Tragedy Girl - Christine Hurley Deriso Page 0,2

the morning. I love Aunt Meg and Uncle Mark, but I want my house back. I want my wordless grumpy mornings back. I want my parents back. I want my life back.

“Nervous about today?” Uncle Mark asks.

I shake my head, averting my eyes from his hopeful gaze.

“Nah,” I say, aiming for breezy. “Hey, I’m going to school with a bunch of beach bums. How challenging can it be?”

He raises an eyebrow approvingly. “Cocky and over-confident, huh? I like it.”

“That’s me, alright.”

He glances at my cereal bowl and says, “Wheaties again? That was always your dad’s favorite, you know.”

I raise my spoon gamely. “The breakfast of champions.”

Lots of this goes on at my new home, too: references to my parents—comparisons, reminiscences, offhand comments. The references come so fast and seem so forced, I can’t help but get the feeling my aunt and uncle consulted with a therapist who recommended this strategy. I’m touched by the gesture, and sure, it helps to weave my parents into the conversation, but nothing seems natural anymore. I wonder what it would be like to have a conversation that doesn’t seem guided by the invisible hand of a professional.

Uncle Mark smiles at me as I take a bite, then leans into his elbows and says softly, “You know we’ve got your back … right?”

I lock eyes with him for a long moment. “Yes,” I say, and return Aunt Meg’s smile as she looks over her shoulder at me from the kitchen sink. “I know you do.”

“Good,” Uncle Mark tells me, rising from his chair and kissing my cheek. “Don’t ever forget that.”

Two

“Forget it.”

I shut my locker door and turn toward the sound of a voice inexplicably addressing me.

“Excuse me?” I say.

The girl swirls her index finger through a lock of long dark hair and flashes a conciliatory smile. “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just … I mean, I heard you’re new, and I thought you’d want a heads-up that he’s definitely unavailable.”

Truly, I have no clue what she’s talking about.

“Blake,” she clarifies.

My mind zips through its database for context but comes up dry. What the hell is she talking about?

“You were just checking out Blake Fields,” she says.

Aaaaaahhh. I still have no idea what she’s talking about, but I’m catching on that cattiness is alive and well at Hollis Island High School. I’m tempted to peer cryptically at this presumptuous twit, as if trying to glean the depths of her audacity—

that definitely would have been my MO back home in Dixonville—but even though my first day at Hollis Island High is almost over, I’m still dutifully in new-girl mode.

I flick my bangs from my eyes. “Blake Fields … ?” I venture, in as unthreatening a tone as I can manage.

She points at the locker next to mine. “The guy you were just checking out,” she says, sounding a little irked at my obtuseness.

And really, what’s the point in trying to convince her that the only thing I was checking out was my calculus book. “Right,” I say instead. “Unavailable. Got it. Thanks for the tip.”

A look of exasperation clouds her face. “I mean it,” she insists petulantly. “Didn’t you hear what happened?”

“Didn’t get the memo.”

I toss a wave and walk away. So much for my new-girl congeniality. I’m still clueless about what this twit is insinuating, but however much she’s enjoying trying to bait me, I have got to cut her playtime short.

A girl I’ve seen in my morning classes approaches me with a subtle smile and a single raised eyebrow. “Getting to know Natalie?” she asks.

“I’m apparently not supposed to notice some guy I’ve never noticed,” I say as we walk down the hall. “She put me on notice.”

The girl laughs. “Headed for Calculus?” she asks me.

I nod.

“Me too. I’m Melanie.”

“Hi. I’m Anne. I think I’ve seen you in a couple of my classes?”

Melanie nods. “So, who aren’t you supposed to notice?”

“Um … sorry, I’ve forgotten his name.”

“Clearly, you’re obsessed,” Melanie says, and we laugh lightly, moving with the flow of traffic down the hall.

“Good thing what’s-her-name nipped that in the bud,” I say dryly.

Melanie nods her head to signal me to take a left, and we flow into the math wing of the school. “Natalie’s insecurities go into overdrive when she sees somebody new,” Melanie says. “She’s like, Whoa, new-girl alert! Better teach her the pecking order really fast so she doesn’t go around thinking she owns the place.”

“So I don’t own Hollis Island High? Bummer.”

Melanie snaps a finger. “Oh, I