shook her head. “She’ll talk bad about you and me and anyone else once you get her goin’, but then somebody asked about the stuff with her sister and—whelllp. Bit of a sore spot, yeah. Touchy! I’m not in her same row, but I do listen in. Think she’d just as soon shank me with a pencil as say ‘good morning.’ Heard she has only one eye, I think? Can’t quite tell. I enjoy being pissed off at the world as much as the next girl, but me? Nah, I think I’m more the social butterfly type, who just wants a little bit of everything? You know? Not that I—”

“Tiffany Myers,” Coach Baylor warned. “Keep your volume down, please. And—not everything you hear bears being repeated, okay?”

“She’s so sorry,” Grace blurted out, covering Tiffany’s mouth. “She, she has a condition.”

----------------------------------------

Mrs. Moore watched on with a vacant expression as her own hands went through the motions of taking things from the checkout conveyor belt and presenting them to the bar code scanner for a beep. Though her movements were still far from well-practiced and fluid like Tracy’s were, she wasn’t fumbling with the items anymore. A strange muscle memory for where the bar codes might be on an item was building, such that some of the more common items like milk, eggs and bread were so familiar to her now that her hands turned them to the correct orientation in front of the scanner without her paying much attention to what she was doing.

It seemed so strange and ALIEN when Tabitha tried to speak with diction, Mrs. Moore thought as she scanned a box of hamburger helper and then a box of spaghetti and then a box of bow-tie noodles. But, now? It makes sense. It’s the same as the ‘customer service’ voice we put on with people here.

For all that she was terrified of working a public-facing job and interacting with people, being social again—the reality of her role was removed from most of those expectations. Aside from some of the elderly morning customers, no one came into Food Lion to chat with the employees. Shannon greeted customers with the same phrase one after the other until the rote ‘hi, how are you,’ ceased to have any meaning as words and became a mechanical reaction to addressing the next customer.

It’s not even just ‘talking like a robot,’ though, Shannon thought as she punched register keys to confirm the weight of a bag of apples. It’s pure detachment, disassociation—it makes sense to step back into yourself and let ‘the role’ of your job take over.

That manifested in different ways between the different cashiers manning front end, which was an interesting dichotomy to observe. Tracy was blunt and wore an impassive no nonsense mask that made it immediately clear she wasn’t interested in chitchatting with the customers. Cindy on the other hand was an upbeat person but ratched up the customer service cheery act to nauseating levels, particularly with rude customers or people bringing her problems.

It was strange and surreal to see how much acting played a part outside of conventional screen acting, how compartmentalizing your identity became a natural process to keep your real self from being eaten away by the sawmill drudgery of retail and service jobs. Before working a wageslave job, Shannon’s perspective of the world was from high school girl politick and then her brief failed stab at Hollywood. Now, after years of unhealthy seclusion from everyone she had met hundreds of people in a row for her shifts.

Except, meeting wasn’t quite accurate, either—the customers queuing up into lines at the checkout stations were as varied as could be, but the context of their interaction rendered them all the same. It didn’t matter how different you were, what age you were or what you looked like or how much money you made; everyone who stepped up to greet her stopped being all of those unique things and simply became a person getting their groceries. Shannon Moore stopped having to be Shannon Moore with all of the issues and baggage associated with that, and simply became a cashier at a grocery store.

Now, what does that MEAN, then? Shannon wondered as she mechanically reported a total to the customer and watched the man fish out a twenty from his wallet. Tabitha’s proper diction—her robot talk, her slipping into that for US, her parents, whenever she started stressing?

Did that mean Tabitha slipped into that mode of speech when the girls at school were being difficult with her? Because, wouldn’t that just make things worse? Tabitha was supposed to be back at Springton High again now, and Mrs. Moore found herself twisted into knots worrying about how things had gone. She hadn’t heard anything, yet, and was still too afraid to call them herself.

I remember the first day she went to high school, Mrs. Moore let her mind wander as she stuffed the twenty into its compartment in her register and then read the digital display for how much change to give back.

She came home that first day of ninth grade and went straight into the bathroom. To wash her blouse. She was already in STRESS MODE, was already talking in that robot diction voice. At the time, hearing her talk that way made me furious, made me sure she was mocking me. Now? Now, I feel like I start to understand.

Back then, Mrs. Moore had taken too many things for granted—she had forgotten how draining dealing with people all day could be. How uniquely exhausting it was to put on an act, step into a role not because it was something you enjoyed doing, but because it was a mask you wore to survive. She now understood that Tabitha’s proper diction was her own unique customer service voice, it was a front put up to retreat behind for when there was just no way to deal with things anymore. Well, she’d always understood it to some extent—but now, she understood it, now she was experiencing it personally, now every rigid smile and hi, how are you was a stabbing reminder of what sort of state her daughter had been in.

Today. Today I’ll call her for sure. Just to check on her. I need to know how she is—I need to know that she’s doing okay.

“One dollar, eighty-six cents,” Mrs. Moore reported as she handed over the change. “Thank you, and I hope you have a great day.”

----------------------------------------

“Oh man it was so bad,” Bobby groaned into his sandwich. “The whole back part of the guy’s locker room was like, caked in piss. The floor, the walls, the lockers. The ceiling.”

“Bobby—gross,” Elena made a face from across the table. “Can you not?”

“Coach Baylor said the boys’ side didn’t even have toilets anymore,” Tabitha chuckled. “Because they broke them all, or whatever. Vandalized.”

“Wait, you have toilets on the girls’ side?!” Bobby choked. “Like, in your actual locker room? Not like, the down-the-hall restroom?”

“Yeah,” Tabitha decided to stretch the truth a little. “We have three stalls back in right next to our showers.”

“And, it doesn’t smell like pee,” Elena scowled. “Your boys’ side stinks up the whole hall there under the bleachers.”

“Hey, whoa,” Bobby held both hands up. “S’not like I’m pissin’ all over everything down there. I stand outside and whizz against the bleachers, like a normal person.”

“Bobby—ew,” Elena smacked the table. “Stop.”

“Have you really?” Alicia grinned.

“What, have you guys not?!”

“Elena, do you have a locker room locker?” Tabitha asked. “Ours is the first period of the new semester, so I think we got first pick maybe. My towel was the first one up on the line.”

“Not yet,” Elena shook her head. “Gonna wait to see how try-outs even go. And—did you show Coach Baylor which towel was yours? For when it gets stolen or stained with stuff by people or whatever behind your back.”

“Oh, um,” Tabitha blanched. “Mine’s a polar bear. Coca-Cola? Everyone saw me putting it up, so I guess she knows. You really think that…?”

“Yeah,” Elena gave her a serious look. “Maybe keep a spare towel in your locker? Just in case.”

“Great,” Tabitha sighed. “No—yeah, you’re right. I should. That would be smart. I need to be smart. To be a step ahead of everything, this time. Thank you.”

“Some girl was trying to bitch her out already,” Bobby tattled. “Bitching on about how Tabitha got to sit and chill, while Baylor had the rest of us running ragged doing cartwheels and kickflips and everything.”

“Some girl? Who?” Elena demanded.

“Cartwheels and kickflips?” Tabitha laughed. “Uhh, I mean I saw Bobby do three-and-a-half pull-ups? Oh, and—”

“Four, actually,” Bobby corrected her. “It was four.”

“Was it, though?” Tabitha gave him a skeptical look. “Was it?”

“The girl who was bitching,” Elena repeated. “Who was it?”

“Amanda… Myers?” Tabitha struggled to recall the full name. “I think that was it.”

“Do we know her?” Alicia asked.

“Maybe,” Elena frowned. “Hard to say. There’s a ton of Myers that go to Springton High, like a bunch of people are related, but only by a great-great-grandfather, or something. I think Olivia might know.”

“I, uh. I went off on her, a little,” Tabitha admitted with a sheepish look. “I didn’t mean to, but it was getting to me. And then, Vanessa stood up for me a bit.”

“Hey—I spoke up, too,” Bobby looked crestfallen. “I was all like, ‘listen here, Amanda, you don’t—’”

“Bobby spoke up, too,” Tabitha said with a small smile. “The whole ordeal felt strange. Bizarre? I thought the whole liposuction thing was put to rest.”

“It was, but they’re going to try to keep bringing it up anyways,” Elena warned. “That’s how they are.”

“Have they been bothering you?” Tabitha asked. “Since your um, your new you look. Going gothic.”

“I can handle it,” Elena simply shrugged.

“They totally have,” Alicia confided. “Carrie and her goons came up to us the one day at lunch, and were all trying to hassle her about throwing away her chance at being popular, or something stupid like that. She made a super stupid bet with us about Matthew. We won fifty bucks!”

“Oh damn, yeah—I heard about that,” Bobby leaned forward and gave them a serious nod. “I heard it was like practically a big kung fu showdown. Everyone in the quad parted ways and turned to watch, and it was all shocked gasps and whoa no way and like blood was ‘bout to spill, ‘cause of all the crazy tension in the air. People are still talking about it.”

“Don’t listen to them,” Elena rolled her eyes, but they could see a small smile forming. “It wasn’t even a big deal.”

“It so was!” Alicia disagreed. “Elena—that was fifty bucks.”

“Betting on Mathew?” Tabitha asked, bewildered. “Betting how? Matthew Williams?”

“Carrie thought that with ‘Lena stepping down from, uh, the preppy girl B-S, that I guess she’d given up her claim on Matthew?” Alicia laughed. “Like Carrie could just swoop in unopposed, because ‘Lena had gone goth instead. Carrie bet us she’d have Matthew wrapped around her finger by the end of the week.”

“Isn’t Matthew dating Casey?” Bobby looked confused. “The art club chick?”

“Yee-up,” Alicia said. “I mean, everyone knows that now, but back then I guess word about that wasn’t too spread around. Still, though. Fifty bucks!”

“Oooh, I wish I could’ve been there to see it,” Tabitha put on the cute pout she had practiced in the mirror, and was pleased when Bobby did a slight double-take. “I feel like I missed so much.”

“Well hey, never too late to make up for lost time,” Bobby said, quickly scarfing down the last of his sandwich. “Speaking of—you up for catching Willow together sometime? We should uh, like pencil in a date sometime. Since you’re always so busy, and all.”

“Hmmm,” Tabitha mused, tapping her lip. “I might have to get back to you on that? This weekend I’m getting my cast off—finally—so there’s that appointment, and then it’ll be… I don’t know, weird. For a while. I’ll be going around cradling my wrist all weird, because it’ll be super thin and weak, and feeling naked without the weight of all this stupid hunk of stuff attached to it.”

She hefted her cast up onto the tabletop for emphasis, and everyone’s eyes turned to the faded fiberglass shell with its smudged signatures. It was strange how accustomed to it she had grown over the past few months, and there would be quite a bit of readjusting to her life once she was free of it. Tabitha had characterized her life prior to the break and fracture as a lot of exercising and work-outs, and suddenly not being able to do any of that had required a dramatic shift in all of the things she did to cope with life.

“Damn, already?” Alicia whistled. “I guess it has been a while. Since back before Halloween, yeah? You had it when we were trick-or-treating.”

“Mid-October-ish,” Elena grunted. “S’been a while.”

“It’s felt like ages to me,” Tabitha remarked, hiding her cast in her lap again. “Hopefully I can run again, soon.”

“Alright, fair, fair,” Bobby nodded. “Then—how about weekend after that?”

“I think…” Tabitha let the sentence hang in the air with a teasing look for a long moment. “It’s a date? We can maybe meet up in the afternoon, play tag with my cousins, and then we can all watch Willow together in the evening afterwards?”

“Cool, yeah,” Bobby looked thrilled. “Awesome.”

“Can I come?” Elena smirked.

“What? No, no,” Bobby frowned, shaking his head. “No way, this is our date. No Elenas allowed.”

“It’s your date… with Tabitha. And Tabitha’s cousins?” Alicia’s face split into a huge grin. “Oh, c’mon. The more the merrier, right? Elena an’ I’ll just sorta… tag along.”

“Yeah, just—” Elena gave Alicia a look. “It’s for real tag though. Like, Tabitha and her cousins don’t play around. It’s serious tag.”

“Now, wait a minute, wait a minute—” Bobby protested.

“The more the merrier!” Tabitha smiled. “Right, Bobby?”

“Right, of course,” Bobby nodded, making a face. “That’s just what I was about to say. You took the words, ah, right out of my mouth?”

“Pfft,” Alicia punched Bobby’s shoulder. “We’re just kidding.”

“No, I think… wouldn’t it be a lot more fun, to make a big group thing of it?” Tabitha looked thoughtful. “I wanted to invite this girl Grace to play tag—and ooh, do you think Casey has seen Willow? What’s it rated? Could Hannah watch it?”

“Probably too scary for Hannah,” Bobby shook his head.

“Darn,” Tabitha frowned. “I really do just love the idea of having a big get-together. I love that. It’s such a foreign idea to me I guess, that now I’m surprised I didn’t really think of it? I loved the party, I had such a good time back when we all went to the mall together, I just. I really love having get-togethers? Being part of things? Plus, it would be less stressful than just being like a me and Bobby date. A date date. Because he’s cute, and I’m a little interested in him, but I still have a ton of anxiety about relationships and um, courting and stuff, I need some time to work through all of that.”

Bobby had already finished his sandwich but still managed to choke—Elena’s eyebrows rose at Tabitha’s apparent candor, while Alicia continued to grin and helped slap Bobby on the back.

“I uh—ahem,” Bobby coughed. “Yeah—yeah. Cool. Cool?”

“I had a dream last night where we were about to kiss,” Tabitha said, feeling blood rush to her face. “But then, we were wandering through the school looking for a private spot, and we couldn’t find one, and then you disappeared, and everyone disappeared, and I was all alone.”

“Uhhhhh—” Bobby gave her an uncertain look as if he wasn’t sure if she was kidding him or not.

“So—what does that mean?” Alicia prodded. “That you have unfinished business?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Tabitha shrugged, feeling almost giddy with the high of whatever this was she was doing. Was she flirting? She thought this might be what flirting felt like. “It was just a dream. If anything, I guess it was, like, fear of missing out? Codified into abstracts with my subconscious, or something. I’m not actually ready to have my first kiss anytime soon. I would literally have some kind of nervous breakdown.”

“That’s literally not how you’re supposed to use the word ‘literally,’” Elena remarked.

“Hey, uh, I mean—no pressure or nothin’,” Bobby appeared to be scrambling to put his thoughts back together. “Watching Willow with everyone’s cool. We don’t like have to kiss. I wasn’t even ever thinking about—”

“Yes you were,” Alicia smirked.

“You literally were,” Elena said.

“Hey—that’s not the correct uh, usage of the word literal, either,” Bobby tried to defend himself. “I wasn’t like—”

“No, it literally is,” Elena argued. “In that instance.”

“I kind of like you,” Tabitha decided to bludgeon Bobby some more. “But, I ah, I have personal issues to work through before I’m ready for anything, and I’m not sure if it’s like, quite at the level of crushing on someone, or anything like that. My feelings. I’m comfortable around you, and I’m interested in getting to know you better. How does that sound?”

“I uh, yeah,” Bobby laughed, trying to regain his bearings. “Great, I’m yeah, the same? I get it, I’m totally the same way. Interested. I kinda like you too? We’re cool. We’re pretty cool?”

“So cool,” Alicia teased.

“You’ve got me,” Elena shrugged. “I can’t tell if she’s messing with you, or not?”

“She literally is,” Alicia giggled. “Literally.”

“So, uh,” Tabitha cleared her throat. “This weekend? Cast comes off. Hopefully. Next weekend—big group watch party? For Willow?”

----------------------------------------

While yesterday’s class had been syllabus and orientation, today in Tabitha’s sixth period Art 2D class they were to start drawing. Drawing boards and oversized sheets of paper—thick enough that she thought of it almost as paperboard—were distributed from the store room by the table leaders, and everyone made a point to appear to pay diligent attention to Mr. Peterson as he stood up and demonstrated the correct technique for holding a pencil.

Bemused looks were exchanged between the students as they tried to gauge whether or not their teacher was being serious, but these were replaced with blank looks and furrowed brows of consternation as he began to elaborate.

“How you’ve been taught to hold a pen or pencil for handwriting your whole life can be used for drawing, but it may not be the best way,” Mr. Peterson held his pencil out in the air as if to write and did a slow turn so that everyone in the art room could see his hand posture. “Your grip for writing will give you the most control, but the tight-in technique of controlling your pencil with your fingers also has the most limited range of movement.”

“What?” Vanessa whispered out her apparent skepticism to their table. “What’re we s’posed to use, our toes?”

“You may have noticed your drawing sheets there are very large, much larger than your eight and a half by eleven inch standard paper—” Mr. Person continued. “That is because ladies and gentlemen you will be drawing large, and when you are drawing large, it is better to control where your pencil goes with your wrist or even your entire arm for maximum range of movement ‘cross the canvas. Yes, table four?”

“Are we allowed to just like draw holding normally?” A girl at the fourth table asked.

“I am not the pencil technique gestapo, I am a teacher,” Mr. Peterson brandished his fearsome grin to his class. “There are different and sometimes better ways to wield your pencil—and now you know, so you can’t come crying to me later, sayin’, ‘oh wise and great Mister Peterson, why is it so difficult for me to draw? Why am I having so much trouble?’ Well, bein’ made aware of other pencil techniques is a start, hah.”

Like many of the other kids throughout the room, Tabitha frowned and looked down at her hand as it held her pencil. The way she held her pencil had never been something she’d given a second thought, and wielding it differently after an entire extra lifetime of holding it the habitual way seemed to raise the hurdle even higher for her. Though as a writer she plied most of her words via a keyboard, there were still years upon years of writing out various things by hand instilled into her a certain way.

“Holdin’ your pencil the way you do for writing is optimal for handwriting,” Mr. Peterson taught them. “Point down for the most precise lines, and your brain is somewhat trained into writin’ a certain size—we call it standard or college rule, the l’il blue lines you’ve been scribblin’ in for most of your life.

“As an artiste you’re no longer constrained by all that boring mumbo jumbo, you’ve got to learn to be a little more free,” He waggled his drawing hand up and down in broad swoops as he let out a chuckle. “Free to use the entire pencil instead of just the tip, free to use more range of motion with your hand than you’re used to for writing, and learning how to fine-control that movement.”

“Uhh, the tip is the only part of the pencil that draws, though,” Vanessa complained, holding up her hand.

“Yeah,” A girl at another table loudly agreed—though Tabitha saw her expression was a teasing one rather than Vanessa’s sour look.

“Oh, you are so wrong, table six,” Mr. Peterson grinned his huge grin. “The very tip is the pointiest bit and draws yer precise lines—but, what if you’re tryin’ to do some shading? You’ll want to fill in large areas of your paper with pencil, and holding your pencil instead like—this—allows you to use the side of the pencil, allows you to press down more pencil lead, graphite, whatever, in broad strokes which each go. This is also how you control your line weight, but that’s probably a bit more advanced for most of you monkeys—heck, I’ll be lucky if I can have you apes keep your pencils outta your nose this whole semester.”

“Pffft—”

“Hey—I see that, you at table three. Keep that outta there kid, you don’t know where it’s been. C’mon, now.”

“Eddie—oh my god, stop. Hah ha—”

“That’s still technically using the tip, though,” Vanessa muttered under her breath. “S’just the side of the tip. It’s still the tip.”

“Now, I see some mighty doubtful looks when I glance around,” Mr. Peterson laughed. “You’re all thinking—well, s’gonna be a big ol’ pain to relearn how to hold the pencil when I’m already comfortable doin’ it the way I been doin’ it. I’ll just hold it the way I’ve always held it. What can go wrong?!”

Tabitha wasn’t alone in putting on a small wince of guilt at hearing that.

“Well, I’ll tell ya what’ll happen—” Mr. Peterson said. “You’ve got these big ol’ sheets of paper, and you’ll start drawin’ big, you’ll scale what you’re drawing to the area with which you have to draw in. Right? But, little by little your details’ll start to shrink, gettin’ tinier and tinier. Your proportions’ll start gettin’ wonky.

“Then, you’ll take a step back, and look at what you’ve done and say to me—‘oh great and mighty Mister Peterson—well, the LEFT side of my drawing where I started looks normal, but then when it gets over towards the RIGHT, everything starts to pinch up and go all tiny. BWUAHH?! WHAT HAPPENED?!’ And then, I’ll look on with my infinite wisdom and benevolence and tell you that you started out drawing, but partway through, you relapsed to yer normal handwriting technique, and s’like the rest of your picture shrunk up in a washing machine, an’ nothin’ don’t fit no more!”

Tabitha laughed along with the rest of the class, but inwardly she was extremely impressed. This was what she had meant when she admitted to Coach Baylor that she didn’t think she was cut out to teach. Mr. Peterson didn’t just love the subject at hand, he was also great at communicating that love to others in a way they could digest. The brawny man looked like he was having genuine fun teaching, he understood the material and was well versed in translating his experience into ways that total laymen could still parse the meaning from.

Not even JUST that, he also has to corral a room of young teenagers and keep their attention. He puts on voices, he keeps his expression very animated so that he remains engaging, he injects in just enough humor for levity to keep what he’s saying from ever getting too dry and technical. If some of the other subjects were taught like this, it wouldn’t be so easy to just start zoning out while they lecture on and on in that monotonous droning voice.

A part of it seemed to be enormous personal confidence and charisma—but Tabitha recognized that it also wasn’t just that. After all, the big and macho Coach Cooke was surely confident and charismatic in his own way, but did that necessarily make him a great teacher? She didn’t think so.

I managed to throw all of my enthusiasm into trying to make everything interesting for Hannah when I went through various things with her—even that was a little exhausting. It takes a lot of serious thought to convey things in the best way for her. To a lesser extent, it’s the same when I communicate that way with my four cousins. As the SCOPE of how many kids I’m trying to lead through something increases, the difficulty likewise ramps up. I can’t imagine trying to direct an entire classroom!

“Alright, alright—simmer down, folks,” Mr. Peterson’s voice cleared the chatter throughout the room. “Today, you’ll start off your first drawing project—drawing a subject from sight; onto yer paper. If I can direct your attention towards the center of each of your tables!”

Vintage glass bottles with decorative molding, long-fluted champagne glasses, a martini glass, and an oversized empty wine bottle were collected atop a sheet of paper in the middle of each table. Along with prominent DO NOT TOUCH!! placards, the outline of the bottom of each glass vessel was traced upon the paper they rested on, to ensure their placement was exact even through different days with many different class periods.

“Yes sir, you will be looking at those from the perspective of your seat and then drawing them onto your paper,” Mr. Peterson clapped his hands. “Pick a point to start at and go, people. We’ll be working on these until Friday, Friday we’ll be doin’ somethin’ new.”

Then, they were off—left to their own devices to attempt drawing. The lone boy at their table, Eric, had started drawing early without permission, working away at capturing the bottles and glasses while they had been listening to Mr. Peterson explain pencil grips. Clarissa was withdrawn and not presenting herself as open or talkative and she simply began creating lines on the paper, while Tabitha, Stacy, and Vanessa exchanged uneasy looks with one another.

“But,” Vanessa huffed. “I don’t know how to draw. So, what, I just—try doing it, and hope it comes out okay? This is so frustrating. Annoying.”

“I… guess?” Tabitha tried not to grimace. “We have to start somewhere with it, after all. Mr. Peterson is going around to the tables and helping people?”

“Hoo-boy,” Stacy blew out a big breath. “Uh. Here goes then, I guess?”

“Eric—let me see,” Vanessa demanded. “This isn’t fair—and you cheated, you like, jumped the gun.”

“It’s a drawing class,” Eric leaned in so he could hunch his arm and shoulder over the drawing to prevent her from peeking. “They gave us paper, the stuff in the middle there is obviously for us to draw. S’not rocket science, sheesh.”

“Sheesh!” Tabitha repeated.

“Sheesh,” Stacy joined in. “Sheesh oh man.”

“Sheesh,” Vanessa echoed as well. “Well. Whatever. S’not gonna be my fault if it winds up looking like crap!”

Picking an ‘outermost corner point’ as her starting position, Tabitha eyeballed the lip of the martini glass… and began to draw.

Holy crap.

Her first line, which had been so bold and confident, wasn't quite the right angle it needed to be—then, upon flipping her pencil around and hurrying to erase it she discovered she had been pressing too hard. The line of graphite pressed into her drawing sheet was one of those stubborn ones that didn’t want to erase the whole way, even after furious scrubbing with the pink end of her pencil and creating murky specks of eraser sheddings she had to swipe away with the back of her hand.

Acting with a lighter hand this time, Tabitha redrew the line at maybe the correct angle, then followed the contour of the martini glass in towards the thin stem. How long should this vertical line be? She wasn’t sure, and without the confidence to accurately gauge the measurements of objects at a glance, she spent an awkward minute looking back and forth again and again between her target and her drawing paper while the line she was creating crept into being at a snail’s place.

Okay… I may have DRASTICALLY underestimated how difficult this is, Tabitha snuck a look over at Clarissa, and saw a poorly-proportioned child’s doodle of half a bottle depicted on her sheet. How does Alicia just… I don’t know, MAGIC stuff up, conjure it onto the page like it was always meant to be there? I think I need to go back through her stuff with like, new appreciation for her crazy amount of talent.

“Ugggghh, this sucks, this sucks,” Vanessa scowled, furiously erasing everything she had drawn and starting over. “I’m gonna fail art. I’m totally, one hundred percent gonna fail this course. Stacy, yours looks good already, wow. Way better than mine. Eric—let me friggin’ see.”

With a slightly pained smile, Tabitha returned to her drawing. People were still talking here and there, but conversation was now more subdued as everyone attempted to recreate their own various glasses and bottles. She did not think her own inclinations leaned towards this kind of artwork, but all the same it was interesting to try, and it did push her thoughts in new directions.

“I should’ve moved my chair first,” Vanessa remarked with a scowl. “To like, get an easier angle. Where I’m sitting it’s like, the most complicated way to draw these. I hope he takes that into account when he’s grading. I mean—c’mon, look at this. That one’s behind the other one all weird.”

I’ve learned a lot already! Tabitha marveled at the imperfect silhouette of a martini glass on her paper—it was a little crooked. I’ve learned some subtle little things about teaching, I’ve learned how I hold a pencil, and I’ve learned… that Vanessa can’t work and talk at the same time! Whenever she opens her mouth, her progress stalls, she’ll be lucky to have half of this done by Friday. Am I the same? It’s hard to say. I don’t try to speak while I draw, and even THINKING about everything like this feels like it’s slowing my sketch speed down. I don’t get into quite the same kind of focused ZEN MODE I do when I write—but, maybe that too will come with practice?

It was something to ruminate upon, and perhaps something to ask Alicia about. Did practice and patience make drawing things become an effortless endeavor for her? Would applying that same logic work towards being social, or good with people; meeting people, making friends with classmates, being funny, teaching things to Hannah and her cousins? Hell—flirting. That was a big scary one, still, despite her teasing attempt earlier with Bobby… which had probably been a little too uncomfortably candid. Would things eventually be easy and effortless like she had always fantasized being popular would be?

I sure hope so, Tabitha mused as her pencil drew the awkward outline of a bottle. I guess it still just mostly comes back to confidence. Experience. Because—where’s the fun of being popular, if to do so you’re exhausted and stressed the heck out by the actual process of it? Or, is that still just me locked into the INTROVERT way of thinking? As if that’s a handwriting technique that I just keep slipping back into out of habit, even when what I really want to do is draw freely?

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The last hour of the school day flew by, with Tabitha completing a somewhat accurate outline of the bottles and glasses and even starting in on filling in some details. With a parting wave and friendly goodbyes to her friends at table six, Tabitha slung her book bag onto one shoulder and headed through the crowds towards the bus loop. Overall, she felt good about today—forcing herself to be outgoing was stressful, but maybe not the terrifying and impossible endeavor it had seemed to be many months ago.

She cast idle glances across the backpacks and shoulders of those walking in front of her and around her down the locker-lined hallway, and noticed the different faces of teens as they laughed with their friends or glowered alone in annoyance at the prospect of homework or seemed lost in their own little worlds of thought. Tabitha felt more like one of them, now. Not a traumatized, socially stunted child like in her first life, or an outsider ‘adult’ existence improbably transplanted from the future as she had been a few months ago.

I can now effortlessly—well, ALMOST effortlessly—blend in with everyone, Tabitha thought to herself with a wry smile. What a feat! Hah. I feel like I’ve overcome a whole pile of uh, well I guess you’d call them IDENTITY ISSUES?

In her prior lifetime, a handful of severe instances made Tabitha certain that she was a loser, a victim—a whole host of negative traits were used to define herself, and she isolated herself from attempting to make friendships, or improve herself, or even really address the damage and learn to move on from that. Years and years passed and though she grew up without maturing, Tabitha decided that maybe wasn’t so uncommon as she might have thought.

The other men and women she worked with at the Line Safety plant were for the most part adults with the mentality of children, they simply disguised their total immaturity with a facade of adultness—like drinking, getting wasted, or boasting that all their after work hours were spent at the bar. Sleeping around, cheating on their boyfriends, or bragging about having an affair because of how frustrated they were with their terrible husbands.

When I got to my later years, I THOUGHT myself more mature, simply because I considered myself so much more sensible than my co-workers. They were so self-centered and vain, unable to ever acknowledge their own faults or work on improving themselves, and always oh so quick to avoid any and all accountability.

If anything, now that felt like she had been criticizing others for struggling at a game Tabitha herself was too afraid of even attempting to play.

My bullies back when I first went through high school weren’t EVIL like I wanted to make them out to be, they weren’t just villains because they were stereotypical MEAN GIRLS. And, I wasn’t some saint simply by virtue of the fact that I happened to be the victim when they were lashing out.

In fact, most of the HIGH SCHOOL bullying I was just so absolutely terrified of can basically be summed up by girls feeling the impulse to constantly test one another. We’re like a bunch of carnivorous fish all stuck in the same fish bowl together, and it’s eat or be eaten. With boys it’s all of the macho bullshit and bravado that establishes their pecking order, with girls it’s all kinds of vicious gossip and backstabbing.

Today it felt like she had flown off the handle retorting at that Amanda girl—it felt like a different, unfamiliar Tabitha hiding inside of her had burst out on a wave of anger and indignation. Even her seemingly candid let’s just have a fresh start and try to be friends, okay where she had re-introduced herself didn’t really pass muster. Because obviously, deep down she was upset, and did not suddenly want to be genuine friends with Amanda. It had been making a flimsy show at pretending herself unbothered and on some moral high ground, while attempting to make Amanda seem petty.

It seems so strange looking back on it—like I’m watching someone else in my body, Tabitha found herself wanting to rationalize it, to make excuses. I WANT to be popular without all of the fakeness and girl politick, but I also need to be super aware of what a slippery slope it is that I’m trying to climb now.

Without even realizing it, someday I might discover I’M the one being mean and hurting others, just because I can find some way to justify it to myself. Someday in the following few years, I might find myself in Clarissa’s shoes back the day she stole my binder—making fun of someone, picking on someone because of some US versus THEM mentality that distorts my own perception about what I’m doing.

She thought that maybe it would start with little things, like ‘they started it first, I was just retaliating.’ It was HARD to take abuse from others and return only goodwill and forgiveness and understanding. Most of the awful things that happened throughout high school were likely cycles of petty revenge turning endlessly because they were too difficult to break. Not to mention how amplified teenage emotions were, simmering as they were in an uncontrollable cocktail of endorphins and hormones that sometimes seemed to puppet Tabitha’s mood upon the janky strings of adolescence.

How many unintentional slights begat bitter feuds throughout these halls? Tabitha wondered. Little things that became bigger things, just because someone felt especially hurt by them. Hell, rumors fly around like crazy, just because hearsay and drama is INTERESTING. Tiffany was a great example—it’s obvious she was just REALLY into all of that stuff. Yet, it’s so easy for half-truths to grow into complete lies, for context to be lost between retellings or even different context just made up, entirely fabricated out of pure conjecture! Until THE STORY on someone or WHAT HAPPENED WITH THIS OR THAT is far removed from reality. But, these things persist anyways and really color everyone’s perception of each other.

“In short, it’s all a total disaster,” Tabitha muttered to herself, pausing for a moment when the buses came into sight. But, I want to have my cake, and eat it too. To be popular, but without acting like I see the popular girls behave with one another.

It probably wasn’t even possible.

She found the idea put her on edge, because she was frightened of becoming like the mean girls she had always despised, but then also the idea of not trying to change, not trying to be popular was a different, perhaps scarier prospect. Because she had done the not trying thing before, she had done the avoidance and isolation life before, and it hadn’t made her happy at all.

No, it made me warped and miserable and full of issues and hangups about everything.

“I guess, here’s to hoping my friends can help keep my grounded?” Tabitha said to herself as she stepped forward. They’ll keep me sticking to what I should, and I’ll do the same for them. Like Olivia said—JB Weld. Need to stop thinking of myself as an island, dare to rely on my friendships a bit. Elena, Alicia. Hannah. Mrs. Macintire. Hell, maybe even Bobby. Coach Baylor. The girls in Personal Fitness. Maybe.

Tabitha skirted around the many others meandering along the curb of the bus loop in search of the bus with the J-13 taped to the front window. It was hard not to be a little anxious and grow hyper aware of her surroundings here—just like yesterday, there had been a pang of anxiety that quickened her step and had her mindful and looking out for pushers. There were no Chris Thompsons today to give her a shove thankfully, and within a minute Tabitha found her bus and then clomped up the stairs to board.

“Sup, Tabby,” Gary called from one of the middle seats.

“Uh—sup, Gary,” Tabitha waved.

“You cool?” Gary asked, eyes narrowing as if in an attempt to read her expression.

“I, um?” Tabitha flashed a big smile of embarrassment. “Man, I dunno? S’one of those days—I just can’t stop thinking. Stressing. My head’s just going around and around and around to different things, and it feels like I’m getting nowhere? Plus. I have homework. I used to be all the reclusive library hermit, so my stuff got done ahead of time, but now I spend all my time trying to be a people person, and none of those homework assignments are done? It’s all overwhelming sometimes—it feels weird. It feels so weird that I’m like, babbling at you?”

“Hey,” Gary nodded, shooting her back a grin that either said he understood completely, or that he hadn’t been listening to a word she said. “Homework sucks.”

“Homework sucks,” Tabitha agreed, deciding it was a better way to sum up her thoughts. “Thanks for uh, thanks for listening. Good talk, G.”

“Good talk,” Gary pursed his lips at her and nodded his head.

She knew she was already blushing when she slipped into one of the seats near him, but making some effort to always chat with Gary was still good practice. It was weird that she was allowed to just vent at people, that doing so was okay and maybe even normal. Even when it was obvious Gary didn’t particularly care about her day. Tabitha dropping what felt like a random bunch of exposition on a near stranger was probably a semi-acceptable social thing to do, within certain bounds.

Thank you, Vanessa, Tabitha thought with a small smile. I’m, well. I’m learning! It’s okay to just… COMPLAIN, sometimes. To vent. It might even make me more relatable? It’s a people thing. So long as I don’t go overboard with it, or make it into a serious habit of just complaining all the time.

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Refusing to allow herself to grow complacent, Tabitha made a point to sit down at the dining room table and finish her homework right away upon coming home from school. The particular World History worksheet itself was easy, but getting it done was more challenging than she remembered. She was the same focused and driven Tabitha who had breezed through all of her assignments several months ago, but now her focus and drive was spread out in many many different ways.

“Done,” Tabitha said with a surge of pride, sliding the paper off of the table just to slap it back down again for no particular reason.

“It’s out of the way, now,” Tabitha voiced her feelings to the empty dining room. “I don’t have to fret about doing it, anymore. It’s not hanging over my head, now. I don’t have to stress about this one particular thing anymore. I’ve started talking to myself, haven’t I? Like a crazy person.”

“Homework?” Officer Macintire asked.

“GAH?!” Tabitha all but jumped out of her seat, and her flailing hand sent her worksheet curling through the air to land on the carpet. “Y-you uh, you scared the bajeezus out of me.”

“Forgot I lived here too, huh?” Officer Macintire gave her a grin—he was fully dressed today as if to go out somewhere, jeans and an Ohio State sweater.

“No, I ah, no, I’m still just used to, I’ve been used to you just uh, napping around this time? I guess?” Tabitha struggled to recompose herself. “You were up and about yesterday, too. Are you—going somewhere? Are you allowed to go somewhere?”

“Hah, listen to you,” Officer Macintire shook his head. “Am I allowed. Stevie’s gonna be on by here in a minute with my wheels. I’m gonna be back at the station and on light duty later this week! Back to the grind. Figured it was cause for a little celebration, so I was gonna swing on out and pick up steaks or ribs or somethin’ for tonight. Fancy comin’ along with to Food Lion? Since you’ve been doing just about all the cooking, seems more’n fair to let you grab whatever else it is we might need.”

“Oh, um… sure,” Tabitha said. “I can cook steaks on a skillet? I, uh, I know you have a grill outside, but I don’t have a ton of experience using a grill…”

“Hannah bug and I’ll show you all the tricks!” Officer Macintire chuckled. “No worries. Figure we’ll head out in a bit then, soon as Stevie rolls up with my cruiser. Then we’ll pick up Hannah from her stop, and then—porterhouse steaks. Barbeque ribs, bacon burgers. Smoked sausages, pulled pork maybe? It’s all I’ve been thinkin’ about for months.

“Hell, I—no offense Tabby girl, I love your cooking, you’ve been doin’ great. But, you’ve been makin’ do with whatever’n it is my wife’s buyin’ at the grocery—and a man cannot live on salads, snack wraps, and turkey sandwiches alone. It’s just not right.”

“Are you… allowed?” Tabitha winced as she tried to figure out a better way to phrase it. “I mean, um—I remember back when you were restricted to just soft foods, that wasn’t that long ago. If—”

“Yes. I am allowing myself,” Officer Macintire insisted. “If I can walk around on my own okay and I’m okay to drive, then I’m allowed to eat like a damned human being again.”

“C-can I call and check with Sandra?” Tabitha asked with a teasing grin. “To make sure?”

“Honey, of course you can,” Officer Macintire nodded in agreement. “But, only after we’ve picked everything up and have it started on the grill. S’easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Didn’t your parents teach you that?”

“...I’m calling your wife.”

“Don’t you dare!”