PROLOGUE
If this were the same old angsting-at-entering-high-school-story, I'd tell you flat out right now to put this down and go read something else. There's nothing more annoying than reading what basically turns out to be the journal of some teenager bitching about his life and how much everyone else sucks (I'm looking at you, Holden Caulfield). This won't be one of those stories. But I'm not really sure what this story can be called, either. It's not a memoir. It's not an autobiography. It's not even a nail-biting intrigue-laden period drama. It's just my life and the strange things that happened to it when I was fifteen.
I don't really know where to start. Did it begin when my parents split up and my dad shipped me off to a new town? Was it something they fed me as a kid? Some kind of experimental food source that was meant to benefit me later in life but ended up magnetizing me to the weirdos of the world? Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. I bet my childhood had nothing to do with it. It wasn't really that interesting, anyway.
It all probably started the first day at my new school, after the previously mentioned parent's splitting and me being shipped off like luggage. Actually, the only thing that came with me on the move was the luggage. Dad said he'd follow later on. Said. Not did.
I'll start there, then. The first day at New Hyde Park High School.
Like the King of Hearts said, “Begin at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”
CHAPTER ONE
So. New Hyde Park High isn't all that interesting of a place. It's not known for particularly intelligent students, or particularly stupid ones either. It has the same level of drug addicts and dealers as any present day suburban Purgatory is obligated to have. Student deaths by mis-adventurous car accidents occur about once every other year. The prom themes are always altered to something somber to honor that loss. Surviving kin in the lower class usually come to graduation to accept the diplomas for their lost siblings.
There's no hell-mouth beneath our town. No secret clan of sparkling vampires looking to live out yet another lap of high school among unsuspecting humans. There's no sinister corporation with mysterious factories on the outskirts of town where a viral outbreak is just waiting to occur. There's no weird cult of fanatics who think the town harbors abandoned gods that can be summoned after they roast a kid over an open flame. No rabbit holes, phantom tollbooths, or letters from no one have ever appeared out of the blue in our lives, and no one ever expected them to.
Just about the only thing that doesn't make sense to me is why people come here at all.
I got sent here because my dad basically asked his assistant to find a town far enough away from my mother, but not far enough away to make the travel to his office a hassle (he didn't want to get up that early). I'm assuming she just closed her eyes, threw a dart at a map of our state, and picked whatever poor name was impaled beneath the tip. Most of the other students I spoke to had been born here, with only a handful of people every year coming from some town closer to the city due to stereotypically concerned parents.
The fact that I was new to the area didn't make me instantly famous to these people. Novelties were few and far between in this town, but even the students knew better than to do more than be briefly diplomatic welcoming committees. New students are only targeted with any keen interest in teen dramas or novels to pave the way for weak plot points.
Which isn't to suggest that I didn't want the attention. I've always been far more comfortable with an audience, knowing that people are paying close attention to what I'm saying or doing. If I act like there's an omnipresent, ever-watchful eye trained on me, I can perfect certain aspects of my personality that might otherwise go wither away and atrophy, like those people who are stuck in bed for years and begin to shrivel up like worms. Staying in the coma is probably a better deal than waking up and having to haul through those years of physical therapy. There really should be someone around at their bedside to give them the option when they wake up.
It works like this.
We all have certain skill sets given to us from birth. Maybe we learn them over time or we fall out of our moms with all the knowledge in tact, we just need the right situation to use it in. For me, it's never been an issue – either annoying or difficult – to get people's attention and to maintain an image of intrigue. Most people just want you to be very approachable and smile, make eye contact, be curious but not nosy, supportive but not smothering. You have to care but not pry, and you have to listen but not be too quiet. Every single time I've met someone in the years since puberty drop kicked me in the face, I've had to put my skill to work. It's nothing all that special, or even too grand, but it works for pretty much every single person I've met – even my parents, when they spend time with me – so it can't be all that bad of a talent. Basically I'm a paint by the numbers type of guy. Each time I'm introduced to someone, I don't show an emotion, say a word, or behave in any way that is going to jeopardize any potential camaraderie I have with the acquaintance. I base this off of elements that I can't really describe very well and I don't want to wander into flowery prose or bizarre talk, so let's just say that I'm very observant and I can “read the air” when I talk to people, then I behave and talk and express according to whatever atmosphere of a conversation I'm in.
I don't do this because I want to be their friend. On the contrary, I do this to people with whom I don't want to have any sort of friendly relations.
It's not really a lie as much as it is paring off portions of myself and dispensing them at the right moment to the right people. I'm not being completely open with who I am and what I think and how I feel, but that's not something I ever feel like sharing with anyone, anyway, so what the hell does it matter? I can't imagine a relationship that intense at this age. Even my dad doesn't want me to be honest with him. I just have to tell him what will be the least annoying verbal exchange possible for him to handle and I'm free. His assistant isn't as easily fooled, but that's not a hazard I have to encounter all that much. She visits the house only on holidays with her fiancé in tow and any inquisition she could subject me to is usually cut off by the much more appealing dinner laid out for us to consume.
I know she's onto me, though. I've got my eye on you having your eye on me, Ms. Potts. Not like that, though. For Chrissakes, she's been in my life since I was potty trained. She's probably the one responsible for training me in the first place. Not that I'd ever want to know that. Besides, like I said. She's engaged. And while that doesn't usually stop some people – like, say, my dad – I prefer to avoid dramatic situations and any surprises.
Again, paint by the numbers type of guy.
Which is a skill set that gave me much success throughout my junior high school days, and I didn't see why it'd fail me once I entered high school proper.
But that was before I met Steve, Lana, her sister Sara, Naomi and Namie, and the whole batshit crew that New Hyde Park High had to offer me. You see, it's hard to know how to behave when you come face to face with an android, or a magical girl superhero, or a whatever the hell Steve is because I don't buy that he's fully human and normal. There's no way one guy can be that... good and not be in some way inhuman. There's a rule about it somewhere. Maybe some philosopher in Victorian Europe came up with it. If he didn't, I'll make it up right now.
No one can be that nice of a person and still be human.
Not unless they're Steve goddamn Adams, that is.
New Hyde Park High School had the distinguished honor of being one of the only public schools in the state that instilled a dress code with all the rigid pig-headedness of a Catholic school. The uniforms weren't all that bad, truth be told, and they were kind enough to have different styles based on the weather (blazers, ties, and long sleeves in autumn, short sleeves and no tie in the spring). The colors were based on the school's official ones – red and gold (you may now make a Harry Potter reference) – and honestly, they looked pretty good on me. The tartan skirts the girls in the school wore weren't that bad, either. Some of them even looked better in the uniform than if they had been allowed to dress themselves.
Classroom assignments were posted on the large bulletin board in the school's main lobby, which was a vicious practice that could easily be rectified by a letter home a week before classes began. I didn't have to worry about making my way through the crowd, thanks to the aforementioned drop-kicking puberty giving me a growth spurt that my dad mocked (“What a bean pole!”) but came in handy for situations just like this. Classroom 1-5 would be my cell for the duration of the school year. I followed behind a pair of girls with long legs and short skirts as we made our way to the assigned room.
It wasn't until the day ended did I learn that New Hyde Park High had designed itself after a typical Japanese school system, blending it in with typical western high school experiences. Everything from the way they humiliated you by posting test scores on the bulletin board to the fact that classes ran in trimesters, giving us a mere half a month of summer vacation, was all styled after our friends in the east. Because I moved over their version of a summer vacation, I actually ended up entering the school about half-way through the term. I figured this adjustment came about because the administrators were some kind of weeaboos, though the official word was that it was an experiment in a revised educational process. This should have alarmed some people, since it was obvious they had no problem using teenagers as guinea pigs, but if anyone had any complaints they kept it to themselves. That was going a bit overboard in my opinion. No need to turn completely Japanese. Speak your mind, bitch as you please. What's wrong with you guys?
One of the girls I followed to the classroom, who had the good grace to sit in front of me, shrugged and gave me a half smile. “We all got that out of our systems when they first made the changes. There's nothing we can do about it now. Besides, we only have three years of high school. Most people get four.”
Good point. Though that would give me less time to appreciate lovely local young ladies such as yourself before you went off to college and gained the freshman fifteen. It was truly a cruel world.
The rest of the class soon assembled, and the bell chimed for the start of home room (a pleasant melody, seriously, more schools should invest in this). The teacher placed her papers and bag on the podium in front of us, flashing us all a thin smile.
“Before we begin homeroom, I think we should rearrange our seating assignments for the new month. How about we sit in alphabetical order, hm?”
And here I was thinking I'd have no reason to hate you.
As the teacher began to read off our last names, I bid farewell to the girl in front of me in silence as we adjusted where we sat. I couldn't complain too much in the end, since I ended up having a stoic but pleasant to behold pixie girl behind me. We were in the last row of desks next to the windows. She sat with her eyes straight ahead, which made it kind of tricky for me to look at her reflection in the window, but as the girl rarely blinked or showed any sign of life. So I figured she wouldn't care if someone looked at her too long. Her last name was Steele. That would end up being very funny later on.
My last name? Stark. The Game of Thrones geeks in school would end up gaping in awe over this when they found out, but I wasn't too proud of the association. That family had shit luck through and through.
Not content with moving us from our comfortable self-chosen places, the teacher then declared that we'd spend the rest of homeroom (a useless twenty-five minutes) introducing ourselves.
“We have a few new students this year, so why don't we learn a little more about them?” She looked right into my eyes. “Mr Stark?”
I cursed her bitterly and stayed seated.
“I'm Alex Stark. I moved here from the city. There's really nothing else to talk about.”
“Do you have any hobbies? A favorite subject?” She smiled wider. “Don't be so mysterious! That's no way to make friends.”
Man, she was really pushing this whole '50s sitcom cheeriness. Would we have to duck and cover under our desks for fear of the Commie horde raining death from the skies?
“I like to sleep and drink coffee. I don't care what I study.”
A few students turned in curiosity at my lame introduction, most of them to smirk while a few others had the nerve to look scandalized. Who were they to judge? Maybe they'd been brainwashed to have the whole Stepford ideal of chipper school years and thought I was a heathen threat to their bliss.
I shrugged and that pretty much ended my introduction.
The teacher was unfazed. She lifted her head a little higher and tilted it to the side. “What about you, Miss Steele?”
The chair scraped against the floor as the girl stood up. I turned in my chair to watch her. Her posture was rigid, and her face expressionless. Again she didn't blink – what's wrong with her? Is she blind? Even blind people blink, right?
“My name is Lana Steele,” she began. It was pronounced Uh-lawn, by the way. “I was assigned to this region by my overhead director, more commonly called a father. I have no opinion either way about this. I am interested in acquiring enough information to advance what knowledge I have thus far accumulated. I am not interested in spending time on activities that will distract me from this goal.”
She sat back down and for the first time blinked. Her eyes focused on my face, and I felt oddly chastised, like I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't. I turned around and watched as the rest of the class did so in turn, looks of confusion on all their faces.
“I would like to sit with you.”
Lana was standing next to where I sat at a table in the school's courtyard, a nicely prime spot beneath the shelter of trees. She had a little parcel of what I assumed was her lunch held in her left hand, and a heavy book clutched to her chest in the right. I hoped it wasn't Dianetics. I wasn't really interested in talking with a Scientologist.
I pointed at the empty stretch of bench across from me. “Go ahead.”
Lana carefully opened her lunch, untying the pale pink cloth and spreading it out across the table's surface. Such a waste, considering how gross the table was. She began to disassemble the small Tupperware collection containing assorted food, and arranged it in a line in front of her. Her hands fell to her lap as she looked at me.
“You are welcome to have some.”
“No thanks,” I said. I raised the styrofoam cup in my hand. The coffee sloshed against the sides. “I'm set.”
Lana stared evenly at me for a good twenty seconds more before she moved again, unfastening the lids to each container. She had white rice in one, slices of avocado in the second, and cherry tomatoes in the last.
“You on some kind of diet?”
“No.”
“So you're a health freak?”
“I'm interested in maintaining this body's fit state, so health is a concern of mine. Others in this region have the same concern. That does not make me a freak.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Apologies are not necessary.” And with that she began to dig into her small meal.
I watched her for a lack of anything better to do. She ate with mechanical motions, like a droid on an assembly line. She also kept her eyes trained on me, so we spent most of the lunch hour engaged in a staring contest in absolute silence. It made me think of the cat I had when I was a kid. She probably blinked more than Lana did.
“You don't have the cat anymore.”
“No, I don't. She ran way when I was ten. It sucked.”
“You are fifteen years old.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“It is possible that the cat will return to you.”
“Not likely. City's pretty far from here. There's no way a cat could survive the trip.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“I guess.”
“Guessing is not required. It is a certainty. And stranger things will happen to you.”
Do you always talk like that? Did your parents beat you up as a kid, or were you raised to show no emotion? Come on, Lana, lighten up. You're starting to creep me out.
“That was not my intention.”
“I know. It's fine.”
“You will accept my apology.” It wasn't a question.
“It's fine,” I repeated.
Lana packed up her things, tied it in the pink cloth, and stood up.
“Will you walk home with me today?”
“Okay?”
“Thank you.”
Maybe she just wanted the company. Socially awkward people are usually pretty lonely, and sure she was weird as hell and kind of creepy like some kind of cyborg, but she was cute and talking to her wasn't a hassle. So why not? I didn't have to act too hard to be pleasant around her, even though we'd only spoken for a few minutes so far. Her expectations of me seemed to be as low as you could get, or maybe she just wasn't interested in getting to know me.
I'm not really sure I could agree with that, since she completely ignored anyone else who tried to talk with her. She was called on a lot in class since she was smart and actually paid attention to whatever we were supposed to study. But some of the teachers felt just as creeped out as the rest of us by how emotionless she was, so they only chose her out of complete reluctance.
Meanwhile, as Lana was pretending that no one else in the school existed besides herself (and me, I guess) I had to field several questions and conversations from politely curious classmates. My diplomatic behavior was basically peppered with total bullshit and lies that changed ever so slightly depending on who talked to me.
“Yeah, moving sucked. I didn't want to come here at all. Who'd actually choose to live in the sticks? The city's much better. You could die of boredom out here, I dunno how anyone stands it. Oh well.”
Or:
“The city was nice, but New Hyde Park's not so bad either. I've never lived outside the city, and I spent most of my vacations visiting relatives overseas, so. It'll take some getting used to, yeah. My dad and I moved into that development out past that community garden – what's it called? Beauty Town? Yeah, that place.”
Or:
“It may not seem like it, but I'm actually pretty excited to be here. City schools totally sucked, so I might actually learn something now. I felt put on the spot during the introduction, so I was pretty rude. Sorry about that.”
And finally:
“I just want to get through these next three years in peace. I don't care about much else.”
One was the bitter teenage boy, the other the approachable yet pompous rich kid, the other the overachieving bookworm, and then there was the resigned little recluse. Guess which was which. It's not that hard.
But with Lana it seemed I couldn't get away with any of these masks. Her flawless poker face made it nearly impossible to figure out how she wanted me to act, or what would make her the most comfortable since she wasn't remotely interested in making me feel at ease. I guess I didn't have to return the favor – because there wasn't any favor to return. Whatever. I could just be myself, or the closest thing to it, and if it ended up bothering her I'd eventually know because she'd treat me like a piece of the wall.
Thanks to my skill set, I ended up walking away from my first day with a few friends. Or at least acquaintances that were quite interested in being my friend. They came from all walks of the stereotypical high school experience: there was the comic relief slacker, Jon; the popular and sometimes stone-cold bitch, Kari; the class president, the other girl I had followed that morning (who had brown eyes that had a mocking sort of glint to them), Naomi; and her twin sister (the girl I had spoken to that morning), who was a little shy but still charming, Namie. It was almost like whoever ran the cosmos decided that my life had to mirror an ABC Family drama show with all the tropes that came with it. Jon slept through class a lot and was dumb but amusing; Kari was well aware that all eyes were on her, so she acted like any of those reality TV shrews trained to start fights for ratings. Naomi was the closest thing New Hyde Park High had to a politician, but she still had a grasp on her soul and how to act like a human being, so she wasn't unbearable. And Namie was one of those child prodigies who had learned how to play violin before she could string together fully coherent sentences so she preferred her own company to making small talk.
The only monkey wrench to this ABC Family tropefest was Lana. Where did she fit in? And where the hell did I, for that matter?
Steve would find his place soon enough, unfortunately. Have some patience, gentle Reader.
Lana stood waiting for me at the front gates once the school day was over. A few people stopped to watch us meet up, gaping in surprise. Others commented openly on how odd it was. The few people I spoke to that day waved at me to say goodbye. My responding wave was half-assed, but I was distracted. Lana was already walking and I had to hurry to keep up. She walked way too fast, her strides pretty long for someone who barely crossed over five feet.
“Where do you live?”
“The apartment complex next to the station.”
“Why'd your parents move here?”
“They didn't.”
So they just shipped you off here on your own? Like a piece of luggage? I know how that felt.
“I don't think you do.”
We walked in silence for the next few minutes.
When we came to a stop next to the local park, Lana stopped dead in her tracks. I bumped into her shoulder, but I was the one who was knocked off balance. She was like a goddamn brick wall.
Ouch. Christ, I think she'd leave a bruise.
“What's up?”
Lana slowly turned her face to peer up at me. It was creepier than anything she'd done so far; it was like a marionette moving on its own. And why the hell wasn't she blinking? Stop it. Seriously. What's wrong with you?
“There's a shortcut through the park. We'll take it instead of the normal path.”
“Fine.” I was already going out of the way from where I lived, but that didn't really matter to me. I had nothing special to go home to anyway. Boo-hoo. Don't mistake that for whining, because I'm not.
There was a fountain in the center of the park, some elaborate cement thing with one of those Roman gods standing in the middle of it. She had a helmet and a shield. There was an owl on her shoulder, covered quite appropriately in bird crap. I dug into the pocket of my blazer and flicked a coin into the fountain, scattering a few birds who were bathing inside it. I made a wish, but I'm not going to tell you what it was. It didn't really come true like I wanted it to. I mean, it came true but it wasn't as I expected it to be.
We were passing through the northern part of the park, a paved path surrounded by trees and the shade they produced when Lana stopped again. Once again I walked into her. Now I was definitely sure that would leave a bruise.
“What is it now?”
Lana turned and faced me, blocking me from walking ahead. She swung her bag off her shoulder and unzipped the front pocket, never taking her eyes off my face. In one of those odd stretches of time that moved too slow for me to understand exactly what was going on, but not slow enough to prevent me from panicking, I watched as Lana put her hand into her bag and pulled out a gun.
She stuck it in my face, placing the muzzle against my forehead. She had attached little charms to the trigger, little smiling bunnies dangling from pink strings decorated with small golden bells. They chimed softly.
“Uh.”
“Stand still and stay quiet.”
And before I could say anything more, Lana pulled the trigger.
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